Things Concatenate

The riches available on the Youtube (however shadily, rights-wise) continue to astonish me. I had heard about this film, S*x by S*ondheim (obfuscating the title slightly in case any spiders are trawling to see if it's online - and in this case it even make is seem intriguingly improper, no?) when it came out, but having only Arabic-language satellite-TV at home, hadn't had the chance to see it. If by chance you haven't, grab the opportunity now. If you did, watch it again. It's worth it.

Birthday Boy: Forever

The Master is 87 today. Only appropriate, then, to spend a moment with a masterpiece.

All Things Beautiful

Even in the midst of the clamorous, ridiculous, so often tedious parade that is Facebook, sometimes something stops you in your tracks. This went past a few days ago, and I've just spent a considerable amount of time tracking it down so that, in case you missed it, you too can spend a little time in a glamor-induced trance.

Plush Velvet Sometimes

Some powerful birthday juju in the air this weekend, carissimi...

We're Ready

I don't know that I ever really imagined it, but I suppose if I did I would have thought about something impossibly romantic - over Champagne at Maxim's or La Grenouille, or at Luxor at dawn, the sun striking the inner sanctum of the temple of Deir al Bahri.  On top of the Burj Khalifa, or maybe in Central Park, in front of the Alice in Wonderland statue...

Shameless Saturday Camp Explosion: Crazy

 

 

Camp turns things on their heads; it approaches the solemn with levity and ridicule, and it finds the tragic that lurks, so often, just slightly in the wake of the funniest things.  It revels in excess.

 

It goes without saying that Mr. Sondheim is one of our geniuses, of course, but there's no denying that his acolytes at times can treat him with the sort of Parnassian ultra-seriousness long reserved for (to consider one of his polar opposites) Herr Wagner.  Therefore, when you take one of his most revered anthems of psychic pain, mix in one of his comic numbers (and actually try to make it funny, rather than, as so many performers do, merely demonstrating that it's clever), and let 'er rip - the results are exhilarating.

 

And, when, to top it all off, the performer in question is the magnificent, long undervalued, and (now) sorely missed Miss Dorothy Loudon - it's simply heaven.

 

Loudon is one of those New York stage ladies of the last century whose affect was simply too broad, too volatile, and too, simply, theatrical, to take them to the very first rank of stardom, but who were, each in her own way, irreplaceable.  Elaine Stritch, who has found superstardom of a sort in her old-old age, is another; Mary Testa, the darling of Broadway aficionados (and still very much with us) but unknown west of Tenth Avenue, is another.  To be in their presence is electrifying, whether in a long-running role or, as here, at a gala one-off, because you can never be quite sure what's going to happen - or rather, since mostly they are total pros, they milk the sense that anything's possible (good or bad) to give the audience that much more sheer pleasure, even as they maintain total control - observe each pause and glance Miss Loudon gives - how she gets a vast laugh, at a crucial moment, just by the set of her jaw.

 

That's show biz, kids - and it could drive a person crazy.  I know, for me, it has, in the best sort of way.

Perfect Relationships

Something about this just feels right for today.  I don't know about you, but I'm feeling a tad sentimental, and really very proud of Our President.  Oh, I know - took long enough, and all that, but what's said is said, and here we are.

Of course, the Mr. and I do have a stake in this, as what keeps us overseas, at least in part, is that we have no choice.  We are a family (as they sing in sitcom-season-promotional specials), and it's nice to think that yesterday we moved one step more toward having that recognized.

And Another Key Change!

Even all the way out here, darlings, one does hear the occasional whisper from Gotham, and so I know quite well that Sunday night is the Tonys, which came to mind again just now thinking of Mr. Fierstein.

Consider this little video moment the Café's tribute to Broadway's night of nights. I was terribly excited to find it on the Youtubes, because I recall clearly and with enormous nostalgia that this remarkble rendition from the 1983 telecast by the much-missed Miss Loudon was, in fact, the first time I ever heard this song. Life's never been quite the same since, I'm happy to say.

When was the last time one of those shows had this much life, this much crazy wonderful Broadway Rhythm (everybody dance)? She was a theatre dame, and this was her moment, and she grabbed it and ran just as fast as she could...

We're Still Here

The Original, and Still C(h)ampion

Better get comfortable, carissimi, because today finds me in Marathon Mood, and this is going to be rather long.

Our recent rejoicing in the deep cleverness of brilliant Café regular Bill, combined with the genius that is Dame Edna, set me off thinking how interesting it would be to look at as many available versions as possible of that warhorse of divas d'un certain age everywhere, Mr. Sondheim's funny, haunting, triumphant "I'm Still Here", from his equally all three Follies. I hope you agree, because here we go:

Here, despite the louche talkshow setting and a flub or two, Miss De Carlo proves that, having introduced the song and the character of Carlotta Campion, she owns the song.

Dolores Gray brings a bemused/jaded, world-weary tolerance to her interpretation...

Eartha Kitt's Carlotta is characteristically funny, fierce, and just a tad scary (but more of that to come)...

There is something simultaneously wonderful and heartbreaking about Ann Miller's rendition; perhaps it's the sense that Carlotta, like much of Follies, is only going to get harder to cast as we lose performers who bring their own backstories to the role.

Karen Morrow makes it brassy and raucous - which only highlights the pathos when she takes it down a notch. She's a less glamourous Carlotta, but perhaps the most convincing of all with argot like "stinko".

While age, experience, and name-recognition do add a certain something, it's not an absolute necessity (although Stritchie raves against anyone much younger than her daring to assay the number). Here, cabaret illusionist Randy Roberts, visually channelling Ann Margret but singing in his own voice, makes a quite respectable case for the more unorthodox performer.

Adaptations of the song, however, (in addition to the daunting prospect of incurring its creator's wrath) can be jarring.

Before she became a textbook (and text-faithful) Carlotta in London, Miss Eartha pulled the song to shreds in her club act; it kind of works, but more because it's Eartha than because it's Sondheim.

Shirley MacLaine's customized turn in Postcards from the Edge features a new lyric by the Master, but it's all pretty far away from Follies.

Many, many others have sung the song, of course: I'm not terribly fond of Miss Burnett's, from the New York concert version (it's a song that just shouldn't be sung in a cocktail dress; I'm sorry, but there we are), and there's no good quality video I could find of Christine Baranski's take. Bill says his favorite is Nancy Walker (with legions of Sondheim fans apparently agreeing), but she too is elusive, although I'd love to hear it. Dame Shirley Bassey includes it in her act, and if she could be induced to act it rather than sock it over the bleachers, she might do quite well. Personally, I'd like to see Bette Midler try it on. If she could rein in the bathos, she could kill.

Why does the song work? Of itself, it's in some ways the culmination of several threads in musical theatre: the Big Lady number, the 11:00 O'Clock Song, even, in a way, with its references to stars, fads, and markers of time (Windsor and Wally! Brenda Frazier! Religion!) the Cole Porteresque list number. It certainly gives an actual Survivor Star a lot to work with, but at the same time I think it reaches something in the audience; we love to see someone like Carlotta stake her claim on being heard, because if we recognize what she's been through, and know she's still here - so are we.

In a Perfect World

Dame Edna is Carlotta Campion!

Talk around the Café recently turned, as things are wont to do in these parts, from an appreciative remark about that Antipodean Girl With Something Extra, the one and only Dame Edna Everage, to the Broadway favorite of an elite subset of fans, the extraordinary creation that is Follies.

This gave rise, logically enough, to the idea of Dame Edna actually in the show - followed almost immediately by the creation, by deeply and importantly talented Café regular Bill, of the following adaptation of the piece's big number. Were the Dame to take my advice, she would immediately make it her signature song.

I reproduce this little piece of genius here, in genuine admiration and no small glee, with the author's permission.

Imagine the setting - the lights dimming as our lilac-tressed diva moves center stage; she hits her spot, and:

Good times and bum times,
I've seen them all
And, possums,
I’m still here...

Plush velvet sometimes,
Sometimes just Foster's - it's beer,
But I’m here...

I've glued the rhinestones on my specs,
Strewn gladioli, turned down sex -
Seen Salma H. disappear
But I’m here!

I've hawked some makeup,
Shilled for a company called MAC,
But I’m here;
Vanity Fair breakup
Take your advice column back,
But I’m here...

Vegemite sammies in Moonee Ponds
Watched while Madge Alsop sold war bonds
In the Depression was I depressed?
Nowhere near -
I bagged Sir Norman Everage
And I'm here!

I've been through Valmai,
Clifford and Kenny's affair,
And I'm here;
Dear Bruce 'n' Joylene,
Lois, wisteria hair,
And I'm here...

I got through Mel G's drunken blow,
Bridesmaid Madge Alsop,
Russell Crowe -
Had heebie-jeebies for dear Kylie Minogue;
I got through Cruise and Kidman,
And I’m here!

I've gotten through Norman's testicular murmur
Gee, that was fun and a half -
When you've been through someone's testicular murmur
Anything else is a laugh...

Been through Barry Humphries,
I’ve been through Beverly Hills,
And I’m here;
Kookaburras and gum trees,
rest cures, religion, and pills,
And I’m here...

Been called an Outback Aussie Fool,
got through it out back by my pool
I should've opened an acting school,
…and a bar -
Still someone said, "GigaStar",
so I'm here!

Purple mink one day,
Just can’t resist its allure,
but I'm here;
Top billing Monday,
out on the Dame’s Royal Tour,
but I'm here...

First you're an Aussie housewife name,
Then Kenny's mother,
then The Dame
Then you career from career to career
I’ll write my gorgeous memoirs,
and I'm here!

I've gotten through, "Hey, Edna, aren't you spooky?
Wow, what a looker you are!"
Or better yet, "Sorry, it's just kind of spooky
To meet such a huge GigaStar!"

Good times and bum times,
I've seen 'em all
And, possums,
I'm still here

Plush velvet sometimes
Sometimes just Foster's - it's beer,
But I'm here...

I've run the gamut, ‘cause I care
Three cheers and quick sticks,
Where is Cher?
I got through all of last year,
and I'm here!

Possums, at least I was there,
and I'm here
Look who's here,
I'm still here!

And fade to black as the audience goes wild.

Somewhere, I'd like to think, Yvonne de Carlo, Eartha Kitt, and Ann Miller are having a right chuckle over their cocktails.

Beauty Celestial...

...The best, you'll agree...


In 1960, photographer Eliot Elisofon joined forces with Gloria Swanson to capture the final moments of Manhattan's fabled Roxy Theatre - home in 1927 to one of Swanson's last silent epics, The Love of Sunya.

The first image became famous from the moment it first appeared in Life. A decade later, memories of it spurred Stephen Sondheim and the other creators of Follies in finding just the tone for what they decided had to be a story of "rubble in the daylight."

What I didn't know was that there are others in the series.

This one, I think, in stark black and white, is almost more powerful than the more famous color shots. Swanson's defiant, fierce pose bridges the gap between ecstasy and despair, a power given only to the greatest and most evocative of stars.

Standing there, unbowed and utterly unaware of the devastation around her, she is superb, immortal, the very last of Those Beautiful Girls to leave as the curtain comes down, finally and forever...

Everybody Rise!

In honor of the opening today of perhaps the least-anticipated (and certainly, as it stands, least necessary) film of recent years, The Women, I thought we might enjoy seeing Miss Luce's epic of love, loss, and laughter in Gotham high society reduced to its most primal themes, courtesy of Mr. Sondheim.

I won't lie to you: Elaine Stritch frightens me. I've seen her perform this half-a-dozen times, at various benefits, galas, and dos around town back in my palmy days, and every time (a) she nailed it as completely as she does here and (b) she did something different with it.

That ain't easy, kids; not any easier than playing angry, scared, drunk, and vulnerable when you are very likely one or more them at any given time...