Full Hunter's Moon Fever

For a while there, we couldn't find it.

Mac and I strolled Jackson Ward to reach the Basement, confident we'd be able to catch a glimpse of tonight's full hunter's moon along the way. Wrong. At nearly an hour past sunset, we walked nine blocks and never saw so much as a glimpse of it.

I was so determined to see it that after we'd claimed our tickets, we returned to the streets to stroll some more in hopes that the taller buildings were just blocking its rise. After all, we'd both seen how magnificent it had been last night, so tonight was bound to be even better.

Nada. We walked two blocks east, then three blocks west and all we got was a guy panhandling. When I told him that regretfully, neither of us carried cash, he slapped his leg and said to me, "Now I remember you!"

Now you remember the woman who walks this neighborhood without carrying cash? Good, so stop asking me for it.

And still, no moon to be found, so we gave up our quest.

After admiring the new sign on the brick reading, "The Basement," we walked down the stairs to the subterranean theater to see "The Last Five Years."

Because who wouldn't want to see a play that addresses the issues of a relationship that only lasts five years? Hell, I've known people who've set that as their maximum relationship tolerance right from the first date.

Like so many plays I've seen in the past couple years, this one had no intermission which allowed the differing memories of a couple - his told in chronological order, hers told in reverse - to play out against each other without interruption, the two threads meeting in the middle only for the wedding scene.

It was the kind of story that anyone who's ever been in a loving relationship that ultimately ended - and, let's face it, that's an awful lot of us - can relate to on various levels.

What was interesting was that the action played out on a stage down the middle of the room (with the band in the back) and the audience lined up on two sides, able to see the action and the other side's reaction.

I don't know about you, but a musical that begins with a woman singing "Still Hurting" post-breakup is going to resonate on a lot of levels, some of which we could see in people's faces across the stage.

It was a simple story, really: boy who's written a book and girl who wants to be an actress meet and fall in love. Jamie's career gains traction (about getting a story published in Atlantic Monthly, he sings, "Two thousand dollars without rewriting a word!" - a writer's wet dream) while Cathy struggles and they lose sight of each other, resulting in a break-up.

We didn't have to get very far in for me to realize with certainty that the play must have been written by a man. There was an insecurity to Cathy, an inability to be happy for Jamie's success because her own career was stalled, that made her seem petty and playing victim.

As the two worked through problems, both began looking for the reasons - what didn't he do, how she didn't give as much as she could have - just like we do in real life when cracks in a relationship inevitably show up.

As Jamie, Alexander Sapp owned the stage with killer vocals, insightful gestures and effortless acting from the moment he appeared. In fact, on the chalkboard in the loo, someone had drawn five stars and written, "Alexander Sapp...tasty!" and signed it Michelle Obama.

And when is Michelle wrong?

Christie Jackson with her stellar voice and heartbreaking songs made the most of a role that gave her character the power to fall in love almost at first sight, but not to change what life handed her, whether career-wise or in her love life. The kind of powerless woman you'd expect from a '50s play, not one written in 2001.

In the director's notes, Chelsea Burke wrote that the play was an invitation to reflect on past relationships in their entirety (gee, I've never done that at 4 a.m.) and a reminder that love leaves no one unchanged.

If there's a more timeless topic, it doesn't immediately come to mind.

Back on the street after being wowed by the performance, Mac and I were greeted by the hunter's moon, finally hanging above the building line and beaming its light over the city streets.

Love may not always be reliable, but at least the moon is. What matters is remembering that love is always possible...

15 Minutes of Fame

I'm feeling really lucky about all the art history-themed theater in town lately.

First there was "Red" about Mark Rothko and now there's "Pop" about Andy Warhol, being produced only for the fourth time, playing at Firehouse.

My only disappointment with the performance was not taking a front-row seat when it was offered because the play began with Warhol taking a Polaroid of the woman sitting in front of me, in the seat I turned down.

Curses!

Once I got over my error in judgement, I was dazzled by the circa 1968 costumes of Edie Sedgwick and Viva, two of Warhol's hangers-on and film subjects.

Much as I loved Viva's glammy, bell-bottomed jumpsuit, if it were 1968, I'd have to go with Edie's leopard mini to better show off the legs.

The play was narrated by the lovely (and formerly male) Candy Darling, star of many Warhol films, who won audience hearts with lines like, "It was a dark and stormy night and we were all at Andy's factory. It was the place to be when we had no one better to do."

Andy kept Viva around because of her intelligence, a fact she came to resent. "When you talk smart during all the sex, it's not dirty, it's art."

And there you have the basis of any Warhol film.

One of the most hysterical scenes, at least to this art history geek, was when a trio of abstract expressionists, Pollak, Kline and Motherwell, showed up as suspects in the shooting.

Warhol  brilliantly puts them in their place, infuriating them by saying, "I'm such a fan of your work. It looks so easy and fun!"

I don't know if non-artsy types see how hilarious that is, but I laughed long and hard.

During intermission, the bar was serving mimosas ('cause it's Sunday!) and the play's signature drink, the Factory Fizz, which director Jase Smith had promised us before the show would make the second act even more fun.

Even sans drink, I had lots of fun during the second act, especially when Mrs. Warhol sang a eulogy for her "dead" son while he watched unhappily from the casket.

The showstopper was "Big Gun" about Valerie Solanas' anger at Warhol for losing her script of "Up Your Ass," the play she'd been hoping he would produce for her.

With Viva and Edie in opera-length white gloves singing back-up, Audra Honaker as Valerie nailed it as the angry feminist who'd written the SCUM Manifesto (Society for Cutting Up Men) and had a slight problem with all men.

Audra was the standout (even her dancing impressed), but the entire cast was strong, with Warhol's assistants (also playing hapless NYPD cops), Gerard and Ondine, especially strong on physical comedy, drug humor and dancing over people and couches.

And how can you not love a musical with a song called, "Untitled Brawl No. 1"?

Today's matinee was a pay-what-you-will performance and after a highly entertaining afternoon of art history with terrific singing and dancing, I'm not sure I paid nearly enough.

But then, I'm not sure I can afford to pay what it was worth.