Why "Oslo" is Flawed but Everyone Should See It

When plays (or movies or TV series) depict historical events, their directors often prioritize the need to “get it right” and in doing so, mistake a dramatic event for dramatic storytelling. In those cases, the result can feel too heavy on historical detail, like an in-depth newspaper article whose purpose is to inform rather than stir emotion.

“Oslo” – the world-premiere play at Lincoln Center Theatre that depicts the 1993 Oslo Accords – was solidly in that camp for me. The material itself is fascinating: Oslo was the first, and so far the last, peace agreement between Israel and Palestine. It recognized the legitimacy of Israel as a country and the right of Palestinians to have their own state and government. Both are notions that each side was loathe to acknowledge about the other, so the signing of the agreement had, and still has, great significance even as hostility between Israeli and Palestinian leadership continues to mount.

“Oslo” is the kind of play that I hope thousands of people see, just so they know that a peace agreement happened between these two parties. Given the positive reviews that the show received, including the New York Times’ “Critic’s Pick” stamp, it’s likely “Oslo” will have a healthy run. The rave reviews are also a good sign for director Bart Sher, an extraordinary talent whose new revival of “Fiddler on the Roof” – also running this season and hopefully for years to come – is one of the most perfect productions I’ve ever seen. Every round of good press that Sher receives opens the door for his next opportunity.

In developing “Oslo” for the stage, Sher became friends with the pair of Norwegian diplomats (the married couple Mona Juul and Terje Rod-Larsen) who spearheaded the Oslo Accords, and his love for them is evident in their portrayal onstage. What astonishes about Oslo, beyond the peace treaty itself, is that two diplomats from Norway with no political or personal investment in the Middle East would have the conviction to take on a project of this magnitude.

“Oslo” is not Sher’s best work in my opinion. He lets J.T. Roger’s script go on and on in talky scenes and long character descriptions. The dramatic tension builds but v-e-r-y slowly. Yet, his work with Jennifer Ehle and Jefferson Mays as Mona and Terje is wonderful. Mona clearly runs the peace operation and Terje is comically clumsy, but both maintain the certainty that they’re doing the right thing by encouraging representatives from the Israeli government and from the PLO (the Palestinian leadership at the time) to keep talking until they reach a compromise.

Mona and Terje's most clever idea is to set up a living room space where the representatives would put aside their differences and enjoy food and drinks together. The approach is as simple as it is effective: eating together is a catalyst to creating a shared experience. Shared experiences are the bases of friendship.

“Oslo” has a great deal of overlap with “Camp David” – another play that focuses on an Israeli peace process. In both examples, an outside party brings two opposing sides together and motivates them to keep the conversation going even as each side wants to abandon it. In both examples, the leaders involved are hardly perfect negotiators for peace. It’s essential to remember when thinking about today’s leaders in the Middle East and the seemingly impossible odds of reaching any sort of agreement today.

In one scene, Uri Savir (Michael Aronov) and Ahmed Qurie (Anthony Azizi), Oslo’s key Israeli and Palestinian negotiators take a walk and admit their mutual excitement about reaching a peace agreement. Uri then says something like, “Now you go to Arafat and tell him that I said, ‘Go fuck yourself’ and I’ll tell Rabin that you said the same thing.” Uri and Ahmed acknowledge that their leaders don't want to come across as weak by negotiating. To me, that was the single perfect scene in the play. Though the play drags, it's worth seeing. And it's worth knowing in this devastating time in history that people who fundamentally disagree can share a meal together and begin to see each other as human. 

photo credit: T. Charles Erickson and Sara Krulwich


Posted on July 15, 2016 .

"Hadestown" Review: The story of Eurydice in the style of "Natasha Pierre"

A Rachel Chavkin show is always an experience. She is a master at introducing viewer to performer – just interactive enough that you feel totally engaged but never so much that you feel exposed. If you’re lucky enough to catch her current show at New York Theatre Workshop, “Hadestown”, you will enter another realm once the lights dim. A cast member may link eyes with you while in character or meander past your row, inviting you to experience the best kind of immersive theater – palpable, multi-sensory, nonthreatening.

Based on the concept album by music artist Anaïs Mitchell, “Hadestown” uses folk songs to narrate the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, young lovers who find that the cold realities of hunger and poverty have hardened their relationship.

Tempted by Hades, the God of the underworld, Eurydice (Nabiyah Be) followed by Orpheus (Damon Daunno) voyages to Hadestown, a soulless city that promises, falsely, to offer physical sustenance and pleasure. Hades' wife Persephone (Amber Gray), who also finds herself inured to the hazards of love, offers a means of escape, provided that Orpheus and Eurydice place complete trust in one another. It's a proposition weighted with tragic implications. 

Accompanying their journey is a gravel-voiced narrator (Chris Sullivan), leading us underground and back with rollicking, boot-stomping music. The musical style works surprisingly well for the story, and Mitchell’s talent is so immense that while your body sways to the rhythm, your mind stays alerts, contemplating the metaphors and symbolism in her lyrics.   

The forest-like scenery on multi-leveled platforms brings to life the scale of Eurydice and Orpheus’ journey, and the stark brick wall behind it complements the Act I closer when the ensemble sings eerily that walls keep out poverty. The onstage band – horns, violins, and piano among them – fills the space with soulful music, amplified by three actresses who play the fates like backup singers.

The whole ensemble is excellent, and in many ways the layered presence of this large musical cast feels very reminiscent of Chavkin’s last big musical production, “Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812”, which will make its transfer to Broadway next season. Both are exciting, sensory shows that focus on a girl trying to find herself in and out of love. Both create picturesque environments (in “Hadestown” it’s the underworld as depicted by a Southern city; in “Natasha Pierre”, it’s upper class Russian society).

In fact, the settings are so vibrant that the characters start to pale in comparison. Where the music is complex and stirring, the characters are uncomplicated, and showmanship – namely remarkable performances, songs, and scenery – regularly upstages dramatic conflict. In one musical, Natasha is naïve about love and swept up by a new man while her husband is at war. In the other, Eurydice is in love but finds that romance doesn’t put food on the table. Both are interesting starting points but, for all the journeying that happens in both musicals, the characters’ emotional arcs don’t keep pace.

What do these characters want and what fundamentally gets in their way? I asked myself that throughout both shows. Orpheus loves Eurydice but lives in a poet's daze; Eurydice wants a relationship that is dependable, not simply romantic. And here they are in Hell. I was never convinced that they're made for each other, so while the actors' performances, especially Nabiyah Be's, are exceptional, there isn't enough at stake in the relationship besides how lovely they look together. Chavkin can create a show, no doubt, and “Hadestown” is an undeniable feast for the senses. But throughout the performance, I had a persistent thought: what a gorgeous world she’s created, but what do I really know about the people who live in it?

photo credit: Joan Marcus

Posted on June 24, 2016 .

An Interview with Mark Rylance

In late February 2016, I caught a performance of "Nice Fish" at St. Ann's Warehouse in Dumbo, Brooklyn. Though I had no personal involvement in the production, I felt invested in it: I had interviewed Mark Rylance twice about it, read a draft of the play, and had researched the poetry of Louis Jenkins (on which "Nice Fish" is based).

The play - which combines Jenkins' poems and Rylance's dialogue - is a portrayal of two friends ice fishing at the end of winter in Minnesota, but it flows like a dream sequence: not quite linear and occasionally implausible, but magnetic in its depiction of loneliness, desire, and aging. It draws you in. After the show, I snapped a photo with Mr. Rylance, and a few nights later watched at home as he accepted his first Oscar award. As godly as Rylance is the theater world, he is still somewhat unknown in Hollywood. But with two new films underway, (one is the title role in the film adaptation of Roald Dahl's "The BFG"), it's probably just a matter of time before film audiences join the Rylance fan club.

Below are excerpts of our conversation. Read the whole thing at AmericanTheatre.com.


Rylance’s American background has never been a secret, but in "Nice Fish" it’s front and center in a new way. It isn’t just Jenkins’s perceptiveness about human nature that appeals to the actor; it’s his spot-on depiction of a Midwest he remembers—a world of winter sports and stoicism, where nature has a larger-than-life presence that can be both comforting and forbidding. Between preparing for the East Coast debut of "Nice Fish", starring in the West End run of the Shakespeare’s Globe production of "Farinelli and the King" (written by Rylance's wife, Claire van Kampen), doing press for the film "Bridge of Spies", and sitting down to write a new play, the now three-time Tony winner and two-time Olivier winner took some time to talk from his home in London about Jenkins’s work, his memories of winters back home, and why, for a writer, a frozen lake is fertile ground.

The cold climate of a Minnesota winter sets the tone for the entire play. What do you remember about your childhood winters in Wisconsin? Did you enjoy that time of year?

It was very cold. My father had a bad history with cars, and in the bad weather it was a serious problem if you had a car that could potentially break down. My brother used to just hibernate at a certain point in autumn when it got too cold to play football, so it was me out in the snow and on the ice.

There was a beautiful field behind our house, which was on the edge of the suburbs of Milwaukee, and that field used to freeze and we’d play ice hockey on the frozen lake. It was fiercely cold, but I miss it very much here in England. The spring is beautiful in England, but in the north Midwest, spring is so dramatic—it’s been so long since one’s seen green, and suddenly everything bursts into color.

What I enjoy about Jenkins’s work is that he starts each poem with quotidian habits and everyday exchanges, then builds to moments of wisdom. It fits with the setup of these fishermen going, “Where’s your equipment?” and then building to larger moments of contemplation.

There’s a lot of sitting around when you’re ice fishing, so it’s a good place to think, and for someone to talk while the other person isn’t really listening and thinking about their own thing. That appealed to me. The thing with Louis’s writing is that it’s so dense and particular and funny and serious, and has an almost sonnet-like structure of developing a certain reality and then flipping, the way Shakespeare’s sonnets flip the last two lines. I’ve tried in the new version to have this kind of structure. I did love the Guthrie production, but it was encouraging to see how well the poems worked with only a minimal amount of writing from me.

There’s also affectionate mockery of regional culture, like how it makes no sense that ice hockey players wear shorts. I think even for East Coast audiences, you’ll have people who grew up in the Midwest or know Minnesota culture and will pick up on your wink about life there.

That’s a whole new aspect, how the East Coast will take it. I wonder if the East Coast audience will find it funnier, because in the Midwest it’s all normal. When Louis played a video of the 2008 workshop for his family in Duluth, they didn’t laugh at all, and at the end they said, “We had no idea your poems were funny.” Maybe I’ll someday take it to London; it’ll be such a foreign world for them.

One of my favorite lines from the Guthrie version is when Ron and Erik are talking about seeing their breath in the freezing air. One of them says, “The cold here makes the invisible visible.” It’s such a beautiful line and seems to evoke the play’s larger ideas.

Oh, that’s one of my lines! But I think my writing is for another occasion. The play is really about working with Louis’s material. The idea of making the invisible visible is still true.

photo credit:  Teddy Wolff


Posted on March 16, 2016 .

Why Psychological Thrillers are Great for Theater

"Misery", the Broadway play, will close this month after approximately 100 performances. While it wasn't a blockbuster and much of the audience undoubtedly bought tickets to see Bruce Willis, the play has signified a rare feat on Broadway: a straight play adapted from film that is compelling, loyal to its source material, and theatrical. Much of that achievement is due to Will Frears' suspenseful direction and clever use of stage rotation to convey the experience of imprisoned novelist Paul Sheldon (Willis) as well as the sublime casting of Laurie Metcalf as Paul's obsessive fan Annie Wilkes. But the source material, namely a psychological thriller, is equally important.

Increasingly each year, Broadway producers look to the film industry for inspiration in developing the next crowd-pleasing adaptation: “Hairspray”, “The Producers”, and the mother of all film-to-theater transfers, “The Lion King”. The productions that turn big profits are typically musicals, so it's rare that a film is adapted as a straight play. More so, play adaptations can seem as if they're trying too hard to measure up to their films. Simply put, without a creative use of theatricality, they fall flat. Think of “A Time to Kill” and “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” – both popular films based on beloved novels that were produced on Broadway as straight plays and closed after just a month of performances (both in 2013, coincidentally).

The adaptation of "Misery", written by William Goldman (also the screenwriter for the 1990 film) and based on Stephen King's widely popular novel, works surprisingly well onstage and reminded me that psychological thrillers are well suited to theater. What Frears achieves is reminiscent of memorable stage thrillers like Sondheim’s “Sweeney Todd” and Martin McDonaugh’s “The Pillowman”, specifically:  

1. Getting into the mind of the villain. Bruce Willis is a bigger marquee name than Laurie Metcalf, but "Misery" is Annie's story to own, and watching the progression of her psychosis is thrilling. 
2. Emphasizing set design as a crucial narrative device. Sets do for theater what camera angles do for film. In "Misery", the set shifts eerily as Paul explores the home of his captor.
3. Making the violence bloody and raw. We know that staged violence doesn't come close to the realism of violence on film, but the live element creates a visceral experience.

When it comes to the Hollywood-Broadway relationship, most films - especially the most iconic ones - don't work on a live stage. Action films are nonstarters and romantic comedies are duds without a bankable star. Besides dramas, psychological thrillers may have the most potential. The unfolding of suspenseful events and the attention to a character's demonic psychology are well-suited to the stage: think "Macbeth", "Richard III", and "Othello". I'd love to see Alfred Hitchcock's film "Frenzy" or the original "Manchurian Candidate" as staged plays. I get shivers just thinking about watching those stories unfold in a live space.  

photo credit: Sara Krulwich

Posted on February 2, 2016 .

How Hedwig Redefined Casting

Earlier this week, "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" played its final show after 507 performances. The production didn't turn much of a profit, if at all, but it was a culturally significant musical. Yes, it swept up a host of Tonys, but just as importantly, it connected with audiences by depicting - through phenomenal music - an outcast's search for self-acceptance.

Hedwig probably doesn't come to mind when you think of shows that take an expansive approach to casting. But the six starry actors who put on Hedwig's blond wigs, gold boots, and denim skirts varied in race, sexual identity, body type, and age (from mid 20's to early 50's). The actors - Neil Patrick Harris, Andrew Rannells, Michael C. Hall, John Cameron Mitchell, Darren Criss, and Taye Diggs - each brought his own style to the part: a varying combination of energetic, fierce, comedic, and fragile. And while each had to pull off a pair of unforgiving black booty shorts for the final number, Mitchell's attenuated limbs conveyed a very different visual than Diggs' brawny muscles. 

Diverse casting works well for "Hedwig" because the title character's struggle is inextricable to her discomfort with her body. How she looks is secondary to how she feels. When John Cameron Mitchell (the original "Hedwig" creator and a star in this Broadway run) injured his leg during a show, he performed subsequent shows wearing a crutch and leg brace. It suited the character just fine. 

And for the first time in Hedwig history, the show starred two African American actors, Taye Diggs and Rebecca Naomi Jones, in the lead roles of Hedwig and Yitzhak. It was a rare instance in theater where two black actors carried a story that had nothing to do with black culture, history, or identity. 

The differing appearances of Hedwig and Yitzhak added something to the action onstage. Certainly, they impacted the diverse audiences who flocked to the show, not only to see a celebrity in drag, but also to see a facet of themselves. 

photo credit: Joan Marcus, Joseph Marzullo




Posted on September 19, 2015 .

Annie Baker's "John": A Gathering of Spirits

Just before the lights dimmed at a performance of Annie Baker’s play, “John”, at Signature Theatre, the woman next to me turned and murmured, “So what's the gist of this play? It's about a toilet or what?” I’m not sure if she was joking, but her question was funny apart from the bathroom reference. As fans will attest, there’s no “gist” in an Annie Baker play, no brief synopsis that sums it up (any more than one could sum up a Beckett play). In Baker’s work, and this is as true of “John” as any of her other plays, characters learn about each other as subtly and imprecisely as people do in real life. Their entrances are quotidian and unremarkable, thus making the slow reveal of their identities that much more interesting. Such viewing requires patience but the rewards are many.

“John” situates us in a bed and breakfast in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Floral patterns in differing colors adorn the lobby's wallpaper, armchair, sofa, and carpet. Decorative attempts at charm tumble into kitsch with myriad displays of figurines, stuffed bears, and dolls. A side area with café seating and pictures of the Eiffel Tower is referred to sweetly and pathetically as "Paris" by the hotel's owner, Mertis (an eccentric but ethereal Georgia Engel).

Into this perfectly cluttered set (designed by Mimi Lien) enters a young couple, Elias and Jenny (Christopher Abbott and Hong Chau), visiting the bed and breakfast at a fragile point in their relationship. Elias is passionate about the Civil War and eager to attend the day-long tours of nearby battlefields with hopes that Jenny will overcome her disinterest and join him. We learn quickly that the two are close to splitting up, having barely recovered from a painful episode a few months back. Through conversation in the lobby, café, and bedroom (in partially muffled voices) we hear them discussing and arguing about the elements of their pasts that haunt them and that subvert their treatment of each other. 

Ghosts and spirits permeate this play more than Baker’s other work. The bed and breakfast, Mertis tells us, was formerly a Civil War hospital, and the ghosts of its patients seem to linger in the guest rooms. The room reserved for Elias and Jenny - the only overnight visitors at the time - behaves oddly, Mertis says, recommending that they move to a different room. Similarly haunting are two men named John who impact Jenny and Genevieve (Mertis' friend, played commandingly by Lois Smith) but are never seen. And there’s Elias’s childhood, which he’d rather not recall let alone discuss.

The mysterious quality of the play similarly rests on what we can't see: the guest rooms at the top of the staircase, the series of mysterious text messages that Jenny declines to share with Elias. The iPhone6 gets a special nod for sound design with its punctuated "DING" every time Jenny receives a message and attempts to evade it. 

In the play’s central relationship, depicted through extraordinary acting and Sam Gold's nearly invisible direction, love has not grown in tandem with understanding. After years together, Elias and Jenny still act in ways that bewilder the other. Contrast that with the feeling of complete recognition that Mertis experienced when meeting her husband George (another character who is invoked but unseen). She identified with him so immediately, “it was like showing me my heart or my liver,” she says. And yet, we’re told that Mertis too had to release a former ghost before she could find happiness. No one in this play is exempt from needing to let go. And Elias and Jenny are not there yet. 

photo credit: Matthew Murphy

Posted on September 4, 2015 .

Film Review: "Montage of Heck" and "Amy"

Musical biopics seem to follow a set formula. They begin with scenes of a famous musician as a child and portray his or her domestic struggles: a negligent parent, an impoverished home, a battle with depression, or some combination of the above. As a young adult, the artist finds an outlet through music and becomes an early success until the demands of the music industry stir up a new pot of troubles: drug addiction, damaging relationships, and intrusive media attention. These story lines, as dramatic as they are, have made the biopic genre predictable. Because the narrative structure offers little surprise, biopics end up resting on the strength of their main performer: Angela Bassett, Jamie Foxx, and Joaquin Phoenix to cite a few.

Music documentaries, by contrast, portray those stories with a clearer lens. Relying on real footage, documentaries render the narrative as complex whereas the biopic counterpart portrays it as melodramatic. Two documentaries have recently emerged that illuminate the rise and fall of music artists: “Montage of Heck” about the life of Kurt Cobain, and “Amy” about Amy Winehouse. 

The revelatory and brilliantly edited “Montage of Heck” depicts Nirvana’s transformation from a punkish trio playing dive bars to an artistic force nearly synonymous with 90s rock. The atonal chords and drum smashing of the band’s early years evolved into a more focused and melodic expression of angst, drawing a template for grunge music.

Nirvana’s trajectory impacts everything in the film, but its central focus is the life of its front man, Kurt Cobain. Using footage released by Frances Bean, Cobain’s daughter, the documentary begins with home videos of Kurt and his parents. Director Brett Morgan goes in deep on Cobain’s early signs of depression, his parents’ disdain, and his first experiences with drug use, delving into Cobain’s psyche and literally onto the pages of his adolescent journals. Morgan displays the journal entries as written in real time as though we were peering over Cobain’s shoulder as he wrote each line.

As a teenager Cobain grew socially inward, quit school, and spent his time working as a janitor and listening to punk music. He made an attempt at suicide by lying down on neighborhood train tracks, a plan that was narrowly avoided when train made a last minute track change. He began to channel more attention toward music and found a natural penchant for song writing, jotting lyrics on notebook paper and dedicating himself to daily practicing.

During his time he lived with a girlfriend who supported him, though both were poor and, without any sort of medical coverage, Cobain began using heroin as a remedy for pain relief. Even as his wealth increased in the following years, Cobain continued to live in a way that could be described as penuriousAs Nirvana amassed a sizable following, Cobain balked at the idea that his music was in any way a commodity for consumers. He hated giving interviews, hated media attention, and hated journalists imposing their perspective on what his songs meant. His passion for connecting with audiences never meshed with the other side of the business – the cameras, the magazine covers, and the implication that his art could be package and purchased. While many journalists wrote about Nirvana with sincere admiration, Cobain seemed to feel that the press intellectualized the music rather than experience it viscerally.

Beyond wealth and fame, Cobain felt the encumbrance of the media’s probing lens into his family life. The most damaging example was a Rolling Stone article by Lynn Hirschberg about Cobain and Courtney Love’s heroin use during Love’s pregnancy with their daughter. The article was not without validity – Love admits in the documentary that she used heroin while pregnant – but the fallout was humiliating. Child services took Frances out of her parents’ custody for the first weeks of her life and Cobain’s depression increased irrevocably. His anger is heavily documented in his journals, and it's worth noting the absence of technology in Cobain's life. The Internet was not yet commonplace. Cobain’s entire creative and emotional world existed onstage and in the pages of spiral notebooks.

Throughout the film, Nirvana’s music permeates, often with new takes on familiar songs like a calm, almost choral version of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. There’s a haunting quality to the film and to the reams of journal entries revealed. For Cobain, success could never numb the sting of feeling critiqued, interpreted, and probed. The media and the naysayers were relentless, he thought, drawing blood and seeming to exclaim, in Nirvana’s words, “Here we are now, entertain us.”

Why are we fascinated by the famous artist who wishes to be left alone? Just as there was no incongruity for Cobain in wanting to connect to huge audiences onstage yet avoid conversation offstage, there was no disconnect for the singer Amy Winehouse between performing songs that laid bare a painful relationship and wanting to shrink from visibility after each show.

Like “Montage of Heck”, the beautiful and disturbing documentary “Amy” implicates the public and the media in the self-sabotaging behavior of a talented but fragile artist. Another prodigious song writer who struggled with addiction and died at age 27, Winehouse attempted several times to rehabilitate but was subverted at every turn by the two people she looked to for guidance: her father and her husband.

Winehouse’s musical gifts were obvious at an early age. The film’s opening scene shows an adolescent Amy singing “happy birthday” with the vibrato and stylings of a seasoned performer. As a young teen, she was eager to learn from the great jazz artists, particularly Tony Bennett. She was initially a jazz singer herself and with barely any training showcased the voice and timbre of a singer three times her age.

Like other performers before and since, Winehouse was marketed as a mainstream pop singer though her sound and musical preference were better suited for smaller venues. The frenetic schedule and stadium performances exacerbated her drug use, leaving her with few healing mechanisms.

Winehouse confesses in the film to a history of depression and bulimia. Her father’s extramarital affair and divorce from her mother shook her as a teenager and made her “messed up” about men, even as she continued to look to her father for reinforcement and approval. In video clips with friends, however, her demeanor is charming, upbeat, silly, and playful. Unlike Cobain, she had truly good friends. But her father and Blake loomed larger than anyone. Their names are literally imprinted on her: “Blake” just above her heart, and “Daddy’s girl” on her upper arm.

One is reminded quickly that Blake – a club boy in fedoras and cuffed t-shirts – is a toxic waste dump of a partner who brought heroin to the hospital where Winehouse was detoxing from a drug binge. Most of Winehouse’s album “Back to Black” is about him, primarily her heartache and loneliness in the months after he left her. Her biggest single on the album, “Rehab”, was a nod to her friend (and former manager) Nick’s effort to help her rehabilitate and her father’s dismissal of the intervention. Listening to the lyrics again, the line, “My daddy thinks I’m fine” stands out as heartbreaking. Her father was blind to her wellbeing so Winehouse assured herself that rehab was unnecessary.

“Back to Black” became the tipping point for Winehouse’s career, hurling her faster toward international tours and arena-sized concerts. The grueling schedule – promoted by her father and her profit-hungry manager – escalated at the same time that Blake came back to her, bringing his drug addiction and co-dependency habits back into her life. Against all powers of reason, she married him, and in short time he was arrested for drug possession. After that, Winehouse signed a written agreement to get clean by that year’s Grammy awards. She followed through and scooped up multiple Grammy awards entering a healthy period of musical collaboration with artists like Mos Def, Questlove, and her idol, Tony Bennett. But this upswing came too late, her body already pillaged by the long-term effects of substance abuse. She died in 2011 of alcohol poisoning.

A highlight of “Amy” is seeing her song lyrics superimposed on footage of her performances. Winehouse’s voice is so striking, you almost miss how clever and poetic her lyrics are. Her writing is filled with word play, metaphors, and tactile language alongside stark descriptions of loss and loneliness. From “Wake up alone”:

This face in my dreams seizes my guts
He floods me with dread
Soaked in soul
He swims in my eyes by the bed

Singing was never leisurely for Winehouse; there was a visceral need to unleash the words and get it right tonally. One of the most profound moments in the film is Tony Bennett’s expression of praise that she ought to be named among the great jazz talents like Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. What pains is the notion that her image as a drug addict eclipsed that public perception.  

The prevailing idea in both “Montage of Heck” and “Amy” is that fame hurts. It damages, corrupts, and interferes. Musicians thrive on live performance and audience connection, but we shouldn’t assume that because we memorize their lyrics, we know them. They don’t owe us anything, and they never did.


photo credit: Jeff Kravitz, Dan Kitwood

Posted on August 26, 2015 .

An Interview with Jason Alexander

When the producers of Broadway’s “Fish in the Dark” announced that Jason Alexander would replace Larry David for an extended run of the show, fans rejoiced. For “Seinfeld” viewers, there is no better actor to play Larry David than Alexander, who spent a decade embodying an incarnation of David in the role of George Costanza. On top of that, Alexander is a theater veteran and a Tony winner for his performance in “Jerome Robbins’ Broadway” in 1989. When David left “Fish in the Dark” in June and passed the baton to Alexander, he joked that his cast mates would finally “get to work with a professional.”

I wrote about Alexander in The Jewish Week and soon afterward saw him perform in the play. It came as a surprise to me that the show was more satisfying with David. I thought at first it was because the jokes were less funny the second time around, but I realized later that it was something more: David had played the role exactly according to his character on HBO. Every mannerism was recognizable.  With Alexander, it wasn’t a replica of David nor was it a replica of George. The persona was somewhere in between. More creative but less familiar.

That said, having the opportunity to interview Alexander was a highlight. He was gracious, intelligent, thoughtful, and thankful. Below is an excerpt of our conversation, held backstage at Broadway’s Cort Theatre:

It’s likely that a good portion of the audience at each performance of “Fish in the Dark” is comprised of Larry David fans who aren’t regular theatergoers. What is your take on the nature of the show, which is neither Larry David doing standup nor a typical staged comedy?

When I tell people what it’s like, I say, “It’s a two-hour episode of Curb that has a single storyline." It’s more of a series of events that are happening than what you would think of as a classically constructed play. For the kind of audience that are not typical theatregoers but are big Larry David fans, they go, “This is great!” because they’re getting everything they want. The typical theatregoer will feel the fact that it does not have a classic two-act structure. And a more seasoned playwright would pepper through-lines in…. But Larry never cared about those things. Larry loves the funny and the uncomfortable and he writes to those moments. And he relies on his actors to fill in the connective tissue.

So you would think of this as a show where “funny trumps” as it did on “Seinfeld”?

Absolutely. When people say, “Am I going to have a good time?”, I say, “You’re going to laugh your ass off." At “Seinfeld”, there was a motto over the door that said, “No hugging, no learning.” It’s the same thing here. You come to laugh for two hours.

I do think that Larry knows structure. On “Curb”, he made different threads of narrative come together each episode in surprising ways.

He really understands story. And what a lot of people don’t know about Larry is that his favorite kind of music is classical, so he understands classic structure in all kinds of things: theater, music, art. But when he puts pen to paper, his primary concern has been, “Where are the pools of laughs, where can I create a situation where nobody’s comfortable and force them to tough it out, and when I’m through with that, how quickly can I get to the next one.”

When you think about Norman Drexel [the main character in the play], does it feel like Larry David with different biographical details?

Sure. Because the character that Larry presents to the world has a lot of Norman’s attributes: there’s the neuroses, the quick temper, the unabashed lashing out, the acknowledgment that he’s not as great as he thinks he is. So he’s writing from that well. The challenge for me actually is to do no harm because I cannot separate myself from the process I would use as an actor if this was “Long Day’s Journey into Night”. I have to look at what drives and motivates the character, what physical and emotional conditions is he dealing with. And even though Larry doesn’t necessarily carry of echo of scene A into scene B, I have to explore those tendrils to see what is there. And the thing I have to be aware of – and I rely heavily on Larry and Anna for this – is that the good actor work that makes the character fuller and realer and more impactful doesn’t kill the jokes.

Larry taught me a valuable lesson during "Seinfeld". There was an episode where George thought he was having a heart attack. And I started performing the heart attack and Larry said, “No good!” And I said, “But that’s a heart attack.” And he said, “I know, it’s not funny! I believe you’re having a heart attack.” That’s the danger that I bump into when I do material like Larry’s. The good actor in me does not always serve the good comic in me, and in this case, the good comic has to win. 

When press came out that you were replacing Larry, every article stated that it was perfect casting. Does [director] Anna D. Shapiro ask you to find your own access point to the character separate from Larry's performance? I can’t imagine she asks you to play it like George, right?

No no. My discussions with Anna have been about trying to get a handle on things that really bumped me. For instance, I said, “Is it your understanding that Norman loves his wife...because within a page of her leaving him he’s calling up the girl from the hospital.” We talked about what that moment is trying to be. It’s not about taking advantage of the fact that I’m a bachelor, but that my brother is not cooperating and it will hurt him if I get this girl. So we’ve had discussions about what is not so obvious on the page. The thing we don’t discuss is how to make it funny. 

How about some of the phrases that are quintessentially Larry, like “Pret-ty pret-ty good”. Will you have that line?

I’ve heard he’s gonna change it. I could make an argument for or against it. It could be a fun moment for the audience to go, “I know that you know that I know.” Or he could put in a George reference like, “Serenity Now!”

Since “Seinfeld” ended, there have been various opportunities that have looped you back into the orbit of Larry and Jerry Seinfeld: this show obviously, and the reunion season on “Curb”…

And the super bowl spot…

Right, “Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee”. Do you predict your careers will continue to intersect with theirs? 

Boy, I hope so. You know, the reason we stopped doing Seinfeld – I mean there were a couple of under-the-surface reasons, but the artistic reason was that we felt like we couldn’t do anything to surprise the audience anymore. But if there’s something new to explore, why not? Every time I come together with Larry and Jerry, it’s a great time, and it makes people extremely happy. So I can’t over-intellectualize beyond that. Would I love to come back to Broadway for something that has meat and maybe has music – sure! But this is too good. The minute they said , “Are you interested” I said, “Of course”.

I’m trying to make a shift in my career altogether. Joe Mantello has the career that I would love to have. He spends 80% of his career directing and 20% acting. I would love to do that. These days I find equal and often greater satisfaction with directing than I do with performing. But if I’m gonna perform, I love doing it in a live situation. I love doing theater. My fantasies as a kid were all here.

photo credit: Joan Marcus





Posted on July 13, 2015 .

"On the Town": Finding the Tourist in Every Native New Yorker

The posters for “On the Town” partially give the show away. Three chipper-looking sailors pose with wide eyes beneath the words, “New York, New York, it’s a helluva town”. The image and quote – an opening line from the show’s first big number – convey the excitement of docking in New York City. But ten minutes into the performance, a more specific plot emerges: the reason for the sailors’ enthusiasm is that they have 24 hours to get laid. They are literally up all night to get lucky, to paraphrase a more recent lyric.

The central character is the earnest Gabey (Tony Yazbeck) who, soon after arriving, notices a poster of Miss Turnstiles, the NYC subway’s version of a beauty pageant queen, and is immediately drawn to her. With all of the single girls in the city for Gabey to hit on (and what woman would turn down a sailor) it’s a bit implausible that he’d devote his one day in town to finding someone he's never met. His fellow sailors Ozzie and Chip are less exacting in their pickup criteria: anyone with breasts will do. Lucky for them, the ladies they meet are quicker to hop into bed than they are, and the chemistry is good enough to merit a post-coitus evening out. Gabey eventually finds Miss Turnstiles, a girl named Ivy Smith, played by New York City Ballet principal Megan Fairchild. The attraction is mutual, but her demeaning job delays her from a date until Gabey’s final hour in the city. Alas for the sentimental heartthrob of the show, delayed sexual pleasure (or unattained as it turns out) is the price of finding requited love. Yazbeck plays Gabey as being utterly smitten with Ivy, though the quickness of his emotions made me wonder if he “falls in love” at every port where his ship docks. 

Leonard Bernstein’s score is upbeat and playful, especially paired with Adolph Green and Betty Comden’s lyrics, though not as complex or nuanced as “West Side Story” and “Candide”. Director John Rando seizes every opportunity for sexual humor (like one sailor holding a bag of groceries on his lap with a tall breadstick popping up in just the right spot). But the show’s prurience manages to be wholesome and inoffensive. That’s mainly due to the sexual confidence of the women and the romantic tilt of their encounters. Every ogle is well-received, every kiss consensual.

“On the Town” may be the most perfectly touristy musical on Broadway right now. It’s a feel-good show for starters – great numbers, solid performances, and an easy to package narrative – but on another level, it’s a musical that is essentially about tourists experiencing a day and night in New York. To explore the sights with them is to feel the limitless possibilities of the city. As they board the ship at the end of their stay, a new slew of sailors arrive, ready to take the town for a day. The show is lightweight, but the finale resonates. You depart the theater at 42nd street wanting to capture the city as well, even if you've lived here for years. 

photo credit: Joan Marcus

Posted on May 21, 2015 .

Review: An American in Paris

The Broadway production of “An American in Paris”, begins with a transition from darkness to color. World War II has just ended, the occupation of Paris has been lifted, and the city has begun to experience a rebirth. Nazi emblems disappear and a French flag emerges, so enormous that its red, white, and blue stripes overwhelm the stage.  

Barely ten minutes in, the musical – now on Broadway following its premiere in Paris – reveals its departure from the 1951 film in which the Technicolor backdrops and the charms of actor/choreographer Gene Kelly eclipse any awareness of history or reckoning with the state of Europe after the war.  

Like the film, the new musical of “An American in Paris”, features Gershwin’s symphonic work of the same title (which he wrote in 1928; he didn’t live long enough to see the film) as an extended dance sequence. The musical has a gorgeous score that includes several other Gershwin songs and orchestrations. Producer Stuart Oken, music director Rob Fisher, book writer Craig Lucas, and director/choreographer Christopher Wheeldon have blended the melodies with dramatic scenes so seamlessly that it appears as though the musical has always existed this way.

As a result, the creative team achieves something paradoxical and brilliant. Their craftsmanship has led to a new musical that feels classic. The show is reminiscent of a Rodgers and Hammerstein show – an idea that Oken expressed when I interviewed him for an article in The New York Jewish Week. The presence of political and cultural shifts within a turbulent country conjures Rodgers and Hammerstein shows like “The Sound of Music” and “South Pacific”. And the significance of dance and movement to propel the story brings to mind scenes from "Oklahoma!"

“An American in Paris” feels so complete as a Gershwin musical, it's astounding that it was constructed in the last handful of years. To make a live performance that honors the original film and also achieves something entirely new is a major feat in any art form. It fills the gaps without faulting the earlier work.

Filling the gaps, as it were, relies on many creative innovations. Lucas’ script conveys what the film glosses over: that Jerry Mulligan (Gene Kelly’s character) is struggling to put the trauma of war behind him, that Lise is a Jewish girl whose parents were killed, that Henri Baurel and his family were resistance fighters who hid Lise in their home, and that Adam, the composer, is a war veteran like Jerry whose uses humor as a healing mechanism (rather than a shtick as actor Oscar Levant does onscreen). Lucas’ book occasionally teeters into “love conquers all” saccharine, but generally his dialogue is well-written. He creates a rich story where there could have simply been lighthearted filler between songs. 

Another major facet of the production is the set design by Bob Crowley. The city lights, boulevards, Sienne River, and opulent shops are vividly created with detailed backdrops and fly-in architecture. His clever use of sketch marks against a back screen to draw images of Paris is both visually alluring and narratively poignant. The sketches reflect Jerry’s avocation as a visual artist as well as a “redrawing” of Paris in the months after the war.

Christopher Wheeldon’s debut as a Broadway director and choreographer is very impressive. While his background is in the world of ballet, he proves he can build a nuanced story that balances its weight between song, dialogue, and dance. The show does feel very dance-heavy, particularly after the “American in Paris” ballet – which nears 20 minutes, but Wheeldon keeps the material fresh by alternating full company dance segments with romantic duets between Jerry and Lise.

Which brings me to the lead performer, Robert Fairchild. As Jerry, the show belongs to Fairchild who is a powerhouse of dancing ability, charisma, stage presence, and vocal ability. His physical beauty and dancer’s body only add to his list of superlatives. Leanne Cope (Lise), Max Von Essen (Henri), and Brandon Uranowitz (Adam) are impressive as well, delivering honest, empathic performances, and Veanne Cox (Mrs. Baurel) and Jill Paice (Milo Davenport) are especially good at portraying strong women whose steely demeanors mask fragile hearts. But when Fairchild is onstage, particularly when he’s dancing, I found it impossible to look elsewhere.  

“An American in Paris” is well placed in the “feel-good musical” catalog of Broadway shows this season, and I have to admit that compared to other shows this year (cerebral dramas like “Disgraced”, form-shifting innovations like “An Octoroon” and complex musical works like “Fun Home” and “Hamilton”) a feel-good show can come across as a lightweight. But the creativity at work here should not be overlooked. “An American in Paris” is ultimately a story of renewal and it’s fitting how well the musical’s very form corresponds to that theme.  

photo credit: Angela Sterling

Posted on April 13, 2015 .

An Interview with Anna D. Shapiro


Anna D. Shapiro is one of my favorite theater directors. A versatile talent who helmed the Broadway productions of "August: Osage County", "The Motherfucker with the Hat", "This is Our Youth", "Of Mice and Men", and now "Fish in the Dark", Shapiro is exceptionally good at creating a balance onstage between the verbal and physical. I talked to the Tony winner and soon to be Steppenwolf artistic director during rehearsals for "Fish in the Dark" about Larry David's humor, Jewish line readings, and making the tragic funny.  


I watched an online presentation that you gave for Chicago Ideas Week in 2013 where you spoke about the playwright as the author of the play, the actor as the author of the night, and the director as the author of the event. Can you talk about finding that relationship to "Fish in the Dark" where Larry David is both writer and actor? 

Larry comes in with a whole culture. He’s been really formative in the culture of my humor. You can’t get too enchanted by a culture that you enjoy. You have to be able to step back and look at what is working and what doesn’t work. So you figure out what the writer is trying to do. And the great thing is that because of the depth of my exposure to the guy, we already had a big swath of shared space that he had created inadvertently by what he had made. So we meet at the stuff he’s made before to make the stuff he’s making now. 

You can’t venerate him too much because there has to be an equal playing field in the rehearsal room. 

That’s exactly right. And you have to be able to say, “You know what I think would be funnier.” And that’s scary the first few times you do it.”

I watched the Times Talk that Larry David did, and I was very amused during the Q and A portion. All of the people who asked questions were eager to show off their knowledge of “Seinfeld” and “Curb”. What’s your reaction to people who expect or want to see “Curb” when they come to “Fish in the Dark”?

I don’t think it’s that different from working with a playwright who’s written other plays. People expect something similar. They know the difference between going to an O’Neill play and going to a Neil Simon play. And if you went to an O’Neill play and all of a sudden it’s a Neil Simon play, you’d be understandably confused and probably disappointed. I think writers work in tropes. He’s not writing outside of his comfort zone – he’s writing right in the sweet spot of it. Just in a long form where the relationship to the viewer is very different. There are things that will be surprising but not in any kind of disorienting way. 

There’s a desire to see him. There’s something about what Larry has done. He’s such a complete presence. And he’s framed his character so well that just the sight of him is funny. And it is a character, because separate from that, he’s very elegant, handsome, he’s not the guy that you see on “Curb”, and yet they’re the same guy. 

Sort of an unfiltered version of what he’d really say.  

Or an unfiltered version of what we’d all say.

You had a similar experience with Chris Rock who had never acted onstage before when he starred in "The Motherfucker with the Hat". Did you have learning experiences from that production that you’re drawing from here?

Chris was coming into a new play that he didn't write, playing a character that he would not normally play (one of the reasons he wanted to do it). So there were many levels of learning, not just what it takes to be on stage in a different way than he’s used to, but also someone whose circumstances are so different than his own. So there was all of that going on. But he also does a lot more stand-up than Larry. So where his learning curve was really steep, another part of his learning curve was not steep. With Larry, it’s the mirror image. He’s playing a character he’s very comfortable playing, even though he is different, (I mean, he’s not the uncontrollable id, but it is a person he’s comfortable with), in language he wrote, in clothes that look like his clothes. And yet, he doesn’t do stand-up anymore. So he’s back in a relationship with the audience that’s very new. 

Have there been rewrites during the rehearsal process? 

Yeah, huge rewrites. There are the spitball changes, like “cut that out, try this instead.” Or an actor will make a pitch, and say, “I’m gonna try this and see if it works.” Or when I do it, it’s usually a structural thing, so I’ll run it by Larry and then we’ll put it on its feet and try it. So it’s constant motion toward a well-articulated goal. It’s very clear where he wants it to go. 

When the writer is in the room and you have difficulty with a certain line, the option is always on the table to change it. In a revival you can’t do that, you have to keep the line and find an access point for the actor to say it. 

Right. And that’s a fragile thing because it can seem cruel and arbitrary to an actor to tell them yes, they can change it, or no, they can’t. And your job as a director is to create an environment where they understand the decision.  

Do you think of this as an ensemble play? 

A hundred percent. I mean, when you think about “Curb” and “Seinfeld”, they are ensembles. And there are great moments when you feel like Larry is this master and he has put his wares around him and he’s standing there and something is unfolding that’s so unbelievably funny that his character is observing. He’s given the best lines to other people, he’s no fool. He’s not the only person you’ll remember when you see the show. 

During “Curb’s” best seasons, I thought of the show as dramaturgically perfect. What I mean is that every storyline that is introduced in every episode will have a thru line that also converges with other story lines that had nothing to do with each other at the beginning. Does this play have different threads that converge?

It does. It has a primary story but it has turns. It’s shockingly normal actually. He’s written a well-made play. It doesn’t go, “Don’t look at the story problem here while we make you laugh.” He cares a lot about things resolving. It’s a play about the death of someone and the first image is a bunch of people around a hospital bed, and every run-through we’ve done with an audience, people fall out laughing at the image. Somehow he strikes that balance. He finds that narrow ledge that allows you to look at really painful things and just see how ridiculous and human and shared the experience is. That’s what good plays do, they create shared space.

Is it a Jewish family? 

Oh yes. 

So I imagine there are rituals like shiva. 

Yeah. That’s been a fun part of it for me. There are a couple people in the cast who aren’t Jewish but are playing Jews, and Larry and I will have these moments where there will a line that to us is supposed to sound a certain way and then it comes out a different way.

Too goyish. 

Totally. And we’ll have open conversations like, “Can I give you the Jewish reading of that?”

One thing that I love about the plays you’ve directed is the physicality of them. You seem to know just the moments to make a scene go from verbal to physical. How does physicality play into this show? 

It’s very interesting to not have that vocabulary in a play because there’s very little [physicality]. Larry at one point said to me, “I’ve figured out something about my acting: I like leaning and sitting.” So it’s working with Larry and saying “Your caring has to move into your body. Because if you don’t move, you look like you don’t care." 

Last question: is adlibbing allowed? 

There are several sections that will be improvised. That was a concession of mine. Larry has said, “I just want you to know, if I’m getting big laughs I’m gonna keep going.” 

photo credits: Mike Coppola, Joan Marcus

Posted on April 2, 2015 .

An Interview with Ayad Akhtar

I first encountered the script for Ayad Akhtar’s Pulitzer-winning play Disgraced in the pages of American Theatre magazine. I was amazed by the writing: tight and structured yet incendiary and thought-provoking in every line of dialogue. In each subsequent encounter with his work – his novel American Dervish; his play The Who and The What (which ran at Lincoln Center Theatre in the spring of 2014; the Broadway production of Disgraced; and most recently the New York Theatre Workshop run of his latest play The Invisible Hand – I’ve been continually impressed by his exploration of identity, religion, and culture – both Muslim and American. 

In an article for The Jewish Week, I wrote about the illuminating Jewish characters that surprisingly appear in Ahktar’s stories, as well as the myriad influences on his work. Below are excerpts from our conversation.


When I walked out of The Who and the What this spring, I remember feeling very grateful that there’s a playwright who can write about religious people without shrinking them. I’ve seen versions of Afzal [the Muslim father in the play] within my own community. He was very recognizable.


Well, right. That’s the quintessential Jewish parent figure in theater.  

There’s a quote from William Faulker that writers often reference: to write, you need experience, observation, and imagination, but sometimes one can take the place of the others. How do you think those three are comprised in your work?

The characters in my work are taken from the observation of life and experience, I mean, certainly American Dervish is a version of my family. But I also want to tell a good story. How I draw from observation and experience has to do with what I want to do imaginatively. What I’m interested in is the movement from one point to another and the recognitions that happen along that path. That, to me, is the definition of drama. So what that requires are strong events, sometimes stronger than actually happen in life.

It’s also very clear that structure is at work. 

With Disgraced, I can tell you that’s what I was thinking about. I don’t know that it comes anywhere close, but I’m gonna make a comparison to Oedipus Rex, which is the purest dramatic structure there is. I don’t think Disgraced has that, but it’s trying to get there. Now we think of tragedy [in drama] as an enobling form whereas I think for the Greeks it was more of a visceral form. At Disgraced, the audience is very vocal, and that sense of participation is important to the physical experience that the audience is having.  

The night that I saw it, it almost seemed at the curtain call that the audience was clapping in slow motion, like they were physically still in the play. There’s so much packed into the show that it’s almost impossible to process it all upon leaving the theater.

Yeah, [they’re thinking] “What was that? That was a ride into a concrete median.” (laughs) 

I’m interested in how you first came across Jewish writers. I know your work has been impacted by them.

I had a middle school teacher and she gave us a [reading] list, and I for whatever reason chose The Chosen. I was enraptured. I felt like I had found my own people. They had all the same divisions in the community and the concerns with being holy and being righteous, and how that brought people into conflict and how it brought them happiness. I even got the texture of their life. And this is about Chasidic Jews in Brooklyn, not about a suburban kid in Milwaukee [where Akhtar grew up]. But somehow it was very familiar.  

Then I read The Promise and My Name is Asher Lev. [Potok] was the first writer I read all his books. I remember reading My Name is Asher Lev and getting to the end where [Asher] walks out of the gallery, and I thought, “This is my life.” I think I had some innate sense even before I even had a thought that I would become an artist that there was this division between the old world and my own life that that was irreconcilable and it was headed for some kind of rupture. 

Even though your parents were not active Mosque-goers.

My mom was devotional without being rigid about it. My dad became militantly…he’s basically like Amir [in Disgraced] now. He didn’t become that way until I got to college. Before that, he was more tolerant of it. But my mother’s sister was particularly devout and I had a close relationship with her. And I spent a lot of time around extended family, all of whom had varying gradations with identification with being good Muslims. That was one of the central questions of my childhood: how to be a good Muslim.

I college, I can’t remember how I came across Saul Bellow and Philip Roth, but it was the same sense of recognition in a different way. It was the refined literary me having the experience I had with Chaim Potok. And then the real experience in college was Woody Allen. Everything from “Love and Death” to “Husbands and Wives”.

Why do you think there’s so little in theater about religion? Is it as simple as audiences tend to be irreligious?

Well, maybe. I think the prevailing dramaturgical paradigms privilege certain subject matter. Directness is not as valued, and earnestness is not as valued. And issues of faith require earnest, direct technique. Because if you want to write about it, you have to find a different Archimedean point than ironic detachment.  

I think that faith is one of the important themes in American life, but it’s hard to find major writers writing about it. I mean even Chaim Potok – people do not speak of him in the same breath as the Roths and the Bellows. And Roth has made a career of writing in opposition to faith.

The character Isaac in Disgraced feels accessible to secular Jews – he intermarries, he eats pork – but he still seems to feel a personal attack when he’s called out as being a Jew. So there’s something visceral there. Nathan in American Dervish does as well, though he’s very willing to convert to Islam, something Jewish audiences might find less relatable.  

There was a template for Nathan in my own life. It’s a very odd situation for a Muslim artist to have found most of his inspiration and his roadmap from Jewish American artists. I’m always grappling with that conundrum. It’s a different kind of anxiety of influence. How much of this is really mine and how much is not mine, and how much of it can I make mine. So I think Nathan is the first fully fleshed-out attempt at that kind of internal dialogue. There will ideally, hopefully, be a sequel to American Dervish that will develop this further: Hayat [the story’s main character] will find his way back to Islam by working with a Kabbalistic master. So it’s this circuitous route.

Islam is really a gloss on Judaism. The Quran is in many ways a secondary source commenting on the Old Testament and then reworking sections. So when you look at it from the point of view of Harold Bloom, for example, we’re talking about Mohammed’s anxiety of influence with regard to Moses. And to make himself into a better Moses.  

While the The Invisible Hand and your 2005 film “The War Within” are about terrorists plots, most of your recent work – Disgraced, The Who and the What, and American Dervish – offer very different critiques of Islam, based more on the text of the Quran.  

All three are challenges to Quranic interpretation. 

And people have asked you in interviews if you’re concerned about reflecting a negative image of Islam. But the characters in most of your work are not talking about extremism or terrorism, per se. They just don’t want to feel diminished by religion.

I feel that Amir is grappling fundamentally with how to fit in. The idea that W.E.B. Du Bois has about double consciousness: the view a minority has of the majority’s perspective on it. I think that people expect me to be writing more from a place of double consciousness than I am. I don’t suffer from double consciousness. My experience is my experience…and I just write from that place. And then I find myself in this peculiar situation where people are reading my work and looking for clues to the quandary of double consciousness which is not present in American Dervish at all. It is there is Disgraced but in an unusual way because it’s not like I’m siding with Amir over the other characters.

Do you wonder how many people leave the theater after Disgraced ends and say, “So, is he saying that Islam is bad?”

I think it’s an invariable question. If you really sit with the experience you have, I don’t know how you can take Amir’s side and discount everything that has made you complicit with his downfall if you’re not Muslim. It feels like a sledgehammer but I think there’s a lot of subtlety there.  

If Amir had been upfront with his colleagues early on, would it have mattered that he was Muslim? I don’t imagine that it would have.

Yeah, it might not have. And that’s another dilemma. The concern that internal paranoia within the Muslim community might be exacerbating the situation.  

What is your feeling about Muslim Americans who are outspoken advocates, like Reza Aslan who is a frequent commentator on CNN?

That’s part of our cultural consciousness – that constant chatter, so if there isn’t somebody representing that pole... But I don’t feel that that’s an artistic project, it’s a public relations project. So a lot of people might think, “I heard about this guy with a weird name who won a Pulitzer. He’s into Muslim stuff. I guess we’ll find out that Muslims are good people.” That somehow an artistic project will modify in a positive way what they think. So, I love Reza, but that’s a different thing. 

Amir and Abe are complex and troubled Muslim characters, certainly more so than Hayat and Mina [characters from American Dervish] and the family in The Who and the What who are more lovable characters.

Somebody once told me, “I think your play is a litmus test. It’s telling an audience member where they are on the spectrum of their own tribal identifications.” I think that’s true. I don’t know that I have a message. I think there are certain meanings that are embedded in the text, but I don’t think you can come away thinking anything specific other than an interrogation of your own relationship to tribalism.

As a final question, I’m curious about the character of Emily, specifically her last lines. Was her interest in Islamic art truly sincere, or was it an outgrowth of being married to someone Muslim and wanting to find beauty in his culture? It seemed to raise a larger theme of being fascinated with cultures outside of your own experience, like the way you illuminate Jewish characters. Like Gershwin doing Porgy and Bess. What is your thought about portraying subject matter outside of your experience?

I think Emily’s last lines express the Western, non-Muslim frustration with the Muslim world which is something that you only see growing, tragically. That even those who wish to find meaning and beauty are having difficulty today. Emily compassionately walks away. The second part of your question is beautiful, I don’t know that I have an answer to it. I think I’m very conscious of the ways in which I can write about things that are not my experience or my place to write about. I’m sensitive to the boundaries. If I feel confident I’ll write about it. I also show my writing to a lot of people, so I get a lot of feedback.

It seems like you’re an avid rewriter.

I am. The inspiration comes in rewriting.


photo credit: Nina Subin

Posted on January 15, 2015 .

Voices from a Changing Theater J

In the fall of 2011, I visited Theater J in Washington DC to interview artistic director Ari Roth and attend a reading for the Voices from a Changing Middle East festival as part of an article I was writing for American Theatre magazine. Around that time, a fringe pro-Israel activist group known as COPMA (Citizens Opposed to Propaganda Masquerading as Art) had made a few headlines by protesting Theater J, asserting that the theater and the Voices festival in particular put forth anti-Israel views. COPMA’S actions weren’t a pervasive threat to Roth’s position, per se, but they did arouse some worry among the staff and board of the DCJCC (the Washington DC Jewish Community Center, which is home to Theater J), especially when COPMA called upon major foundations to withdraw their financial support. The JCC’s new CEO, Carole Zawatsky, began to mediate with members of COPMA with the hope of easing tensions.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but all of these incidents would lead directly to Roth’s being fired a few days ago. The decision is upsetting on a few levels. Roth was Theater J’s visionary. Beyond creating art, he was genuinely interested in fostering productive dialogue. When he produced Return to Haifa, a play written by an Israeli writer that focused on the complications involved in Israel’s founding in 1948, he hosted a post-show talkback every night of the production. As he recalls, “Every talkback was good. Some nights, it was sublime.” Heated conversation never roiled him. He wanted to present theater in order to intrigue, excite, and engage audiences. The widespread response across the arts world following his firing – including an open letter to the DCJCC from artistic directors of theaters across the country – has expressed the danger in suppressing creativity freedom.

To be sure, Theater J never had full creative freedom. For an arts company to exist inside a community organization is to be beholden to the latter’s standards, in this case to produce plays that do not in any substantive way criticize Israel. Most theater companies don’t have to look over their shoulder in that way. It's because the JCC has to accommodate its board members and funders – many of whom likely hold right-wing views on Israel – that Theater J’s Voices festival seemed problematic (the yearly festival featured work by Palestinian writers and by Israeli writers who wrote from a left-wing perspective).

The larger issue as I see it is that it is increasingly difficult to be liberal and pro-Israel. Many right-wing Jews would disagree with me on this, but I believe Roth is deeply supportive of Israel. Choosing plays that grapple with how Israel was founded or that offer a empathetic viewpoint on a Palestinian character do not amount to anti-Israel sentiments. It's very disheartening that right-wing support of Israel (unyielding approval for every military action, a startling lack of sympathy for Palestinians who suffer) is often viewed as the only valid way to support Israel. And conversely that siding with liberals on social and economic issues means rejecting Israel entirely. 

And still, I'm sympathetic to the tight position that JCC's staff and board found themselves in. I grew up going to that JCC and have a lot of positive memories there. While I don’t agree with their decision, I do appreciate how hard it must be for a religious organization to balance opposing views. Roth may embrace controversial subjects, but the JCC understandably prefers to keep things calm. Of course, in their effort to do so, they may have damaged Theater J irrevocably: several artists have already pledged not to work there, and the JCC will have a hard time hiring a new artistic director who is on board with their strictures.  

As for Roth, there is a new company, Mosaic Theater Company, to build. I hope audiences flock there.




Posted on December 22, 2014 .

"Youth" Depicted but Unexplored

This is Our Youth_Broadway_review.jpg

This is Our Youth treads familiar ground. It depicts that bewildering phase of adolescence when ‘kid’, ‘teen’, and ‘adult’ are all appropriate identifiers, when inurement to life’s disappointments coexists with childlike cravings for unadulterated happiness. It is an anti-coming-of-age story where the protagonists don’t necessary learn anything. First produced in 1996,This is Our Youth was Kenneth Lonergan’s launch pad, fomenting his career as a playwright and filmmaker. The play has been widely praised, and its revival this year (first in Chicago and now on Broadway) has been celebrated by nearly every critic in New York.

Youth is not a plot-driven story; it is a day in the life of vulnerable Warren, his domineering friend Dennis and his elusive crush, Jessica. Warren’s been kicked out of his parents’ house for his pot habit, and, after stealing fifteen grand from his father, arrives at Dennis’ apartment in search of somewhere to sleep and (more generally) a happier existence. The events that follow include buying and selling drugs, pawning Warren's toy collection, and wooing Jessica – each clumsily strategized and mostly ending in disappointment.

The fact that not much happens is not an outright problem, per se. Anna D. Shapiro’s direction packs physicality and tension into each moment, whether it’s a destructive football toss, a boyish wrestling match, a sprayed plate of cocaine, or a spontaneous dance. She makes the play pulsate. But while the lack of action isn’t a flaw, the lack of ideas is, and I kept wondering if Lonergan was trying to say anything larger than “here are three directionless people at the cusp of adulthood.”

The most illuminating idea, as I saw it, comes from Jessica in Act I. She arrives at Dennis’ apartment to the delight of Warren, and as Warren tries to flirt with her, they begin to have an argument about identity. The topic at hand is whether personalities are fixed throughout life, and Jessica argues that they change entirely, almost unrecognizably. The free-loving activists of the 60s become the Reagan-supporting lawyers of the 80s, she says. More so, if we were to find a letter that we wrote years earlier, it would contain emotions, details and beliefs that are foreign to ones we have later in life.

The idea is a poignant one for young adults who hold thoughts passionately though not long term. I awaited the follow-through of this sentiment in the second act, but frustratingly it never came. The final note of the play is simply that Warren lacks connection to anyone: not to his parents, who ostracize him emotionally and physically; not to Jessica, who leaves Warren wondering if she wants him or just self-affirmation; and not to Dennis, who keeps Warren as a close friend because his abuse of Warren goes unchecked.

It’s testament to the cast that so much pathos rises out of an energetic but bleak script. Kieran Culkin is a perfect asshole in the role of Dennis (his abrasiveness is reminiscent of his great performance in Igby Goes Down years ago) and while the play spends too long on Dennis’ uncontrolled anger, Culkin commits wholeheartedly to it. Tavi Gevinson (Jessica) speaks her lines a bit too theatrically but authentically portrays the mixed bag of confidence and delusion specific to those who know they’re desirable but don’t know how to handle it. Most memorable is Michael Cera who – though he seems to reprise the same sensitive role repeatedly – plunges deep into the pain of Warren and makes him endearing, funny, and heartbreaking. 

Another redeemer is the set. Created by Todd Rosenthal, it centers on the interior of Dennis’ apartment, cluttered and style-less with touches of the early 80s like the extra-long extension cord on his beige telephone. The exterior of the apartment – an old white brick façade – rises high toward the proscenium to meet to gaze of audience members in the balcony. The building – not rundown, but not upscale either – feels like anyone’s first New York apartment. It may not be glamorous, but just being there feels grown up.

It reminded me of a line Shoshanna says on Girls when she walks into Hannah’s apartment: “Um, seriously though, I like really think that the best years of your life are like totally gonna happen here.” Like GirlsThis is Our Youth presents the chasm between the desired life and life as it is. It's a great point of takeoff. Sadly, the play never leaves the ground.

Posted on September 30, 2014 .