Forget "Into The Woods," Darlings, THIS Is The Production That Should Play The Delacorte, And Then Move To Broadway!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                            It has been awhile, girls, since the LPA Players have convened, but I think the break did some good, in clearing up cobwebs.  But one also could not go wrong with the script chosen for last night--Paul Osborn's comedy drama, "Morning's At Seven," a veritable feast for actors to sink their chops into. And sink this group did, while scaling triumphant heights, for, along with "The Bad Seed," and another title which escapes me, this is one of the few performed that, I think, with some shading and tweaking of timing in the readings, could be put before an audience.

                                              I have also been fortunate enough to see both revivals--Vivian Matlaon's famous one, back in 1980, responsible for igniting interest in this hitherto obscure play, and the one ten years back, which had the likes of Piper Laurie, Estelle Parsons, Elizabeth Franz, Julie Hagerty, Stephen Tobolowsky, and Buck Henry, to name some.  This script is gold; place it in the hands of capable actors, and they just run with it.

                                               Which is what happened last night.  Let's start with Wendy, who, while waiting for our Arry to arrive, stepped into the role admirably, though, once Daisy arrived, and Wendy switched over to Esty, I saw how better suited she was for that, bringing a maternal edege to her readings that belies being an eldest sister, and an edginess that suggests the burdens of not only being that, but being married to a jerk; namely David Crampton, a pompous, egotistical windbag of an academic (who I do not believe is working!!!!!!!!),  and mined by the great Charlie in yet another of his pricless jerk characterizations.  Amy scaled new heights in her portrayal of Cora Wright, bringing warmth, but an underlying bitterness, beneath which years of resentful wounds have been festering, and when she lets them out--darlings, I am telling you, I think the spirit of Colleen Dewhurst must have sat right up in her grave!!!!!!!!!!!!  Daisy's reading of Aarry was almost unbearably poignant, and could have turned to mush if she didn't let Aary's spine of steel show thorugh quite often; which she did, and brilliantly!!!!!!!!  As Ida Bolton--who was actuall
y my mother; we got Soul, baby!!!!!!, but more on that later--Tanisha presented a quiet, understated portrait of a woman finding it difficult to deal with what Life offers her, but deals with it admirably. Tanish once again proves she is the Mistress Of The Understated.

                                                  It is true the women, the Gibbs Sisters, take center stage in "Morning's At Seven," but without able support by the men the play would have no dramatic tension.  The inimitable Steve (who gets beaten out of every good role by Chip Zien or Denis O'Haire) turned in a polished rendering of Carl, Ida's mentally befuddled husband.  John, in a manner belying his essential Tommy Tune-ness, did an admirably gruff portrayl of Theodore Swanson (Thor), with secrets of his own; a man whose flaws may be openly on display, however little he is aware of them.

                                                   And Emily....ah, yes, Emily, my Eponine, made a trimuphant return to the group in the role of Myrtle Brown. Emily made Myrtle more fascinating than usual; she seemed to start out being a doormat to everyone, yet, in the end, demonstrates a spine that can well stand up to all the craziness these families collecitvely dish out to one another.  As for her fiance, Homer Bolton, son of Ida and Carl, I was honored to be the child of Tanisha and Steve.  I was also thrilled to be able to play one of my "dream parts," because I understand Homer so well, having grown up around so many Homers, and fearing becoming one, myself.  I was, which is rarely the case, actually happy with my performance, and I think my being surprised (having forgotten) Homer's Act Two bombshell worked in my favor, as it enabled me to deliver it with no aplomb, just an annoyingly nebbishy matter of factness, which, in my interpretation, is, I believe, charactersitic of Homer.

                                                       "Morning's At Seven" is such a completely satisfying play to watch and to perform that, with ten years gone by, as I said to Charlie last night, it would not surprise me, if, within another five years, there is not another Broadway mounting of it.

                                                          Honey, I think ours is ready for the Delacorte!  Kick that abysmal "Into The Woods" production off our stage!!!!!!!!!!  This would also work well outdoors; I wonder if anyone has done it that way?????????????

                                                              Hardly anything could mar the perfection of last night's reading, or Paul Osborn's play.  A workman's dramatist, he never made it to the A-list, but was prolific and stylish in his day.  Of all his works, this is the one that survives, and it is due to that revival, back in 1980.

                                                                  I have one wish that went unfulfilled last night.  The evening should have ended, and, if we ever did this before an audience, it should be done ass a curtain call, with the four Gibbs girls, down center, singing the Irving Berlin song, "Sisters!!!!!!!!!!"

                                                                    Oh, girls, I am telling you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!