London theater junket: Presidents' Weekend 2006
I have loved London ever since I first visited it in the summer of 1979 for a week's stay before leaving for six weeks of study in the former Soviet Union. Certainly London's wonderful theater scene, second only to New York City's, is a great draw for someone who sees forty some plays a year. I also love the people with their affability and charming accents, the sights and sounds, the hustle and bustle, the history, and, like Roger Miller, the rosy red cheeks of the little children. The food is another story, but I love Indian food, and there are plenty of Indian restaurants to chose from. :-)
A Presidents' Weekend theater junket to London was prompted by a production of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf," that I had missed on Broadway. Seriously, while there were other plays I was interested in seeing, if that Broadway production had not transferred to the West End, I probably would have not "crossed the pond" that Presidents' Weekend of 2006.
This note is an email that I sent to family and friends after I got home from a jam packed four days.
I had a great time in London. Even the weather was better than I had expected. The highs were in the mid-forties on Friday and Saturday, and the sun was actually shining, well, partly. Sunday was cold and cloudy. In the morning, it felt like snow was on the way, and I was thinking how nice that would be after all the soggy rain, but it must have gotten a little warmer as the morning wore on, because when the precipitation came, it was rain. It rained all day. Still, umbrella in hand, I I trudged on and did what I wanted to do.
For an Episcopalian, even a lapsed one like me, it doesn't get any better than a sung Eucharist in Westminster Abby. I had wanted to worship there, but I got off to a late start that day and figured that by the time I arrived at 11:10, the service was probably over or nearly over. As it turned out, their Sunday sung Eucharist begins at 11:15. That was a fortuitous turn of fate. I sat in the choral stalls, half of which were reserved for worshipers. The mix of adult males and boys, most of whom didn't look any older than ten, produced a beautiful blend of heavenly harmonies. My eyes kept welling up with tears. I remember the sung Eucharist from my youth, but I don't think it's done anymore here, except, perhaps, on high holy days in cathedrals. The boys, just like in the Roger Miller song, had cheeks as rosy red as their choir robes and sang like angels. Just as I passed them returning from communion, they broke out into a Latin prayer of thanksgiving. More welling up with tears. The Dean of the Abby gave a sermon on reconciliation, one of my favorite themes, and talked about emphasizing the humanity of Christ rather than his divinity. I loved it. If I could worship in a place like Westminster Abby, I might go to church every Sunday! Funny, that's what my students say when we are visiting all those beautiful baroque cathedrals in Germany and Austria.
Then, in the chill and the rain with umbrella in hand, I walked along the Thames. I didn't go to London this time as a tourist. Been there, done that. Still, London just isn't complete with that view of the House Of Parliament, Big Ben and a walk across the Tower Bridge. Then I walked over to Covent Garden and spent too much money on Mark's (my brother) kids. I found a wonderful theater store that carried all sorts of puppets, famous theaters you put together--one was a dazzling baroque theater with a production of "Le Misanthrope" being staged-- dolls, theater puzzles, games, and other wonderful things you certainly could never find at a mall. I bought a fantastic haunted house that you put together and that works by pulling a ghost on a string revealing all kinds of ghosts and ghoulies and long leggety beasties. I'll go over one evening and help Curry and Nicholas, four, put it together. (I did go over and help, and Nicholas just turned eight!) It should last for several Halloweens. I loaded up on Paddington Bears in full Buckingham Palace guard drag, mobiles and bunny bibs for the baby, and a charm bracelet from Harrod's for Amber.
Then I spent two hours over a lovely British tea complete with fingers sandwiches, scones with jam and clotted creme, topped of by a strawberry tart and a little eclair. I just sat there admiring the room, looking out the window at the people passing by outside coping with the chill and the rain, reading the Sunday Times, listening to the interesting conversation of two British women next to me, and luxuriating in it all. The fine linen, china, silver, crystal, the sheer civility of it all. Those Brits sure know how to live. I would have stayed there at least another hour, but then I realized that if I wanted any hope at all of seeing Sunday in the Park with George, one of my favorite shows playing to a sold out house off the West End, that I should brave the elements once again to find the theater. It was playing in the Menier Chocolate Factory, a little gem of a theater in, you guessed it, an old chocolate factory, and I knew it was sold out but was hoping for cancellations or "returns," as the British call them. I almost didn't leave that wonderful space, but I knew that I would regret not at least trying. It was tempting, though, to take the path of least resistance and stay in that warm and cozy room another hour.
I braved my way to the theater. It was a walk of several blocks from the tube in the very chilly rain. Unfortunately, a Sunday Sondheim synchronicity-- Betty (a close friend from college) and I have been discussing that show in emails for over a month-- was not meant to be. I finally found the theater and waited for an hour until the guy behind the window announced to about twenty of us that he had no returns. People had been arguing with him for a good half an hour. I could tell from where I was seated, but I just kept my mouth shut so as not to offend him just in case I got lucky. Even with the announcement, people were giving him a hard time as if their very lives depended on those tickets. He was clearly exasperated and got as angry as I've ever seen a Brit get. He didn't really yell or scream. There wasn't really anger in his voice. It was just real exasperation. "Look, I'm sorry, exceedingly so, but I don't have a SINGLE ticket left. What can I do? Not a one!! Please go home!" I just left and decided to return to the hotel. It got such good reviews that it will transfer to the West End, so those people will be able to see it, but I'd have to fly over the Atlantic again. Maybe it will be a big hit and be there next year. Maybe I'll do this all again next winter. (I did not, but I did get to see the production of "Sunday in the Park with George," and with my friend, Betty, when it transferred to Broadway!)
Once back in the warm hotel, I almost didn't venture out again, but after about an hour, I decided to go to Porters, which was recommended to me by an Anglophile at Gateway for having the best British food in London. I know "the best British food" is an oxymoron, but I really felt like my first pot pie in years, and the crust was supposed to be exquisite. So, I left the cozy comfort of my room and had a late supper. After supper on the way back to the hotel, I saw police and heard occasional squeals of delight from farther down the road. I walked up to the crowd and asked a couple of college age girls what was happening. "Oh, it's the Bafta awards." Seriously, I couldn't tell whether she said Baxter Awards, Bathta Awards, Baffa Awards or some other variation. I had no idea what she was saying. "Excuse me?"- "The Bafta Awards!" "Oh, what are they?" "They're like your Oscars." "Oh, cool!" Well, I decided to wait a few minutes, and I wound up staying about forty-five. The biggest thrill of the evening was George Clooney working the crowd. He came right up to us, shook our hands, and, although everybody says this when they meet some goodlooking famous person, he's even better looking in person than he is on TV or in the movies. It's funny. I don't read People, don't really get caught up in all that frivolity very much, but when you're there in the middle of a crowd like that on a night like that, the excitement is somehow instantly infectious. After about a half hour more of chatting the friendly girls up, I wished them more cute famous guys and took off. The funniest thing one of them said to her friend was, "I was thinking it was the person I thought it was, but it wasn't so I thought I didn't say anything about him to you." I told her I would have to remember that line. When I got back to the warm hotel, I watched the award ceremony on TV. It was as star studded as the Oscars. "Brokeback Mountain" took all the major awards except for Best Actor, which went to Phillip Seymour Hoffman for "Capote."
Monday morning, my last half day, was also, fortunately enough, partly sunny. I went to Harrods and took a look at all those things I couldn't afford to buy. Then I took a long walk in Hyde Park and then made my way back to the hotel to get to the airport.
The plays were all wonderful. "Billy Elliot" is not the greatest musical I've ever seen, as one London critic said, not even close when you compare it with all the great classics in the American canon, but the story is so compelling, so beautiful and touching, and the message so wonderful that I was swept away by it anyway. Don't get me wrong. It's far from bad. I just expected more from the spectacular reviews. Elton John wrote the music. It's fine, but he's nowhere near in the same league as Lerner and Lowe or Rogers and Hammerstein or, to be sure, Sondheim. The Swan Lake ballet scene was done differently than in the film. It's not the final scene, but it is beautiful and I liked the change. It was just the right fit for the musical. Three different boys alternate the role of Billy, and I bought a program which described how hard it was to find three boys in all of England who could sing, charm and dance well enough for such a demanding role. In the movie, you just do take after take and edit after edit. On stage, that kid has to dance and dance and dance some more, for three hours. Sometimes he's at it for fifteen minutes at a stretch, and he's all over that stage dancing his joy, dancing his anger, dancing his sadness, dancing his little heart out. Equally as good was his friend, the young cross dresser. They do a song and dance duet that is wonderful, a pure delight. Of course, the other element in the film and the show is the miners' strike and a whole way of life being destroyed by Thatcherism. There's a great anti-Thatcher number done by the actors with puppets and paper mache masks. The choreography is inspired, not just the ballet sequences, but the way the striking miners move in anger and defiance of the police who intermingle with them as they face each other off. There's a repeat of this kind of intermingling with the miners and Billy and the girls at the ballet school. It is inspired, and it would not have worked at all in the film.
I'm not sure it will get to Broadway. (It did indeed get to Broadway, with only modest adaptations, and it is still going strong!) It's very British in spirit. Sometimes the dialog is hard to follow (The toning down of the thick Geordie accent and North England vernacular is the main adaptation.) A woman next to me told me that she came from that part of the country and assured me that even Londoners were having a hard time with the accent, which was not quite as thick-- Thank God!-- as it really is. And the whole backdrop of the Thatcher years and what she did to labor in the country is something American musical theater goers might not identify with. I loved it, but I don't remember the movie stressing that aspect of the story quite as much as the musical does.. They had to rewrite the book for The Full Monty so that Americans could more easily identify with it. Even with that, it wasn't that big a hit. Maybe they'll do something like that, if it ever transfers to Broadway.
The Londoners were so damn nice! Everybody I stopped for directions was friendly and patient, answered questions and just generally took far more time than one would expect. I stopped this black guy who was jogging. I didn't realize it until he started giving me directions, and I noticed he was panting. Three was no trace of upsetment at all in his voice, just the willingness to help out a stranger. He was polite, nice, friendly, and thorough. Then he took off jogging again. I apologized, telling him I didn't realize that he was in the middle of a jog. I mean, can you believe that? He stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of a jog to give a foreigner directions! I just love to hear them talk, too. "Bloke" this and "mate" that. One of the meat pies at Porters was served with faggots. I knew they were cigarettes or professors, but I didn't know they were also a food. At the intermission, this woman in back of me talked about an "interval." I told her that we called it an "intermission" and that I loved all the Britishisms I was picking up. She said, "Well, of course, we think of yours as Americanisms."
I was really in the nosebleed section for "Whose Afraid Of Virginia Woolf," but I loved it. Kathleen Turner was as fabulous a Martha as I thought she would be. She was by turns hard as nails, bitchy, tender, vulnerable, and flirtatious, coming onto the young man, Nick, with an assured sensuality that made it very believable even such a young handsome man would ditch that mousy wife of his for a roll in the hay with Martha. And nobody writes dialog like that any more! One brilliant zinger and one vodka stinger after another into the wee small hours of the morning! It was sheer delight. I had my binoculars with me, so I could see her face at all the crucial moments. I could go on and on about it, but I will restrain myself and bring this email to a quick close.
I'll finish up by saying that I also enjoyed Woody Harrelson in "The Night Of the Iguana." I had never seen it before and had no idea what it was about. Two lost souls meet and connect at a dilapidated hotel in the middle of nowhere in Mexico. Connection is the central theme in "Sunday in the Park with George," so it did overlap with Betty's and my ongoing discussion of Sondheim's great play. It's a good story, contains a religious theme, too, and, as in many of Williams's plays, features a middle-aged adult who can't keep his/her hands off tender young girls/boys. Williams was no slouch at dialog either. It often sings and was a joy to listen to. I never saw the movie. The role would have been perfect for a young Paul Newman, but it went to Richard Burton. Eva Gardner played the owner of the hotel. I had nosebleed seats for that, too, but I got lucky. We were all moved down. I guess it's not doing the business that "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" is doing. I was in the fifth row center for "Billy Elliot." On the flight home, I saw Woody Harrelson again, as the lawyer who defends Charlize Theron in "North Country."
Addendum: I actually got to tell Edward Albee himself that I flew to London just so I could catch the revival of his play, "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" A couple of years ago, I attended a new Albee play, "Me, Myself and I?," at the McCarter Theater in Princeton. At intermission, I recognized Albee, who was sitting off by himself. I almost never bother celebrities, but he's such a great playwright, and I thought he would get a kick out of the story. As I approached him, an attendant shooed me away, but Albee told her it was okay. I told him about having missed Virginia Woolf on Broadway and about flying all the way to London just so I could see it. And I was right. He did indeed get a kick out of that!
A Presidents' Weekend theater junket to London was prompted by a production of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf," that I had missed on Broadway. Seriously, while there were other plays I was interested in seeing, if that Broadway production had not transferred to the West End, I probably would have not "crossed the pond" that Presidents' Weekend of 2006.
This note is an email that I sent to family and friends after I got home from a jam packed four days.
I had a great time in London. Even the weather was better than I had expected. The highs were in the mid-forties on Friday and Saturday, and the sun was actually shining, well, partly. Sunday was cold and cloudy. In the morning, it felt like snow was on the way, and I was thinking how nice that would be after all the soggy rain, but it must have gotten a little warmer as the morning wore on, because when the precipitation came, it was rain. It rained all day. Still, umbrella in hand, I I trudged on and did what I wanted to do.
For an Episcopalian, even a lapsed one like me, it doesn't get any better than a sung Eucharist in Westminster Abby. I had wanted to worship there, but I got off to a late start that day and figured that by the time I arrived at 11:10, the service was probably over or nearly over. As it turned out, their Sunday sung Eucharist begins at 11:15. That was a fortuitous turn of fate. I sat in the choral stalls, half of which were reserved for worshipers. The mix of adult males and boys, most of whom didn't look any older than ten, produced a beautiful blend of heavenly harmonies. My eyes kept welling up with tears. I remember the sung Eucharist from my youth, but I don't think it's done anymore here, except, perhaps, on high holy days in cathedrals. The boys, just like in the Roger Miller song, had cheeks as rosy red as their choir robes and sang like angels. Just as I passed them returning from communion, they broke out into a Latin prayer of thanksgiving. More welling up with tears. The Dean of the Abby gave a sermon on reconciliation, one of my favorite themes, and talked about emphasizing the humanity of Christ rather than his divinity. I loved it. If I could worship in a place like Westminster Abby, I might go to church every Sunday! Funny, that's what my students say when we are visiting all those beautiful baroque cathedrals in Germany and Austria.
Then, in the chill and the rain with umbrella in hand, I walked along the Thames. I didn't go to London this time as a tourist. Been there, done that. Still, London just isn't complete with that view of the House Of Parliament, Big Ben and a walk across the Tower Bridge. Then I walked over to Covent Garden and spent too much money on Mark's (my brother) kids. I found a wonderful theater store that carried all sorts of puppets, famous theaters you put together--one was a dazzling baroque theater with a production of "Le Misanthrope" being staged-- dolls, theater puzzles, games, and other wonderful things you certainly could never find at a mall. I bought a fantastic haunted house that you put together and that works by pulling a ghost on a string revealing all kinds of ghosts and ghoulies and long leggety beasties. I'll go over one evening and help Curry and Nicholas, four, put it together. (I did go over and help, and Nicholas just turned eight!) It should last for several Halloweens. I loaded up on Paddington Bears in full Buckingham Palace guard drag, mobiles and bunny bibs for the baby, and a charm bracelet from Harrod's for Amber.
Then I spent two hours over a lovely British tea complete with fingers sandwiches, scones with jam and clotted creme, topped of by a strawberry tart and a little eclair. I just sat there admiring the room, looking out the window at the people passing by outside coping with the chill and the rain, reading the Sunday Times, listening to the interesting conversation of two British women next to me, and luxuriating in it all. The fine linen, china, silver, crystal, the sheer civility of it all. Those Brits sure know how to live. I would have stayed there at least another hour, but then I realized that if I wanted any hope at all of seeing Sunday in the Park with George, one of my favorite shows playing to a sold out house off the West End, that I should brave the elements once again to find the theater. It was playing in the Menier Chocolate Factory, a little gem of a theater in, you guessed it, an old chocolate factory, and I knew it was sold out but was hoping for cancellations or "returns," as the British call them. I almost didn't leave that wonderful space, but I knew that I would regret not at least trying. It was tempting, though, to take the path of least resistance and stay in that warm and cozy room another hour.
I braved my way to the theater. It was a walk of several blocks from the tube in the very chilly rain. Unfortunately, a Sunday Sondheim synchronicity-- Betty (a close friend from college) and I have been discussing that show in emails for over a month-- was not meant to be. I finally found the theater and waited for an hour until the guy behind the window announced to about twenty of us that he had no returns. People had been arguing with him for a good half an hour. I could tell from where I was seated, but I just kept my mouth shut so as not to offend him just in case I got lucky. Even with the announcement, people were giving him a hard time as if their very lives depended on those tickets. He was clearly exasperated and got as angry as I've ever seen a Brit get. He didn't really yell or scream. There wasn't really anger in his voice. It was just real exasperation. "Look, I'm sorry, exceedingly so, but I don't have a SINGLE ticket left. What can I do? Not a one!! Please go home!" I just left and decided to return to the hotel. It got such good reviews that it will transfer to the West End, so those people will be able to see it, but I'd have to fly over the Atlantic again. Maybe it will be a big hit and be there next year. Maybe I'll do this all again next winter. (I did not, but I did get to see the production of "Sunday in the Park with George," and with my friend, Betty, when it transferred to Broadway!)
Once back in the warm hotel, I almost didn't venture out again, but after about an hour, I decided to go to Porters, which was recommended to me by an Anglophile at Gateway for having the best British food in London. I know "the best British food" is an oxymoron, but I really felt like my first pot pie in years, and the crust was supposed to be exquisite. So, I left the cozy comfort of my room and had a late supper. After supper on the way back to the hotel, I saw police and heard occasional squeals of delight from farther down the road. I walked up to the crowd and asked a couple of college age girls what was happening. "Oh, it's the Bafta awards." Seriously, I couldn't tell whether she said Baxter Awards, Bathta Awards, Baffa Awards or some other variation. I had no idea what she was saying. "Excuse me?"- "The Bafta Awards!" "Oh, what are they?" "They're like your Oscars." "Oh, cool!" Well, I decided to wait a few minutes, and I wound up staying about forty-five. The biggest thrill of the evening was George Clooney working the crowd. He came right up to us, shook our hands, and, although everybody says this when they meet some goodlooking famous person, he's even better looking in person than he is on TV or in the movies. It's funny. I don't read People, don't really get caught up in all that frivolity very much, but when you're there in the middle of a crowd like that on a night like that, the excitement is somehow instantly infectious. After about a half hour more of chatting the friendly girls up, I wished them more cute famous guys and took off. The funniest thing one of them said to her friend was, "I was thinking it was the person I thought it was, but it wasn't so I thought I didn't say anything about him to you." I told her I would have to remember that line. When I got back to the warm hotel, I watched the award ceremony on TV. It was as star studded as the Oscars. "Brokeback Mountain" took all the major awards except for Best Actor, which went to Phillip Seymour Hoffman for "Capote."
Monday morning, my last half day, was also, fortunately enough, partly sunny. I went to Harrods and took a look at all those things I couldn't afford to buy. Then I took a long walk in Hyde Park and then made my way back to the hotel to get to the airport.
The plays were all wonderful. "Billy Elliot" is not the greatest musical I've ever seen, as one London critic said, not even close when you compare it with all the great classics in the American canon, but the story is so compelling, so beautiful and touching, and the message so wonderful that I was swept away by it anyway. Don't get me wrong. It's far from bad. I just expected more from the spectacular reviews. Elton John wrote the music. It's fine, but he's nowhere near in the same league as Lerner and Lowe or Rogers and Hammerstein or, to be sure, Sondheim. The Swan Lake ballet scene was done differently than in the film. It's not the final scene, but it is beautiful and I liked the change. It was just the right fit for the musical. Three different boys alternate the role of Billy, and I bought a program which described how hard it was to find three boys in all of England who could sing, charm and dance well enough for such a demanding role. In the movie, you just do take after take and edit after edit. On stage, that kid has to dance and dance and dance some more, for three hours. Sometimes he's at it for fifteen minutes at a stretch, and he's all over that stage dancing his joy, dancing his anger, dancing his sadness, dancing his little heart out. Equally as good was his friend, the young cross dresser. They do a song and dance duet that is wonderful, a pure delight. Of course, the other element in the film and the show is the miners' strike and a whole way of life being destroyed by Thatcherism. There's a great anti-Thatcher number done by the actors with puppets and paper mache masks. The choreography is inspired, not just the ballet sequences, but the way the striking miners move in anger and defiance of the police who intermingle with them as they face each other off. There's a repeat of this kind of intermingling with the miners and Billy and the girls at the ballet school. It is inspired, and it would not have worked at all in the film.
I'm not sure it will get to Broadway. (It did indeed get to Broadway, with only modest adaptations, and it is still going strong!) It's very British in spirit. Sometimes the dialog is hard to follow (The toning down of the thick Geordie accent and North England vernacular is the main adaptation.) A woman next to me told me that she came from that part of the country and assured me that even Londoners were having a hard time with the accent, which was not quite as thick-- Thank God!-- as it really is. And the whole backdrop of the Thatcher years and what she did to labor in the country is something American musical theater goers might not identify with. I loved it, but I don't remember the movie stressing that aspect of the story quite as much as the musical does.. They had to rewrite the book for The Full Monty so that Americans could more easily identify with it. Even with that, it wasn't that big a hit. Maybe they'll do something like that, if it ever transfers to Broadway.
The Londoners were so damn nice! Everybody I stopped for directions was friendly and patient, answered questions and just generally took far more time than one would expect. I stopped this black guy who was jogging. I didn't realize it until he started giving me directions, and I noticed he was panting. Three was no trace of upsetment at all in his voice, just the willingness to help out a stranger. He was polite, nice, friendly, and thorough. Then he took off jogging again. I apologized, telling him I didn't realize that he was in the middle of a jog. I mean, can you believe that? He stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of a jog to give a foreigner directions! I just love to hear them talk, too. "Bloke" this and "mate" that. One of the meat pies at Porters was served with faggots. I knew they were cigarettes or professors, but I didn't know they were also a food. At the intermission, this woman in back of me talked about an "interval." I told her that we called it an "intermission" and that I loved all the Britishisms I was picking up. She said, "Well, of course, we think of yours as Americanisms."
I was really in the nosebleed section for "Whose Afraid Of Virginia Woolf," but I loved it. Kathleen Turner was as fabulous a Martha as I thought she would be. She was by turns hard as nails, bitchy, tender, vulnerable, and flirtatious, coming onto the young man, Nick, with an assured sensuality that made it very believable even such a young handsome man would ditch that mousy wife of his for a roll in the hay with Martha. And nobody writes dialog like that any more! One brilliant zinger and one vodka stinger after another into the wee small hours of the morning! It was sheer delight. I had my binoculars with me, so I could see her face at all the crucial moments. I could go on and on about it, but I will restrain myself and bring this email to a quick close.
I'll finish up by saying that I also enjoyed Woody Harrelson in "The Night Of the Iguana." I had never seen it before and had no idea what it was about. Two lost souls meet and connect at a dilapidated hotel in the middle of nowhere in Mexico. Connection is the central theme in "Sunday in the Park with George," so it did overlap with Betty's and my ongoing discussion of Sondheim's great play. It's a good story, contains a religious theme, too, and, as in many of Williams's plays, features a middle-aged adult who can't keep his/her hands off tender young girls/boys. Williams was no slouch at dialog either. It often sings and was a joy to listen to. I never saw the movie. The role would have been perfect for a young Paul Newman, but it went to Richard Burton. Eva Gardner played the owner of the hotel. I had nosebleed seats for that, too, but I got lucky. We were all moved down. I guess it's not doing the business that "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf" is doing. I was in the fifth row center for "Billy Elliot." On the flight home, I saw Woody Harrelson again, as the lawyer who defends Charlize Theron in "North Country."
Addendum: I actually got to tell Edward Albee himself that I flew to London just so I could catch the revival of his play, "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" A couple of years ago, I attended a new Albee play, "Me, Myself and I?," at the McCarter Theater in Princeton. At intermission, I recognized Albee, who was sitting off by himself. I almost never bother celebrities, but he's such a great playwright, and I thought he would get a kick out of the story. As I approached him, an attendant shooed me away, but Albee told her it was okay. I told him about having missed Virginia Woolf on Broadway and about flying all the way to London just so I could see it. And I was right. He did indeed get a kick out of that!
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