"HAMLET" at the Broadhurst Theatre, 29 Sep 09

Last night I saw a movie star play Hamlet. He wasn’t the first movie star I’ve seen attempt it, and I honor all who try. It’s not just a great role; it’s a killer -- generally over three hours of leading a story along, carrying that burden with very little offstage time, of total exhaustion after each performance. If you’re doing your job.

Last night Jude Law did an exemplary job. His Hamlet is surly, angry, hopeful, juvenile, responsible, dramatic, powerful, virile, funny. He cowers like a child, he glides like a panther, he’s hot, he’s cold, he’s cool.

Law’s Hamlet connects, he engages, and for any actor who wants to join in the fun, he’s right there. For instance, conversations between Hamlet, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are the best I’ve seen. The three sit cross-legged on the floor as if in a college dorm room, comfortable, relaxed. He pauses after his first “Were you sent for?” honestly awaiting an answer. Simply, conversationally. The agonizing silence extends as his old friends know not how to respond without hurting or angering him. Understanding comes, and disappointment. This is the way Law’s Hamlet plays a scene. He is just a guy, unsuited to his fate, taking action only when he must: a man without a plan. As he says – “Time is out of joint; O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right.”

The play opens on the cold dark ramparts of Elsinore, with a pleasingly good Barnardo (Michael Hadley, who also plays the Priest, both men warm living beings), Marcellus (Henry Pettigrew playing multiple roles very well), and Matt Ryan’s pure Horatio. Their interaction is realistic, clean, and the beginning of the story they offer us is clearer than usual, without sounding like exposition. This augurs well.

The opening court scene is nicely staged, and we all search out the main characters. Geraldine James as Gertrude is center with Kevin R. McNally’s stately Claudius. Polonius, delightfully played by Ron Cook, is deferentially upstage of them, awaiting his summons. The Laertes is serviceable, the courtiers more so – Osric is introduced, so we know we’ll see him again. The predicted 3.5 hour length leads us to believe we’ll have close to full text tonight, and so far so good. There are a few women onstage, but it’s easy to find the youngest, sweetest-looking as Ophelia, and we look for her eyes to seek out Hamlet as ours do. He stands with his back to the audience, facing his mother, who directs all her looks and words to him. The Ophelia, oddly, is disengaged.

Law’s Hamlet converses softly, fiercely, tragically, comically, pastorally. He connects with all – except the Ophelia, but more on that anon. He takes the stage for his soliloquies, and into each he breathes fresh air, clean lines, vivid images. This man does not merely know how to woo a camera. This man’s voice and mind and body gather a live audience into his heart, and we will go with him anywhere. I find myself smiling at his gorgeous deliveries, happy to experience them. I’ve seen him onstage before, but hell, this is Hamlet he’s assaying. Hot damn.

Ophelia, as played by the RADA-trained (read Juilliard in an English accent) Gugu Mbatha-Raw, is a disconnect. She has no relationship with her brother Laertes. She has no relationship with her father Polonius, and she has no feelings for anyone around her, including Hamlet. She is a puzzlement. I go to every Hamlet with the desire to like the Ophelia. Alas, I missed Lauren Ambrose’s turn in the Park last summer, but I did see Pernilla Ostergren’s Ophelia in Bergman’s Hamlet at BAM in the late 1980s. She was marvelous, gutsy, thoroughly believable. Of course the play was also in Swedish, so I couldn’t hear any mangling of verse that so oft offends. Ms. Mbatha-Raw did not mangle the verse. She is merely … not there. There is no there there. She has clearly had proper schooling in scansion; she knows how to speak the verse. From the moment we see that she doesn’t even look toward Hamlet in the opening scene, we could feel the emptiness there. Is this young love? No, Claudius seems right on that point. Not with Mbatha-Raw as Ophelia, there is no love or feeling of any kind. Her mad scene was a schoolgirl’s attempt to not overact, so she merely showed off a well trained voice and sang. Perfectly, clearly, to underscoring!!! Who underscores Ophelia’s mad song? Clearly this is director Michael Grandage's choice, but it is an inauspicious one and stands out in this otherwise strong production. Appalling scene. A great disservice has been done to all future audiences, for Ms. Mbatha-Raw can always state that she played Ophelia to Jude Law’s Hamlet at the Donmar Warehouse and on Broadway. Why why why.

All right, enough of her.

My attention wandered on occasion, and I snapped back to the stage feeling great guilt. But why. It’s their job to hold it, not mine to force it. The Claudius was quite disappointing. It’s a marvelous role, so full, so many choices that could be made. McNally began well in the opening, a politico, classy with a touch of smarmy. The audience needs to see why the election went to him instead of the son of the late king, and he gives us that. And for a moment (note, a silent moment) in the play-within-a-play, I thought he was finally taking a stand. But the moment we saw him alone in the magnificent chapel scene, my mind wandered. All the way back 30, or was it 40 years to Richard Johnson playing the role so well in the Hallmark Hall of Fame production of 1970 or so with Richard Chamberlain fresh from his Dr. Kildare scrubs. Richard Johnson was riveting.

Mr. McNally was not, at any time, riveting.

Mr. Law was. And not just because he’s gorgeous. Of course he is, and from the first mezzanine his perfectly lit face’s bone structure is even better than it is close up on screen – honestly. His voice fills the Broadhurst, his body slinks and struts and slumps and collapses and rears up – it’s a fine body.

OK, enough of that, too.

I’m a fan of Geraldine James, but after that well-rehearsed opening court scene, I knew her choices for Gertrude because she telegraphed them. She even blew her lines when announcing (not in a frighteningly chilly way, just plain cold) Ophelia’s death. The woman was thinking on stage instead of being on stage, and I was quite surprised. She was not the original Gertrude of the Donmar production (that was Penelope Wilton), but surely she should know her lines. Throughout, she felt decidedly under-rehearsed.

The main problem of this production was that when Hamlet left the scene, so did the light and the life. The scenes lacking Law’s presence were merely educational, filler, ‘this is what happens what Hamlet’s not here.’ The verse was always clear, the language beautiful, the story continued, but as if with narration, not action. Even if Law's Hamlet was not the focus of a scene, as long as he was there, the other actors woke up and smelled strong coffee brewing. Except Ophelia. I don’t even want to talk about the nunnery scene.

Ah, the Gravedigger scene – so often this “clown” scene falls flat. Not this production. The First Gravedigger is played by Ron Cook after his Polonius' guts were dragged to the nether room. Here he comes, shoveling up skulls from an ingeniously created grave center stage. His last appearance was also among clever scenic executions – the arras behind which Polonius listened to Hamlet and Gertrude’s ‘closet scene’ was translucently downstage of the prince and queen so that we and Polonius looked through the curtain to eavesdrop. On his death, Polonius pulled the curtain down, and after I had a quick flash of Janet Leigh in Psycho, the white curtain tumbled around Polonius like a soft fall of snow. Beautiful.

Throughout, the scenic design was striking – simple, clean lines, texture, light, and dark, and smoke, no mirrors. And snow. Six or so months back, I saw it rain on the Broadhurst stage. Last night it snowed on Hamlet. Lighting was sometimes mysterious, always the right angle, shadowed what and who belonged in shadow. Doors would slide open and closed, tall and short, confining and releasing the characters, dividing them, closing them in. Denmark is, after all, a prison.

I’ve mentioned some negatives here, but may I assure you, I was exhilarated leaving the theatre. This production had the effect of making us stay together to talk about it for something like an hour afterward, as good theatre should. This Hamlet was joyous, it was marvelous. A flawed production – when are they not – but with so many excellent moments and scenes, I’d happily see it again to see how this cast settles in.

Especially if Ophelia’s understudy goes on.

~ Molly Matera, turning off the computer, but not the light. I have reading to do....a play called "Hamlet, Prince of Denmark."

“In-I” at BAM Harvey Theatre, 23 Sep2009

Directed and performed by Juliette Binoche and Akram Khan
Set design by Anish Kapoor
Lighting design by Michael Hulls
Music by Philip Sheppard
Ms. Binoche’s costume by Alber Elbaz
Mr. Khan’s costume by Kei Ito
Sound design by Nicolas Faure

Remember all those names. Everything about this production was as close to perfect as a live performance – hell, any performance – is going to get. “In-I” is a dance/theatre piece created by the very familiar actress Juliette Binoche and the, to me unknown until now, dancer/choreographer Akram Khan. Theatre is a communal art, and the community that gave us this piece tonight is stunning. A deceptively simple set, extraordinary subtle and enticing lighting design, discreet and emotional music designed flawlessly in conjunction with all the other elements.

The piece begins with Ms. Binoche sitting in a chair looking at the back wall of the set. The lighting design kicks in and we’re in a movie house. She tells us that she went into the dark to find the light and herself. She sees the man she wants to love in a movie theatre, follows him – nay, stalks him – then meets him, woos him, resistant as he is. Initially. We follow them in their first ecstatic night of lovemaking to the reality of the morning after. The story is about love in all its glory, torture, hell, wonder, awfulness, awesomeness. Love sucks. And yet. Those who know me know I don’t believe in love at first sight, but that’s what happens here, for her. That I don’t believe in it tells you how extraordinary the execution of this story was. I loved this performance, production, act of courage.

Ms. Binoche is not a dancer by training until recently, and she has entered into that physical world with great gusto. It is not unreasonable to state that she threw herself into this world 100% and Mr. Khan caught her like the deft, strong, and emotive dancer he is.
Sometimes I felt like a voyeur, the ups and downs of their relationship were so clearly depicted – except real life isn’t graceful.

I’m only sorry this piece had a short run so I could barely recommend it in time for its closing weekend. Wherever it plays around the country, don’t miss it.

-- MM, turning off the computer, really this time.

Reasons to Hate Nature

I get hot flashes and PMS. It’s not fair.

• I’ve taken to carrying a handkerchief to mop the sweat off. I feel like one of the fat villains in black-and-white movies, always mopping away the sweat of guilt and fear. For years these old clothe handkerchiefs lived, untouched, in a duct-taped cigar box, some frilly, some plain, some for men, some for women, a few that were mine as a little girl. There is still no way I’d use one to wipe anything but sweat, however. But those cloth hankies are handy now that I need them to mop the sweat from my … everywhere -- since it’s generally not considered appropriate for a female to just pull her shirt up to dry her face. Men have all the luck.

If back to nature were a good thing, it would only be hot muggy and disgusting when you’re at the beach. But no, it’s hot muggy and disgusting when we’re in the City, working, on the way to a job interview, an audition.

Nature sucks.

• Spring = Allergies
  
• Fall = Hayfever

And just generally about fall and winter --

• It’s dark when I get up for work in the morning
• It’s dark when I leave the office after work.

Yes. Nature sucks.

Eight Things to Remember about Wild Turkey

1. One can smell it through a closed cup.


2. Unlike Coca Cola (which can render a filthy grill or a gunked-up car battery clean), it overwhelms the cardboard bottom of a paper cup and seeps through.


3. Paper napkins under a leaking cup are quickly sodden with a powerful aroma.


4. One starts to wonder if it will seep into the wood of the desk.


5. One hopes one has strongly scented Pledge wipes available.


6. It makes a sore throat feel better while it’s in the throat.


7. It enables one to feel equipped to go to a bar and continue drinking through the night, despite a sore throat.


8. Wild Turkey can make one write an entirely different blog from that originally intended.

~ MM, turning off the computer, the light, everything.

End-of-Summer vacation

Swimsuits cleaned and drying, cat and I are both back, and the home I cleaned before leaving for vacation welcoming. All’s well, just wish there was a pool out back. And the sound of surf instead of traffic out front.

I didn’t shop, I just walked and swam and ate and read and wrote little. The one thing I brought back with me is an earache that showed up Thursday night. I suspect it started brewing after my little body-surfing on that glorious 80-degree day, Tuesday. I dislike 80-degree days in the City, but 80 degrees is heavenly out in Montauk. After swimming in the pool, I walked southerly along the shore. The sea was so inviting as I walked past countless navy blue umbrellas on the adjoining beach resort that I turned around so I could peel off my cover-up and drop it with my hat and sunglasses closer to ‘home,’ near the child’s pool in the photo.

I walked against the tide then, and dove into the first wave threatening to break over me. It was cold, but far from frigid. I’m almost glad I wasn’t able to come in May – then the water would have been unbearable.

I body-surfed in, worked my way back out, body surfed again and again until I was out of breath. Showered the sand out in the external shower before I went back on the pool deck to sit and dry in the sun. Monday had been lovely on my arrival, but Tuesday was the perfect summer day.

After swimming again in the pool and before climbing up the stairs to my room, the tide as ever started coming in. Each day the high tides varied between 7 and 8:30, so the beach was at its widest between 1 and 2:30. In the mornings the mark of the last tide was clear.

As the afternoon grew on, one could watch the beach slowly shrink.

Wednesday, as predicted, was cooler, much cooler. I waited for the sun to warm it up a bit, but the northeast wind was wicked. I read all day, inside, outside. Didn’t go into the water at all. But got some great snaps of clouds:

Thursday afternoon I used the ‘video’ function on the Canon, still without skill. Nevertheless, posted to YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h2vTOCuJR0w

A very short week – hardly a week, just 4 nights – ending with a pleasant drive back, with one clear thought:

Since I did nothing useful on vacation – and there’s nothing wrong with that – all my work, be it research, writing, editing, outlining, will have to be done as part of my everyday life, as it should be. Nothing to be deferred to ‘when I have more time.’ That’s it, big lesson of the day.

~ MM, turning off the computer, but not the light. I have reading to do.

(500) Days of Summer

I am not a fan of the romantic comedy genre. This because romantic comedy films and plays are historically misogynistic. Earlier this year, at the Tribeca Film Festival, I saw a fabulous film called ‘Timer.’ It was a truly clever combination of romantic comedy and science fiction. Written, directed, and produced by women, it was an utterly delightful non-misogynistic romance. I have yet to see this film picked up by a distributor, which proves misogynists dominate the industry.

I am surprised and delighted to report that I’ve seen my second non-misogynistic romantic comedy this year: ‘(500) Days of Summer.’ This was a non-linear story of Tom’s love for Summer – or was it obsession? Numbered scenes from the day Tom and Summer first meet to the moment Tom begins to (spoiler!) recover bounce around from euphoria to despair and back again.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt is Tom Hansen, a writer of greeting cards instead of the architect he wanted to be. Zooey Deschanel’s Summer is the object of Tom’s desire, love, fantasies, and disappointments. The set-up is clear from the beginning – as Tom’s colleague McKenzie (Geoffrey Arend) states on their karaoke evening out, Summer’s belief system about love and relationships is that of a “dude.” Tom is the blatant romantic. All the performances are good, but I must point out that Chloe Moretz as Tom’s sensible little sister is entrancing. Between the honesty of the scenes between Tom and Summer, and the scenes between Tom and his sister, and the marvelous soundtrack, this movie flew by too fast. And I never say that about movies.

The journey lasts under two hours but memories of the familiar moments of loves lost and found will pop up on the walk home, the next day’s commute, and whenever I put that CD in my stereo.

Vacation + Stress

My poor old cat cannot stay home alone for four days, now that he gets meds twice a day (not to mention he's not on his best behavior anymore. It's not that he doesn't know where the litter box is -- he's just inconsistent).

Meanwhile, I needs must get away and be irresponsible for four or five days. So I did it. My stomach clenches as I write that. I brought him to his vet's "Cat Condos," where no dogs abide, and nice people will look after him. Away from home. Awful. Vet handed me the tissue box when I started crying -- he made me feel even guiltier than I already did, telling me the cat's mainstays are his humans and his place, and there I was taking both away. My boy stared at me as the vet carried him away from me. He knew something was up. But really, another 'vacation' at home just wasn't going to do it for me.

I drove out to Montauk in two hours. Half an hour less than past times, despite the slower traffic at lane closures on the LIE. I didn't pass people, they passed me, but I must have been going mighty fast. In my old Dodge, I'd have noticed the noise went I went over 35. In the Toyota, I find myself suddenly going 70. And more. I'd love to slow down, but on the LIE that's not an option.

I always assume it'll storm when I'm out in Montauk, so I'm sure to get a room with a view of the ocean. This week's room wasn't my best choice -- I saved a little money, but the view is partially blocked. No matter, it's not pouring. It's gorgeous. This little efficiency will do me just fine.

When I arrived yesterday the pool was extremely inviting. I swam there, I walked along the beach and into the surf, I went back into the pool. Slept like a log last night. Now I'm waiting the appropriate amount of time before I go swimming again, since I've had my oatmeal and I'm quite full. And need to get out to the stores to pick up olive oil (to stir fry the chicken I brought from home which would not have survived another 4-5 days in the fridge) and bread (for the cheese I brought from home, ditto), and stamps and postcards to various children.

There are few things more soothing and beautiful to me than the sound of the surf. Partial view or not, that I can hear just fine.