Sally Rand was a follower of the muse Terpsichore — all right, she was
a high-class stripper.
advertisement
advertisement
|
By David Noh
Friday, June 25, 2004
K.D. Lang, in her Carnegie Hall debut, gave our community something to be really
proud of: the greatest voice in the business today. Backed by the Brooklyn Philharmonic,
shiny-faced and somehow looking like Toby Maguire’s older brother, she
wore no shoes or makeup and a Donna Karan robe which evoked the mother of us
all, Gertrude Stein, who also went in for sartorial chinoiserie effects.
I saw Lang’s 1992 debut at Radio City and was underwhelmed by her arch,
semi-involved stage presence. What she displayed Saturday night was the undeniable
growth of true artistic genius.
Her set was a model of concise generosity; her lush, soaring pipes filled
the hall, proving how great the acoustics can be there when everything works.
Emir Deodato’s luscious arrangements recast standards like “Constant
Craving” and “Chatelaine” into pure, string-enhanced seduction. “This
beautiful song was given to me by a soul who is even more beautiful, Roy Orbison,” she
said and launched into a rendition of “Crying” that I will cherish
to the end of my days. She made of it a volcanic three-act romantic tragedy,
skillfully wafting the microphone to perfectly gauge the affect of her tremendous
voice, a thrilling dramatic gesture. You could hear a pin drop, and, afterwards,
the audience rose as one in the most spontaneous standing o I have ever witnessed.
She followed her caressing “Give Me A Kiss to Build a Dream On” by
saying, “Isn’t that a great sentiment? Of course, in my persuasion,
one kiss means you rent a U-Haul.” As about half of the audience guffawed,
she added, “And if that meant nothing to you, don’t worry about
it.” This relaxed humor informed her whole show and seemed to bespeak
the happier place she’s coming from, with a new record label, Nonesuch,
about to release her album, “Hymns” from the 49th Parallel.
If only a film could be as good as its premiere party. MGM really put on the
dog for the Cole Porter biopic, “Delovely,” an absolute dog of
a movie. The Supper Club was transformed into a Deco paradise, with full orchestra
and seemingly every white rose in town.
Adorable John Barrowman sang “It’s Delovely” and “Anything
Goes,” Ashley Judd acted the heap big star (as she did earlier, dissing
journalists on the press junket, but shamelessly working the red carpet paparazzi
press monkeys), by remaining seated with entourage en banquette, making any
approach impossible.
Affable pro Kevin Kline was just the opposite, and the secret diva of the
evening was his gorgeous wife, Phoebe Cates, who hasn’t aged a day since “Lace.” Klein
commented on the genius of the makeup, which skillfully aged him. He agreed
that he played the old Porter like the cranky Republican he probably was.
Director Irwin Winkler is a man completely lacking in witty style. Kline is
simply too straight and sober-sided to be the irrepressibly horny imp who dazzled
the world with unmatchable sophisticated charm.
Judd, a hillbilly in Armani, is a disaster as forbearing wife Linda, a style
legend herself, and eight years older than Porter, not younger, as the film
has it.
This flagrant misconception runs throughout, with a physically slight Allan
Corduner as campy heavyweight Monty Woolley, a WASP-y Irving Berlin and Russian
dancer Boris Kochno, one of Porter’s lovers, presented as a peroxided,
tweezed- eye-browed fop, precisely what some tired hetero would deem as “hot” in
gay terms.
You can smell the flop sweat as soon as Winkler cuts away from Robbie Williams
singing the title song, with all the élan the film so desperately needs,
to focus on the Porters having another endless spat about his screwing around.
Most of the numbers are mistreated, a shame. Alanis Morissette belts “Let’s
Do It” with charming period vigor. Sheryl Crow, however, should be shot
for her off-key “Begin the Beguine.”
unfortunately also proved to be a disappointment. While I applaud the fine
work of Broadway Cares and all the money it raises, the sexy, stylish hand
of founder Jerry Mitchell seemed to be more missing than ever this year. Jodi
Moccia’s choreography was, for the most part, uninspired. Yes, you saw
more dick than usual, but this rather pinpointed a Bares that was more blatant
and less aesthetically pleasing or witty than past editions.
Jai Rodriguez underwhelmed the crowd with his rendition of “Fame,” although
John Tartaglia (“Avenue Q”) evidently got to fulfill his long-cherished
fantasy as a go-go boy.
As for the beefcake, well, to be brutally honest, to paraphrase the movie “Pat
and Mike,” “What meat was there wasn’t cherce.” This
was maybe the most disappointing aspect, for, while there were a few hot bods — I’ll
probably be accused of ageism — can I just say that some of the dancers
reminded me of Noel Coward’s famous line from “Private Lives,” “decrepit
rats carrying on like Tiller Girls”?
In a venue where we come to expect New York’s young finest exposed (and
folks spend a lot of money and energy crowded all together), maybe one shouldn’t
always feature one’s more senior dance buddies, however enthusiastic,
so prominently. Also, guys: try to butch it up next year. In the “Sexploitation” number,
the hottest of the night, we had two Foxy Browns rather than a John Shaft and
a Foxy.
A true forebear of Broadway Bares, stripper Sally Rand (1904-79) is being
given a tribute, Fans! Sunday night to benefit Animal Haven (Town Hall, 212-840-2824).
Bebe Neuwirth, Donna McKechnie, Julie Wilson, Kelly Bishop and others will
appear and Rand’s infamous “Bubble” and “Fan” dances
will be performed.
Antiquaire Philip Sleep knew Rand well: “She was really a toe dancer,
not a stripper. But she could never outlive being arrested for indecent exposure.
That’s all people wanted to know about and that jumpstarted her career.”
“She was like a fairy on a music box,” Sleep said, “body
painted white, gold t-strap heels, gold ringleted falls down her back like
Mary Pickford, black background with stars, blue gels, white fans, like a statue
in the moonlight.”
Someone once asked her what her famous concealing bubbles looked like when
they were deflated and she replied, “Elephant condoms.”
|
