[On 29 August, I posted an article by Kirk
Woodward, a frequent contributor to this blog, on the Broadway production of
the musical stage adaptation of Woody Allen’s Bullets Over Broadway, based on his
1994 film of the same title. Kirk used
the musical, now closed, to look at why some musicals fare better than
others. In his discussion, Kirk noted that
Allen had had some experience directing for the stage, most notably at New York
City’s Atlantic Theater Company. One of
the productions the filmmaker and playwright staged there was his own play, A
Second Hand Memory, presented at ATC from
22 November 2004 to 23 January 2005 at the Linda Gross Theater in Manhattan’s Chelsea. I saw that production and wrote a report on
the presentation dated 13 December 2004, so I’m posting that archival record for
readers of ROT to look back at a
different sort of stage effort from the famous filmmaker. (I also saw Allen’s play The Floating
Light Bulb at Lincoln Center Theatre Company’s
Vivian Beaumont Theatre, presented from 27 April to 21 June 1981 under the
direction of Ulu Grosbard, but I have no written record of that production.)]
I
have to question the perspicacity of the people at the Atlantic Theater Company:
What made you even consider staging A
Second Hand Memory? (Okay, I know part of the answer to this
one: two words—Woody Allen.)
Charles
Isherwood nailed it. I had read his New York Times review well before I saw the show. (It
opened just before Thanksgiving; the review’d been out for over two
weeks.) I went in determined to disagree with the review—because I just
didn’t want to see another disappointing production; I wanted to like this
one. Unhappily, I can’t argue with Isherwood’s evaluation.
Isherwood
suggests that Allen’s play may have started out as a screenplay, and that may
be true. It zips around from Brooklyn to L.A., from the present (ca.
1955) to various points in the past, from “real” scenes (either past or
present) to dreams and imaginary conversations with an absent character who
serves as narrator (voice-over in a film, I’d imagine). This can be
disconcerting at times, since Santo Loquasto’s set never changes (nor does James
F. Ingalls’s lighting for the most part) and sometimes a character will begin
to do or say something that doesn’t seem to make sense relative to the
immediate preceding moment—until you realize, they’re not in the apartment in
the present now, they’ve transported to the past and they’re in the old
house! (The first time this happened to me, I only realized what had
occurred on stage because
I had read Isherwood’s review and he mentions this aspect of the
production. In other words, I only understood what was going on on stage
because a reviewer had explained it to me. That shouldn’t happen.)
I’ve
gotten a little ahead of myself, I guess. The play, like most of Allen’s
works, film or stage, is about his family. They’re the Wolfes here, and
son Eddie is Woody. I won’t prĂ©cis the plot for you, but I’ll tell you
that Eddie (Nicky Katt) fled Brooklyn and pop’s jewelry business to work for
his mother’s brother, a big agent in Hollywood. He gets called back home
when pop (Dominic Chianese) discovers that his bookkeeper and the man he took
on to “replace” Eddie have robbed the business blind and he’s about to lose
everything and Eddie has to come back to help him rebuild. The
resentments and sense of oppressiveness build all around as everyone—mom, pop,
sister Alma (Elizabeth Marvel, the narrator, who’s not really “present”), Uncle
Phil (Michael McKean), Eddie, and Eddie’s new wife (Kate Blumberg)—all harbor
secrets, unfulfilled dreams and ambitions, conflicts, and wounds. It’s
all very, very contrived—the deck is so stacked that it would take a Ricky Jay
to sort it all out.
None
of the characters is remotely sympathetic—or even pleasant to be around
briefly. Why someone hadn’t committed homicide before the play began is a
mystery to me—though it’d be hard to pick one deserving victim from among the
many available prospects. The worst problem from a dramatic perspective
is that, even among the unpleasant crew, there’s no one to care about. I
never once wanted anyone to win out over the arranged circumstances. No
one deserved to get out—so the end, whatever it turned out to be, wasn’t
significant. Not even the narrator-sister, who got out of the family
early, has any claim on our sympathy. Like everyone else, she’s supremely
selfish. She’s also extremely undramatic/untheatrical as a stage device—a
cheap way to advance the plot. (As it happens, the play doesn’t “end”; it
just stops, with a deus ex machina that’s even more contrived than
the rest of the plot. And everyone loses, to one degree or another.)
There
was nothing of Allen’s cleverness and idiosyncratic view of the world in the
script. There was no humor to enliven the abject misery. Even the
dialogue is brittle and artificial—almost as if it were a translation from some
foreign language. Allen also directed, so the line deliveries are his
responsibility, and every character uttered words and phrases no one would use
in ordinary conversation as glibly and automatically as these people did.
Not one actor stopped to collect his or her words or come up with the turns of
phrase that just tumble out of everyone’s mouths. They all talked like a
writer writing—and I didn’t believe any of it for a minute. (Even though
the play has been running now for about three weeks, many of the cast had line
bobbles that seem out of place. This wasn’t an amateur cast—it’s headed
by Chianese of The Sopranos
as well as many stage productions. I don’t know what this signifies, if
anything, but it surprised me.) By the way, this is where I disagreed
slightly with Isherwood—though the consequence is minimal at most. He
objected to the acting of Nicky Katt, who lists only film and TV credits in his
bio. I didn’t find him any worse than the rest of the cast—who all seemed
to be doing the best they could with the material. Isherwood saw the show
long enough ago that perhaps Katt has improved with experience (and, maybe,
coaching). His character, however, has clearly not improved—but that’s
not his fault.
As
I suggested above, I have to ask why the Atlantic would commit to a play as
obviously bad as this. Maybe it looked better than it turned out to
be—though I can’t see any reason to assume the directing can have fixed or
damaged the script. Maybe Allen revised the script downward during
rehearsal, but I suspect not. As I said, the only answer I can give to my
own question is that Atlantic liked the idea of doing a Woody Allen
play—regardless of its quality. I therefore question their judgment.
(If I’m right—and no one can say I am, but so what?—the reasoning goes
something like this: “Let’s do a play by a famous writer. It’s a
bad play, but we can sell it on his name. It doesn’t matter that we
then have to inflict the bad play on our audience. That’s all right,
because we make
some money.” It’s sort of laissez-faire
capitalist reasoning.)
(What
is it with producers these days, anyway? I raised questions regarding Trying, the Fritz Weaver
vehicle Off-Broadway, about why the play would be moved to New York from
Chicago. Now the Atlantic makes me wonder about their selections, and so
does BAM with its selection of John Jesurun’s FAUST/How I Rose
and David Gordon’s execrable version of Ionesco’s The Chairs. Meanwhile, August Wilson has trouble keeping
backers for Gem of the Ocean and
almost loses a production because of it. Doesn’t anybody here know how to
play this game?)
I
have to add one more thing about the Allen play. About its title
really. Shouldn’t it read A
Second-Hand Memory—with a hyphen? His way, the title refers
to something called a “hand memory”—whatever that would be—and the play is
about the second one. Okay, it’s silly, I suppose—but it’s
annoying. (The title refers to the fact that Alma, who is the
storyteller, wasn’t actually present for any of the events of the play: she’s
relying on “memories” that aren’t her own—things she gleaned from other
sources. In other words, ‘second-hand memories.’ Now that I think
about it, that may be the best thing in the whole play—the title.
Unfortunately, the fact that it has to be explained by a narrator figure kind
of ruins that one asset. It’s sort of like the Beatles song quotes Jesurun
salted into the script of FAUST: once
a character actually acknowledges them, they’re no longer any fun.)
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