Letters from Max and Leo

Oh, god, my nerves. Are you trying to kill me? Is that what you’re trying to do? I can’t survive another good review. You are ruining my life. I don’t know what you were thinking when you put that show together, but stop thinking it! And try harder! Or less hard! Whichever one is the opposite of what you did!

You all need to reach down deep into your souls, find what is good and true, and reach around that part. Surely you have it in you to make something awful. Remember, we want to fail, not succeed. Remember?

Well, obviously, nothing I say is important, but see if you learn anything from William Bergman’s review.

William S. Bergman's Review

I believe my faithful readers know that I don’t generally approve of Broadway shows with mainstream actors. But, even though this production of Into The Woodstock features such non-talents as Ryan Seacrest and Miley Cyrus, it’s staged with so much ironic detachment that the casting choices act as a critique of the entire television industry, making the entire show worth a standing O.

While the hilarious overacting alone would have made the play great, the climax was a theatrical coup. The Witch sings a fifteen-minute improvisational number so stuffed with allusions—Greek myth, underground comix, everything from A to zed—that even I, with my brain at peak performance from a decade of lacto ovo vegetarianism, was hard-pressed to keep up. Can you say “Love it!”—unironically?

But as I rode home on my fixie, what stuck most in my mind was the overall production. Between the immortal Jean-Paul Gaultier’s costumes (hand-assembled from vintage typewriter parts and Viva paper towels), or the live music performed on over a dozen analog synths, this show is truly une expérience unique.

Eight PBRs out of eight!