Please Don't Hurt Me, Henry VIII

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​Henry VIII had a lot of wives, a lot of armor, and a lot of gout.

More from Bullett—this'll be a three day a week thing, you realize—this time a short column describing my utter ignorance of popular literature. And unpopular literature, for that matter. Really, if you want my attention, there'd better be a murder, some snappy prose, and a boat or two.

A nerdy pocket of the Internet was abuzz yesterday, as the results came down that Hilary Mantel‘s Bring Up The Bodies had taken home the prestigious Man Booker Prize. The award, given to the best English-language novel written by one of the Queen’s subjects, is notable for its ungainly name and for the fanfare that surrounds it. A Pulitzer winner is given a pat on the back, a fat check, and a huge stack of “Pulitzer!” stickers to put on their paperbacks. But win the Man Booker Prize, the BBC tells us, and £1 million in sales is guaranteed. This is the second time Mantel has bagged the award—her first came in 2009, for Wolf Hall—so it seems her place in the Pantheon—as well as her bank balance—is guaranteed. And so I ask seriously: Why in hell haven’t I heard of her?

Not only am I not illiterate, I consider myself to be the kind of man who keeps up with this sort of thing. I read the arts section of the local paper. I talk to friends about books. I am in possession of a library card. And yet, the name Hilary Mantel never penetrated my brain until yesterday. In my ignorance, I have been happy.

And sadly for the institution of cultural criticism, there's more! 

Interestingly, stage adaptations of the books have already been announced. Perhaps by the time they make it onstage, I'll have shaken my ignorance enough to deliver an informed opinion. I realize it's completely unfair to rag on these books without reading them, but I just can't shake the feeling that they sound terribly dull. Am I wrong? Has anyone out there actually read them? Please comment or tweet and tell me what they're like. I want to learn without reading, and I need y'all to help.

California: Forever Fulfilling Its Stereotype

Who says Los Angeles doesn't know culture? For two days this weekend, the seminal theatrical event of our generation will rock the Shakespeare Center of Los Angeles. The heavens will open, angels will sing, and sad children will learn to smile. To my legions of California faithful, attendence is mandatory.

Val Kilmer is doing a one man show. That he wrote and directed. About Mark Twain. This is simply the kind of thing that doesn't happen in New York. Normally I'm proud to live in a city where we don't let film actors do whatever they want—Ethan Hawke's forthcoming appearance in Ivanov notwithstanding—but today that's a shame. This could be a catastrophe along the lines of Anthony Hopkins' forgotten masterwork Slipstream, a cosmic mishmash which he wrote, directed, starred in and produced, and which I only know about because I interviewed him for it. 

(Sample bit of Hopkins-madness: "I'm interested when I watch a movie that just off camera there's lights and microphones and crew and trucks and craft services and John Wayne's out there fighting the bad guys. And at the end somebody says 'that's a wrap everyone' and they all go their different ways, and that's the end of our lives. That's it. And then the whole thing runs backwards because it's all a joke." Best interview I'll ever do.)

Citizen Twain, which was workshopped earlier this year at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, is the culmination of seven years of work by the actor best known for Tombstone, gaining weight in his face, and being hellishly difficult to work with. My father once told me that Kilmer had years of trouble getting work because he once used a stagehand's cheek to extinguish a cigarette, and the story got around. Note to aspiring Hollywood weirdos: don't commit assault on set. 

And are those the kinds of hilarious, folksy anecdotes we can expect from Kilmer's turn in the white Colonel Sanders suit? Presumably! From Playbill:

Citizen Twain is characterized as an exploration of "the famed author's wry humor, his successes and tragedies of his later life, which included bankruptcy, and a soul-searching feud with Christian Science founder Mary Baker Eddy."

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​Expanding our idea of Twain beyond the crotchety epigram-spouter of legend is a fine idea. Ditching the white suit might help. Dwelling on a forgotten feud with the founder of Val Kilmer's religion might not. Assuming this show will eventually be booked for a ten year Broadway run, I have already mailed Mr. Kilmer $250.

Of course, I haven't seen the play, and there is no way it's as bad as I'm imagining. The play promised by that press release is so perfect, right down to the title, that it's hard to imagine it's not a punchline in some Hollywood meta-comedy about actorly pet projects. As far as the staging, I'm picturing something like Kelsey Grammer's improvised Lincoln monologue, a brilliant 30 Rock moment for which I can find no evidence but this photo. 

But according to critics who saw the April workshop, Kilmer disappears fully into the role, doing his best Hal Holbrook under nineteen pounds of uncomfortable face make-up, which he had removed during the Q&A that followed the performance. Hal Holbrook is revered for his five decade portrayal of Twain, and perhaps this show could also be Kilmer's ticket to immortality. As far as Mark Twain Tonight, however, my mother and I saw it when I was a child, and were so bored that we left at intermission. Folksy only goes so far.

Although the newspaper critics declined to give specifics, the pointedly funny McSweeney's contributor Sarah Walker was in the audience, and gave an unfettered report of the weirdness. It's worth reading for insights into the evening's weirdness and Val Kilmer's views on race, but I'm gonna steal the highlight for you now:

When he’s telling the story of Tom Sawyer white washing the fence he refers to the smell of blossoms in the air, and someone came up behind us and sprayed a can of air freshener. It was like we were THERE. 

I'll post actual reviews when they come in. Because I've had so much early morning fun at the Serious Actor's expense, I'm sure he'll exceed all our expectations and more—acting so well that my house fills up with popcorn until it explodes. Until then, let's revisit the good times:

Classic quote from the movie Real Genius (posted in response to poorer quality recordings here).

Behold: The Finest Photo of All Time

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​My God, do I wish I'd been there to get this on tape.

Quite happy to see that Hugh Jackman has signed on to play Psy in the Gangnam Style musical.

Unconfirmed reports suggest it will tell the story of Wolverine trying to live life as a single parent in South Korea, where his attempts to get close to his son are thwarted by his pointy claws and his inability to stop dancing like a horse-riding cowboy. Frankly, this is exactly what Broadway needed.

This news courtesy of Psy's twitter, which you may as well follow if you feel a need to learn more about Psy. For me, that picture is so good that I hope I never learn anything again, lest it be pushed out of my brain.​

Everybody Plays The Fanboy . . . Sometimes

Fanboy websites have an incredibly irritating habit of making a big deal out of publicity materials. "OMG NEW HYDE PARK ON HUDSON TEASER TRAILER POSTED," or "HOLY HELL THE NEW PHILIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN THE MASTER TIE-IN ACTION FIGURE IS AMAAAAAAZING." But there's nothing less interesting than trying to make news out of a newly released poster. I mean...it's an image. It doesn't do anything. It doesn't say anything. Usually, they're ugly. It doesn't even have a kung-fu grip. 

We don't get a lot of that foaming in the theater world. Oh, sure, there are those who go bananas for a new Original Cast Recording, but generally, we pretentious theaterfolk try to stay thoughtful. As you can tell by reading this blog, I'm nothing if not thoughtful. The abbatoir that is my brain-cavity is constantly taking in thoughts, churning them out, and spitting out little idea sausages for you to enjoy. It's also good with positively disgusting images.

But for the moment, I abandon thoughtfulness. I foam. Because Crystal Skillman and the Vampire Cowboys have a new show coming out next spring, Geek, and OMG THE POSTER IS HERE HOLY HELL! 

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I saw an early draft of the play read this summer, and I can attest to its charming Vampire Cowboysiness. What's more, Crystal is a swell lady. If anybody deserves a little half-baked press, it's those guys. Dig the poster. Get excited about Geek.

Foolish Questions, You'll Hear 'Em Every Day

As Johnny Cash knew, foolish questions get a silly answer every time. In honor of the man in black, because when shouldn't we honor the man in black, here are a few bits of No-Duh headlines from this morning, ranked from most to least obvious. Some good articles in here—they just all start with the kind of who-cares news hook that editors love so much.

The sub-hed in this Los Angeles Times article asks, is the recent spate Broadway revivals "driven by fear-based economics or merely a desire to put a fresh spin on popular productions?" Well, duh. First of all, five plays opening within a few weeks of one another does not make a trend. The trend towards endlessly regurgitating classic material has been building for decades, and its roots are obvious. Mounting a show on Broadway is an exorbitant, perilous way to attempt to make money. When only one third of all shows recoup—when a show recouping merits a press release!—producers will do anything they can to ensure a hit. It's foolish to expect a Broadway production to be anything but safe—these producers already take plenty of risks with their bank balance. 

In the Guardian, Lyn Gardner asks why people in theaters cough so damned much, but fails to provide any of the obvious answers for why we hear more coughing in a theater than a cinema. Theatergoers are older, for one thing. If a person weren't teetering on the edge of death he'd be out doing something exciting, like skateboarding or mocking skateboarders. Theaters are often larger than movie theaters, and nearly always full. Plays are quieter than films, and the houses are designed for perfect acoustics. Coughs and sneezes reverberate just as well as snappy dialogue, and are sometimes much more amusing.

I once saw a very modern, very excellent production of Carmen which was staged on an expanse of sand. Between acts, the set rotated around the sand—an amazing effect that also happened to throw huge clouds of grit into the audience, causing a coughing fit that kept me from my customary second act Opera Nap.

In the Chicago Sun-Times, Neil Steinberg asks the rather tired question, "should theater shock?", but keeps it interesting by playing the part of the jaded audience member himself. It's an engaging little article about why it's necessary to keep an open mind after a performance as well as before, and I won't say any more about it.

Laura Collins-Hughes, of the Boston Globe, has a must-read article about the state of non-profit theater, which uses Cambridge's American Repertory Theater as an example of the sometimes too-cozy relationship between regional theaters and the Broadway powerhouses who use them as farm teams. Her headline writer asks the question, "Are nonprofit theaters too closely tied to commercial producers?", suggesting the answer is a pat, "Well, duh." But as the article makes clear, the situation is more complex. 

The news-peg for the Globe story is an impending report from the Center for the Theater Commons—thems the folks behind Howl Round, dontchaknow—which is supposed to be released later today. I imagine I'll have more to say about it then, but for the moment, read Collins-Hughes' article and consider this half-baked thought:

What could possibly be wrong with giving regional theaters an incentive to produce popular theater? If enhancement money is making up only a small fraction of the budget of a theater like ART, how is it corruptive? Far more dangerous than a regional theater making money off popular hits, I think, is a wholly static subscriber model, which attracts local highbrow types by making them feel obligated to support the theater, and feeds them mildly provocative tedium as a way of making them feel smarter than they really are. Theater, especially small theater, should be more entertaining than public television. But a regional theater tailored solely to its subscribers' desires is about as exciting as NPR. 

Phew! Glad I got that off my chest!

Oh, and you remember last week, when I mused about how terrible it is that so many theaterfolk work for free, but that the situation is impossible to fix? Someone in Britain is trying to fix it. Go for it, kiddos.

Rebecca In Peril, and Only Captain Planet Can Save Her Now

​The Long Island flim-flam-fellow behind giving Rebecca her final curtain—or is it?!—has been arrested on Long Island. And here, perhaps, I should make some joke about Long Island already being a prison to begin with, but I'm feeling a bit lazy even for that kind of lazy humor. Onward we press—with the news!

"To carry out the alleged fraud, Hotton faked lives, faked companies and even staged a fake death, pretending that one imaginary investor had suddenly died from malaria," reiterated the United States Attorney Preet Bharara. "Ultimately, Hotton’s imagination was no match for the FBI which uncovered, with lightning speed, his alleged financial misdeeds."

Truly, the FBI should always be depicted as some kind of fraud-fighting superhero supergroup. If Preet Bharara were a member of the Captain Planet team, which one would he be? Fire, I bet. Seems like a fiery guy. And, I did not realize this, but the closing credits for that 90's classic start with the unbeatable credit, "Original Idea By: TED TURNER." Between Chipper, Cap'n P, and the Gulf War, the 90s were really Big Ted's decade, eh?

And a note to Mary E. Galligan, the acting assistant director of the New York FBI—fraud is not the only crime that is plaguing Broadway. The strip also has a terrible problem with belabored metaphors, and you are not helping!

Ms. Galligan said  Mr. Hotton “wrote, directed and starred in the work of fiction he took to Broadway,” adding that a “convincing portrayal on stage can earn you a Tony” while “a convincing act that fleeces a production’s backers can earn you a prison term.” 

The Times piece ends with a quote from Ben Sprecher's beleaguered lawyer, who insists his client is "totally committed to bring Rebecca to New York." Poor, poor Ben Sprecher. Totally committed may be the right phrase.

The Adventures of 13 Playwrights Across The 8th Dimension

Everything I wrote yesterday about 13P was a hideous lie. It came to me just now in a flash. Their success has nothing to do with hard work, a clear mission statement, or fundraising genius. Rather, it's because they are thirteen of them—and each one must have his or her own specialization. It's like Ocean's Eleven, or, better yet, Buckaroo Banzai. 

Which one is Sarah Rule?

I know that there are other copies of the end titles to Buckaroo Banzai, but I thought we needed one that was clearly labeled, not edited, and in the right aspect ratio. ;)

Now that they've imploded, the gang must be done for good, right? 

Wrong.

They're either going to get back together in a couple of years to put on one more big show, or they'll get word that Earth is in danger from an intergalactic evil that can be stopped only by creative fundraising. Rob Handel will yell, "13P—Assemble!" and the evil will be vanquished...for now.

Big Trouble In Little Toronto

As an American and an asshole, I spend very little time thinking about Canada. I spend even less time thinking about Canadian theater. But two news stories this week have caught my attention, and I believe my puerile American brain is the better for it.

The first was a widely circulated pair of editorials about whether or not we should clap for celebrity entrances. Leaving aside the easy jokes about how I didn't realize Canada had non-Degrassi, non-hockey celebrities, I have to say that it's easy to agree with Kate Taylor's complaint that clapping for the arrival of a famous face "s'uggests that audiences, long accustomed to the virtual versions of stars they know from television and the movies, can be billed simply for the privilege of seeing them live and in person, like animals in a zoo." More importantly, I was impressed by the grotesque picture of Mickey Rooney chosen to accompany the post.

Today, an article about three prominent independent theaters in Toronto, and their fight to survive. I see so many stories along these lines about New York theaters, so it was interesting to hear the encounter the same tropes on the other side of Buffalo. 

We have Factory, which "all but collapsed under the threat of an artists’ boycott after its board fired artistic director Ken Gass in a dispute over renovations," and three playwrights pulled their work from the 2012 season. (Do they need replacement plays? I've got a pile of 'em, and only some suck.) We have the Tarragon Theatre, "the cradle of English Canadian drama," which is talking about changing its business model without actually doing so. And then there is Passe Muraille, which has departed from the suffocating structure of chasing subscribers by presenting season after season made up of a handful of name playwrights. 

How nice it must be for Canadian theater journalists, to never wonder whether a company styles themselves as a theater or theatre. Something to be said for standard spelling. Myself, I think that in these United States, anyone who claims to be producing theatre​ is either a redcoat spy or a world-class chump. But that's just one American's personal opinion.

Of the three groups mentioned in the article, I'm most charmed by Passe Muraille. They pair audience members with dancers, and send them to parks for a private/public show. They have collaborated with the city's taxi commission to produce a show about transit. And in December, they're inviting children into the studio to play around with toy construction.

"Visiting Passe Muraille’s ever changing website these days," the Globe & Mail reports, "it can sometimes be difficult to ascertain whether this is a theatre or some kind of community outreach project.​"

Last night I started another of the Ed McBain 87th Precinct novels, which take place in a thinly-veiled version of New York that is, nevertheless, complete unto itself. For Manhattan we have Isola, a rough-and-tumble island that's divided from the mainland by the Harb River to the north and the Dix to the south. On the far side of the Calm's Point Bridge is, surprisingly, Calm's Point—a working class borough whose dimensions feel strikingly similar to the one I currently call home. Reading about the struggles of Toronto theaters, I feel the same way, as though the Globe & Mail reporter took the stories of three dozen New York theaters and boiled them down into a handful of archetypes. If I want to know how the allegory plays out, I guess I'll have to keep my eye on the Toronto news.