"Anything Goes" Review

When a feisty night club singer, a C-list gangster, a Wall Street businessman, a prissy English gentleman, a wealthy debutante and her mother, and a dashing young stowaway are trapped aboard a cross-Atlantic ocean liner, well, anything goes.

Syracuse University’s First Year Players revived Cole Porter’s classic musical, “Anything Goes,” with the charm and energy that has become so characteristic of the American composer’s work. Director Ian Milliken created a fairly traditional version of the show, retaining most of the dialogue, music, and stage directions from the original 1934 production.

Sailing from New York to England on the S.S. American, this eclectic group teams up to help stowaway Billy Crocker (Peter Bukowski) win back his long-lost love, Hope Harcourt (Kelsey Scram), who is engaged to another man, Sir Evelyn Oakleigh (Michael Debach). The plot is simple and predictable: after a series of mistaken-identities, goofy mishaps and run-ins with the law, everyone ends up embracing happily.

But the plot is not really what’s important in this show: the music is. With Porter’s larger-than-life hits, such as “I get a Kick Out of You,” “Let’s Misbehave,” and the title track “Anything Goes,” the music is really what makes this show endure.

And the musical numbers are exactly what shone in this production. With guidance from music director Malcolm J. Merriweather, the vocally talented cast performed Porter’s songs with fervor, charm and wit. Complete with tap-dancing chorus girls and sailors, the big numbers were infectious and energetic, and the love songs were poignant and genuine.

Tinuke Oyefule stole the spotlight as glamorous nightclub singer Reno Sweeny. Oyefule’s strong and sultry voice is striking, and though her voice is not as brassy as her predecessor Ethel Merman’s, it is certainly as stunning.

Playing a type of Casanova and master of disguise, Peter Bukowski embodies the slickness and charm of his character Billy. On stage he is thoroughly convincing, and with his playful innocence, he seems like he was actually plucked straight from Porter’s era.

With the exception of Oyefule, Bukowski, and Michael Debach, who plays a deliciously comedic version of Sir Evelyn Oakleigh, acting was not the strength of this production. Without music, the dialogue and interactions on stage felt uncomfortable and unnatural. There was no chemistry between Bukowski and Scram, which made it difficult to understand the driving the force of the play: their love for each other.

But all of that didn’t matter, because when it is boiled down, this show is really about the music — and on that note, the First Year Player’s chimed.

How the Irish REALLY celebrate St. Patrick's Day

On a cold rainy morning in Ireland—March 17, to be exact—college students with dreadlocks and piercings, balloon-toting children, and tourists draped in green lined up along the narrow cobblestone streets of Galway. Misled by the lull of the patient crowd, I had no idea what was in store for the day.

Galway is a charming medieval city on the West Coast of Ireland that is home to the National University of Ireland. This city’s rich sense of history and its thriving youth culture create a type of frenetic energy in an intimate atmosphere, making it the ideal place to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.

Led by cartwheeling clowns and men on stilts, the 103rd annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade wound its way down the 1.5 miles from the river Corrib to Eyre Square, the center of the city. Amidst a cacophony of drums, bagpipes, whistles, and noisemakers, Celtic tribes marched beside young gymnasts, while flame-throwing jugglers followed nursery school children.

Weaving through marching bands, floats and stilts, my friends and I sought refuge from the chaos of the parade in what we thought would be a small quiet pub. We soon learned that nothing is small or quiet on St. Patrick's Day. Squeezing through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd inside Taaffes Pub, we were greeted by cries of "slainte" or cheers, and a live band playing traditional Irish jigs. Pints of Guinness, hard cider and all sorts of locally brewed beer were shared among people of all ages.

One particularly jolly 68-year-old man heartily congratulated me for donning the color of the day: green. Wearing green on St. Patrick's Day is not so much a myth as it is a requirement, he told me. It's a way of expressing national pride. And if you forgot your greens, you can buy green hats, shirts, capes, wigs, rubber noses, streamers, or noisemakers from any number of street vendors.

The day quickly became a whirlwind of pints and pubs. At The Quays, we watched a game of Gaelic football, even though we didn’t understand the rules. At the King's Head, a multi-level pub which is named for its founder, the Irish soldier who beheaded King Charles I, we warmed up with hot whiskeys. At Ti Na Nog, a group of NUI students taught me a traditional Irish dance—something that left me awkwardly feeling like a wannabe Michael Flatley. They also showed me how to properly drink a pint of Guinness, leaving a ring of foam around my glass with each sip.

Each pub was so densely packed that the festivities spilled out into the streets. Although most shops and businesses are closed on St. Patrick’s Day, you might not have realized it because the streets were so crowded. Face-painters, vendors, artists, dancers and street musicians regaled passersby, and all night long the city echoed with shouts of “Happy St. Patty’s Day!”

"The Bacchae of Baghdad" Review

"The Bacchae of Baghdad"
The Abbey Theater
Dublin, Ireland
March 4- April 15, 2006

Conall Morrison’s “The Bacchae of Baghdad” is a fairly traditional production of Euripides’ classic tragedy “The Bacchae,” with one exception. Instead of taking place in ancient Greece, this production is set in the Green Zone of Baghdad, a place where MacDonalds meets Muhammed amidst a brutal ongoing war. By setting this classical play in a modern day Iraq, Morrison inserts his own political commentary into the script. But the question is: does this metaphor really work?

The classical elements in Morrison’s production are apparent. The Greek chorus—a group of women dressed in Eastern attire—perches on stage throughout the play, commenting on and narrating the actions on stage. The characters spoke, and occasionally yelled out their lines in rhyme. And the plot and dialogue seemed to stick strictly to Euripides’ original version.

In this play, Dionysus (Christopher Simpson) descends to earth in human form to take revenge on a corrupt society and on his own petty and conniving family. Dionysus uses the Bacchae, his own female groupies, to carry out his macabre plans.

Dionysus’ enemy Pentheus (Robert O’Mahoney), the tyrannical ruler of Thebes, is an American military leader, covered in glistening medals and sharpened by rigid posture. The strict harshness of the American military aptly complements his unforgiving and uptight character. The Bacchae are Dionysus’ frighteningly fierce harem. They are a group of women led by Pentheus’ mother Agave (Andrea Irvine), that live in an ominously idyllic society. They are the opposing force to Pentheus, but it is unclear who they are supposed to represent in this metaphor.

Dionysus is the god of wine and dance, but he is also the god of bloodlust. He is relentless and merciless just as Pentheus is relentless and merciless. However, Simpson’s dreadlocked Dionysus is oddly unimposing. Emulating a god is ambitious, and in this case, so ambitious that Dionysus becomes a joke. In conveying Dionysus’ godly powers, the technical weaknesses (a visible harness, strobe lights and a ludicrous floor-to-ceiling red gown—the lasting image of the play) were apparent and seemed cheesy and amateurish. Simpson was simply not an inspiring or believable Dionysus, and his performance was somewhat lackluster.

Throughout the performance, I was trying to make the connection between Euripides’ play and the current Iraq war. I kept getting lost. If Pentheus represents the American military, are the Bacchae supposed to be the Iraqis? Or are they the Islamic fundamentalists? If that’s the case, is Morrison saying that the Iraqis and/or the Islamic Fundamentalists live in a type of eutopic cult? Also, where does the idea of fate fit in? If the gods are controlling our fate, are we destined to go to war—particularly the current controversial Iraq war?

There are simply too many unanswered questions, and by the end of the play, the metaphor doesn’t exactly correlate. “The Bacchae of Baghdad” wasn’t entirely successful, but it was thoroughly enjoyable, and it was certainly refreshing to see new life breathed into a classic.

“Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory:” Scrumpdiddleumptiously Scary

I was once told that the way to conquer a fear is to rationalize it, to make the fear your ally. This is my attempt to do just that.

Only one film has ever scared me so severely that it inspired recurring nightmares that lasted throughout my childhood. That film is “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” The 1971 movie, directed by Mel Stuart, was adapted from Roald Dahl’s children’s book, “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Haunted by images of exploding human blueberries, dark hallucinogenic tunnels, and whirring fans threatening decapitation, I frequently woke up from my dreams crying and drenched in sweat. Now, almost 20 years later, I am attempting to reface my fears.

The most petrifying scene of the film, for me, is the notorious blueberry scene. This scene single-handedly caused me to have frequent night-terrors. But a fresh look and a deep analysis render this scene not quite as scary as I remember it being. Violet Beauregarde (Denise Nickerson), a rotten and impetuous girl, greedily snatches a piece of chewing gum—her biggest vice—from Willy Wonka (Gene Wilder). The gum, which is still in its experimental phase in the factory’s zany inventing room, encompasses a three-course meal. Despite Wonka’s unconvincing protestations of “Stop, don’t,” Violet ravenously stuffs the gum into her mouth. While frantically chewing the gum, she describes warm tomato soup running down her throat, roast beef with a baked potato, and blueberry pie for dessert. Slowly, Violet’s blue jumpsuit swells, her arms flail helplessly, her belt snaps, her skin turns blue, and presto-changeo, she is a living blueberry. Violet turns violet, and is rolled out to the juicer by the Oompa Loompas.

This scene doesn’t seem quite as traumatizing now as it did when I was five-years-old. In fact, it’s absurd and very much in the spirit of Roald Dahl’s literature. Although the screenplay—which was written by Dahl and David Seltzer—varies from the original text, the film seems to capture the fantastical mood of the novel. Stuart drew upon Dahl’s elements of satirical fantasy, and brought those elements— like the girl-to-blueberry transition—to the forefront. Several images in the film, like Wonka’s office where everything exists in halves and the abstract entrance to the chocolate room, are reminiscent of Salvador Dali’s Surrealist paintings or Marcel Duchamp’s Dadaist sculptures.

Once the children enter the chocolate factory, nothing is absolute. Wonka himself is unpredictable and ambiguous. From Wonka’s first moments on screen, when he limps out of the factory and faints forward into a gymnastic somersault—a move that Wilder insisted on—his trustworthiness is immediately questionable. The viewer doesn’t know what to expect from Wonka or from his factory. The film constantly toys with the viewers’ expectations: expected images are mixed with unexpected images. A coat rack, for example, is a human hand, and a polluted river is actually liquid chocolate. Wonka precautions his visitors, “Little surprises ‘round every corner, but nothing dangerous.” However, some things do prove dangerous, or at least utterly terrifying.

The voyage down the tunnel, or Wonkatania, is a nightmarish descent into hell. Gruesome images of larva, lizards, and severed chicken heads flash ominously against the pitch-black tunnel walls. The paddle-boat, which only seconds earlier seemed like an innocuous Disney World ride, becomes a vessel from hell, rapidly propelling the petrified group toward the dark abyss. As Wonka eerily sings, “Not a speck of light is showing, So the danger must be growing, Are the fires of hell a-glowing?,” alternating flickering red lights cast threatening shadows on his face, transforming him into a type of satanic figure. The music, sounds and images grow louder, faster, and much darker, augmenting the terror.

The tunnel scene is a dark and scary manifestation of Dahl’s fantasy world. It’s certainly not realistic, but it’s psychedelically terrifying in an acid-trip-gone-wrong kind of way. What makes this scene so terrifying is that the euphoria from the chocolate room, or the nerve center of the factory, is still fresh when the group eagerly hops on to the boat. The tunnel ordeal is so unexpected that the ecstatic mood severely and rapidly plummets. It is this juxtaposition of highs and lows and of the expected and the unexpected that make much of this film so terrifying.

In Dahl’s novel, the dark and light elements are subtly intertwined. In Stuart’s film, those opposites are starkly contrasted, adding dramatic tension and provoking a wide range of emotions. The bubble scene—a scene which was added for the film—is an appropriate example. Grandpa Joe (Jack Albertson) and Charlie Bucket (Peter Ostrum) surreptitiously drink the fizzy lifting drinks against Wonka’s advice. The concoction, which never stops fizzing, gives them the ability to float. Intoxicated with their newfound faculty, they gleefully float up a metal tunnel amidst an endless stream of bubbles— until they look up and see the end of the tunnel: a whirring fan hovering above them. Abruptly, the music shifts, their cheers become panicked, and the mood becomes dark and ominous. This is a frightening moment, but it’s also a moment from a children’s film. As the 10-year-old hero, Charlie can’t die; it would go against the credo of all children’s films. And as soon as he learns to belch on command, he is saved.

This film was constricted by a mere $2 million budget. So, rather than being highly stylized like Tim Burton’s 2005 film, “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” the original movie has a much more playful and improvisational air to it. Instead of using complex computer graphics and expensive scenery, the set, which was designed by Harper Goff, feels like an elaborate and brilliantly creative arts and crafts project. The chocolate room, where “everything you see is eat-able—I mean edible,” as Wonka says, is adorned with oversized mushrooms and candy-canes, bright lollipops, dangling gummy bears and buttercup teacups. The sound design, by Charles Campbell, has the same playful feel, and is crucial to the spirit of the film. The sounds of the factory are absurd, scary, playful and fun: in the inventing room, machines make sounds like farts, popping bubbles, and even watermelons being smashed.

“Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” is vividly creative and truly captures the spirit of Dahl’s novel. However, unlike the novel, the film relies heavily on the subtexts of the story, which are always hinted at and never fully developed. For example, the viewer knows very little about Willy Wonka’s character. Although there is a lovability to Gene Wilder, his Wonka can be frightening, creepy, apathetic, and even masochistic. We know nothing of his past, or how he came to be such a bizarre chocolatier. Similarly, the intentions of the film’s villain, Arthur Slugworth, and his role in the plot are never fully elucidated. Stuart really lets these subplots carry the film, and in a way, the film becomes less of an overt children’s film, and more of a complex adult film.

Once “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” can be seen as a type of adult film, its ironic tone becomes apparent. Like Dahl’s novel, this film is moralizing: it polarizes good and evil, punishing the naughty children and rewarding the only honest child, Charlie. However, Charlie isn’t exactly a compelling hero. He’s quiet, boring, and kind of nerdy. The nasty children, on the other hand, are entertaining and far more vivacious than Charlie. It seems that Stuart is interjecting a hint of irony by making the naughty children so striking and Charlie so unmemorable– or maybe it was just bad casting.

After rethinking the film that haunted me through childhood, I think I can safely say that I have conquered my fears, and “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” is no longer scary.

"Lolita:" Not So Sexy with Age

When Vladimir Nabokov’s “Lolita” was first released in 1955, it caused an international ruckus, inciting outrage, censorship, widespread bans, and even book burnings. Because of its controversial subject matter, the book was hailed as revolutionary and was categorized as one of the postmodern literary greats.

Now that revolutionary bang has dwindled into a fleeting whimper. Nearly 50 years after its original publication, “Lolita” has become old, musty, and oddly obsolete.

The middle-aged European narrator of this fictional memoir, Humbert Humbert, is tormented by his infatuation with “nymphets,” or prepubescent girls. For Humbert, Dolores Haze, also known as the infamous Lolita, is an unattainable 12-year-old goddess. After a bizarre series of events, Lolita becomes Humbert’s step-daughter and child-lover. But Humbert is shocked and hurt when he soon learns that Lolita is not as innocent as she seems.

“Lolita” skyrocketed to fame for its controversial subject matter: the pedophiliac love story. Although Nabokov’s linguistic prowess is undeniable, this book gained acclaim primarily for “l’Affaire Lolita.” Now, the novelty has worn off, the shock value is gone, and “Lolita” is merely a dull account of a man’s rather exhausting obsession.

While I never believed before that literature is defined and limited by its time period, “Lolita” seems to me to be somewhat archaic. Contemporary cultures are horrified and regaled with stories of sex scandals, rapes, and an endless supply of unimaginable abuses. Of course, pedophilia is still taboo, but in the midst of all of these sensational stories, much of modern society has become desensitized to the outrageous. At the risk of sounding blasphemous, Nabokov’s tale of pedophilia is tame in comparison.

The story is recounted by Humbert, who is a highly educated and articulate man. By putting the narrative in Humbert’s words, Nabokov gives Humbert the opportunity to gain his reader’s sympathy. But rather than winning the reader’s compassion, Humbert alienates the reader with his highly complex and almost convoluted language. Despite frequent apologies and self-deprecating remarks, Humbert fails to make a connection with the reader because his language and allusions are simply too erudite and highfalutin. And, while I don’t see Humbert as a monster, I think that he is arrogant and selfish. The problem is that Humbert doesn’t provoke a strong reaction from me—except for maybe apathy. Once I lose interest in the narrator, the book, which is an elaborate and droning account of his infatuation with Lolita, loses meaning.
An all-encompassing obsession, like the one Humbert harbors for Lolita, should be passionate, nauseating, terrifying, or even irritating. But it should never be dull. Clearly Humbert quivers at the mere thought of his beloved Lolita, but that passion is not conveyed to the reader because it is shrouded in his esoteric language. Because of Humbert’s lackluster obsession, he becomes a one-dimensional and uninteresting character to me.

The story too, which has the potential to be enthralling, doesn’t deliver. The tale involves rape, murder, pornography, pedophilia, incest: all of the juicy tidbits to make an avid reader salivate. Yet, when reading it, I simply felt parched. Anticipation—to see if Humbert would seduce Lolita, and then to see if he would get caught— whetted my interest for a short time, but quickly petered out into a mild concern. Nothing really drove the plot of “Lolita,” or kept me turning pages.

After earning such critical acclaim, “Lolita” has been placed on an invincible pedestal. Clearly, Nabokov is a skilled writer, but I think that “Lolita” needs to be critically re-evaluated with the evolving time period. Given its strong reputation, I was surprised at my own reaction to the book: a lack of one. I was not offended. I was not awed. I was simply bored.

"The Light In The Piazza:" Dim, But Still Burning

Amidst the glitz and glamour and increasingly over-the-top artificiality of many American musicals, "The Light in the Piazza" stands out as a refreshing return to simple humanity. Instead of catering to Broadway’s predilection for snazzy and jazzy caricatures, Craig Lucas’ script, based on Elizabeth Spencer’s 1960 novella, tells an ordinary love story between two ordinary human beings.

Michael Yeargan’s mesmerizing set and Christopher Akerlind’s luxe golden lighting fully transform Lincoln Center into 1953 Firenze, where well-to-do American mother and daughter Margaret Johnson (Victoria Clark) and Clara Johnson (Katie Clarke) are vacationing. A strong gust of wind blows Clara’s hat off her head, and magically places it in the hands of Fabrizio Naccarelli (Aaron Lazar), a young dashing Florentine whose romantic air is as charming as his persistence. In this fateful moment, time seems to freeze for Clara and Fabrizio, as it does in every future meeting.

While the skeptic might say that this meeting is cliché, and there is nothing to separate Clara and Fabrizio from the droves of famous young lovers, there is something unique about this affair: Clara is, as her mother calls her, “special.” After being kicked in the head by a pony at her tenth birthday party, 26-year-old Clara never developed full emotional and mental maturity.

There is only one problem then: neither Clara nor Fabrizio know of her “special” handicap, and as plans for marriage are underway, Margaret is conflicted about how much to tell the Naccarelli’s without shattering her daughter’s short-lived happiness.

Directed by Bartlett Sher, performances by Clark, Clarke, Lazar, and Sarah Uriarte Berry, who plays Franca Naccarelli were strong, and Adam Guettel’s song lyrics resonant. Catherine Zuber’s costumes are gorgeous and the set is magnificent.

But all of that does not prevent the audience from contemplating some unanswered questions: What is it about Clara and Fabrizio that creates such an instantaneous and deep connection? Why doesn’t Margaret tell the Naccarelli’s about Clara in the beginning? Is Clara’s handicap strictly physical, or is it a result of her mother’s overprotective care?

The problem with "The Light in the Piazza" lies in the script. But, despite its shortcomings, the play must be praised for creating and capturing truly human emotions and relationships.

The Closest Shave You've Ever Had

From Fleet St.’s darkest, filthiest hole-in-the-wall, a true artiste has arisen. Armed with the most exquisite silver razors, Sweeney Todd (Michael Cerveris) has carved out a name for himself as the finest barber in London.

Todd has been called “the demon barber of Fleet Street” for his demonic prowess with a razor and for his mysteriously dark demeanor. With a slight stroke of a razor, he can change a man’s life, guaranteeing his customers “the closest shave” they’ve ever had.

The décor of Todd’s barbershop, designed by John Doyle (who is also the shop’s director), is bleak and reminiscent of an insane asylum—aptly decorated to fit its ghostly tale. The space, which is located above Mrs. Lovett’s (Patti LuPone) pie shop, is rumored to be haunted by the vengeance hungry ghost of barber Benjamin Barker.

Fifteen years ago, Barker, a promising young and handsome barber was unjustly exiled from London to appease Judge Turpin (Mark Jacoby), who lusted after his wife Lucy— a stunning woman, who is now presumed to be dead. The Barkers’ baby daughter Johanna (Lauren Molina) is currently Judge Turpin’s ward, and despite their large age difference, she will soon be his wife.

Rather than scaring off customers, Barker’s nightmarish tale is oddly mesmerizing, attracting a mile-long queue to Todd’s shop day after day. However, Todd’s hair-styling mastery and Barker’s terrifying story are not the only crowd-drawing attractions: Mrs. Lovett’s savory meat pies boast the finest quality meat—meat that is so good it could almost be human.

Both Mrs. Lovett and Mr. Todd are deliciously macabre and oddly seductive. Together the grotesque duo is enormously talented and immensely successful, wooing Londoners and wanderers alike to their darkly seductive lair.

Other than the juicy meat pies, the eerily alluring tale, and the guaranteed close shave, what makes “Sweeney Todd” stand out from all of the other barbershops on Broadway—err, I mean London?

The entertainment. Everyone in this barbershop skillfully sings, dances, and plays several instruments, regularly featuring the music of composer Stephen Sondheim.

For a truly unique style and a full-body experience, stop in at “Sweeney Todd”—if nothing else, it is worthwhile just to see the renowned Mrs. Lovett tooting on the cumbersome tuba.