Gatz

At long last, Elevator Repair Service's Gatz has made it to New York! I was half captivated, half bored to death — although the latter seemed to take up more of the show. So I didn't try to hide behind critical cool and was candid in my review: The most hyped show of the fall sent me into a catatonic state at times.

The Deer House

I was left dumbstruck by Jan Lauwers' King Lear in 2001 and loved Isabella's Room in 2004. Alas, his new The Deer House, at the BAM Harvey this week, isn't so hot. Review thataway.

Mrs. Warren's Profession

Today's review is of Mrs. Warren's Profession, the George Bernard Shaw play the Roundabout just revived at its American Airlines Theatre. Hmm, Roundabout + period play = ostentatious period sets? Bingo!

Freckleface Strawberry

Frecklace Strawberry is am off-Broadway musical based on Julianne Moore's children's book. My take on it can be found here.

The Pitmen Painters

In today's Post, a mostly positive review of Lee Hall's The Pitmen Painters. The show is often described as "Billy Elliot without the music," and it's not untrue: similar author (Lee Hall), similar background (coal miners), similar narrative arc (the discovery of art transforms working-class men).

Brief Encounter redux

The production of Brief Encounter I caught at St Ann's Warehouse last December has just transferred to Studio 54, and it remains a delight. This is the rare Broadway show that's money well spent.

Fall preview on WNYC

Time Out New York's Adam Feldman and I talked about the upcoming season on WNYC. Fun times! You can listen to us go at it here.

Orlando

Sarah Ruhl's overly faithful adaptation of Orlando has just hit Classic Stage (my review is here). The best thing about seeing a show at CSC is that there's an Everyman Espresso counter in the lobby. Plus they played Timbaland's "Carry Out" -- immortalized by Jenn Harris and Tim Girrbach at Our Hit Parade -- twice in a row when I was there last week.

The Divine Sister

Second review of the day is the new Charles Busch play, The Divine Sister, which just opened at Soho Playhouse. Vintage Busch, this one. It's hard to wreck a spoof about nuns, and he didn't.

Delusion

A couple of reviews in today's paper. First off is Laurie Anderson's latest, Delusion, at BAM. It was hard to refrain playing off the title, but I did.

The Little Foxes

Maximum star rating for Ivo van Hove's staging of The Little Foxes today! The season is still in its infancy, but I can already tell that this one will make my top ten list.

Roadkill Confidential

Another review, another bad show: Sheila Callaghan's Roadkill Confidential at 3LD. Fortunately the critical tide is about to turn in a big way with the last two productions I've seen. I'll say no more for now!

underneathmybed

Today's review of a pretty bad show at the Rattlestick Theatre, underneathmybed. Ayee!

In the Heights redux

A cast change prompted a revisit to (and a re-review of) In the Heights, which I hadn't seen since it opened two and a half years ago. Okay, so Jordin Sparks can't really act -- no surprise here. But the show itself holds up rather well, and I found myself enjoyed Lin-Manuel Miranda's score even more this time around.

The Paris Review online

I've become completely addicted to the Paris Review online offerings. My way in was Louisa Thomas' blogging about the US Open (tennis, of course, not golf). Simply some of the finest sports writing I've read in a long while. I hope she keeps it up somehow, somewhere.

Then this morning I discovered that Nelly Kaprièlian has begun keeping a "culture diary" for the same outlet. Her first two entries are rather long, and I really don't know where she finds the time. In addition to being an editor and writer at the French weekly Les Inrockuptibles (I'm a subscriber and actually contributed a handful of record reviews in the late '80s), she often pundits — she's a regular on the radio critics roundtable Le Masque et la plume, for instance, and I keep catching her on various public-radio outlets. Plus her first diary entry reveals an active social life.

I confess to a love-hate relationship with Kaprièlian. On the one hand, she's a tireless defender of American fiction in France, and I will always cherish her memorable tongue-lashing of Jean-Louis Ezine, a fellow Masque literary critic and serial interrupter. (He's so witty and charming, however, that he's my favorite on the show!) On the other hand, Kaprièlian is a remarkably humorless snob (very French, that) and she shares the inexplicable (to me) Gallic enthusiasm for Philip Roth — even his latest novels.

But back to the culture diary, which I can see myself becoming addicted to. The prize so far is Kaprièlian's account of her interview with Michel Houellebecq, whose new novel, La Carte et le territoire, is a critical and commercial hit in France. I've read and loved all his books, and can't wait to get my hands on this one. Susannah Hunnewell's new chat with him is a must, too.

Bottom of the World

Lucy Thurber's latest, Bottom of the World, opened at the Atlantic Stage 2 last night, and I gave it a positive review. Thurber is one of the local playwrights whose work I always enjoy seeing, warts and all. She's been around long enough to not be "up and coming" anymore, yet she remains slightly under the radar.

Gaga vs Gaga

In her latest out-of-it rant, Camille Paglia -- desperately trying to cling to her bad-girl-of-feminism reputation -- "demolishes" (hardly) Gaga. The article is not online but there's more than you need here. If there's one startling thing in this embarrassing screed, it's that some people think Paglia's opinion is still relevant. Paglia keeps contradicting herself (especially when she uses Madonna as comparison) and seems to be in the con camp just to be contradictory.

A good antidote is the new book Poker Face: The Rise and Rise of Lady Gaga, by my New York Post colleague Maureen Callahan. There's already several Gaga books on the market, but this one is particularly instructive about what it takes to make a pop star nowadays. Or this pop star, at least. It's not news that Gaga is a workaholic, but I found the book's detailed tracking of how hard, how relentlessly she toiled to get to where she is particularly edifying. Some may argue that it's too early in Gaga's career to warrant a book, let alone several. But the way she's built her act is interesting, and it's certainly not too early to look at that. And just think of what will come out of her fall, whenever that happens.

Me, Myself & I

It's not without trepidation that I shot down Edward Albee's latest, Me, Myself & I (review in today's Post). But it had to be done.

From the land Down Under, part 4

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I was keen on procuring some Australian novels during my trip. This proved harder than expected. Not that the pickings were slim; it's just that with the Aussie dollar higher than ever (or the US dollar lower than ever), the exchange rate made books particularly prohibitive. $26 for a new trade paperback? Yikes! So I checked used bookstores, which meant I had to throw my want list out the window and make the most of the available options.

Luckily, I found a couple of great places and came back with some nifty stuff. The highest I paid was $8; the rest of the haul cost less than $3 per book, with a couple of $1 catches.

In Port Douglas, I picked up Crew, an amusingly trashy 1980s novel about surfboat racing in Sydney; Ride On Stranger (1943) by New South Wales lefty writer Kylie Tennant; and Stiff, the first book in Shane Maloney's Murray Whelan series. I polished off Crew in a single day at the beach, then started on Stiff. The series revolves around a member of the Labor party in Melbourne, making for a really great mix of politics and crime. Maloney's humor and locale-specific details aren't unlike the ones in Carl Hiaasen's earlier (and best) novels.

I was happy to find another used Maloney novel at Melbourne's New International Bookshop on Victoria Street. The hallway leading to the store was lined with $1 bins that were actually packed with goodies like out-of-print Daphne du Maurier. While avidly foraging, I was interrupted by a young man who invited me to "the workshop about the Vietnam War."

Fittingly, the store is next door to the Victorian Trades Hall Council, "the voice of Victorian workers since 1856" (Victoria being the state Melbourne is in). And down the block is the Old Melbourne Gaol, where Ned Kelly was hanged in 1880 and whose tour include an interactive feature where "visitors are 'arrested' and encounter what it is like to be locked up."

In short: the perfect place to buy a Shane Maloney book!

From the land Down Under, part 3

I didn't spend all my time in Oz drinking coffee and going to footy games: I also went to the theater (more on that on my NY Post blog) and caught some TV. Some random thoughts on the latter experience.

After watching most of the audition week of the local X Factor (already a hit in the UK, US version coming soon), I can only say that I'm now so hooked that I'm going to follow the proceedings online to see if my favorites (see below) make it through. The four judges are singer Natalie Imbruglia, former Australian Idol judge Kyle Sandilands (trying waaaay too hard to emulate Simon Cowell), baby-faced Australian Idol winner Guy Sebastian and former Boyzone member Ronan Keating. Most striking was the candidates' sweetness and naivete — several looked almost paralyzed by shyness. This was in stark contrast to the way many American contestants show up with outsize egos and an often-lengthy history of performing.

In addition, there's four categories of candidates: groups, under 25 males, under 25 females and anybody over 25 — OMG, fogies with, like, wrinkles! This opens up the competition to seasoned people with real histories behind them. I was particularly taken, for instance, with 40-year-old Tony from Perth. His audition performance of "Proud Mary" was the epitome of rugged manliness. Also impressive was 20-year-old apprentice hairdresser Sally, with a dignified cover of Xtina's Hurt."

Another big difference: openly gay candidates (yay, Hayley). Cute.

Another TV favorite was a reality show called The Farmer Wants a Wife, which follows six country folk in various Australian states as they look for a suitable mate. Highlight of the one episode I caught was when the date between cattle farmer Charlie and equine dentist Christy was cut short after she was bitten by a redback spider and had to be taken to the emergency room. (Perhaps this is what inspired me to purchase a pair of Redback boots later on.) Note that the title is deceiving since the farmers include Becky, a woman from South Australia looking for a husband. She seemed to hit it off with an explosives technician from the Northern Territory.

Finally, homegrown pride is very important in the Australian film and TV industry. Every time an American flick starred a local, the trailer or promo blared "featuring Australia's so-and-so." A commercial for new Oz series Cops L.A.C. boasted "with a great Aussie cast!"