Ernest Borgnine, Lying Coward

In 1964, many an eyebrow was raised when Ethel Merman married Ernest Borgnine. Foreheads fell back into place when the marriage ended after just a few days. Merman filed for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty, and neither she nor Borgnine would ever publicly discuss what was obviously a very painful experience for both of them.

Well, Mr. Borgnine has finally decided to vomit on his ex-wife's memory. In his recently published 2008 autobiography and interviews relating to it, Borgnine claims that other passengers on their honeymoon cruise did not recognize Merman, setting her into a rage that led to the quick break-up. So if you believe Borgnine, one of the most infamous break-ups in show business history occurred because he was better known than Merman.

What anobvious load of crap! While it is true that in 1964 Borgnine was an Academy Award-winning actor and star of the popular sitcom McHales Navy, Merman had been a stage and screen star for three decades, and had just enjoyed international acclaim in the hit comedy film It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World (1963). A frequent guest on television's top rated talk and variety shows, Merman was one of the most recognizable celebrities in America. To suggest that her fame was substantially less than Borgnine's is not just a lie, but a clumsy one.

The fact that Borgnine is now 92 does not make his attack on Merman any less despicable. Interviews make it obvious that he is clear headed and in full control of his faculties, so he knows what he is saying. To do this when Merman is no longer around to tell her side of the story forever marks Borgnine as a coward, and a lying coward at that. If there was one ounce of truth in what Borgnne says, he could have told his side of the story when Merman was alive with little to fear. No, he waited until she was dead for a quarter century to spew this vile nonsense. Whatever the truth of the Borgnine-Merman marriage is, it is clearly so humiliating to Borgnine that he finds it necessary to close out his life by lying about it.

Shame on you, Mr. Borgnine. Whatever you have been as an actor, you are finally nothing but a disgrace as a human being. You will soon join Merman in death, and this is how you will be remembered -- as a lying coward. Rest assured that plenty of us will mark you as such for decades to come.

And a p.s. to Robert Osbourne of TCM -- you can call yourself a "journalist and film historian" all you lie, but your interview of Mr. Borgnine makes it clear that you are neither. Any journalist or historian would have challenged Borgnine's cowardly attack on Merman. By merely sitting there and nodding as he heaped calumny on the dead, you proved to be nothing more than another fawning TV celebrity brown nose. You are an embarassment to those of us who treat show business history as a serious subject, and have about as much right to call yourself a journalist-historian as Tyra Banks.

Hopes -- and a Suggestion -- for the New Year, 2009

New Year's resolutions have never been my style. I instinctively mistrust any decision that is motivated by a change in calendars. However, I am prone to spend the last hours of any year giving some time to reflection on what is past, and on empowering good things for the year to come.

It seems 2008 was a kicker for most everyone, so I cannot say mine was particularly tough. But mine was a year packed with change, some of which was delish, and some of which was hellish. Some friends had it far tougher than I, so I'm not complaining. Still, I cannot say I will regret letting the year slip into the past.

My hopes for 2009 are many, but here are a few:

• That the worldwide financial crisis will inspire people, companies and nations to re-think the way they do things.
• That the United States will resign from its self-appointed role as the world's cop, especially when its own moral house is in such disorder.
• That the professional theatre (musical and otherwise) will survive this rough time and rediscover that talent and wit matter more than money or hydraulics.
• That contemporary rock and rap music will go back to hell and disappear from the musical stage (yeah, I know -- about as likely as AIDS and cancer spontaneously disappearing from the planet).
• That the purveyors of political hate draped in the trappings of religion will drown in their hypocrisy, and that voters will realize that denying rights to anyone endangers the rights of all.
• That America will give it's new president time to get a handle on the chaos it took Bush and his crew eight long years to create and deepen.
• That Broadway will get a glorious, tuneful ad totally new musical that audiences will still love when it is revived 60 years from now.
• That your greatest hope for the new year will be fulfilled, and that all of us will know love, health and prosperity.

And along with all the hopes, here's a suggestion: get this new year off to a good karmic start by committing at least one act of spontaneous kindness. Hold a door for a stranger, throw an extra dollar onto a tip, give a harried salesperson a sincere compliment -- whatever comes your way. Not everyone can be nice all of the time, but none of us can do it too often either.

Lansbury's Birthday Gift to Broadway

Instead of waiting for the world to give her a gift, she went and gave us one -- how classy can you get?

In my last blog, I innocently mused that if the upcoming revival of Blithe Spirit could come up with an exciting choice for the role of Madame Arcati, “the potential for theatrical magic will be damn near unbearable.” Little did I know that no less than Angela Lansbury would be taking on the role. Lansbury back on Broadway? Suddenly the word “magic” seems inadequate.

It is only just over a years since Lansbury appeared in Deuce, but I think I speak for most of her fans when I say how much we hoped that well-intentioned but unsatisfying play would not be her last Broadway hurrah. Lansbury is one of the most incandescent stars of my theatergoing lifetime. My sincere hope is that she has many years of excellent health ahead, but let’s be honest – few actors have held forth on Broadway through their eighth decade, and the divine Angela is now 83. Madame Acarti is precisely the kind of larger than life character that Lansbury excels at playing, and I can think of no one more suited to make every word of Noel Coward’s dialogue sparkle.

That Lansbury will be sharing the stage with Christine Ebersole and Rupert Everett makes this the sort of exciting, power-packed theatrical event Broadway desperately needs. Sure, a part of me would be happier if that kind of excitement was provided by a new musical – but there are few sweeter prospects in any theatre-lover’s life than a stellar revival of a classic Coward comedy. And with Lansbury as Acarti – wow!

I have long since lost count of the times when I have taken part in an ovation welcoming Angela Lansbury to a stage. It is going to be a great joy to do so again. How nice of her to celebrate her 83rd birthday (Oct. 16th) by giving Broadway the newws that she's coming back -- how fascinational!

Nothing to Dance About

Those who would like to dismiss me as an impossible-to-please curmudgeon are going to love this post, but never let it be said I was afraid to state my honest opinion.

For most of my conscious life, each fall brought the fresh excitement of a new theatre season. But in recent years, that once-reliable excitement has been fading -- and I fear it has finally landed at point zero. I cannot pretend any real interest in the musicals heading to Broadway in the months ahead. The score to Billy Elliot is so tuneless and witless that I have no reason to waste two and a half hours of my life seeing the show attached to it. Every bit of 13 that I have heard so far has left me cringing, and as much as I love classic musical comedies, I see no compelling reason to drag out Guys and Dolls yet again. Oliver Platt as Nathan Detroit? Good grief -- if Nathan Lane were dead, he'd be spinning in his grave . . . as it is, he at least need not fear memories of his brilliant performance in that role being matched, let alone eclipsed. Much as I enjoy anything related to Harry Potter, I have no desire to see Daniel Radcliffe's genitals in a staging of Equus that drew universal critical shrugs. I'll admit that a musical version of 9 to 5 has some comic potential, but I can't help feeling that this project has come along a few decades too late to make much sense. The casting for Pal Joey does not entice me, the very idea of Shrek as a musical leaves me queasy, and I have to wonder at the wisdom of reviving West Side Story with (if rumors prove true) a 30 year old playing Tony.

And speaking of Bernstein musicals, I will attend the Encores production of On the Town with real trepidation. Thanks to the large Encores subscriber base, this concert staging will doubtless be well attended, but I suspect it will merely remind everyone why every New York revival of this show has been a resounding critical and financial failure. The original Jerome Robbins choreography is dazzling to see, but the creaky plot and cliche-ridden characters make for meager theatre.

The one bit of Broadway news that has tweaked my interest so far is the announcement that Noel Coward's sublime comedy Blithe Spirit is coming back with Christine Ebersole and Rupert Everett, helmed by Michael Blakemore. Now THAT is a combination I can get excited about -- all three are perfect choices for this material. If they can come up with an equally interesting actor to play Madame Arcati, the potential for theatrical magic will be damn near unbearable. Bring it on!

I know there will almost certainly be a few surprises between here and next June. Perhaps someone fascinating will follow Lupone in Gypsy (a most unenviable task for whoever might dare it), and a new musical may take off in a non-profit venue and become Broadway's next Urinetown. In the meantime, this will be a great season to catch up on my reading and DVD collecting . . .

Does that make me a curmudgeon? Possibly. But I refuse to believe that it is curmudgeonly to wish for something exciting in a season that promises yawning mediocrity.

It's Better With a Band

In the professional theatre, ticket buyers are voters. The way they spend their dollars has a genuine effect on what producers will bring to Broadway and the road in years to come. After several years where producers assured themselves that audiences didn't give a hoot about smaller orchestras, this past season saw audiences paying happily to see productions with full size orchestras -- and mind you, those musicians were placed in the spotlight for all to see as well as hear. Gypsy brought its full size orchestra straight from its run at the City Center Encores series, with the band on the St. James Theatre stage in all its glory. Uptown at the Vivian Beaumont Theatre, Lincoln Center actually peels the stage back so the audience can see the thirty pieces packing the expanded pit at South Pacific -- a dramatic gesture that wins cheers at every performance.

Synthesizers have their place, but it seems that musical theatre audiences really do want a full orchestra -- a reasonable desire at $120 a ticket. In recent years, the folks at Roundabout have subjected us to tiny orchestras for revivals of classic Sondheim musicals -- and the results were mediocre. Follies done with a 14 piece band sounded as cheap as it look -- and that was very cheap indeed. The recent revival of Sunday in the Park had much to admire, but with only a handful of musicians shove into a side box, the score simply did not sound right. I was shocked that Sondheim would allow such an embarrassment -- but he did, all in the name of economy.

Well, this past season proves that Broadway's economy requires a full size orchestra in the pit -- and thousands of people are lustily agreeing with me at every performance of Gypsy and South Pacific. Scores that aim for a more pop-based sound are welcome to their rock-sized bands, but real musicals deserve real orchestras, as do the audiences that pay to see them.

Rent: Requiscat in Pacem

Be careful what you wish for. As a kid, I dreamed of being involved with a long running Broadway musical that would not only wo\in a shipload of Tonys, but would make the utimate leap and cop a Pulitzer Prize for Drama . . . like A Chorus Line. My wish came true, but as luck would have it, the show in question was one that I detested.

In the mid-1990s, I was working for a producer who sent me to review workshops. The worst I ever had to sit through was Rent, a self-styled update of La Boheme. I found the score unremarkable (except perhaps for the clever lyric to "La Vie Boheme"), the characters hopelessly mired in self-pity, and the creaky plot device of killing off a gay man downright offensive. After the performance, I rejoiced to a companion that I would never have to sit through that piece of garbage again . . . and at that moment I suspect that somewhere in the ethers, a higher power enjoyed a good giggle.

Theatre jobs (like the shows they are connected with) come and go, and in a matter of months I found myself working for two of the three producers looking to bring a full production of Rent to off-Broadway. For the next two years, I did everything I could to help make Rent a reality. When the budget got tight, I literally wore out my tape deck making copies of the demo. I may not have like the show, but promoting it was part of my job. After the shocking loss of Jonathan Larson, I watched in something like shock as a juggernaught of publicity and blind sentiment turned the project into a Broadway-bound pop culture phenomenon. To this day I firmly believe that Rent would never have attained fame without the unbelieveably tragic timing of Larson's death. The press and public fell for the idea of a young writer dying on the night his show had its dress rehearsal.

Opening night at the Nederlander Theatre, as the audience reacted to the show with a rock concert intensity, I could not help the feeling that I was watching everything that I love and care about in musical theatre dying before my eyes. At the party afterwards (held on a platform covering the skating rink at Chelsea Piers, leaving many guests with numb feet to go wit htheir benumbed ears), a young colleague assured me that Rent would use up its potential audience in a matter of months and quickly fade from the scene. I replied that while I found that viewpoint appealing, I feared it would take five to ten years for this thing to play itself out.

Well, we were both wrong, and now, twelve years later, Rent is finally closing up shop. Did it really change the course of musical theatre? Not really. All that I love in musical theatre has most certainly not died. Of all the musicals that have followed, nothing has really built on what Rent tried to do. Some point to In the Heights as a sort of successor, but in my opinion that is nonsense. In the Heights is a lighthearted bon bon without a memorable tune to its name -- Rent is a tortured, clumsy soap opera with one or two lasting songs. The only similarity is that both have utterly contemporary scores that ultimately bore me. Ironically, the other contemporary scores that have appeared in the last twelve years make Larson's work sound almost palatable to my weary ear. I still think Rent is garbage, but I respect it as the garbage of its generation. The garbage that has followed is often far more reeky.

This day is a personal landmark: the closing of the last Broadway show I worked on. When producer David Merrick announced the closing of Hello Dolly, he said it was "like burying your grandmother." I now fully understand his point. Much as I dislike Rent, I recognize that it was a piece of cultural history, and for whatever it was worth, I was a small part of that history. So tonight, although my heart goes out to the countless people who will have to sit through amateur stagings of this deafening dribble, I will raise a glass to Rent, to Jonathan Larson, to a culture that remains a sucker for empty sentiment, and to my ill-formed dream come true. Rest in peace, Rent.

"Victory" in Iraq?

Writers pay attention to words -- they are the tools of our trade. While watching this week's Republican National Convention, the use of one word in particular struck me as nothing short of nonsensical. John McCain and his supporters insisted time and again that "victory" is in sight in Iraq.

Victory? Just what would a "victory" in Iraq look like? Does anyone seriously think we can impose a democratic form of government on a mideastern nation divided by bitter ethnic rivalries? Anyone suggesting that "victory" in Iraq is possible has long since abandoned any contact with reality. I know that many leading Republicans have a solid financial interest in prolonigng America's presence in Iraq, but that is their problem. There is no justification for the hundreds of billions of dollars and thousands of lives America is pouring into a war where "victory" is not on the list of viable options.

The best that McCain and his fellow Republicans can hope for is for our troops to stay in Iraq indefinitely, propping up a disposable pro-American regime -- much as we have done for the past half century in Korea. Without the supportive presence of US troops, South Korea would long since have disappeared from the map, just as South Vietnam has. The military inductrial establishment in the US may crave yet another endless stationing of US troops, but our natiuon cannot afford it. I am appalled to hear politicians claim that we cannot pay for better schools or the proper care of the sick in the US, while at the same time our nation hurls itself into unthinkable debt to keep Iraq occupied.

I have tremendous respect for McCain's heroism, and understand an old soldier's desire for "victory," but as one refreshingly sane protester pointed out, you cannot win an occupation.