Jerusalem

Can we just say that Mark Rylance is rocking the very foundations of the Music Box theater these days? Mr. Rylance plays an essentially unlikeable character. He makes no apologies for that. There is nothing in the script that is meant to endear him to us. Doesn't matter. I can pretty well assure you that when Rooster (Mr. Rylance) lets loose his ire and resentment, when he reaches into his very soul for past-due retribution--the power of his performance can fracture your sense of well-being and put you in awe of this majestic actor.

What can I say? That he actually gave a performance that rivals this one only a few months ago? How could I say that; that would be ridiculous. Except that he did. The opening 25 minute monologue of La Bete, in rhyming verse mind you, was Mr. Rylance in a bravura turn which provoked a prolonged ovation every night. I for one went back three times in one week. I could not take my eyes or my wonder off the incredible Mr. Rylance.

Hey, I did not love Jerusalem, the play, as much as some have. Who cares though? When you have this kind of sheer acting power in the central role, it reminds you of Eleonora Duse, who left her audiences in stunned reverence at the power of her performance--and she only performed in Italian!

The Normal Heart

I wasn't sure if Larry Kramer's iconic play would make the leap through time. I was worried that it would feel time-bound, less urgent therefore less deep-ranging.

I am glad to report that my worries were completely unwarranted. This revival is a smash. I haven't left the theater wiping the tears from the entire side of my face in a very long time. Don't get me wrong--I'm a crier. I am susceptible indeed to heart-rending moments on stage. Susceptible? I long for them. It just usually takes the form of a welling up, an errant tear escaping the eye.

Not this time. When the final curtain fell, it seemed to me like we, fellow members of the audience, had been through primal therapy together and no one wanted to break the spell of sacred silence (besides, we were busy cleaning our faces for the world out on 45th Street).

This production fairly bristles with powerful emotional moments. What a treat to see Joe Mantello on the other side of the boards again. No need to herald his directorial accomplishments: artistically and commercially, his is a phenomenal success. But that acting: the antic Jewish urgency, the beating heart within the character--let's hope Mr. Mantello treats us again soon to his inimitable acting.

That said, the power speech of the play, and a soaring performance, belongs to Ellen Barkin as the irate, irascible doctor who was the main early treater of the Aids epidemic. In her wheelchair but without the vaguest hint of self-pity she takes center stage and gives a speech that overwhelms you. In lesser hands it could have gone awry, believe me. But Ms. Barkin is back in her rightly praiseworthy domain. We all know about her recent divorce, about the $30 million she got for the jewelry at auction. Ok. What we didn't know was how well her talent would fare after the crucible of money. Her performance here lays waste to any lingering doubts about her acting chops, that's for sure.

Really, the whole cast is pitch perfect. I don't know how they shared the duties, but the collaborative direction of Joel Grey and George C. Wolfe guides this revival with crisp focus and emotional resonance. We all know what is going to happen. It just all seems so right now in these deft hands. Bravo.

All I can say is wow--get thee to the Golden Theater before this limited run passes you by. Just go, you will be glad you did.

How to Succeed

It’s time to put our welcome hats on. There is a new star arrived in the firmament.

Daniel Radcliffe is killing them in How to Succeed! He is turning in the kind of performance you go to the musical theater for. I’m not sure you will easily believe how good this kid is at musical comedy. He dances! He sings!

What? Didn’t he spend his teens becoming like the most famous teenager on the planet, earning a couple hundred million in the offing? Isn’t he supposed to be in rehab by now? Hanging out in Mustique with Jagger and Bowie at the very least? But, no.

This 21 year old, instead, for the heck of it, decides to go for utter mastery of another art form. I know. It’s hard to believe. I can hear the doubters already. Know there’ll be haters. Don’t do it though. Go see him instead.

I promise you will get the thing. You know, the thrilly-tingly thing? The kind you got when you first saw “One” in A Chorus Line? You’ll get it from “Brotherhood of Man,” the eleven o’clock number. This is the best production number I’ve seen on Broadway in 20 years. It’s a-fucking-mazing. I would pay the whole ticket price just to see it again. In fact, I can’t believe it will somehow go on again tomorrow night without me.

Mr. Radcliffe is ably supported, the score sung with the deftest of voice. John Laroquette is, as always, endearing and charming and precise. Christopher J. Hanke shines as the dastardly nemesis, and Rose Hemingway has the cool, clear voice of a seeker of wisdom and truth as Rosemary. Derek McLane’s sets and Catherine Zuber’s costumes are both pitch-perfect.

But this production starts and finishes with Mr. Radcliffes' performance and Rob Ashford’s spot-on directing and exuberant choreography. Ashford doesn’t miss a single trick in this soaring production. He and Mr. Radcliffe just give the damn thing flight!

Look, I’m with you. I find it really sort of incredible. I have never been the biggest fan of How to Succeed. I saw the revival with Mathew Broderick, and I saw the original with Robert Morse--and they were fine. But I never came out feeling as I did here: with that irresistible rising up thing in my chest, carried into the street, not sure if the show would continue there. God, I love that.

At the curtain call, everyone is standing before Daniel Radcliffe comes out for his bow--Mr. Laroquette turns, bowing some and, throwing back both arms in utter welcome to the musical stage, our new star. The ovation floods the house, chills go up your spine. I was at two moments like that in the same week—the beyond belief cheering for the new iPad2, and Daniel Radcliffe’s curtain call at How to Succeed.

I’m telling you, it was like being there at the start of something big.

Other Desert Cities

I guess the wait is over: Jon Robin Baitz has come out of his slump. Way out. When was the last really great Robbie Baitz play? Some insist it was the widely hailed, short-listed for the Pulitzer, A Fair Country, but I was one who thought Mizlansky/Zilinsky was a fine effort.

Either way, it's been at least ten years. It's true, he wrote for The West Wing, he is executive producer of his own show--he's a big success on that other coast.

But I have to imagine that a playwright wants to write plays. I certainly have to imagine that a playwright of Baitz's stature must long to write a play that resonates deeply, that hits the boards running. Well, make it over to The Mitzi Newhouse, cause JRB has done just that.

Other Desert Cities is the kind of play you know you're going to like just from looking at the set (and this is no mere set--it is a set that evokes the perfect mood long before you know what that mood exactly is: thanks again to John Lee Beatty). I now count it in the great pantheon of finely observed, let's-get-this-shit-said-already, family dramas. The Sisters Rozenzweig, Three Tall Women, How I Learned to Drive, August: Osage County...

Really. The thing takes off from the first beats. The characters do not hold back: everything is risked. The knowingness of being in this family does not give rise to caution. No. This time, at least, they are going to be heard! And we hear them. In every finely-honed cut, every laser-like jab. And here's the thing: we root for them all. Even Stockard Channing's vainglorious semi-monster of a mother. We root.

And this is a consummate ensemble. Stockard Channing; Stacy Keach as the impossibly retreating father; Thomas Sadowski (so memorable in reasons to be pretty, even better here) as the successful brother on the verge of something--perhaps liberation, maybe a nervous breakdown; Linda Lavin as the booze-soaked sister in residence, and the marvelous Elizabeth Marvel. Marvel is putting on quite a show. I won't soon forget, as it registered on her face: the look of deepest hurt, turned at once to regret, despair, and shimmering with rage--it was a thing to behold.

Hey, let me not forget to say how beautifully, and with such deft hand this production is directed. Joe Mantello, Baitz's former life partner, and frequent collaborator, brings a complete vision of where the play is going and how he wants to get there. Even the curtain call has the artful precision of a master of the craft.

When a friend of mine, hearing my review, asked if I thought it could make the move to Broadway, I told him yes. I hope it does. That is where this play belongs, and this is where we welcome Jon Robin Baitz back, into the firmament.

Spiderman

Okay, let's see. Contusions, sub-concussive head injuries, broken wrists, broken ribs, and internal bleeding--I guess they're having some technical difficulties over at The Foxwoods Theater.

Let's just say that Spiderman is having far bigger than technical problems. The whole thing is so jaw-droppingly bad it is mystifying. The book goes so wrong it's hard to even know what to say (why did they change it at all?). And the score just doesn't fit the show it was written for. The whole thing is a hot mess. When the curtain came down for intermission my daughter turned to me, her face seemed to have gone numb, "They gotta get somebody in here" she said.

But who are they going to get? Nobody is going to come fix a Julie Taymor production. As they say--not gonna happen. You get a huge talent like that, and you take the good with the bad. They bring us new ways to see. New ways to feel. But they are not typically open to a whole lot of "constructive criticism.".

Hey, I am a huge Julie Taymor fan. I remember hearing she had been given the job directing The Lion King, and thinking what a stroke of genius had hit Disney. And it was. The magic of her daring artistry transformed what would likely have been a bland or crass commercial production into something else, indeed: an immensely enjoyable and accessible work of art.

The opening scene of The Lion King can still bring about that joyful breeze up my spine in the remembering. The residents of the jungle arriving down the aisle to Elton John's soaring score heralded the arrival of a genuinely new experience. And the puppets. Oh my god, the puppets. Had you ever seen anything like them before? I certainly hadn't.

So when I heard she was doing Spiderman, with music and lyrics by Bono and The Edge, I simply couldn't wait. What magic this time? What new realm of the imagination would she explore for us this go-round? I held my breath and waited. Alan Cumming signed on. Evan Rachel Wood would be MaryJane. All kinds of happy speculation about who would be Spidey.

Then we heard things were going wrong. First was the production cost: scheduled originally at $20 million (already the most expensive Broadway production in history) it headed skyward: $30Million, no $40Million--could it actually become a $50Million Broadway musical? Um, no. It became a $65Million Broadway musical, a sort of money-devouring juggernaut. Well, ok. So they would need to sell out The Foxwoods for three years, every night at full price, to recoup the investment. Not unheard of. Certainly Julie had done that with The Lion King; Wicked makes it look like child's play. But no one in their right mind had ever even come close to spending on a stage production, the phenomenal amounts spent on movies with worldwide reach.

But it was worse than that--we heard it wasn't very good. It wasn't taking shape. And the bloodlust filled the air. Oh, the schadenfaude. Michael Reidel in the Post could not contain himself--his column was giddy with predictions of doom. But I don't know--it's Julie Taymor for god's sake. It must be better than they say.

It isn't. Oh, the sets are sorta great. Really. The lighting is superb. And the flying is pretty damned cool. There's a scene with giant puppet heads and giant comic-style sets that is completely thrilling. In fact, I would say that the mise en scene is one of the best I've ever seen. In the service of nearly nothing.

Just a few notes about things. There is a sort of Greek chorus of comics-loving teens that set the scenes. It doesn't work. Peter Parker is played as a complete nebish rather than the stifled, repressed font of possibility he is. It doesn't work. The goddess Arachne hovers over the proceedings in completely unintelligible ways. When I saw it, in the third week of previews, the whole thing worked so little that the lead producer came out before the opening to tell us they were trying a new ending tonight. What? Three weeks into previews of the most expensive production ever, they were trying out a new ending!?! It didn't work.

Oh, well. Life upon the wicked stage.

Pulino

I know I waxed rhapsodic about Paulie G's. And I want to go on record defending my words. Paulie G's crust is sublime, perhaps without equal.

But Pulino's pizza is better. There, I've said it.

OMG, their polpettine pizza, with bits of small italian meatballs and sprinkled with a sort of pesto of peppers is my new favorite pizza. In fact, my new favorite meal is: their polpettine pizza, with their toasted pumpkin salad (that's right, toasted pumpkin) with the hearty but somehow delicate canneloni. Heaven.

Let me do the rundown. This salad is by far my favorite salad anywhere these days. It is made with shredded red cabbage, frisee, pine nuts, the aforementioned small chunks of toasted pumpkin (ok, toasted pumpkin is seriously delicious) and a deeply felt smattering of pancetta with a light but super-flavorful vinegrait. The canelloni is cheese-rich. The pasta itself seems too delicate for the heft of it, yet somehow works perfectly.

But it is the pizza, the pizza that I dream about. We are talking daydreams and sleeping dreams. Talking driving dreams and walking dreams. I think it’s about he cheese/oil/sauce proportion. It develops a sort of fusion that you rarely see. I, for one, am always hoping for it--the pizza arrives and the air is pregnant with hope: the sum will be greater than its parts. Rarely does it happen. Yes, there is pizza with great crust, artisanal cheese, whatever. But the ethereal pizza born of the massive Italian Pulino ovens has achieved that elusive, elevated thing--it is a thing unto itself . It cannot be deconstructed. However--the oil infuses the crust, the cheese and oil seem to activate each other, the sauce sits with them in what feels like perfect harmony.

Has Keith McNally entered a sort of do-no-wrong zone? He has opened, in rather rapid-fire succession: Minetta Tavern, Morandi, and now Pulino. I should tell you that the place is crowded. All the time. And it's a little expensive for pizza. It's at Houston and Bowery. It attracts: hipsters, seekers of cool new places, art-y downtowners, foodies. It has an eight-top table that seems permanently reserved for groups of girls in their twenties.

Listen, the place is great. Go.

La Bete

Ok, hold on, I may have spoken too soon.

There's still no doubt--Al Pacino is giving one of those performances so powerful that it pins you to your chair, you can't move, then flings you skyward as he takes you soaring. It's utterly amazing.

But wait. You only have to go around the corner, down Shubert Alley to The Music Box, to be enthralled by the next magnificent performance of the season (how much do you love Broadway when it just comes at you like that?). If you haven't heard yet--Mark Rylance is killin' em in La Bete. Killin' em! It is the kind of tour-de-force performance that unearths all your sense of awe and delight at the very craft of acting. His delivery and timing are simply superb.

In rhyming verse, his opening 25 minute monologue is a thing so precise, yet so daringly vertiginous, that I dare say, it approaches perfection. Making his Moliere-esque entrance, Valere (Rylance) is immediately disgusting. He's still carrying two quartered slices of melon from dinner, and spits all too large chunks of it with his first words. Not allowing you to even have your laugh yet, he spits more word-born melon only moments later, more still a few words on. It seems he's always spitting something with his long-winded pronouncements. You can't believe the scatological things he does, quite blithely, without a moment's pause in his discourse. It's really quite amazing--you cannot believe he is even doing these things.

How is it possible to not only keep your attention during a 25 minute monologue--but for it to grow ever rapt as you are drawn powerless to the end? I don't know. One thing I do know is that David Hyde Pierce has to be the best listener on Broadway. How in the world does he listen so eloquently? It is enthralling to watch these two masters of their craft stand in such equipoise.

Not that they quite needed it, but Joanna Lumley brightens further the proceedings. She's terrific as the annoyed queen, sitting and judging the players as they don their masks.

All I can say is: get Yee to The Music Box theater. You don't see a thing like this everyday.