Everything old is told again. Movies, TV, stage — nothing new. We’ve had and had and had “Cabaret,” “Chicago” forever, “The Music Man.” Next will probably bring a stuffed Rudolph Valentino doing it with a straw Elizabeth Taylor while a chalk version of Humphrey Bogart sings “Give My Regards” to a wax likeness of Shirley Temple. Applauding will be Joe Biden — from the toilet.
There is now — at this moment — a just opened show. Not new as in new. Not just recently created. New as in so what? As in an old antique ancient senior aged yesteryear bygone dusted-off dead juiced-up gone down resuscitated reproduction from the 1980s titled “The Lost Boys.”
We’ve had Shakespeare every 20 minutes. By now King Lear maybe abdicated and bacon got added to “Hamlet.” Alright already with rerereproducing “Othello” and “Romeo and Juliet.” Although Willy’s done nothing lately, even stuff on your phone keeps following his wither and thither.
Broadway’s Michael Jackson show. Plus, another movie. If he’s done anything newly, I must’ve missed it. How about “The Cherry Orchard” by Anton Chekhov whom I know hasn’t done any recent stuff. And: “Death of a Salesman,” 18 revivals of “Hedda Gabler.” And we had “Oklahoma” before the state began.
If the whole world is a stage, how about something original?
Broadway is getting narrower. Just opened is another — yet another — yet one more still other — version of “The Rocky Horror Show.” Critics for this, which just did its opening night thing at Studio 54, were medium.
I mention this because it’s been around since before Shakespeare did his shtick in drama school. The United States is only 250. This thing predated Sitting Bull.
Me, I was in its year 2000-2002 stage version. At Circle in the Square. In the round. I stood in front of an end seat which was just before the loge.
This time I asked for a chance to see this newest version before it opened. Not to take anything away from excellent Rachel Dratch who this time plays what I played — The Narrator. Me, I snarled, cackled on cue — much like I do these days. So I sent word through mutual friends to Sam Pinkleton, the Tony Award-winning director of “Oh, Mary!” I wanted to just sit in the audience and enjoy it before it opened.
He may be brilliant. Also rude. Never responded to my request. Never returned a phone call nor an email nor friends who interceded on my behalf. Not a return note from an assistant or p.r. person.
Sorry his version is no smash. Someone — not me — said of him: “He comes right out and asks what you think — providing it’s what he already thinks about it.”
So this man goes to a brain bank. Asks to see a theatrical brain. Then says, “No. Too expensive.” He tries an American brain. “Too expensive,” he says. Finally he’s offered the brain of a Broadway director.
The caretaker says, “This one’s cheaper.”
Why?
“This one’s never been used.”
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