If you're a single woman dating in New York (and, well, anywhere), it's a sure bet that at some point you'll run into a "playa." This type of man is also known as a rascal, a scoundrel, a user, a deceiver, "the name that shall not be spoken" or all of the above. And while these definitions are clear, realizing that the blue-eyed devil who keeps "forgetting" to return your calls is a creature of this species, is not. And often, this is not due to some malfunction in womanly radar or unconscious desire to be hurt, but instead because of the slippery nature of many a playa. They can be sexy, fun and usually have some endearing, vulnerable underbelly, too. And here's the conundrum: A playa is inevitably a bad candidate for dating, but is not necessarily a completely putrid human being. George Clooney, anyone?
The character of a playa hasn't become a source of interest only recently. It's been the subject of many classic books and movies, and of the musical Pal Joey, originally on Broadway in 1940. In the current production of this classic Rodgers and Hart show at Studio 54, the studied specimen is Joey Evans, a handsome, silk-tongued, starry-eyed hoofer looking to set up his own nightclub in Chicago in the late 1930s. After leaving countless towns and women behind in his wake, he sets up shop at a little lounge in Chicago, hoping to make it big with chorus girls and a song-and-dance show in tow. It seems that Joey's dreams of headlining at his own boite will come to fruition with the help of jaded cougar Vera Simpson who takes him on as a fit accessory. But between her affection and his newfound feelings for innocent shopgirl Linda English, this playa has a hard time fitting in all that playing and keeping his head on straight.
Although the plot is vintage, this production is given pop and sizzle from knockout choreography by jazz master Graciela Daniele, tight direction from Joe Mantello and a brushed up book from Richard Greenberg (based on the original by John O'Hara).
Of the three, Daniele's touches adds the most sparkle and punch, and makes this show a dance-lover's favorite. Whereas many preludes include only orchestrations, after Joey appears in a tunnel of light with his travelling-man fedora, an entire dancescape unfolds onstage from the get go. With a ballet underpinning, Daniele weaves in swirling turns and kicks, plus jutting Charleston moves. And it's all grounded by Jack Cole-esque suavity and masculinity. Her creativity is captured best in "You Mustn't Kick It Around" where the club's showgirls transform into gangster men, sliding and slinking in zoot suits. Each step and hip bump help create the glamorous, shady ambiance of the speakeasy era.
On top of the background visuals offered by the fabulous dancers, the show's best assets include stunner performances from leading-lady divine Stockard Channing, theater chameleon Martha Plimpton and newcomer Matthew Risch. In her role as lonely, lovely Vera, Channing puts all the components together in an effortless way to sketch Vera's aching, listless life. Her chords aren't as tuned as they were when she crooned "There Are Worse Things I Could Do" in Grease. But when singing the favorite "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered" Channing strums each note with honesty and passion. It just goes to show, all those acting teachers were right: Tell the story in the song, feel what you are singing and the sound is sometimes secondary. Plus with stems worthy of a thirty year old, and the unmatched ability to deliver zingers, Channing remains one of the great divas of today.
Martha Plimpton proves she is right up there with her in a shocking turn from her usual dramatic roles. As Gladys Bumps, a ballsy cabaret singer who has it out for Joey, Plimpton proves she can play low just as well as high. If you've seen Plimpton in any production recently, you know she can act the hell out of anything. So it's her singing that makes jaws drop even more this time. Belting out tunes like the striptease "Zip," her brassy, full voice is steady and powerful, and she seems completely comfortable in her singer role.
But it's Matthew Risch who must get the lion's share of admiration. Originally he was an understudy for Broadway star Christian Hoff. But Risch was thrust into the big leagues when Hoff injured his foot and left the production. Because the piece is clearly Joey's show, this was a huge pass off. But Risch strutted, sneaked and swaggered with a confidence worthy of a seasoned leading man. Yes, he sweat barrels through the amorous "I Could Write a Book" in response to hoofing his way through the first ten minutes of the show. But, as a steady showman, he simply wiped it away while singing and remaining engaged the entire time. His fancy footwork stays afloat too with real dancing chops easy to see in Daniele's choreography. But mostly, it's Risch's way of striking that tough balance between making the audience feel "I love him, I hate him, I love him, I hate him" that is so winning. And a bod that won't quit and eyes that pout with the best of them doesn't hurt either.
True, the story isn't as complex or lofty as theatergoers might hope for, and this makes for moments when the plot ambles and the actors must make do with old-fashioned reasoning. And yes, this is reflected in an audience that can remember the songs from the original version. But somehow, where elsewhere this throwback feeling might be musty and cloying, here it's charming and nostalgic, helping this solid production do well on its own traveling-man legs.
Pal Joey
Rating: Excellent
Studio 54
Roundabout Theatre Company
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
10 Downing
When I first moved to New York, one of my very favorite things to do was just stroll. It didn't matter where--the West Village, Upper East Side, Union Square. I wanted to discover every block and corner. I loved happening upon a vintage store with an ancient chihuahua as the mascot (Eva's in the East Village), or wandering into the middle of a drum circle in Washington Square (well for about one minute at least). For those first sweet months it really did seem like everything and anything was possible in New York. Many days I still feel that way.
It wasn't until I'd lived in NYC for six months that I realized there was another reason I loved these walks so much: If you take a moment to look up and across the sidewalk, people's lives present themselves from the small peepholes of windows. Although I'm not a voyeuristic person usually, these rectangles fascinated me---and still do. Paper flowers taped to panes, a huge tree squashed in a living room corner or a bookcase bending from the weight of tomes all speak of the different lives that are crammed in this city. What gets me even more is the innovation and creativity needed to use each and every inch of teensy or oddly-shaped apartments.
After five years I've now visited the inside of a huge array of homes in New York---from gigantic lofts and proper townhouses to disgusting studios and worn-in walk-ups---and the windows are as good inside as out in speaking to the unique personality and fervent individuality that defines NYC for me.
Point being, this sort of glimpse into someone's eccentric, personal taste is what visiting Chef Jason Neroni's (with consultant Katy Sparks') new spot 10 Downing feels like. It's full of the personal touches and quirky aesthetics that I liken to a close, artsy friend's impressive, but comfortable, apartment. Maybe this feeling hit me because of the art smorgasbord on the walls. In the cheese-wedge shaped space, the wall hangings range from pastel hued portraits to modern sketches and old movie posters.
While the barrage of color is lovely, entering 10 Downing is a seriously unwelcoming aspect of the whole set up. Because of the triangular room, the entrance is set on Downing street where a few stairs and a squeaky door lead you straight to the maitre 'd podium. This would be fine except once there, you are caught in a complete bottle-neck. On your right is a hallway down to the kitchen invariably clogged with busy bussers while to your left is the slim bar invariably packed with handsome customers. A short glass partition separates this mess of a commotion from the main dining area. Once you have crossed over, the rest of the night is mostly a joy. But these few (or on a weekend night, many) hectic moments are enough to snap any neurotic New Yorker's nerves.
Fortunately the staff have the homey and accommodating vibe down, and once you take a seat at one of the sleek wooden tables with a thatched place mat in front of you, you're in for an enjoyable experience. There are missteps for sure, but at his newest endeavor, serious Neroni shows he knows how to impress, but remembers to have fun, too.
First on the plate are fluffy rolls with treats of rosemary tucked throughout and they are perfect for ripping and dipping in olive oil as you glance through the menu. If you want to have Neroni's best right off the bat, the ocean trout tartar is uber-fresh with tangy mustard seeds. The pop of the seeds with the slick fish is invigorating and a cool take on a classic.
The blue spot prawns a la plancha are a similarly simple taste treat with a punch from thoughtful condiments. The plump critters are cooked just enough to leave them with a healthy snap and dressed with garlic olives and valencia oranges. The citrus surprise lightens the herbacious slick and reminds me of swaying palms somewhere tropical.
Squid ink agnolotti are another seafood hit with luscious, dark pasta filled with sugary peekytoe crabmeat. The packets swim in a tomato and lemon butter bath with a tiny wallop from a dash of chili. Keep a rosemary roll handy for soaking this sauce up.
The roasted brussel sprouts with soft boiled egg and parmesan are a redo of the breakfast trend that's landing on many menus. The leaves are crispy and the anchovy vinaigrette did add some great saltiness, but after the seaside wonders, this dish simply garnered a quiet smile. If you want a tastier, light option, try the hearty beet salad with picon blue cheese and onions. While a beet-and-cheese item is usually pretty standard fare for New American joints, grapefruit enlivens what might be a dud elsewhere.
From the entrees, carnivores, veggies and pescatores have equal footing. If you want a swimmer, the montauk fluke is the real heavyweight. It's actually the most decadent of all the mains---nice for a fish to be getting so much attention! The unexpectedly huge flavor is thanks not only to the perfectly cooked, flaky flesh, but also a silky leek puree accessorized with nobs of dense chanterelles. It's a desert of a dinner.
The gnocchi are another on Neroni's calorie-splurge list (and fully worth it). The lumps of potato are barely held together and melt with just one chew. They bob in a puree of butternut squash that's also equal parts sardinian sheep's cheese. Chunks of the orange vegetable serve as a reminder that this dish has one healthy component for good measure. This mushy yumminess might not be intended for daily health, but it rivals the fluke in lick-the-plate award.
The bison steak is less impressive. While it's cooked well with juiciness to boot, the red salsa drizzle and green salsa condiment left me puzzled. Both items masked the bison's inherently musky, wonderful flavor. While I love that Neroni has decided to use the health-conscious beef alternative, I'd definitely opt for the fattier, well-cooked lamb. Although the loin and chop are seasoned with restraint, the punch is in details here. Chickpea panisses, small squares of the mashed bean, are addictive and salty and friends with some tangy cubes of feta cheese. All together in a bite, the lamb gets the zing it needs. And if you just want some comfort, the roasted chicken with lemon, almond panzanella and arugula does the trick without a yawn of boredom.
After a dinner spent smiling at the food, walls and bustling scene of the 10 Downing home, you might think it too good to be true for dessert to measure up. And while the espresso semifredo is too self-conscious with kumkwat strands, the grown-up PB&J choice is jaw-dropping tasty. Logs of challah bread are toasted and coated in cinnamon and sugar. They're ready to be dipped in home made peanut butter gelato and jam. Eat the parts separately or get back to your childhood and make a sandwich TDF.
With each bite of this dessert I enjoyed what the 10 Downing team was going for: Clear flavors, use of technique and balance for sure. But also, it's a nod to feeling cozy and at home in a city way. Although it doesn't always quite end up this way, on its best nights 10 Downing is able to be a hotspot and neighborhood joint all at the same time. Case in point: While Anne Burrell stopped by to cheek-kiss her friends, I felt just as comfortable with my friends at my own table.
What a nice window.
10 Downing
Rating: Excellent
10 Downing St. at 6th Avenue
212.255.0300
It wasn't until I'd lived in NYC for six months that I realized there was another reason I loved these walks so much: If you take a moment to look up and across the sidewalk, people's lives present themselves from the small peepholes of windows. Although I'm not a voyeuristic person usually, these rectangles fascinated me---and still do. Paper flowers taped to panes, a huge tree squashed in a living room corner or a bookcase bending from the weight of tomes all speak of the different lives that are crammed in this city. What gets me even more is the innovation and creativity needed to use each and every inch of teensy or oddly-shaped apartments.
After five years I've now visited the inside of a huge array of homes in New York---from gigantic lofts and proper townhouses to disgusting studios and worn-in walk-ups---and the windows are as good inside as out in speaking to the unique personality and fervent individuality that defines NYC for me.
Point being, this sort of glimpse into someone's eccentric, personal taste is what visiting Chef Jason Neroni's (with consultant Katy Sparks') new spot 10 Downing feels like. It's full of the personal touches and quirky aesthetics that I liken to a close, artsy friend's impressive, but comfortable, apartment. Maybe this feeling hit me because of the art smorgasbord on the walls. In the cheese-wedge shaped space, the wall hangings range from pastel hued portraits to modern sketches and old movie posters.
While the barrage of color is lovely, entering 10 Downing is a seriously unwelcoming aspect of the whole set up. Because of the triangular room, the entrance is set on Downing street where a few stairs and a squeaky door lead you straight to the maitre 'd podium. This would be fine except once there, you are caught in a complete bottle-neck. On your right is a hallway down to the kitchen invariably clogged with busy bussers while to your left is the slim bar invariably packed with handsome customers. A short glass partition separates this mess of a commotion from the main dining area. Once you have crossed over, the rest of the night is mostly a joy. But these few (or on a weekend night, many) hectic moments are enough to snap any neurotic New Yorker's nerves.
Fortunately the staff have the homey and accommodating vibe down, and once you take a seat at one of the sleek wooden tables with a thatched place mat in front of you, you're in for an enjoyable experience. There are missteps for sure, but at his newest endeavor, serious Neroni shows he knows how to impress, but remembers to have fun, too.
First on the plate are fluffy rolls with treats of rosemary tucked throughout and they are perfect for ripping and dipping in olive oil as you glance through the menu. If you want to have Neroni's best right off the bat, the ocean trout tartar is uber-fresh with tangy mustard seeds. The pop of the seeds with the slick fish is invigorating and a cool take on a classic.
The blue spot prawns a la plancha are a similarly simple taste treat with a punch from thoughtful condiments. The plump critters are cooked just enough to leave them with a healthy snap and dressed with garlic olives and valencia oranges. The citrus surprise lightens the herbacious slick and reminds me of swaying palms somewhere tropical.
Squid ink agnolotti are another seafood hit with luscious, dark pasta filled with sugary peekytoe crabmeat. The packets swim in a tomato and lemon butter bath with a tiny wallop from a dash of chili. Keep a rosemary roll handy for soaking this sauce up.
The roasted brussel sprouts with soft boiled egg and parmesan are a redo of the breakfast trend that's landing on many menus. The leaves are crispy and the anchovy vinaigrette did add some great saltiness, but after the seaside wonders, this dish simply garnered a quiet smile. If you want a tastier, light option, try the hearty beet salad with picon blue cheese and onions. While a beet-and-cheese item is usually pretty standard fare for New American joints, grapefruit enlivens what might be a dud elsewhere.
From the entrees, carnivores, veggies and pescatores have equal footing. If you want a swimmer, the montauk fluke is the real heavyweight. It's actually the most decadent of all the mains---nice for a fish to be getting so much attention! The unexpectedly huge flavor is thanks not only to the perfectly cooked, flaky flesh, but also a silky leek puree accessorized with nobs of dense chanterelles. It's a desert of a dinner.
The gnocchi are another on Neroni's calorie-splurge list (and fully worth it). The lumps of potato are barely held together and melt with just one chew. They bob in a puree of butternut squash that's also equal parts sardinian sheep's cheese. Chunks of the orange vegetable serve as a reminder that this dish has one healthy component for good measure. This mushy yumminess might not be intended for daily health, but it rivals the fluke in lick-the-plate award.
The bison steak is less impressive. While it's cooked well with juiciness to boot, the red salsa drizzle and green salsa condiment left me puzzled. Both items masked the bison's inherently musky, wonderful flavor. While I love that Neroni has decided to use the health-conscious beef alternative, I'd definitely opt for the fattier, well-cooked lamb. Although the loin and chop are seasoned with restraint, the punch is in details here. Chickpea panisses, small squares of the mashed bean, are addictive and salty and friends with some tangy cubes of feta cheese. All together in a bite, the lamb gets the zing it needs. And if you just want some comfort, the roasted chicken with lemon, almond panzanella and arugula does the trick without a yawn of boredom.
After a dinner spent smiling at the food, walls and bustling scene of the 10 Downing home, you might think it too good to be true for dessert to measure up. And while the espresso semifredo is too self-conscious with kumkwat strands, the grown-up PB&J choice is jaw-dropping tasty. Logs of challah bread are toasted and coated in cinnamon and sugar. They're ready to be dipped in home made peanut butter gelato and jam. Eat the parts separately or get back to your childhood and make a sandwich TDF.
With each bite of this dessert I enjoyed what the 10 Downing team was going for: Clear flavors, use of technique and balance for sure. But also, it's a nod to feeling cozy and at home in a city way. Although it doesn't always quite end up this way, on its best nights 10 Downing is able to be a hotspot and neighborhood joint all at the same time. Case in point: While Anne Burrell stopped by to cheek-kiss her friends, I felt just as comfortable with my friends at my own table.
What a nice window.
10 Downing
Rating: Excellent
10 Downing St. at 6th Avenue
212.255.0300
Monday, December 15, 2008
Blackwatch
First off, I have to apologize. It's rare that I see a TDF performance and sit on writing about it. Usually I'm bursting to describe and gush about the show, and also immediately encourage others to go see it, too. But after attending the beyond-phenomenal performance of Gregory Burke's Blackwatch presented by the National Theatre of Scotland at St. Ann's Warehouse in Brooklyn, an odd thing happened: I was left wordless. I was stricken by the incredible artistry and thought set forth onstage concerning not only the elite Blackwatch platoon's time in Iraq, but also the entire war and its horrific trappings. So, before I go on: Go see Blackwatch. Now. It is only open for another week.
Perhaps my procrastination was anchored by the fact that my ex-boyfriend/very old friend is now serving as a U.S. Marine in Iraq and I think about his well-being often. I wonder what he is doing, if he is alright and if he will be okay afterward. Or maybe it was that war as a concept has always seemed putrid and ridiculous to me. And likely it was also because the cast's commitment, talent and insights were so inspiring that I wanted to give this rare performance space to be fully digested.
So now that I have (digested that is), I can try to express what's so enthralling, inspiring and incredible about this piece in words other than....WOW. To begin, the history of the Blackwatch platoon is an intriguing one with roots hundreds of years old. An elite force from Scotland, this league was called on in many wars, beaten back countlessly, but also feared just as often. They were sent to Iraq as a supplement to the British Army. After much controversy, however, in 2004 the group was renamed as part of the larger British military. While this officially disconnected the group from their heritage, the "golden thread" of the Blackwatch name remained intact through pride between fathers and sons, and most importantly, between mates.
Instead of simply hearing about the stories of the collective group and individuals through straight narrative, the audience meets the soldiers in a pub back home post-mission, as well as in flashbacks in Iraq. And here is where the piece truly shines. Not only is each character fully developed--from the surly but lovable captain down to the twitchy novice--but their stories are also told in a multi-media collage in a unique setting. The audience sits on rows of bleachers along the long sides of the warehouse, creating a tunnel of a stage in the middle. The lean playing space is bookended with scaffolding used for speeches, projections and singing. Props are used in creative ways: The pub's pool table serves as a war vehicle, dancing ground and bizarre coffin. While the piece starts out referencing itself (the show was crafted based on words and experiences of the real Blackwatch soldiers on this mission in Iraq) as the reporter comes to the pub, it soon flips to time in Iraq. Surround-sound makes fly-by bombers all the more real, as the audience is thrashed from one time and place to the next. But it all works seamlessly because none of the intricate transitions are unnecessary or thoughtless. Plus, this sort of lightning snap echoes what the soldiers speak of: in Iraq, they sit and wait, and then in a moment, get pummeled with air raids and must be alert and razor-sharp.
Another spectacular facet is the show's use of both song and movement, as created by the entire cast along with the associate directors of each, Davey Anderson and Steven Hoggett, respectively. From traditional Scottish bagpipes to rollicking renditions of Scottish folk tunes, each musical bit captures the pride and fury of the young soldiers who feel they are not really doing the job they were hired to do--fighting--and instead are simply bullying. Intense marching drills with complicated, angular dance sequences are also effective. They are precise, exact and teeming with the braced tension of the young men in a land of hell.
Even more innovative are two mesmerizing movement scenes: In one, one of the group's trusted leaders, Cammy (played by the steady, wonderful Paul Rattray), walks the audiences through the lengthy history of Blackwatch as linked to the clan's uniforms. As he speaks, the cast dresses and undresses Cammy in each get-up through lifts, jumps and rolls. It's a pretty phenomenal quick-change dance.
The most touching and powerful use of choreography is during mail call, the soldiers' one real link to a life waiting at home. All together onstage, the men stand separately, each in his own private moment of longing and pain. Through quiet hand gestures and body shapes, their simple movements ache with despair, and sometimes even hope.
Both in the pub and in the Iraq scenes, the audience sees how fragile the soldiers' calm is. While they joke and play (one scene is a particularly humorous explanation of how any "piece of paper" looks official and is therefore an easy pass out of annoying duties), a tiny catalyst can cause a breakdown of morale, and even cause fighting between the men. And it is in this weakened core, beneath steel training and dirty mouths, that the audience is taken on a ride to see pain, suffering and struggle from the inside out.
Watching this piece is painful and uncomfortable at times, joyous and celebratory at others. Where other "war" pieces only focus on the fighting, Blackwatch is able to highlight this aspect, and also create moments that reveal the man inside the soldier. And, the cast and creative team, directed magnificently by John Tiffany, have found a way to do so with humility, strength, and even beauty.
A piece with creative breadth unlike I've seen before and the power to explore war in a new way, Blackwatch is theater at its very best.
Blackwatch
Rating: To Die For
St. Ann's Warehouse
718.254.8779
Perhaps my procrastination was anchored by the fact that my ex-boyfriend/very old friend is now serving as a U.S. Marine in Iraq and I think about his well-being often. I wonder what he is doing, if he is alright and if he will be okay afterward. Or maybe it was that war as a concept has always seemed putrid and ridiculous to me. And likely it was also because the cast's commitment, talent and insights were so inspiring that I wanted to give this rare performance space to be fully digested.
So now that I have (digested that is), I can try to express what's so enthralling, inspiring and incredible about this piece in words other than....WOW. To begin, the history of the Blackwatch platoon is an intriguing one with roots hundreds of years old. An elite force from Scotland, this league was called on in many wars, beaten back countlessly, but also feared just as often. They were sent to Iraq as a supplement to the British Army. After much controversy, however, in 2004 the group was renamed as part of the larger British military. While this officially disconnected the group from their heritage, the "golden thread" of the Blackwatch name remained intact through pride between fathers and sons, and most importantly, between mates.
Instead of simply hearing about the stories of the collective group and individuals through straight narrative, the audience meets the soldiers in a pub back home post-mission, as well as in flashbacks in Iraq. And here is where the piece truly shines. Not only is each character fully developed--from the surly but lovable captain down to the twitchy novice--but their stories are also told in a multi-media collage in a unique setting. The audience sits on rows of bleachers along the long sides of the warehouse, creating a tunnel of a stage in the middle. The lean playing space is bookended with scaffolding used for speeches, projections and singing. Props are used in creative ways: The pub's pool table serves as a war vehicle, dancing ground and bizarre coffin. While the piece starts out referencing itself (the show was crafted based on words and experiences of the real Blackwatch soldiers on this mission in Iraq) as the reporter comes to the pub, it soon flips to time in Iraq. Surround-sound makes fly-by bombers all the more real, as the audience is thrashed from one time and place to the next. But it all works seamlessly because none of the intricate transitions are unnecessary or thoughtless. Plus, this sort of lightning snap echoes what the soldiers speak of: in Iraq, they sit and wait, and then in a moment, get pummeled with air raids and must be alert and razor-sharp.
Another spectacular facet is the show's use of both song and movement, as created by the entire cast along with the associate directors of each, Davey Anderson and Steven Hoggett, respectively. From traditional Scottish bagpipes to rollicking renditions of Scottish folk tunes, each musical bit captures the pride and fury of the young soldiers who feel they are not really doing the job they were hired to do--fighting--and instead are simply bullying. Intense marching drills with complicated, angular dance sequences are also effective. They are precise, exact and teeming with the braced tension of the young men in a land of hell.
Even more innovative are two mesmerizing movement scenes: In one, one of the group's trusted leaders, Cammy (played by the steady, wonderful Paul Rattray), walks the audiences through the lengthy history of Blackwatch as linked to the clan's uniforms. As he speaks, the cast dresses and undresses Cammy in each get-up through lifts, jumps and rolls. It's a pretty phenomenal quick-change dance.
The most touching and powerful use of choreography is during mail call, the soldiers' one real link to a life waiting at home. All together onstage, the men stand separately, each in his own private moment of longing and pain. Through quiet hand gestures and body shapes, their simple movements ache with despair, and sometimes even hope.
Both in the pub and in the Iraq scenes, the audience sees how fragile the soldiers' calm is. While they joke and play (one scene is a particularly humorous explanation of how any "piece of paper" looks official and is therefore an easy pass out of annoying duties), a tiny catalyst can cause a breakdown of morale, and even cause fighting between the men. And it is in this weakened core, beneath steel training and dirty mouths, that the audience is taken on a ride to see pain, suffering and struggle from the inside out.
Watching this piece is painful and uncomfortable at times, joyous and celebratory at others. Where other "war" pieces only focus on the fighting, Blackwatch is able to highlight this aspect, and also create moments that reveal the man inside the soldier. And, the cast and creative team, directed magnificently by John Tiffany, have found a way to do so with humility, strength, and even beauty.
A piece with creative breadth unlike I've seen before and the power to explore war in a new way, Blackwatch is theater at its very best.
Blackwatch
Rating: To Die For
St. Ann's Warehouse
718.254.8779
Monday, December 8, 2008
Terroir
After trekking through some disappointing wine-bar terrain, every time I visit Terroir on East 12th street, I enjoy one of those satisfied sighs...especially when I get my favorite seat by the floor-to-ceiling window. The addition to Marco Canora's holdings (which includes Hearth and Insieme) has a huge wine selection courtesy of sommelier extraordinaire Paul Grieco and embodies a pensive, but not stuffy mood. It also has a gourmet-happy underpinning that makes you want to drink just one more glass, smile quietly, and instead of rushing to your next Manhattan duty, enjoy your time there instead.
Props to the DJ here, as well: Jimmy Hendrix, the Shins and Miles Davis often pump overhead at this gourmand’s answer to a laid-back happy hour. With just enough seats for a couple of girls’ night parties, laid-back dates and wine dilettantes, the warm atmosphere and cramped physical space decrease the possibility that it will be totally overtaken by the glitterati who usually descend upon newer joints. Maybe Canora and Grieco are not happy about this, but I am.
Although the wine is the star of this spot (the name refers to geographical influences of a wine that inform its flavor), the food definitely holds its own. For a full night of drinking, try the incredible veal and ricotta meatballs. You aren’t dreaming: The cheese is IN the meatball. And, they are the size of your fist and the tomato sauce tastes like an Italian Mama is hiding in a cabinet of the makeshift kitchen in the corner. You will want to eat these every day, probably for both lunch and dinner.
The fatty slab of pork blade also soaks up libations quite well, although the particularly hammy flavor of this cut can be overwhelming in its salt quotient. While the duck-ham with taleggio panini is bland, the radicchio and mozzarella choice is drippy in that delicious sizzling cheese way—a less gluttonous pizza. Or try the lamb proscuitto panini. The gaminess of the meat slices are tempered by pickled, acidic sunchokes and a punch from spicy arugula. It's a surprising combination that's ultra satisfying.
Zesty sage leaves stuffed with lamb sausages are a Mediterranean delight and you can finish the meal with a makeshift dessert of the super-sweet beet and risotto balls. While I was disappointed with them as a savory dish, when I bit into the chewy round, I realized they just needed a label shift. The crispy outside tastes more like a sweet donut than breading, but really, what’s bad about that?
Terroir also offers standbys like charcuterie, cut thin and served with oily olives and a lovely cheese selection. Heavenly Boucheron and fatty salami are a TDF combo.
Once you’ve made sure you're adequately and surprisingly well-fed, you’ll be ready to turn your attention to the dizzying, fantasy wine list...the main attraction. In keeping with the “let’s learn about and love wine in an unintimidating way," the menus are popped into school-binders, covered in adolescent scribbles and stickers. While this might be a nauseating gimmick at other places, the staff’s pleasant assistance negates any snarky comments that might be forming on your lips.
Choices by the glass are offered in full doses or in dabbles of 3 ounces. I always veer towards the sampling sizes, as my alcohol tolerance is low but my taste tolerance is high; I’ve made it through much of the selection of whites by the half glass—not a bad idea to try out all that the extensive list covers, although you might want to take more than one night to do so.
Over the summer, the spot featured an astounding choice of Reislings and you can always find a couple superb selections of them on the list. Another winner is the tangy 2008 Bukettraube. It flies through tons of fruit from grapefruit and melon to more tropical types...maybe mango? Although a floral Jurancon Sec is a bit too heavy, the Hungarian Tokaj (tocai) is luscious with more honey-suckle depth than I've tasted in the Venetian versions.
Reds by the glass play the same wide-range game, with a scope from a peppery Pinot Noir, to a jammy Crozes-Hermitage. Bottom out with the heavenly and complex Chatneuf du Pape. It rides a wave starting with cherry notes that open into a soft hit of spice and finishes round and clean. Or the Barolo is a velvety glass with intense dimension and heavy fruit. But save these two for nights when you can really concentrate on them: A whole glass is better for the heavy hitters.
If you aren't in the mood for wine, flavorful and balanced cocktails, mostly by mixologist Marshall Altier are spot on with bases of wine that still fill a tumbler. The Terroir Loire is especially punchy and fragrant with Bourgueil, Lavender, grapefruit bitters and sparkling Vouvray.
Bottles are even more diverse than glasses and tastes, and hilarious, informative tidbits and anecdotes accompany the notes in the school-binder. And, each time you return, with the help of the servers who are willing to really get into a discussion, with fun stories about suppliers, grape varieties and their own favorites, you might start to understand--and, gasp, enjoy-- "terroir" as a concept.
Need some reading material? Want to learn about your tipple? This is the spot. And it hits the spot.
Terroir
Rating: Excellent
Address: 413 East 12th St.
Phone: 646.602.1300
Props to the DJ here, as well: Jimmy Hendrix, the Shins and Miles Davis often pump overhead at this gourmand’s answer to a laid-back happy hour. With just enough seats for a couple of girls’ night parties, laid-back dates and wine dilettantes, the warm atmosphere and cramped physical space decrease the possibility that it will be totally overtaken by the glitterati who usually descend upon newer joints. Maybe Canora and Grieco are not happy about this, but I am.
Although the wine is the star of this spot (the name refers to geographical influences of a wine that inform its flavor), the food definitely holds its own. For a full night of drinking, try the incredible veal and ricotta meatballs. You aren’t dreaming: The cheese is IN the meatball. And, they are the size of your fist and the tomato sauce tastes like an Italian Mama is hiding in a cabinet of the makeshift kitchen in the corner. You will want to eat these every day, probably for both lunch and dinner.
The fatty slab of pork blade also soaks up libations quite well, although the particularly hammy flavor of this cut can be overwhelming in its salt quotient. While the duck-ham with taleggio panini is bland, the radicchio and mozzarella choice is drippy in that delicious sizzling cheese way—a less gluttonous pizza. Or try the lamb proscuitto panini. The gaminess of the meat slices are tempered by pickled, acidic sunchokes and a punch from spicy arugula. It's a surprising combination that's ultra satisfying.
Zesty sage leaves stuffed with lamb sausages are a Mediterranean delight and you can finish the meal with a makeshift dessert of the super-sweet beet and risotto balls. While I was disappointed with them as a savory dish, when I bit into the chewy round, I realized they just needed a label shift. The crispy outside tastes more like a sweet donut than breading, but really, what’s bad about that?
Terroir also offers standbys like charcuterie, cut thin and served with oily olives and a lovely cheese selection. Heavenly Boucheron and fatty salami are a TDF combo.
Once you’ve made sure you're adequately and surprisingly well-fed, you’ll be ready to turn your attention to the dizzying, fantasy wine list...the main attraction. In keeping with the “let’s learn about and love wine in an unintimidating way," the menus are popped into school-binders, covered in adolescent scribbles and stickers. While this might be a nauseating gimmick at other places, the staff’s pleasant assistance negates any snarky comments that might be forming on your lips.
Choices by the glass are offered in full doses or in dabbles of 3 ounces. I always veer towards the sampling sizes, as my alcohol tolerance is low but my taste tolerance is high; I’ve made it through much of the selection of whites by the half glass—not a bad idea to try out all that the extensive list covers, although you might want to take more than one night to do so.
Over the summer, the spot featured an astounding choice of Reislings and you can always find a couple superb selections of them on the list. Another winner is the tangy 2008 Bukettraube. It flies through tons of fruit from grapefruit and melon to more tropical types...maybe mango? Although a floral Jurancon Sec is a bit too heavy, the Hungarian Tokaj (tocai) is luscious with more honey-suckle depth than I've tasted in the Venetian versions.
Reds by the glass play the same wide-range game, with a scope from a peppery Pinot Noir, to a jammy Crozes-Hermitage. Bottom out with the heavenly and complex Chatneuf du Pape. It rides a wave starting with cherry notes that open into a soft hit of spice and finishes round and clean. Or the Barolo is a velvety glass with intense dimension and heavy fruit. But save these two for nights when you can really concentrate on them: A whole glass is better for the heavy hitters.
If you aren't in the mood for wine, flavorful and balanced cocktails, mostly by mixologist Marshall Altier are spot on with bases of wine that still fill a tumbler. The Terroir Loire is especially punchy and fragrant with Bourgueil, Lavender, grapefruit bitters and sparkling Vouvray.
Bottles are even more diverse than glasses and tastes, and hilarious, informative tidbits and anecdotes accompany the notes in the school-binder. And, each time you return, with the help of the servers who are willing to really get into a discussion, with fun stories about suppliers, grape varieties and their own favorites, you might start to understand--and, gasp, enjoy-- "terroir" as a concept.
Need some reading material? Want to learn about your tipple? This is the spot. And it hits the spot.
Terroir
Rating: Excellent
Address: 413 East 12th St.
Phone: 646.602.1300
Monday, December 1, 2008
Speed the Plow
In the single Meisner-technique acting class I ever took, I learned the "Repetition Exercise." In it, two actors face each other and repeat a phrase back and forth, with its meaning, tone, volume and intensity changing as the practice progresses. It's bizarre. But it can also be helpful, stripping away layers that build upon language to reveal the subtext beneath banal exchanges. By the end of the session, repeating "It's nice out today" with my partner offering"I don't think so" in response, I was laughing hysterically. Basically, it can make you feel manic and on hyper-speed, or like you're clawing your way through salt water.
Watching the fantastic-with-a-frantic-underbelly revival of David Mamet's Speed the Plow at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre, I wondered if the cast had tried this exercise, too: Their coke-paced, subtext-heavy take on the play took keen cues from this type of work out. Mamet's nasty but insightful piece takes on Hollywood (or perhaps American in general), the morals (or lack there of) respected as law and the relationship between sex and power, not to mention the souls caught in between. In signature Mamet fashion, his foul-mouthed wit and steely view of humanity strike a disturbing chord through ping-pong-rhythm dialogue and complicated character portraits.
The audience meets Bobby Gould (aptly-cast Jeremy Piven) in his office at a 1980s studio in Hollywood the morning after he's been promoted to head of production. Just in time to take advantage of Gould's new power, his trusty toadie Charlie Fox (the always-masterful Raul Esparza) finally has a bone Gould wants: a script linked with a famous, unattainable actor. The two jockey for respect, validation and triumph while Fox hopes to finally get payback for years of ass-kissing. That is until pert temp Karen (quirky Elisabeth Moss) struts in with innocence and optimism. Through an evening "meeting," she sways Gould away from the profitable but horrendous script toward what she deems a lofty one, though it's unappealing in doomsday prediction. Gould gets caught between a richer self and a better self and tries to grasp at ethics in a world where that terrain is slippery. The final scene finds him struggling between the two, with Karen on one shoulder, Fox on the other and Fox's maneuverings serving as the tie-breaker.
Dealing with this intensity is an exhausting task for the three handlers as they zip their way through mountains of emotion and tongue-twisting speeches. Fortunately, they tackle the challenge well, even though it takes a bit of time for their momentum to hit top speed. Piven's role is a close approximation to his TV character: As Ari Gold in "Entourage" on HBO, he treads the same line between charming and slimy that he perfects on stage. Although the cocky nuances, wide gait and questionable grin pretty much mimic Piven's choices on the small screen, considering the similarities of the characters I don't fault him for aligning the two versions. If Gould and Gold aren't twins, they're at least brothers.
Elisabeth Moss' squeaky-voiced, hopeful Karen is a quality riff on the secretary. Mamet's been known to write less-than-layered ladies, and Moss does a fine job of coloring what could turn into a carbon-copy ditz. Although her plea to Gould teeters on cloying, her earnest attempt to do good is indeed intoxicating. When her motives are questioned in the end, Moss' portrayal of an unwavering stance digs into the generalizations that are tossed about concerning sex, money, power and the interplay between them.
But most impressive (as is usually the case when he's in the cast) is Esparza's sly Fox. Although he has plenty of pandering compliments for Gould, Esparza plays the producer with an enraged bubbling that lies just beneath a cool, stiff exterior. Embodying a character that's used to being screwed in the end, his depraved desperation is palpable but contained—at least for most of the play. Tip toeing between the extremes of blissful and enraged, Esparza shows us what happens when a man is faced with his very last chance at success. No prisoners. And somehow, he finds that nugget of likability and understanding, even in a shark out for blood.
Neil Pepe's direction uses all three actors to their best advantage and keeps the pace tight and the characters physically close--a true powder keg, where a secretary holds a match.
In the last scene Mamet dismembers the concepts of right and wrong until you feel silly to have ever had hope or good faith. But, he, the cast and Pepe also do well in also leaving a fair amount of uncertainty. And this is what I find most impressive: Even while snarkiness and cold opportunism seem to have won the day, the possibility of a better choice still stands—even if it didn't win this time.
Speed the Plow
Rating: Excellent
Watching the fantastic-with-a-frantic-underbelly revival of David Mamet's Speed the Plow at the Ethel Barrymore Theatre, I wondered if the cast had tried this exercise, too: Their coke-paced, subtext-heavy take on the play took keen cues from this type of work out. Mamet's nasty but insightful piece takes on Hollywood (or perhaps American in general), the morals (or lack there of) respected as law and the relationship between sex and power, not to mention the souls caught in between. In signature Mamet fashion, his foul-mouthed wit and steely view of humanity strike a disturbing chord through ping-pong-rhythm dialogue and complicated character portraits.
The audience meets Bobby Gould (aptly-cast Jeremy Piven) in his office at a 1980s studio in Hollywood the morning after he's been promoted to head of production. Just in time to take advantage of Gould's new power, his trusty toadie Charlie Fox (the always-masterful Raul Esparza) finally has a bone Gould wants: a script linked with a famous, unattainable actor. The two jockey for respect, validation and triumph while Fox hopes to finally get payback for years of ass-kissing. That is until pert temp Karen (quirky Elisabeth Moss) struts in with innocence and optimism. Through an evening "meeting," she sways Gould away from the profitable but horrendous script toward what she deems a lofty one, though it's unappealing in doomsday prediction. Gould gets caught between a richer self and a better self and tries to grasp at ethics in a world where that terrain is slippery. The final scene finds him struggling between the two, with Karen on one shoulder, Fox on the other and Fox's maneuverings serving as the tie-breaker.
Dealing with this intensity is an exhausting task for the three handlers as they zip their way through mountains of emotion and tongue-twisting speeches. Fortunately, they tackle the challenge well, even though it takes a bit of time for their momentum to hit top speed. Piven's role is a close approximation to his TV character: As Ari Gold in "Entourage" on HBO, he treads the same line between charming and slimy that he perfects on stage. Although the cocky nuances, wide gait and questionable grin pretty much mimic Piven's choices on the small screen, considering the similarities of the characters I don't fault him for aligning the two versions. If Gould and Gold aren't twins, they're at least brothers.
Elisabeth Moss' squeaky-voiced, hopeful Karen is a quality riff on the secretary. Mamet's been known to write less-than-layered ladies, and Moss does a fine job of coloring what could turn into a carbon-copy ditz. Although her plea to Gould teeters on cloying, her earnest attempt to do good is indeed intoxicating. When her motives are questioned in the end, Moss' portrayal of an unwavering stance digs into the generalizations that are tossed about concerning sex, money, power and the interplay between them.
But most impressive (as is usually the case when he's in the cast) is Esparza's sly Fox. Although he has plenty of pandering compliments for Gould, Esparza plays the producer with an enraged bubbling that lies just beneath a cool, stiff exterior. Embodying a character that's used to being screwed in the end, his depraved desperation is palpable but contained—at least for most of the play. Tip toeing between the extremes of blissful and enraged, Esparza shows us what happens when a man is faced with his very last chance at success. No prisoners. And somehow, he finds that nugget of likability and understanding, even in a shark out for blood.
Neil Pepe's direction uses all three actors to their best advantage and keeps the pace tight and the characters physically close--a true powder keg, where a secretary holds a match.
In the last scene Mamet dismembers the concepts of right and wrong until you feel silly to have ever had hope or good faith. But, he, the cast and Pepe also do well in also leaving a fair amount of uncertainty. And this is what I find most impressive: Even while snarkiness and cold opportunism seem to have won the day, the possibility of a better choice still stands—even if it didn't win this time.
Speed the Plow
Rating: Excellent
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)