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      Angela Lansbury, Broadway’s Beloved Everywoman

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      She performed without sentimentality or histrionics, embodying the full range of human joy and depravity while remaining professional and approachable.We know that actors are not their roles, but it still came as a shock to see Angela Lansbury backstage in bunny slippers and a tatty robe, offering visitors a nice hot cuppa.This was in May 2007, just minutes after she’d finished playing Leona Mullen, a retired tennis player, in Terrence McNally’s “Deuce,” the play that brought her back to Broadway, at age 81, after a 24-year absence. She’d based Mullen in part, she told me secretly, on Ann Richards, the former Texas governor, borrowing her bearing along with the bright red suit.You’d think that after playing hundreds of characters over a 75-year career, at least some element of some of them would have stuck. But the woman in the slippers and robe was no Cora Hoover Hooper, the cartoon mayoress of “Anyone Can Whistle,” her first stage musical role, in 1964. Nor was she Mame Dennis, the glamorous bohemian she created in the show that made her a Broadway star in 1966. And she was certainly no Nellie Lovett, the human-pie-maker of “Sweeney Todd,” a performance that earned her the fourth of six Tony Awards, in 1979.These, along with several still to come — the daffy Madame Arcati in “Blithe Spirit” and the imperious Madame Armfeldt in “A Little Night Music,” not to mention her dozens of movie and television roles from 1944 to 2018 — were, she told me, just “gloves.” She put them on and took them off.Lansbury as the daffy Madame Arcati, with Rupert Everett, in “Blithe Spirit” in 2009.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesAnd underneath? “Just a cabbage,” she said. “I absorb everything.”If Lansbury, who died on Tuesday at 96, was “boring as all get out,” as she later added, that too was a costume, and a tool. The hausfrau disguise permitted all the others, allowing the cabbage to store everything for later use. The corollary was that she needed to play many different kinds of characters, to make the best yield of all she’d observed. Her family said she’d go anywhere for a false nose.So when she was creating the amoral Lovett in “Sweeney,” she thought back to her childhood in London, and the cheerful, can-do Cockney help in her home. Their attitude turned out to be the key to the comedy: She played the character not as an accessory to murder but as a woman brightly solving problems. (Dead clients at the barbershop upstairs? Not enough meat for her pies downstairs? Bingo!) Far from critiquing her by applying an ironic varnish to the performance, Lansbury dared to advocate for her by making her as clever and merry as possible. The audience could supply the irony.Hers was a prodigious memory, but to achieve such effects it also took finesse and courage. McNally, the “Deuce” playwright, marveled that “if you say to her, ‘You’re doing 1.3 on that line, can you do 1.4?’ she could do it and you’d see the difference.” Marian Seldes, her co-star, agreed: “She is such a brilliant technician as well as having a pool of emotions she can tap into in a second to show the audience and then take away. The technician is like a great musician: I play this note and then I stop.”Taste, for Lansbury, was a matter of making the right choices in the right amounts. She disdained acting that depended on personality instead of action, and when I spoke to her at length in 2007, she seemed to connect that to a childhood spent shouldering her mother’s grief after her father died and the Blitz began. She was already independent, unafraid and a problem solver:“I remember taking the bus home in absolute pitch black, walking up Finchley Road alone, the balloons in the air. It was exciting; anything could happen. The first time the air-raid alarm went off my sister lost it, but I did not. There’s a portion of me that simply doesn’t react to things like this. Instead, I slow down to a dead crawl and then make the right choices.”Lansbury as the amoral Mrs. Lovett, with Len Cariou as the title character, in “Sweeney Todd” in 1979.Martha Swope/The New York Public Library for the Performing ArtsThat’s how she performed, too, without sentimentality or histrionics. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t stand up for herself and her characters. While working on “Anyone Can Whistle,” she complained to Stephen Sondheim, who wrote the songs, that she didn’t really understand and thus feel comfortable playing the corrupt mayoress: There was “no there there.”Sondheim didn’t know what to do about that, but when she added that her co-star, Lee Remick, “has five songs while I have four,” he said, “That I can solve.” He immediately wrote “A Parade in Town” for her — a great song that evened the score and not incidentally gave Lansbury a deeper character to play.In a way, her characters were like her family: People she cared for deeply but recognized as separate beings. She was connected to them through action. It was thus an easy if no less painful decision to drop out of the musical “The Visit” to care for her husband, Peter Shaw, when he became very ill, taking care of him until his death in 2003. “And when I say I took care of him,” she said, with as much overt emotion as I ever heard from her, “I really took care of him.”That lack of personal neediness made her perhaps the best-loved of all Broadway (and television) stars of her time, embodying the full range of human joy and depravity while remaining, in her own deportment, professional, approachable and neatly tucked in. You never felt, as you did with so many divas, the need to feed her ego or point her toward help. Quite the reverse: When she met McNally, drunk at a party in 1981, she told him — “with such love and concern,” as he later recalled — “I don’t know you very well, but every time I see you, you’re drunk, and it bothers me.” It was the beginning of his sobriety.Feeling through action was the Lansbury touch, and if it came at some cost to her, it never showed. “She’s very brave,” Seldes told me. “She never wants to be loved; she wants to play the part.”What showed was the brilliance of her technique, informed by feeling you couldn’t in fact see. Perhaps McNally was thinking of that when he had Seldes’s “Deuce” character say, “People should love what they do,” to which Lansbury provided a sharp correction.“People should be good at what they do,” she said. More

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      ‘Almost Famous’ Heads to Broadway, Purple Aura Intact

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      SAN DIEGO — In the 2000 film “Almost Famous,” William Miller, all of 15 and eager to conduct an interview for Creem magazine, can’t manage to slide past the brusque security guard at the arena where Black Sabbath is playing, despite his assurances that he is indeed a journalist. Not on the list, the guard says, then tells him to go to the top of the ramp “with the other girls.”One morning in August, Cameron Crowe — who made the coming-of-age movie, a gentle fictionalization of his days writing for Rolling Stone in the early 1970s — was back at that ramp. “This is where I’d be sent,” he said with a laugh, pointing to the spot where William, his cinematic alter ego, meets Penny Lane (Kate Hudson) and the other Band-Aids, the not-groupies who would help him navigate the backstage world of rock ’n’ roll.“The fact that they befriended me and started showing me the ropes was the beginning of everything,” Crowe, 65, said. “There are so many times where, if one thing didn’t happen, there’s no ‘Almost Famous.’”The film earned him an Academy Award for best original screenplay and went on to become a beloved story about the transformative power of music. So it was perhaps only a matter of time that it would transform yet again into, yes, a musical.Solea Pfeiffer, left, as Penny Lane, and Casey Likes as William Miller in the musical “Almost Famous.”Sara Krulwich/The New York Times“Almost Famous” opens on Broadway next month, three years after its world premiere at San Diego’s Old Globe. Scores of Hollywood films have been made into musicals over the years, but few of the original filmmakers have had their hands in the remaking (Garry Marshall’s “Pretty Woman” and Patricia Resnick’s “9 to 5” are notable exceptions), as Crowe is doing here, writing the book and co-writing the lyrics.Crowe, who has written and directed such movies as “Say Anything,” “Jerry Maguire” and “Vanilla Sky,” initially was unsure about making a musical out of his critically acclaimed film. “I was really nervous about whether it would translate,” he said. “Because the show’s not a jukebox thing. It’s meant to capture the same thing as the movie, a personal story with music that you love.”Despite his concerns, the musical received rave reviews (the Los Angeles Times called it “as shimmering as a stadium of lighters during a Led Zeppelin encore”). But a planned Broadway debut in 2020 was forced into cold storage by the pandemic. The ensemble stayed in touch over the intervening years via a group chat, however, and nearly all of the original cast is returning for the show’s Broadway run, including Casey Likes as William Miller and Solea Pfeiffer as Penny Lane.“One of the silver linings of this horrible moment that we all went through was that the work just deepened,” Pfeiffer said. “And Cameron’s rewriting stuff all the time. It’s like a living, breathing thing.”Both the show and the original film boast such hits as Joni Mitchell’s “River” and Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.” The film’s Grammy-winning soundtrack album, already a double LP set, contains only a third of the 50-some songs in the film.According to Lia Vollack, one of the show’s producers and a former president of worldwide music for Sony Pictures Entertainment, none of the bands whose music they sought for the Broadway outing turned them down.Crowe based “Almost Famous” on his days as a young music writer for Creem, Rolling Stone and other rock magazines.Magdalena Wosinska for The New York Times“Cameron and I both used our personal relationships to make things happen,” she said.Back at the arena, Crowe wandered the cavernous backstage area. In one nondescript room, now used to host visiting teams, he remembered interviewing rock royalty, including the members of Black Sabbath, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Traffic. “The last time I saw Ronnie Van Zant was in this dressing room,” he said.Despite a youth that many rock fans could only dream of, when Crowe began writing the “Almost Famous” screenplay, he didn’t make it about himself. “I initially wrote a script for David Bowie about a publicist who’s working with this Peter Frampton-type character named Ricky Fedora,” he said. “Penny Lane was there, but I was just a tiny character.”Inspired by semi-autobiographical films by some of his cinematic heroes, including Neil Simon, Barry Levinson and François Truffaut, Crowe let his younger self take center stage. In the Broadway version, Crowe pulls even more from his own life, in particular, the relationship between his mother and sister.He recalled advice from Tom Kitt, the show’s composer, who told him, “The movie is your story, so let’s not adapt the movie when we have all this source material that came before that.”Anika Larsen, who plays William’s mother, Elaine, worried about playing the character brought to life in the movie by Frances McDormand. “The first week was terrifying and awful,” Larsen said. “She’s my favorite actor of all time. I was like, why would I do or say anything different than Frances McDormand?”Kate Hudson played Penny Lane in the 2000 film “Almost Famous,” earning an Oscar nomination for best supporting actress.Neal Preston/DreamWorks PicturesUnderstanding the musical theater aspect of her role — where there are no camera close-ups at an actor’s disposal — helped her make peace with it. “Our tasks are so different,” she said. “Frances is telling you volumes with just the slightest look on her face. And I’m singing all of those things in songs.”In the film and the musical, Elaine Miller frets about the potential ill effects the rock world might have on William (“Don’t take drugs,” she famously and embarrassingly yells after dropping him off at the Black Sabbath concert). But Alice Crowe, the director’s mother, who died in 2019 before the musical opened, could not have been prouder of what became of her music-obsessed son. When the show was in rehearsals at the Old Globe, Crowe would call her every night, sometimes expressing doubts about how things were going.“She’d say, It’s going to be great,” he recalled. “Your negative thoughts are actions! You’ll create it! Never give up! You never give up! You love theater! This is the legacy of your family! Tell the story! Tell the story!”In addition to bringing a bit more of Alice Crowe into Elaine Miller, Crowe and his team took a second look at Penny Lane, with an eye to the #MeToo movement. “We wanted to give her more agency,” Crowe said.Much more than just an object of two men’s desires, Penny finds her voice in the show, literally, and sings just as much as the boys in the band. “In the film, it’s so much from William’s point of view,” Pfeiffer said. “In our version, Penny’s more humanized. We see her feet touch the ground.”The show’s producers have also dropped a scene in the film where she may or may not confess to being underage and omitted moments played for comedy when she overdoses.“I don’t think it’s about bringing Penny Lane and the Band-Aids up-to-date,” said Jeremy Herrin, the show’s director. “I think it would be appalling to give characters a vocabulary and a thought process they wouldn’t have had in those days. But we try to be very responsible about how we present it.”Crowe outside the San Diego arena where a key scene from his movie takes place. “There are so many times,” he said, “where, if one thing didn’t happen, there’s no ‘Almost Famous.’”Magdalena Wosinska for The New York TimesThe creators are also shifting the perspective to more of the characters, largely through song. Kitt recalled writing a song a day for Crowe in the early stages of the show’s creation. “Cameron is a poet,” he said. “These characters want to have new thoughts in the voice of Cameron Crowe. So there are many places where you’ll hear something in the lyrics that came directly out of the film.”The show marks Crowe’s first Broadway musical, and the first time on Broadway for 15 members of the cast, including Likes, who debuted the part of William when he was 17. “I basically grew up on the show,” he said. “I do feel like the kid on this production. And when I don’t, I’m definitely reminded by my cast members.”After his visit to the arena, Crowe stopped by the San Diego apartment he lived in during high school, the place where his sister gave him the stash of LPs — “Pet Sounds” by The Beach Boys, “Cheap Thrills” by Big Brother and the Holding Company — that would later shape his musical tastes and, as his sister promised, set him free.While there, Crowe talked about what he had learned about writing musicals. “Be succinct,” he said. “It’s a great lesson for me, because I write really long scripts.” He also discovered the camaraderie and closeness that comes with working on a show for months and even years, as one does in the theater, as opposed to the short days and weeks one spends on a movie shoot.“I love, love, love that you live with the actors,” he said.Crowe is taking full advantage of the opportunity. “Cameron is there every minute of every rehearsal every day,” said Drew Gehling, who plays Jeff Bebe, the driven lead singer of Stillwater, the band William is profiling.As for William, Crowe’s eternally young alter ego, “I’m still that guy,” Crowe said. “I still love doing interviews. I love William and his relationship with his sister, just trying to make it all work in the family.”Not that it’s ever easy seeing his life play out in front of the masses, whether in a movie theater or on a Broadway stage. “It’s emotional,” he said. “When people would come up after the movie and go, ‘It’s too long. I don’t like him in Ohio,’” I’d be like, ‘Is my life too long?’ It’s hard not to take it personally.” More

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      ‘A Strange Loop,’ Which Won Best Musical, Will End Broadway Run

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      The meta-musical, which won the Tony Award this year and the Pulitzer Prize in 2020, announced it would close on Jan. 15.“A Strange Loop,” the winner of this year’s Tony Award for best musical, will close on Broadway on Jan. 15, after a short run that reflects the industry’s ongoing pandemic-related struggles and the challenges of marketing an unconventional musical that wrestles with complex themes.The musical, a meta-theatrical story about an aspiring musical theater writer who is writing a musical about his struggles to find his way professionally and personally, has been a triumph in many ways — a first show by a previously unknown writer, Michael R. Jackson, it was hailed by critics as soon as it opened Off Broadway in 2019, won the 2020 Pulitzer Prize in drama, and then, after opening on Broadway in April, picked up Tony Awards in June for best musical and best book of a musical.But its run will be unusually short for a best musical winner in recent years, when the prize has often had more box office impact.At the time of its closing, “A Strange Loop” will have had 314 total performances, including 13 previews. That is significantly fewer than for other recent winners with modest runs, including “Fun Home,” which won the award in 2015 and closed after 609 total performances; “The Band’s Visit,” which won in 2018 and closed after 624 total performances; and “A Gentleman’s Guide to Love & Murder,” which won in 2014 and closed after 935 total performances.All three of those shows recouped their capitalization costs. A spokesman said it is not yet clear whether “A Strange Loop” would recoup its capitalization costs, which a filing with the Securities and Exchange Commission said were $9.5 million.“A Strange Loop” was a passion project for Jackson, who labored on the musical for more than a decade. Inspired by his own experiences, the musical tells the story of Usher, who is working as an usher while writing about his own life, while also struggling with his family’s homophobia and with the racism and sizeism he encounters in the gay community.The show — which markets itself as “the big, Black and queer-ass Great American Musical” — is more sexually and emotionally frank than most Broadway musicals.The musical saw a bump at the box office after winning the Tony Award, playing to sold-out houses for two weeks with grosses peaking at $860,496 during the week that ended June 26. But grosses have been sliding since; during the week that ended Oct. 2, it grossed $579,354 and played to houses that were 79 percent full.Its creator, Jackson, said in a statement that he felt “blessed to have had the opportunity to share this raw, vulnerable and personal story with the world and to have connected with so many enthusiastic, loving audiences.”Broadway had been enjoying a yearslong sustained boom before the coronavirus pandemic, but like many other performing arts forms it has been struggling to rebound following the lengthy shutdown of theaters. The industry has been challenged not only by concerns about public health, but also by diminished tourism in New York City, the slow return of office workers to Midtown, a worrisome economy and, possibly, changing entertainment habits.During the 2021-22 Broadway season — a short season because most theaters remained closed during the summer of 2021 — 6,729,143 people attended Broadway shows, down from 14,768,254 during the 2018-19 season, which was the last full season before the pandemic. Annual Broadway grosses dropped from $1.8 billion to $845 million over that time period.The industry’s softness appears to be ongoing. During the week that ended Oct. 2, there were 25 shows running on Broadway, attended by 209,668 people and grossing $25,208,583. During the comparable week in 2019 — the last comparable week before the pandemic shutdown — there were 33 shows running, attended by 261,793 people and grossing $30,098,714.The struggles have contributed to a number of closings. Most significantly, “The Phantom of the Opera” has announced that it plans to close Feb. 18, concluding a record-breaking 35-year run on Broadway. Two more modest hits, “Come From Away” and “Dear Evan Hansen,” also closed recently, and a strong-selling revival of “The Music Man” plans to close on New Year’s Day.New Yorkers will have another chance to see Jackson’s work next year. His new musical, “White Girl in Danger,” is scheduled to have an Off Broadway run next spring at Second Stage Theater, which is producing it jointly with Vineyard Theater. More

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      Eileen Ryan, Actress of Stage and Screen, Dies at 94

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      She put her career on hold for a time to raise her sons, the actors Sean and Chris Penn and the musician Michael Penn.Eileen Ryan, a stage, television and film actress who paused her career to raise her sons, the actors Sean and Chris Penn and the musician Michael Penn, then later racked up dozens of acting credits, sometimes working with her sons and her husband, the director Leo Penn, died on Sunday at her home in Malibu, Calif. She was 94.Her family announced her death through a spokeswoman.Ms. Ryan was in her late 20s and appearing in “The Iceman Cometh” at Circle in the Square in Greenwich Village in 1956 when she met Mr. Penn, who stepped into a role being vacated by Jason Robards. They married soon after.Her career was going well at that point; she had already made her Broadway debut in “Sing Till Tomorrow” in 1953 and would return to Broadway in 1958 in “Comes a Day.” But she prided herself on making her own decisions — “I don’t think anybody could have felt stronger than I did about controlling my own destiny,” she told The Los Angeles Times in 1986 — and soon she made a difficult one, choosing to scale back her acting.The choice, she said, began to be clear when she had a job that took her away from home and had to leave Michael, then a baby, with Leo.“I was out of town and all I did was cry,” she told The Times. “That made it very clear to me that I wanted to be home with the kids.”The family moved to the West Coast, and she still performed occasionally in the 1960s and ’70s; she appeared in episodes of “The Twilight Zone,” “Bonanza” and other shows, some of them directed by Leo Penn, who, though blacklisted in the 1940s and ’50s, emerged to become a prolific television director.But, she said in 1986, for a long stretch her most important performance came in a supporting role in a home movie made by young Sean Penn and his neighbor Emilio Estevez, son of the actor Martin Sheen.“I was a background mother screaming from the kitchen,” she said.Ms. Ryan went back to acting more regularly with her appearance in the 1986 film “At Close Range,” a crime drama in which she played the grandmother of characters played by her sons Sean and Chris. Two years later she played the mother of Sean Penn’s character in the movie “Judgment in Berlin,” a drama directed by Leo Penn whose stars also included Mr. Sheen.Ms. Ryan and her husband also returned to the stage, starring in “Remembrance,” a drama by the Irish playwright Graham Reid staged in 1997 at the Odyssey Theater in Los Angeles, with Sean Penn as producer.Leo Penn died in 1998. Ms. Ryan continued to act, accumulating more than two dozen additional TV and film credits, most recently in the 2016 movie “Rules Don’t Apply,” directed by Warren Beatty.Eileen Rose Annucci was born on Oct. 16, 1927, in the Bronx. Her father, William, was a lawyer and a dentist. Her mother, Rose (Ryan) Annucci, was the source of the surname Eileen later adopted for her acting career.That career, or at least the aspiration to it, started early. As a child growing up in New York she would stage plays in the courtyard of her apartment complex.“I remember beating up all the little boys in my apartment building so they’d be in my plays,” she said.She earned a bachelor’s degree at New York University, then embarked on an acting career, putting her on a path to meet Mr. Penn.Once she restarted her career in the 1980s, among her first credits was Ron Howard’s comic drama “Parenthood” (1989). She played one-half of an older couple; the male half was played by Mr. Robards, the man whose departure from “Iceman” decades earlier had allowed her to meet Mr. Penn.Ms. Ryan’s son Chris died in 2006. In addition to her other sons, she is survived by three grandchildren. More

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      Lawsuit Says Charity Leader Hired His Former Personal Trainer for Key Role

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      Spending by a charity intended to honor a radio pioneer is being challenged by his granddaughter, who says he was tricked into leaving his fortune to it. The charity denies the charge and says the producer did not trust his family to protect his legacy.Over the course of a decade, Matthew Forman emerged as a public face of the Himan Brown Charitable Trust, a charity with $100 million in assets and a stated purpose of furthering the legacy of Mr. Brown, who had created treasured radio dramas like “Dick Tracy” during that medium’s golden age.As a director and, more recently, a consultant to the trust, Mr. Forman, 41, earned as much as $250,000 annually as he helped distribute millions of dollars in funds to deserving causes, often around Miami, where he was recognized with a community service award and spoke on expert panels.“He was great to work with,” said Isabelle Pike, senior vice president of development at Branches, an organization that works with poor families. “He supported great programming here in South Florida.”But a foundation run by a granddaughter of Mr. Brown’s has challenged Mr. Forman’s qualifications for those roles in court papers that say he apparently had no prior experience in the field when he was hired by the charity’s sole trustee, for whom he had worked as a personal trainer.The challenge is the latest chapter in a long-running lawsuit by the foundation, the Radio Drama Network, against the sole trustee, Richard L. Kay, who helped design the trust as Mr. Brown’s lawyer.Mr. Kay has argued that Mr. Brown created the trust to shield his money from a family from whom he had become estranged. But the suit contends Mr. Kay tricked Mr. Brown, at age 94 in 2004, into signing over his fortune to the charitable trust, whose spending Mr. Kay now controls. Mr. Brown died six years later.Under a new estate plan, the suit argues, most of the fortune that had been designated to go to the Radio Drama Network was instead diverted to the new Himan Brown Charitable Trust.The lawsuit argues that, under Mr. Kay, the trust has paid $1.5 million to Mr. Forman and donated millions more to causes tied to Mr. Kay, like his alma maters, Cornell University and Michigan Law School; his grandchild’s Montessori school; and the 92nd Street Y, New York, where he is on the board. That money, the suit asserts, should have instead been directed to the radio foundation, which Mr. Brown separately created to foster respect for the spoken word.“I really want to let people know who he was and show the kind of work he did,” Melina Brown, the granddaughter, said in an interview. “But it’s not happening.”Himan Brown, right, directing Betty Winkler and Frank Lovejoy at a radio studio in New York in 1943.Associated PressMr. Forman declined to be interviewed but his lawyer defended his qualifications, describing him as a former sales professional who had done well in college and while briefly attending law school at the University of Miami. In 2014, the Miami-Dade County public school system recognized him with a Community Partners Recognition Award for help the trust provided for children in Miami’s poorer neighborhoods. Several other grant recipients in Florida praised him and the charity for their work.“He is a humble, bright, diligent and caring person who is one of the most professional people I’ve worked with in philanthropy,” said Melissa White, the executive director of the Key Biscayne Community Foundation, which has received grants from the trust.The judge presiding over the case, filed in Surrogate’s Court in Manhattan in 2015, has ruled that the administration of the trust and its spending are beyond the scope of the lawsuit, which is focused on allegations that Mr. Kay deceived Mr. Brown into setting it up.But the drama network has challenged that ruling and argues that Mr. Kay’s spending choices, including the hiring of Mr. Forman, are indicative of his self-interest at the time the trust was drawn up in 2004. It did not begin functioning until after Mr. Brown’s death.Mr. Brown had created the radio network, a separate foundation, in 1984, and in a 1999 interview he spoke of it as being part of his effort to revive the lost “art of listening” in an era of reduced attention spans and competing media.The communal experience of radio, where families gathered in living rooms for a broadcast, had its heyday from the 1930s to the 1950s, before the expansion of television. During that time, Mr. Brown directed and produced shows like “The Adventures of the Thin Man,” “Flash Gordon,” “Grand Central Station” and “Inner Sanctum Mysteries,” working alongside actors like Orson Welles and Helen Hayes. In 1990, he was inducted into the Radio Hall of Fame.Several years before he died, Mr. Brown was sued unsuccessfully by his son, Barry, who said, among other things, that his father had molested him as a child, a charge that his father denied. Barry Brown sued again after his father died, challenging his father’s will in a case in which he accused Mr. Kay of manipulating his father into diverting money into the new charitable trust.But in 2015, Judge Nora S. Anderson of Surrogate’s Court rejected his claim and cited witnesses who said Mr. Brown had “remained clearheaded and firm-minded even through advanced age.”The drama network filed its suit later that year. Mr. Kay’s lawyers argued that the claims of fraud had already been adjudicated. But Judge Anderson decided that the new lawsuit could move forward.In the current suit, Mr. Kay’s lawyers have accused Ms. Brown of trying to claim a larger share of the estate so as to draw larger administration fees. Mr. Kay said in a deposition earlier this year that Mr. Brown had expressly created the new trust to keep the bulk of his money away from Barry Brown and Barry’s two children, including Melina.Melina Brown, left, and Himan Brown in an undated family photograph.via Melina Brown“I cannot be more dramatic about the venom displayed by Himan Brown with respect to his son, and it extended to his granddaughters, as well,” Mr. Kay said.Melina Brown has denied seeking larger fees or that the breach between her grandfather and father ever extended to her. She said in an interview that her grandfather, whom she cared for in his last years, had loved her and wanted her to push forward with his mission to build interest in the spoken word. Before he died, he appointed her as a director of the Radio Drama Network and in his estate left her $3 million and his home in Connecticut.Today, the radio foundation has about $20 million in assets. In the year ending June 2021, it gave $307,500 in grants, including to organizations that support Hispanic theater and storytelling in public schools. Pursuing the lawsuit against the trust has been expensive, with more than $2 million going to legal fees in the past two years, according to tax records.The charitable trust controlled by Mr. Kay holds about $107 million in assets. It distributed nearly $4.5 million in grants in the year ending in March 2021, according to tax filings.Mr. Kay receives yearly compensation as a trustee — $300,000 last year — which he shares with his law firm, Pryor Cashman, which has drawn fees of as much as $400,000 to represent the trust in recent years.Lawyers for Mr. Kay say Mr. Brown’s name is fully associated with gifts made by his trust, like a 60+ Program named for him at the 92nd Street Y, New York. They say that when Mr. Brown was alive, his radio foundation financially supported many varied causes, of which only a few were affiliated with the spoken word. They also point out that the trust has supported multiple speaking engagements, such as appearances by Dick Cavett and Bill Clinton. Mr. Brown, they say, viewed Mr. Kay as a friend whose judgment he fully trusted in making grants, and they point to personal messages from Mr. Brown to Mr. Kay to illustrate their close relationship.Mr. Forman said in a deposition last month that he had worked as a personal trainer for Mr. Kay and his family in New York, before moving to Florida. He had been working in sales, he said, when Mr. Kay hired him for the trust in 2011, and he acknowledged that he did not have prior experience in philanthropic giving beyond making gifts himself. In court papers earlier this year, he said he had also served at one point as a co-trustee of the trust.New York State does not set specific professional qualifications for employees or consultants of a charity. But experts said charities, especially those with substantial funds, often seek to hire individuals with an understanding of charitable work, topical expertise and experience in fund-raising or grant giving.Matthew Forman representing the Himan Brown Charitable Trust at an event at the University of Miami School of Medicine in 2011.via Key Biscayne Community FoundationLawyers from Carter Ledyard & Milburn, who represent the drama network, were precluded from asking detailed questions about Mr. Forman’s work for the charity during his deposition last month, after Judge Anderson ruled that the suit did not directly concern Mr. Kay’s administration of the trust.But in limited questioning, Mr. Forman said he had worked as an employee of the trust until sometime in late 2017 or early 2018. Tax records show from that point forward a company registered to Mr. Forman, Miami Philanthropic Consulting Inc., began to serve as an adviser to the trust. For the year that ended in March 2021, the consulting company was paid $250,000 by the trust, according to the tax records.Mr. Forman said in his deposition that he had not spoken to Mr. Kay in years, but said he could not give an exact date.He was also asked what he knew about the man whose legacy he had promoted. He said he knew that Mr. Brown had risen from a humble background to become a successful businessman who owned production studios and had stayed vibrant into old age.“He produced radio shows,” Mr. Forman said. “I believe ‘The Thin Man.’ Maybe ‘Dick Tracy.’” More

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      Melissa Etheridge and Jill Sobule Bring Their Whole Lives to the Stage

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      They both first made a splash in the ’90s. They’re now in New York to present new theatrical memoirs that mix storytelling and songs.When musicians as popular and as varied as Brandi Carlile, King Princess, Syd, Hayley Kiyoko and Girl in Red can be so openly, so matter-of-factly gay, it’s easy to forget that the vibe was not quite as welcoming 30 years ago.In the 1990s, singing paeans about making out with other women was a bold move. So when the Kansas-born lesbian rocker Melissa Etheridge released the album “Yes I Am” in 1993, featuring the hits “Come to My Window” and “I’m the Only One,” she made a splash. A couple of years later, Jill Sobule, a sly, funny bisexual pop singer-songwriter, released “I Kissed a Girl” — with a video starring the actor and model known as Fabio.Coincidentally, both women are currently settling in New York to present new stage memoirs that mix storytelling and songs. On Thursday, Etheridge starts previews for “My Window — A Journey Through Life,” with a book by her wife, Linda Wallem, at New World Stages. The next day, Sobule follows suit with “F*ck7thGrade” at the Wild Project.Born a few months apart in 1961, the two women have been on parallel trajectories over the years but did not really meet until Sobule joined the musical lineup on the 2019 Melissa Etheridge cruise. “We were getting done in our room, and we were all singing, ‘Come to my porthole,’” said Sobule, whose recent land-bound experiences have included starring in Matt Schatz’s musical “A Wicked Soul in Cherry Hill” at the Geffen Playhouse.On Friday morning, Etheridge and Sobule gathered again over a breakfast of oatmeal, fruit and herbal tea. It was the day after the Denver Broncos had lost an excruciating game to the Indianapolis Colts, and Sobule, a Colorado native and football fan, was still reeling. These are edited excerpts from the conversation.The two women did not really meet until Sobule joined the musical lineup on the 2019 Melissa Etheridge cruise.Luisa Opalesky for The New York TimesWhy did you both decide to look back on your life and music in a theatrical format?JILL SOBULE I have a theater agent, and he said, “You should come up with a concept and maybe something with your songs.” So many of them directly deal with the worst year of my life: seventh grade.MELISSA ETHERIDGE That’s everyone’s worst year.SOBULE I was this badass little girl. I was the best guitar player, but there were no role models for us. And as a little strange girl with queer feelings in the ’70s, the only role models I had for that was Miss Hathaway from “The Beverly Hillbillies.” Or my gym teacher, who looked like Pete Rose.ETHERIDGE My wife’s gym teacher was named Miss Lesby. It’s like something out of “S.N.L.”! One of my major influences was the Archies [they both start singing “Sugar, Sugar”]. I thought, “Why can’t I grow up and be Reggie? I’m going to have Veronica and live a happy life.”SOBULE We wanted to make sure that the show wasn’t just for people interested in my career because most people could give a [expletive]. I’m not that famous. It’s kind of this universal story of a weirdo growing up.What was it like coming of age at a time when it must have been difficult to put words onto some feelings?SOBULE I have a brother who’s six years older than me. I happened to stumble upon one of his softcore magazines, and there was a series of soft-focus photos of girls in a French boarding school. I thought, “Oh my god, how do I transfer to that school?”ETHERIDGE I think the first media I saw was “The Children’s Hour.” All of a sudden I’m feeling stuff. And then she [Shirley MacLaine’s character] hangs herself, because anything gay you saw, they were criminals or killed themselves. I remember Time magazine had something about gay liberation on the front. My father was a high school psychology teacher, and he had a book that said, “Homosexuality — we don’t think it’s a mental illness anymore.” It was kind of nice: Maybe I’m not crazy.Etheridge and K.D. Lang. “It was the drama geeks getting together and having fun,” Etheridge said about Hollywood in the ’90s.Steve Eichner/WireImage, via Getty ImagesHow did you get into music?ETHERIDGE In high school, I was in professional bands. I made money every weekend; I was very independent. I was a security guard in college. I made $7 an hour, and that was hard work, in a hospital. So I went down to the subway — it was in Boston, I went to the Berklee College of Music — I opened up my case, and I played for an hour. And I made seven bucks. So I went, “Well, I can make as much here as I do doing that job.” I never looked back after that.SOBULE When I was in eighth grade, I was the guitar player in our jazz stage band, and we won State because I brought my brother’s Marshall amp and wah-wah pedal, and I did a solo of “2001.” That’s the only thing I’ve ever won in my whole life. Later I was in Spain, and a friend said, “Let’s go busk on the street.” A guy walked by and went, “Would you guys like to play in my nightclub?” I ended up dropping out of school.ETHERIDGE I dropped out of school, too.Is it difficult to tell your stories in a new medium?SOBULE I think it’s a natural progression because we’re storytellers, and now we get to grow it out, we get to be more cinematic, in a way. I was telling my theater friends, “I’m moving on from music to Off Broadway because it’s so lucrative.” [They both roar with laughter.]ETHERIDGE I always hate to say “at our age,” but in this phase of our life to be able to have a different creative expression is fantastic. I came from rehearsal last night, and I could not get to sleep. My brain was so tickled and delighted by what I can do.Melissa, what was it like playing St. Jimmy in “American Idiot” in 2011?ETHERIDGE It was amazing. This was a full Broadway show, and there were so many things that I didn’t really realize I was getting into. Especially when they said, “Now we’re going to rehearse the death drop.” I said, “Excuse me, the what?” I climb up two flights of these stairs that move around, and I fall backwards into two people’s arms. And I’m not a dancer! To me it represented my own fear of stepping into the theatrical world. So I said, “You got it!”SOBULE Theater was a learning curve. I remember the first time a director said, “OK, move stage left.” And I was, “What the [expletive] is stage left?” We have so much dialogue, and I don’t even memorize my own lyrics. I was like, “Can I have a monitor? Did Springsteen have a monitor?” They were like, “You are not Springsteen.” OK, fair enough.Jill, you’re working with the playwright Liza Birkenmeier on your show’s book. And Melissa, your wife, Linda, is helping out. How do you collaborate with them?SOBULE Basically we have conversations, and we figure out how to best put the jigsaw puzzle together. Every day, I’m like, “Let me add this little one-liner.”ETHERIDGE My Covid experience really focused this show because I did a thing called Etheridge TV. I turned my garage into a streaming studio, and every week I would stream five shows. On Wednesdays my wife and I would do a chat show, and on Fridays I would do what I called the Friday Night Time Machine. I started digitizing my old pictures and old videos, and I would show them and tell my life story. I got used to telling it, and my wife started writing it down. But I’m going to still be speaking extemporaneously in the show — I’ll hit the beats so that everything matches right, but I’m not reciting lines.How much excavating did you do in terms of music?ETHERIDGE I’m playing a couple tracks that I hardly ever play live because they were so theatrical, so dramatic that there was never a place for them in my concerts. There’s one from “Your Little Secret” called “This War Is Over” — I think I did it in concert in ’96 and that was the last time. There’s one from “The Awakening” called “Open Your Mind.” You’re going to hear a song I wrote when I was 11 years old, and four or five songs that were never recorded.SOBULE We took out the first song I ever wrote, which was called “Nixon Is a Bad Man, Spiro Agnew Is Too.” I don’t remember the music, but I’m sure it was hot.ETHERIDGE Unfortunately, I did remember the music of mine.Sobule performing in 2000. “When I had ‘Kissed a Girl’ coming out, it was dicey because it was like, ‘Is she a lesbian singer-songwriter?,’” Sobule said.Hiroyuki Ito/Getty ImagesJill, reassure us: Does your show include “I Kissed a Girl”?SOBULE Yeah. People call me a one-hit wonder, and I say, “Wait a second, I’m a two-hit wonder!” When I had “Kissed a Girl” coming out, it was dicey because it was like, “Is she a lesbian singer-songwriter?”ETHERIDGE It was revolutionary. I remember seeing that, my jaw dropped, and I went, “Wow, here we go.” It was punk, it was edgy, it was that MTV cool. Someone called me once, like management, and said, “Your songs are too sexual.” It was the “Lucky” album. I was having a lot of sex, what can I say?I read that you were involved in some fun parties back in the day.ETHERIDGE It was Hollywood in the early ’90s. I happened to know K.D. Lang; Ellen DeGeneres was this stand-up comic, so was Rosie O’Donnell. I met Brad Pitt after he did a little independent film with Catherine Keener, who’s a real good friend of mine. None of us had kids, and we were all young and crazy. There was a lot of smoking and drinking. It was the drama geeks getting together and having fun.What do you do for fun now?ETHERIDGE Fun is getting in bed before midnight. I watch football. [To Sobule] You’re not a Broncos fan, are you? Last night was brutal. I have to hug you.SOBULE My whole family was at the game and they FaceTimed me. I almost didn’t make today, it was so awful.ETHERIDGE I’m with the Kansas City Chiefs: We’re set. In high school we had powder-puff football. We showed up for the first practice — I was the quarterback, thank you very much — and then they came and said, “We’ve got to shut this down, we don’t have insurance,” or something. Because of Title IX, we were supposed to be able to do it, but we didn’t, and it broke my heart.SOBULE The last couple years I’ve been totally into basketball. I like it because there’s so many games and it doesn’t matter.ETHERIDGE Oh no, I like something to be on the line. Every. Play. More

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      Robert Kalfin, Founder of an Adventurous Theater, Dies at 89

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      For two decades, his Chelsea Theater Center was on the cutting edge with productions that could be challenging, baffling or, sometimes, Broadway bound.Robert Kalfin, the driving force behind the Chelsea Theater Center, which for two decades beginning in 1965 presented adventurous plays that were sometimes too innovative for the theatergoing public and sometimes successful enough that they transferred to Broadway, died on Sept. 20 at a hospice center in Quiogue, a hamlet in Southampton, N.Y. He was 89.Philip Himberg, a longtime friend, said the cause was acute myeloid leukemia.Mr. Kalfin directed countless plays in a career that began in his mid-20s and continued into his 80s. In 1965, he started the nonprofit Chelsea Theater Center and became its founding artistic director, with David Long as managing director and George Bari as production manager.They set up shop in St. Peter’s Church in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, though a strip dance in one of its early offerings got the group tossed out of that church and forced it to move to another. Those were two of several locations it would use over the years, only some of which were in Chelsea.Mr. Kalfin thought the commercial theaters of the day were limited and unimaginative, and he strove to broaden the theatrical landscape.“The mission statement, which I came up with, which was very useful, was ‘We will do whatever nobody else is doing and what we think people ought to see,’” he said in an interview in 2014 for the Primary Stages Off-Broadway Oral History Project. “That gave me great leeway.”The Chelsea achieved particular prominence once it moved to the Brooklyn Academy of Music in 1968. Its productions there were attention-getting, to say the least. A 1969 staging of “Slave Ship,” written by Amiri Baraka (who was then known as LeRoi Jones) and directed by Gilbert Moses, took on racism, leaving Clive Barnes of The New York Times rattled.“The play is set in the hold of a ship and the conscience of a nation,” Mr. Barnes wrote in his review.“The play ends with the symbolic destruction of white America,” he added. “Whitey is got — Black Panther banners are unfurled. This scared and horrified me. I am whitey.”In 1971, The Times wrote an article about Mr. Kalfin’s troupe that carried the headline “America’s Most Exciting New Theater?” Its productions for the rest of that decade cemented its stature as one of the scene’s leading innovators.In 1973, the Chelsea revived the Leonard Bernstein operetta “Candide,” which had failed on Broadway in the 1950s, and gave it a new book, by Hugh Wheeler. Harold Prince directed, and the result was a smash in Brooklyn that became the group’s first transfer to Broadway, where it ran for almost two years.Another great success was “Strider,” Mark Rozovsky’s play with music based on a Tolstoy story about a piebald horse that is tormented because of its appearance. Mr. Kalfin first saw it in Leningrad, and in 1979 he staged an English-language version at the Westside Theater on West 43rd Street. It drew a strong review from Mel Gussow in The Times.“We are transported by the ingenuousness and the originality of the show,” he wrote. “Looking closely, we even notice a grittiness that might have been appreciated by Brecht and Weill. The play works on two levels, as a kind of Tolstoyan ‘Black Beauty’ — downbeat but finally inspirational — and as a valid commentary on the injustices of civilization.”That show, directed by Mr. Kalfin and Lynne Gannaway, transferred to Broadway and ran there for six months.By then Mr. Kalfin was seeing a change in theater audiences, one that his company had helped bring about.“There’s a whole new generation of theatergoers, and they have become elitist in a very positive way,” he told The Times that November as “Strider” was beginning its Broadway run. “I think they’re bored to death with television, and they’re more demanding of theater now because they’re so hungry for nourishment.”A scene from the Chelsea Theater Center’s production of Amiri Baraka’s “Slave Ship” in 1969. The play’s ending, the Times critic Clive Barnes wrote, “scared and horrified me.”Deidi von Schaewen, via BAM Hamm ArchivesRobert Zangwill Kalfin was born on April 22, 1933, in the Bronx. His father, Alfred, was a real estate developer, and his mother, Hilda Shulman Kalfin, was a teacher.His childhood memories were of being taken not to the theater but to the Metropolitan Opera, where he and his parents generally ended up in the cheap seats, high up and off to the side.“My father would hold onto the back of my pants while I leaned over trying to see center stage,” he said in the oral history.He studied music at the High School of Music & Art in Manhattan (now the Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School for Music & Art and Performing Arts). As a theater major at Alfred University in central New York, he became part of an ambitious department that was staging Bertolt Brecht and other European writers and experimenting with unusual settings — he was in a production of “Androcles and the Lion” that was staged in a gymnasium transformed to look like a Roman arena.He earned his master’s degree in 1957 at the Yale School of Drama and settled into odd jobs in New York, working for a time in the shipping department at WOR-TV and as a production assistant on a children’s television show in Newark, N.J., that starred a chimpanzee.He directed his first Off Broadway production, “The Golem,” in 1959, at St. Mark’s Playhouse. His other early efforts included “The Good Soldier Schweik” in 1963, which didn’t go well — a producer interfered so intrusively that Mr. Kalfin withdrew before opening night and sought unsuccessfully to stop the production from opening. When it did, William Glover of The Associated Press called it “one of the season’s worst plays.”Mr. Kalfin, right, with Michael David, left, the executive director of the Chelsea Theater Center, and Burl Hash, the production director, in 1973.Manuel Guevaza Jr.At the Chelsea, Mr. Kalfin sometimes left audiences and critics scratching their heads. That was the case with a 1970 musical called “Tarot,” which he staged in Brooklyn. As the credits read, it was conceived by The Rubber Duck and directed jointly by “Mr. Duck” (as The Times called him, tongue in cheek) and Mr. Kalfin.Mr. Barnes hated it. “Pretentiousness is rioting at the Brooklyn Academy of Music,” his review began. Yet the Chelsea was respected enough by then that even in that pan, Mr. Barnes felt compelled to note that the group was facing one of its frequent financial crises at the time, and that “it simply must not be allowed to die.”The group did peter out in the mid-1980s, swamped with debt. Before it did, its other notable successes included “Yentl the Yeshiva Boy,” based on an Isaac Bashevis Singer story of a Jewish girl who passes as a boy; Mr. Kalfin had it adapted for the stage by Leah Napolin and directed it. It opened in Brooklyn in December 1974.It was a tough road to opening night. Mr. Kalfin clashed with Tovah Feldshuh, who played the title character, and withstood complaints from Orthodox Jewish leaders; he also had to strike a deal with Barbra Streisand, who owned the rights to the Singer story, which she would turn into a film in 1983. But the play moved to Broadway, where it ran for 223 performances.Mr. Bari, Mr. Kalfin’s life partner, died in 2013. Mr. Kalfin, who had lived in East Hampton, N.Y., leaves no immediate survivors.After the Chelsea gave up the ghost, Mr. Kalfin continued to direct in New York and in regional houses; he was still working until recently. One of his post-Chelsea projects in New York was directing a Yiddish version of “Yentl” produced by the Folksbiene Yiddish Theater in 2002. Eleanor Reissa played the title role.“Even though he’d directed maybe a hundred shows, every time was like the first,” Ms. Reissa, who had worked with Mr. Kalfin on other shows as well, said by email. “Wide eyed and wide hearted always, infectious joyfulness.” More

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      Review: ‘Death of a Salesman’ on Broadway Makes the Lomans New Again

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      Wendell Pierce and Sharon D Clarke star in a powerful revival of Arthur Miller’s drama, led by a Black cast.A deeply original work that is also deeply influential may yet in time be trite. What once opened eyes comes to seem preloaded behind them, as if part of the general human inheritance.Such has been the ironic trajectory of Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman.” When it premiered on Broadway in 1949, with its depiction of the false hopes of capitalism and the family dysfunction left in its wake, there were fathers for whom “the doctor had to be called because they couldn’t stop crying,” the director Mike Nichols, who saw it then, said. “It was like an explosion.”As “Salesman” spread into the culture with astonishing speed, it helped introduce the seismic re-evaluations of the ensuing decades. But now that we take those shocks to be self-evident, the job of making the play feel as new as it once did is a difficult one for those who would revive it. “Willy Loman” has long since become shorthand for the “low man” in the pecking order. And everyone for whom it was required high school reading already knows the story: how a washed-up salesman’s delusions about American success destroy not just his own life but also those of his wife, Linda, and their sons, Happy and Biff.Short of stunt casting or radical resetting, directors must therefore dig either deeper or wider. Nichols’s 2012 Broadway production, starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Linda Emond as Willy and Linda, went deeper, examining the work with microscopic precision and even replicating Jo Mielziner’s original set design and Alex North’s music. The result was a very powerful mounting, and I use the word advisedly: It sometimes seemed like an exhibit.From left, Khris Davis as Biff Loman, McKinley Belcher III as Happy Loman and Sharon D Clarke as Linda Loman.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesThe latest Broadway revival, which opened on Sunday at the Hudson Theater, goes wider, a notably rich and mostly successful approach. For the first time in a major New York production, the Lomans are played by Black actors. Wendell Pierce, as Willy, is wrenching as he flails and fails to avoid his fate instead of slumping into it from the start. And Sharon D Clarke, as Linda, is so paradoxically shattering in her stoicism that she turns what is usually portrayed as unshakable loyalty into a kind of heedless comorbidity.Miranda Cromwell’s revival, based on one she directed in London with Marianne Elliott in 2019, does more than give us Black Lomans — including Khris Davis as Biff and McKinley Belcher III as Happy. It also, crucially, puts them in a largely white world. Willy’s employer (Blake DeLong), his neighbor (Delaney Williams) and his mistress (Lynn Hawley) are thus more than foils in the usual sense; like Willy, you can never untangle the personal, economic and now racial threads of their behavior. And even if they aren’t bigots, they electrify moments — a card game with the neighbor, a negotiation with the “boss” — in which Willy’s paranoia seems at the same time both fantastical and well founded.It’s even more astonishing that the production achieves this effect with only a few minor alterations to the dialogue. (The college that Biff, a would-be football star, hopes to attend is now U.C.L.A., instead of the University of Virginia, where the first Black student was not admitted until 1950 — and even then, only after a lawsuit.) Likewise, though the play’s web of urban imagery, much written about in A.P. English essays, is duly honored in Anna Fleischle’s skeletal set design, it gets new life when seen in the light of the redistricting and gentrification that squeezed many people like the Lomans out of their homes.It’s therefore central to the effectiveness of the casting that it’s not colorblind. Neither the Black nor the white actors ignore race; they mine it, bringing their characters to fully specific and vivid life. Willy’s mistress has an ear-bending working-class white Boston accent. The oddly formal patois (“Nobody dast blame this man”) of the good-hearted neighbor Charley marks him as a clear outsider. (Williams is excellent in the part.) And Biff and Happy’s take on trash-talking, no less than Linda’s maternal don’t-cross-me commandments — “Attention must be finally paid!” — awakens lines you’ve heard innumerable times, asserting their implacable realness.André De Shields, in a terrifying performance, plays the ghost of Willy’s older brother, Ben.Sara Krulwich/The New York TimesThat awakening reaches a theatrical climax in André De Shields’s terrifying performance as the ghost of Willy’s older brother, Ben. Though dressed like Liberace in a white suit and crystal-studded shoes — the costumes are by Fleischle and Sarita Fellows — he makes every utterance sound like an elaborate curse. When he warns Biff not to “fight fair with a stranger, boy. You’ll never get out of the jungle that way,” he puts such a troubling spin on the words “boy” and “jungle” that you feel you should duck.But what works to ground and intensify the performances does not always work for the production overall. Cromwell’s use of expressionistic devices like silhouettes and frozen poses to suggest Willy’s fragmenting consciousness seems obvious and unmoored, an intrusion of acquired Polaroid memories. And though the wistful music by Femi Temowo — including a beautiful spiritual-like setting of “When the Trumpets Sound” — sets the mood for the impending tragedy, it confuses the tone when used for comic effect, or worse, solace. There is no solace in “Salesman.”In general, the balance of light and dark in this very dark play does not yet feel natural. Biff and Happy, in Willy’s memory, are not just boyish, but clichés of boyishness; aiming to solve this textual problem by underlining it, Cromwell’s direction makes it worse. On the other hand, Willy himself is often so unrelievedly monstrous that you sometimes can’t see past it to the monstrosity of American business that Miller means to indict.Yet nothing can stop the engine of the final scenes, sparking and huffing and pushing the play into great drama. As the lies that bind at last come undone, we see each of the trapped family members liberated to choose life or death or a combination thereof. (The play’s last words, after all, are “We’re free.”) They have nothing left to sell. If you believe, as Nichols said in 2012, that “now everyone in America is a salesman,” you may even feel a shiver of recognition. Made new and unfamiliar once again in this production, the Lomans look like all of us.Death of a SalesmanThrough Jan. 15 at the Hudson Theater, Manhattan; salesmanonbroadway.com. Running time: 3 hours 10 minutes. More