Creators, Innovators, Seducers

There are more than a few folks who have passed away in the new year, and I have been woefully inadequate with keeping up. Here are a few of interest:

Art Clokey

1921-2010

These oddly shaped creatures are Gumby and Pokey. They were created by Clokey, who was an early innovator in stop-motion clay animation; he helped create the technique which was later trademarked as "claymation." Gumby and Pokey only slightly resembled living beings, and had the ability to twist and reshape themselves, and could even turn themselves into a puddle, which just gives me the creeps. They completely ruined Play-Doh for me. They first appeared with Howdy Doody in the late 50s and eventually graduated to their own children's show. They were always contorting themselves into various odd shapes, to escape the villainous Blockheads, who were always trying to catch them for some reason. Gumby returned to the spotlight in the 80s when Eddie Murphy began to portray him on Saturday Night Live. And if you can believe it, there was even a Gumby movie released in the 90s.
A slightly lesser-known creation by Art Clokey was the TV team of Davey and his talking dog, Goliath. Their adventures were sponsored by the Lutheran Church, and I have vague recollection of the duo (yes, I watched them on Sunday mornings as a kid. They may have been ninnies, but at least they didn't disintegrate into pools of glop). Each episode had a message attached, as you would expect, but the preachiness didn't seem forced, at least to my young eyes. The stories taught gentility, respect and tolerance, sometimes illustrated through interaction with their young friend Nathaniel, who was black (the show broke a bit of ground here). This series had a very long life, running periodically during the 60s, 70s, and 80s, with the lead character aging only a few years, finally attending high school. There were some ownership issues between Clokey and the producers of Davey and Goliath, during which time he left the church, studied Zen Buddhism, and began dropping acid with Frank Zappa. Bet you wish you didn't know that part. Regardless of subsequent events, the opening theme to Davey and Goliath still brings back a feeling of tranquility to me (it's based on a tune written, appropriately enough, by Martin Luther in 1529.) Go ahead, make fun.


In 1965, Clokey designed the opening credits for the camp classic Dr. Goldfoot and the Bikini Machine, starring Vincent Price and Frankie Avalon. He used his signature clay animation to introduce us to this parody of the James Bond films, with The Supremes singing the ridiculous theme song underneath. Clokey died last week at age 88.


Here's another innovator who died recently:

Donald Goerke

1926-2010

He was a marketing guru with Campbell's Soups, and its subsidiary Franco-American, dating back to 1955. In 1965, he was presented with the challenge of creating a pasta dish which could survive canning, reheating, and most importantly, sloppy children. After discarding stars, cowboys, baseballs, and spacemen as possible pasta shapes, he settled on a simple circular noodle with a hole in the middle, and Spaghetti-Os were born. Over 150 million cans of the stuff are sold each year. Goerke is also responsible for creating the Chunky Soup line of Campbell's products.

If you grew up in the 60s, 70s, or 80s, the jingle for the ubiquitous canned pasta remains lodged in your brain. "Uh, oh...Spaghetti-Ohs!" was originally sung (or chanted) by Jimmie Rodgers, a pop singer who was never as famous as this guy:

Teddy Pendergrass

1950-2010

Though he began his career with Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, and charted with songs such as "Wake Up Everybody" and "If You Don't Know Me By Now," he became a breakout solo artist with such hits as "Close the Door," "Turn Off the Lights," and "Love T.K.O". His concert performances showcased a powerfully seductive baritone and muscular physique which drove the ladies wild. He was known for his "For Ladies Only" midnight shows, during which he would shed his shirt and occasionally start a riot. The Washington Post reports that gunfire broke out at one of these events over his discarded headband.

His performing career was dealt a serious blow with his car crash in 1982, which left him paralyzed from the waist down. He was not wearing a seat belt; his companion, a transsexual club performer, walked away from the crash. After a long period of depression, drugs, and the like, he was coaxed back onstage by Ashford and Simpson. In 1996, he toured in a revival of Your Arms Too Short to Box With God, in a production redesigned to suit his talents and disability (his costar was Stephanie Mills from The Wiz). His autobiography, "Truly Blessed," was published in 1998. In his later life, he founded the Pendergrass Institute for Music and Performing Arts, and became an advocate for disabled artists. He died last week from colon cancer at the age of 59.





These are just a few of the folks already lost in the new decade. More dead people to come!

Doing the Happy Dance

I seem to have inadvertently developed a mini-tradition. The past several years, any time I have booked a gig which means something to me, I have congratulated myself with a dinner of lobster tail. That was always an extreme treat for our family as I grew up; it was usually the Birthday Dinner of Choice for myself and my sisters.

Costco routinely sells lobster at a discount, so I usually have a tail or two stashed in the freezer, ready to be defrosted, roasted, and dipped in lemon butter.

I'm quite pleased that one of those tails is currently thawing. I've been booked to appear in the next production at my beloved Washington Stage Guild. Regular visitors to these pages know I have a special fondness for the WSG, which has undergone countless difficulties in recent years. They are finally getting back on the boards, in a newly found space which I have yet to see. I'm sure I'll report on that later.

The play is an Oscar Wilde piece called Lord Arthur Savile's Crime. I call it a "piece" because in its original form, it is a short story. WSG's artistic director Bill Largess has adapted it for the stage, and I had a fun time a few years ago, giving it a staged reading at the Kennedy Center. I'll be playing Lord Arthur's brother (we are calling him the "older" brother, for obvious reasons), a stylish part requiring lots of panache. I'm pretty sure I can do panache (the Los Angeles Times told me I could back in the 70s), but since then, I've forgotten exactly what panache is. I'll check the dictionary and then get to work.

I'm sure I will be documenting the new adventure in these pages, an adventure which will include not only doing a new adaptation, but performing in a new theatre (or at least, new to the Stage Guild).

Until then, it's time for some happy dancing. And lobster.

Friday Dance Party: Industrial Theft

The fallout continues over last week's Facebook tsunami, during which women from all over the globe posted the color of their bra as a status update. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, go here.) I've read several more essays this week, written by, or on behalf of, women who have lost their breasts to cancer. They found it emotionally dispiriting to be reminded about their loss in such a public way.

I still maintain that anything which brings attention to the fight against breast cancer is a good thing, but I sympathize with the ladies who did not wish to be confronted in such a way. I have a pretty poignant story of my mother's own experience with double mastectomy, and the difficulty she had with prosthetic bras, but I'll save that for a darker moment. So it seems justified that the subject of this week's Dance Party be...um...female support.


Appropriately, our star is Bette Midler, whose own bust figures prominently in every concert she has ever done. She's had varied success with films throughout her career, with many hits and many flops and few in-between. Her first big splash, The Rose, landed her an Oscar nomination, but Hollywood had a hard time finding appropriate vehicles for her outlandish, over-the-top persona. She seemed to have the most success with movies which could showcase her vaudevillian talents. Beaches was a financial success, and For the Boys garnered a second Oscar nomination for her; in both, she played entertainers. She did not have much success with non-musical comedies, at least during her youth (remember Jinxed? Nobody else does, either). When she got a bit older, she managed a string of comedy hits (Down and Out in Beverly Hills, Ruthless People, Outrageous Fortune, Big Business), and in her more recent film work, such as The First Wives Club and the Stepford Wives remake, she has matured into a fine comic character actress.



This week's Dance Party comes from Beaches, a melodramatic tearjerker which costarred Midler and Barbara Hershey as life-long friends who meet as children on the beach (clever, huh?). The Divine Miss M steamrolls right over her costar in just about every scene, and if you are not a Midler fan, the film is insufferable. The movie soundtrack remains Bette's biggest selling album to date, as it includes her uber-smash, Wind Beneath My Wings. It also includes the song below, a novelty number which Midler introduced on Johnny Carson's couch, and subsequently included in Beaches.


And as I warned you, it's about bras.

"HEEEEEEEEERE'S ...um...who?"

I don't watch any of the NBC Latenight Boys, preferring Letterman if I am in the mood for such things. But I have to join in the chorus of those proffering their respect for Conan O'Brien's announcement to the Earthlings the other day. It was heartfelt, a bit self-deprecating, and well-received by just about everybody. Well, except the hacks at NBC.

What a mess Jeff Zucker (right) created when he replaced five primetime hours of scripted programing with a talk show. It will remain one of the lousiest decisions in the history of television. That guy from the affiliate in Boston was right months ago. Remember him? When this half-assed decision was announced last spring, Boston station owner Ed Ansin announced his plans to decline Leno's show and move his own local news program into the 10 PM hour instead. He requested that his station be allowed to delay the Leno show until 11 PM, a request which was vehemently rejected by NBC. The network was so incensed (and so frightened that the move in Boston, the 7th largest viewing area in the country, would encourage other stations to follow suit), they warned Ansin that if he preempted Leno, they would strip his station of the NBC affiliation completely, and turn their local Telemundo station into the Boston NBC affiliate. Ansin backed down, and, well, we now know what a crummy idea putting Leno on at 10 PM has turned out to be. (I knew it all along, but nobody asked me.)

But back to Conan. He's now decided he will not continue with The Tonight Show if it moves to the post-midnight slot; he feels strongly that the franchise cannot survive that late in the evening. Leno, meanwhile, seems agreeable to return to the 11:35 slot with a half-hour show, whether it's called The Tonight Show or not.

There are several aspects of this issue which interest me. A talk show seems to be the most "personality driven" of all television programs. The host's personality dominates just about every creative decision made for these shows, so it must be particularly devastating to be jerked around like these NBC guys. The host position carries so much weight that his show is always referred to by the host's name, regardless of the actual title of the program. Do you tune into The Late Show? No, you watch Letterman. Even The Tonight Show, the most recognizable name-brand in the evening talk show arena, is almost always referred to by its host. Did you watch The Tonight Show during its heyday? No, you stayed up to see who was on Carson. These days, it's Conan and Leno, Kimmel and Fallon; I would have to stop writing, and google these guys to get the actual names of the programs they host.

What am I getting at? I understand completely the sense of betrayal Conan in particular is feeling, which must be frustrating as he is still, technically, employed by The Tonight Show. If the network decides to change timeslots for its show, I'm not sure he has much to say in the matter.

Primetime stars, no matter how powerful, have very little, if any, influence on where their shows are placed on the schedule. I'm thinking now of three huge sitcom stars of past years: Seinfeld, Roseanne, and Cosby. All three headlined programs which weren't just smash hits, but were actual cultural touchstones for their eras. They may have partially owned their shows, but none of them had any input on where their programs would be placed on the network schedule.


Oprah, arguably the most powerful woman in television, owns her show, and is not tied to a particular network, but other than insuring she is never in competition with Dr. Phil (which she produces), even she cannot dictate exactly where her program is placed on the schedule.

Conan can't either. I'm not suggesting he roll over and play dead for the network nitwits who are scrambling to rectify a mistake which never should have been made in the first place; if I were in his position, I would probably give NBC the well-deserved finger, and bolt. From what I understand of his contract, the network is within its rights to move The Tonight Show to 12:05 and expect Conan to remain with the program, but everyone will be surprised if he does so. NBC cannot force him to continue with the show, they can only prevent his working elsewhere for a time. I read somewhere that neither the network nor Conan are looking for a legal battle over this debacle.

In my opinion, the villain here is NBC honcho Jeff Zucker, who created this fiasco. He should be sacked, but first he should be sent back to Boston, so station manager Ed Ansin can tell him I Told You So.

The Case of the Bra Brouhaha

Anyone who frequented Facebook this week knows at least part of this story. But according to the Washington Post, we may never know the whole tale.

Back in July, a British group promoting breast cancer awareness was formed on Facebook; it invited women to post the color of their bra in their status update. They languished throughout subsequent months with only a handful of fans. As of Friday, their membership had jumped to over 30,000.

Somehow, early this week, a chain letter email began to circulate on Facebook. Addressed only to the female of the species, it suggested that it would be fun to post bra color in status updates, without explaining why, or even what. The ladies were instructed to post just one or two words to describe their bra. So, toward the end of the week, status updates across the globe began to pop up: black, pink, biege, cinammon, none, nude, etc. The idea here, apparently, was to peak the interest of others, who would respond to each update with a "Whaaaaat???", giving an opportunity to be reminded about the toll breast cancer continues to take.

That laudable goal fell by the wayside for many, who just ended up having fun with their status updates. I've read that some ladies were offended by the fun-loving and somewhat cavalier way breast cancer was being treated.

I stepped inadvertantly into the Facebook Fad Thursday night. I had not been reading anybody's status updates, so I have no idea how many of my female friends were announcing "powder blue with lace" on their walls. I had crawled into bed and glanced out the window to see that snow had begun to fall. I lazily picked up my I-Touch, logged onto Facebook, and typed one word: "Snow."


When I woke up, I had a "like" response from my friend John (probably a bit tongue in cheek, since his home in Chicago is usually buried in the stuff), and a question from my friend Angie, who asked if that was the color of my bra? I replied I was unaware that bras came in shades of inclement weather, and asked what color drought may look like. It wasn't until later in the day that I detected what was going on with my other female friends, and the mini-controversy which was developing.


I consider myself a victim of breast cancer. Though I've never had it, I watched my mother suffer for a decade while that cancer slowly distroyed her; I feel very victimized by the disease. I have no problem whatsoever with anything which brings awareness of this ruthless killer front and center. The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation (they are the folks who sponsor the annual Walks throughout the country) began the week with only 135 Fans of their Facebook page. They ended the week with 135,000. That's a score in my book.


I suppose I can sympathize with those nay-saying folks who feel the issue is being treated too frivolously. If you've undergone chemotherapy and a double mastectomy, maybe you don't want everyone around you giggling about bra colors. But I have to applaud the ingenuity of this one gent, who playfully sent this message through the Facebook universe. He warned of an imaginary virus being transmitted through the original "Post your bra color" missives.


He advised, "To fix it, you must remove your bra, then go to Setting>Enable Webcam> Record Movie. Please re-post to your status."

Friday Dance Party: A Bollywood He-Man

I freely admit, I do not understand movies from Bollywood. Does any white boy? In an attempt to add some variety to the weekly Dance Party, which, let's face it, is usually about a Broadway musical or a dead person, or both, please enjoy this entry from across the globe. It's part Hollywood, part Broadway, part MTV video, part sci-fi. And completely incomprehensible. Thanks, Steve, for bringing it to my attention. Like a car crash or camels humping, you just can't look away.

If anybody can, please explain to me what Wonder Woman is doing with those dancing skeletons? And who is that gyrating dwarf in red? And who is that dude driving the jeep? And who is that sleazy guy watching the action, with the 70s porn mustache?

You do not, however, have to explain He-Man to me. I don't know who he is, but I don't care. I find this guy's mini-skirt and go-go boots to be oddly titillating. But that skanky wig has to go...

Theatre Droppings: A Trio of Fantasticks

I hesitated to see the current production of The Fantasticks at Arena Stage. When the show was announced last year, I admit I rolled my eyes a bit. Arena is the grandfather of the regional theatres in these parts, and the idea that they would devote their considerable budget to such a slender piece seemed like a mistake. I have seen The Fantasticks jazzed up before, when Jaston Williams and Joe Sears (the Greater Tuna boys) took on the show, and turned it into a quick-change tour de force right up their alley. They were not only playing the two fathers, they also played the two actors, which of course changed the focus of the piece. In addition to becoming the stars of the show, they also added a chorus!

The thing was not a success. I had visions of another overblown production on Arena's temporary stage at the roomy Lincoln Theatre.

I have a good bit of history with The Fantasticks, and still think I have unfinished business with this play. I'm about to wander off into Me-ville here, perhaps I'll get back to Arena's show eventually...

As the Stagemanager in "Our Town," 1973.
I'm still wearing that hair style.

The Fantasticks should have been the very first musical in which I appeared, but it wasn't. Back in the mists of time, I attended a brand new high school in Atlanta, one which was just getting a theatre department rolling. The drama coach (I called her "Doc," for reasons which escape me now. Wasn't I a scamp? She actually taught English; there were no theatre classes yet) took things slow and predictably. Our first year, "the drama club" (isn't that quaint?) produced a one-act during the school day (Sorry, Wrong Number. We performed it in the cafeteria; I got some laughs as the sergeant in the local precinct). The following year, we moved uptown (to the gym) and produced Our Town as our first full-length offering (wasn't that everybody's first play? I played the Stagemanager; the director gave me a pipe to smoke, and I barfed). The next year, which was to be my senior year, our little theatre was finally opening on campus, and the school's first musical was to be produced: The Fantasticks (again, what are the odds?). I've already whined in these pages that my family moved from Georgia to California around this time, so I missed out on appearing in the show. From that moment, I was determined to rectify that cosmic oversight, and get into a production of The Fantasticks, somehow, somewhere.

As Mortimer, the Man Who Dies, 1975. When I climbed out of a
trunk, wearing long johns and a loincloth, my mother wept with
laughter.

It was barely two years later when I caught wind of a production being produced at a junior college in L.A.. I was already attending Cal State Northridge at the time, but as the show was being rehearsed during the summer, it did not interfere with my studies; I auditioned to play one of the fathers. I can imagine with some certainty, in hindsight, that my singing audition convinced the director that I should be given a non-singing role, so I ended up playing Mortimer, the Actor whose specialty is death scenes. I had a ball; this part gave me the opportunity to explore physical comedy in a way I had not before.

We had a pretty good cast in that junior college production, but this guy playing El Gallo was a big snore.

In my directorial capacity, I expanded the
Mute's involvement; she freely interacted
with the other characters.

My buddies Matt and Janie did great jobs as
the young lovers.

This is not the best picture of my El Gallo, but John was the real star of  my little production.

I still felt unfinished with the play. Fast forward several more years, to my junior year in college. I was taking an advanced directing class, and for our final, each student was to direct a one-act, to be performed in front of a live, honest to god audience. I bit off more than I could chew by taking The Fantasticks (which is a full-length musical, mind you) and shrinking the thing to an hour (I think we actually ran several minutes over an hour...I probably lost some points for that.  The photos above are from my one-hour production). My teacher in the course was a woman with whom I had a confusing relationship ( I wrote about her a couple of years ago, when she died. Don't be frightened by my nightmare about her male genitalia). Anyway, I had a swell cast who did a bang-up job with this truncated version of the show, with my own work as director being my only disappointment.


Since then, I have probably seen a dozen various productions of The Fantasticks. I believe I have a love/hate relationship with this musical, a deceptively simple show on its surface, but actually a very difficult piece to pull off. So I had every expectation that Arena Stage would blow this play up into an extravaganza. But that did not stop me from being very curious about this production, so I snagged a half-price seat last weekend to take a peek.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I have to be honest: this is the strongest production of The Fantasticks I have ever seen. The expansion of the play to fit the large Lincoln Theatre has been handled with artistry and concern for the show's original tone. The band has doubled in size (from two pieces to four, still not too much for this delicate score), and is being led by George Fulginiti-Shakar, who has done a swell job adapting the music for this larger space. Director Amanda Dehnert has placed the action in an abandoned amusement park, which is a lot more interesting than the blank void the show usually employs. When I read in the reviews that she had incorporated magic, I was doubtful such trickery would enhance the show, but it has.


The show has been getting largely favorable reviews, with which I mostly agree. All the actors are being given their due, though I've read one or two which are disappointed in the leading man, Sebastian La Cause; with those, I heartily disagree. This guy is terrific in the role of El Gallo, and easy on the eyes to boot. After reading his bio, I have discovered that I've seen him several times in the past, most recently in She Loves Me, also at Arena. Frankly, I don't remember him much from that show. Years ago, I caught one of his earliest performances in New York, in a new comedy by my college chum Greg Fletcher. I remember La Cause clearly from that show. I'm not surprised I didn't recognize him as El Gallo, as he has buffed up considerably (the director of The Fantasticks has done us all a favor by allowing him to perform the Abduction Ballet in a T-shirt. Yowza.) He is gifted with the biggest hit in the show, "Try to Remember," and he wisely does not try to compete with the famous renditions of the song by Jerry Orbach and Robert Goulet; he makes it his own, and it's a subtle beaut.

Going back to that abduction sequence: it used to be called The Rape Ballet, but has since changed names for obvious reasons. When I did the show back in the 70s, we were still singing about the Joys of Rape at full voice, but in subsequent productions over the years the authors have been tinkering with this sequence to lessen its, well, inappropriateness. I applaud these changes wholeheartedly, and it looks like they have finally hit upon satisfactory substitutes in the lyrics of what is one of the show's few big numbers.



The other big number in the show, "Round and Round," provided my only real disappointment. This was the only sequence in the show where the addition of the magic seemed forced. The song became a montage of traditional magician's tricks, which prevented it from reaching its giddy, whirling climax.



But I'm picking at knits. I left the theatre very impressed with this production, and completely blown away by the particular performance of Nate Dendy, a young man with whom I am not familiar. I would never believe that a production of The Fantasticks could be stolen by the actor playing the Mute, but this one was. This kid, right out of his MFA program, is clearly going places.