A double dose of musical theater this weekend and what riches we enjoyed!
The shows A Year With Frog and Toad and Once collected fourteen Tony nominations between them; both tell poignant stories of deep love between close friends. That the two best friends in Chicago Children's Theater's production happen to be amphibians who speak in the most simple prose does not lesson the depth of their devotion nor the breadth of their charm. Arnold Lobel's wise stories have been adapted and set to music by the brothers Robert and Willie Reale, who mine the source material for humor as well as moments of sweetness. Toad, the more impetuous of the pair, gets huge laughs responding "Bleh!" to the hibernation wake-up calls of his friend and yelling "Grow!" at his newly planted seeds.
I was happy to see my favorite of Lobel's stories on the stage and entranced by the soft shoe dance moves that were perfection in their simplicity and grace. Good friends need little more than each other and less is more in this production. Pared down prose becomes poetry ("When you are sad, I am sad. That is how we are...") and all is well.
The beloved indie film Once has a minimalist charm of its own, with its handheld camera shots of first time actors on the streets of Dublin. The story is a slip of a thing, five days in the life of a busker and a house cleaner, young and unnamed, who decide to make a demo tape together and almost become involved. Any fan of the film would enter the Broadwayified show with trepidation, but have no fear; all of the music remains and a new kind of magic is forged.
What makes the production stand on its own merits separate from the film
is the creative staging -- a single set of an Irish pub that transforms
into a music store, a cramped bedroom, a beach at dawn, through
movement, suggestion and our imagination. The naturalism begins even
before the show starts, when the audience is invited on stage to buy
beer and wine from the bar. A piano is rolled out by stagehands and a
crowd of unmiked musicians begin what appears to be an impromptu concert
of Irish and Czech folk songs, culminating in a heartbreaking acappella
rendition of "On Raglan Road."
The Broadway-style emoting from the pretty leads of Once at the Oriental Theater did leave me missing Glen Hansard's quiet charisma and Marketa Irglova's honesty and lack of guile. But you can't deny the gorgeousness of the songs nor the copious talent that makes them come alive onstage. The entire ensemble sings and plays and acts with such skill that their instruments become extensions of their characters - the passionate violinist, the banker-with-a-dream cellist, the animalistic drummer -- well, come to think of it, those are pretty stock characters, but they are vivid and new when they play these well-known songs with invention and love. While "Falling Softly" is treated with kid gloves, the song "Gold" has been reimagined from a few measures in the film into the beating, glowing heart of the show. A beautiful show.
Raising a family out of the ruins of the past. Mothering and movies, grief and grace, books and blunders. Recovery without chicken soup.
Showing posts with label theater. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theater. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
A Children's Literature Trip to New York, Updated!
A million choices for things to do when visiting The Greatest City On Earth, so why not give yourself a theme to narrow down the endless possibilities and enhance your fun? Here are some of the books that helped us plan our August family trip to the Big Apple.
Seen Art? by Jon Scieszka and Lane Smith is a charming little picture book that sends a boy on a punning treasure hunt through some of the iconic works in the Museum of Modern Art. We will be looking for the fur-lined teacup!
Stuart Little is an odd little book about a rat son born into a human family by the author of Charlotte's Web and co-author of The Elements of Style. My girls weren't entirely satisfied with the story nor its strange kind of non-ending, but you can bet we'll be checking out the Conservatory Water in Central Park looking for a little rat sailing his own boat.
UPDATE! We LOVED this corner of Central Park - absolutely gorgeous and look! Right next door are the Hans Christian Anderson and Alice in Wonderland statues!
Mia doing her best Mad Hatter.
Nora having a toadstool moment.
Kay Thompson wrote the Eloise books "for precocious adults," but my girls adore the little resident of the Plaza Hotel, abondoned by her jet-setting mother, roller skating down the hall, making a wreck of the place and eventually charming everyone. We'll toast Eloise with afternoon tea at the Plaza, which doesn't really celebrate the anarchic spirit of our heroine, but I can't wait for the scones and tiny sandwiches.
I LURVED The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler when I was a kid and reloved it all over again a couple months back, loved the story of a brother and sister running away from home to have an adventure living in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Nothing seemed dangerous or scary, only ingenious and fun.... the kids bathing in the museum fountain and sleeping in sixteenth century beds on display, and the wild coincidence with Mrs. Frankweiler's lawyer just seems natural in this world both magical and realistic where the love of art saves the day ...
UPDATE! Check out this! A PDF file of a Met brochure responding to questions that kids had about the book. It includes an essay by E.L. Konigsburg about researching and writing The Mixed Up Files!
I haven't shared Harriet the Spy with the girls yet, so I'll be the one remembering Harriet's epic ride in Manhattan traffic inside her nanny's boyfriend's delivery box while we pedal our rental bikes placidly through Central Park. I just finished rereading the novel yesterday and I can't believe how great it is. YOU MUST READ THIS BOOK. A similar tough and mouthy quality to the quip-ready Manhattan kids in Basil Frankweiler, but plenty of big generous heart, too.
Roald Dahl, Matilda. We've got tickets!
UPDATE: We had read Mordicai Gerstein's The Man Who Walked Between The Towers long before our trip. Well, the 9-11 Memorial site was sobering, of course, after an uplifting morning spent on Liberty Island. It's a space of absences and emptiness, names of people who are no longer here, water falling, then falling again into an abyss whose bottom you cannot see. Mammoth buildings that can only now be imagined. Or not.
Here I am trying to tell stories of the day to Mia without being too scary.
Nora said, "I'm trying to cry, but my face won't let me." The experience was abstract for them and the numbers too large to comprehend. The survivor tree helped make the story real, but in a manageable way - it is a callery pear sapling that lived through the blast, was nursed back to health and re-transplanted on the site among a new forest of resilient swamp white oaks. Now it stands green and beautiful beneath the gaze of the almost completed Freedom Tower.
I was too busy with explaining and walking and reading to let my feelings take over at the memorial. My moment of grieving came earlier in the day, when our cab paused at a stoplight on West Street on the way to the Statue of Liberty ferry. I caught a glimpse of the iconic blue-green tops of the World Financial Center buildings and realized where we were. "This is Ground Zero," I whispered to Randy, who couldn't hear me over the sound of traffic. I turned back to the window to see a sliver of garden and everything was so bright and fresh in the August sunshine that it was a miracle.
Tar Beach is the nickname for the apartment roof where a city girl spends hot summer nights with her family; we're visiting the Tenement Museum today.
The current Disneyfied Times Square has as little in common with the quaint charm I remember of The Cricket in Times Square as today's Fifth Avenue evokes Cheever's stories but you can bet we'll be there, cameras ready.
UPDATE: Two more books that came back to us on our trip: The Curious Garden by Peter Brown, a picture book inspired by the Highline, a fabulous new park in the Meatpacking District constructed from an old abandoned freight line. It offers great second story views of the neighborhood, artwork and artful landscaping with gorgeous native plants.
M. Sasek's This Is New York is a beautiful work of illustration from 1960. A companion piece to his San Francisco book. Perfect to read to the girls before sleep on our last night in the greatest city on earth.
Labels:
theater
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Shrek Flies His Freak Flag in Chicago
Looking for some late-summer family fun? Check out Shrek the Musical at Navy Pier's Chicago Shakespeare Theater.
There's big talent on display here and plenty of big laughs. Michael Aaron Lindner has the singing chops for the title role but James Earl Jones II shines as Donkey with charisma to burn.
The show is a scaled down version of the Broadway tour show that came through town a couple of years ago, but you won't miss any of the pagentry - the songs and dance numbers fill the stage and as always at Chicago Shakespeare, you can expect plenty of inventive stagecraft. Dragon is smaller but more nimble this time around. Your jaw will drop as Alexis J. Rogers wails her "And I Am Telling You"-style love song to Donkey WHILE bringing the 10 foot dragon puppet to life IN PLATFORM HEELS.
The four kids with me (who were guests of the kind folks at Chicago Shakespeare) loved Fiona and Shrek's fart and burb contest but I was laughing hardest at Travis Taylor's manic dancing on his knees as diminutive Lord Farquaad in a gloriously bad pageboy haircut.
The show runs through September 1; you won't want to miss it!
Labels:
theater
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Free Tickets to The Adventures of Pinocchio!

The Chicago Shakespeare Theater's production of The Adventures of Pinocchio is a warm and wonderful show for kids and adults. We took our girls last weekend along with their Aunt Rebecca, Uncle Dave and cousins Jess and Dylan from Florida. Our entire crew was charmed by the funny jokes, whirlwind dances, sweet puppets and magical stagecraft. The music is complex and interesting and the story has been made fresh with new ways of entering one of your favorite old stories. You won't want to miss the transformation of the naughty boys into donkeys (my girls' favorite part) or the charming thief pair of Fox and Cat.
And you can see the show for free tomorrow! Call the box office at (312) 595-5600 and mention the promo code "FRIENDS" for up to six free tickets at the 2:00 show on Thursday, August 3. Did I mention that's tomorrow? So you need to act fast.
You're welcome! Enjoy!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
House Theater's Nutcracker
"There are nine Nutcrackers playing in Chicago this year," the guy in the hotel lobby told us as we headed out Sunday afternoon into blizzard conditions to catch House Theater's version of E.T.A. Hoffman's timeless story. After seeing their generous and intimate, laugh-out-loud funny and very moving production, I can't imagine a plummier one in the bunch.This is the third production I've seen from House, after a terrific Terrible Tragedy of Peter Pan and the magical Sparrow and I've always loved the inventive style and heart I see on stage. You can always count on great music, too.
In this Nutcracker, Clara's beloved older brother Fritz joins forces with her to defeat the Mouse King, work through a terrible loss and restore a grieving family back to Christmas joy. Clara and Fritz have the help of a very funny trio of toys come to life - a flirty French Sock Monkey, Hugo the nerdy Robot and Phoebe the Doll whose placid smile almost hides the wisdom in her inane pronouncements. "I'm afraid of the dark!" says Dolly and the line takes on special resonance when the red-eyed Mouse King puppets appear (just scary enough for our five and eight year olds.)
Randy and the girls and I have been to enough theater billing itself as family fare to know it often translates to kiddy dross. In this beautiful production, the laughs don't pander and the truths aren't sugarcoated. Only half the matinee audience around us had children with them - this is a show rich with ideas and pleasures for adults, too.
The script by Phillip Klapperich and Jack Minton, who also takes the stage as Clara's father, plays with the many meanings of light and darkness, with the pains of truth and protective artifice. The nutcracker no longer seems a random choice of a toy for Clara's gift from Uncle Drosselmeyer, since Minton and Klapperich explore its metaphorical possibilities. Like our plucky heroine, Clara, we're reminded that wounds never heal properly without pain and finding the mysteries within the hardest shells takes great strength.
One of those tantalizing mysteries is personified by the loving Uncle Drosselmeyer played by the mesmerizing Blake Montgomery. Did he play a part in Fritz's death? Why did he allow Clara to cut down the Christmas tree? Does he perpetuate her childhood fantasies to her detriment?
"Tell her about the magic," urges Clara's mother (an utterly watchable Carolyn Defrin.) Drosselmeyer replies, "Alright. Clara, the magic is real." It's funny how our culture has turned Christmas into a holiday constructed around secrets and deceit about magic; The Nutcracker at House creates a Christmas on stage where the hardships of inevitable reality become bearable with the comfort of others to help you through.
Labels:
theater
Monday, November 23, 2009
Emerald City Theater's A Nutty Nutcracker Christmas

On Sunday we hit Emerald City Theater for A Nutty Nutcracker Christmas. The everlasting story of ETA Hoffman's perennial Nutcracker ballet has been reimagined from the point of view of Fritz, the naughty brother who breaks Clara's beloved nutcracker. In this version, Fritz joins forces with the Nutcracker-come-to-life to battle the Mouse King and save Christmas.
Emerald City Theater has produced a charming and rollicking show and playwright G. Riley Mills shows a great understanding of children's logic and fun. The show is sure to please just about the whole family, from kids three or so on up. My girls, who moments before were fighting the whole experience tooth and nail, sat on the edges of their seats, transfixed by the sight of Fritz refusing to go to his sister's "boring ballet." Halfway through the show, seven year old Mia was whispering explanations of the actors to me: "He's wearing a monkey head because he's a toy." "Those are elves." And by the end, my completely won-over girls cheered, "That was good!" They beamed in the lobby as cast members signed their special kids version of the playbill.
The show features some adorable puppetry, but the real stars are Ralph Covert's songs and Shea Coffman as the hilarious Mouse King. Coffman, who reminded me Will Ferrell in a kid-friendly mode, brings great timing, mimicry and fearlessness to his comic villainy. "I'm a CRAZY mouse!" he sings out before doing a little Beyonce-flava jig. I was cracking up and so were the kids. Like all great villain performances (I'm thinking Larry Yando as Jafar in Aladdin on Navy Pier last summer; I'm thinking Frankenstein's monster in Mary Shelley's novel I'm reading), there's a risk of upstaging the hero or at least exposing his/her namby-pamby underbelly. A small price to pay for this many laughs.
Multi-talented Ralph Covert of the Bad Examples (for the grownups) and Ralph's World (for the kids) wrote a Christmas stocking full of fun songs for the show. Covert creates infectious hooks and fun grooves that had me and my four year old bouncing in our seats.
The show runs through January 2 at the Apollo Theater on Lincoln Avenue.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Of Imperfection
I had a great post planned in my head about near-misses and flawed perfection, about the film West Side Story and how the perfectionist choreographer and co-director Jerome Robbins won an Oscar for this work on the film, ironically, after having been fired for his expensive and meticulous restaging, rehearsals and over-preparation.
At the time of his firing, most of the film had already been shot, but as I learned in the PBS American Masters documentary about Robbins, "Something to Dance About," director Robert Wise did have his former collaborator's notes to consult while shooting and cutting the "Mambo at the Gym" sequence.
This sequence, although beautifully danced, has always seemed an anomaly to me within the film. The largely static camerawork (except for that thrilling tracking shot that follows Russ Tamblyn's partner Velma sliding to the floor and up again), the wide open framing and workhorse editing create a sequence that lacks the dynamism of the film's other dances. Compare "Mambo" to the thrilling opening "Prologue" that Robbins designed and redesigned, to the point that the dancers were getting shin-splints from dancing on the pavement. "Prologue" uses space, storytelling, setting, camerawork, cutting and dance and oh God Bernstein's music in a kind of harmonic perfection we haven't seen in the 48 years since...
Well, writing that post was my plan, anyway, until I came across Lynn Becker's great Chicago blog, "Repeat." Becker, an architectural writer and contributor to the Reader, says all I wanted to say about the flawed "Mambo" and more, here, in a post about the Music Box screening West Side Story in 70mm last December.
Becker also writes about the dead mall looming on Michigan Avenue, the disappearance of Chicago landmarks and other great stuff. Check it out.
Why have I been thinking about musical missteps? In anticipation to our trip to the Chicago Shakespeare Theater to see Disney's Aladdin live on stage. I don't want to say my expectations were low, but Chris Jones was not impressed and I wasn't sure if the stage version would also make a crucial omission that for me keeps the film from greatness.
The rough draft of the film of Aladdin's story took a sharp turn before ending in its current form. Aladdin originally had a mother (!) to whom he sang the most beautiful song never heard in a Disney film, "Proud of Your Boy." Howard Ashman and his partner Alan Menkin wrote the lovely melody and moving lyrics including these lines:
I've wasted time/I've wasted me/So say I'm slow for my age/A late bloomer, Okay, I agree.../You'll see, Ma, now comes the better part/Someone's gonna make good/Cross his stupid heart/Make good and finally make you/Proud of your boy.
That Ashman, who died of AIDS at the age of 41, lived to see the removal of their song, but not the film's release adds another layer of poignancy to this story of a beautiful opportunity lost.
And with Aladdin's reflective moment excised from the film, we are left with a shallower character and less investment in his success. Jackson Pearce, possibly the cutest novelist/writing instructor on the web, points out that nearly all Disney movies include a song of longing from the main character early in the films. Snow White sings "I'm Wishing." Ariel tells us, "I want to walk; I want to run; I want to spend all day in the sun." Mulan wonders "When will my reflection show/Who I am inside?" Etcetera, etcetera.
Jackson Pearce explains, "It's a very clear, cut and dried presentation of what the main character wants....The song sets up without a shadow of a doubt, what our protagonist is after."
I was hoping the Chicago Shakespeare Theater adaptation might bring back Aladdin's important song, as some live productions have, but once the lights dimmed and the show began, any trace of coulda-shoulda-woulda disappeared.

The challenges loomed large for the show. Honestly, how on earth could a live performance compare to the manic magic of the film's lightning speed animation and Robin Williams's quicksilver act as the blue genie? This production's solution? Don't try. Bill Larkin as the genie does a stand up shtick with new and hilarious jokes with a delivery that is more reminiscent of a laid-back Gilbert Gottfried (without the raunch) than Williams. The stage business surrounding the big show number, "Prince Ali," is rendered with giddy silliness rather than trying for impressive spectacle, a much more satisfying choice in the intimate setting of the 300 seat Courtyard theater. The juicy villain Jafar gets new music and great lines, much to our delight.
And the beginning of the song we had all been waiting for, "A Whole New World," is slowed and simplified to emphasize a different quality of the lyrics. The change transforms the song; instead of a thrilling love duet as Aladdin and his princess soar through the clouds, "I can show you a world/Shining, shimmering, splendid," becomes a tender entreaty, a hopeful promise. For me, this new look at an old chestnut almost takes the place of Aladdin's "wishing song" and endears him to me a little bit more.
At the time of his firing, most of the film had already been shot, but as I learned in the PBS American Masters documentary about Robbins, "Something to Dance About," director Robert Wise did have his former collaborator's notes to consult while shooting and cutting the "Mambo at the Gym" sequence.
This sequence, although beautifully danced, has always seemed an anomaly to me within the film. The largely static camerawork (except for that thrilling tracking shot that follows Russ Tamblyn's partner Velma sliding to the floor and up again), the wide open framing and workhorse editing create a sequence that lacks the dynamism of the film's other dances. Compare "Mambo" to the thrilling opening "Prologue" that Robbins designed and redesigned, to the point that the dancers were getting shin-splints from dancing on the pavement. "Prologue" uses space, storytelling, setting, camerawork, cutting and dance and oh God Bernstein's music in a kind of harmonic perfection we haven't seen in the 48 years since...
Well, writing that post was my plan, anyway, until I came across Lynn Becker's great Chicago blog, "Repeat." Becker, an architectural writer and contributor to the Reader, says all I wanted to say about the flawed "Mambo" and more, here, in a post about the Music Box screening West Side Story in 70mm last December.
Becker also writes about the dead mall looming on Michigan Avenue, the disappearance of Chicago landmarks and other great stuff. Check it out.
Why have I been thinking about musical missteps? In anticipation to our trip to the Chicago Shakespeare Theater to see Disney's Aladdin live on stage. I don't want to say my expectations were low, but Chris Jones was not impressed and I wasn't sure if the stage version would also make a crucial omission that for me keeps the film from greatness.
The rough draft of the film of Aladdin's story took a sharp turn before ending in its current form. Aladdin originally had a mother (!) to whom he sang the most beautiful song never heard in a Disney film, "Proud of Your Boy." Howard Ashman and his partner Alan Menkin wrote the lovely melody and moving lyrics including these lines:
I've wasted time/I've wasted me/So say I'm slow for my age/A late bloomer, Okay, I agree.../You'll see, Ma, now comes the better part/Someone's gonna make good/Cross his stupid heart/Make good and finally make you/Proud of your boy.
That Ashman, who died of AIDS at the age of 41, lived to see the removal of their song, but not the film's release adds another layer of poignancy to this story of a beautiful opportunity lost.
And with Aladdin's reflective moment excised from the film, we are left with a shallower character and less investment in his success. Jackson Pearce, possibly the cutest novelist/writing instructor on the web, points out that nearly all Disney movies include a song of longing from the main character early in the films. Snow White sings "I'm Wishing." Ariel tells us, "I want to walk; I want to run; I want to spend all day in the sun." Mulan wonders "When will my reflection show/Who I am inside?" Etcetera, etcetera.
Jackson Pearce explains, "It's a very clear, cut and dried presentation of what the main character wants....The song sets up without a shadow of a doubt, what our protagonist is after."
I was hoping the Chicago Shakespeare Theater adaptation might bring back Aladdin's important song, as some live productions have, but once the lights dimmed and the show began, any trace of coulda-shoulda-woulda disappeared.

The challenges loomed large for the show. Honestly, how on earth could a live performance compare to the manic magic of the film's lightning speed animation and Robin Williams's quicksilver act as the blue genie? This production's solution? Don't try. Bill Larkin as the genie does a stand up shtick with new and hilarious jokes with a delivery that is more reminiscent of a laid-back Gilbert Gottfried (without the raunch) than Williams. The stage business surrounding the big show number, "Prince Ali," is rendered with giddy silliness rather than trying for impressive spectacle, a much more satisfying choice in the intimate setting of the 300 seat Courtyard theater. The juicy villain Jafar gets new music and great lines, much to our delight.
And the beginning of the song we had all been waiting for, "A Whole New World," is slowed and simplified to emphasize a different quality of the lyrics. The change transforms the song; instead of a thrilling love duet as Aladdin and his princess soar through the clouds, "I can show you a world/Shining, shimmering, splendid," becomes a tender entreaty, a hopeful promise. For me, this new look at an old chestnut almost takes the place of Aladdin's "wishing song" and endears him to me a little bit more.
Labels:
theater
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Blackbird at Victory Gardens

The lobby of the Victory Gardens Biograph Theater buzzed with excitement last night. Was it the thrill of being so close to the alley where John Dillinger, brought back to life in theaters this week by Michael Mann and Johnny Depp, met his maker? Was it the presence of John Mahoney, Marg Helgenberger and Tony winner Deanna Dunagan in the crowd? Hometown actor William Petersen from CSI returning to the Chicago stage up close and personal? The announcement of no intermission and no late seating that adds a promise of intense intimacy? All this. Add the zing of anticipation over the opening of the play that amazed the London theater community by beating out the favored Frost/Nixon and Tom Stoppard's Rock 'n' Roll to win the 2007 Olivier Award. Throw in the promise of a shocking ending and you've got Blackbird.
What a daring, gripping show. Petersen is strong as Ray/Peter, a dental-supply middle manager pushing 60, but Mattie Hawkinson, as the woman with whom he embarked on an illicit affair when she was a girl, is a marvel. Hawkinson evokes Mary Louise Parker in the delicacy of her features and her stuttery yet impassioned speech, but all comparisons slip away as she mesmerizes on her own terms.
Of all the challenging topics for a playwright, finding an alternative to revulsion when addressing child molestation can't have much equal. And yet, the taboo subject has been brilliantly done. Lolita and How I Learned to Drive peeked into the minds of adults sexually attracted to children and gave us a glimpse of the humanity behind the monstrous actions.
In Blackbird, as the characters work through spirals of guilt, accusation, self-loathing, confusion, longing and rage, I found myself shifting sympathies, even against my better nature. Like an optical illusion that switches from a near kiss to a hard goblet, the two characters seem victim and oppressor in one moment, then ex-lovers in another. It's an uncomfortable process to go through, brilliantly created by the writing and the effortless performances.
When Hawkinson's barrage of questions take a paranoid turn, she transforms into a threatening presence, even as she girlishly adjusts a dress that seems too adult for her. Then more of the past and bits of the present are revealed and her paranoia becomes our own. The simplest questions, "Your shorts?" "Are you a janitor?" and most painfully, "Do you have children?" become the stuff of ambiguity and anguish.
Blackbird runs through August 9.
Here is an excerpt from early in the play and here is the Tribune critic Chris Jones's excellent review.
Labels:
theater
Monday, November 10, 2008
Day 10 - If All the World Were Paper
The stick and the cardboard box have been added to the National Toy Hall of Fame. It's time to add the piece of paper. Chicago Children's Theater's takes paper to new heights of delight in their current play for the littlest theater-goers, If All the World Were Paper. Characters Curlicue, Doodle, and Squiggle transform paper into birds, planes, water, clothing, people, musical instruments and more as they sweetly sing and dance the story of a paper girl on the biggest adventure of her life. In my ebullient mood, I can't help seeing a political allegory as brave protagonist Paper Girl, played by spirited Alexis Rogers, goes out to the world and brings color, music and voice back to her white sisters.
The show is geared towards children two to six years old and the cheers and yelled comments ("Blueberries!" called Nora, long after the request for "things that are blue") and unpredictable laughter of the kids made the show more free-wheeling and fun than your typical production.
Through November 30. Use the code SAVE for discount tickets through next weekend.
Labels:
theater
Monday, July 21, 2008
Cadillac
The Chicago Park District's Theater on the Lake has a stunning setting overlooking Lake Michigan, but the horns and engines of cars on Lake Shore Drive did take some of the subtlety from the intrigue and stratagems in Bill Jepsen's funny and moving new play, Cadillac, a Chicago Dramatists production, finishing its second run last week. Perhaps these blaring and froggy sounds made the appropriate ambiance for a story about used cars, the people who want them and the salespeople who desperately need the people who want them.The comparisons to Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross can't be helped, but make no mistake, this is a very different kind of play. Jepsen writes with humor, heart and humanity. Who are we responsible for? What do we owe? are two of the important questions the play chews on. "This is my day!" proclaims the 60-year old printer who refuses to back down to a lesser car, to a lesser reward after a long life of denial and saving and sacrifice. The line resonates for every character.
Jepsen creates full and complicated people - like the optimistic lot veteran, Art, played with a lot of affection by Rob Riley, who describes his job as "helping people" and thrives on the relationship he forges with his customers. The villainous new shark-punk, played by Ian Forester may be less fully drawn, but he is no less interesting to watch as he plots the downfall of his nemesis. Actor Craig Spidle plays finance manager Howard, the heart of the show, whose crisis of conscience put me on the edge of my seat. As I was appreciating one of his rare and powerful smiles I realized these characters were entirely compelling, despite their flaws and perhaps even because they are nowhere as loveable as they hope their salesmen demeanors will appear.
I can't wait to see what Jepsen creates next. More here.
Labels:
theater
Friday, July 11, 2008
Bill Jepsen's Cadillac
Bill Jepsen used to work in the records office of the Chicago Catholic boys high school where I taught years ago. I loved hanging out in the office and talking film with him. He had a million dollar screenplay idea for a movie about Richard Nickel, a photographer dedicated to preserving classic Chicago architecture, especially that of the great Louis Sullivan. Nickel saved the memory of these doomed buildings in his beautiful images and often tried to salvage actual pieces of the architecture as well. He died tragically in 1972, accidentally falling to his death in the ruins of Chicago's Stock Exchange Building. Thanks in part to Nickel's efforts, you can see the preserved trading room of the Stock Exchange Building, designed by Adler and Sullivan, in the Art Institute.
Richard Cahan's 1994 book about Nickel is called, yes, They All Fall Down.
Now Bill has a new play that got rave reviews during its first run at the Chicago Dramatists theater. Cadillac is a story of used car salesman, a story that from the sound of the write-ups is something like Mamet with a conscience. I couldn't get a ticket for the show's first run at Chicago Dramatists, but now there's a second run at the Chicago Park District's Theater on the Lake.
I've got the babysitter booked. More later.
Later. Read my review here.
Richard Cahan's 1994 book about Nickel is called, yes, They All Fall Down.
Now Bill has a new play that got rave reviews during its first run at the Chicago Dramatists theater. Cadillac is a story of used car salesman, a story that from the sound of the write-ups is something like Mamet with a conscience. I couldn't get a ticket for the show's first run at Chicago Dramatists, but now there's a second run at the Chicago Park District's Theater on the Lake.
I've got the babysitter booked. More later.
Later. Read my review here.
Labels:
theater
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Peggy Ward is One Funny Mother...
Check out more on YouTube. Search "Mamaphobia." Then fall on the floor laughing. If you're a mom, that is.
Labels:
theater
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Drowsy Chaperone Update
Did I laugh? Until I nearly choked. Did I cry? What do you think? Not that there were many tender moments here - the sweetest love ballad had lyrics like: "I put a monkey on a pedestal and then he ran away... He left his jacket on the pedestal and his little rusty cup... Oh monkey, monkey, monkey, you broke my heart in two..." (This was one of my choking episodes.)
But I found myself tearing up during a little number ten minutes into the show called "Cold Feets" - a song that was little more than an excuse for some great tap dancing - classic, perfectly executed, with blithe and dazzling smiles by Mark Ledbetter and Richard Vida. This show's book drips with irony, but the triple joke is that all of the stagecraft is rendered with spectacular honesty. I'm transported back to Band Wagon and "I Guess I'll Have to Change My Plan."
But the sincerity of the singing and dancing wasn't enough to have me weeping - it was how the show gets to the heart of the meaning of escapism. Much of the show's humor and poignancy arises from its post-modern situation - a 1920's era Broadway show is taking place in the drab apartment and imagination of The Man in the Chair - a lonely Broadway connoisseur who puts on his old records when he's feeling blue. Much like Woody Allen's Purple Rose of Cairo and the 1981 Pennies from Heaven with Steve Martin and Bernadette Peters, but without their grimness, The Drowsy Chaperone never lets you forget the harsh reality that the airiest musical confections temporarily erase.
Labels:
theater
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Friday, November 9, 2007
Stephen Sondheim's Passion
I laughed, but I didn't tell him that morning after non-chalantly reading Goulet's obit, I had surprised myself by shedding a few tears in the middle of my half-remembered rendition of "If Ever I Could Leave You."
I don't think it was this particular man's death that got me so much as the loss of part of a legendary moment - 1960, Julie Andrews playing Guinevere, Richard Burton as Arthur calling his cast-mate's voice that of an angel.
And of course, the musical theater recipe that always puts a lump in my throat: the pathos of the lyrics, the soar of the melody and the tragic context. "We're neither wise nor pure nor good. . . " "But now and then he'll do SOMEthing WONderful . . . " "Oh no, Maria, no! I have a love and it's all that I have. . . " Never fails to start the waterworks.
Yes, you've heard it before. I am a sucker for musicals. My dream of a weekend getaway? Spa? Ski? No - a quick flight to NY, then Clay Aiken in Spamalot and Fantasia in The Color Purple.
Randy's question was funny because he was asking about a show that couldn't be farther from the Vegas glitz of Goulet - Stephen Soundheim's Passion. This dark drama won the 1994 Tony for Best Musical (and Best Book and Best Actress and Best just about everything else possible.)
On Saturday the girls went with Daddy on their first trip to (gulp) Chuck E. Cheese while Passion held me engrossed at the intimate upstairs space of Chicago's Shakespeare Theater on Navy Pier.
The story is set in 19th century northern Italy. Ana Gasteyer stars as the sickly, fretful and unlovely Fosca, who falls obsessively in love with an army officer, who in turn, has given his heart to his beautiful mistress, Clara.
Gasteyer was fearless as the nearly unloveable Fosca and lovely in voice. Fosca is an amazing character - as Gasteyer played her, she is at turns funny, scary, strong and smart, capable of great misjudgment in the name of love and also of recognizing her own folly.
Fosca's rival, Clara, is played beautifully by Kathy Voytko who has a fearless moment of her own at the shockingly erotic opening of the play. I suppose the memory of her perfect naked body is meant to contrast with Fosca's "thin arms" that initially repel Giorgio the officer (Adam Barzier.) But it left me expecting and failing to find more heat between Giorgio and the women who love him. Brazier may have had a fine voice and a nice head of hair, but the love I was feeling by the end of the play was not Giorgio's, but that of the audience for Gasteyer and Voytko.
The beautiful score is more operatic than show-tune. Tunes weave in and out of dialogue seamlessly. The rich and complex book by James Lapine offered similar pleasures to reading a densely good novel by, say, Turgenev. There are lots of chewy ideas - about the place of altruism and selfishness in a relationship, about the difference between love and obsession, about the appeal of escape versus engaging with the world.
Here on stage before me were a few of my favorite things: sentiment, beauty, ideas, narrative. I applauded, passionately.
Labels:
theater
Friday, November 2, 2007
Fly, Sparrow, Fly
Randy and I saw The Sparrow fly on Saturday night. Magic is happening on the Apollo Theater stage and I'm not just talking about the cool tricks of Emily Book, the play's supernaturally empowered protagonist. The House Theater's wonderful play casts a powerful spell.

"Mysterious stranger comes to town" is one of the archetypical scenarios of drama. So Emily Book's return to Spring Farm, Illinois, just this side of Smallville, by way of dear old Shiz, feels satisfyingly familiar. The graceful Carolyn Defrin, plays this tortured outsider turned small town hero turned misunderstood villain, with confidence and vulnerability.
The play’s pleasures, and there are so many, are most often about cool stagecraft, innovative movement, good writing and flights of the imagination. A mother literally carries around her grief for a lost daughter in her arms. A basketball game is fully, thrillingly realized on a stage not much bigger than the key. There’s a nail-biting rescue from the rafters, enacted safely on the floor, that you totally believe. A momentary glimpse inside a bus accident is horrifying and tints everything that comes after it. The thrilling dances are all about character, rather than skill and you really want to join right in. And just wait until you see the flying. It takes your breath away without smoke and mirrors.
Randy and I did pick apart the story a little on the way home – we thought there was one twist too few and the last surprise didn’t do justice to the main character we had come to love.
But it was great to see Lauren Vitz again. Vitz, who reminds me of a young Jodi Foster or Martha Plimpton, was memorable as a tomboy Tinkerbell in the 2002 House production of Peter Pan -- I can still see the red ribbon unrolling from her mouth after she drinks Captain Hook's poison. Here she doubles easily, as does most of the cast, as both a small town adult trying to do right by one of their own and as one of the town's teens who inherited a tragedy they can't understand.
Cliff Chamberlain received a Jeff citation for his role as biology instructor Mr. Christopher, who “puts a lot of thought into being the cool teacher” and he really gives the role his comedic and dramatic all.
I loved seeing one of the writers, Chris Mathews, hoofing it up on stage as the coach of the Sparrows, Spring Farm's perennially losing basketball team. You will crack up at his gentle and conciliatory half time "pep talk."
"Mysterious stranger comes to town" is one of the archetypical scenarios of drama. So Emily Book's return to Spring Farm, Illinois, just this side of Smallville, by way of dear old Shiz, feels satisfyingly familiar. The graceful Carolyn Defrin, plays this tortured outsider turned small town hero turned misunderstood villain, with confidence and vulnerability.
The play’s pleasures, and there are so many, are most often about cool stagecraft, innovative movement, good writing and flights of the imagination. A mother literally carries around her grief for a lost daughter in her arms. A basketball game is fully, thrillingly realized on a stage not much bigger than the key. There’s a nail-biting rescue from the rafters, enacted safely on the floor, that you totally believe. A momentary glimpse inside a bus accident is horrifying and tints everything that comes after it. The thrilling dances are all about character, rather than skill and you really want to join right in. And just wait until you see the flying. It takes your breath away without smoke and mirrors.
Randy and I did pick apart the story a little on the way home – we thought there was one twist too few and the last surprise didn’t do justice to the main character we had come to love.
But it was great to see Lauren Vitz again. Vitz, who reminds me of a young Jodi Foster or Martha Plimpton, was memorable as a tomboy Tinkerbell in the 2002 House production of Peter Pan -- I can still see the red ribbon unrolling from her mouth after she drinks Captain Hook's poison. Here she doubles easily, as does most of the cast, as both a small town adult trying to do right by one of their own and as one of the town's teens who inherited a tragedy they can't understand.
Cliff Chamberlain received a Jeff citation for his role as biology instructor Mr. Christopher, who “puts a lot of thought into being the cool teacher” and he really gives the role his comedic and dramatic all.
I loved seeing one of the writers, Chris Mathews, hoofing it up on stage as the coach of the Sparrows, Spring Farm's perennially losing basketball team. You will crack up at his gentle and conciliatory half time "pep talk."
Labels:
theater
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Sweet Tooth
My name is Cindy and I am a music dork. I got the taste for treacle early, cutting my music teeth on John Denver, Barry Manilow, the Cowsills and the Partridges. "Seasons in the Sun"’s syrup? Not too rich for me. “Patches” too sourly maudlin for you? Love it.
Mmm, Bread.
Typically kids with immature tastes experiment with excess – have you seen the extreme flavors in candy lately? But while I did eventually expand my palate, I never really outgrew the sweet. I may have posed as a Dylan and Lou Reed hipster in college but it was often the confections of Dylan’s widely panned Down in the Groove and Reed at his most upbeat that I gorged on.
I watch American Idol.
Clay Aiken was my favorite contestant.
I love his Christmas album. You see?
“We don’t have any U2 CDs,” I complained to Randy a while back. “No Simon and Garfunkel! Our collection is all spice and novelty. Where are the staples?”
“We don’t have any DaveHootieTraveler either,” he replied. “I may have a U2 album in the basement.”
Of all the yin and yang in our relationship, Randy and I swing farthest in regards to music. We have enjoyed some memorable concerts together – Prince at 4 am, Tom Waits twice, Neko Case opening for Nick Cave come to mind. Pepe Romero played a song Randy had cut into a Dove commercial. Caetano Veloso at Ravinia. John Brion from the front row.
But much of Randy’s musical preferences is strange and discordant to me. He has every Fall album ever recorded. Who? Yeah, exactly. He sings Ian Curtis to my Dolly Parton, who by the way, has two, count ‘em, TWO songs about dead babies on her lovely Little Sparrow album.
“They’re moving toward a mathematical theory of rhythm,” he said, trying to describe the Slint set at last weekend’s Pitchfork Fest. He spent an entire Friday night cutting one of their song for the website.
“Ick,” I replied. “Give me soaring vocals and discernable lyrics. With a narrative.”
Wednesday was a day I neither cared to hide nor control my dorkiness. Thanks to Melody (yes, Melody) our babysitter, I took the train into the city to a glorious matinee of The Light in the Piazza.

Oh, I feel like swooning, just remembering it. Christine Andreas’ voice had the density and glow of heavy velvet. Even her quiet lyrics were strong and pure, a silver wire suspending the gem of the melody.
The dazzlingly handsome David Burnham fell to his knees and tore at his shirt while singing to the rafters “Il Mondo Era Vuoto,” a song that is at the same time funny and sincere. And entirely in Italian! I bawled at the passion, at the mother’s conflicted love for her daughter, at the complex beauty of the melodies.
“It’s about a mother, a protective mother,” I cried later as I tried to describe the show to Randy, half considering asking him if he wanted to go with me to the final performance this weekend.
And true to dorky form, after the show, I waited in the alley to get my program signed by the callow leads. Actually, being the obsessive fan didn’t initially occur to me. I was walking down Michigan Avenue, still trying to compose myself after the last number (oh I weep now, just remembering it) “Fable.”
(“Love if you can and be loved/May it last forever Clara,” sings Andreas.)
Then I saw Senor Naccarelli coming out of an alley in shorts and a t-shirt. I ran up to him and shook his hand. “Thank you so much! I really enjoyed that.” He smiled, said something gracious, then it dawned on me to fish a Sharpie out of my backpack and get some signatures.
Burnham’s teeth up close were blinding. Katie Clark can’t be more than twenty-three. Andreas walked by in true diva form, transformed out of her character’s proper Southern lady in I Love Lucy suits into a Soho cherub in vest and jaunty hat over her close cut curls. I was not going to press her and I didn’t really have anything to say that she hadn’t already heard. After three signatures, I walked on, satisfied.

An hour and a half later, the rain clouds were loaded up and flying low as the Decemberists started their set with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in Millennium Park’s Pritzker Pavilion. Happy crowds under umbrellas, on picnic blankets. Lots of tattoos, sundresses, nerd shirts, some children.
I found a prime spot dead center. I could see the dot of Colin Malloy strumming. The first cool drops fell as the strings and horns swelled up behind the delicate lyrics of The Crane Wife Parts One and Two.
It felt like an Event was starting. One of those you-had-to-be-theres. The concert of the Moment, ironically starring a quartet that dresses like Victorian dandies, backed by an orchestra well versed in prior centuries.
But I felt lonely. A family with two young boys was sitting behind me. Watching the packed ground carefully as I stepped over picnic dinners, sleeping bodies to reach this spot, I had caught a glimpse of a woman’s hand wearing an engagement and wedding ring. I thought of all the debates going on around me, all the various levels of commitment to this hard won, hard defended patch of real estate on this special night. “Should we stay?” “Taxis will be impossible.” “I can’t miss the encore!” I wanted to share that conversation, share the experience with someone. Cause that’s the sweetest connection of all for any music lover, of pop or pap or whatever, finding those who join you in relishing it.
After two songs, I walked on.
Mmm, Bread.
Typically kids with immature tastes experiment with excess – have you seen the extreme flavors in candy lately? But while I did eventually expand my palate, I never really outgrew the sweet. I may have posed as a Dylan and Lou Reed hipster in college but it was often the confections of Dylan’s widely panned Down in the Groove and Reed at his most upbeat that I gorged on.
I watch American Idol.
Clay Aiken was my favorite contestant.
I love his Christmas album. You see?
“We don’t have any U2 CDs,” I complained to Randy a while back. “No Simon and Garfunkel! Our collection is all spice and novelty. Where are the staples?”
“We don’t have any DaveHootieTraveler either,” he replied. “I may have a U2 album in the basement.”
Of all the yin and yang in our relationship, Randy and I swing farthest in regards to music. We have enjoyed some memorable concerts together – Prince at 4 am, Tom Waits twice, Neko Case opening for Nick Cave come to mind. Pepe Romero played a song Randy had cut into a Dove commercial. Caetano Veloso at Ravinia. John Brion from the front row.
But much of Randy’s musical preferences is strange and discordant to me. He has every Fall album ever recorded. Who? Yeah, exactly. He sings Ian Curtis to my Dolly Parton, who by the way, has two, count ‘em, TWO songs about dead babies on her lovely Little Sparrow album.
“They’re moving toward a mathematical theory of rhythm,” he said, trying to describe the Slint set at last weekend’s Pitchfork Fest. He spent an entire Friday night cutting one of their song for the website.
“Ick,” I replied. “Give me soaring vocals and discernable lyrics. With a narrative.”
Wednesday was a day I neither cared to hide nor control my dorkiness. Thanks to Melody (yes, Melody) our babysitter, I took the train into the city to a glorious matinee of The Light in the Piazza.
Oh, I feel like swooning, just remembering it. Christine Andreas’ voice had the density and glow of heavy velvet. Even her quiet lyrics were strong and pure, a silver wire suspending the gem of the melody.
The dazzlingly handsome David Burnham fell to his knees and tore at his shirt while singing to the rafters “Il Mondo Era Vuoto,” a song that is at the same time funny and sincere. And entirely in Italian! I bawled at the passion, at the mother’s conflicted love for her daughter, at the complex beauty of the melodies.
“It’s about a mother, a protective mother,” I cried later as I tried to describe the show to Randy, half considering asking him if he wanted to go with me to the final performance this weekend.
And true to dorky form, after the show, I waited in the alley to get my program signed by the callow leads. Actually, being the obsessive fan didn’t initially occur to me. I was walking down Michigan Avenue, still trying to compose myself after the last number (oh I weep now, just remembering it) “Fable.”
(“Love if you can and be loved/May it last forever Clara,” sings Andreas.)
Then I saw Senor Naccarelli coming out of an alley in shorts and a t-shirt. I ran up to him and shook his hand. “Thank you so much! I really enjoyed that.” He smiled, said something gracious, then it dawned on me to fish a Sharpie out of my backpack and get some signatures.
Burnham’s teeth up close were blinding. Katie Clark can’t be more than twenty-three. Andreas walked by in true diva form, transformed out of her character’s proper Southern lady in I Love Lucy suits into a Soho cherub in vest and jaunty hat over her close cut curls. I was not going to press her and I didn’t really have anything to say that she hadn’t already heard. After three signatures, I walked on, satisfied.

An hour and a half later, the rain clouds were loaded up and flying low as the Decemberists started their set with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra in Millennium Park’s Pritzker Pavilion. Happy crowds under umbrellas, on picnic blankets. Lots of tattoos, sundresses, nerd shirts, some children.
I found a prime spot dead center. I could see the dot of Colin Malloy strumming. The first cool drops fell as the strings and horns swelled up behind the delicate lyrics of The Crane Wife Parts One and Two.
It felt like an Event was starting. One of those you-had-to-be-theres. The concert of the Moment, ironically starring a quartet that dresses like Victorian dandies, backed by an orchestra well versed in prior centuries.
But I felt lonely. A family with two young boys was sitting behind me. Watching the packed ground carefully as I stepped over picnic dinners, sleeping bodies to reach this spot, I had caught a glimpse of a woman’s hand wearing an engagement and wedding ring. I thought of all the debates going on around me, all the various levels of commitment to this hard won, hard defended patch of real estate on this special night. “Should we stay?” “Taxis will be impossible.” “I can’t miss the encore!” I wanted to share that conversation, share the experience with someone. Cause that’s the sweetest connection of all for any music lover, of pop or pap or whatever, finding those who join you in relishing it.
After two songs, I walked on.
Labels:
theater
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Clowns
Nothing like a little classic clowning to cure what ails ya. You know, the good old bits – like the straight guy who knocks his head every time he tries to open a door. Or the delicious chestnut of the clown carrying a plank on his shoulder through a crowd, pivoting to predictable results. Or the joy of jugglers tossing stuffed animals.
Nothing like the sound of your daughters’ tumbling and uncontrolled laughter as they watch, riveted.
I couldn’t stop giggling myself, at the clown dogs in little cardboard cars, and the roller skating ballet.
Randy caught my eye and we looked at each other for a long moment, each of us holding one of our girls. This was our making up. The fight was over.
Today’s Go Dog Go production was a full-blown spectacle, under a yellow and purple-striped big top tent with ten dog-clowns and a live band and elaborate costumes, plenty of clever stage business and crazy props.
The climax, where Pink Dog in her frilly and teetering hat approaches her formerly negative friend, almost teared me up. After rejection upon rejection, she still carries the hope that he will, he will, like her hat. And he does! Hooray, and confetti!
Inspired by Pink Dog’s persistent faith, I am subjecting you to the ridiculous conversation that birthed today’s stupid fight:
Him: Do you have the tickets?
(What he meant: I am gently inquiring. Honey, did you buy tickets?)
(What I heard: Beep-beep. Must be in control. Are the tickets physically in your possession?)
Me: No, they’re at the box office.
(What I meant: I bought the tickets on-line and they are being held for us at will-call. Boo-ya! Aren’t I the capably prepared momma?)
(What he heard: La, la, la. I didn’t buy the tickets. We'll just buy them at the box office. Why are you even worrying about the possibility of us driving all the way downtown to a sold-out show? Why are you worrying about our children wailing “I want to see the doggies!!”? How silly of you.)
On the way to the circus tent:
Him: Is there a plan B for the tickets?
(What he meant: Since you didn’t buy the tickets ahead of time, what will we do if the show is sold out?)
(What I heard: I don’t really think you are capable of handling an on-line transaction.)
After hearing this final spice dumped in the stew of miscommunication, I simmered for a while, then blew up.
Since I’m embarrassed by my tantrum, I’ll fashion it in evasive Nixonese:
Words were yelled. A wood chip was kicked, sullenly. Someone actually said, “Stop sh**ting all over my beautiful life!” (Okay, that was me. Yeah, it was all me. Wearing a pout as wide as Emmett Kelly’s greasepainted mouth.)
Thank God we were both able to laugh over this later. Thank God my husband puts up with my drama. Thank God he’s the kind of guy who can appreciate the absurdity of the situation.
But what about the little witnesses? What do you do once you climb down from your own pile of hurt and start to see your children again? And you must get off that mountain. Because you have never lost the understanding of what it means when a child sees her parents fighting. The sight of us, the sound of our voices, has a power to work on her life that is more geological than emotional. Her life’s foundation threatens to shift and shake with earthquake force. You have always understood how your fighting can hurt them. How do you come back?
You take a deep breath through your nose. You exhale through your mouth, trying to relax the tight band across your shoulders. You rally. You make a plan. You list. You feel hope as you list.
1. Hug them, hold them close, sit one on your lap and smell her humid hair, her soft curl of an ear, whisper “seepa, seepa, seepa” and “I love you.” Apologize. “I’m sorry I yelled.”
2. Make up with Dad, quick. Apologize, whatever it takes, then kiss and hug him in front of them. Say, “look, Mommy and Daddy are hugging!” Invite the children over. Yell “group hug!”
3. Go to the zoo together, the street fair, the park. Watch the children make their play in the sunshine, eat some ice cream, take pictures. Stand next to your husband, your wife, and give each other a quick one armed hug as you watch the kids play because you both remember that here before you is the entire reason you must, it is imperative, make each other as happy as humanly possible.
4. Hope. Try another hat. Keep trying and keep hoping.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
A Very Funny One Woman Show
Peggy Ward Tells Motherhood Like It Is
Had another hard day in the salt mines of parenthood? When you’re half hoping Angelina Jolie might show up to whisk away one of yours? Leave the kids with a sitter, call a friend and check out Mamaphobia.
Peggy Ward’s one-woman show Mamaphobia pulls no punches as she finds comic fodder in the exasperating and exhilarating experiences of new moms. Her audience of like-minded women at Charlie’s Coffee House received her March 19 show with gasps of laughter, agreeing nods, and some surreptitious tears, but this clever and quick-paced play is sure to bring up strong memories and laughs for anyone who knows a parent or a child. Ward, a Wilmette native, takes on the common experiences, (achingly familiar to this reviewer) of slogging through sleep deprivation, cruising playgrounds for new mom friends, and enduring playgroup one-upmanship. Armed with few theatrical technical tricks but the occasional sound effect and simple lighting, Ward makes full use of her own gift for mimicry, fearless body language and a twisty point of view to bring to life over a dozen characters in vivid mini-scenes.
The play, conceived as a stand up comic routine, has the rapid-fire pace and one-liner rhythm of a great comedy club piece. A character’s answer to “But how do I sleep when the baby sleeps if I’ve got a toddler?” is decidedly blue, sadly true and very funny. Another wickedly funny sequence about the (ahem) hair care procedures of Brazil had the audience gasping, then breaking into gales of knowing laughter.
Great humor doesn’t just amuse, it can heal. Ward’s show is sure to help parents, old and new, cope with the earthquake changes that children can spring on our physical and mental health, our partnerships, our friendships, and our identities.
Mamaphobia runs Thursday nights in April and May at Charlie’s Coffee House in downtown Wilmette. Tickets are $15 at the door. See www.mamaphobia.com or www.coffeehousegallery.com for more information.
Labels:
theater
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