2024 Theatre Review: My Year of Art Therapy
During Gotham’s painful decline last year, I stole moments of intellectual pleasure to stave off despair and remind myself that life—and New York—remained worthwhile despite the incessant stress of our tragic bottom line.
This included the study of great literature with the New York Review of Books seminars program and a smattering of theatre experiences, more than I could afford yet so many still missed. Theatre is what brought me to New York in 2004, and after 20 years it is clear that New York’s performing arts scene, second only to its cultural and class diversity, are my personal reasons for still fighting to keep our family here.
My literary journey began with Daniel Mendelsohn’s teaching of Virginia Woolf, James Baldwin, W.G. Sebald, and Rachel Cusk last spring then resumed in fall with Merve Emre, Middlemarch, and my mom, who joined that class, making for one of the great reading experiences of my life. Additionally I taught Willa Cather to St. John’s College alumni with whom I also studied Montaigne and Twelfth Night. I became acquainted with Zena Hitz of St. John’s and her extraordinary Catherine Project, and after 15 years I returned to my alma mater in Santa Fe for my 45th birthday. On the producing side, I relaunched Gwen Grewal’s FASHION | SENSE with the author and Valerie Steel for a theatrical book event, and I twice presented a new one-woman musical show about Manet that I am now creative producing.
A year of magical reading
A look back at a year of theatre-going is a telling story. Mine is one of intuition, relationships, and chance, with lots of wins and some disappointments—mainly the shows I didn’t get to see for reasons of awareness, money, or time. Many choices were impromptu during unexpected windows of time that reflected recommendations and reviews more so than research, calling to mind the role that marketing and PR plays in all our decisions, whether we know—or like—it or not.
Read on for my thoughts on the 15 shows I saw in 2024, and New Yorkers, I must share my favorite theatre-going routine: in-person ticket buying! You save on fees, ensure the best seats for your buck, and get the emotional teaser of being in the space before you see the show. The chat with the agents—a gamut of New York moods and attitudes—is also a fun bit of pre-theatre play. That’s what I call a win-win-win.
MJ (Broadway, January)
Having just shown my parents The Greatest Night of Pop on New Year’s Eve, I was put right back in mind of my emotions around my first show of 2024. My best friend was visiting from Ireland with her eldest of four boys, so we took the three kids and her mom. I had been in Dublin with her when Michael Jackson died in 2009 and we stayed up all night with her husband watching footage, including “We Are the World.” Loving him as long as I can remember, and even getting to see him live in London in at 17, my bias for the artist withstood scandal but of course gave me pause. I was comforted upon moving to Harlem in 2017, where Michael-mania never skipped a beat. My children remind me regularly that we are due to see it again when I will skip the pre-theatre drinks and hopefully better manage the visceral waterworks brought upon by Lynn Nottage’s sensitive treatment and Elijah Rhea John’s uncanny resurrection, as if MJ was with us again.
Hamilton (Broadway, February)
I finally saw it for a friend’s birthday and learned it was not to my taste musically and otherwise, but was enchanted by the extraordinary life, communications, and political story of Alexander Hamilton. It would be impossible not to reckon Miranda’s genius in bringing it to the popular consciousness. I appreciated it enough to send my children, who already loved the soundtrack, on Labor Day Weekend. Sparing Bret, we three can now all say we have seen Hamilton. Phew.
Myself, Laura Benanti, Sandra Rivollier, Valli Ravindran
NOBODY CARES x 2 (Off Broadway, April and May)
Laura Benanti’s NOBODY CARES, an Audible Originals production at Minetta Lane, came across one of my feeds, and I was excited to again see this performer who had made a deep impression years ago in Sarah Ruhl’s rip-roaring Vibrator Play but whose main turns I’d missed since. Benanti’s creation—an autobiographical one-woman show with a handful of wonderful original tunes—ticked all the boxes and, as I had invited a friend who knew her personally, we got to meet her backstage. I offered to promote the show’s short run through Gotham, and Laura generously invited me to see it a second time with more friends. It’s as poignant as it is hilarious, and while there’s no replacement for Laura’s stage presence, I can’t recommend the Audible experience highly enough, especially for that most vocal age group of 2024—the perimenopausal!
Days of Wine and Roses (Broadway, February)
With a deep interest in the topic and never having seen the film, I took myself to a solo matinée and was treated to the greatest singing I recall hearing on Broadway, courtesy of Kelli O’Hara and Brian D’Arcy James. Their tag-team boozing (ominously fun) and relay binging (increasingly tragic) made for a heart-wrenching story of mutual destruction through enabled drink. The bar was as dry as eyes were wet, just me and the retirees, in it together. Bless Craig Lucas and Adam Guettel for putting this uniquely American alcoholic tale to music with the subtlest Dionysian touch.
Carmen (The Metropolitan Opera, May)
Working on “Habanera” for the past year, I had never seen Carmen. I took myself to The Met for the much-reviled update and, without any traditional productions to compare it to, was able to enjoy it greatly, even though Clémentine Margaine’s singing didn’t compare to the Callas and Horne versions on which I’d been training my ear. I also learned I love the Met’s Balcony seats, priced to be (barely) attainable and thereby drawing a glamorous-not-garish audience, resulting in just the right amount of contagious ritz.
The Hours (The Metropolitan Opera, May)
Having fallen in love with O’Hara and refallen in love with Virginia Woolf, I could not miss the return of The Hours. I had also worked in Lyric Opera’s ticket office almost 25 years ago and gotten to see Renée Fleming many times then. Compared with the front of the Balcony for Carmen, this time I was sitting in the back of the Family Circle, which laid bare the contemporary loss of unmiked vocal strength I have been learning about from my voice teacher for years. O’Hara’s glorious Broadway instrument and even Renée’s opera chops strained to reach our ears.
Then came Joyce DiDonato and a sudden rush of Golden Age power, her first tones emanating and echoing with a force that overwhelmed me with feeling for the sake of her sound alone. Story-wise, having just read Dalloway, it was hard not to compare emotionally, and Kevin Puts’ adaptation of Michael Cunningham’s novel paled, despite DiDonato, who herself made the outing worthwhile. I’m sure it was a different experience further down, but wasn’t opera originally for the masses? You have to reach the cheap seats.
Kelli O’Hara, Renée Fleming, and Joyce DiDonato in The Hours
Pericles (Off Broadway, May)
As Gotham approached rock bottom, I began trying to save my husband’s soul with Shakespeare. He was working too hard to enjoy my literary escapes, but I curated what I could, beginning with Pericles at nearby Classic Stage Company. I had been promoting CSC’s consistently excellent work since Gotham reopened, and this Fiasco Theater production was a joy, especially the original music by director Ben Steinfeld. The memory is now overshadowed for me by another Shakespearean update presented by CSC (see below). As for Bret’s soul, we’re still working on it!
Mother Play (Broadway, May)
Mother Play troubled me. It was an honor to see fellow Duluthian Jessica Lange on stage for the first time, but I craved more empathy for her Phyllis. It is hard to know how much Brechtian distance Vogel intentionally put between our emotions and Lange’s character in this openly autobiographical play, but I craved more empathy for her stand-in mother, yet another woman whose societal lack of agency to balance money, motherhood, and men brought out the worst in her, including a drinking problem. Compared with Lucas and Guettel’s treatment of their addicts, Vogel and director Tina Landau made or allowed Phyllis’ drinking to be more farcical. There is a rich comedic history of dipsomania on stage, but audiences don’t always know how to handle it. In this case, her boozing baited uncomfortable titters that, for me, worked more against than for her story.
One of my few firm theses about life is that seemingly bad or guilty people are more often cultural creations, or accidents, than rotten eggs. My own paternal grandmother was quite like Lange’s character, who “never wanted to be a mom.” Sometimes there is no silver lining to an unredeemable parent, just the genetic chain and any offsprung goodness that gets scattered along the way.
Appropriate (Broadway, July)
Owing to my best friend’s and Jesse Green’s zeal, I took myself to one of the last performances of Appropriate, directed by Lila Neugebauer, and fastened my seatbelt. As many months later, I’m still trying to parse my discomfort with the play, a rip-roaring ride with an impeccable cast treating themes that interest me. My reaction might say more about me than the play.
Most notably, I was put off by our heroine’s unbridled anger—Sara Paulson’s rant-worn chords straining at the end of the run—whose ire as Toni earned so much praise. And, as with Vogel’s Phyllis as problem mother to two wonderful kids, with Appropriate we now have a whole antagonistic family to find room in our hearts for. I come from a couple generations of doting daughters, and I’m very fond of my own imperfect family, so maybe it was just “yucking my yum,” as my kids would say, that I couldn’t feel more empathy, schadenfreude, or even the satisfaction of moral superiority toward these distinctly American examples of confused suffering that knows only how to hurt back.
Wicked (Broadway, September)
Having brought my cousin a decade ago and been underwhelmed, I gave it another go with my daughter and our mother-daughter bfs in September, anticipating the (far more rewarding, if I may permit the apples-to-oranges comparison) movie to come. 10 years later it did not fail to disappoint. Apart from Mary Kate Morrissey’s outsized energy and rooted vocals as Elphaba, most of the music is unmemorable, and the script is dated in a distressed-damsel way the movie modernized. Admittedly the screen had the advantage of conjuring the Wizard of Oz, my cinematic heart-of-hearts, in a way theatre can’t compete with. So I’m conscious the reference is unfair, but it’s maddening to see another 20-year run rest on its laurels while potentially important new works go unproduced or close too soon. Wicked the Musical’s sales do not make it great, they just highlight the reality of our culture’s bar.
The Beacon (Off Broadway, October)
Following Lange, Kate Mulgrew gave the next acting master class of my year. If Nancy Harris’ narrative lacked something in cohesion and credibility, Mulgrew made up for it with a performance so full-bodied and a voice of such sonorous tone I can see and hear her now. Suffice it to say I would not want to miss any chance to see Mulgrew on stage again.
This gorgeous quartet, Laura Donnelly in her second of the play’s roles as her own daughter, Ophelia Lovibond as Ruby, whose a cappella contribution was a showstopper, Leanne Best as Gloria whose exquisite anger made the ugliest of emotions both hilarious, appalling, and somehow beautiful, and Helena Wilson as the sneaky spinster smoker, Jill, with a heart of gold.
Hills of California (Broadway, October)
I can’t recall loving plays of the past ten years more than Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem and Ferryman. The former provided the thrill of Mark Rylance and the latter the equally riveting Laura Donnelly, Butterworth’s partner in life and theatre for whom he writes. She is an indelible performer of all threats, and insights into her process via the delightful Stage Door Jonny podcast are great fun to gain. With this high bar I chose a solo matinée of Hills for my 45th birthday, having also heard from my friend Kate Wetherhead, in England for The Devil Wears Prada’s pre-West End tryout, that it was excellent. And it was. To say it rose to the level of Butterworth’s prior plays would not be true. To say that it couldn’t would also not be true.
Far be it from me it from me to dramaturg the greats, but the ending felt under construction, precluding a feeling of total satisfaction. This nagging lack was in spite of sublime performances by four fantastic actresses in five parts (Donnelly, Leanne Best, Ophelia Lovibond, and Helena Wilson) and two more stage treasures, Richards Lumsden and Short, in smaller roles that were supportive in more ways than one. No mind this awkward third act, the sum was devastatingly important in the fashion of the many recent storylines mercifully tackling women’s, particularly mothers, often impossible lots. The tragic climax landed with especially ominous force; the pre-election fears having now been proven founded with women’s prospects, bettered over my 45 years, imperiled anew.
Knight showcased Shakespearian mastery to voicing Salarino and Solano, hilariously reimagined as ridiculous randy puppets. Photo by Pavel Antonov.
Merchant of Venice (Off Broadway, November)
And then there was Knight. Hosting Boston’s Arlekin Players Theatre, Class Stage Company gave us a Merchant of Venice that solved Shakespeare’s “problem play” to my humble satisfaction and, in double virtue, returned T.R. Knight to the New York stage. All this in a 90-minute adaptation to a madcap talk show for which we are the live studio audience, offering Noises Off! (also on Knight’s Broadway C.V.) hilarity then concluding in an all-too-timely portrayal of antisemitism with Richard Topol’s Shylock revealing new layers of motivation and pain. It is rare to hear Shakespeare spoken as naturally as in Topol and Knight’s mouths, with Knight’s mastery making poetry of even passing moments. Another Minnesotan, Knight and I became friendly during my student internship on his Ah, Wilderness! at The Guthrie (1999!) then lost touch, as it goes, following Grey’s Anatomy fame. It’s wonderful to glean he’s missed the stage as much as him it, with his joining the Broadway cast of Stranger Things: The First Shadow just announced for spring.
McNeal (Broadway, November)
My overall theatrical highlight of the year, the day after the election I saw a play that satisfied all my yearnings for quotability that I missed in the likes of Appropriate and Mother Play. Ayad Akhtar is a writer I had not experienced, and he’s of a Stoppard class, rewarding with a level of language-wielding that attracted me to theatre in the first place when I began reading the great wits, Wilde, Congreve, of course Shakespeare and Shaw, thanks to an uncommonly wise teacher in high school.
What’s more, in real time he was tackling the A.I. conversation that has many writers reeling, as well as teachers. It was also a case of Downey Jr. revealing himself as an American stage treasure, putting me in mind of understated method mastery I’ve rarely seen live, leading an ensemble without weak links. If his character risked being unlikable to an unredeemable degree, the entertainment value made up for the inability to empathize with his type. With the icing of the most exciting set of the season, it was a case that even if it holes could be poked, I was so grateful to be both swept away and leave authentically more intelligent.
Stereophonic (Broadway, December)
This play had my name on it and, with a closing date announced, was my priority to end out the year. I had not heard unanimous praise so had adjusted expectations, which it met. If not as indelible as Fleetwood Mac, who popular opinion believes inspired the show, Will Butler’s original tunes were so successful you wished to hear complete versions of each. Instead, most were cut off to get back to the story, whose main insight seemed to be that behind the scenes of great fame is not only dysfunction, of course, but a rather humdrum process of artistic inspiration, exchange, and production, with greatness achieved at surprising moments, as if by accident.
Apart from Will Brill’s rightly Tony-winning turn as Reg on bass and a depiction of substance abuse uncomfortable in its veracity, my favorite performances came from the two-hander play-within-a-play between Eli Gelb and Andrew Butler, often separated from the genius unfolding in the studio. On a deeper level, Amy Forsyth as Diana put me in mind of devastating decisions that we know Joni and Patti and countless others had to make, rounding out her performance with a chilling monologue about the choice female performers face vis-à-vis marriage and family planning. When her partner asks her to have a baby, the request borders on the absurd, and she plaintively replies, “Where would I have this baby, on stage?” We expect the impossible of women, and it takes a toll that has a terrifying ripple effect. If at least if half of our country has abandoned women, a look back at the plays of my year reveals that our dramatists are doing more than their part.
Looking Ahead
Without knowing what I’ll be able to pull off, for starters my sights are on Gypsy, which I’ve never seen, and Denzel as Othello because our son is reading it in 9th Grade (and well, Denzel), our dear Gotham regular F. Murray Abraham in Beckett Shorts back at Irish Rep (have those tickets for that already on 2/9) and Oh, Mary!, as well as T.R.’s above-mentioned return to Broadway. I’ll be focused as well on producing no fewer than three projects by Kristen Lee Sergeant, completing the writing of my own one-woman musical show, and keeping the large Gotham community alive via our new newsletter.
When I reflect on solo theatre-going, which formed almost half of my experiences last year, I realize it’s quite like solo travel in the space it leaves for self-knowledge. The public solitude. The real-time program reading. The anonymous choices before, during, after. This crowded autonomy is another reason to love NYC, something we have to remind ourselves of every day as our costs exceed our earnings, but somehow the math works out.