Pal Joey Bewitches, Yet Again

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Soap operas would have me hooked, if they had all the showbiz oomph
of this musical revival of Pal Joey, a 1940 Broadway show (and a 1957 movie with Fred Astaire, Rita Hayworth, and Stockard Channing ). The glitzy, fun essentials are there. That’s about it, but that’s all you would need for a great night out, dreaming of old Manhattan and the days when show business was showbiz! and hoofers got by on wits and charm.

The plot is similar to one of those cheerful Italian operas, all melodramatic revelations are lustily or tragically belted out. Set in Chicago in the late 1930s, Pal Joey is the story of Joey Evans (Christian Hoff of Jersey Boys fame), a plotting song and dance man with dreams of owning his own nightclub. Joey breaks the heart of the wholesome Linda English, to seduce a rich, married older woman, Vera Simpson (Stockard Channing). It works, and Joey begins building up his own nightclub. One of the performers, Gladys Bumps (Martha Plimpton) has a grudge against Joey that she pays back in a twist even Joey can’t worm his way out of. The showbiz, song and dance routine of the entertainment industry turned inside out is fun to watch even now when it has changed, from the backstage flirtations to frou-frou burlesque costumes.

(Blurry Iphone photos of Pal Joey)

The production delivers just what it should from such a musical: pure entertainment. Honestly, I was jealous of the performers, it looks like so much fun to perform. I thought one of the numbers, “Zip”, was awkwardly introduced, so that the audience didn’t get the full joke of the song (in which a stripper recalls the intellectual musings in her head while she unzips.) Channing’s delivery of the infamous “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” can’t compete with Ella Fitzgerald, bu then who can? This tried-and-true crowd pleaser doesn’t bring anything new to stage, indeed it seems dated rather than shocking (as the conniving predator Joey was originally considered). No matter; some swinging old fashioned nostalgia ought to go down well over the holidays.



Rita Hayworth’s “Zip” gratis, so you understand what its all about.

Directed by Todd Haimes in association with Marc Platt. Musical score by Rogers and Hart. With: Stockard Channing (Vera Simpson), Christian Hoff (Joey Evans) , Martha Plimpton (Gladys Bumps) and Jenny Fellner (Linda English). At the Roundabout Theater’s Studio 54 on 254 W. 54th St. through February 15, 2009.

In Which I Die

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Egads and achoo,
Oh what should I do?
Alas and achoo,
I’m dying of flu.

Yes, gentle reader, tis true. Tis a pity its true, and tis true its a pity. However, I sense, as do those poor souls within germ-range of my snivels, that I am dying. I was going to tell you of other early deaths of literary luminaries, such as Emily Bronte who produced Wuthering Heights and promptly died of tuberculosis at the age of 30. And then poor, imaginative John Keats, whose lyric poetry suffered an onset of tuberculosis. However, startling and terrible research from the trusty google search must take precedence.

A study entitled The Cost of the Muse: Poets Die Young (from this article in The Guardian) says just that. Associate Professor James C Kaufman of California State University researched 1,987 deceased writers from four different cultures. Kaufman writes that:

“the image of the writer as a doomed and sometimes tragic figure, bound to die young, can be backed up by research. Writers die young. This research finding has been consistently replicated in a variety of studies.”

You see? I’m doomed. And it gets worse….the article writes that “a poet’s life, on average, is about a year shorter than that of a playwright, four years shorter than a novelist’s life, and five-and-six-tenths years less than that of a non-fiction specialist.”

Here, I am, on my death bed, penning away. Just like Bronte over Wuthering Heights, if one considers it metaphorically, and then extends the metaphor to include a whiny blogger. On the other hand, I might not need to worry about a poet’s shorter life span, judging from the poetry above.

Ah, onward Thursday! Heigh ho!

Of Russians: Returning to Babel’s Verve

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My Russian kick (first Chekhov, then Vladimir Sorokin) has led me back to Isaac Babel, and the rogue is finally starting to get interesting. As I mentioned in a previous post, I ambitiously took out Babel’s collected short stories from the library, then found one story might have been enough for me. On a second perusal, I find his lively verve thrilling and terseness masterful.

Babel’s folksy tales are rollicking in a way Sorokin’s The Queue was not. (To The Queue‘s credit, it ended with a hilarious dialogue of sex sounds.) Babel writes the Jewish experience in Odessa in the 1920s and 30s, so he isn’t dealing with Communism as Sorokin is. Yet he critiques society in a way that suggests he must poke fun at life because he must somehow bear the status quo. These Russians attempt humor through criticism, or criticism through humor, but I’m not sure to what effect, as I haven’t laughed out loud as of yet.

I flipped through Babel’s collection again, hopping from Odessa stories to Red Calvary stories to autobiographical stories. There’s always a joke on someone by the end, and with a modicum of detail he suggest a world of characterizations. His people don’t always have great depth, but they fit in their role in society that grows increasingly complex as we read his cycles of stories. His portrait is one of Russia rather than an individual. Humble lives are transformed into red-blooded exercises in existence. What I’m trying to say is, Babel is a great storyteller.

Babel, photographed upon his arrest

Babel’s life is a story unto itself: he survived the 1905 pogrom that killed his grandfather. He became a journalist and fiction writer, only after fighting in wars and studying finance for lack of other options. He become silent under Stalin’s tightening control. Accused of being an aesthete, Babel would pay for his artistic licence (see Wikipedia article here):

After the suspicious death of Gorky in 1936, Babel noted: “Now they will come for me.” …In May 1939 he was arrested at his dacha in Peredelkino, and eventually interrogated under torture at the Lubyanka….After a forced confession, Babel was tried before an NKVD troika and convicted of simultaneously spying for the French, Austrians, and Leon Trotsky, as well as “membership in a terrorist organization.” On January 27, 1940, he was shot in Butyrka prison.

Reportedly, while Babel confessed under torture, “once he realised he was doomed, he recanted” but “it made no difference.” His last recorded words were,

“I am innocent. I have never been a spy. I never allowed any action against the Soviet Union. I accused myself falsely. I was forced to make false accusations against myself and others… I am asking for only one thing — let me finish my work.”