a three-hour tour: when ya gotta go . . .
Three-hour shows are par for the course for E Street Nation (photo by twi-ny/mdr)
In September 1964, five passengers and two crew members boarded a boat called the SS Minnow for what was supposed to be a three-hour tour around Hawaii. Gilligan, the Skipper, and their paying guests wound up spending three TV seasons trapped on a desert island.
In the world of entertainment, three hours is the tipping point for many people, who would rather be trapped on a desert island than spend one hundred and eighty minutes watching a play or film in a dark theater. Even at home, we Americans cannot sit still for three hours streaming a movie or binging a series, instead constantly checking our email and social media accounts, answering phone calls, and going back and forth between the couch and the kitchen or bathroom, things we don’t do when we’re at the movies or at a Broadway or off-Broadway performance.
It’s a shame especially when it comes to live theater, because some of the best dramas need at least three hours to properly spin their yarn, creating exciting temporary communities as they do so. It often takes giant stars to attract big audiences to see long shows, like Ian McKellen or Glenda Jackson in King Lear or Denzel Washington or Nathan Lane in The Iceman Cometh. Three-hour-plus shows usually require a lot of buzz to break through, like Tony winners Stereophonic and The Lehman Trilogy. Having two intermissions instead of one can help, but not necessarily enough to lure in those who have trouble sitting for lengthy periods of time.
In one twelve-day span this month, I saw five shows that lasted at least three hours each; not all were traditional plays, but each served up an unforgettable experience that was worth every minute.
Armory was transformed into a rave club for R.O.S.E. (photo by Stephanie Berger)
R.O.S.E.
Park Ave. Armory, Wade Thompson Drill Hall
643 Park Ave. at Sixty-Seventh St.
September 5-12, $65
www.armoryonpark.org
On September 5, my wife and I saw Sharon Eyal’s R.O.S.E. at Park Ave. Armory, a three-hour nonstop rave in which two teams of dancers in Christian Dior Couture made intricately choreographed interventions through the audience at unexpected intervals as music pulsed through the space. The anticipation of the dancers’ next appearance was part of the fun; while you could grab a seat in the lobby, hit the bathroom, hang out at the bar, or go for a walk around the block, you didn’t want to miss one second of the performance. You can read my full “rave” review here.
Genius staging makes three-and-a-half-hour epic at Skirball fly by (photo by Pia Johnson)
COUNTING AND CRACKING
NYU Skirball Center for the Performing Arts
566 La Guardia Pl.
Tuesday - Sunday through September 22, $21-$125
nyuskirball.org
publictheater.org
On September 12, I marveled at Counting and Cracking, a masterful three-and-a-half-hour multigenerational epic at NYU Skirball that spans nearly fifty years in the life of a Sri Lankan family forced to flee their home during the 1983 civil war and make a new life in Australia. Presented by Belvoir St Theatre and Kurinji in association with the Public Theater, it’s an extraordinary production that I cannot recommend highly enough. Written by S. Shakthidharan and directed by Eamon Flack, the narrative travels between 1956 and 2004, where single mother Radha Sivakumar (Nadie Kammallaweera) and her son, Siddhartha (Shiv Palekar), a media studies college student, face issues of communication, cultural identity, family legacy, and the concept of home.
In 1956, Radha is born in Colombo, Ceylon. Her proud grandparents, Apah (Prakash Belawadi) and Aacha (Sukania Venugopal), have big plans for her. Apah was raised in a poor village; specializing in mathematics, he went to university and became the trade minister. He believes in freedom and equality; in his home, English — the official language of the country — is spoken in addition to Tamil and Sinhala. Apah is angry when his parliament colleague Vinsanda (Dushan Philips) notifies him that the nationalistic opposition leader wants to make Sinhala the only language. “Two languages, one country. One language, two countries,” Apah declares.
In 1983, Rahda is pregnant as the Sri Lankan civil war breaks out, pitting the majority Sinhalese against the minority Tamils. After her husband, Thirru (Antonythasan Jesuthasan), is killed, she flees to Australia to start fresh, carrying her grandfather’s ashes in a plastic container. Twenty-one years later, Radha is trying to maintain her family’s traditions while Sid, who is dating Lily (Abbie-lee Lewis), a Yolngu law student, struggles to define who he is and where he belongs. He tells Lily, “My name’s Sinhalese. I don’t speak Tamil, and I’ve never been to Sri Lanka. Here I am with too much English, a Sinhala name, no Tamil, and some very bad Spanish. I’m a terrible Sri Lankan. Muy terriblé.”
Just as Radha begins to get interested in Ismet (Rodney Afif), a flirtatious, twice-divorced Turkish air-conditioner salesman, she gets a phone call from journalist Hasaanga (Sukhbir Singh Walia) advising her that Thirru is actually alive, having spent the last two decades being tortured in prison — and he wants to come home.
Despite its imposing length, Counting and Cracking, with two intermissions, flies by. The swiftly paced drama features an engaging cast and three onstage musicians (Kranthi Kiran Mudigonda, Venkhatesh Sritharan, and Janakan Suthanthiraraj) who add to the atmosphere. Shakthidharan and Flack infuse every scene with breathtaking DIY ingenuity, from the ritual of pouring ashes into the river to drilling a hole in a wall for an air-conditioner, from Sid and Lily going for a swim to a fateful evening when Apah is trying to get the police to respond to sudden attacks on Tamil businesses, immersing the audience in a horrific event that recalls Kristallnacht in 1938 Germany.
One reason the play works so well is its universality; all cultures face seminal moments in their history, and immigrants must balance the old with the new as they try to find their place in a different world. When we first meet Sid and Lily, they are on a seesaw, sitting on the same side, not worried about that balance because they are young and falling in love.
Counting and Cracking is relatable in myriad ways, both good and bad, haunted by an underlying warning that it can happen again, especially here in America.
A Meal begins with a lovely, puzzling dance, one of many delights at HERE (photo by Maria Baranova)
A MEAL
HERE Arts Center
145 Sixth Ave.
Wednesday – Sunday through September 29, $50-$150
here.org/shows
On September 13, my wife and I attended LEIMAY’s deeply involving three-hour multidisciplinary performance A Meal at HERE Arts Center. We’ve been closely following the work of LEIMAY cofounding artistic directors Ximena Garnica and Shige Moriya for more than fifteen years, seeing shows at Dixon Place, BAM, HERE, Japan Society, and, during the pandemic, a stunning dance installation in Astor Place Plaza.
In many ways, Garnica, who is from Colombia, and Moriya, who is from Japan, have been working toward A Meal all this time. The rooms at HERE have been reconfigured as a number of distinct performance areas, where approximately sixty-four people are led through different scenes, each space a kind of art installation of its own that is activated by a terrific ensemble of dancers, vocalists, and composers: Masanori Asahara, Krystel Copper, Derek DiMartini, Mar Galeano, Peggy Gould, David Guzman, Dayeon Jeong, Maitlin Jordan, Akane Little, Thea Little, Juan Merchan, Denisa Musilova, Synead Cidney Nichols, Polina Porras, Carolina Oliveros, Irena Romendik, Jeremy D. Slater, and Drew Sensue-Weinstein.
The show begins with the ritualistic preparation of a sweet drink for everyone, followed by dancers moving around with large white jigsaw puzzle pieces, as if they’re trying to bring the world together. A Meal ends with a sit-down hotpot at eight tables, each guided by one performer.
In between, the cast, with the help of several stage managers, burble into a tank of water; pound pieces of raw meat; heat up sushi with a blowtorch before offering it to the crowd; drill into a large block of ice; and squiggle in a box of dirt while a four-channel film depicts Garnica and Moriya digging a grave and lying down in it. In fact, several of the scenes are accompanied by short films of the same action taken from separate angles, enveloping the audience.
Tasty appetizers are prepared and served right in front of you at A Meal (photo by Maria Baranova)
The often bizarre costumes range from oystershell chainmail to traditional African gowns to a fragile dress of organic material that seems doomed to fall apart. Hats and masks can be funny and frightening, sometimes at the same time. The menu highlights food inspired by Garnica and Moriya’s native roots, consisting of arepas, sushi, tamales, chimaki, and a dessert you make yourself. All the dishes and silverware were designed by Garnica, lending the meal even more of an authentic feel.
There’s a lot of standing and walking, so be prepared. You can step out and use the facilities any time you’d like; there's no specific narrative, other than a celebration — and a warning — of humanity’s relationship to food, the food industry, and the spiritual essence of the natural world. There are overt and subtle references to climate change, recycling, food injustice and insecurity, and the need for clean water, making you think twice about how fortunate many of us are.
At its heart, A Meal builds community around the act of eating; at the conclusion, you may find yourself hugging people who are no longer strangers and exchanging phone numbers. It’s not a passive experience; to get the most out of it, you need to become a participant, just like life itself.
Bruce invites the crowd to sing along at Sea. Hear. Now. Festival (photo by twi-ny/mdr)
SEA. HEAR. NOW. FESTIVAL
Asbury Park Boardwalk
Sunday, September 15, $160-$1,295
www.seahearnowfestival.com
brucespringsteen.net
On September 15, I went by myself to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band play at the Sea. Hear. Now. Festival on the Jersey Shore in Asbury Park. While all the other groups that Saturday and Sunday got between forty-five and ninety minutes, Springsteen was allotted time to play his full set, three hours, from 7:30 to 10:30.
I’ve been to a lot of Bruce shows over the years, going back to 1978. I’ve seen him in New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, California, Ohio, Florida, and London, solo, with the E Street Band, and even with that other group of musicians he played with in the 1990s that nobody wants to remember. In tiny clubs, Broadway theaters, indoor arenas, and outdoor stadiums, I’ve indulged in more than my fair share of Bruce Juice, from two-hour concerts to four-hour marathons. When he first started playing arenas, there was an intermission, but those have disappeared; he now rips through his set without stopping, because he just can’t.
I’m not much for general admission. If seats are available, I prefer to have a reserved one. If it’s standing room only, I make do, but being short, it can be a problem. For the festival, GA tickets started at $160, GA+ $310, VIP $495, and Platinum $1,295. I had previously broken the bank seeing Bruce twice on the Great White Way, so it was going to be GA for me.
After taking the two-hour train from Penn Station, I walked about twenty minutes to arrive at the festival, waited a half hour on line to get in, then had another fifteen-minute walk to approach the concert area, which was between the boardwalk and the ocean and was already packed with people.
I had a huge decision to make: Do I take a leak before I find a spot (hundreds of fans were right behind me), or do I find a spot and hope I’ll be able to leave it, use the facilities — which were not close — and return to the same place. I headed toward the stage.
I stood about halfway back as Kool & the Gang finished their set with their three biggest hits. The Trey Anastasio Band was next; again, instead of going to the can, I chose to move forward as people left to get food, go to the bathroom, or visit one of the other two stages.
I forged ahead again. Careful not to push through people or step on their stuff, I found an open spot and plunked down with only my water bottle and my dungaree jacket. I was closer than I expected. As Trey played, a flood of people kept coming, filling it all in. It was unlikely I’d ever be able to get back if I left for any reason. And even if I did, it would probably take forty-five uncomfortable minutes, like it did for Mickey from Brooklyn, who I spoke with for a while before he went to get a sweatshirt out of his car.
Some forty thousand fans packed the beach to see the Boss in Asbury Park (photo courtesy Sea. Hear. Now.)
Attending so much theater and dance, I have trained my bladder to not act up during a performance. I go before I leave my apartment, right before curtain, and again at intermission. That means I’m used to relieving myself three times in the span of about two and half hours. I know that it’s mostly psychological, but that’s what I do.
I’ve always had a bathroom song for Bruce concerts if I really needed to go, depending on the amount of beer I was consuming. But I was facing a brand-new dilemma at Sea. Hear. Now. The last time I had gone to the bathroom that day was at noon, when I left for the station. I had a chocolate croissant, a chocolate-chip cookie, and one bottle of water on the trip. I topped off the bottle at one of the festival’s free spigots. If I committed to that great spot not far from the stage, it would mean that it was going to be more than ten hours between bathroom breaks for me.
Praying that my bladder would remain calm and quiet, I spent one hour grooving to Trey (who was joined by Bruce for “Kitty’s Back”), one hour as they reset the stage, and then three hours being blown away by one of the best Bruce shows I’d ever seen. He reached a whole new level, introducing some songs with stories about where in Asbury Park he had written them and sharing his immense happiness at seeing the resurgence of his hometown.
When it was over, I hustled to try to make the next train but just missed it, watching it pull away without me. I got the next one an hour later. Outside Penn Station, I bought a pretzel, then grabbed a cab home. I finally took that whiz; it was 2:30 in the morning.
Our Class continues at Classic Stage through November 3 (photo by twi-ny/mdr)
OUR CLASS
Classic Stage Company, Lynn F. Angelson Theater
136 East Thirteenth St. between Third & Fourth Aves.
Tuesday - Sunday through November 3, $59-$129
ourclassplay.com
classicstage.org
On September 16, the night after I was in Asbury Park, I saw Arlekin Players Theatre’s remarkable adaptation of Tadeusz Słobodzianek’s 2008 play, Our Class. I raved about it when it ran at BAM Fisher this past winter, but I wanted to see how it would work in the more intimate Classic Stage, which is significantly smaller, with the audience sitting on three sides. With various tweaks from director Igor Golyak, who is a master of inventiveness, this version, also clocking in at three hours, is even better than the first.
The show is divided into “lessons” as Fascist antisemitism tears apart ten Polish classmates after one of them, Abram (Richard Topol), leaves for America. Friend turns against friend, comrade against comrade as hate and violence ratchet up. The plot was inspired by actual events that occurred in the village of Jedwabne, Poland, including the horrific 1941 burning of a barn with sixteen hundred Jews trapped inside.
The full cast and crew are back, with standout performances by Topol, Gus Birney as Dora, Tess Goldwyn as Zocha, Ilia Volok as Vladek, and Alexandra Silber as Rachelka. Golyak never misses an opportunity to do something unique, so he has re-created sections of the play, coming up with different methods of incorporating many of the props: ladders, balloons, video cameras, soccer balls, and the large chalkboard at the back of the stage. Much like Counting and Cracking, Our Class is loaded with an abundance of magical theatrical moments.
But the night I went, there was one moment that was unplanned, and it ended up bringing even more depth to the show.
The close-knit cast of Our Class gathers during fire alarm at Classic Stage (photo by twi-ny/mdr)
Shortly before intermission and not long after the barn burning, the fire alarm went off at the theater. The audience hesitated — one of the numerous pleasures of the play is its unpredictability — but an actor broke character and softly announced, “This is not part of the show.” Everyone was led outside, the actors and audience members mingling on East Thirteenth St. Then a fire truck pulled up in front of the theater and firefighters went inside.
It ended up being a false alarm, and we returned to our seats, the actors picking up where they had left off. A few minutes later, the real intermission came, and it gave me a chance to reflect on what had just occurred. The unsettling interlude made the events of the play that much more immediate, like it could happen anywhere, at any time, including here in New York City, where antisemitism is on the rise yet again.
In his October 13, 2023, WBUR post “Stopping the inferno: Why this artist supports Israel,” Golyak, whose family fled Kyiv when he was a child, ominously wrote, “We are not safe. Again.”
And it’s not just Jews, in the streets or on college campuses, where student turns against student; just ask the immigrants under siege in Springfield, Ohio.
After intermission, one of the actors, in character, rang a triangle, that most innocuous of instruments. With a sly smile, he assured us it was not another fire alarm.
[You can follow Mark Rifkin and This Week in New York every day here.]