ROCK ME AMADEUS! National Theatre's Astounding Production

 

Time has prevented me from writing anything about my mind being blown a few nights ago watching the 2017 National Theatre production of Peter Schaffer's masterpiece Amadeus. It was exciting to see the work revived - in a different production and edition - in the same theatre it premiered at in 1979.  What a journey this play has taken over the decades since that first night.  

Michael Longhurst's gives this Amadeus about as stunning a production as it will ever likely receive and once again I've witnessed something that left me emotionally spent and incredibly grateful  I'm still alive. It made me remember that despite the wretchedness that surrounds us, the world still allows such magic as to make us forget it all long enough to remember how beautiful it can still be.  

Visually, sumptuous, Longhurst gives his Amadeus a widescreen film perspective, with a large moveable (automatically receding and projecting) platform that accommodates the numerous scene changes and handsomely holds his enormous cast, which includes the 21 member Southbank Sinfonia - so that everything, every gesture feels magnified . . . larger than life  

Since its premiere, Salieri has become one of the great villain roles of the last century and  attracted a wide variety of top flight actors ready to rant, rave and poison his rival, Mozart, but Lucian Msamati may be the best of the many I've seen. His harrowing portrayal covers every possible aspect of Salieri's personality - the pettiness, the jealousy, the rage and self-loathing - to the point I was alternately sympathetic and disgusted by him.  As it should be.

I initially had some issues with Adam Gillen's Mozart. Delivered in an exaggerated Cockney (as was Karla Crome's Constanza) that made increased his already annoying behaviour t o a level that was at times, difficult to take. He makes up for that to some degree with his physicality - literally throwing himself into every scene with an abandon that almost seems dangerous.  All of that however, pays off handsomely in the final 30 or so minutes of the play.  As Mozart's fortunes turn and his demise is imminent, Gillen's Wolfgang broke my heart - and I watched the final scenes in tears. It was beautifully painful and painfully beautiful.  

The Southbank Sinfonia provide not just a consistent soundtrack in music of Mozart and others, including arrangements by Music Director, Simon Slater, but also are part of the action, several of them with lines. The operatic scenes are spectacularly delivered on floating proscenium arches with Mozart in tow several times, and an interesting arrangement of the Queen of the Night's aria that has Papagena sort of echoing the high notes. Sounds strange but it works. Brilliantly. 

While I've loved this play for over forty years, right now I don't think I've ever loved it more. 

Andrew Scott is Vanya. and Alexander, and Sonia, and Michael, and . . .

 

Last night I stayed up to watch the National Theatre's production of Simon Stephen's one-man adaptation of Anton Chekhov's UNCLE VANYA . . .  VANYA, starring the work's co-creator, Andrew Scott.  As a lover of Chekhov's play, and a major fan of Andrew Scott, I've wanted to see this for over a year now, despite its wildly mixed reviews. VANYA appears to be one of those polarizing pieces is loved or loathed . . . or if not loathed, not loved. Well, put me in the love camp - so much so that I watched it all over again this morning.   

Mr. Scott takes on all eight of Chekhov's characters (whose names here are Anglicized) and therein lies the rub, prompting the NY Times' Houman Barekat  to deliver the harshest review titled  Andrew Scott Plays Every Part in ‘Vanya.’ Why?"  Barekat places equal blame on the play's failure with playwright and actor. Whilst praising Scott's challenge as "an impressive feat" he, in the same breath writes:

"Scott flits between the various parts by nimbly modulating his voice and bearing  . . . a certain amount of realism is sacrificed — to help orientate the audience, the characters’ names are mentioned more frequently than is natural, and the female characters occasionally come off a bit campy"

He goes on to describe Scott's performance as "shallow" complaining of coy half smirks and knowing glances to the audience that robs the play of pathos. Further that Scott is the possessor of 

a certain glassy inscrutability that suggests he’s a little too steeped in wry self-awareness to comfortably inhabit any other mode . . . this is Chekhov after all — the best he can serve up is an ironic facsimile of wistfulness. What artistic benefit is derived from having a single actor play all the parts? . . . what was the point?  . . . the play is not well served . . . its pathos diluted. Constraint for its own sake is self-indulgence, and there’s a fine line between a conceit and a mere gimmick

So, armed with that, I plunged headfirst into Vanya . . . and there was not only not a single moment of regret in so doing, but a sense of theatrical magic - even on the screen - that I last saw this past winter in the same company's Frankenstein (with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller). While Mr. Barekat rants about a lack of pathos, I found the play - and Mr. Scott's portrayals - filled with that quality. What made it even more - dare I say "pathotic" (that's not going to make into the OED!) was precisely the bits complained about: the knowing glances, the half smirks, and so on, because they left me entirely unprepared for the inevitable eruptions of the emotional volcano of ennui and resentment and and from Chekhov's original tragicomedy and fully inhabited in Mr. Stephens' brilliant adaptation.  

Despite its title, this is not Chekhov's Uncle Vanya, (which Chekhov himself adapted from his earlier play, The Wood Demon), but an adaptation . . . an entirely new work and NOT merely a translation.  I think the critics that compare it unfavorably to Chekhov were being perhaps a bit obtuse and damning the play for not being . . . well, Chekhov.  In wanting and waiting for Chekhov they missed the point of this play entirely. Of course I could be wrong, but . . . so could they. 

The writing - and the direction by Sam Yates - and the set by Rosanna Vize - , a working semi-kitchen, stairs and doors to nowhere, a player piano (which plays an important part) some plastic chairs, a half bottle of Smirnoff - provide Scott with an emotional playground and allows for all eight characters to spring to life - even if once or twice it can't be helped you forget which character is talking or to whom. Pay attention though and they all have their ticks and unique speaking voices, accents and styles.  It is one of those all too rare, bravura solo performances - a true tour de force with an emotional range that ranges from the lighthearted to moments of searing intensity, rage, pain and hopelessness. And tears. Mr. Scott, more than once, almost seems to cross the line between acting and being - actor and character - and successfully walking that dangerous edge in the world of theatre, is one of the most exhilarating, breathtaking things you can give to an audience.  And that audience - including this homeviewer  - goes mad with admiration and adoration before a clearly moved performer. 

It's not surprising that Andrew Scott was nominated along Joseph Fiennes, James Norton, and David Tennant for this years' Olivier Award (which went to Mark Gatiss' portrayal of John Gielgud). 

Vanya comes to New York this Spring where it will play at the Lucille Lortel Theatre, and anyone in range of Manhattan should try to go.  It's really that good. 

The Fisher King: Gilliam's Most Operatic Film

 

(Updated from 9 August 2023)

It had been at least 20 years since I watched this, but Criterion Channel tonight reminded me it's leaving so . . . The Fisher King it was. 

I remember attending its DC premiere, and, despite hearing mostly negative reviews and not much praise, just how much I loved it.  But the truth was, I couldn't remember why I'd loved it so.  While certain elements came back immediately, I was rather surprised at just how much I'd forgotten. As I watched and smiled, I began remembering just how much - and why I I loved this film so many critics had a field day tearing apart. 

Roger Ebert felt director Terry Gilliam was "too indulgent" with a) the numerous angles the story took; and b) Robin Willliams' performance. That was the real stickler for him, I think.  He emphasized how he believed Williams would do well to "steer clear of parts created for his particular style," and that he is an actor that needs a strong director who will "reign him in."  Pishaw!  

Two separate NY Times reviews (remember when that was a thing?) detailed its perceived failures.  Caryn James decried it as "overdone and mawkish . . . from the touchy-feely school of movie making . . . big and messy." Meanwhile, Janet Maslin at least wanted to like the film and had some positive things to say, but it all derailed for her as she felt Gilliam "sustain(ed) a funhouse atmosphere at the expense of dramatic development. What emerges, in the end, are a clever premise that has been allowed to go awry . . . an unholy mess . . further heightened by the throwing in of the Holy Grail . . . it's narrative confused and cluttered  . . . by its final scenes its shapelessness has become exhausting." Wow. Disagree. A lot.

Gilliam worked with a splendid cast: Jeff Bridges as the broken radio shock jock Jack; Robin Williams as God's Janitor, Parry; Mercedes Ruhl (in a glorious performace) as Jack's tough partner, Anne, and Amanda Plummer as the awkward loner, Lydia.  Each injects a glorious complexity into his or her character, as they're put through their own individual emotional wringers. For my part, the pairing of Bridges and Williams was an inspired one, their many scenes together an absolutely joyous thing to behold.  While I have always enjoyed Mr. Bridges, the emotional range he brings to Jack results in what remains one of his career's finest and most deeply felt performaces.

While there are a few things I think may have benefited from a stronger editorial hand (the Chinese restaurant scene could have been half as long and still made its point), there really isn't much I would change or shorten.

Gilliam's blend of comedy and pathos, reality and fantasy, hopelessness and redemption felt to me all of a piece in Richard LaGravenese's beautiful, often poetic screenplay. Some of the critics liked various of those elements, but most it seemed felt it was too much  - that certain things (e.g., the relevance or irrelevance of the Holy Grail) were unessential elements and bogged the story down. They're wrong.  They didn't.

One of the film's crowning touches is the over-the-top performance of Michael Jeter as Homeless Cabaret Singer. His several scenes, particuarly his drag performance of Everything's Coming Up Lydia, as he channels his inner Ethel Merman is not to be missed. I'd go so far as to call him adorable - but not in the cloying way you might think . . . or fear.  Jeter's performance adds yet another level of pathos and brings a strong reminder of some of the really tough parts of the 80's and early 90's:  homelessness, AIDS, and mental illness. It's a short performance but, oh my, is it a powerful one.

Cinematographer Roger Pratt and production designer Mel Bourne, give the New York locations, especially the East River bank, Central Park and Parry's abode, a feeling of timelessness . . . both modern and medieval. There are scenes of magic that just seem to happen, such as the passengers in a jam packed Grand Central Station breaking into a grand waltz. . . . or the gentle beauty of Parry's narration of the titular Fisher King as Jack watches, listening to the tale and its teller absolutely rapt in awe. Countless bits of detail, all amazing touches - such as these fill and fuel the beauty of this movie.

In discussing the film with a fellow opera and movie fanatic, she brought up what she believed was a reason so many film critics panned The Fisher King:  "One needs an operatic sensibility to appreciate this kind of movie."  That was IT!  Gilliam's film was sort of a filmic/visual opera, so it made perfect sense why they didn't adore it as we had.  It also made sense learning how after this, Gilliam went on to produce and direct opera, notably two grandious Berlioz spectacles:   Benvenuto Cellini and Damnation du Faust, which appeared at houses in London, Spain, Holland, Germany, Rome, and Palermo.

So, okay, The Fisher King is not a movie for everyone.  That's just fine by me. 

Call Me By Your Name. Who knew it was so good?

 (Originally published 21 June 2022)

 Last night . . . and five years late, I watched a movie I'd never intended to see.  But, being something of a completist, I've been a fan of the (now very) controversial actor, Armie Hammer, and with only a few titles missing, decided it was time for Call Me By Your Name. Was I surprised?  Yes, and far more than I could have possibly imagined. There is no word I would attach to Luca Guadagnino's film other than masterpiece, and, of the few films I've seen of his, it is far and away the finest. 

His treatment of André Aciman's 2007 novel is one of the best transfers from book to screen I've seen . . . maybe ever.  That's a strong statement, and I may walk it back eventually, but I doubt it.  Seriously.  Absolutely everything about Guadagnino's interpretation of this tale feels right and faithful, beginning with the uncomfortable nature of the story which he makes to feel, of all things . . . feel perfectly natural. So many elements come together to achieve this cinematic Gesamtkunstwerk, that, it's impossible to think of and comment on them all.  This includes the amazing soundtrack with its use of John Adams, Mozart, Bach, (and more) which makes the images they accompany fairly pop in their details. The use of music here blends like a sort of light, illuminating the story without ever intruding upon it.  Then there are the characters with each role perfectly cast, and executed brilliantly by a troupe of actors who bring nuance, depth, and more than just a touch of mystery to their roles. Indeed, there is mystery in each of these characters and they become as real as you or I.  While all are superb, I'll leave it that the film really is beautifully carried by its two principals, Armie Hammer and Timothée Chalamet.  

But wait, there's more! Take for instance the amazing, breathtaking lighting design used throughout, and Guadagnino's almost preternatural use of space . . .  water . . . ancient architecture . . . all of it blending in with new world emotions that, as they casually bubble to the surface, we realize, are not so new after all. No. Not new at all.  It's fucking brilliant.

Anyway, I was knocked out by every moment, scene, line and can think of no more beautiful ending to a film than the closing, shot - which continues during and extends to the final credits. Guadagnino has created something he does not want to end - and we don't want him to.  At least I didn't.   

So, after falling on my swort (not literally, relax) I followed this experience with my usual trick: finally reading the reviews.  Not surprisingly (or perhaps so, given my track record of loving things critics seem to hate) almost every one of them was a rave.  

And then there was, of course, Richard Brody's hatchet job for the New Yorker.  In by far the longest, prosiest, rant against everything about Guadagnino's movie.  Everything.  Seriously this exhausting review seemed to take longer to read than the film it was tearing apart.  For brevity's sake (your welcome), here's my distillation of his hatred:

Empty, sanitized intimacy . . .if Guadagnino had any interest in his characters . . . .the story is inconceivable without the conversation that they’d have had as their relationship developed ... yet, ... what they actually say to each other is hardly seen or heard.  Guadagnino can’t be bothered to imagine (or to urge Ivory to imagine) what they might actually talk about while sitting together alone. (he) displays no interest in the characters, (All) of the characters are reduced to animated ciphers . . . “Call Me by Your Name” (is) thin and empty, ... sluggish; the languid pace of physical action is matched by the languid pace of ideas, and the result is an enervating emptiness.

Boo.  Hiss.  Brody complains the Guadagnino does not establish either Elio or Oliver's sexual or romantic histories before they meet; expressing how knowledge of their respective pasts is a necessity for character development and our ability (or inability) to read them. How sad to be a critic for a well regarded publication and be incapable of seeinig things, or have any ability to interpret characters without having all the details explained to you.  He went on to complain about camera angles, shadows, lighting, pan shots, quite literally every detail of the film.  Brody's review reads like a diatribe constructed by a jilted lover on a vendetta, right down to hinting at "and another thing!"  Not only could I not possibly disagree with him more, I also couldn't stop laughing.

Anyway. . . I'm glad I finally broke down and gave Call Me By Your Name a go.  It was a truly beautiful experience  . . . one of my favorites of the year, and I can't wait to revisit it again.