After the two-hour forum on Tuesday, I filed the following summary: At 5:30 p.m., Mark Laughlin, Tim Schmad, Carl Beck and Susan Baer Collins walked on stage and sat together, winning a standing ovation that was aimed at the two directors. Laughlin, president of the Omaha Community Playhouse trustees, quickly told the crowd of "recent developments" in more than five hours of meetings with all four present. "We've come to agreement on a lot of issues," he explained, "and will meet again as soon as we can." (The results of further meetings will follow after the rest of the forum summary)
Susie then spoke of "serious negotiations" and called it "a wonderful surprise" that "the four of us are here." She thanked an audience that clearly came to support the beleaguered directors.
For the next two hours, speakers, most well-known to theater lovers, ranged from angry attacks on Schmad and Laughlin to more conciliatory voices. Calls for explanations of the executive committee's decisions went unanswered in the name of "moving forward, not backward."
But, after a long line of protesters, Bill Dittrick, attorney for Beck and his former wife, Collins, called for calm patience and promised a positive resolution. Beck noted that he'd missed last week's staff meeting, "but I plan to be at many more." (The next day's World-Herald carried a well-rounded story by Bob Fischbach that covered key points fairly.) FOLLOW-UP: A 3 p.m. press conference brought the same four into the lobby of the Playhouse to announce an "agreement of understanding" that brought Beck and Collins back to their positions of artistic leadership, but added that the cancelled Moonlight and Magnolias would not be remounted. Schmad and Beck both reminded that the previous days had in the latter's words "been rough on each of us," bringing lost weight and lost sleep. Schmad said details of future leadership were yet to be worked out, but both men and Collins spoke of their shared commitment to the success of the Playhouse. "Don't doubt for one moment," Beck emphasized, "Tim Schmad's sincerity and commitment." Susie Collins reminded of the loud voice of Jeff Jones, son of the late Playhouse leader, Charles Jones, when he told the forum crowd what his father would say, namely, "We'll fix it." She vowed to "commit myself 100 percent to learn what I don't know," and joined the others in promising improved communication. She also thanked Laughlin "for his incredible efforts." When someone asked if the call for protesters to buy season tickets had won results, box office manager Lanelle Poole nodded yes from the sidelines. For many who heard the news, it was a time for celebration. For Fischbach and others who answer to editors, however, there were questions unanswered, questions about finances and executive power. My self-interest as the author of the Playhouse history combined with my studies as a media scholar to ask about the future of play selection in this context: radio and television, even before the internet, saw their audiences fragment, as seen in the disappearance of mass audience offerings like the Ed Sullivan Show. As niche theaters have been on the rise and general audience venues like dinner theaters declined in Omaha, can the Playhouse continue to reach a large enough audience to maintain its status as the nation's top community theater? I don't envy Carl, Susie and others the challenge they face. I hear from both those who want bolder choices and those who complain about anything slightly daring. They've wrestled with this for years, as Carl noted, but it won't get any easier even after this outpouring of support from the theater community. Their larger audience has yet to be heard from in significant numbers.
Back to back viewing of A Christmas Carol at the Omaha Community Playhouse and The Women of Troy at the University of Nebraska at Omaha makes me want to argue with my tear ducts. How can I cry for joy at the umpteenth redemption of Ebenezer Scrooge and shed no tears for the heart-rending woes of Euripedes' Trojan women? Maybe it's just easier to cry for happy, or that Jerry Longe has so wonderfully honed his Scrooge characterization, adding more delightful touches each of the past three years. Or could it be that man's inhumanity as displayed so powerfully in the misery of the Trojan widows, soon to become slaves and prostitutes, stirs resolve rather than weeping despair? The most dramatic moment in the UNO classic, directed with palpable physicality by Maire Creegan, comes when Hecuba and the chorus of women try to protect her grandson as the Greek Soldiers rip him from their arms and rush him away to his death. The perfect tribute to this scene would be to break down the barriers between actors and audience, totally suspending disbelief, and leap from the front rows to rescue the boy. That would challenge their talents for improvisation. The entire drama unfolds, not on a stage but on a mound that first seems merely a pile of loose dirt, but when scraped away by the mourning women reveals the remains of the dead Trojans. On one level, this treatment risks being seen as overwrought and falling from pathos to bathos. But it's worth the risk to see the single most impressive use of not only the writhing and swaying movement of the chorus or the wild insanity of Amy Schweid as Cassandra, but the physical presence of the sturdy Raydell Cordell III as the Greek bearer of bad news, and the warrior force of Charles Fisher as an angry Menelaus. On the other hand, if you're allergic to dirt, stay away. The dust is in the air, suspended in motes of light, as the mournful women move prone across the burial mound. Meanwhile, back at the Playhouse, a new Marley's Ghost frightened the small girl sharing our row. With apologies to the much-loved treatments of this character by Al DiMauro and Tom Wees, Doug Blackburn created a Marley so manic he'd be at home in Zombie Prom, and it worked! And we've got Brigit Saint Brigit's The Odd Couple, SNAP!'s Christmas with the Crawfords and the Baby D impersonators in Christmas at the Purple Peacock coming soon! --Warren Francke
You wait for the first frisson of hair-raising recognition, and it doesn't arrive with Frank Sinatra's opening songs. How soon will The Rat Pack Live at the Sands deliver on the promise of spot-on impersonations of ol' blue eyes, Sammy Davis Jr. and Dean Martin? For me, it came when David Hayes as Sammy hit just the right note with "For Once in a Lifetime" and then sealed the deal with a moving "Mr. Bojangles." Enter Phil Barley as Deano and another realization: Frank was the greatest star, Sammy the greatest talent, but somehow the faithfully rendered "That's Amore" and "Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime" evoke more warm nostalgia. Okay, a big helping of warm nostalgia may not top your menu, but, God, he sounded good. Steve Triffitt has by far the toughest task in trying to create a credible Sinatra, but he comes close on "Angel Eyes" and "Mack the Knife," and that's impressive enough. If you stayed away because you thought they were trying to come up with The Impossible Team, that was a mistake. You missed a great show. But you weren't wrong in stressing the impossibility. Barley does beautifully in capturing the Martin sound and not badly with the banter, but he's a half-foot too short and far too smiley for the full Deano feeling. Hayes comes closest to the complete package--song, dance, looks. But he has the furthest to reach, given the enormity of the Davis' talent, and you're grateful for his even trying to deliver "What Kind of Fool Am I." I saw Sammy do a one-man show in his prime and it remains my standard. Unfortunately, I saw Sinatra well past his prime, when Frank Jr. had to help him remember lines. Fortunately, Triffit's Frank is much better than that and well worth a trip to the Orpheum and the restraint to resist singing along. Still, I'm left with the feeling that came from hearing vocalists in My Way at the Omaha Community Playhouse. There will never be another Frank Sinatra. --Warren Francke
This week's print Cold Cream mixes theater with politics, but I omitted one of the most poignant moments that paired them. It happened at the annual Omaha Press Club show in the days when it was held at Peony Park. When he was Mayor of Omaha and later a U.S. Senator from Nebraska, Ed Zorinsky was never afraid to have fun with the press. He supplied out-takes at news conferences by making off-the-wall remarks that he trusted the TV crews not to air on the evening news. And he gamely sang in skits for the Press Club fundraisers. Gamely because Zorinsky didn't sing well at all. Put it this way: if he had attempted "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" for the seventh inning break at a Chicago Cubs game, it might have ranked as the third worst effort, surpassed only by the vocal struggles of Coach Mike Ditka and slurring Ozzie Osborne. On the final night of his life, Sen. Zorinsky and his wife Cece were in the Peony ballroom audience while two other game celebrities, Warren Buffett and Mrs. B, the legendary Rose Blumkin of the Mart, provided the entertainment. Then the Senator suffered a heart attack. As the rescue squad aided him on the ballroom floor, the band played on and the show went on, but it was the swan song for Eddie Z, with Cece at his side. His death was more drama than anyone predicted for the Press Club Ball. For young readers who don't remember the man, Sen. Zorinsky, like Sen. Ben Nelson, was regularly expected to switch over to the Republican Party but remained a Democrat who often voted with Republicans. Gov. Kay Orr appointed Republican Dave Karnes to succeed him, and Sen. Karnes was defeated by a Democrat named Bob Kerrey. --Warren Francke
The Blue Barn made me long for a classroom forum. Their production of "The Goat or Who is Sylvia?" posed questions that inspire lively debate about communication as cause of effects, namely human behavior. And had us laughing about seriously funny stuff. One could get socratic and ask, do you think Edward Albee's play will cause the audience to rush to the nearest barnyard to court a goat? Does wrongdoing go unpunished? (A "yes" answer might suggest a father doesn 't mind hearing his gay son scream, "You're f---ing a GOAT?") Oh, he pays a price. I've already played in print with Albee's claim that it's no more about bestiality than it is about flower arranging, but must add this touch of communication theory: the concept of selective attention means we're likely to pay more attention to the bestiality part than the flower arranging part. Someone asked me, umm, do they really show it...like him and the goat? I may have been guilty at times of luring audiences to plays with a wee bit of sensationalism, but, no, I'm not going to pretend that the Barn shows anything even close to caprine penetration. And the worst of the violence takes place off stage. Of course that depends on your definition of violence. Plenty of delightful verbal violence on stage, in fact Albee's best bickering since "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf." Albee, the reigning genius of living playwrights, says it's about love and loss, and I say it's as interesting an approach to love and loss as you're likely to see this theater season. If I was playing Jack Nicholson in "The Shining," I'd be repeating BRAVOBRAVOBRAVOBRAVO ad infinitum.
I found myself in the audience at Opera Omaha’s Pirates of Penzance wondering if Johnny Depp’s Jack Sparrow has led me to believe that any guy in black boots, tight pants, ruffly shirt, eyeliner and bandana is hot.
In truth, Patrick Ryan (the Pirate King) and William Ferguson (Frederic) are attractive men, and when signing Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates and dressed for the part, they become spank-bank-worthy sex symbols. I’ve never looked at an opera singer in that way, but Ferguson’s firm and generous caboose is practically its own character in the second act. Whoever picked his wardrobe did this boy a huge favor by putting him in those skin-tight pants.
The production holds value even for those who aren’t interested in gawking at men. Gilbert’s witty and comedic dialogue is friendly for the whole family (unlike my internal dialogue). Sullivan’s effervescent score provides easy and pleasant listening. And, of course, the rest of the cast fits perfectly into the scheme. Gene Scheer’s Major General is knee-slapping hilarious, and Maureen Francis (Mabel) shows off with vocal acrobatics almost every time she opens her mouth.
Pirates is an absolute delight, with only two criticisms. One is that the show only had a three-day run. Two is that Opera Omaha hasn’t done Pirates since the 1993-94 season. After such a long wait, it only seems fair to have more than three performances. Hopefully, Opera Omaha won’t wait so long to bring back this beloved classic.
In the meantime, I’ll be hoping my photographic memory doesn’t fade.
That’s the thought that kept running through my head as Pauly Shore worked the FunnyBone audience Saturday, Oct. 11 with his raunchy, sometimes funny, but ultimately uneven stand-up act.
Normally, I get really annoyed when comedians laugh at their own jokes, but Pauly’s nervous laughter was infectious and it made me root for him.
Unfortunately, with Pauly’s act, there really wasn’t any shape. His material seemed to go off in several directions at once — like he’d thrown everything he had at the audience and while some of it stuck, much of it fell flat.
If there’s one thing I’ve noticed with stand-up comedians, it’s that they usually have a hook, something that links one gag or story to the next (“Speaking of blah, blah, blah … there was this other blah, blah, blah”).
I never really got a sense of where Pauly was going with each new beat and while I’m sure he’s performed this routine hundreds of times, I suspect he probably doesn’t really know where it’s going either.
To be sure, the man is not a natural stand-up comedian.
In fact, he seemed at times a little uncomfortable, apologizing to an audience member, here and there, for making a crude joke at their expensive, as well as fidgeting on a stool nearly the entire time — a detail that an audience member commented on after the show.
I did particularly enjoy his self-deprecating jokes about how he’s sort of a has-been in Hollywood, that his onscreen “Wiez” persona was so strong, that no one can see him as anything else. He joked that he could never be cast in a movie like, say, Braveheart, because even with all of the horses and battle paint and swords and blood, people would take one look at him on the screen and say, “What’s Pauly Shore doing in this movie?!”
See, that’s funny!
Say what you will about his movies, but the guy has a lot of Hollywood insider stuff that he could and should be exploiting in his material. With that being said, it’s really kind of unfortunate that so much of his other material relied on easy, crude innuendo and sexual/gender politics which, these days, has such a well worn, seen-it/done-it quality, no matter who’s performing. Then again, there are a lot of other comedians who can do that kind of material in their sleep … and still do it better.
On our way out of the club, my partner in crime, Tina, said Pauly seemed like he’d be a lot of fun to hang out with on a Friday night, have some laughs with — like a bud-dy. At the same time, though, if he weren’t Pauly Shore, she probably wouldn’t go out of her way to see him live. She added that, except for one or two moments, there wasn’t anything in his routine that really stuck out for her.
And I can’t say I disagree with her.
As much as I enjoyed Pauly Shore, the man … as much as I wanted to root for him, I think he still has a long way to go before he gets roasted at The Friar’s Club.
I’d say he shouldn’t quit his day job but, well — *crickets*
