Tributes: Edward Albee

There is a moment near the end of The Goat, or Who is Sylvia?—Edward Albee's 2002 tour-de-force play exploring the outer limits of love, fidelity, morality and tolerance—where the emotional crisis at the center of the narrative boils over into such catastrophic levels of heartache and rage and such Greek-tragedy levels of destruction and retribution that the first time I saw it—and the second time and the third time and the fourth time—the audience collectively gasped to the point of almost screaming and then sat rigidly and almost palpably silent until well after the final stage light had extinguished and the last emotionally drained actor had silently moved into position for the company bow.

It's one of my two favorite—if there even exists a favorite-not favorite continuum of cataclysmic emotional destruction—moments in modern theater ... the other being the last three seconds of David Mamet's Oleanna before the stage becomes abruptly, dreadfully dark.

He's largely a genre unto himself, so it's difficult to pigeonhole Edward Albee as a playwright. He wrote or adapted about 30 works that embodied movements like Theatre of the Absurd and brought popular works of narrative fiction like The Ballad of the Sad Café and Breakfast at Tiffany's to the stage and screen.

My favorite Albee works—Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (embodied in this movie still by the incrementally calculated Richard Burton and desperately braying Elizabeth Taylor playing the American-experiment patriarch and matriarch George and Martha [the latter of whom the script deliciously describes as "large, boisterous woman, 52, looking somewhat younger"]), The Play About the Baby and The Goat, or Who is Sylvia?—all share the format of four characters on stage interacting to varying degrees with one character who may or may not exist offstage. It's an intriguing conceit, and one that keeps bringing me back to these three plays for my own contemplation. In an odd double standard, though, I can't stand reading them; the characters for me seem to be clumsy and dry with no meaningful depth on the page, but they grant a glorious latitude for actors to make fascinating choices as they flesh them out.

Edward Albee died on this day in 2016. I'm not one to be sad when famous people I've never met pass away—and having seen only seven of his works (that I can remember) I'm certainly no slavish Albee devotee—but I'm profoundly thankful for the emotional roller coasters he's put me on in various theaters over the years ... and for the body of work he's left that I can continue to explore in my own way in my own time.

I have a couple favorite quotes from these works that I'd love to mention here in closing, but they're all potential spoilers. So I'll just lift a glass of bergen to his memory.

I'm dreaming of White Christmas

White Christmas is the dumbest, plot-hole-iest, staggeringly-implausible-storyline-iest movie ever made—and I adore every second of it. I used to host a party every year in Chicago and invite only the friends I knew were able to shut up for 120 minutes so we could all enjoy its ridiculous awesomeness together in peace. And then I usually watched it again on my own. And maybe one more time. I have yet to watch it this year, but when I do I might invite a few devotees to watch it with me who can do it QUIETLY AND RESPECTFULLY.

All that said, it still drives me NUTS that Rosemary Clooney runs (well, clomps in four-inch stilettos) away from Bing Crosby in a self-righteous fit over a laughably stupid misunderstanding that she could easily clear up with a simple question and then boards a train with a little satchel in which she's packed all her clothes, wigs, makeup, gowns, those ridiculously slouchy white sequined oven mitts she wears in "Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me" plus four of the Vermont dancer boys. And then she happily—yes: happily, despite the white-hot fury she had about Bing's appearance on TV that was so toxic it prompted her to sneak away from Vermont in secret—watches Bing's appearance on TV, suddenly has a mis-misunderstanding revelation, sneaks back to Vermont in the dead of night with her sensible orthopedic Army-issue oxfords in tow, ties up her understudy and throws her in a pile of horse manure (probably) and somehow absorbs all the "Gee, I Wish I Was Back in the Army" choreography out of thin air from some secret backstage rehearsal room in that drafty barn that apparently a cast of 1,000 people had mysteriously never even known about.

But those gowns!

And don't get me started on that overplayed "Sisters" number—it sure gets a LOT of mileage for having only one verse and an enormous dance break where Rosemary and Vera-Ellen basically just stand on stage and smile dewily at Bing and Doofusface (also: Don't get me started on Danny Kaye, the poor man's Donald O'Connor) while presumably the rest of the audience watches and thinks they're being somehow entertained by all that standing around.

But those gowns!

And Bing Crosby somehow croons “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” after chugging a throat-gagging quart of buttermilk and Danny Kaye sings a COMPLETELY random song called "Choreography" even though he dances like an ostrich going through a middle-school gangly-boy phase and that mercilessly repetitive "Mandy" song has about eleven words that are all stupid and WHAT THE HELL IS THAT “MR. BONES” SONG? (It's a horribly racist throwback to minstrel shows, that's what it is.)

But those gowns!

From the Department Of Lies About Cute Boyfriends I Would Totally Date: Rosemary Clooney's and Vera-Ellen's "ugly" brother Benny (the one Bing Crosby unimaginatively calls "freckle-faced Haynes, the dog-faced boy" when they show him Benny's photo) is actually super-cute Carl Switzer, who had played Alfalfa in the Our Gang/Little Rascals films. So calling him ugly is nothing but CHRISTMAS LIES AND HOLIDAY PROPAGANDA.

But those gowns!

Did I mention Rosemary Clooney's ridiculously slouchy white-sequined oven mitts that turn "Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me" into a very fancy Easy-Bake Oven infomercial? I think I did, though they can never be overmocked. You should definitely call the police every time you see them.

But those gowns!

Special mention also goes to that fingernails-on-chalkboards “Snow” number where Vera-Ellen sings in clearly not her own voice about washing her hair with snow—which, I’m sorry, would be completely ineffective and unhygienic—and then they all make some grade-school-art-class mountains-and-pine-trees diorama that they shake some kind of readily-available-on-their-cramped-club-car-table fake snow on and every time they do it my mind goes right to the scene in The Breakfast Club where Ally Sheedy shakes her own dandruff on a drawing to make it look like it’s snowing.

But those gowns!

And then Vera-Ellen—who does the entire movie in funnel-collared outfits tailored to hide whatever the hell is wrong with her neck—descends from the sky in her tearaway Ostrich Barbie outfit and executes some wicked nerve taps WITHOUT EVEN WEARING TAPS, A FACT THAT SHE DISPLAYS REPEATEDLY AND UNAMBIGUOUSLY TO THE CAMERA.

But those gowns!

And the general is clearly on a laudanum binge in the attic of his hotel-theater as every U.S. war soldier past, present and future swarms all over the entire property and fills every hotel room not already taken by the swarm of singers, dancers, directors, and costume and tech crew members, and when they all finally—and purportedly GENUINELY—surprise him with their heretofore apparently invisible presence they seat him at the table of honor behind a three-foot-tall cake that completely blocks his view of the show that they put together ESPECIALLY FOR HIM TO SEE.

But those gowns!

Theater: Death Becomes Her

For some reason I’ve never seen the Death Becomes Her movie. I’ve seen enough clips of it that I’ve gotten the general gist, but they clearly didn’t compel me to seek out and watch the entire film.

So aside from knowing some sight gags about horrific injuries, I went to the Death Becomes Her musical with a pretty clean slate.

And I came out with quite possibly a new favorite musical.

I think what kept grabbing me the most was the relentless evidence of quality in the show—especially the music and lyrics. The songs run a gamut from campy to ominous to ridiculous to self-aware to epic emotional meltdown. (SO MUCH emotional meltdwn.) Some are standard show tunes, some are jazzy, many are meticulously asymmetric, and a few are frantic patter songs along the lines of Sondheim’s “Getting Married Today” … but they’re somehow even more delightfully unhinged.

But those are just the classifications. Internally, the songs are rich with texture, voice and counterpoint (all of which shine in the gorgeous orchestrations), and the lyrics are an endless barrage of clever wordplay, brilliant character development, organic scene progression, and a seamless match to the tone and humor of the script (which wasn’t written by the lyricist).

Beyond that, the sets are exquisite when they need to be, ridiculous when they need to be … and Viola’s Gothic dungeon deserves its own Tony for looking like it extends miles into the back of the stage without ever giving you a glimpse of how its visual magic might be working.

Layer into all of that the women’s gowns and wigs (OHMYGOD!) and the script that keeps outdoing itself in humor and character definition (though don’t think too hard about the logistics of plausibly faking/not-faking deaths at the end) and the show just never stops being both thrilling and enthralling.

And then there are the actors. I’m 100% sure that histrionics is listed as an instrument in the score. The songs need to be chewed up and spit out as thoroughly as the book and the scenery, and the four leads just. don’t. let. up. These are crazy people in the prime of their careers and skills, and there’s no way they’re going to let one moment go under-the-top or unridiculoussed. They are truly running marathons for our entertainment, and they do it with undying (ahem) grace and charm. And crazypantsness.

I’ve had a another chronic flareup of insomnia on this trip, and my general baseline has been grogginess, lack of focus and even some unsteadiness on my feet. I’ve worried that I’d completely space out watching all my shows, but they’ve all been thoroughly engaging … ESPECIALLY this one. I truly can’t give it enough praise … especially for the way it kept me alive. Ahem.

Movies: Room 237

If you like super-duper-crackpot conspiracy theories presented with neither irony nor shame; violently forced metaphors that leave marks warranting assault charges; relentless fantasias on the numbers 42 and it goes without saying 237; gratuitous reasons to keep showing the clip of the fully naked woman emerging from the Room 237 tub (side note: it the totally cool vintage seafoam-green bathroom); clear and inarguable proof that a stack of papers on a desk looks exactly like an erection to demonstrate the hotel manager's perverse thrill about something or other AND to reinforce the hard (ahem) and fast fact that there are sexual organs hiding IN PLAIN SIGHT in the basic shapes in a carpet pattern; a poster showing a skier that's CLEARLY actually a Minotaur that when paired with a poster of a cowboy on a horse across the room is CLEARLY an indication that the movie is actually about the Holocaust, and an authoritative exegesis based on a rock-solid foundation that Stanley Kubrick staged the moon landing because the guy telling you about it has a friend who's a graphic designer or something who told HIM that it's clearly staged if you know where to look PLUS the letters in ROOM NO. 237 can be rearranged to spell MOON ... then I have a movie for you.

Movies: The Boys in the Band

I tried. Again. But the plot has way too many illogical stupidities. And I quit within the first hour.

I get how it was groundbreaking 50 years ago when it put gay men front and center in a narrative that didn’t play us as one-dimensional faggot stereotypes. And I appreciate that it let the gay characters be messy and imperfect and complicated and unlikable for reasons any other character in any other narrative could be unlikable.

But the conceit driving the entire plot was illogical then and it’s illogical now—and we’re no longer in a zeitgeist where gays are so desperate for representation that we’re slavishly thankful for sloppy pop culture just because it mentions us.

Maybe in another 50 years a director or screenwriter will find a plausible way to keep nine arguably unhappy people from en-masse leaving a hostile, toxic, physically violent birthday party before the end of the first act. Until then, I’ll just appreciate the fact that this revival appeared on Broadway and now in this movie starring all out gay actors, many of whom are relatively famous. And for that, I am indeed slavishly thankful.

Movies: Of Two Minds

I stumbled on this documentary about bipolar disorder last night on Amazon Prime, and it is so well done that I didn't even pick up my phone as I watched it. Which says A LOT.

The film follows the lives of four people living with bipolar disorder for over a year and veers off once in a while to profile a handful of others, which I think leaves viewers with a robust understanding of the commonalities bipolar people all deal with but really underscores the fact that no two people's experiences are the same. Some people (like me) have hallucinations, some cut themselves, some find manic episodes to be thrilling, some (like me) find them scary and exhausting, some experience functional depression, some (like me) fall into depression so deep that it's past the point of functioning and therefore safely past the point of being capable of self-harm, some attempt and eventually succeed at suicide, some hate taking meds and even refuse to fill their prescriptions, and some (like me) can never forget how awful it is to be off our meds and therefore take them religiously.

The people profiled are straight, gay and bisexual. Some are religious and some are atheists. Some have money and some are struggling so much that they can't afford their meds and rent and seriously consider leaving the United States for a country that can offer them healthcare. They live in cities all over North America. The documentary really does a deep dive into the environments and experiences that shape the way people manage their mental health—though my only criticism is that there are only three people of color, all of whom are just one-off side interviews, which I think really misses an opportunity to paint a more robust picture of experiences and contexts and cultures and personal decisions.

It's edited deftly to be thorough and intimately informational but not overwhelming. I was left feeling emotionally connected to everyone—to the point that I rooted for all of them but ended up angry at one person and genuinely disliking another.

If you or someone you love is living (or struggling) with bipolar disorder, I highly recommend watching this. 

Movies: Midway

I think perhaps the most important purpose that historical cinema—even when it’s historical fiction or historical fantasia—serves is the time capsule of both the epic events and the mundane details of history it provides, with context and perspective that help people today and in the future better appreciate the people and events of our collective past.

To wit: Midway.

We in 2019 America probably all know the most essential fact of Pearl Harbor—that the Japanese bombed us—but even if we understand the larger significance of the event—that the unprovoked bombing of our Hawaii Naval base dragged us from being a neutral country to an active participant World War II ... and a participant who was crippled from the start with an overwhelming number of our Pacific Naval fleet destroyed—we’ve almost all but forgotten the subsequent battle of Midway, where through a LOT of strategy and a touch of miracle we managed to turn the tide of the war and keep the United States from becoming captured and controlled by the Japanese.

The new Midway movie, which opened this weekend for Veterans’ Day, tells this story with clarity, rich historical context and breathtaking CGI. But more importantly, it tells the human stories with CGI perspectives that bring to life the in-the-boots bravery and the terror and the sacrifice of our soldiers with heart-stopping clarity.

It’s so easy to see veterans of long-ago wars as the old, feeble, wrinkled people they’ve become from our current perspective. But historical movies like Midway help us see who they were when they were young and vital ... and exhibiting the bravery and the terror and the sacrifice that protected our country’s freedoms then and now.

The Midway movie is excellent cinema on its own, filled with artful drama and excitement and handsome movie stars, but more importantly it’s a documentation—again documentation through the lens of cinematic storytelling—of the historic events and lives and stories we as modern Americans really can’t afford to forget ... both as patriotic, informed citizens and as a nation grateful to the veterans who’ve served on our behalf.

Go see it.

Movies: La La Land

One glorious four-act symphony of jazz riffs rendered in music, choreography, plot, cinematography, character development, set decoration, visual composition, movie-musical quotes, leitmotifs and relentless, thoughtful, loving attention to detail. It flatters its audience by trusting us to connect the dots, celebrates the unbridled joy of spontaneously breaking into song, and winks self-awarely at the adorably implausible plot holes that make personal finances fluid and Doris Day parking plentiful and tap shoes and story arcs and even gravity appear and disappear without regard for any scripted accountability. And though there are some wispy singing voices and some not-quite-synchronized soundtrack-to-visual issues and poor Emma Stone seems to walk miles and miles and miles in unforgiving stilettos, La La Land is hands-down one of the most glorious movies I've ever seen.

ChicagoRound: Essanay Studios

Most people—heck, most Chicagoans—don’t realize it, but Chicago was an important player in the development of America’s motion picture industry. And the Chicago studio that was once home to early film legends like Gloria Swanson, G.M. “Bronco Billy” Anderson and Charlie Chaplin—along with screenwriter-turned-Hollywood-gossip-columnist Louella Parsons—still stands in Chicago’s storied Uptown neighborhood:

Essanay Studios—founded in 1907 as the Peerless Film Manufacturing Company but eventually renamed Essanay after the initials (S and A) of its founders, George K. Spoor and Gilbert M. Anderson—turned out about 2,000 shorts and features between 1907 and 1917.

Its first film, An Awful Skate, or The Hobo on Rollers, was produced in and around its first studio location at 946 Wells Street (now 1300 N. Wells after Chicago changed its street numbering system in 1908). It starred Ben Turpin, who was then the studio janitor, and it cost just a couple hundred dollars to make. But it grossed perhaps as much as $10,000—close to $216,000 in modern dollars—when it was released. Suddenly flush with money and success, Essanay Studios moved to its giant new location—and into its golden age—at 1333-45 W. Argyle St. in 1908.

Chicago’s weather—and it’s always about Chicago’s weather—along with the growing popularity of westerns, also prompted Essanay to open what they called the Essanay-West Studio in Niles, California in 1913.

The Chicago studio produced many of Essanay’s most famous movies, including:
• The first A Christmas Carol (1908)
• The first Jesse James movie, The James Boys of Missouri (1908)
• The first American Sherlock Holmes (1916)
• And some of the world’s first cartoons, including a popular character called Dreamy Dud

Aside from Anderson, Chaplin, Parsons and Swanson, other notable (to some, but I had to look them up) Essanay alumni include Edward Arnold, Wallace Beery, Francis X. Bushman, Lester Cuneo, Helen Dunbar, Ann Little, Tom Mix, George Periolat, Rod La Rocque, Ben Turpin, Virginia Valli and director Allan Dwan.

Chaplin actually lived in Chicago for less than a month and filmed only one notable movie here: His New Job. But his is the most famous name associated with the studio, and it lives on in the Charlie Chaplin Auditorium of St. Augustine College, which occupies the site today.

Esssanay Studios dissolved in 1918, but the building still stands on a leafy residential street. It was designated a Chicago Landmark with this plaque on March 26, 1996: