Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - April 2010

I recently saw this on a big screen with an audience. And it's really the only way to appreciate it.

Dinner last night: Sausage pizza at Lunada in White Plains.

Promises, Promises

Here's your intrepid Broadway critic, doing an early morning review after seeing a new show last evening. Screw you, Frank Rich. Your job's not that hard.

Readers here will know that I am a sucker for the wonderful concoction of sausage and peppers. I ate some just the other night. Pure comfort food. And, when it comes to musical comedy, there is no better blend for me than the story of my all time favorite movie, "The Apartment," and the musical stylings of Burt Bacharach and Hal David, my all time favorite songwriters. Comfort food for the ears. The warmest, softest Q-Tip ever.

So, obviously "Promises, Promises" is one of my favorite Broadway musicals. It originally opened over 40 years and doesn't get revived often. I saw a showcase version of it with Jason Alexander in Los Angeles about thirteen years. When they recently announced this current Broadway revival a few months back, it was catnip for this kitty. And how soon could I buy tickets, please?

I ventured in with great trepidation, though. I was worried about the casting. Sean Hayes in the lead? Wow, he had spent years being underdirected by the much overrated James Burrows on "Will & Grace" and came up with one of the most annoying characters in television history. Hmmmmm.

Then, I hear Kristin Chenoweth as the female lead. Uh oh! Miscast Police, please report to my office immediately. The chick's got a great voice when singing, but sounds like your last helium balloon intake when she speaks. None of this bodes well.

I was wrong. Dead wrong.

It works. It works very well. When you have a great story and the super lush songs penned by Bacharach and David, you really can't mess up too much. But, surprisingly and amazingly, Hayes and Chenoweth pull it off better than even I expected. For the 95% of the audience who never saw the original, this will be an astounding evening of entertainment, which pales only slightly to the first production. My suggestion is you should not see it with anybody who yearns to do the comparison. I did and found myself defending the new cast all night.

Still set in 1962 because that's where this tale truly belongs, "Promises, Promises" should get a 2010 boost because "Mad Men" is in vogue. Stylistically, they got the era spot on. And, despite the age of some of the music, most of it sounds like it was written last week. I don't know what Bacharach and David have done lately, but who cares? What they did forty years ago is still eons better than the crap we hear today.

Sean Hayes works in a little of his Jack shtick but it never dominates the proceedings. Sean, see how good you can be when you actually have a director who gives a shit? His singing voice caught me pleasantly off guard. Who knew? Okay, he's nothing like the original portrayer of the role, Jerry Orbach, as my evening companion loudly announced at one point during the second act. My Lord, who the hell did I go to the theater with tonight? I broke the news to her that Jerry Orbach's dead and no longer available to do both evening and matinee performances. Get over it. Let's move on. Sean Hayes is a fine fit and let's both clap for him in unison.

Kristen Chenoweth took a little longer to get used to. Shirley McLaine's performance in the movie is so memorable that it becomes even harder to put aside when you see anybody else as Fran Kubelik. But, in her big emotional Act II scene, Kristen wins you over with some very understated acting choices. Indeed, Hayes and Chenoweth's musical numbers together work the best. Their voices blend nicely. Here I go again. Who knew?

Probably in an effort to get Chenoweth to actually play the part, the producers added two additional numbers from the Bacharach-David songbook in order to give her a few more "big belt" moments. When she sings and dances to "I Say A Little Prayer," you are reminded why it worked so well in Julia Roberts' "My Best Friend's Wedding." And why it succeeds here not so much. Actually, not at all. They also stick in "A House is Not a Home," which works a little better, but still feels like a home extension that doesn't carry on the architectural design of the rest of the house. Early American furniture in a Chinese Modern house. Ultimately, both tune insertions get in the way like some old lady scrounging for coins in her purse on the express line at the supermarket.

Going back to the movie "Ghost," Tony Goldwyn is making a cottage industry of playing rat bastards and he adds one more creep to his resume as the philandering Mr. Sheldrake. Here's another person who surprisingly made the most of his musical pipes in his two numbers. Here I go again. Who knew??? Not me.

The first half of the second act is stolen completely by Kate Finneran who scores mightily in the small role of Margie McDougall. There's a Tony Nomination and possible Award in her immediate future. One of those roles that is written so well that even the worst actress in the world can't screw it up. Luckily, Katherine Heigl was unavailable and Finneran was.

At the heart, though, is the music. It shines as brightly as ever. It wafts over the crowd and pulls you in by your lapels. You submit to it without putting up a fight. And, truly, it is the primary reason for the cult following that "Promises, Promises" has long had.

There were a few of these geeks around us. One old gay guy from San Francisco was sitting in front of us. This was his favorite musical, although, in conversation, he also mentioned that he loved "Young Frankenstein" as well. That moved his opinion to the "suspect" column within two seconds. But, the older lady next to us was also there to revel one more time in her most beloved musical of all time. She left with a huge smile on her face.

So did I. So did we all.

"Promises, Promises" opens this Sunday night and I hope the real reviews are as good as ours. But, then again, who do you think you should listen to? Them or me?

Ah, you said "me." I have trained you well, haven't I?

Dinner last night: Muffalatta sandwich at the Playwright Tavern.

The Homeland Security Gift Shop

As much as I fly coast to coast, I should have known better yesterday when I went through LAX security on my way to New York. The day before, I had bought an extra large tube of hand cream and haphazardly tossed it into a pocket in my carry-on bag. I didn't give it a second thought.

As I prepared for my x-ray, I did my normal ritual. Sneakers off. Laptop out into a separate tray. DVD player out into a separate tray. I was a robot. Until my usual sequence was disrupted.

By Miz Thang of Homeland Security.

"Sir, we gonna have to inpsect your bag."

Huh?

Her Majesty donned her little white plastic gloves and began to go through my business. The offending item was found in short order. She triumphantly held up the hand cream.

"This is not allowed, sir."

I know, I know. Brain blip. Trust me when I tell you that I wasn't planning to moisturize a pilot to submission.

"Do you all want to take this down and put it in your checked luggage?"

You're kidding, right? Am I supposed to chase down a conveyor belt so I can pack this in my suitcase? I began to wonder if there are people who actually do this. I told her not to sweat it. She walked away with my newly purchased, barely squeezed hand cream.

I started to think about all the items confiscated from people who experience similar mind freezes. Where does it all go? I looked at all the Homeland Security staff around me. Most are one rung above French Fry salters at McDonald's. Are they the ultimate recipients of our mistakes? Do all these toiletries wind up in one big airport conference room? I imagined the lunchtime conversation between some of these security people.

"I'm outta toothpaste. Let me go down to "the store" and see if anybody had to give up their Colgate."

"I got myself some new Aramis for my man last week."

"Don't use that Sebastian shampoo shit. It don't work on our hair."

As I laced up my sneakers, I glanced over at Miz Thang one more time. She had already cracked my hand cream and was rubbing it all over the ashy spots on her arm.

Geez, she didn't even give her co-workers a chance.

Dinner last night: Sausage and peppers at the NY abode.

Just Another Wednesday in Eyjafjallajokull

Say it again, everybody. Eyjafjallajokull.

---Again.

---Eyjafjallajokull.

---And that's Icelandic for "boy, those airline fares are going to go up."

---I'm looking at that picture again. And I thought my mother smoked a lot?

---I don't think she grounded any flights during her lifetime. Although she did ground me repeatedly.

---How many Democrats have blamed this on George Bush?

---Like he and Laura were down on their Texas ranch doing a pagan volcano dance?

---With all that fire and smoke, Al Gore's mansion still generates more energy.

---So, all this shit in the air turns into that glass-like substance called silica.

---And now I'm wondering who is in charge of taking that silica and putting it in those little cloth packets we find when we open up new small appliances.

---Right now, European tourists can't fly here. And, as far as I'm concerned, that's a good thing.

---Since this is an act of God, your travel insurance is no good here.

---Just like Van Heflin when he blew up the plane in "Airport."

---This smoky crap prevented Obummer from leaving the country to go to that dead Polish President's funeral. And, as far as I'm concerned, that's a bad thing.

---Obummer leaving the country, I mean. I really have no opinion one way or the other on the Polish President.

---That gave POTUS time to come out to LA and attend a fund raising dinner for Barbara "I Look Like A" Boxer.

---Meal for two? $35,000.

---Without tax and tip. And you didn't get to pick from the dessert cart.

---When a candidate hears that Obama is going to campaign for you, isn't the first thing you hear "oh, God, please, no!"

---Meanwhile, how stupid do you feel right now if you're Jewish and you voted for Obummer?

---And, how stupid do you feel right now if you're gay and you voted for Obummer?

---One more time. How stupid do you feel if you work for Goldman Sachs and contributed lots of money to get Obummer elected?

---Pretty stupid, I guess.

---And pretty stupid, I guess.

---And, one more time...pretty stupid, I guess. But, then again, you folks at Goldman Sachs are crooks, too.

---A funny stat about people who attend "tea parties?" Almost a quarter of them voted for Obummer.

---Yeah, a racist would have pulled the lever for him, right?

---Just thinking out loud: Sandra Bullock and Larry King? Both available.

---She could do a lot worse. On second thought, no, she couldn't.

---What gets bounced more? Larry King out of his marriages or checks that he himself writes?

---So, let me get this right. Something that surprises Roger Ebert will no longer make his jaw drop?

And one last time! Eyjafjallajokull!!!!

Dinner last night: Turkey, bacon, and swiss on pumpernickel from Clementine's.

And tomorrow from the other side...of the country, that is.

My Sights and Sounds - The Eagles at the Hollywood Bowl

There is something a little unsettling going to the Hollywood Bowl in April. Usually, I don't make my first foray into stacked parking and the trek up the long hill until the Fourth of July Spectacular. But, thanks to a wonderful Christmas gift, I got to start the summer early last Saturday night with the Eagles concert.

If I thought the early date was offputting, I wasn't prepared for the audience, which was clearly from a parallel universe I do not want to visit again. While I felt one step off, the folks around me were behind by several decades.

Okay, the Eagles are to Southern California what the Beatles are to the rest of the universe. Given their West Coast roots, they are truly a hometown band. And the audience, many of which were in their 50s and 60s, were there to journey back in time for one more look at the seventies. From what I could see, that might have been the last time some of them had been out of the house. Or even without a bag of Funyons on the couch in front of the 19 inch television set.

I could see the difference as soon as I pulled into the parking lot. Usually, parking instructions are not hard to follow. Apparently, they were for most of this audience. I watched folks park willy nilly. One dope ignored the parking attendant and decided to make his own lanes. Another drove hopelessly around in a circle. I would have said he was getting dizzy, but I think he left the house that way.

Yes, this was not the champagne tasting crowd that normally frequents the Hollywood Bowl. This was the wine and Cheetos set. Lots and lots and lots of wine. The stuff from the bottom shelf of the super market. I was expecting to see bottles of Lancers or Mateus strewn across the picnic area. From what I could see, motorcycle clubs all over Southern California had closed for the weekend.

This was Woodstock for the arthritic. But, instead of the expected vile smell offered up by the Wacky Weed of Woe, the aroma that completely enveloped the Bowl was one of nicotine. Lots and lots and lots of nicotine. This was now the Hollywood Ashtray. If I ultimately die from lung cancer, I will assume the tumor began to form last weekend.

The pre-show parade of slobs was astounding. If you needed to get hold of a 70s burnout, this should have been the first place to look. Folks for whom Old Navy is high-end clothing apparel. And, naturally, I attracted them like a refrigerator magnet.

Take, for instance, the two dumbbells down the end of my row. He was fairly nondescript. But, the missus? Yeeech! Everytime she bent over to get a Slim Jim from her picnic basket, her clothing retreated in opposite directions. The blouse went up. The pants went down. And I got a front row view of her purple thong. Given she was about 275 pounds, I didn't think they made them in those sizes. My friend said the woman was obviously very comfortable with her body. Good for her. I sure as hell wasn't.

My slippery slope continued with the arrival of the two assholes who would sit directly next to me. A married couple that had dusted off their EST manual for the evening. They did what they wanted to do. They talked what they wanted to talk about. And didn't give a rat's ass who they were annoying in the process.

I knew this was trouble when the guy, clearly in his 50s, arrived wearing a T-shirt from a motorcycle shop in Redwood City, California. Never a good sign. His wife/woman kept throwing her arms around her husband/man. Everytime she did so, I got punched in the shoulder. If I wanted to be the victim of spousal abuse, there are countless people I would have married years ago. Within ten minutes, I was looking to see if the Bowl Gift Shop sold temporary restraining orders.

Meanwhile, these two chuckleheads decided to use the evening as a means to catch up on the last two decades. As soon as the show started, they began to chat. And chat. And chat. They would have stood out more for the incessant conversation, except I noticed most of the crowd was doing the same. As I surveyed the rows around me, I was looking at years of undiagnosed attention deficit disorders.

Of course, at the beginning of the second act, the Dynamic Duo unfortunately returned from wherever they had urinated during intermission. Now it was time to eat. And they had apparently cleaned out their refrigerator for the first time since 1979. Everything they pulled out of their cooler smelled like a science project conducted with sulphur. I guess somebody had told them to "eat shit," because that's precisely what they were doing.

Trust me, when I could concentrate, the musical portion of the evening was pitch perfect. These were the real Eagles, unlike several years ago when the Bowl pulled four clowns off a Compton street corner to "be" the Spinners. Yep, we got the authentic musicians. Glenn Frey, Don Henley, and Joe Walsh are a bit older and more grizzled, but still craftsmen when it comes to their tunes.

And Frey has a future as a stand-up comic. He announced that this was the Eagles' "Assisted Living Tour." He dedicated one song to his first wife, whom he now refers to as "Plaintiff." And, when he was discussing his hometown of Detroit, he remarked that this is a place where "mother" is only one half of a word.

At the same time, the Eagles used rear back projection to the max. There was always something interesting being shown behind them. Sometimes, it was the usual cacophony of colors designed to enhance your marijuana intake. But, mostly, it was scenery or old videos that simply added to the overall retro experience. You got to see the band in their younger, vodka-hazed days.

Well, you readers are the lucky ones. I'm including two numbers from the show for you to enjoy. And you can listen without enduring sloppy drunks, second-hand smoke, and rancid Brie cheese. Yep, I took the hit for you.

And I don't mean on a joint.

Dinner last night: Salisbury steak at the Cheesecake Factory.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - April 19, 2010

The marvelous Tony Randall. When you a-s-s-u-m-e,.....

Dinner last night: Roast beef sandwich.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - How I Met the Mets

You see how clever that title is? Sometimes, I even impress myself. Anyway, here we go with a series of baseball-related memory drawers.
My journey with the Mets began when the now-demolished Shea Stadium opened. Truth be told, I had already attended a Met game the previous season while they were still at the Polo Grounds. I was part of a kiddie day camp and this was one of our field trips. We sat in the bleachers about five miles from home plate and, given I was still a baseball novice, I had no clue what was happening. And it would only have been slightly better if I could actually see the field. Since this was a day camp, we left by the fifth inning to board some yellow school bus.
But, thanks to Retrosheet.com, I have only recently discovered that my best friend from high school, ultimately my Shea Stadium seat mate for many years, was at the very same game. So, technically, it was our first Met game together. Separately. With one of us completely oblivious to the game.
My very, very, very first baseball game had taken place one month earlier. At Yankee Stadium. My father's cousin owned an oil burner company that had a season box. Since I had been home from school for about a week with an ear infection, I was not the ideal participant in this fun. But, my father, who had been a lifelong Yankee fan, wasn't going to miss this opportunity to introduce his son to baseball. Cotton balls were thrown in my ears and a Yankee hat was plopped onto my head. I was good to go. Retrosheet reminds me that Mickey Mantle hit a homerun that afternoon. I could have cared less. I was too busy making myself a nuisance by yelling into that Yankee megaphone which had been my popcorn holder.
For me, baseball was still something that pre-empted my late afternoon cartoons on WPIX Channel 11. What caused me to become a fan?
I got the German measles.
Cooped up again in the house for a week the following May, I was bored out of my mind. Having watched all the sitcom reruns I could in the morning, I sat in front of the TV set and turned the channel knob. Yes, folks, no remote control. I surveyed what was available on the six or seven channels. Yes, folks, only six or seven channels. I stumbled upon a New York Met day game being telecast from spanking new Shea Stadium. Hmmm. If nothing else, this would tide me over until the Popeye Show with Captain Jack McCarthy.
Staring at the black and white screen and listening to this guy named Lindsey Nelson, I started to pay attention to the action. I remember immediately being engaged when the Mets got two runs in the bottom of the first inning when somebody hit a homerun. Retrosheet tells me that it was Tim Harkness.
Gee, I'd only been following this sport for ten minutes and already my team was winning. How cool was that?
Ultimately, on that day, the Mets won 3-2 over the Cincinnati Reds. I had hung in for all nine innings. By myself. And I started to understand what was going on. That afternoon, the Popeye cartoons were even sweeter. I had myself a baseball team. I couldn't wait to tell my father.
Yankee fan Dad was nonplussed.
"You want to root for the Mets?? You know they stink."
Huh? They had just won.
"They're the worst team in baseball."
Huh? I liked them.
"Don't you want to go to another Yankee game?"
Huh?
Er, no, Dad, I don't. I'm a Met fan.
And so it began...
To be continued.
Dinner last night: Hollywood Bowl Hot Dog.