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.

Last Night at the Rawhide

The Rawhide: soon to be turned into another high-rise, Starbucks, Duane Reade, bank,
Pinkberry, 16 Handles, cupcake store or all of the above.

Why am I sad about the closing of a bar I haven't been to in years?

Why am I sad about the closing of a bar where, the last time I went there, I was robbed?

Why am I sad about the closing of a bar whose customers I regularly warned to hold onto their wallets?

Maybe it's because it will probably be turned into another high-rise, Starbucks, Duane Reade, bank, Pinkberry, 16 Handles, cupcake store or all of the above.

Maybe it's because its closing symbolizes the latest step in the homogenization, gentrification and Cleveland-ization of New York City.

Maybe it's because it's the latest example of the cruel calculus of capitalism.

Are those the only two choices in the zero-sum game of our New Economy: crime-filled wastelands or Disney-fied shopping malls?

I walked into the Rawhide on its last day of business in late afternoon, laden with shopping bags from Dave's Army Navy store and Bed Bath & Beyond, for a last glimpse. Inside it was pitch black and crowded, but I could see that they had already started to dismantle the bar in preparation for its closing. The pool table was gone, as were the pinball machines and, of course, the iconic motorcycle which used to hang above the pool table had already been auctioned off.

I walked back out into the bright sunlight. It was too depressing, the years rushing past.

I walked back onto the newly heterosexualized sidewalks of Eighth Avenue, with its generic high-rises, its double-wide strollers and its kids on scooters and for a second I wondered, “Am I a part of the problem?”

So I walked over to Hudson River Park with my modern-day comforts of choice, a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin, and wrote this story.

The Last Days of Bleecker Bob's

Bleecker Bob's, about to become a frozen yogurt store..

Today I had a depressing tour of some of the last remaining record stores in the Village: Rebel Rebel, Bleecker Street Records, Record Runner, Generation Records, Sounds and Bleecker Bob's. When these stores are gone, something else will be lost besides the ability to buy a record or CD from a bricks-and-mortar store. What will be lost will be another opportunity for human contact, the thrill of finding a certain record or CD after searching all over for it. Indeed, in the Age of the Internet, the whole concept of "hidden gem" or "best kept secret" has been lost.

A woman working at Bleecker Bob's (JK in the following video) told me that there's a documentary about the store on YouTube. Here's the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iwHtZjMMvs4

Rude or Autistic?

This weekend I was awakened, not once but twice, by someone playing the piano in the park in front of my apartment building. The first time it happened, I emailed one of my neighbors who’s active in the community, she called 311 to file a noise complaint (I didn’t have time to call because I had to go to work, but I called them when I got back home), the cops showed up, asked the man to leave and he refused to leave.

The second time it happened, I called 311 again and went out to speak to the piano player personally. I spoke calmly, but I was so angry I was shaking. (This was after I had been woken up by a Falun Gong protest moments before. Yes, really.)  The conversation went something like this:

ME: Are you aware that you’re waking up the entire neighborhood with your piano playing?

PIANO PLAYER: Even with the traffic noise?

ME: When you’re playing piano, it’s like you’re playing piano in my bedroom. (What I should have said was, “It’s 10:30am. There is no traffic noise. But even if there was, it wouldn’t make a difference”.)

PIANO PLAYER: What would be a good time for me to start playing?

ME: There is no good time. There’s three bars side by side on the next block and I have to listen to drunks all night and then I get woken up by you at 10:30 in the morning. It’s not cool.

PIANO PLAYER: But I’m not breaking any laws.

ME: You’re disturbing the peace. The park is here so people can enjoy peace and quiet. I understand that the police were here yesterday and asked you to leave and you refused.

PIANO PLAYER: They just asked me to play softer.

ME: You shouldn’t be here, period. I don’t want you here at all.

At that point I left to have breakfast in another neighborhood because I literally could not stand to remain in my apartment while he was playing piano. When I returned from breakfast about two hours later, the piano player was gone. My neighbor emailed me that the police had shown up again, asked him to leave again, and this time he left.

But a few hours later, I happened to see him playing piano in another park. Apparently everything I had said to him earlier went in one ear and out the other.

This goes beyond mere rudeness. This verges on autism. I don’t mean to belittle the very real medical condition of autism, but it does seem that more and more people are unable to sympathize with others.

I’ve been witnessing this kind of behavior a lot lately, whether it’s the guy who gave me the finger a few hours later when, in response to his honking his horn, I asked him where the emergency was (because you’re only supposed to honk your horn if there’s an emergency. I know!  Silly me!); or the audience at the comedy show I performed at a week earlier that sat there mute and with their arms folded for the entire show. (So what are you doing at a comedy show?)

And no wonder.

We now have an entire generation of people who grew up in the age of the Internet and the cell phone. They increasingly don’t even have contact with other live human beings and so they don’t know how to behave when they do.

I happened to watch a rather shocking movie on TV the other night called “Detachment,” which illustrated an extreme example of this kind of behavior. The movie deals with a teacher played by Adrien Brody and his students, who are so detached from their own feelings that they routinely curse at and make sexual comments about their teachers and fellow classmates (a level of disrespect I would never have dreamed of when I was in school but that I know from friends who are teachers actually does exist today).

One of the students in this film is even shown bludgeoning a cat with a hammer because he’s incapable of feeling any emotions. (OK, I know it’s a work of fiction, but still.)

Sometimes I feel like there’s been a complete breakdown of the rule of law (at least in my neighborhood) and my opinion of people is pretty low to begin with. I think that people are basically uncivilized animals and that the only thing that prevents them from killing each other is the law.

So one day it’s someone playing piano in the park and the next day it’s what? What’s to prevent people from doing whatever they feel like just because they want to?

I really do believe that such “quality of life” violations do ultimately create an atmosphere where anything goes. And then who’s to blame?

We are.