Curtain up, New York! Your cultural life just got a bailout. This marks my first entry in what is sure to soon become a legendary column. You’re welcome.
I promise to bring my full theatrical experience (which makes the artistic prowess of Sir Larry Olivier resemble that of, let’s say, Bob Saget) to the written endeavours herein. Further, I pledge to use my power solely for the enrichment of myself and my lifestyle. No, no. It’s the very least I can do.
But while my curtain rises, everyone else’s seems to be falling faster than Joan Collins’ last breast lift. Shows on the Great White Way, 16 of them precisely, are closing mere weeks from now. The list of the dead includes:
Grease: So it turns out shamelessly commercial, vapid revamps of stale shows cast from a series of reality television competitions isn’t artistic gold? The hell you say!
Young Frankenstein: Shock of shocks! Mel Brooks is not an invincible theatrical leviathan, but just another old Jewish guy who recycles old jokes and hums into a tape recorder. $400 a ticket? Such a deal. For those people who always wanted to see Young Frankenstein without that pesky Gene Wilder.
Hairspray: Even Harvey Fierstein, the Queen B flat, couldn’t resurrect this limping drag diva. Audiences apparently prefer mousse.
Equus: The only thing that seems to be shorter than star Daniel Radcliffe’s manhood is the show’s run. Presto-Change-O! Harry Potter’s wand disappears!
Spamalot: Mike Nichols’ Monty Python tuner brings out it’s dead in January. Which serves to prove what I’ve always maintained: shack up with Clay Aiken, live with the consequences. My particular Aiken Consequences include an addiction to shit-hideous music and something my doctor refers to as “herpes.” Talk about fire-crotch.
13: Apparently pedophiles, once thought to be a recession proof segment of the population, are tightening their Hello Kitty purse strings. How else to explain the lack of ticket sales for the charming adolescent tuner “13″? Perverted theatre fans (an oxymoron?) flocked to this Jason Robert Brown musical featuring jail-bait lolitas and lotharios singing about Clearasil and training bras. The lack of HSM-loving asses in the seats may be explained by the fact that, this year, the sex offfenders were in Broadway shows instead of watching them.
I am, of course referring to notorious pederast, registered offender and overall rich baritone James Barbour. Mr. Barbour, the star of this year’s Les Miz wannabe “A Tale of Two Cities,” achieved infamy a few years back when a 15 year old fan of his told the cops he wanted touch her tail and two titties. The dour musical, having all the charm and allure of a leper with bad breath, closed weeks ago thus allowing Mr. Barbour more time to frequent Gymboree.
Boeing Boeing: is going-going. It’s audiences? Small. I’ve been in orgies that are bigger.
Amidst the wreckage debuts a new mega-musical straight from Tinsel Town: Shrek.
What’s stupider than opening an over-budget, over-hyped, over-blown musical on Broadway? Doing it during a depression. How can you justify asking families to pony up 500 bills to see the ogre when Mommy is turning tricks to keep the heating on. The only way for it to be stronger box office poison would be if Mike Myers were actually in it.
Well, that should be enough to tide you over until my next dispatch. With grace and humility, I remain your infallible leader.
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