Theatreview: Buyer & Cellar, Rattlestick Playwrights, New York

I went into Buyer & Cellar expecting light comedy (yep) and not much else (nope). Don't get me wrong—I believe fervently in the value of light comedy. My dissertation was on the value of comedy, which was one reason I wanted to see this show. Another was the cast—Michael Urie, whom I have loved since the first season of Ugly Betty. The main reason, though, was that Buyer & Cellar is a fantasy about a young gay man who serves as the sole retail worker in the underground mall in Malibu that houses Barbra Streisand's personal collection of stuff. Some of the other subjects of my dissertation were young people, queer people, and collectors—not to mention divas, Los Angeles, and musicals; this show was made for me.

Urie, as would-be actor Alex More, is both fantastic and fabulous, which are complementary (and complimentary) qualities in an actor. He has a rapid-fire energy to his monologue and purpose to his movement that kept the show active and gripping despite a narrative that features long stretches of Alex sitting in Barbra's basement alone, bored. When he isn't alone, when he relives interactions with his boyfriend, with Barbra, with various other characters, his dialogue with himself changes tempo to match the situation. He speeds up to debate with his queeny would-be-screenwriter boyfriend, Barry; slows down for duels with Sharon, the manager of Barbra's vast compound; and grinds nearly to a halt for the heart of the play, Alex's encounters with the lady herself. The pauses that mark the pas de deux between Alex and Barbra never break the show's momentum, instead ratcheting up the comic anticipation that marks most of Buyer & Cellar.

For Buyer & Cellar is filled with jokes that I got, that most of the audience got, just a split second before the punchline. Quotations from lyrics, references to earlier moments in the show, commentary on gayness, Jewishness, Los Angeles-ness, popular culture, all are predictable, but in the best way possible. Each punchline feels like the ideal next step, rather than a disappointing inevitability, and makes us feel smart for getting the joke. Jonathan Tolins' script plays to his audience—which on Friday night in the West Village was the expected mix of gay men, middle-aged Jews, and other theater folk—and its familiarity not only appeals to our egos, but also primes us to be quite startled when he wrenches the play in an unexpected direction. The comedy is comforting, and the breaches in it shake that comfort just enough to allow us to see through the gap to the pain, anger, and philosophy that underpin Buyer & Cellar, as they do most comedy.

Barbra's and Alex's emotions give Buyer & Cellar weight beyond what one might expect in a gay Streisand fantasy, but they rarely weigh the play down. At 95 minutes without intermission, it skips along quite lightly, though the denouement drags just a hair. Pretty good pacing for a play inspired by a supremely static coffee table book, My Passion for Design, written and photographed by Streisand in 2010. Alex carries a post-it-festooned copy of the book onstage at the opening of the play, reading from it and showing us photos of some of Streisand's more outlandish outbuildings; the book is a catalogue of Barbra's personal collections of furniture, clothing, knick-knacks, and grounds. Out of Streisand's glossy paean to her own material wealth, Tolins draws not only the obvious critique of her self-aggrandizing lifestyle—a critique he makes with acid wit through the exquisitely campy Barry—but also an explanation or two of what might underlie that lifestyle (both figuratively and literally) and what might result from it when it brushes up against the lives of ordinary people.

It is only fair to admit that there were moments when the show was less than perfect. There were times, towards the end, when it slowed down too much. There were occasions when Urie relied too much on his eyes and eyebrows for characterization or emphasis. But these imperfections, these moments when the show stretched a bit too much in timing or in facial expression, highlighted the consistent quality of the rest of the evening. If you will pardon the mildest of puns, everything that Buyer & Cellar was selling, I bought, and would buy again. Like Barbra, even when we already own what we are there to examine, we find it more satisfying in the hands of a capable seller.

Downtime Update

Hi, internet friends. It's been a long time, hasn't it? I turned into a doctor and then I abandoned you. I'm sorry about that.

The main reason I've been so scarce is that the boyfriend and I got ourselves the best puppy in the history of puppies. Her name is Angela, and she loves you. She loves everyone and everything. Even her erstwhile nemesis, the dustbuster, is now a treasured companion. If you are a dog person and are in the DC area, come meet her!

The other reason I've missed so many months is that I took an involuntary break from reading and writing anything of any length. Grad school seems to have burned out my internal word processor for a while; I have only recently replaced the battery.

In my absence, I've been busily getting rejected by jobs and fellowships, from one-year research fellowships to two-year teaching gigs to a tenure-track position. I want to thank the institutions that have bothered to actually tell me that I was rejected: Duke, CUNY Baruch, Princeton, the Smithsonian. I want to shame the institutions that decided all us rejects could find out on our own: Virginia Commonwealth, Tufts, and presumably Western Michigan, since it's been a very long time since applications closed there. Honorable Mention to a job that I applied for that pre-rejected my application because my PhD won't be officially conferred until UCLA wraps up in June—they didn't care that my dissertation is defended and submitted and accepted and that there is literally nothing else I need to do to obtain the degree. I already bought the silly hat and the wizard robes, for crying out loud.

On to better news: I have secured myself a part-time research job. It's not enough to live on, but it's enough to quell my worries when I watch my bank account slowly collapsing like a flan in a cupboard, as Eddie Izzard would put it. I'm hoping it leads to more work in the future, and I'm working on supplementing it with other things.

To that end, I've decided to start amassing some theater and movie reviews. I've never done reviews before, at least not officially, so it's going to be a bit of a rough start. Hopefully they will eventually be solid enough that I can get work as a critic on the internet. My first attempt is a review of Buyer & Cellar, which I saw on Friday night; I'll post that here soon, and take comments from anyone who has feedback (I'm looking at you, Dr. Ellis). Collaborative writing is always better than writing in a vacuum. And less dusty.

Musicalologist, PhD

I defended my dissertation. My committee approved it.

I have a few edits to make here and there, but all minor (footnote explaining that Nathan Lane isn't Jewish, paragraph connecting Bakhtin's reduced laughter to Hobsbawm's invented traditions, reinstating the edited-out reference to Mary Hunter's opera buffa work), and then it's done.

Damn it feels good to be a doctor.

BIG NEWS

I am off to Los Angeles today to defend the dissertation on Monday.

Hopefully, I will be rewarded for this with A PUPPY WHEN I GET HOME!

Details to follow once she is confirmed.

Capital

So, I am submerging myself in a pool of job postings. It's not a sea, really, because there aren't all that many, but it's definitely a pool. Right now, I'm doing my best to find gainful employment as a musicologist in Washington, DC, because damnit I like living in one place at a time, and damnit I like living in the same apartment as my boyfriend instead of 3,000 miles away in a different time zone. As all you academics out there know, this locational specificity shrinks the pool.

First on the Washington-area docket is the Smithsonian postdoc application. I haven't the foggiest idea whether this is competitive and cutthroat or unknown and therefore relatively gettable. All I know is that once I navigated the labyrinthine web of dead links and unfortunate font choices that is the SI website, I found some amazing collections and fascinating-looking scholars (their research looks fascinating, that is) that/who seem like they could be really helpful with my next book project. Fingers crossed.

Next, paid summer internship at the Library of Congress. Also awesome stuff, awesome people, but sadly limited to just the summer. Le sigh.

After that, I think it's adjunctville for a while. I haven't finished looking for other academic things to apply to, not by half, but I need to get into the adjunct market as soon as I can to make sure I'm on everybody's list for someone to hire to teach anything and everything related to music, theat-er/re, comedy, teh gay, gender, writing, and soup. I'd love to teach a "Why is Soup so Awesome?" class. That would be delicious.

And then, non-academic jobs. There are lots of those in DC, comparatively speaking; we have an economy there. Hooray for local pork? Maybe teaching music lessons after school somewhere? Maybe the vegan bakery is hiring? Maybe a library needs a shelver or a circulation desk worker, or a used bookstore needs an anything, or a local theater needs an inexperienced dramaturg(e). Temporary work is fine, and any of these could lead somewhere fun eventually, or be fun for a while. Yes, boyfriend, I know I need to further my career; don't worry. I am definitely going to work on doing that even if it isn't my job. Publishing my work, presenting at conferences, editing the dissertation into a book, etc.

I don't need to reassure my father; he doesn't read the internet.

If any of my lovely internet friends knows anything about work I could do in DC, preferably in the musicological sphere, let me know. After the academic job deadlines I know about pass (mostly January 7th and 15th), I'll be looking for more things to apply to.

Grading

The only thing keeping me from tearing my hair out while I grade is Ella singing Cole Porter. Here, you can keep your hair too:

Bright spots

So, grading is happening. You know what feels great? When a student who resisted your advice for weeks (months?) and who rolled her eyes constantly and who was certain she had nothing to learn but then later despairs and becomes intensely frustrated by her own work turns in a damn good senior thesis because she actually absorbed what you were saying and used the sources you recommended and ended up really caring about what she was writing and put all that research toward her own ideas.

It's nice to remember that I chose this field because I love teaching. Sometimes they learn, and sometimes you can see that they learned because of what you did for/to/with them. That's what it's for, right?

Maybe she's just sucking up to the guy grading her, and doing it really well. She did cite my dissertation. But I choose to believe that she's actually learning and thinking and growing. And I believe that in 1978 God changed his mind about black people.

Wait, that wasn't what I believe. That was a quote from The Book of Mormon. Close enough. That's my grading soundtrack.