| Ladies and gents,
What a Sunday! Your faithful correspondent spent the better part of it contemplating two of America’s great institutions: the dysfunctional family and the experimental theater. And, after considerable reflection, I’ve decided I relate to both equally.
First, to Broadway’s Hudson Theatre, where Julia Louis-Dreyfus made her long-overdue Broadway debut in a smashing revival of Jon Robin Baitz‘s Other Desert Cities. And may I just ask: What took so long?
We’ve spent decades worshipping this woman from the comfort of our living rooms, first as Elaine Benes, then as Selina Meyer, two of television’s most gloriously self-absorbed creations. But to see her in the flesh, commanding a Broadway stage with such extraordinary authority, is to realize just how much we’ve been missing. Someone owes the American theater an explanation.
Louis-Dreyfus plays Polly Wyeth, the formidable matriarch of a wealthy Palm Springs family whose friendships with “Ron and Nancy” have left her with impeccable Republican credentials and a rather complicated relationship with the truth. Polly’s liberal daughter, played by the wonderful Lily Rabe, arrives for Christmas bearing a memoir that threatens to expose a long-buried family secret. Suffice it to say, the holiday spirit doesn’t last.
Written in 2011 and set in 2004, against the backdrop of the Iraq War, Baitz’s play feels almost unnervingly contemporary. Here is a family divided by politics, unable to agree on its own history, with everyone absolutely convinced of their moral superiority. Sound familiar? The Wyeth’s could be America in miniature, although their Palm Springs real estate — courtesy of the brilliant set designer Scott Pask — is considerably nicer than most of ours.
The memorable title comes from a highway sign that offers motorists a choice between Palm Springs and the vaguely mysterious “Other Desert Cities” beyond. Brooke admits she’s often tempted to keep driving, presumably toward a life less burdened by her family’s considerable baggage. But with the play set against the backdrop of the Iraq War, those other desert cities take on a more ominous meaning. In one, a privileged American family inflicts its own brand of cruelty upon itself. In others, much further away, American military might is inflicting something far more lethal. Two very different kinds of brutality, both distinctly American, separated by thousands of miles and perhaps not quite as unrelated as we’d like to think.
But what makes this play so deliciously provocative is that nobody has a monopoly on the truth. The liberals can be just as self-righteous as the conservatives, the parents just as wounded as their children, and the difference between protecting the people we love and deceiving them turns out to be a very fine line indeed.
As for Louis-Dreyfus? Divine. Her Polly is a master class in controlled fury, a woman who can weaponize a raised eyebrow and make a perfectly civilized remark sound like a declaration of war. She’s funny, naturally, but there’s something deeply moving beneath that immaculate exterior. This is not a television star taking a Broadway holiday. This is a great actress reminding us of the full extent of her gifts.
She’s surrounded by an embarrassment of riches: Ed Harris as her husband, Rabe as the daughter determined to excavate the past, and Joe Keery as the younger son trying to keep the family from blowing itself to smithereens. And then there’s Allison Janney as Polly’s recently dried-out, barbed-wire of a sister. Louis-Dreyfus and Janney each have eight acting Emmys to their names, tying them for the all-time record. Only three living performers share that distinction, and watching two of them go toe-to-toe is a generational joy. (The third, Jean Smart, caught the show last week. Had they all brought their baubles, Scott Pask’s fireplace mantel would have needed additional supports!)
Director John Benjamin Hickey keeps the whole combustible affair simmering beautifully.
And what a crowd turned out to celebrate! Sarah Jessica Parker, Matthew Broderick, Bryan Cranston, Peter Dinklage, Anna Wintour, Michael Kors, Annie Leibovitz, Andy Cohen, Chris Abbott, Aubrey Plaza, Busy Philipps, Kelly Ripa, Mark Consuelos, Ina Garten, Margo Martindale, Victor Garber, and Bradley Whitford were all on hand. It was enough star power in the Hudson Theatre to illuminate Times Square without Con Ed’s assistance.
Everyone adored it. And if Broadway has any sense, it won’t let Julia Louis-Dreyfus wait another several decades before returning.
And speaking of long decades and theatrical history (not every segue’s a winner, kids), La MaMa, the beloved East Village institution, celebrated its 65th anniversary Sunday with a glorious block party on Ellen Stewart Way. Sixty-five years! In theater years, that’s practically biblical, although I suspect the late, great Ellen Stewart would have had something colorful to say about being compared to a religious institution. To us uptown types, Ms. Stewart is the theater legend who told Harvey Fierstein to take of the dress and put pen to paper as playwright — and the rest is history. And I am looking forward to hearing down to East 4th Street to see Unconditional and later this year, A View From The Bridge.
Under the banner Art for Healing. Food for Healing., the festivities brought performances, dancing, music, workshops, and neighborhood restaurants together for an afternoon celebrating the extraordinary creative community La MaMa has nurtured since 1961.
There was something rather lovely about the juxtaposition of my two Sunday engagements. In the afternoon, a downtown neighborhood coming together across generations and cultures in celebration of the arts. By evening, an uptown family tearing itself apart over politics, history, and competing versions of the truth.
Tidbits from around town…
Saw Chloë Sevigny on the Lower East Side wearing something that would look preposterous on anyone else and will presumably cost $4,000 by spring.
Caught Amy Sedaris inspecting a display of Halloween decorations on 8th Street.
Overheard John Waters, whilst browsing antiques with a friend, discussing the bloodletting at Netflix. “Let’s hope the new guard has no taste!” he quipped.
As always, a toast of something sparkling to you and yours
Kisses,
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