At one point in Douglas Carter Beane’s Shows for Days, a character notes that there’s a show tune for almost every situation in life.
She’s right. And to describe this comedy-drama at the Newhouse, let’s cite “‘S Wonderful,” “Perfectly Marvelous” and “You’re Sensational.”
Beane tells of being 14 and in downtown Reading, PA, a bus ride from home. In the middle of abandoned buildings there’s one edifice that’s alive. It stands with the courage of grass that breaks through a sidewalk: a community theater.
The playwright thinly – no, transparently — veils himself as Car (Michael Urie). But at the July 8th performance, Patti LuPone did at one point call him Douglas. That was probably her slip of the tongue and not something in the script.
Well, anything can happen in the theater. To wit: This was the now-famous performance in which LuPone stripped a cell phone from an audience texter. The question is – was this the Tony-winning actress who did the taking, or was she still in character as Irene, the autocratic head of The Prometheus (!) Theatre?
No, LuPone and not Irene took the phone, for the show is set in 1973, when theatergoers had to wait until a performance was over to communicate with anyone – and then from a phone booth.
LuPone of course gets entrance applause, although Beane should get plenty of handclaps for the remarkable entrance he’s whipped up for her. It’s a very different kind of star entrance, a dynamic one that sets the tone for her vibrant performance. But the far-less-known Michael Urie gets an unexpected blast of it when he returns to open the second act, for his Car has completely won over the crowd by then.
It’s a memory play, and Car’s character can be described as The Stage Manager of Our Town meets Tom in The Glass Menagerie. Better still, after they meet, they get along.
Urie comes on as the adult Car until he removes his glasses. Then we can see just how wide-eyed Car was at 14. “On stage,” he says with just enough wonder and respect, “ginger ale is champagne.”
And a Broadway wannabe diva is an artistic director. LuPone is perfect for Irene, a shrewdie who can put two and two together faster than any calculator. While she doesn’t always wear her heart on her sleeve, she almost always puts her cards on the table. Irene doesn’t just dispense gossip-laced “dish,” but, as she calls it “sterling silver dish.”
Although problems often roll off the back of her trademark gold lame dress, Irene does have an occasional moment of self-doubt. “Why do I stay in this hole-in-the-wall?” she moans. And given that the show takes place in 1973, if Beane is relating a story that actually happened in real life, Irene pulled a stunt that Michael Bennett would essentially try about a year later.
But she’s soon rallying with plans for “A new company! A new beginning!” with such I-ain’t-down-yet credos as “Big choices! Big results!” In Car’s mind, she’s made the biggest choice of all by making him her assistant director. Little does he know that that mostly means trips to her purse to fetch her many pills, which play a part in the plot, too.
The most menial task doesn’t matter to Car, because he’s now in “the opposite of the suburbs” en route to “the best summer of my life!” He too shares the excitement when a staff member shows up with a big box and yells “Programs!”
Car especially wants to see them, because Irene has allowed him to pen the actors’ bios. His little witty paragraphs wind up getting a better review from the local critic than does the play. And that’s when we know that Beane is on his way to being a fine writer.
Actually, Irene has a co-owner in the theater: Sid (née Patricia), an out lesbian who’s none too happy when she must don a dress to impress the theater’s moneyed patrons. She’s played by Dale Soules, who 41 years ago was singing “West End Avenue” in The Magic Show. Now her voice is more gravel-tinged than Selma Diamond’s. And if you don’t know who she was, you might not enjoy the show as much as those who do know. After Car cites someone obscure, he admits “No one gets that reference now.” That could apply to many more. (Do you recognize the name Ann Corio? That’s a good litmus test.)
Although Sid says that “Irene missed her calling as a cult-leader,” that’s exactly what Irene has become. When she comes out to greet her public before a show and the crowd applauds, LuPone adeptly gives out an expression that says “Oh, you’re being silly!’ while we know she’s craving every handclap.
Playwrights are always told to “show, don’t tell,” but critics aren’t be subject to this rule. Thus, I will neither show nor tell any of the play’s funniest two, three or nine dozen choice lines. Why spoil them for you? Suffice to say that one line got such titanic applause that an actor had to wait patiently for it to stop. When it finally did, some theatergoers took the opportunity to start the applause all over again. That’s the quality of the writing here.
One plot point may escape those unfamiliar with the world of theatrical rights, but it is worth addressing. To get a jump on a planned professional theater, Irene decides to do the same plays they’ve chosen before they can mount them. The way licensing rights work, there’s a chance – or, more likely, no way – that the company in charge would allow her to do these shows once they’d promised the rights to the pros.
Car makes new friends and one lover in Damien (the fine Jordan Dean). The latter ultimately disappoints him and sends him into deep despair. Ah, but where is that two-timer now? Beane and his illustrious career (six Broadway shows, nine off-Broadway shows, five Tony nominations and two Drama Desk Awards) prove that living well, rich and famous is indeed the best revenge.
Still, this very dramatic turn and controversy that follows makes one wonder where Car’s parents have been. They’re mentioned once when they appear only off-stage. Considering the scandal that finally gets them to show up, we’re surprised to hear that they’d allow Car to return to the theater, and, as Car informs us, work there for two more seasons while he’s still a minor.
But when things are at their nadir, Car bitterly says “I’ll never forgive any of you.” As it turns out, in this play he indeed does. Of theater, Sid says “You’d better love all of it.” Beane does. You’ll forgive the tiny missteps and love virtually all of Shows for Days, too.
