The Milk Train Should Stop Sooner

The first production of Tennessee Williams' The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here closed after 69 performances. The second closed after five. Though I admire the Roundabout Theatre Company's audacity in reviving this maligned play, I really wish they had chosen any other Williams instead.

On the surface, the synopsis is promising: the elderly Flora Goforth (Olympia Dukakis) is living out her last days on an Italian mountaintop while "writing a memoir" to avoid the inevitable. Trapped on the mountain with her is her assistant and ghost writer, Frances Black, whom Flora calls "Blackie" (Maggie Lacey). Their lives are suddenly interrupted by a tall, dark and handsome stranger, Christopher Flanders (Darren Pettie). All the elements of a genuine exploration into death and dying are there.

Unfortunately, Williams makes his point early on, and then just repeats it again and again for a whole two hours and twenty minutes. We get a sense of Flora's former life and her current insecurities about death through the rambling stories she dictates to Blackie. Flora was a debutante type with many suitors, but alas there was one who got away. Now we watch her struggle against loneliness armed with only two servants and Blackie. Dukakis channels Flora well, acting like a diva who is doing anything to distract herself from death. So when Christopher first shows up, he seems like a possibly fun distraction. Pettie, who also plays the closeted Lee Garner Jr. on Mad Men, knows how to use his body to his advantage. A mobile artist, Chris goes around Europe crashing with wealthy patrons who appreciate his company in their twilight days. Indeed, many such patrons have died in This has earned him the nickname "The Angel of Death."

While some attempt at a profound conversation about death ensues, it's hard to look past the web of cliches. For instance, no sooner does Christopher arrive then he starts seducing Blackie. Flora, naturally, gets jealous, and tries to shoo the Angel of Death off her property. Williams tries to make this segue into a heated exchange where the characters let their masks down and show the audience their views on death. To Chris, death is nothing to be afraid of. His job is to ease his patrons to comfortably let go. But to Flora, death is something to be ignored. However, the characters are too thinly drawn to let us buy in to any of their emotions. While Flora says she has loved and lost, she doesn't reveal what she is truly afraid of. We certainly do not sympathize with a wealthy lady who has appeared to lived a rich life. Either Williams or the director, Michael Wilson, has given Flora too much bravada and not enough vulnerability. Similarly, it's a mystery why Chris is there in the first place. Should we trust his message because he looks so good without a shirt and is an artist, or should we be suspicious of him because he admits to bumming off old folks? I blame the director for having failed to ask Pettie to pick one side. The most annoying character of all is Blackie. She seems to have no purpose except to show how stifling life on the mountain has become.

Halfway through the play, it becomes quite obvious how it will end - with death--what else? But even this is dragged on for an eternity. Wilson should have eliminated some of the long glances between the characters. Or better yet, he probably could have adapted the play to end it at any one of several good options before Williams' chosen ending.

Written in 1963, twenty years before Williams' death, I can't forgive him for being an old man contemplating death. Perhaps we can just write off The Milk Train Doesn't Stop Here Anymore as what happens when starts resting on the laurels of past achievement.

Why Blue Valentine is a Great Break Up Film

Blue Valentine directed by Derek Cianfrance is the perfect antidote to the increasingly terrible romantic comedy slush pile. After years of slacker-male-reforms-frigid-woman-then-finds-love movies (i.e. Knocked Up, 40 Year Old Virgin, etc), it is refreshing to see a movie where a romantic slacker gets together with a slightly more achieving woman without the cliché happy ending.

As any review will tell you, Blue Valentine is the story of Dean (Ryan Gosling) and Cindy (Michelle Williams), and the formation and disintegration of their marriage. Not much happens in the film. The plot—if it can be described as such—follows a few days in the life of Cindy and Dean in present time. Living in rural/suburban Pennsylvania, Cindy is a nurse and Dean is a house painter. Dean seems to be the primary caretaker of their kindergartener. Cindy has a weary look, while Dean has a beer belly and oversized glasses that would be hipster if it were ironic. When the family dog Meghan dies, Dean decides to rekindle the relationship by booking the “Future Room” at a nearby hotel. There, the couple plays out all their pent up problems over the course of one evening, leading to an inevitable climax in the morning.

Throughout, the film flashes back to the couple’s courtship, six years ago. We see Cindy as a community college student, hoping to transfer to a four-year where she plans to study to become a doctor. Dean is a mover trying to find his calling. Both are hopeless romantics. Dean tells his buddies that “Men are more romantic than women. When a man meets the girl he wants to marry he knows it. But women always say they want to find the right guy, but end up marrying the guy who’s a good provider.” Cindy asks her grandmother how one knows if they are in love, trying to figure out if she should break up with her jock bf, Bobby.

And here’s where Blue Valentine makes a statement by being simultaneously both extremely romantic and extremely cynical. These two romantics manage to find each other and have a great time. Their connection is palpable in the way that Dean’s off the cuff remarks make Cindy laugh, and in the way that they manage to have fun with each other. But even so, their love crumples after six years. Now, Cindy only yells at Dean for acting like a child, and asks him whether he wants to do anything besides housepainting. Blue Valentine seems to say two things through its portrayal of the disintegration. On the one hand, it suggests that even the most profound love cannot survive the rigors of daily life. But on the other hand, we are proud of the characters for admitting their failure and trying to move on. Instead of depressingly leading a loveless life, they recognize they deserve more. This is ultimately hopeful.

Many critics have pointed out that we the film does not show the middle of the relationship, so we do not know how the relationship disintegrated. On the contrary, I think Cianfrance does a great job showing the way that the relationship has sucked the life out of both Cindy and Dean. Both characters are fundamentally the same person they were six years ago. Only their reactions to each other are soured now. Dean is no longer fun now that his antics result in extra work for Cindy. He seems to try to channel his old self in making her laugh instead of being his natural self. Even though it’s saddening that the relationship falls apart, we can also hope that both characters will find someone else with whom they share the same magic that they once did with each other.

Downton Abbey Indulges

PBS has joined the other major US networks in making its prime content available for free on its web site. This is good news for us because we can now watch the BBC’s newest and most expensive period drama, Downton Abbey, right after it airs.

A Masterpiece Theater production, Downton Abbey is an original miniseries by Julian Fellowes, who also wrote Gosford Park. The miniseries plays like a beginner’s Gosford Park—a gateway period drama. Set in 1912, it opens on the day after the Titanic sank. Lord Grantham’s household wakes up to the news that both of Grantham’s heirs died on the Titanic. Lord Grantham’s, (given name Robert Crawley), eldest daughter, Mary, who was engaged to one of these heirs, is suddenly free to have a new mate. But the rest of the household is nervous about what will happen to the Downton Abbey estate.

And so we are thrust into the intrigue of British entails. Because Crawley’s estate is entailed, it may only pass on to the next heir. Even Robert Crawley’s wealthy American wife, Cora, who traded her inheritance for her position, will not be able to get back any part of her inheritance estate. Like the Bennetts of Pride and Prejudice, the Crawleys only have daughters. Thus, the estate is going to a lawyer third-cousin, Matthew Crawley.

The first episode lays out this set up quickly. Even though the idea of an entail may seem ridiculous to a contemporary American audience, we buy into the stakes because Robert Crawley (played by Hugh Bonneville) takes the idea so seriously. Lord Grantham repeatedly explains that he does not want to break the entail because he has lived his whole life as Grantham and needs to keep the estate in tact. Meanwhile, Cora Crawley and Robert’s mother, Lady Grantham plot ways to, hinting at marrying Mary off to Matthew.

A Julian Fellowes script, Downton Abbey uses some of the same devices to show the inner workings of the household. The camera swiftly follows the servants’ movements from their behind-the-scenes production downstairs to their serving the Granthams upstairs. The servants’ actions are reminiscent of an actors’ backstage preparations. Some of the upstairs-downstairs social commentary is a bit heavy handed. In one scene, Lord Grantham’s new valet remarks to a footman “We can touch all of these fine objects all the time, but none of them is ours.” Fellowes shows the hierarchy within the servants, with the head butler stemming from a line of servants who once served Charlemagne, to the young footman who will do anything to advance to valet. Again, even though modern American audiences care nothing about the distinction between footman, valet, and butler, the performances draw us into the stakes.

The story is more observed when it comes to the issue of Great Britain entering modernity. Matthew Crawley represents a progressive Britain while Robert Crawley’s mother (Dame Maggie Smith) represents a conservative Britain. Robert and Cora are caught in the middle. Just how things are about to change for England is foreshadowed in conversations between the three generations. Upon hearing David Lloyd-George, the liberal prime minister’s name, Lady Grantham gasps “Don’t mention that name here.” She would be appalled by his overwhelmingly positive legacy today.

When the Crawleys invite Matthew over for dinner, he discusses his plans to continue lawyering despite his new inheritance. Since real gentlemen don’t work, a shocked Robert says “You’ll be needed to run the estate.” Matthew replies that there’s always the weekend for that, to which a confused Lady Grantham remarks “What’s a weekend?” Moments like these where Fellowes doesn’t spell everything out, but gets the message across effectively, make Downton Abbey fun to watch. Even if you do not care about entails or titles, Maggie Smith’s caustic remarks delight.

Hopper Juxtaposed

Another year, another Hopper exhibit. The Whitney's Modern Life: Edward Hopper and His Time (through April 10) displays some of Hopper's finest work alongside his contemporaries'. Meant to provide some context for Hopper's work, the exhibit is a journey through American art from 1900 to 1960. The exhibit begins with an introduction to the Ashcan School and a display of The Eight collective’s—organized by Robert Henri (pronounced hen-RYE)—work. Now that it was the Twentieth Century, the Ashcan School and The Eight represented a movement away from portraying high-minded subjects to portraying the grittier aspects of life such as working men in living in shabby conditions. As a member of The Eight, Hopper’s work incorporated some of its themes such as isolation in the age of modern machinery.

But just as the exhibit demonstrates how Hopper was a member of The Eight, it also illuminates why he rose to become The Eight's most famous artist. Even when Hopper was studying in Paris, away from The Eight, he explored his trademark them of isolation in a powerful way that can draw in any viewer. In Soir Bleu, his famous painting of the motley group of individuals—including a clown—sitting at a Parisian café, each one seems to be in his own head, failing to notice the others around them. We might think the clown and the prostitute are not really relatable at first, but then we notice that they are just taking a break from their days as anyone else would.

In contrast to his contemporaries’ vision of women, Hopper provides an utterly unselfconscious view of his female subjects. Others in The Eight, like Everett Shinn, portrayed women working as dancers, actors, and even prostitutes. These portrayals inevitably feature a woman conscious of others looking at her while she performs. Hopper, however, expertly gave us a glimpse of women doing their quotidian duties, allowing us to make up the rest. His New York Interior shows us a woman’s back. She seems to be wearing a fluffy dress while sewing. We don’t see her face, and yet are inspired to make up our own story about her. Similarly, another painting depicts a nude woman waking up in the Italian countryside, unselfconsciously gazing out the window. She is entirely isolated from the rest of the world and knows it.

Later galleries explore other Twentieth Century themes such as the fear of machinery and the growth of the city. In each, Hopper’s paintings stand out for their consistent teasing quality. In Sunday Morning we see an empty block and wonder what the story behind it is. We can put ourselves on the block in this landscape, the way we cannot in others’ paintings.

Though I was there for the Hopper, the Whitney surprised me with a highly accessible, highly conceptual sculpture exhibit by the artist Charles LeDray. LeDray, whom I'd never heard of before, does 3-D miniature clothing, furniture, and pottery. Though easily to deride as doll’s clothing and accessories, his work is oddly moving. Titled workworkworkworkwork, the exhibit opens with Village People, a series of miniature hats that spans one entire wall of a gallery. These hats represent different occupations and range from the stereotypical police hat to the more subtle top hat. They evoke the institutions and people represented by each hat through just the detail in one small object.

Similarly, LeDray’s miniature outfits also evoke human drama without showing a single person. He often displays a jacket with fragments of other clothing attached to it, as if showing the entirety of a person’s wardrobe. We can all be reduced to our wardrobes, which is quite depressing to think about.

The most devastating piece is Mens Work, which is essentially a miniature mall and Laundromat. We stand like giants over miniature coat racks, laundry bags, and closets. Looking at all the clothes from above renders a sense of ridiculousness over our wardrobes and our lives. These clothes could be so easily destroyed, just like their owners.

A Small Fire Ignites

A very obvious metaphor lies at the center of Adam Bock's new play A Small Fire playing this month at Playwrights Horizons. Emily Bridges (Michelle Pawk), a middle aged woman who owns a successful construction company--and acts like she owns everyone in it--suddenly loses her sense of smell. She begins a quick decline that leads to blindness and other lost senses as well. At first brush, Emily's strange illness is only a tool to render her helpless, forcing her and her husband to reverse roles. Whereas Emily is used to being the breadwinning woman who speaks her mind, John Bridges (Reed Birney), who works in HR, must now be the strong one and care for his wife.

Despite this gimmicky proposition, Bock successfully shows the depth of an entire marriage over the course of Emily's decline. Emily and John's grown daughter, Jenny (Celia Keenan-Boger), plays the role of an outsider whom the marriage must be explained to. As Jenny changes her mind about her parents and their marriage, so do we. Early on, we see Emily berate Jenny about her upcoming marriage. Emily thinks Jenny's fiance is basically a joker who isn't good enough for her. Keenan-Bolger betrays a lifetime of resentment in each look she throws at her mother. Clearly the good cop, John explains why he has stuck with Emily through all these years of abuse when he is confronted by his daughter. "You should have left her," she implores. "I can't be alone," is his simple answer. Birney's delivery of this line is perfect. He seems to have thought about Jenny's question before, and now only briefly hesitates to tell her or not. He finally does get the words out, clearly and definitely.

Emily struggles with her own loneliness as she loses each sense that put her in touch with the rest of the world. It's understandably difficult for a seeing person to act like she's blind, and Pawk does not master the task. However, her body does show the growing inwardness of her mind. Vibrant and wholly present on stage in early scenes, she takes on a ghostlike presence in later ones as she seems to shrink into her baggier clothing. But when visitors come, Emily shouts as if to reassert her presence. Bock's dreamlike sequences for Emily are supposed to reveal her more to us, but are unnecessary. Emily stands downstage with her narration in voice over. Though blocked in a dreamlike way, we simply learn that Emily feels trapped, which is not really a surprise.

The most controversial scene in the play is a lengthy sex scene at the play's literal climax between Emily and John. John is completely naked, with careful blocking the only thing between us and his junk. Lasting several minutes, I sense that we are supposed to see Emily and John getting closer in this scene. Perhaps Bock wants to make us uncomfortable as a contrast to the couple's lack of inhibitions. But it probably could have been said with more clothes.

Eventually, we see why John cannot be alone, and why Emily and John may be a good match. In one scene, Emily admonishes Jenny to take care of her father because he does not know how to be strong on his own. Yet John also seems to be the best person to take care of Emily. He devises a mechanism by which to communicate with her once she is in deeper decline. The two have grown into each other over the years.

Black Swan: All Smoke and Mirrors?

Black Swan advertises itself as a psycho-sexual thriller, when it could just as easily be labeled a parable. The psycho sexual part--while drawing most of the male audience members at the screening I attended last night--was also the most disappointing.

The plot of Black Swan is laid out early on during a speech that the dance director, Thomas, gives his ballerinas in practice. Summarizing Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, he foreshadows that this will be the story of a girl turned into a white swan queen who must find love to break the spell. When her double, the black swan, seduces the prince instead, the swan queen leaps to her death.

The camera's early, constant focus on Nina Salyers (Natalie Portman) introduces her as the swan queen. Tomas awards her the part of the swan queen after she shows him a dark side by biting him. But he still admonishes her to let loose, to tap into her dark side more vigorously. How is she going to do this? Can she make this transformation while remaining herself, the film seems to ask. Darren Aronofsky's camera follows Nina closely throughout Black Swan. He produces a shaky hand held effect focusing on the back of Portman's head wherever she goes. While this effect signals that everything we see is through Nina's eyes, our position as audience members still gives us the distance to interpret Nina's experiences.

So each time that Nina sees something mysterious--the words "Whore" strewn on the bathroom mirror, or a darker doppelganger who appears at inopportune moments--we are presented with a choice. Are these sightings for real or just figments of Nina's imagination? While the movie initially seems to suggest that there might be a scientific, Portman's strained expression and the audience's knowledge of schizophrenia also lead us to believe that Portman is simply seeing things that don't exist and is otherwise paranoid. Soon after Nina gets her role, an older dancer who has just been foisted out of the company, Beth (WInona Ryder), warns her that an up and coming dancer will soon be after her role. Sure enough, Nina starts to envision her double everywhere in addition to her competitor Lily (Mila Kunis) seducing the Thomas. We can only draw the conclusion that Nina was strongly influenced by Beth's words.

The problem, of course, is that if we write off Nina as a crazy person so early on, we can no longer buy into her struggle to tap into her dark side. Nina is already far gone. There's only the matter of watching her steep and quick decline. In contrast to movies about mental decline such as A Beautiful Mind, the well being of no one seems to be at stake here. We haven't seen Nina, while admirable in her discipline, is precisely as cold as Thomas says she is. Portman wears a furrowed brow in nearly every scene and rarely cracks a smile. Her peeling cuticles only exemplify her uptight demeanor.

Black Swan is still a memorable movie, if only for Aronofsky's direction. He gives us a terrifyingly physical glimpse into the body of a ballet dancer. We see Nina's cracked toenails, skin rashes and emaciated body.

Unfortunately, these shots only emphasize Nina's frigidity. With little character development at stake, Black Swan unfolds as a retelling of Swan Lake and little more.