February 2011 – Behind the Proscenium

February 21, 2011April 25, 2011

Romeo and Juliet @ Circle In The O

Oh, dear reader! What my eyes have seen! That is, what my eyes have seen RECENTLY!

I have just returned home from a theatrical experience that has left me speechless – but thank the gods that it has not left me type-less.

I ask (rhetorically, of course) how often has it been that you have seen what you think that you would never see? Once? Twice? More like never. And yet we think that moment will definitely occur – like watching a full moon rise, or seeing a double rainbow (like that delightful man who cried on my computer – what bravery he had letting himself be set up for humiliation on the world wide web) or getting a decent table a Le Bernardin (try the oestra-sprinkled Spanish mackerel tartare, IF YOU DARE) on short notice. Impossible. But no.

Shakespeare has been performed in many ways in the thousands of years since the Bard of Avon took pen to paper and spilled his genius on the page. Each of his miraculous plays has been performed hundreds, nay thousands, nay hundreds of thousands of times.

I have seen “Midsummer’s” set at a high school in America during the 1950s; “Shrew” set in the Old West and; “Richard III” set in Hitler’s Germany (or Franco’s Spain, or Mussolini’s Italy – I get it, Dick was a fascist). I’ve seen “Hamlet” in a black box theater with the cast in t-shirts and black jeans… “Much Ado About Nothing” in 18th century Spain… “The Tempest” in a hippie commune… “Richard II” in a bath house (with real steam!).

I thought I had seen it all. Until last night. Glorious, wonderful last night.

What made last night so glorious (and wonderful)? The unexpected! And what made THAT so brilliant is that I had no idea that it was coming. The marquee read “Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare”. I was sitting in the “Circle in the O – Presented by Manka Broadway”. What would I see? Our young, tragic lovers updated to New York, “West Side Story” style? Or would they be of two different races on an alien planet? Romeo from a Confederate and Juliet’s supporting the Union? I quivered with anticipation.

And then it happened.

The curtain came up and I choked – LITERALLY CHOCKED in amazement – a beautiful set appeared – showing Verona as it was sometime in the 1590s! And then the actors came on stage… dressed in the same period!

I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Stop lying to me, eyes!” I shouted at my eyeballs (in my mind). What could the director be thinking? Setting a Shakespearean play in the Elizabethan period – in the country the play was set in as seen through the eyes of a person from Elizabethan England?

I was stunned, my reality had been shattered. Could this be? After two hours traffic of the stage (well, three hours – Shakespeare must not have thought about how long it can take an American actor to get through his words – after all, America wasn’t invested until much, much later) I realized that this COULD be. That this SHOULD be.

So, my extended theater family, are you ready to see what has never been done before? Are you ready to have your mind stretched like so much taffy (which is dreadful and pulls out your dental work)? Then make yourself ready to see Shakespeare set in a totally alien environment. Where it was intended?

Behind The Proscenium Is Back!

[Editor’s Note: Kyrle Lendhoffer’s column Behind The Proscenium has been on a management-ordered temporary hiatus for the past couple of weeks. Mr. Lendhoffer would like to set the record straight on recent events and give you some insight into what transpired. Manka Bros. and the Manka Bros. Publishing Group supports an individual’s right to personal security and does not support alleged criminal behavior by our employees.]

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A Personal Note From Kyrle Lendhoffer:

Stalker. It is a dirty word. A dirty word for dirty people.

I am not dirty, and yet the press – most of whom I thought of as colleagues and friends – decided to paint me with that brush. And once painted one cannot become unpainted, even if one did not deserve the lash of the brush that would paint one with the world “stalker” – metaphorically, smack dab in the forehead. I was forced to wear the scarlet “S”. Painted on by cretins… and foul and ugly mists of vapours!

Where do I begin? When one has been thrown in a trash heap, how can he recall the steps in reverse? From the moral refuse dump of the damned, back into the dump truck, back into the city collection scow where he (ME) was dumped from the ash can after being unceremoniously and callously tossed away – BY PEOPLE THOUGHT TO BE FRIENDS!

And yes! I did intend the all caps to be a primal yell from the heart! My broken, bleeding, weeping heart.

You see, recently I began a series of interviews with (I find it almost unbearable to type his name) Zachary Tisdale.

We first met a month ago or so at the Manka Palace Theatre when the Tennessee Williams masterwork “Haunted Alligators” was in rehearsal. Before I knew any better, I began to believe that Zachary was a paragon of acting as well as that of chiseled manhood (how God would have allowed such amazing pectoral muscles to be attached to such a clod I will never know, but I digress).

After our second or third interview together (only one was allowed to be printed by the Manka Bros. Corporate Gestapos!), I began to feel as if we had started to forge a special relationship. He would be the artist above the rest of the world, a God in a pantheon that few people outside of “show business” would ever understand.

I was positioned to be the conduit that would allow the world to see his brilliance – and let the hoi polloi hear his honeyed voice, yet help maintain the buffer that his kind of genius needs from the great unwashed.

To set the record straight: On the night of February 8th, I did not STALK Mr. Tisdale. I had earlier that evening witnessed his God-like brilliance in Haunted Alligators and simply wanted to offer my congratulations.

I approached him without warning in an alley outside of the theater, just as any resourceful and professional writer would have done. Although we were quite close at this time (despite what Zachary says now. Oh, Zachary, why do you still try to hurt me?), I thought that by taking him unaware it would make for a more open exchange of pleasantries.

And I was so right! If the courts would ever allow me to enter into the official transcript my side of the story, dear reader, you would be in heaven.

Flush with the glory of that night’s success, I decided that the time was ripe for another interview. Why so soon? I was at a bar (unnamed, they no longer get my business nor shall they get yours) with several (ex) friends celebrating Haunted Alligators’ triumph. Little did I know, as I downed Brandy Alexander after delicious Brandy Alexander, that I was having a hand in my own epic downfall. Drinking at a bastard Judas bar, surrounded by bastard Judas barflies.

As the sweet nectar rushed to my brain, my (ex) friends suggested that it would be a perfect time to get a follow-up interview from Zachary. And in my state of inebriation, I agreed that it was a magnificent idea.

To make a protracted saga petite, I did NOT (at 2:25 a.m. as the police state – yes, Police State!) stand in front of Zachary’s brownstone shouting unsuitable comments at the top of my lungs. I was merely trying to ascertain if Mr. Tisdale was in his apartment, and if so, why he wasn’t answering his buzzer. He could have been in distress (a push-up accident or some other work out calamity – well, “damn me to hell” for my generous concern). The police and, ultimately, the courts disagreed with me. So be it. The Pope disagreed with Galileo and we all know who was right in the end!

I must stop now – my plea agreement allows me only so many words to attend to this event. But I feel better. I feel as if my words are the kerosene that helps me remove this hideous “S” from my forehead.

And as for you, Mr. Tisdale, I know you think that your daring tongue scorns to unsay what it once hath delivered – but I know better.

And I will accept your call… and your apology over dinner. Because I am not “dirty”. I am not… a STALKER!

Kyrle Lendhoffer – Behind The Proscenium

P.S. – For the time being, I am allowed to work – and I have just seen the most delightful production of Romeo & Juliet @ The Circle In The O (review coming tomorrow!)

February 8, 2011April 26, 2011

Tennessee Williams’ Haunted Alligators [REVIEW]

Theater has existed as long as we have existed. From the first night when Caveperson “A” told a story to his/her fellow Cavepeople to keep their minds off of the saber tooth tigers roaming in the night – to last night’s performance of Haunted Alligators by Tennessee Williams at the Manka Palace Theater [EDITOR’S NOTE: The classic film version of Haunted Alligators can be seen this month on Manka Classic Movies].

I can now say that I have been to the top of the mountain.

I have seen the face of God.

I wonder how I continue in a career of theatrical criticism when everything that is to come will pale in comparison to perfection. PERFECT perfection.

Redundant? No. I simply try to hammer home how amazing this show is to your collective mortal minds.

Better yet, make your way to the theater to see this show in person. There are some who may say that I’m going overboard (and that I’ve been going overboard recently) and to that I say “NAY!”

Dear Reader, it is that we are living in one of the greatest eras of theater to exist since the Dawn of Man. How do I know how theater was at the Dawn of Man? I don’t. I just know that I don’t see too many revivals of Caveperson theater, and that is all that I need to know.

The show opened innocently enough. We find Chest (Zachary Tisdale who I had the pleasure to interview last week) and Livy (Nikki Abercrombie) sneaking toward the swamp shack, their sanctuary on the bayou. They are very much in the throes of love. And they are a comely couple. The fire between the two was apparent before they even began to speak.

Sitting in the fifth row, I started to sweat. The sweat of torment and lust. There was much declaiming of mutual attraction which was sadly derailed when Livy brought up her upcoming nuptials to the local plantation bigwig and patriarch of the Fatang clan, Large Willie.

The next scene opened up on the sumptuous Fatang mansion, known as Kudzu Manor.

Beautiful Charlotte (a radiant Gretchen Van Winkle) childhood friend of Livy, flits about the stage preparing for a grand wedding – all while taking care of her dimwit brother, Clayton (Michael Egan – almost unrecognizable from his last role as the union rabble rouser Frank Little in the Tony Award winning drama Butte: The Story Of A Hole).

Here the play takes an interesting turn; instead of plowing straight into the wedding, Tennessee Williams chose to introduce us to Large Wanda, who is the mother of Large Willie. She takes the dimwit Clayton aside and in a hauntingly beautiful scene (a once in a lifetime performance by Carolly Russ who was almost as stupendous in Mother Was A Ho And Custer Is Still Dead) tells Clayton of the horrors of marriage in the South. Clayton, oblivious, drools as if lost in a dream. A dimwit dream. Mesmerizing.

Then it is time for the wedding “celebration” and we are introduced to Large Willie (played with emotional intensity that almost knocked me to the floor by the multi-talented Leonard Menzies.

Ladies and gentlemen, we now know that he’s not just a comic juggler and fire dancer!). It is quite obvious who the life force is that steers life at Kudzu Manor. Large Willie takes over the stage and lays claim to his reluctant bride, Livy, as Charlotte and Clayton watch – both in tears, but not tears of joy. No, the tears of watching a friend being sold into indentured servitude.

In a horrible and soul crushing moment we see Chest looking in through the window – he howls, and then RIPS OFF HIS SHIRT revealing the pectoral muscles that I spoke of so eloquently last week. They are still delectable. His pecs, I mean. Yum.

Three years pass and Large Willie and Livy are found living in a domestic nightmare. Large Willie has large that he is dying from a lifetime of dipsomania and he takes out his anger on Livy as well as the servants of the house. He also knows that Livy has, and will always, love Chest.

Large Willie, on a downward spiral of self-pity and jealousy, prepares to leave for a weekend of whoring and debauchery in New Orleans. He is interrupted by Clayton, who droolingly mumbles something about seeing someone “creepin’ around the women down by the swamp shack.” Resigned to his fate and drinking heavily, Large Willie grabs his gun and makes his way toward destiny.

Dear Readers, I will not tell you anymore. Just know that you will see one of the greatest plays of American Theater unfold before your eyes.

Just know that Tennessee Williams is spinning in his grave – with joy! Joy! JOY!!!

I must catch my breath.

Kyrle Lendhoffer – Behind The Proscenium