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    ‘Hamlet’ Review: A Dirt-Eating Danish Prince, Born to Be Wild

    Thomas Ostermeier’s production of “Hamlet,” presented as part of the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Next Wave festival, unleashes more madness than what Shakespeare has already offered.“Hamlet” is a work of excesses: an endlessly philosophizing hero, a play within a play and enough casualties that by the end the stage looks like a horror film, scattered with corpses.And yet it is still possible to out-“Hamlet” “Hamlet,” to create a production with even more spilled blood, more graveyard dirt and more madness than what Shakespeare has already offered. For better or for worse, this is Thomas Ostermeier’s production of “Hamlet” for the Schaubühne Berlin, presented as part of the Brooklyn Academy of Music’s Next Wave festival: the Danish prince unleashed, like a rabid dog, onto the stage.At the start of the production, running in BAM’s Harvey Theater through Nov. 5, a few figures gather, Last Supper-style, at a long table with a white tablecloth. Their expressions are unclear: They’re not only behind a curtain, but also sitting far from us, upstage. Downstage is a plot of dirt, where a coffin is being lowered into the earth. They’re at a wedding table for Hamlet’s mother Gertrude’s marriage to his uncle Claudius. Hamlet (an unpredictable Lars Eidinger), crouched in a corner, begins his “to be or not to be” speech (yes, a whole two acts early), speaking into a camera he holds close to his face, which is projected large onto the curtain for us to see. (The video design is by Sébastien Dupouey.) A gravedigger fights a coffin — the coffin of the late King Hamlet, who died under mysterious circumstances — into the ground in a long sequence of daffy physical comedy set to a swelling barrage of percussion, strings and guitar. Gertrude, in a white cropped shirt and white slacks, wears a long white veil and belly dances seductively for her brother-in-law-turned-husband.In other words, the performance has begun.Thomas Bading as Claudius and Jenny König as Gertrude kissing at their wedding table, with Eidinger’s Hamlet capturing the moment, which is projected onto a curtain.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesThis German-language production with supertitles (the German translation is by Marius von Mayenburg) was first staged in 2008 and has toured internationally since then. It takes a Brechtian approach, self-consciously nodding to the performance as a performance. In that way it’s not unlike, say, James Ijames’s thrilling “Fat Ham,” which ran at the Public Theater this spring — shows that push back against both the text and the fourth wall.This “Hamlet,” however, has neither the same poetry nor grace, which isn’t to say it’s unsuccessful. The production exhibits cleverness in its puckishly untamed and untidy circus act, but tips over into excess as it tries to make its spectacle of spit, dirt and trash into a masticated art piece with Shakespeare’s great work as its fodder.The cast of characters is condensed; a six-person ensemble plays 11 parts (everyone except Eidinger takes on two roles). The pairings are cleverly thought through: It makes sense that the actors who play Horatio (Damir Avdic), Hamlet’s closest confidante, and Laertes (Konrad Singer), Hamlet’s peer, also play the prince’s treacherous friends Guildenstern and Rosencrantz, offering opposing views of what Hamlet’s relationships look like. Claudius (Thomas Bading, on this evening) crumbles in a heap on his wedding table, in a drunken stupor, but then rises, as if from the sleep of death, as the late king’s ghost.Robert Beyer takes on two fools: Osric and Polonius. (He delivers an especially fine performance of the inane royal adviser Polonius, not as the clown productions often make him to be, but as a more realistic yet still comical daft uncle who isn’t as wise as he lets on.) Jenny König is left with the play’s troubled women — Queen Gertrude and the ill-fated Ophelia — though they are at least as ill-served in this production as in so many others. The fact that they are conflated here wisely calls to Hamlet’s psychosexual fixation on his mother’s eroticism and Ophelia’s innocence. But these female characters are also reduced to a seductress tongue-wrestling with her dead husband’s brother and a tragic nymphet whose arc is cut even shorter in this adaptation of the story; Ophelia is barely introduced before she is killed off.In the middle of a flurry of action, like a force of nature, is Eidinger, who retches, eats dirt, face-plants into the ground, tumbles, break-dances, twitches, hoots, spasms, shrieks, cross-dresses and wanders into the audience as he pleases. He throws empty drink cans, kicks around plates and flatware, sprays a hose of water across the stage (audience members in the first few rows, beware the splash zone), takes breaks to drop contemporary music references and pop culture jokes in English and to D.J. Though this production relentlessly trims down the text, it’s bloated back up with improv that steers the show to a nearly three-hour running time.König and Robert Beyer as Polonius in the play, which is presented in German and features a muddy graveyard increasingly littered with empty beer cans and other detritus.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesAnd what we get is a show stripped of its pathos; Eidinger’s performance is as vibrant as it is off-putting and as aloof and performative as it is fascinating. This “Hamlet” is no longer a classical Greek-style tragedy of vengeance, mortality and fate but rather a tragedy of a man undone by his own solipsism.In “Hamlet” we see a production that sometimes succumbs to one of the frequent pitfalls of experimental takes on classic works: It feels more attuned to inherited ideas about and traditions of the play as opposed to being attuned to the material itself.Ostermeier’s direction is confrontational, from Eidinger’s interactions with the audience to the occasionally piercing, cinematic music (Nils Ostendorf). The lighting design, by Erich Schneider, takes us from horror to comedy, and occasionally targets the audience when Ostermeier starts to lean against the fourth wall. A nimbly choreographed fencing match (choreography by René Lay) so convincingly recalls the casually deadly jabs you’d see from two boxers in a street fight.One of my many favorite lines in the play is when Hamlet tells Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that he sees his country as a prison. Rosencrantz challenges him, suggesting that he is trapped in his own mind. Hamlet replies, “I could be bounded in a nut shell and count myself a king of infinite space.” In Ostermeier and Eidinger’s “Hamlet,” the characters, setting and details become less important; the whole world we have is the chaotic space between Hamlet’s ears. Though being trapped in Prince Hamlet’s mind offers us a new perspective that some will find freeing, others will see only bedlam and madness.HamletThrough Nov. 5 at the Harvey Theater, Brooklyn Academy of Music, Brooklyn; bam.org. Running time: 2 hours 45 minutes. More

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    Seymour Press, a Behind-the-Scenes Fixture on Broadway, Dies at 98

    He started playing in Broadway orchestras in 1957, and eventually he began recruiting those orchestras as well.Seymour Press, who for more than 60 years served an important role — though one that went largely unnoticed by audiences — in dozens of Broadway and Off Broadway shows, first as a member of pit orchestras and later as the person who assembled those orchestras, died on Monday at an assisted living facility in Hackettstown, N.J. He was 98.His daughter, Gwynn Press Anidjar, said the cause was advanced myelofibrosis, a bone marrow cancer.Mr. Press, known as Red because he had red hair in his younger days, played multiple instruments, including saxophone; he first sat in a Broadway pit for the 1958 musical “The Body Beautiful,” one of the first shows to feature music by Jerry Bock and lyrics by Sheldon Harnick. In the mid-1970s he began taking on the demanding job of musical coordinator (also called music contractor), although he continued playing in orchestras well into the 2000s.His primary duty as coordinator was hiring orchestras for shows. But he also scheduled rehearsals, made sure musicians were paid, handled issues between their union and management, and ironed out all manner of problems.“The guy who waves his arm is the music,” he said in a 2018 episode of the podcast “Behind the Curtain: Broadway’s Living Legends,” referring to the conductor. “Everything else that has to do with the orchestra is me.”For 28 years, he filled that role for the Encores! revival series at New York City Center; he announced his retirement only this spring. He was also working on Broadway until just a few months ago, receiving the coordinator credit on the current productions of “The Music Man,” “Funny Girl” and “Into the Woods,” all of which opened this year.In 2007, he received a Tony Honor for Excellence in Theater, which recognizes outstanding achievement in theater by those who do not qualify in a traditional Tony Award category.Mr. Press in 2016. He was the music coordinator for the Encores! series at New York City Center for 28 years before announcing his retirement this year.Walter McBride/Getty ImagesSeymour Press was born on Feb. 26, 1924, in the Bronx. His mother, Rose (Guttman) Press, was a homemaker, and his father, Arthur, was a salesman and “a frustrated musician,” as Seymour Press put it in the podcast. His father’s cousin, he said, played the saxophone and introduced him to the instrument; Mr. Press later added flute, clarinet, piccolo and others to his arsenal.Mr. Press graduated from DeWitt Clinton High School in the Bronx. In his second year at what is now the City University of New York, he enlisted in the Army. He had expected to be drafted, he said, so when he saw a poster recruiting for the Army band, he bit.He spent his service playing for troops as they shipped out of Newport News, Va. It was, he said, both a safe assignment and good music training.“I went in an amateur saxophone player,” he said on the podcast. “I came out a professional.”After mustering out in 1946, he toured with various bands, small-time ones at first and eventually those of Tommy Dorsey and Benny Goodman. But by the mid-1950s, big-band music was fading; “the musical style I thought would last my lifetime was gone,” he said. He married Nona Gwynn Holcomb in 1957 and began looking to trade life on the road for something at least somewhat more stable.“The Body Beautiful” didn’t last long, but in 1959, Mr. Press found himself in the pit for a show that did: the original production of “Gypsy.”“Not only was it the first hit show I had,” he said, but it was also “the first time I could look at myself and say, ‘I’m going to be working 52 weeks a year,’ which was a big thing.”Mr. Press’s wife died in 2021. In addition to his daughter, he is survived by a stepson, Edward Finkenberg, and two grandchildren.In his decades as a pit player and musical coordinator, Mr. Press saw lots of change: orchestra sizes and instrumentation varied, the pits moved (often to create more seats), and sound engineering became more sophisticated. He also fielded his share of odd requests. On the podcast, he recalled being asked to recruit a trio for one production: cello, violin, piano. But, the director told him, not just any players would do.“He wanted one to be tall and thin, one to be overweight and one to be very short,” Mr. Press said. “That was a problem.”Mr. Press got an insider’s view of countless shows, but his tastes weren’t infallible. He remembered working on “Annie 2: Miss Hannigan’s Revenge,” a sequel to the 1977 smash “Annie.” He first heard it at a backers’ audition.“I left that and I called my wife and said, ‘It’s going to be a giant hit,’” he said.Audiences at the pre-Broadway tryout in Washington in 1990 disagreed.“I watched them walk out — in throngs, not just four people, not just five people,” he recalled, adding, “We opened in Washington and closed in Washington.” More

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    Stephen Colbert Bans Kanye West From ‘The Late Show’

    Colbert said his jurisdiction extended into the northern half of Times Square, and that he was “banning Kanye from coming north of Bubba Gump Shrimp.”Welcome to Best of Late Night, a rundown of the previous night’s highlights that lets you sleep — and lets us get paid to watch comedy. Here are the 50 best movies on Netflix right now.Ye Takes Another ‘L’Stephen Colbert made a big announcement on Thursday night.“After much thought and soul-searching, I, Stephen Colbert, am banning Kanye West from the Ed Sullivan Theater,” Colbert said. “In fact, as host of ‘The Late Show’ my jurisdiction extends into the northern half of Times Square, and I am banning Kanye from coming north of Bubba Gump Shrimp.”“And I just want to take a moment here and just point out that this — this next part is the courageous part — I’m ending all of our high-profile collabs, including, but not restricted to, our collection of spreadable jams, Strawbeezy Jelleezy. And I have decided not to release our duets album, ‘Ye and Phen Sing ‘Fiddler on the Roof.’’” — STEPHEN COLBERT“I know this has been too long in coming. I have no excuses for why I didn’t do this before, except that he has never been on the show, had no plans to be on the show, we have never asked him to be on the show, and I’m not sure he’s aware that I have a show.” — STEPHEN COLBERT“But I had to do it now, because I was afraid he would just show up at any moment, because that’s what he did yesterday. The shoe company Skechers says it had to escort Kanye West from its offices after an unannounced visit. In five years, the idea of an unannounced visit from Kanye has gone from amazing to ‘Sir, you need to leave this Skechers.’” — STEPHEN COLBERT“Unlike with Adidas, Kanye never had a deal with Skechers. Apparently, Kanye is so desperate, he’s just driving around and searching Google Maps for ‘shoes near me.’” — STEPHEN COLBERTThe Punchiest Punchlines (Sinking In Edition)“Speaking of ‘Stranger Things,’ Elon Musk is in the news. Elon Musk is close to buying Twitter, and, yesterday, he walked into their headquarters carrying a sink just so that he could tweet — this is real— ‘Entering Twitter HQ. Let that sink in.’ That pun cost him $44 billion.” — JIMMY FALLON“I know a lot of people think that was corny, but I think once you have 87 children, you are allowed to make dad jokes.” — TREVOR NOAH“Just when you thought Kanye made the most bizarre entrance, Elon was like, ‘Hold my sink.’” — JIMMY FALLON“Where did he get the sink? Is it just the one he ripped out of the wall when the judge told him that he had to buy Twitter?” — TREVOR NOAH“If anything, Elon is the right billionaire to make this joke, you know? Because if Jeff Bezos walked into Amazon with a sink, his employees would be like, ‘Oh wow, we’re finally getting a restroom?’” — TREVOR NOAH“I’m looking forward to Twitter on his first bad day as C.E.O.: ‘Our stock is in the toilet!’” — STEPHEN COLBERTThe Bits Worth WatchingRonny Chieng makes the case that Halloween is awful in a new segment of “Prove Me Wrong” on Thursday’s “Daily Show.”Also, Check This OutGijsbert Hanekroot/Redferns, via Getty ImagesMusicians who worked with Stevie Wonder on his landmark 1972 album “Talking Book,” and others who just cherish it, reminisce about its magic, half a century after its release. More

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    ‘Walking With Ghosts’ Review: Gabriel Byrne Roams His Past

    The Irish actor’s one-man show on Broadway delves into painful and playful memories alike. He even imitates the oddballs of his Dublin boyhood.The Irish actor Gabriel Byrne has a genius for listening. On the HBO show “In Treatment,” playing a psychologist wrestling with his own internal conflicts, he spent minutes at a time in silence, as tides of concern and compassion flowed and ebbed across his handsome, craggy face. But “Walking With Ghosts,” his autobiographical one-man show at the Music Box Theater, directed by Lonny Price, finds him alone onstage, within a series of retreating golden frames. And so Byrne, with no one to listen to, kindles into speech.The show is drawn, often verbatim, from Byrne’s recent memoir of the same name. Slipping back and forth in time, the book traces the 72-year-old actor’s life from boyhood on the rural outskirts of Dublin to his eventual success. The wispy show, by contrast, follows a strict chronology, but even here Byrne favors association over causality, image over argument — offering a slide show of the mind, with little relation between and among the anecdotes. He claims to feel like “an intruder in my own past. Emigrant, immigrant, exile.” Yet his recollections are vivid and immediate. At times the form echoes Wordsworth’s “The Prelude,” a catalog of experiences that will go on to shape the mature artist’s mind and soul.“Walking With Ghosts” has the texture of a vanity project. Nearly every autobiographical show does. And during a preview performance, the audience — “In Treatment” fans, perhaps, or devotees of Byrne’s 1995 film “The Usual Suspects” — rewarded that vanity, laughing at jokes before Byrne delivered the punch lines, sighing sympathetically at the sad parts. But Byrne is a serious writer, rendering memory and image in the energetic vernacular of his childhood: “slingeing along,” “stravaging,” “gobdaw.” And he is a serious actor, too, which eases the self-indulgence. The script, while often mournful, allows him to show a playful side and a gift, neglected in Hollywood, for physical comedy. In one sequence, he imitates the oddballs of his boyhood. In another, he shows how the various actors in the amateur theater troupe he joined take their bows. Who wouldn’t want to spend a clinical hour with this man? Or two, plus intermission.And yet, the transition from page to stage feels undermotivated, incomplete. The lively language shifts easily enough from prose to monologue, and Byrne — with his wide, serious face, his bright, worried eyes, his voice like the growl of a polite bear — is compulsively watchable. What the show lacks (and this is true of the memoir, as well) is a sense of why he’s examining his life now. In public. Why would a man lay himself bare like this, on Broadway? It’s hard to discern because the show all but ignores the latter part of his life and acting career.“Walking With Ghosts” never provides satisfying answers, even as it keeps the focus relentlessly on Byrne, with little to distract from his performance. He wears the same clothes throughout — blue shirt, blue vest, blue blazer, gray slacks — and he sketches characters sparingly, with accents and funny voices kept to a minimum. Byrne, who last visited Broadway in 2016 with “Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” appears at ease on the stage, bestriding it as easily as another man might stroll his own patio.Minimal set and lighting design, by Sinéad McKenna, keeps the focus on Byrne’s performance.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesFor better or worse, Price’s direction is mostly unfelt. Price has him move backward, beyond another arch or two, as he reaches into the past and forward as he nears the present day, finally sitting at the lip of the stage as he discusses his alcoholism and the sobriety he ultimately achieved, twentysome years ago. Otherwise the interventions are few.The design can also feel less than intentional, slapdash almost. As imagined by Sinéad McKenna, the set’s back wall is a mirror, riven with cracks. Apt enough. But the way in which the lights (McKenna) play against it turns Byrne’s shadow upside down, so that it lurks behind him, like a vampire bat. The sound and music, by Sinéad Diskin, come and go, sometimes offering a sense of place, at other times leaving place ambiguous, universal.Byrne unearths embarrassing memories and painful ones, like the death of a boyhood friend and an incident of predation by a priest at the seminary he attended for a few years. Later, he finds that the priest doesn’t remember him. Byrne, though he has blacked out some of what occurred, can’t forget it. But in general, he seems to have had that rare thing for an artist — a happy childhood, loved by parents who loved each other. He is elegiac in recalling a celebration at the Guinness brewery, his grandmother’s love of the movies.Whether discussing good memories or bad ones, the show rarely draws connections — the kinds a clinician might encourage — between the boy Byrne was and the actor he became. In fairness, neither does “The Prelude.” At times, Byrne suggests some internal restlessness and malleability, an inability to settle himself to any particular practice or trade, which may have fitted him for acting. (With the priesthood barred, he rapidly cycled through stints as a plumber, a dishwasher and a toilet attendant.) But aside from one comic story about scenery chewing — and scenery breaking — on an early television play, he never discusses his practice or art. The boy and the professional man seem to exist separately, not continuously.The show seems to conclude with a kind of resignation and acceptance, that if the people of his past are dead now, they persist within him. How those ghosts have made him and shape him and haunt his work still? That remains unspoken.Walking With GhostsThrough Dec. 30 at the Music Box Theater, Manhattan; gabrielbyrneonbroadway.com. Running time: 2 hours 15 minutes. More

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    In a Marathon of One-Act Plays, Boundaries Are Pushed and Pulled

    Ensemble Studio Theater’s 38th Marathon of One-Act Plays showcases what can be accomplished in short-form productions, and how, in some cases, they hem ideas in.In Harron Atkins’s multigenerational saga “Still…,” artistic ambitions rub up against personal relationships. Careers wax and wane. A couple forms, bickers, ends — and may or may not be reborn on different terms. We even hear exquisite renditions of “Doo Wop (That Thing)” and “Valerie.”All of this in only 40 minutes.The scope and length of “Still…” make it an outlier not just in Ensemble Studio Theater’s 38th Marathon of One-Act Plays, but in short-form theater in general, which tends to focus on economical vignettes and snapshots. Not here: Atkins follows Noah and Jeremy, starting with their meet-cute as tweens, then tracking them as young adults uploading songs on social media before they eventually make moves in the music industry, and going all the way to their reminiscing — but also looking ahead — when they are in their 60s. Much of the time is spent with the young-adult versions of Jeremy (Eric R. Williams) and Noah (Deandre Sevon) as their friendship morphs into love, which in turn becomes strained when Noah’s career takes off while Jeremy’s stalls.At times it feels as if we are watching a live pitch for a movie or television series, a connection Atkins does not shy away from with a joke about the TV show “Empire.” (Referring to a character played by Taraji P. Henson, Jeremy asks Noah, “Did you think I was about to roll in there causing a scene like Cookie Lyon?”) But “Still…,” directed by Cameron Knight, also functions on its own terms and has a genuine breadth that works within the boundaries of its current format.Atkins’s piece closes Series A, part one of this year’s two-part marathon, which is resuming for the first time since 2019. The theater marathon features a lineup of 11 plays — 10 in person and an extra one, presented with Perseverance Theater out of Juneau, Alaska, available via streaming — by artists who are Black, Indigenous or people of color. The playwright Mike Lew (“Teenage Dick”) and the writer-director Colette Robert (“Behind the Sheet”) curated the project, and their efforts pay off most in Series A, which is not only superior to Series B but also to the other Ensemble Studio Theater marathons I have attended in the past. (This year’s marathon runs through Nov. 13.)At their best, the works in the first series introduce distinctive writers who make me crave more. One of them is Dominic Colón, whose “Prospect Ave or the Miseducation of Juni Rodriguez” had already been performed, beginning in 2020, as part of “The M.T.A. Radio Plays,” an audio anthology from Rattlestick Theater. It’s a pleasure to revisit the lovely chance meeting of Juni (Justin Rodriguez) and Macho (Ed Ventura) on a 2 train, when an overheard phone conversation leads to something more direct and, maybe, more real. Bonus points for an excellent Foot Locker joke and the apropos use of McDonald’s takeout.From left, Brenda Crawley, Cristina Pitter and Denise Manning in Vivian J.O. Barnes’s “Intro To.” Carol Rosegg“Intro To,” by Vivian J.O. Barnes (“Duchess! Duchess! Duchess!”), also boasts a superb use of language — florid, funny, and suggestive in every sense of the word — which is especially fitting for a piece set during a class where erotic writing is being taught. With the instructor delayed, Kara (the Off Off Broadway darling Cristina Pitter) takes charge and leads the participants in readings of their stories. The shy Shanice (Denise Manning), a biology student, has come up with a surprisingly evocative tale, but it’s when the older Mary (Brenda Crawley) steps up that the play takes a turn for the weird — halfway between heavy-breathing sensuality and body horror.Another pleasure to be found in “Intro To,” which is directed by Keenan Tyler Oliphant, is Manning’s terrific comic performance, driven by precision timing and constant inventiveness. She makes the most of the material, then fills the silences with a hilariously fidgety presence. Other superlative turns can be found in the Series B closer, “blooms,” by a.k. payne. This evocative slice of life about a pair of lovers, played with rare warmth by Alisha Espinosa and Kai Heath, takes place in the 10 minutes before the grocery store that employs them opens. Decisions must be made, and payne sketches the situation with tenderness and sympathetic humor.Fernando Gonzalez, left, and Will Dagger in Keiko Green’s “Prepared.”Carol RoseggAnother fine performance lurks in Series B’s “Prepared,” by Keiko Green, in which Will Dagger portrays a Boy Scout trying to survive the apocalypse with what’s left of his troop. Unfortunately, unlike the aforementioned cast members, Dagger must make the most of a rickety piece that tries way too hard for whimsy and is burdened by the tiresome monologues that the Scoutmaster (Fernando Gonzalez) delivers on a radio. As short as it is, the play feels padded, a problem that also afflicts Bleu Beckford-Burrell’s “Tr@k Grls (pt1),” which runs in circles. Since the play is about two teenagers training for the track team, this might be pushing form and function a little too far.Goldie E. Patrick’s “Breath of Life: a Choreoplay of Black Love,” directed by Jonathan McCrory and also featured in Series B, is trickier to appraise. It begins with a suspenseful urgency suffused by pervasive, realistic dread. It’s 2020 and the asthmatic Drew (Biko Eisen-Martin) finds himself in the middle of a Black Lives Matter demonstration; his partner, Toni (Ashley Bufkin), is becoming increasingly panicky because she can’t reach him. Patrick skillfully builds tension as Drew, fearing both police violence and catching Covid, works his way through the throngs. About two-thirds of the way through, the piece’s four actors start switching roles: for example, Margaret Odette portrays Drew after having played his friend Ayo — meaning that Toni and Drew are now both women. As the story continues, more permutations follow that might suggest that love is love is love. As for the “Choreoplay” subtitle, that remains confounding since there is no dancing.Dance does, however, play a big role in Vera Starbard’s streaming piece “Yan Tután,” set during a rehearsal by an Indigenous group in Alaska. The piece moves in a fairly herky-jerky manner until Ernestine Hayes enters and takes command as the elder Auntie Dolly, who recounts a harrowing story of cultural erasure with a happy epilogue. In a flash, we see all that was lost but also all that might be gained, and Starbard builds to an emotional finish that feels entirely earned. More

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    ‘Chekhov’s First Play’ Review: A Play-by-Play of the Play Within the Play

    At Irish Arts Center, a wry, experimental iteration doesn’t do much to untangle the playwright’s unwieldy early work.If Anton Chekhov gave a name to the early play that surfaced years after his death, we don’t know what it was. This is part of the lore around that script, a relished detail in the story of its discovery: The title page was missing.The text is a mammoth, unwieldy beast, as playwrights’ juvenilia often is. Written when Chekhov was 18, or 19, or 20 — that fact is uncertain, too — it’s a stylistic mishmash that would run five or six hours, staged whole. But dramatists are drawn to it, in part because its elements are recognizable from his later work: the grand old estate, the money woes, the crowd of characters living restless, listless lives. And, of course, the gun.So adapters dive in, gather what they like and leave the rest. Michael Frayn called his rendition “Wild Honey.” David Hare’s is “Platonov,” which is the usual title for the play in English. And if you remember the amusing spectacle of Cate Blanchett, on Broadway nearly six years ago, removing her bra without taking off her dress — well, then you’ve seen the version known as “The Present,” by Andrew Upton.“Chekhov’s First Play,” at the Irish Arts Center in Hell’s Kitchen, is Bush Moukarzel and Ben Kidd’s wry, experimental iteration. Directed by the pair for Dead Centre — their Dublin company, familiar to New York audiences for the shows “Lippy” and “Hamnet” — it whittles Chekhov’s script down to a bare 70 minutes. That includes time for the location to shift from the late 19th-century Russian countryside to early 21st-century Dublin, and for a wrecking ball and a pneumatic drill to do some damage to Andrew Clancy’s scenery.Languor escalates into havoc for the characters — among them Anna (Ali White), the financially indebted owner of a house she can’t afford; her friend Triletsky (Paul Reid), who, like Chekhov, is a doctor with tuberculosis that he fails to diagnose; and Platonov, who arrives quite late, played by an audience member. Not that you are likely to care much about the characters, let alone the plot, as story is not exactly at the forefront here. The performance we watch is, in a sense, the play within the play.The whole experience is framed by Moukarzel’s running commentary, spoken into audience members’ ears via the headphones we wear throughout. (Sound design is by Jimmy Eadie and Kevin Gleeson.) It’s funny and often snarky; in one slightly crude line, Moukarzel sounds like a sports broadcaster giving a play-by-play of a rare Chekhov move. But Moukarzel also expounds on the themes of the play — like private property and the ravenousness of the rich — and laments that he cut so many characters from Chekhov’s script.“It was hard to decide what matters,” he says, “and who you can just throw away.”This, really, is the nub of “Chekhov’s First Play,” which had its premiere in 2015. That’s also when Irish artists were sifting through the human wreckage of the Celtic Tiger, an economic boom that collapsed into painful recession and left Ireland littered with abandoned housing developments.When these characters talk of cancer, it’s a metaphor for harmful, unchecked growth; their scorn for banks is rooted in reckless lending that ruined lives. Even Moukarzel and Kidd’s decision not to give the Chekhov play a proper title is significant — because of that other meaning of title: legal ownership. Historically, one name for the found Chekhov text has been “Play Without a Title.”Trouble is, the Celtic Tiger is so many crises removed from the present that it’s a little obscure, even at the Irish Arts Center, which co-commissioned the play.Similarly, the headphones would have been novel in 2015 — the year that downtown theatergoers experienced Anne Washburn’s “10 out of 12” that way, and the year before Simon McBurney’s “The Encounter” gobsmacked headphone-wearing Broadway audiences with its binaural sound design. Now, as a tool, they’re underwhelming.“Chekhov’s First Play” surely felt much bolder and fresher when it was new. But if you ask the question “Why this show now?” the answer seems to be that it was in the wings.Chekhov’s First PlayThrough Nov. 6 at the Irish Arts Center, Manhattan; irishartscenter.org. Running time: 1 hour 10 minutes. More

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    in Theater

    Review: Praise the Lord for ‘Tammy Faye’

    A new musical about the life of the televangelist Tammy Faye Bakker, composed by Elton John, makes spectacular entertainment from a righteous subject.LONDON — Praise the lord for “Tammy Faye,” the new musical that opened Wednesday at London’s Almeida Theater. Telling the unlikely story — for the English stage at least — of the American televangelist Tammy Faye Bakker, the show has a heart as big as the title character’s bouffant hairdo, and runs through Dec. 3.Rupert Goold’s vigorous production is also an increasing London rarity: a musical with an original score at a time when most repackage existing hits. That the composer is Elton John has only intensified interest in a project that also includes the Scissor Sisters frontman Jake Shears as lyricist and the prolific playwright James Graham as book writer. John’s most recent musical, “The Devil Wears Prada,” ran aground in Chicago over the summer, so it’s a relief to report that “Tammy Faye” is, for the most part, spectacularly entertaining, even if it could do with some trims and the toning down of a few tasteless sections.And when the astonishing Katie Brayben in the title role seizes center stage to rock out at the close of both acts, you can feel the intimate Almeida transformed into the sort of pulsating arena that Tammy Faye would surely love. “Show me mercy, open your hand,” she sings, letting rip in one of several impassioned numbers, “Empty Hands,” that comes from the gut. I was right there with her, as I was in the comparable “If You Came to See Me Cry” near the end, in which Tammy Faye reflects on her legacy from heaven. (Where else?)We know she’s headed there right from the start. The show begins with the revelation that Tammy Faye has colon cancer, and a sexually explicit joke that comes after the diagnosis indicates that this won’t exactly be family fare.We then turn back the decades to chart her progression from her modest Minnesota origins to a wealthy televisual messiah with a hotline to God. “If I hadn’t lived it,” she says, “I wouldn’t believe it.”Bunny Christie’s deliberately antiseptic set consists of a back wall of TV screens that allows for a recreation of the Praise the Lord satellite network that Tammy Faye and her first husband, Jim Bakker (the Broadway star Andrew Rannells, making a firm-voiced London debut), founded in the 1970s. Her second husband, Roe Messner, is never mentioned.Brayben, left, and others in “Tammy Faye.” Brayben displays such fervor and commitment in the title role that you fall under her sway.Marc Brenner John’s score throughout is a savvy amalgam of country twang and rousing pop-rock ensemble numbers. The musical, as expected, has campy fun with its subject, but doesn’t condescend, and Graham’s canny script always places the Bakkers in the historical context of a larger conservative movement whose presence is felt to this day. We note the importance at the time of Ronald Reagan, Pat Robertson and Jimmy Swaggart, three men in the couple’s orbit who are presented as meanspirited foils of sorts to Tammy Faye’s worldview; Tammy Faye, by contrast, is all smiles and eyelashes, and Brayben communicates her generosity of spirit with ease.The show’s prevailing villain is Jerry Falwell (a sonorous Zubin Varla), who looks on in loathing at the Bakkers and is given more brooding solo numbers than the musical really needs: One would be enough. Falwell becomes the resident Iago of the piece, a rival consumed by envy who has no time for Tammy Faye’s tolerance of gay people.The second act dramatizes Tammy Faye’s famous 1985 interview with Steve Pieters (Ashley Campbell) the gay pastor and AIDS patient who finds in her a celebrity soul mate. (Love, Tammy Faye reports, gets many more mentions in the Bible than hate: 489 vs. 89, by her tally). It also charts the breakdown of the Bakkers’ blissful domestic life, when it was revealed that Jim had had a sexual encounter with Jessica Hahn, a church secretary, and was also sentenced to 45 years in prison for fraud.“Tammy Faye” is Goold’s third show this season on the stage of the Almeida, a theater he runs, after a coronavirus pandemic-delayed “Spring Awakening” and “Patriots,” a play about President Vladimir V. Putin of Russia and Boris Berezovsky, an exiled Russian oligarch, that transfers to the West End next year. Goold and the choreographer Lynne Page have assembled a splendidly drilled ensemble that writhes and snakes across the stage in collective ecstasy. The show also hints at the fickle nature of that same crowd, who at one revealing moment turn on the couple in fury.Through it all, Brayben displays such fervor and commitment in the title role that you fall under the sway not just of Tammy Faye, but of a performer giving her career-enhancing all to a part that Brayben was born — Tammy Faye would surely say destined — to play.Tammy FayeThrough Dec. 3 at the Almeida Theater in London; almeida.co.uk. More

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    in Television

    Stand-Up Comics and the Parent Trap

    Specials from Nick Kroll, Hasan Minhaj and other young dads and moms show just how difficult it is to mine fresh insights from such worked-over terrain.There are an endless variety of boring people, but none are more brazenly tedious than parents telling you about their kids.Part of the reason, I’m convinced, is that it is taboo to tell them so. When there’s no possibility of criticism, people get lazy. I know I do, droning on about sleep schedules or marveling to some poor trapped soul about how my daughters have opposite personalities. Besotted parents often can’t see how dull we are, a blind spot that is benign unless you’re listening to one. Or are a stand-up comic with a new baby.That population grew over the pandemic, particularly the number of dads. Mazel tov to Nick Kroll, Hasan Minhaj, Matt Braunger and Kurt Braunohler, all charming comics who in the past several weeks have released specials with jokes about becoming a parent. Daniel Sloss also procreated, and in a recent live show downtown, he confessed that he once hated when his favorite comics became parents, comparing the shift in their work to that of a British soccer star moving to an American league. It’s always a step down.Then Sloss did some mediocre material about having a child that just goes to show how powerful the temptation is to turn the stuff of Facebook oversharing into professional comedy.Jokes about raising children make an easy connection with certain sleepy-eyed audiences, but that can be its own parent trap. This is well-trod ground. (Ophira Eisenberg just started a podcast, Parenting Is a Joke, in which she talks to comics about raising kids.) It’s hard to hear Kroll discuss the double standards we have for mothers and fathers without thinking about Ali Wong’s breakthrough work. That the most successful dad comics of all time are Bill Cosby and Louis C.K. haunts the category. They once seemed endearing, too. But the primary challenge of stand-up on this subject is that it risks cheap sentimentality. Nothing smothers comedy faster.With their Netflix specials, Minhaj and Kroll lean into schmaltz. In “Little Big Boy,” Kroll describes watching his wife give birth as “majestic.” With glassy eyes, he says, “It’s like you’re seeing life, creation begin.”Minhaj also seems to tear up describing this moment in “The King’s Jester” while baby photos are projected behind him. “I’m like, oh my God, I’ve never felt this before in my life,” he says. “I’ve only known you three days but I would do anything for you. I can’t believe how much I love you.”I can. Parental love is a common if beautiful thing, and these are talented comedians. Kroll is a charismatic impressionist with a knack for surreal detail. The way Minhaj spoofs his own enjoyment of his righteous comedy going viral is one of the best bits I’ve seen about the wages of social media. But on the subject of children, they get deadly earnest, trite and sugary enough to make your teeth ache.“I’m like, oh my God, I’ve never felt this before in my life,” Hasan Minhaj says of becoming a father in “The King’s Jester.”Clifton Prescod/NetflixThey try to exploit the sappiness by juxtaposing it with something crass or trivial. But it’s too little, too late, after the maudlin emotionalism of their vision of new fatherhood. They both incorporate having children into narratives of their own growth.Kroll learns to appreciate his mother, and Minhaj tells his wife that while he would do anything for a joke, he won’t if it gets in the way of his family. This is lovely, but just because something is the right thing doesn’t make it the most interesting or entertaining.People like to say becoming a parent helped them become less self-involved, but making a smaller version of yourself can just as easily lead to a more insular, selfish life. It’s also possible to explore the subject without resorting to fairy-tale lessons and pat emotional arcs, but it requires some hardheaded decisions.The female comics I’ve seen recently seem more likely to do that. In her new Peacock special, “Ladykiller,” a pregnant Jena Friedman makes clever jokes about America’s hatred of moms by pinpointing how one of our most popular curses refers to having sex with one. In the first minutes of the new season of her Paramount+ sketch show, Amy Schumer is in her kitchen when a girl playing her daughter brings in a picture of the family she drew with a crayon. “I’m really not seeing it,” Schumer says, before imperiously ordering her to do it again. That’s the last we see of the kid.In “Ladykiller,” Jena Friedman uses a popular curse word to make a point about how America views mothers.Heidi Gutman/PeacockThe specials of Braunohler and Braunger benefit from not only clearly being aware of the pitfalls of parenting comedy, but also actively crafting strategies to elude them. Braunger all but hides those jokes in his special “Doug” (available on demand), neither opening nor closing with them, and introducing them with this segue: “OK, I’ve talked about big penises, testicles, what next?” he said, putting his finger in the air. “Oh, I have a daughter.”Braunger has an intense sarcastic delivery that builds up an impressive amount of deadpan comic energy. It reminds me a little of Brody Stevens. And while it slows when he describes his sadness at dropping off his daughter at day care, there’s something hilarious about this manic man as a parent. That is a good joke. By the time he pulls down his pants to show off his tattoo, you are convinced that becoming a father has not changed him.By contrast, Braunohler has the sensible bespectacled gravity of a paternal figure, a point he underlines in his new special, “Perfectly Stupid” (on Moment), by saying, “My life has finally caught up with my looks.” His bashfulness in admitting he has a child is the first clue that he knows this is treacherous territory. Then he shakes his head when the crowd roars. He’s too smart to want that. It’s no accident that he ends his hour with a sarcastic “aww.”His special smartly gets specific and eccentric, a good way to avoid cliché. “My daughter calls me ‘papa’ because we, as a society, ruined ‘daddy,’” he says. “No one ever said: ‘Choke me, papa.’”His reflection on the classic book “The Giving Tree” and, in particular, the oddly large and intimidating author photo of Shel Silverstein does what fresh comedy can, make you see things that were always there but never noticed. And though Braunohler actively works at not scoring easy emotional points, he does have a moving theme, one that culminates in a joke his daughter tells him that illustrates the perfectly stupid comedy he aims for.This hints at how becoming a parent can improve your comedy, because children understand certain kinds of primal jokes that adults lose the ability to appreciate. These laugh lines tend to be dumb or silly, but not, in my experience, sappy. That’s cringe mom and dad stuff. Braunohler notices and captures this quality without romanticizing it, which only makes the impact hit harder.Comics shouldn’t avoid joking about raising kids. It’s far too fertile territory, and the rewards of a new idea are considerable. Trust me: Parents could use a laugh. Even some sentimentality can complement humor if handled deftly.Perhaps the solution is to consider jokes about diapers or the impossibility of getting a 4-year-old to eat dinner the same way other comics grapple with jokes about the Holocaust or racist police brutality, which is to say, carefully, with high standards. When it comes to the banal and the transgressive, only the best will do. More