I'm really tired. Kate and I signed a lease for a new apartment on Friday- Yeah! Fort Greene! I heart Brooklyn!- which means that now until when we move (AKA, next Saturday), my life is an endless montage of boxes, crying, alcohol and garbage bags. That sounds totally kinky, but it's not. It's suckville. Oh, and OH! Check this out for size: I have a dislocated vertebrae in my back. True story. It hurts like a MOTHERFUCKER, and I'm going to a chiropractor to have it adjusted, or manipulated, or whatever they do with it, and then hopefully, I won't end up a paralyzed, drooling burden on society. Quite truly, I think this is some sort of karmic bitch-slap for all the times I mocked Christopher Reeve.
But things are looking up, because right down the street from where Kate and I will be living is BAM, currently home to the greatest performance in New York City-- Academy Award-winner Cate Blanchett in Hedda Gabler. I had the good fortune of seeing this "show" today with my beloved coworker (and fellower sufferer) Cara Joytotheworld David. This is such a half-assed production, from Andrew Upton's (that's Mr. Blanchett, FYI) bizarrely modern translation to Robyn Nevin's incomprehensibly "busy" direction- I mean, it's actually quite something to be THAT mediocre. But Cate Blanchett is just so fucking bat-shit insane in this part, that you quite literally don't even notice anything wrong with it. I mean, it's totally a one-woman show. Ben Brantley called it "a dozen performances in one,"and that gaywad is so flippin' right, except I think it's closer to 45 distinct "Heddas" that she employs. In all honesty, she camps it up with such "Dynasty" high style and the most insane energy I've ever seen in my life... She quite literally beats you in the face with her ever-mercurial arsenal of characterizations. Cara perhaps put it best when she likened Cate's performance to a 1-2-3 of Nicolette Sheridan, Katharine Hepburn and Kathleen Turner. I think there's also some Barbara Stanwyck, some Charles Busch, and even some Bette Davis. Basically, she's a Grand High Bitch, always either smoking, pouting, skipping, yelling or vogue-ing, and it's genius. If the play is inappropriately modern, she's in-inappropriately futuristic.
But the character of Hedda really spoke to me...
WAYS THAT I'M LIKE HEDDA GABLER, by Kevin Manganaro:
- We're both trapped in constrictive living situations. (Sorry, Kate.)
- We both like pulling the hair of our long-time, mousy school chums. (Sorry, Joe.)
- We're both likely to commit suicide by the end of the next 2 hour and 45 minutes. (Did I mention how much by back hurts?)
- We share an affinity for high-collared 19th century gowns with golden capes.
Anyway, that's where I'm at right now. High art, low(-er) back pain, and a gross excess of packing tape. Anyway, kisses to call. Please send Kate & I warm wishes. Hedda would want it that way.
KEVIN :-)
