Skip to main content

Howard Ashman: "Little Shop of Horrors"

For "Little Shop" Fanatics:

*One thing I particularly like is Howard Ashman's way of inhabiting a character. Seemingly "throwaway* lyrics turn out to be revealing.

Audrey II wants to tempt Seymour to complete a killing: "I swear on all my spores! When he's gone....the world will be yours...." (We catch our breath. Yes, the plant from outer space has SPORES!)

"A little nookie gonna clean up your zits," says Audrey II, and we pause and consider the fact that, yes, Seymour--surely not in great health, and not familiar with the basics of self-care--might have less-than-Brad-Pitt-esque skin. (I wish that the off-Broadway director had been brave enough to give Jonathan Groff fake zits.)

*The thrill of this current production is seeing three stars having fun. The stand-out, of course, is Christian Borle. It's hard to put into words what he is doing. He seems to have a zany "interior life": Even when a character of his is very still, you detect a great deal happening behind the eyes. Borle's use of pacing, intonation, and silence is continuously surprising, and it continuously seems to be drawn from life. In other words, you're constantly thinking, YES, I'VE SEEN THAT IN ACTUAL LIFE, AND OTHER ACTORS HAVEN'T CAPTURED THAT BEFORE! Not to overstate the achievement. But it's dizzying to watch Borle at work.

*Ashman was thirty-two when "Little Shop" was happening, and I think there was a cynicism at play, and I think that cynicism would mellow in later years. (Ashman died at forty.) 

I don't love when Ashman seems to make fun of his characters. He has Audrey I daydream about "a fence of real chain-link." Not particularly funny or clever--but remember the writer was young and probably angry, and still figuring things out. (Lastly, notice, as others have noticed, Ashman couldn't stop writing about food. Though he himself seems not to have eaten very much. "Feed Me." "Poissons." "Be Our Guest." He had a passion.....)
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more