What a Show!

Fiorella LOVED Georgetown's Palace Theater production of 42nd Street!  It hit all the right spots and left the audience begging for more.  Georgetown's Palace Theater has come along way from when it had to paint mustaches on high school boys and so they could pass as adults on stage.

42nd Street is a period piece, and Fio doesn't remember ever seeing it as a movie,but she did know most of the songs--notably Dames, We're in the Money, Sunny Side, Lullaby of Broadway, About a Quarter to Nine, Shuffle Off to Buffalo, Forty-second Street. The story, based on a movie based on a book, is cliche: a young, pretty hoofer comes to NY, is thrust into spotlight, and, despite setbacks, makes it big. It's a silly show biz parody in which even the villain turns sweet, but it's also somehow quite touching.

What can Fio say? The casting was great, the costumes were perfect, the settings were right-on, and the dance numbers (choreographed by Jessee Smart) were unbelievably good. Fio's favorite routines were the French farce-like scene on the sleeper car and the Agnes de Mille hooker scene at the end of the show.

Getting down to nit-picking minutia, the heroine's blonde wig turned a surprising white under "nighttime" lights, the young boy in the cast never missed a beat but seemed out of place in the sometimes bawdy musical, and Fio and her guests couldn't figure out why a happy-looking man was dressed--and danced--as a woman in the final scene.

Anyway, the show was great.  Fio's been through a lot lately and 42nd Street allowed her to escape into another world for two glorious hours. Maybe that's what show business is all about.

Ape Angst

Tarzan was a dud.  There's no other way to describe the  play that Georgetown's Palace Theater mounted this past month, and Fio wasn't the only one to think so.  For the first time in the ten years that she and Husband have been patronizing the Palace, the audience did not give the actors a second curtain call--yep, no standing ovation.

It wasn't the cast's fault.  They acted their hearts out, maybe trying to compensate for the trite, forgettable songs or for the play itself, which was a litany of ape angst.  Yes, Tarzan played like it had been written by a PETA extremist.

Fio had expected something different--a romp, in fact--a fun show with a lot of catchy tunes that both children and adults could enjoy.  Instead, it was a philosophical treatise on the nobility of apes as opposed to the shallowness and venality of man.

Everything was abstract.  The play started with a  full stage of actors dressed in white leotards leaping around and waving diaphanous aqua tablecloths at the audience.  Fio thought they were supposed to represent the Greek fates, but a quick look at the program told her they were ocean waves, although what ocean waves had to do with the story was never explained.

Next we saw a set that looked like a Wagner production out of Bayreuth in which half-naked monkey children played happily together until a leopard made off with the baby of the gorilla head honcho and his mate, both of whom expressed their philosophical sorrow in song.  Then, in an overhead scene, we saw Tarzan's parents die during a storm at sea. (Aha!  The ocean waves!) The bereft ape mother, of course, took Tarzan to her bosom, defending him against her mate with another angsty song.

Weirdness followed weirdness, like the antics of the over-the-top male drama-queen ape, the African flora stripping Jane down to her bloomers, the stage hands walking through the action scenes, the over-abundance of suspension wires, the apes moving like knuckle-dragging chimpanzees rather than the gorillas they were supposed to be, the big production numbers that periodically erupted, and the kinky blond wigs that the Tarzans (child and adult) wore--wigs that Fio kept hoping would fall off.

During intermission, Fio and Husband compared notes with their guests.  Nephew Barrett commented on the pace of the show, comparing it to a two-hour movie that should have been over in thirty minutes.   His wife said she'd always thought apes interacted with each other physically rather than by exchanging deep, complicated thoughts in song.

Apparently the rest of the audience felt the same way because the applause was sparse--polite at best--but then, it's hard for venal, shallow humans to get involved in a play about the angst of the apes.

Review of Lucifer

Castle, etcetera, are cops and robbers shows with a love interest thrown in as a secondary plot. Lucifer is a romance built on a cops-and-robbers premise.

The show is sexy, edgy, and funny.  Forget the cops and robbers plots--and they've been forgettable so far--and concentrate on the relationship between the two leads, Lucifer and Chloe, a tough Hollywood cop. Lucifer is fascinated by her because she has no ulterior motive and she seem impervious to his charms, while Chloe would like him out of her life, but has discovered that he has his uses--like saving her life.

But what Fio likes best about the show is the humor.  She laughs, snickers, and giggles all the way through.

Literary Gratitude

There is nothing like an unsolicited rave e-mail review from a fellow romance writer to pull Friend Jeanell up out of the depths. Thank you, Evelyn Palfrey.
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And, while she's at it, thank you, Janece Hudson, for the wonderful rescue review and for your continuing support and advice.
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And thank you, Louisa Edwards, for your cheerleading and inside view of the industry.
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And a special thanks to Carol Fox for arranging Jeanell's book-signing at Java Junction on Tuesday.  And to all the friends, relatives, and ARWA members who've been supportive of Jeanell's journey.

What Have You Heard?

Panic, panic! Fiorella got involved in composing a love scene for her next book and almost forgot to write a blog!

Has she told you about the wonderful time she had at her RWA meeting on Monday?  And that THREE people asked her to autograph books?  And that she wore her T-shirt with the cover of WHAT THE HEART WANTS on it?  And that she showed off a print edition of WTHWs?

Has she told you that Forever Yours is starting a publicity campaign for WTHWs this week?  Has she told you she has the promise of another review from a friend?

Has she told you she is going stark raving bonkers--or can you figure that out for yourselves?

Boffo!

How long has it been since Fiorella's given an all-positive review of a production at Georgetown's Palace Theater?  But it turned out there was a reason she had problems getting tickets four weeks beforehand and had to settle for ones much closer to the stage than she and Husband prefer.

Yes, the miracle has happened.  The show was Cats, and it was uniformly fabulous.  Of course, it started with one leg up because of Andrew Lloyd-Webber's music, exciting from the first screaming seventh.  And the cast didn't hurt--fabulous voices, fabulous dancers, fabulous directing, unbelievable pacing.

Cats is an ensemble show, a series of numbers dramatizing poems from T S Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats loosely tied together by a weak plot, but what made it work was the direction and choreography. Fio had seen Cats before, on the big Bass stage, but it was even better when the approximately thirty actors were all crowded together onto the Palace's much smaller stage   

What a catharsis. Fiorella laughed and cried, then applauded and applauded and applauded.

The Folly of Will Rogers

It's a little late, but Fiorella wants to register her revue of the Georgetown Palace's production of The Will Rogers Follies: it was a loser.  Despite the fact that the mikes were turned up so loud she spent most of the time with fingers in one or both ears, Fiorella had so much trouble staying awake during the first act that she left at intermission.

The singers were great, the actors were great, the dancers were great (thank you, Jessee Smart), the costumes and scenery were great, and the children's scene was delightful, but the play was b-o-r-i-n-g.  The jokes fell flat and having Flo Ziegfield booming from the back of the theater as an invisible speaker a la A Chorus Line didn't work. 

What Fiorella expected was resuscitated Vaudeville routines knit together by the character of Will Rogers, not a weak rip-off of The Buddy Holly Story.

Great Show at the Palace!

Fiorella gives the Georgetown palace Theater's production of Thoroughly Modern Millie a rave review.  It was quick, smart, and disciplined, just like a good farce should be.

The settings were great, the lighting was great, the costumes were fantastic, the band was great (although often overloud), the pacing was great, the singers were great, and the acting, for the most part, was great.  And Fiorella is happy to tell you that  Jesee Smart, nee Jessica Klepsch, is doing the choreography again.  No more arms waving aimlessly in the air, no more repetitive circle dances, but neat, fast, inventive, energetic routines, with every dancer grinning and not a tap out of step.

Rumbles of laughter ran through the audience at the audacious, unexpected sequences.  The show is based on the 1967 movie starring Carol Burnett, but clever updates make it new and shiny, unlike  the Palace's Singing in the Rain and South Pacific.  As a romance writer, Fiorella got a kick out of the teasers at the ends of scenes.  She also liked the way there were usually two or three things happening at once, but that the play was directed so well that Fio knew exactly where her focus should be.

The girls carry the show so shout-outs to  Sara Burke as Millie, Tiffany Blackmon as Miss Dorothy,   Lariena Brown  as Mama Muzzy (the Carol Channing part), and  Melita McAttee in the Bea Lilly role--a far cry from the Mother Superior she played in the Palace's Nunsense series.  Male stand-outs were  Scott Shipman as Trevor Graydon and Stephen Jack as Jimmy Smith.  Shipman's operatic voice stole the show.  Jack's upper register has an especially sweet sound, but his characterization was just a bit wimpy, although perhaps more due to the script that the actor.   Fio was glad to see golden-toned tenor Ismael Soto in the cast again, although his role didn't call for much singing.  Husband's favorite character was Samantha Watson as Miss Flannery.


Spoiler alert: bowing to modern sensibilities, the villainess is just pretending to be Chinese, which, surprisingly, makes the story even funnier.

No Waves, Only Ripples

Fiorella was disappointed in the Georgetown Palace's production of South Pacific, and she thinks the rest of the SRO audience was too.  There was no show-stopping applause, no spontaneous guffaws of laughter, just perfunctory clapping after each number and polite chuckles for the jokes.

First of all, the children were darling, the French was interesting, the singing was great and Fiorella fell in love with the bell-like tones of Ismael Soto, who played Lt. Cable.  A tenor, and tall to boot, he's got it made.  However, the production as a whole was too loud.  Several cast members seemed to be unaware that they were wearing mikes and could be heard all the way to New Braunfels.  Second, there was no chemistry whatsoever between Emile de Becque and Nellie Forbush.  Their first scene should have been sizzling with simmer, but all Christine Jean-Jacque and Bob Beare did was recite lines, sing, and move around a lot, leaving Fio confused as to why Nellie suddenly announced her love for the Frenchman one scene later. Third, the characters crossed the fourth wall too often, singing not to each other or to themselves, but to the audience.  Fourth, there was too much untrammeled energy.  With every character bouncing with life like a star vying for attention, Fio couldn't focus on the leads.  Fifth, Fio entreats the Palace to bring back the the creative, disciplined dances of Jessica Kelpsch.  Having everyone do something different and flail their arms around a lot looks more like a free-for-all.  Sixth, why did the "male" cast include those two girls in boy wigs?  Fio spotted them in the first guy scene and, because their hair was identical, thought they were twelve-year-old twin boys.  Wondering about how underage boys got drafted distracted her for the rest of the production.  Seventh, some advice to the theater: just because your leading lady can turn a mean cartwheel doesn't mean she should do it in three different scenes, one-handed or not.

Fiorella and Husband invited Brother and his wife along for the show and Fio reserved her four season ticket seats with high hopes--perhaps too high, but the Palace has turned out stellar performances before--Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Technicolor DreamCoat, and The Producers come to mind.  What happened?  Was South Pacific too ambitious a project?  Is the play itself too old or too familiar?

Oh well, there's still Thoroughly Modern Millie to go.

Reviewing ALWAYS . . . PATSY CLINE

Fiorella slept late again this morning, not because she had insomnia earlier in the night like on Thursday, but because she saw a good production yesterday evening at Georgetown's Palace Theater and rested easy.

Fio says a good production because that's what it was--good, but not great.  Always . . . Patsy Cline featured twenty-six hits of the big-voiced country-pop star put into a pseudo-biographical order.  The singing and characterization of  Ysenia McNett was tremendous, especially for basically a one-woman show.  McNett, who usually sings lyric soprano roles, has great contralto pipes too.  She owned the role, portraying Cline from tender ingenue to swaggering star.   No one could totally  duplicate Cline's unique ability to switch registers with ease, but McNett came as close as you're gonna get.  And her styling was perfect.

The pseudo biography is where the play failed.  Unlike the similar Buddy Holley reprise,  Always . . . Patsy Cline intimates that the Cline's songs reflected her life, that she had experienced the let-down-by-a-man, honky-tonk life she sang about.  To that end, the playwright created a fake character to narrate the play--Louise Seger, a comic-relief fan whom Cline supposedly met along the way. 

But a little Googling tells a different story.  Cline was no shrinking violet tromped on by chauvinistic male arrogance.  Her songs were often the female counterpart to the country-western masculine wails about women who had done them wrong, but she was the one who divorced her first husband because he wanted her to dump her career and settle down to housewifery bliss.  Her second marriage was relatively happy, producing two children. And Cline has no need for a devoted fan to protect her interests.  In fact, she led the charge when it came to country performers being paid upfront rather than after the show, when producers often stiffed them.

But Fiorella quibbles. The minimalist stage setting worked well, and Fio was entranced by the way the band, often stuck off in a corner so as not to distract from the action, was rightfully front and center most of the time, actually part of story.  The costumes were spot on, and, for once, Fio has not a single complaint about the directing.  Needless to say, the theater was SRO and has been since opening night.  Extra shows have been added.

All in all, Aways . . . Patsy Cline was a treat.

CORRECTION:  Louise Seger was a real person and real fan.  But Fio still objects to her as a comic-relief character.

 

Annie Get Your Gun at the Palace

The musicals at Georgetown's Palace Theater have been sorta disappointing this season.  Singing in the Rain was downright dismal.  Thus it was with fear and trembling yesterday that Fio and Husband escorted Sister-in-law and her mother to Annie, Get Your Gun, a stalwart from the Dark Ages.  Yes, Fio remembers seeing the original movie with Howard Keel and Betty Hutton and enjoying is very much.

But yesterday Fiorella sat in the darkened theater with pen in hand, waiting to zing the singers, the dancers, the director, the choreographer, the costumers, the set designers, the scene changes, the lighting.  She sat and sat and sat,  Finally she tucked her pen away and just enjoyed the show.  Yes, Annie, Get Your Gun, the Palace's last show of the season, is a winner.

Although it ends on a cliche note and Fio was disappointed that the "I'm an Indian Too" song was dropped in deference to political correctness,  Annie has an amzingly tight plot and many, many great songs,

Patty Rowell, who played the title role, was absolutely terrific.  Fio was especially impressed by her vocal versatility: the way she changed timbre and tone for dramatic effect, the nuances of shading she evoked.  Pretty darn good actress too..

The supporting cast was also great, even the kids, especially the kids who played Annie's siblings, especially the energetic little girl who played her younger sister.  And the woman who played the role of Frank Butler's assistant was also top notch.

The only one who didn't quite cut the mustard was Phil Rodriguez, the male lead.  Phil, Phil, Phil--what happened?  You were tremendous in the other things I've seen you in, especially Grease and that wedding thing, but you didn't have the voice for Frank Butler.  Maybe it's because Howard Keel's glorious baritone still echoes in the chambers of Fio's memory, but you lack resonance.  Listen to that guy who plays Buffalo Bill--that's what you need to sound like--as if you're singing into a rain barrel.  A good voice teacher could shape you up in no time.  Lift that soft palate and sing into the mask.

Show Biz Buzz

The Georgetown Palace Theater certainly knows its audience. Fio would guess that every boomer in this boomer-heavy town showed up for one or another performance of Beehive, which, according to its billing, "celebrates girl groups of the sixties."

It's a tour de force for six women, and they're almost all on stage at the same time, singing, singing, singing. And, boy, these six could sing: Jennifer Coy, Jacqui Cross, Katrina Davis, Naomi Emmerson, Timeca M. Seretti, and Samantha Ricker Watson. The latter was a delightful surprise because Fiorella has heard her in other productions and knows she has a lovely lyric soprano voice--but in Beehive she was singing the growly low notes. What a range.

The leading ladies' dancing wasn't as disciplined as Fio is accustomed to in Palace productions, but a new choreographer was involved. Bring back Jessica Kelpsch.

The wigs, which is what the play was all about, were wonderful, and most of the costumes were right on. The sound was a problem at first--not the band, which was fabulous--but the theater volume. Fio wished she had hearing aids so she could turn them down.

The first act of the play is a light-hearted romp, a pastiche of classic pop songs loosely glued together by clever, but dated, patter. It gets old after a while. Husband, who indulged Fio by accompanying her to the show, was ready to leave at intermission, but Fio insisted they soldier on.

The second act, post-Beehive, was like a different play: intense and riveting, with the singers allowed to be more into their characters. The audience, including Husband, was bowled over and ended up giving the show two curtain calls.

Fio was glad she saw Beehive once, but isn't sure she'd ever want to see it again.

Ghost of a Chance

Sad to say, it's two thumbs down on Jim Butcher's new Harry Dresden book, Ghost Story.

Fiorella has long been a fan of the series, which features the only practicing wizard listed in the yellow pages of the Chicago phone book, and she loved the short-lived TV show, with which she drew Husband into the cult. She loved Butcher's quick turn of phrase, Harry's very human paranormal world, his adventure and relationships. Sure, the basic plot got a little old, and sure, Harry pulled way too many rabbits out of the hat by tortuous reasoning at the last minute, but his adventures and relationships kept Fio faithful.

No more. Ghost Story is a labyrinth of back story. Even the villain is recycled. And the plot is a treatise in metaphysics.

Too bad. Fio's going to miss Harry Dresden just like she misses Harry Potter. But Potter at least went out with a bang. Ghost Story barely whimpers.

Fly Away--Far Away

Don't waste your money on The Green Hornet. Husband suggested a movie night so he consulted Pay for View and selected one of his old comic book favorites. The popcorn was good, but the movie stunk. No--"stunk" might be awful but interesting, like looking at your bruised face after eye surgery. Green Hornet was more like "dead in the water."

Everyone overacted except Kato, who phoned in the role. Fio doesn't blame him--the politically-correct version of the faithful valet as a sterotypical Asian genius was embarrassing.

Whoever played the leading role was T-E-R-R-I-B-L-E. Husband kept asking why the actor was always shouting. Again, though, who can blame Insect Man--the story was an embarrassing mishmash of hyperboles and cliches.

Not that Fio and Husband saw the whole thing through. Twenty minutes later, the popcorn gone and the movie getting worse by the minute, they ditched Hornet and stuck RED in the DVD player.

The movie was even better the second time around. The nuanced, low-key performances by all the players riveted our attention, the plot hung together like glue, and the violence was delightful. Fio and Husband had a wonderful evening after all.

KIng's Speech

Finally saw The King's Speech. A time-honored plot--protagonist has problem within self, works to overcome it, has setback, ultimately triumphs. We all love stories like this because they give us hope for ourselves--hear that, Lindsay?

Of course, the kicker here is that the protagonist, who ends up as King George VI,can't give a decent speech because of a pronounced stammer. And his fairy godmother is a brash Australian who challenges him, psychoanalyzes him, and ultimately cures him of everything but his quacking accent, which all the royals seemed to have.

Colin Firth as "Bertie" was fantastic. He had the royal arrogance and the stammer down pat. Helena Bonham-Carter's portrayal of his wife put another jewel in her acting crown. Geoffrey Rush's speech therapist hit the spot without going overboard. Fio especially liked Derek Jacobi as the small-minded archbishop and Guy Pierce as the dissolute Edward VIII, who abdicated to marry the woman he loved, then attempted to undermine the empire. Timothy Spall as Winston Churchill had the speaking part down, but the appearance seemed to be a caricature. And if you want to get persnickety, Wallis Simpson's flat mid-western accent was off-key--she was from Baltimore.

All in all, an interesting dramatization of a very human situation and a public relations bonanza for England's royal family. See--the royals are just like you and me, duckie, only they have unlimited money and power.

Two Thumbs Up and Then Some

Half-expecting a loser, Fiorella and Husband drove into Georgetown last night to see the Palace Theater's latest production, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. After all, an overly-ambitious production of Evita had not moved them so what could they expect of a musical based on a movie? Especially one that a local citizen had complained about in a letter to the editor as "lewd?"

What they got was the hit of the season. The audience was p-a-c-k-e-d and loving every hilarious minute of Scoundrels, constantly stopping the action with laughter and extended applause. In fact, Fio was so busy enjoying the fast-moving musical that she didn't have time to write down many notes.

Wonderful cast. Joe Penrod's portrayal of faux aristocrat "Lawrence Jameson" did the Michael Caine role proud, while Andrew Cannata's Freddy was totally over the top, as it should be--why else did Steve Martin originate the role? And neither Caine nor Cannata had to sing in the bargain. Patty Rowell, Rick Felkins, Michelle Cheney and Suzanne Orzech, who rounded out the major players, were perfection in their own right, not a single one of them miscast. But then look at their credits in the playbill. All are seasoned performers.

What can Fio say? Not only a great cast, but a great script--tight, and clever. Stage direction so good it was invisible. Loved the surrealistic scenery and the band being constantly in view--and acknowledged by the players. Sophisticated dance routines--and how nice to see Jessica Kelpsch hoofing it on the boards again.

So what if some of the actors, especially Freddy, were over-miked. So what if the second act dragged a little--German caricatures are not as funny as they used to be. So what if the multiple endings, as in the movie, seemed a bit confusing. Fio loved the show, and the rest of the audience did too, rising to their feet after the production and continuing to applaud even after the final curtain call.

Oh, and about that lewdness. The play is for mature audiences--no problem in Georgetown, where half of the residents live in Sun City--but it's funny rather than obscene. Not like Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, which Fiorella came home from feeling like she needed to take a bath.

Farewell

Farewell Matt and Amy. Fiorella will miss the gorgeous photography, the LPA conventions, Jeremy's girlfriends, Zach's soccer games, Molly's good sense, and Jacob's . . . well, Jacob.

She won't miss Matt's ever-increasing megalomania. In the final episode, he railed at the family for not taking care of the house and farm the way he thought they should. Yes, after building a monument to his own glory, Matt wants everyone else to maintain it. But what else did we expect from Matt Roloff? Remember when he set up the international dwarf soccer team in his name, and then, the second his foot hit European soil, scooted off for a fun tour with Jeremy, leaving Amy to pick up the pieces?

The hook for the last episode was that the Roloffs might sell the farm. Actually, Matt was using the threat to manipulate Amy and the kids into take over more responsibility for the monster he's created. It worked, supposedly, because at the end of the episode, Zach and Jer pledged to help more, in addition to their college classes and part-time jobs.

However Fio couldn't help but wonder about Molly and Jacob. Amy kept talking about "the boys" growing up and leaving home, as if the twins are the only kids in the family. Did she and Matt even consider their two youngest when they were prancing around to various mansions they might buy if they sold the farm? Did they really want to uproot Molly and Jacob from their home and school? Fio thinks M and J need to grow up on the farm like their older brothers did. Especially Jacob, the forgotten child who longs so desperately for his brothers' attention, his father's approval, and his mother's notice. Thank goodness Molly is there for him.

As a final note, Fiorella has some advice for Matt. First, see a shrink and get some pills. You're going around the bend. So what if Amy's car splattered oil on the driveway? That happens to driveways all the time--that's what they're there for.

Second, don't expect Jeremy and Zach to follow in your footsteps. Just because you were independent at age twenty doesn't mean they will be. They're in college, which you weren't.

Third, hire a staff. Not just a flunky to do the footwork on your projects, but a couple of maids and a gardener. Don't expect your children to act as your servants.

And a note to Amy: don't get so involved in saving the world that you forget about your two kids still at home.

A for Effort

Fio and husband watched V for Vendetta last night, a B-movie in which a Dr. Who/X-Man type guy with a Phantom of the Opera mask, a Zorro cape, and Blade knives takes down a corrupt theocracy ruling Britain of the future. Think Cromwell, think Hitler, think spittle, bad teeth and a scraggly beard.

It's very British in that it doesn't quite hang together for this American reviewer. Reminds Fio of a black-and-white Brit film of years past when a cathedral got destroyed as aliens invaded.

The story's over the top--preposterous, in fact--and doubles back on itself far too often. The characters are blatant stereotypes. V himself is very Shakespearean, a latter-day Hamlet who can't stop talking and analyzing and philosophizing in a mellifluous, ultimately boring, voice. And he ends up like Hamlet--beautifully dead from a duel which he wins. There's an Everyman witness to the whole scenario, of course, a long-suffering police inspector. He survives, just as we do.

V for Vendetta is somewhat silly, with lots of blood which you know is fake and elements of sadism which are flimsily justified, but I liked the bright colors and the acting, and all in all, it's spellbinding. Better than Iron Man.

Queen of B-O-R-I-N-G

You know the play's in trouble when the best part of it is an audience-participation bingo game being played during intermission.

Fio and Husband, almost forgetting they had reservations for The Palace's presentation of The Queen of Bingo Friday evening, had to really scurry to get to the theater on time. Then they ended up leaving after the first act. There was a reason no summary of the play appeared in the program--it had no plot.

The play started with "Sis," an attractive, well-groomed woman who appeared to be in her sixties, taking at least ten minutes to set up good-luck charms, large and small, on a bingo table in a wonderful stage setting of "the gym of St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Lovelady, Texas." FINALLY she was joined by her younger sibling, "Babe." Babe, who was supposed to be fifty-two, was being played by an actress so much younger that the costumer frumped her up and gave her a weird hairdo, which still didn't do the job: her voice and movements were much too young for a woman in her fifties.

You would think the action would start when Babe appeared, but it didn't. Just some clever remarks back and forth. No conflict. B-O-R-I-N-G.

The intermission bingo resulted in a member of the audience winning a frozen turkey from HEB. How appropriate.

Now You See Him

Harvey hopped across into the twenty-first century a lot better than Fiorella had thought he would. In fact, he was charming.

Fio has vague memories of the movie and was afraid that all the lead actor would do was ape Jimmy Stewart's iconic performance. She also suspected the story, after all this time, would seem--well--silly.

But not to worry. The females in the play over-acted, emoting to the rafters, and the male high school post-grads were miscast, but Michael Rhea, who played Elwood P. Dowd, was perfection. Other stand-outs were Jim Mutzabaugh as Judge Gaffney and Jeff Shaevel as Dr. Chumley.

The costumes were great too. Fio especially liked Veta's outfit in the first act and Myrtle Mae's green number in the last act. The play hit Broadway in 1944, but whoever decided to set it in what Fio thinks was the early 1920s, made a good call.

Two little nitpicks: that stupid wig worn by Myrtle Mae and the poorly-painted portrait over the mantel. Fio found both of them distracting. She wanted to run up onto the stage and jerk that idiocy off MM's head, then grab a brush and fix the painting. (Uh, has Fio ever told you that in a past life she did portraits?)

Anyway, Harvey is playing at Georgetown's Palace Theater. Go see him--if you can.