The Warriors: Bloomberg’s Worst Nightmare Meets a Multiethnic Paradise

 Last night I watched The Warriors, a movie that I had fond memories of watching on cable TV as a teenager after it came out in 1979. Boy, have times changed!

I’m pretty sure I didn’t think the movie was camp when I first saw it, even assuming I knew what camp was at that tender age. Watching it almost 35 years later, it’s an unintentional laugh fest on a par with Mommie Dearest. Is this the same movie that struck fear into the heart of suburbanites all over the country?

The first sign that you’re not in 2013 is the subway system: trains covered in graffiti, people using tokens, wooden turnstiles and an illegible subway map. Apparently, there was even an amusement park in Union Square station. Who knew?

But what really makes this a candidate for the Most Quotable Lines Since Scarface Screenwriting Award is the ridiculously clunky dialogue. My personal favorite is when the movie opens. All the gangs of New York are gathered at a park in the Bronx and the Grand Poobah of All Things Gang-Related exhorts the crowd with the following line: “Can you dig it? Can you dig it? CAN YOU DIG IT?!!!” I immediately wanted to break into that line from the old soul classic “Can You Dig It”: “I can digga digga digga, she can digga digga digga, we can digga digga digga digga, Can you dig it, Can you dig it, baby?”

While the gang members in this film exist in some kind of multi-ethnic paradise where all races apparently get along, the characters aren’t always so PC. The word “faggot” was used at least three times by my count, most often as a verb, as in “go faggot” or “gone faggot.” They make it sound like sexual orientation is a choice similar to deciding which restaurant to go to.

There’s another homophobic moment when the gang encounters a group of young women who are apparently lesbian. The call themselves the “Lizzies” and one of them has crimped hair! But they still make out with men (before they try to kill them)! I’m confused.

It’s fun to play “where are they now” with a movie like this. Mercedes Ruehl, who would go on to star on Broadway in Neil Simon’s “Brighton Beach Memoirs” trilogy, plays a tough chick (an undercover cop?) who nabs one of the gang members by coming on to him in a park and then handcuffing him to the park bench.

And, of course, Michael Beck, the handsome lead, would go on to star in “Xanadu” the next year with Olivia Newton-John. Just out of curiosity, I decided to look him up on imdb.com. Let’s just say cute doesn’t age well.

There’s more fun to be had with the gang costumes. It’s hard to imagine anyone being scared of a gang of mimes, much less a gang of baseball players with face paint, a gang of pimps, and what looks like a gang of Asian monks. I hope the costume designer was at least nominated for an Oscar.

Another curious feature of the film is that, in a city of eight million people, almost no one seems to be on the street or the subway at the same time as any of the main characters. Normally, this is a sure giveaway that a movie was filmed on a sound stage. But I’m pretty sure this movie was filmed on location in New York City. I even saw my block show up in one scene. (Look for a sign that says “All State Glass.”)

All in all, good times for everyone. Unless you’re a woman. Deborah Van Valkenburgh plays the kind of female lead that actresses are still trying to overcome. The nicest thing that can be said about her character is that she’s “not a slut.”

But at least she’s not a “faggot.”

The Sadness of the Pet Shop Boys

 For me there has always been a sadness underlying a lot of the music of the Pet Shop Boys. For that reason, they were also the perfect gay band.

I was reminded of this when I was in a gay bar the other night and I suddenly heard what I think is the perfect Pet Shop Boys song: “Love Comes Quickly.”

While it can be read on the surface as an obvious play on words (see also Richard Hell’s “Love Comes in Spurts”), “Love Comes Quickly” perfectly encapsulates not only the sadness and loneliness of a life of one-night stands, but also the sadness and loneliness of the life of a pop star: traveling all over the world but never staying in one place long enough to develop a real connection.

The Pet Shop Boys are, arguably, the quintessential gay band because, while they never talked about anything explicitly gay, they perfectly encapsulated a “gay sensibility,” whether it was the emptiness of consumer culture (“Shopping”) or the power/economic dynamic of a lot of gay (and heterosexual) relationships (“I Love You, You Pay My Rent”). Even their name, the Pet Shop Boys, is a seeming allusion to the Richard Gere/gerbil myth that refuses to die.

What was it about the ’80s that gave birth to so many gay bands, and why have they suddenly disappeared at a time when gays are more visible than ever? Certainly, there was a lot of “gender-bending” going on, whether it was Eurythmics or Culture Club or Boy George’s pop star friend, Marilyn.

But you also had The Smiths, who were so melodramatic it was funny (“I was looking for a job and then I found a job. And heaven knows I’m miserable now.”).

But gays could also be outrageous/campy drag queens like Boy George and Pete Burns from Dead or Alive, although Boy George could also be melodramatic. Who could forget the Barbra Streisand-like production on “Mistake Number Three” and its correspondingly melodramatic video?

They could also be defiantly political and heart-rending, like Bronski Beat with their coming out anthem “Small Town Boy,” depicting the loneliness and isolation of gay life in a small town.

But there was something else about the Pet Shop Boys, whether it was Neil Tennant’s plaintive voice or Chris Lowe, the “cute” one whom you saw but who never said anything and always hid behind his keyboard and/or some outrageous costume.

Chris Lowe could be read as a symbol of the objectification of gay life.

But Neil Tennant was and is something more. Neil Tennant was/is that most feared thing in the gay community and, indeed, society in general: an intellectual. 

Gap is Crap

 I’m old enough to remember when the Gap was a store that sold only Levi’s. That was in 1969, when the store was founded and their slogan was “fall into the Gap.” That means I’ve been a Gap customer for almost 50 years. But lately I’ve been finding that, while their prices, have been going up, the quality has been going down, to the point where they may lose a life-long customer.

Now, this would be no great tragedy were it not for the fact that this phenomenon mirrors what’s happening in the economy in general, namely the disappearance of the middle class. While the middle class is disappearing from cities like New York and people are increasingly either very wealthy or very poor, in the retail landscape this is mirrored by the fact that people are increasingly shopping at either Kmart or Bergdorf Goodman.

I have always relied on the Gap for “dress casual” clothes at “dress casual” prices. After all, I work in publishing, not finance. But lately it seems like they’ve abandoned that market altogether.

Like today, for example, I went to buy some polo shirts. No biggie, right? I went to three different branches of the Gap: Astor Place, lower Fifth Avenue and Chelsea. Astor Place had almost no selection whatsoever, lower Fifth Avenue was under construction with, again, almost no selection whatsoever and Chelsea only had a small selection in odd sizes and ugly colors. I bought the only three “smalls” I could find. I asked the cashier why there was such a poor selection and she told me that all the normal sizes and colors had sold out. “When am I supposed to buy polo shirts?” I asked her. “Winter?”

Just out of curiosity, I decided to walk down to the Banana Republic in Chelsea. There I found an almost completely empty store (their customers were undoubtedly in the Hamptons or Fire Island for the weekend) with stacks of merchandise. The only catch is that their polo shirts were twice as expensive as the Gap’s and almost too nice to wear to the office.

Inevitably, in these situations, my ire falls upon the hapless sales clerks, who have one of the worst jobs in our bad economy. I asked one of the sales clerks in the Chelsea store if there was a corporate strategy to phase out the Gap entirely. I pointed out to him that I have been a life-long customer of the Gap and that while their prices have gone up, the quality has gone way down, to the point where I almost can’t find anything I would even consider buying. The only reason I still shop there, I told him, was because I don’t want to deal with the crowds at Macy’s. (And I must really hate crowds when you consider that it now costs $60 for a dress shirt at the Gap compared to $30 for a better quality shirt at Macy’s. And even after I buy that $60 shirt at the Gap, I still have to take it to a tailor because it’s missing a second button on the cuff, making the sleeves too long and too wide unless I wear one of those large chunky watches on each wrist.)

What I did not mention to him was that this is how companies in general do business these days. They take a product that costs pennies to make and then charge a fortune for it, with most of that money going to the corporate executives at the top as opposed to the people who make and sell that product. I didn’t mention how most of that money is spent on advertising to create a well-known international brand as opposed to creating a better product. And I didn’t mention the sweatshops where these products are made so that people like me could still afford to buy them while the corporate bigwigs raked in the insane mark-up.

After I unleashed my tirade on this poor sales clerk, I apologized to him for doing so and went home with my three polo shirts from the Gap, wondering if that would be the last time I ever shopped there. Because, nowadays, when you “fall into the Gap,” you fall into the crap.

Liberace: Behind the Candelabra or Whatever Happened to Fey Gay?

 As a gay man, I had mixed emotions about watching Steven Soderbergh’s recent HBO biopic, Liberace: Behind the Candelabra. On the one hand, as a depiction of the personal life of one of the few gay entertainers of the 20^th century (closeted though he was his entire life), I was looking forward to it. On the other hand, as a depiction of someone who represented some of the worst stereotypes about gay men, I held my breath.

At least there was Matt Damon’s ass to look forward to.

I must admit that, on paper at least, it sounded intriguing. Michael Douglas, master portrayer of macho hubris in such movies as Wall Street and Fatal Attraction (and now recovering from throat cancer) as Liberace, perhaps the most effeminate gay man who ever lived. Could he pull it off?

And Matt Damon, whom I’ve had a crush on at least since The Talented Mr. Ripley, as his lover, Scott Thorson. Who could resist?

Actually watching the movie, on the other hand, was kind of like watching the proverbial train wreck: repulsive at times, yet you can’t look away.

For starters: How do you depict a man who was camp personified without lapsing into camp yourself? I must admit, Michael Douglas toed the line pretty well, nailing Liberace’s voice and mannerisms without overdoing it.

But then there’s the whole creepy May-December nature of their relationship which, while accurate, is still difficult to watch. The first time I saw Michael Douglas without his wig on, I had the same reaction Scott Thorson did when he and Liberace went to the video store.

Then again, as such shows as Dynasty and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous have shown us, there’s a certain voyeuristic pleasure in watching how the other half lives and, to his credit, it appears that Liberace was in on the joke.

The movie had its genius moments, too. Cheyenne Jackson’s slow burn in the beginning as Liberace’s soon-to-be-rejected protégé, called back at the end of my movie by the soon-to-be-rejected Matt Damon. Rob Lowe as the plastic surgeon who, as a friend of mine pointed out, really did look like Michael Jackson. An unrecognizable Debbie Reynolds as Liberace’s mother. If nothing else, Steven Soderbergh always makes interesting casting choices.

And despite what the Times said, I really did believe Michael Douglas and Matt Damon as sexual partners, not just surface portrayals. They really did “go for it.”

So, ultimately Liberace: Behind the Candelabra accurately portrayed the dueling forces at work within one of the most famous, and most closeted, gay entertainers of the 20^th century, in the process revealing the mixed feelings gay men often have about themselves as well as the mixed feelings society often has about wealth and fame.

Plus there was Matt Damon’s ass.

Punk: Chaos to Manure

 When I went to see “Punk: Chaos to Couture” at the Metropolitan Museum of Art today, I did something really punk rock: I skipped the admission line.

Now, technically, I wasn’t breaking any laws (since the Met has a “suggested” donation), but I wasn’t about to stand on line for an hour and pay $25 to see an exhibit that takes about 15 minutes to walk through.

It’s hard to know which is more ironic: the idea of having a show about punk fashion at The Metropolitan Museum of Art or listening to some middle-aged housewife from New Jersey trying to explain to her children who The Sex Pistols were.

As for the show itself: It’s mainly a collection of T-shirts from Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren’s store in London (variously called “Let It Rock,” “Too Fast to Live, To Young to Die,” “Sex,” “Seditionaries” and “World’s End”) and haute couture interpretations of punk rock clothing from such designers as Versace, Junya Watanabe and Riccardo Tisci for Givenchy.

Of course, the whole raison d’être of punk rock was a “DIY” aesthetic that flew in the face of designer fashion. So the idea of paying $10,000 for an outfit that looks like it’s about to fall apart is obscene, to say the least.

Besides, Vivienne Westwood didn’t really get interesting until her “pirate” and “Buffalo Gals” collections. That’s why her recent show at FIT was more interesting than this one.

The show ends with a so-called recreation of the bathroom at CBGB. I’ve played at CBGB and that, sir, is no CBGB bathroom. The actual bathroom was much smaller and not so artfully disheveled. (I wonder if they used real feces in their “recreation”?)

But that’s the world we live in today:  a world where anything truly original is repackaged and sold to the masses as a simulacrum of its former self. It’s like having a branch of CGBG in Las Vegas. Or a John Varvatos store at the former CBGB in New York.

Perhaps the appropriate reaction to a show like this is a gob of spit and a middle finger. Sid Vicious would be proud.

Pippin: You Can Go Home Again

 Pippin hasn’t appeared on Broadway in 40 years, so great was the reputation of its original production. It was the Tony in Bob Fosse’s triple-crown year and it made a star of Ben Vereen. Its TV commercial (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bo4Tz-4rkvs) was a landmark in Broadway advertising and the dance number featured in that commercial—gloriously reproduced in this production—is as iconic as the kick-line finale in A Chorus Line (which was featured in its own TV commercial).

I never saw the original Broadway production of Pippin but I did have the original cast album as an impressionable 11-year-old and several years ago I rented a video of the national tour, which featured most of the original Broadway cast. So I approached this production with very high expectations (and so too, apparently, did many of my fellow audience members, who already seemed to know the cast and score).

Pippin is, at its heart, a classic coming-of-age story, except in this case, the young man coming of age happens to be the son of Charlemagne. But Pippin isn’t famous for its story so much as it’s famous for the way that story is told.

The choreography by Chet Walker (“in the style of Bob Fosse”) pays liberal homage to Fosse with all its hip swivels, shoulder rolls and jazz hands. And Stephen Schwartz’s score, which could stand on its own as a great pop album, takes on added significance when heard in the context of the play.

What’s new in this production is the addition of a company of Cirque du Soleil-type acrobats who perform throughout the show. Normally, I would take this as a sign that the director didn’t have confidence in the strength of his script. But the book by Roger O. Hirson and lyrics by Stephen Schwartz are surprisingly clever and, more importantly, Diane Paulus’s direction has that stylized, Bob Fosse wink that lets you know the cast is in on the joke.

Patina Miller effectively channels Ben Vereen in all his sassiness, Andrea Martin practically steals the show with her big number (“No Time At All”) and Matthew James, as Pippin, finds new ways to wring meaning out of such piano bar clichés as “Corner of the Sky” that almost make you forget John Rubinstein’s original. Filling out the cast are Broadway veteran Terence Mann as the King, Charlotte Damboise—flirtatious and funny in the kind of role that seems tailor-made for Christine Baranski—as the queen, and Rachel Bay Jones, who brings both humor and pathos to the love interest role originally played by Jill Clayburgh.

The chorus of dancers and acrobats deserve credit, as well. I kept thinking of the Dazzle Dancers and other neo-burlesque acts that have been performing the last few years in downtown New York clubs. The form-fitting costumes by Dominique Lemieux and circus tent set by Scott Pask complete the picture.

If I had to make one criticism, it’s that—especially after all the literal pyrotechnics that have come before—this show doesn’t end with a bang but with a whimper. But in this age where even curtain calls have been turned into their own production numbers, a Broadway musical that tries to make a serious point—and does so with great humor and great songs along the way—is to be welcomed.

Bette Midler: I'll See This First

 When I first read that Bette Midler was going to be playing legendary super-agent Sue Mengers on Broadway, I practically shrieked with delight. I thought, “This is the role she was born to play.”

And now, having seen “I’ll Eat You Last,” I can definitively tell you: This is the role she was born to play.

The curtain opens on a pitch-perfect recreation of Ms. Mengers’ Beverly Hills mansion, decorated in a style that I would call chic but comfortable. The Divine Miss M is stretched out on the couch in a sparkly blue caftan and we are treated to 90 minutes of dish about your favorite stars of the late 70s/early 80s--Diana Ross, Steve McQueen, Julie Harris, Bob Evans, Ali MacGraw, Faye Dunaway, Gene Hackman, and, of course, Barbra Streisand--all delivered in Midler’s trademark Sophie Tucker style.

In addition to being a biography of Sue Mengers, this is a primer on How to Succeed in Hollywood, delivered by the ultimate insider. We travel through the ups and downs of Mengers’ life and career, starting with her humble beginnings as a refugee from Nazi Germany in upstate New York, to her early days in New York City, to her ultimate move to Los Angeles. Her Waterloo was a long-forgotten 1982 film called “All Night Long,” which was directed by her husband and in which she convinced two of her clients, Barbra Streisand and Gene Hackman, to star. A long monologue towards the end of the show about a bullfight she attended in Mexico is an obvious metaphor for the vicissitudes of show business.

I only had two minor complaints about the performance I saw.

First of all, Miss Midler didn’t know all her lines and called out to her prompter several times. Now, granted, this was only the second preview and she’s on stage by herself for 90 minutes (which must be extremely difficult), but people are paying up to $150 for tickets--and that doesn’t include Premium Seating!

Secondly, there are two moments when she calls someone up from the audience to join her on stage and I thought, “Why? Does the playwright not trust his material or is he just pandering to the Broadway audience of celebrity-worshipping tourists?”

Nevertheless, Miss Midler delivers a stellar performance, and the script, by Josh Logan, is funny and clever.

Once Midler learns her lines, she should walk away with a Tony nomination if not an actual Tony.