As the lights came up for intermission on, We Live Here, a stout woman in full if not projecting voice exclaimed, "That was awful! What happened to Amy Irving, she used to be such a great actress?" The audience house right all giggled & winced but agreed whole heartedly. Frankly it’s NOT Amy Irving’s fault the blame lies with the playwright. It starts with the words and ends with the words and if the words are limp bastardizations of Chekov on a bad day then there is nothing you can really do as an actor to save the play. Zoe Kazan tries feverishly to write a relationship play about a family we all just want to see burn at its own hand because it’s a bad Xerox copy of every other dysfunctional, privileged, over educated tribe with a secret. Only the secret is cheap and thin and would be better suited for an episode of Gossip Girl for it wouldn’t tarnish the Tony’s that reside in the lobby of MTC with its dirty little hands.
In all honesty I am not a fan of Zoe Kazan, so anything I write here might be construed as bias on the basis of that pure and true fact. Why? Because she has traded her career on the value of her name, Kazan, a value which was earned by her Grandfather Eli Zazan. Described by the New York Times as "one of the most honored and influential directors in Broadway and Hollywood history". That fact is undisputed and I am a huge fan of his work, his personal life and choices well that’s another matter entirely. Yet, those decisions and choices to name names isn’t the focus of what I am trying to say about the nepotism that runs rampant and free within the walls of the theatre community. I have friends who struggle with their anonymity as if it were a cancer attacking their immense talent and creativity. Just because they aren’t related to someone who knows someone their work may never see the light of day or get the chance to be explored and produced simply because no one will open a door or take a chance.
Conversely the name Zazan brings with it a golden key to roles on Broadway, to which people who went to Yale with her said of The Seagull, “she’s just doing what she did at school, stomping around & pouting.” Not to mention every time I tune into my favorite television shows there she is mocking me with her narrow choices and bobble head. Ok that was mean of me. Everyone should be able to do what they love, but this is where I draw the line, as a writer and someone who struggles’ everyday to be heard the fact that this play was produced to the gills enrages my soul.
The set was amazing, literally a place you would want to live in, and frankly could live in…the cast was peppered with some really talented people who at the curtain call in reception of what can generously be said was a “golf clap” could not hide their almost apologetic faces. “We know, we’re sorry, we’re doing the best that we can, please don’t throw anything at us,” subtitled dimly in their far away expressions.
The women of the play, to me, were just various over the top versions of Zoe herself. Dinah the youngest stomping around in a chunky heel repeating Mom, Dad, Mommy, Daddy over and over looking for approval & worried about the “stranger” she’s bringing to her sisters wedding; then Althea & Andromeda the Gemini twins to Zoe’s personality; Allie the misunderstood bride to be who thinks she’s dark and sexually complicated vs. Andy the genius musician of the family that loses herself in some unexplained pain that causes her suicide that Allie of course discovers. Finally Maggie the mother, who is just plain all over the place trying to keep it together with list making control issues who’s complete collapse at the end of the play is just wasted because none of us give a shit about these people. I’d have to share a bottle of wine with Robin Swicord to confirm this maternal similarity and wonder if she too is a yelling banshee of sorts.
Exhaustingly mediocre melodrama at best, I am now filled with hope, that Hamartia is truly only for people like the Zazan’s and that us regular folk simply live our lives with our disastrous consequences, but don’t describe it with a fancy name we learned at university, we just refer to it as “same shit different day”.
