September 20 – Day 14: What Is So Rare as Well-Done Chekhov?

Thursday, we were back in the bar for more table work. Nothing especially exciting beyond the interest of new actors making new discoveries when it came to material I thought I knew pretty well. It reminds me of when I worked on The Three Sisters at ACT. Even though I’d been reading about and studying the play for more than 30 years at that point, Carey Perloff (who was directing) mentioned really insightful things that I’d never considered. (That the production turned out a little dull and “Chekhovian” was another matter altogether. Now that I mention this, I realize it’ll be have relevance in my next post.) The other excitement of the day was seeing the costume renderings and getting measured. Unlike in San Francisco, where we pretty much had complete costume changes for each character, this version will feature a basic "ensemble" look that will be augmented by costume pieces. I'll miss my Goebbels tuxedo and big-ass George Kraft sweater, but I suppose it'll give the production more visual unity.

As much as I wanted to use the "Goebbels in a tux" production show, I also didn't want a big swastika in the preview for this post.

The weather had cooled off a little (not a lot, but some) and the rain had cleared some of the humidity, so we were able to keep the windows open a good portion of the day. This was mostly fine, except when, late in the day, as we were on a break, some poor sap across the street was having car trouble. It looked like he was trying to recharge his battery with some kind of hand-held gizmo, and every time he touched the battery with the gizmo, the car alarm went off. It should have been annoying, but it ended up being a combination of amusing and sympathy-evoking. We had to go back to work before he resolved the problem, but he must have (or simply gave up), because the alarm soon stopped.

Had we gone from 12-6, as originally scheduled, I would have had to take the subway to make my 7:00 curtain, but we went 11-5, so after I helped put the room back in order, I had the time to walk across town to see Uncle Romeo Vanya Juliet, which is a mashup of Chekhov and Shakespeare that Bedlam Theatre is doing. (The director explained that he got the idea when preparing the text for productions of both; he kept seeing parallels in that the Shakespeare is about how we fall in love, and the Chekhov is about what happens after we do.) I’ve seen a couple of Bedlam shows (most notably their four-person Saint Joan, which was remarkable), so—despite the unusualness of the concept—I was looking forward to it.

I could have taken the subway, but it was a nice enough evening that I decided to walk. It was about an hour’s walk, but most of my route was through Central Park, and there are really fewer nicer places to be on a late summer’s early evening.

The venue is way the hell over on the West Side—53^rd between 10^th and 11^th. As many times as I’ve been to New York, I’ve only recently gotten to know the Upper East Side (and that mainly due to rehearsing there), but almost anything in midtown west of 8^th Avenue—and especially west of 9^th—is really terra incognita and very "here be dragons" as far as I’m concerned. It all seems a blur of faceless modern buildings and warehouses. This theatre complex is in the former category, full of straight lines and blonde wood and white walls. I got there about 6:00, went upstairs, picked up my ticket, and waited for the house to open. 

 AKA "Дядя Ромео Ваня Джульетта"

Despite the anonymity of the surroundings, it was pleasant enough. I hadn’t had time to eat, so once the snack bar opened, I bought a bag of pretzel chips and a bottle of water. The water was two bucks (which is typical enough at a theatre), but the bottle was about the size of an eyedropper, despite the standard size of the bottle on display. Knowing how theatres have to squeeze every dollar, I figured it was the just the way things were until about ten minutes later when the woman who had sold me the water tracked me down, apologized for giving me the wrong size, and gave me a properly-sized bottle.

The house eventually opened (it almost always does) and we went into the space: basically a black box rectangle with seating on all four sides. I’d bought a “premium” seat, which entitled me to sit in a seat with a sash draped over it. Since those seats were scattered over the two long sides, I didn’t see the real advantage to them, but it was what it was.

I really didn’t know what to expect, and when things began, the show started with one of the actors coming out in a sleazy-nightclub-singer sort of way, crooning one of Capulet’s lines from R&J. Much as I felt when I saw Come From Away, the first few seconds were the kind of thing that can easily set my teeth on edge, but somehow clicked with me.

I’d assumed that both plays would play out kind of in sequence, but after that introduction, Vanya proceeded more or less as written, but in a way I’ve too rarely seen it done; which is to say, correctly. There was some physical business that showed they knew exactly what the play was about, as well as an adaptation by Kimberly Pau that is fresh and contemporary while remaining faithful to the original. (Overall—and in all modesty—my own translation is better, but this one is exactly right for what they’re doing.)

Rather than playing the two stories in parallel, we get a Vanya that is periodically punctuated by relevant lines or chunks of Shakespeare. While the casting in the Chekhov is consistent (even if the cast is cut down to Vanya, Sonya, Astrov, Yelena, the Professor, and Waffles—who’s there mostly to play the guitar), everyone gets a crack at different roles in Romeo, as needed.

Even though the show has no reason to work, it does, incredibly well. Eric Tucker, who directed and played Astrov, really understands the way Chekhov works, balancing the humor, the pathos, and the stupidity of the characters, so that we get the full emotional journey. There’s an off-handed quality to the acting that shows off the cast’s ability to handle verse in a contemporary manner (there’s no “classical” acting) as well as they deliver the Chekhov material. I am so sick to death of being told that only British actors can handle the classics like this; there are a million actors in New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, San Francisco, and everywhere in between who are capable of this, but who’ll never get a chance because they don’t have British accents.

Usually, at the end of Vanya (including the time I played him), there’s more of a sense of relief that the damn thing is over than a catharsis or a real identification with the characters’ dilemmas. At the end of this one, though, I was a little teary-eyed because A) it was genuinely moving, and B) I was so happy to finally see a production that understood Chekhov’s motivations.

By the end, it was one of those situations like the one I’d had at 54 Below for the Ain’t Misbehavin’ concert; I didn’t want to leave the theatre because I didn’t want a perfect spell to break. I had to, though, and was soon faced by the mundane issue of needing to find someplace to have supper. As I mentioned, so much of the West Side is a blank slate to me. Working my way over to 10^th, I walked a couple of blocks and saw nothing, so I transferred over to 9^th, with which I’m a little more familiar, and which offers some better choices, but there was still nothing.

By this time, I had made it to 46^th, and was planning on just heading home when I saw a likely-looking place called the Hourglass Tavern. It combined the assets (in my mind) of looking old, not being crowded, and still seeming to be open. (It’s not like it was that late; the show was out by 9:30; I guess it felt late because of the emotional journey I’d just gone through.) I stepped inside, asked if they were still serving (they were), and was told I could sit anywhere I wanted. Since I didn’t feel like sitting outside, I took a small table facing the sidewalk.

It’s a basic menu, but I’d almost always rather go to a place that does a few dishes well than one that has a 20-page menu of things that are just okay. I had a bowl of tomato soup, which was very good (seemed homemade, even if it may not have been; I mean, who knows with soup?), and the waitress soon brought over my entrée of broiled salmon and what looked like a scoop of falafel. Since I’d ordered the short ribs with mashed potatoes, this came as a slight surprise. I called her back over, and she showed me that she’d hit the wrong space on the ordering pad. The manager (owner?) came over moments later and reassured me and apologized profusely. The corrected meal came over moments later and was very good (a little fatty, but that’s short ribs …). The manager came back and made sure I was enjoying the other fish I’d ordered. I mentioned that there were a lot of big bones in it, and she assured me that’s how they came these days.

 Pretty much my view, minus people, plus nighttime.

When I finished, she offered me a comped dessert, but I was just too full, so she comped me a second glass of wine (which I didn’t need, but am I going to turn a glass of wine down?), and I sat there sipping and watching the late night traffic go by. I finally asked for the check and saw that she’d also comped the first glass of wine, so I made out well.

After that, there was nothing to be done but walk up to the subway station, catch the W to Astor Place, then walk home and go to bed.