BLACKBIRD SINGING IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

From L to R, Director Kelli Bocock Natale, husband and
show mentor Joe Natale, Cast members Richard Lambert, Candice
Kogut, and blog author.


We closed BLACKBIRD last night.

The audiences were consistently enthusiastic and constant, although never a full house, there was rarely less than 30 patrons, more often as many as 40-45. The controversial subject of child molestation certainly kept some away.




From L to R in back, Kelli Bocock-Natale, Joe Natale, Richard Lambert, House Manager Tom Scahill, cast member Dolly Goodman, and Center, Candice Kogut.




At work, I put a flyer up on the company bulletin board advertising the play, and it was unceremoniously taken down after surviving there for several weeks. I suspect the well promoted theme of child molestation ruffled the feathers of the blue collar company I work for. Actually, I was surprised no one drew a rude mustache on the pic of Candice.

I always try to hustle people from work to come see a play I'm involved in. BLACKBIRD is the first time anyone actually showed up. How I wish I would have snapped a pic of my wonderful friend and co-worker Allison, and her three gorgeous daughters from Canissius College, who were dressed to the hilt, and came to Friday night's performance. They became emotionally and vocally involved in the show, just short of hissing the villainy of reformed child abductor, Peter.

The night before I could distinctly hear my brother in the audience mutter, "you bastard", when the drama of the play suggested the reformed child molester, was still molesting.

God bless my 79 year old mother who fawned over DUSTY SPRINGFIELD ... WITH YOU!, earlier this season, but was only disturbed by BLACKBIRD.

A lot of friends and relatives who would normally come to a show I'm with, declined the offer to watch a play concerning child molestation. It's understandable.

Only one scathing incident that I can account for during the production, aside from some minor cue flaws. Tom, the house manager and I were leaving the theatre in my car one night, I was backing out of a parking space, we were talking, when he suddenly started yelling and screaming. I'm thinking, "Why the hell are you screaming?" If he had verbalized his scream I would have understood I was about to hit a parked car.

and 'crunch!'.

'F'

Tom may argue that he clearly said "You are about to hit a parked car!".

Some minor damage. And some major damage. Certainly I didn't cause all that other damage to the door of the car!?? I took some pics and put a note on the car. Local residents came out of their boroughs and after asking if we were all right proceeded to take down my license plate number, and casually interrogate me. No I'm not drunk, oh civic duty, get back in your houses, can't you see I'm doing all I can about this?

So I'm worried all night and day that some opportunist is going to claim the damage was more severe than it was. In my worst paranoia, I pictured a minor evildoer making it a habit of parking his car exactly where it was, and certainly some a-hole from the theatre will back into it. That's where the other damage must have come from.

The next day, our lead actress, Candice said, "That was my car you hit." Thank god, I said.

Not to suggest Candice drives a greatly damaged car. But it was evident. My damage was a cute little bump by the headlight.

Our lead actor and Executive Director of The New Phoenix, Richard Lambert, and his partner Mark, threw us a party after the show at their place. They really know how to throw together a nice little romp, and I made it a point not to get so loaded I'd pass out on the floor of their bedroom, as I did at the last party. That time I was saved by their would be Saint Bernard, Buddy, who is actually a Basset Hound, who stubbornly licked me back to consciousness. No wooden keg of sherry to greet me, though. And, as it turned out, Joan, who I met at the last party, is not the sexy and gorgeous party girl that Richard and Mark hired to add flamboyance to any room she is in, but simply a neighbor of theirs. I would have wagered otherwise.

And gifts. Damn, I should have bought gifts. Richard gave me a very cool collectible mechanical wind-up robot, that now walks across my kitchen table. He said it was for my robotic-like skills at the boards, (Oh God, I wasn't fluid enough!). He couldn't possibly know that at age 6, I did NOT get the mechanical robot I had begged for at Christmas, and it has been a deep recessive psychosis in me ever since. And jeeze, our dear and talented juvenile actress Dolly Goodman, gave me a box of Antoinette's chocolates and a chocolate rose, that barely survived the ride home. Beer and chocolate, yummy!

And as I was walking out the door of the party, saying goodnight and waving goodbye, I then turned to go and walked directly into the bathroom. It reminded laughing Richard of an episode of the Norman Lear sitcom, MAUDE, (loved it), and that's when he told me Bea Arthur had just died.


God will get you for that, Walter.

TODAY'S DILIGENCE

Well, I think I'll go home and work on my play.

You're writing a play?

No, I'm reading one.

THE ODD COUPLE

I'm a member of The Springville Center For The Arts, and I've worked with both actors who play Felix and Oscar in their current production of THE ODD COUPLE, so I took a drive out on sunny Sunday to catch the show. I've also worked with the assistant director, the set designer, costume person, stage manager, the hostess who served the wine, the guy who gave me my ticket, someone who waved to me on the street, blah, blah, blah, - it's community theatre, where everyone's an usher, and a star at heart.
The Odd Couple, Dave Danielson, left, (Oscar Madison) and
Ted Pinneli, (Felix Unger)



The play was spirited and fun with a very able and enthusiastic cast charming a friendly and receptive full-house audience, (there had to be upwards of a hundred people in attendance!). Neil Simon's zingers were delivered with the aim of an archer; the direction, clear, crisp and lively; the set design - a bright and perfect picture of a bowling alley influenced bachelor pad circa 1960's, and those tiny finger sandwiches they served at intermission, (crab?), were as scrumptious as anything out of Felix Unger's kitchen.





Good show, guys! With cast members Sean Farrell, back right, and Gwendolyn and Cecily Pigeon.

NOTES ON STAGE MANAGING "BLACKBIRD" AT THE NEW PHOENIX

During tech week rehearsal, I think I'm not exaggerating to say I was almost killed. I was helping the lighting designer construct lights above the stage, he was atop a tall ladder, I was standing on the stage, sort of just minding my own business, when a large and heavy light fixture suddenly abandoned its support and came crashing to the stage, breaking apart with a thud and a crash, five feet from where I was standing. I gulped and said, "I'm glad I wasn't standing right there", and the lighting designer agreed. It was like a scene out of MURDER SHE WROTE.



The crowds for the show have been sparse. I think it's the subject matter of child molestation that has kept them away this Easter weekend. As the house manager said last night, - everyone is concentrating on the crucifixion of Jesus. No more room for sorrow.



I'm still a neophyte in the workings of the theatre. After being asked to serve as stage manager at The New Phoenix this season, I could be found at home with a big book in my lap, entitled, HOW TO BE A STAGE MANAGER. It didn't really help. It is my understanding the stage manager is responsible for nothing, when everything goes well, and everything, when nothing goes well.



Our director, Kelli Bocock-Natale, gave me a card on opening night that read, in part, "Stage Manager, the show is now in your hands!". It was news to me.



I don't necessarily believe in ghosts, although I've always fancied the thought. Truth be told, I attend a ghost hunt in Lilydale, New York every summer, but I like to think I keep it in check. In all the nights I've roamed dark woods and buildings with other would-be ghost hunters, armed with the most pedestrian digital equiptment, (apparently any camera will suffice, according to the brochure), I've never seen evidence. But if they do exist, one most certainly haunts, or befriends The New Phoenix Theatre. Just a feeling I get when I'm poised over the sound board during a show, ready for the next cue, and there's a creak from the wooden stairs just outside the door, and I turn to see who it is, and there is no one there. Or alone in the theatre, subtle sounds and voices, that I can't discern to be within or outside the building, softly richocheting around the room like echoes out of The Shining. One night walking to my car after locking up, I looked back at the theatre, the perfect picture of a haunted building with it's tall gothic arches against a moonlit sky, and I noticed in a window on the third floor, a working neon 'Open' light. Where the 'F' did that come from? So I went back into the theatre, and instead of fumbling around in the darkness looking for the light switches, I walked to the third floor in the dark, pulled the plug on the neon light, and found my way, Helen Keller style, back down the stairs. I was crossing the big dancing studio on the second floor, when maybe a headlight from a car outside, caused the room to be momentarily illuminated, and I saw, or thought I saw, someone standing at the mirrored wall, staring at his reflection. It put a chill right through me. I stood there, a bit reasonable, a bit mortified, and as if out of a movie script, I called out to the empty room, "Is there somebody there?".



If anything had answered, I almost certainly would have had a heart attack.

BLACKBIRD

I'm the stage manager for BLACKBIRD, the current production at The New Phoenix Theatre On The Park in Buffalo. The play concerns the victims of child molestation. We received an excellent review from The Buffalo News, that I hope to print here. When the run is over, at the end of this month, I'll blog more about it.

3 FILMS

I'm watching a lot of Netflix instant movies on the internet. It's a great service with hundreds of titles of movies and TV, both vintage and new.

While I've watched some classic favorite films there; Casablanca, The Maltese Falcon, To Kill A Mockingbird, and tons of third rate westerns from the 1930's and 1940's, starring the likes of John Wayne, Gene Autry, Lash LaRue, and somebody known as The Whiplash Kid, and piles of newer films that I hoped would offer a bit of a pleasing tease, - "Three Girls in A Jeep", anyone? - "Teenage Catgirls In Heat"? - none give me more satisfaction than the obscure little film which delivers a rich movie experience. Here are two films that grabbed my attention, one like a vice grip, the other like a warm massage, and a classic favorite from the 1970's, that I've seen many times, but never expected to appreciate on my tiny computer screen.


THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOUGH, (1964), is a French film directed by Jacques Demy, the middle film of his 'romantic' trilogy that includes, Lola (1961), and The Young Girls of Rocheforte (1967). The film starts modestly with a young dating couple, (Catherine Deneuve and Nino Costelnuovo), sparkling with love and affection, and whose troubles are standard to romantic movies; mom doesn't approve, they want to elope, where's a good back seat to screw around in? But here's the thing - all the dialogue is sung rather than spoken by the characters, no matter how inconsequential. This is not a musical, but what seems, looking back on the film, a natural language. Everybody sings. When a post man delivers the morning mail, and announces a quick how-do-you-do, he too sings a few words. At first, this gimmick is jarring and ridiculous, but as you follow the film, you hardly notice you are listening to a music. It becomes as natural as a French accent. A few quick plot turns and this film stands up and says hello. Call it post-French new wave cinema, with brightly lit urban night life awash in shocking fresh painted color, and stylish and electrified sets becoming bleaker as the threat from The Algerian War looms, (Algeria gained independence from France in 1962). The ending is sad and profound with commentary on love and survival and human nature, compromised by a symbol of American commercialism, as if regarding the oncoming tide of a Big Mac and fries onslaught from the west, with a song.


KISS ME DEADLY, is a 1955 classic film noir from a Mickey Spillane novel featuring private detective Mike Hammer. Tough dick Hammer, (Ralph Meeker), picks up a young and, except for a trenchcoat, naked female hitchhiker, (Chloris Leachman), in his cool convertable and realizes the demented girl, who just escaped from a nuthouse, may not be as nutty and paranoid as she seems when he's forced off the road and over a cliff by a group of cars chasing her. He wakes up in a room in the asylum where the girl is being tortured for information. very cool black and white low budget potboiler, with ace detective Hammer, (love his cool L.A. pad with a 1955 answering machine), displaying a brutish and suave decadence, in that his main souce of detective income, prior to this atomic maltese falcon case, is clients with cheating spouses whom he juggles and bribes for the best price between them. When he knocks a punk around, which is often, he's looking to dislodge a brain. Uncompromising United Artists release where even the girl Friday secretaty is the most untrustworthy bit of flash and trash this side of Chicago. The original ending of the film, a great bit of cold war symbolism, and an exciting scene in it's own right, had been destroyed decades ago in the original negative of the film, altering the last 60 seconds dramatically. It is restored here thanks to a 1997 film restoration project.







I've always loved the film, KLUTE, (1971). Along with The French Connection and The Exorcist, it's one of my favorite films from the 1970s. Jane Fonda plays a New York City prostitute who hooks up with, (pun so intended), a hired cop from Pennsylvania, John Klute, (Donald Sutherland), who is searching for a missing executive, who may have been a client of Bree's, (Fonda). The film crawls with low-key suspense as the dangerous world of a mid-level New York City hooker, is made eerie by such common frights as a phone hang-up call, and a lurker above a rooftop apartment skylight. Classify KLUTE a thriller, but it also serves well as a genuine and thoughtful love story, and relevant social commentary, with brilliant direction from Alan J. Pakula, swathing a path through 1971 New York City to reveal a touch of humanity among the junkies, prostitutes, and perverts. Perfectly assembled, tension mounting musical score by Michael Small.

SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE

SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH GEORGE

MusicalFare

Directed by Randall Kramer

Cast: Paschal Frisina III, Jean Stafford, Doug Crane, Sheila McCarthy, Debbie Pappas, Jeffrey Coyle, Louis Colaiacovo, Steve Copps, Anne Ronaldi, Leah Russo, Nicole Marrale Cimato, Amy Jakiel, Kelly Jakiel, Kevin R. Kenndy, Robert J. Cooke

All the bells and whistles of Stephen Sondheim's "Sunday in The Park With George", were evident in MusicalFare's production of the musical speculating on the life of 19th Century French artist Georges Seurat and his masterwork, A Sunday Afternoon on The Isle of La Grande Jette, a painting that now resides in The Art Institute of Chicago. A simple beam of light provides a transfer of the painting to an onstage mesh screen, and is reversed with elements of the painting missing, when seen as a work in progress. A framed image of an earlier Seurat work, Bathers at Asnieres, is wheeled onto the stage, with actors within the frame of the painting, portraying animated sun bathers, a particularly well executed scene. Life sized cardboard cut-out figures of Seurat, as portrayed by Pascal Frisina III, during an artists' cocktail reception, in various poses for comedic effect in Act II, were as professionally mounted as the Broadway production. The monstrous 20th Century artwork, Chromolume 7, seen as a companion piece and an atrocity to Seurat's work, and devised for the musical from James Lapine's book, was effeciently created with pseudo-laser lights and electrical sparks and flash. Dog and monkey silhouettes are grounded to the stage, and then easily walked off by exiting actors, depicting a 19th Century amusement, and an inanimate tree changes position mid-scene, at a sketching artist's request. It seemed to me, if MusicalFare is to take on the task of producing this sometimes lavish, sometimes minimalist production, they needed to get the props right, and the creative and frugal effort displayed here, or maybe the price tag, paid off handsomely.

The 15 member cast is an accomplished troupe of actors and singers, each taking a dual role in the second act. Paschal Frisina III, as subject George Seurat, displays a fine batitone and offers depth and clarity to the struggling artist syndrome. Jean Stafford, as his lover Dot, merely channels Bernadette Peters Broadway preformance of the role, but with such expertise, the character shines through. The remainder of the cast are excellent with standout performances from all, notably Doug Crane, as competing artist Jules, eying and circling Seurat's painting, as if determining how to kill a threatening insect, and Sheila McCarthy as The Old Lady, casting a reserved mothering instinct across the stage, which looms like the shadow of death.

At approximately 2 hours and 45 minutes, the musical runs a little long, but is never dull, and far be it length over a scene cut. At times the fluidity is altered by the stringency of the proceedings, with the cast appearing a bit rushed at times, a bit hesitant at others. But as a fan of Sondheim, and a lover of this particular show, I was quite impressed and entertained.