Just a Bunch of Mischief: A Review of the Film "Mamma Mia!"

"Mamma Mia!" is the gayest movie ever made. It's big, splashy, colorful, campy, and absolute crap. And you know what? I loved every minute of it.

What's so refreshing about this film -- which, admittedly, took a little time for me to figure out -- is that it tries to be nothing more than it is. It's an ABBA musical for Christ's sake! Let me say that again. It's an ABBA musical. If you're expecting Bertolt Brecht or Kurt Weill (or hell, even Andrew Lloyd Webber), you've come to the wrong movie. This is just pure fun and fluff. "Mamma Mia!" isn't going for the gold here. It's going for something like sheet metal. And it succeeds beautifully.

Yet I didn't understand this for the first twenty minutes or so. As soon as Meryl came barreling onto the screen in her rolled-up denim overalls with the broken strap, I cringed and said, "O Meryl! Why hast Thou forsaken me?". It took me a while to realize that Meryl, along with the rest of the cast and crew, knew exactly what they were doing. I doubt anyone involved with this production was under the impression they were making a grand, deep, complex piece of musical genius. It is, after all -- and say it with me now! -- an ABBA musical. The cast of actors, most of whom are known for their serious dramatic abilities, let down their collective hair and just have fun. The result? "Mamma Mia!" is a rocking, rollicking, raucous good time.

In my bizarre and overactive imagination, I imagine director Phyllida Lloyd, who helmed the original stage version, giving the following direction to her actors at the first read-through:


To Amanda Seyfried (Sophie): "Just be sassy and make lots of big eyes."




To Stellan Skarsgård (Bill): "Look bored. Look REALLY bored."



To Pierce Brosnan (Sam): "OK, Remington Steele, you're only here because we need some hotness. Keep your shirt unbuttoned to the navel, or completely off, as much as you can. And please, for the sake of the children, don't sing unless you absolutely have to."


To Colin Firth (Harry): "Squint your eyes a lot and look baffled, like you're wondering what the hell a hot piece like yourself is even doing in this movie to begin with."

To Julie Walters (Rosie) and Christine Baranski (Tanya): "Blow it out of the water, girls. Walk off with the scenery. The gays love that."

To Meryl Streep (Donna): "Do whatever the hell you want! You're MERYL STREEP!"

Now, in any other movie, these sorts of cardboard characters would really piss me off. But in "Mamma Mia!", they are perfect, fitting in seamlessly with the bright hues of the film, the spontaneous eruption into nearly all of ABBA's greatest hits, and the simple, sweet plot that brings it all together.

The story takes place on a remote Greek island, where 20-year-old Sophie is about to be married and decides to invite three of her mother Donna's ex-boyfriends to the wedding. Of these three, one is Sophie's father, but no one is sure which. And that's about it for plot.

Don't be misled. This isn't a musicalization of a Maury "Which One of These Men is My Baby's Daddy?" Povich episode. "Mamma Mia!" would never stoop to something as serious and thought-provoking as "Maury".

And the music is, of course, great; I defy anyone not to get swept up in the catchy cotton candy sweetness of the songs. My favorite, though, was "Dancing Queen", a song which has been played to death in recent years. Lloyd and her team reinvent "Dancing Queen" and turn it into a fantastic feminist manifesto. Donna, Rosie, and Tanya go flitting through the Greek hillside as they sing, releasing all the women in the village from their archaic and traditional roles, until everyone ends up on the docks. This leads to the inevitable, gleeful jumping-in to the sapphire waters of the Aegean.

Another standout is Christine Baranski bringing down the house with one of my least-favorite ABBA songs, "Does Your Mother Know?". She belts the song in true diva fashion to a beach full of shirtless, muscly young men, who are, of course, all lusting after her 50-year-old ass. Baranski transforms the number into an innuendo-laden, laugh-out-loud romp. Both she and Julie Walters are so divinely over-the-top in this film that you can't wait to see what they'll do next. They do not disappoint.

Despite the pervasive fluffiness of "Mamma Mia!", Streep is given one moment to show off her dramatic mettle. Standing on a rocky cliff, working a bright red shawl, she belts "The Winner Takes It All" with palpable passion and heartbreak. It is one of the film's more unforgettable moments.

And no, Pierce Brosnan cannot sing. Not even a little bit. Every time he's called upon to croak out a number, it sounds like he's taking a massive dump in his Speedos. But this, like everything else in "Mamma Mia!", is intentional. You're supposed to laugh. That, above all else, is what this movie is about.

Worth a special shout-out is the film's Greek chorus. Random heads popping up at precisely the right moment to sing back-up, or native villagers sweeping across the screen with supporting vocals and carefree dance moves. Never has the term "Greek chorus" been used so literally.

I'm so glad I saw "Mamma Mia!". I enjoyed it far more than I ever would "The Dark Knight" or "Hancock". But then again, how could I not? It's an ABBA musical!

Origins of War: The Enduring Genius of "The Lion in Winter"

"Of course he has a knife, he always has a knife, we all have knives! It's 1183 and we are barbarians! How clear we make it. Oh, my piglets, we are the origins of war: not history's forces, nor the times, nor justice, nor the lack of it, nor causes, nor religions, nor ideas, nor kinds of government, nor any other thing. We are the killers. We breed wars. We carry it like syphilis inside. Dead bodies rot in field and stream because the living ones are rotten. For the love of God, can't we love one another just a little? That's how peace begins. We have so much to love each other for. We have such possibilities, my children. We could change the world." -Eleanor of Aquitaine, The Lion in Winter


These words strike the icy Queen Eleanor in a rare moment of wistful tenderness and compassionate philosophy. In a play (and eventually, two film versions) bursting with fantastic, memorable dialog, this is one of my favorite passages. It stands out not only because of its uncharacteristic sensitivity, but also because its message is just as pertinent today as it was in 1183. Perhaps more so.

Be warned, though: this rather open-hearted monologue is not commonplace in "The Lion in Winter", playwright James Goldman's 1966 raging inferno of family discord and political intrigue. The majority of TLIW is devoted to examining -- minutely, explosively, and often uncomfortably -- the treacherous deceit, vitriolic emotion, and long-buried secrets between members of what could very well be the world's first dysfunctional family. In fact, this medieval clan -- King Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and their three surviving sons -- just might win the title of Most Dysfunctional Family of All Time.

Maybe we should give them trophies or something? Nah, they'd just use them to beat the hell out of each other.

And there's no shortage of beatings in "The Lion in Winter". If you doubt Eleanor's assertion that war begins at home, this royally fucked-up family spends the entirety of a delicious, tense, and entertaining play proving just how right she is.

TLIW is set during a Christmas Court at Henry's castle in Chinon, France. For this blessed and brutal occasion, Henry has decided to bring together his estranged family. There is his wife, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, who, ten years ago, he had arrested and exiled to a remote English castle for organizing one-too-many civil wars against him. There is their eldest son (and Eleanor's favorite), Richard, a dashing though ruthless soldier and war hero. There is Geoffrey, the long-ignored middle son who has grown into a cold, calculating menace of palpable energy and crafty intelligence. The youngest son (and Henry's favorite), Prince John, is a chubby, pimply teenage buffoon who holds fast to his simplistic ideals and boyish view of the world, even living as he does in the crossfire of an eternally-warring family.

Add to this mix King Philip of France, an invited honored guest to the family Christmas. Philip is a young king, but his approach is deceptively simple and open. He, like his royal hosts, is of course hiding a few secrets and strategies of his own to further his political position. And then there is Alais, Philip's sister, who has long been an adopted member of the English royal family: Eleanor raised her as a daughter from a young age, though the two have grown apart. It may have something to do with the fact that Alais, now an attractive young woman, has openly become Henry's mistress.

This assemblage of characters, come together for the not-so-merry Christmas Court, arrive at Chinon with their swords drawn and their agendas on the table. You see, Henry is getting older and needs to name an heir to the throne. He of course wants young John, his favored child. Eleanor, his banished Queen, wants her pride and joy Richard to get the title. Geoffrey knows he has a popsicle's chance in hell of being king, being as out-of-favor as he is with both his parents, so he has been devising numerous ways to alienate his brothers from Mom and Dad's affection -- thus making him the only choice for king. Philip is at the bloody buffet so that he can see to it that the terms of his sister Alais's dowry are met. Long ago, Alais was "given" to the English court to be groomed as a future queen for John, in exchange for France's rich and fertile lands of the Vexin. His sister is now grown, still unmarried, porking the King, AND England has the Vexin. Alais, for her own part, has the least-political agenda of them all: she desperately loves old Henry and simply wants to be with him.

With all of these schemes to acquire the throne, the characters of "The Lion in Winter" go at one another with a ferocity that is sometimes witty -- and sometimes quite terrifying -- in its dark descent. It's difficult to take your eyes off of, but it is imperative to pay very close attention. The power and plans and schemes change hands, change course, and change intent so often that one must always be on top of the wickedly entertaining game. If not, it's easy to get lost and impossible to find your way back again. The story is complicated but not inscrutable. The key to understanding all of it is to always remember that in those days, power meant one thing and one thing only: Land. Spouses, your own children, your friends, enemies, riches, and popularity were not indicative of power. It was a time when a bunch of egomaniacal men with bad teeth lived in a perpetual contest of "Whose is Bigger?". But instead of measuring penis-size, they were measuring land.

It's impossible to forget, though, that the principal characters of TLIW are a family. This fact churns and roils like lava below each and every one of their exchanges with one another. They love and despise each other in equal measure. Someone could be embraced with a loving familial bear-hug just as easily as they could end up face-down in the eggnog. As Henry says delightfully in one scene, "What shall we hang...the holly, or each other?"

Historically, this yuletide gathering never happened. Though the agendas of the characters are no doubt accurate, there is no historical evidence they ever assembled at any time to duke it out with one another. This does not detract from the drama and entertainment of their tale for a second. In fact, it makes it even more fascinating, adding an interesting "What if?" to the lives of these power players of history.

Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine were mesmerizing historical figures in their own right. Henry was, for all intents and purposes, a popular and successful king, large and imposing and fiery. But like all kings of the era, Henry was something of a scoundrel in his personal affairs (pun very much intended). In addition to fathering an unknown number of illegitimate children, he openly cheated on Eleanor with a variety of mistresses, including his longtime love Rosamund (who remained a source of great hatred for Eleanor, even years after Rosamund's death, as is evidenced in TLIW), and of course, Alais Capet.

Eleanor of Aquitaine, equally complex, was undoubtedly a woman ahead of her time. She wielded great power (read: Land) and authority wherever she went. In a time when women were relegated to the home (or castle) to be absorbed in their needlework or the raising of dozens of children, Eleanor went off and fought wars. She memorably fought in the Crusades ("I dressed my maids as Amazons and rode bare-breasted halfway to Damascus. Louis had a seizure and I damn near died of windburn...but the troops were dazzled!" she remembers in TLIW). She was married at the time to Louis VII, making her Queen of France, but she had this first marriage annulled once she met Henry ("We shattered the commandments on the spot!" she boasts, remembering her first meeting with Henry). Once she had married him and become Queen of England, she firmly established Henry II's power, for it was Eleanor who brought with her all the land, titles, and wealth. Without her, he never could've attained the power he eventually exerted. She loved him passionately and happily shared her nobility with him. But the marriage was strained; Eleanor was more than likely just as adulterous as her husband, and, as we see all too clearly in TLIW, neither were really cut out to be doting parents. Once their sons had grown, she started to influence and conspire with her children to rebel against their father. The ensuing battles did nothing to help the couple's relationship (where the hell was Dr. Phil???), and Henry banished her to a life of isolation in various castles around England...though, interestingly, he never divorced her.

This makes for a great back-story, but it's not at all necessary to know about any of it when you watch "The Lion in Winter". It all comes up -- trust me, it ALL comes up -- throughout the story, giving us a firm grasp of the turbulent foundations that created these characters. They wear their histories like great unwieldy chains, clanging them violently against one another -- and themselves -- in their despairing efforts to be free.

"The Lion in Winter" opened on Broadway in 1966, with Robert Preston as Henry and the terrific British actress Rosemary Harris as Eleanor. Harris won a Tony for her performance.

Two years later, the legendary film version was released. With its taut direction (by Anthony Harvey), soaring performances (Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor, Peter O'Toole as Henry, Anthony Hopkins, in his film debut, as Richard, and a young, blindingly handsome Timothy Dalton as Philip), majestic, ominous score (by John Barry), and Margaret Furse's impressive costumes, the movie has rightfully claimed its place as one of the greatest of all time. From the opening shot of two swords locking forcefully in the air, we know we are in for the ride of our lives.

Hepburn won her third Oscar for her work here. Most of you know I've never been a huge Hepburn fan, but her performance in TLIW is the one exception. This is simply one of the best female performances ever committed to film. Her complete immersion into the body and soul of this character is exhilarating. She plays her Eleanor with a studied restraint, though all the wicked planning, cunning deceptions, and complicated emotional terrain are constantly, visibly, boiling beneath the surface. They spill out in careful measure, with impeccable timing, from the treacherous gleam in her cat-like eyes, the dirging lilt of her gravelly voice, and the rigid monster of her small weary body. It is truly something to behold.

Matching her step-for-step is Peter O'Toole. O'Toole's Henry is a big, booming, burly bear of a man, imposing and intimidating. But he too is noticeably strained, to the point of near-madness, by his own history and his warring family. While O'Toole successfully manages to send Henry's rage exploding through the castle roof, he is equally adept at going in the opposite direction: letting us glimpse the heartbreak of a king, who, for perhaps the first time, is understanding his failure as a man. It is a riveting portrayal and proves why O'Toole ranks among our finest actors.

The trick to filming (or staging) "The Lion in Winter" is to realize that the entire thing is a matter of keeping the balls (get your mind out of the gutter) in the air. The story demands the pace to be desperate and frantic, and the balls must constantly be flying back and forth between the actors. The balls must never have the chance to touch the ground.

Unfortunately, in the 2003 film version, the balls do drop from time to time. This is no fault of the actors (who I'll get to in a minute), but rather a misjudgment in direction. This is the only problem I had with the remake. While the 1968 version used tight close-ups and scenes played out in cold, isolated rooms, thereby heightening the in-your-face psychology of this mighty messed-up clan, the 2003 version employs big, open shots and wide angles and intimate scenes filmed with all manner of servants, kingsmen, ladies-in-waiting, court jesters, and peasantry milling about. Director Andrei Konchalovsky misses the mark here by inadvertently lowering the frenetic pace. Luckily, the rest of the film is damn near flawless and more than makes up for it.

This is thanks in large part to the actors, who are, pardon my Olde English, fucking brilliant. In the tradition of its predecessor, the remake's cast is sparkling, daring, and perhaps even a bit unconventional. Judging these performances against those of the original cast, though, is unfair. First and foremost, actors act differently today than they did forty years ago. Also, no two actors are going to approach the same character in exactly the same way. The two films may share a story and nearly-identical script (Goldman wrote both film versions as well), but they are two different lions, so to speak.

Patrick Stewart is Henry. For all you sci-fi geeks, there's no Captain Picard to whack off to here, so don't say you haven't been warned. For my part, I love Patrick Stewart. Once, when I lived in LA, I was in an elevator with him, just the two of us, and I wanted to speak so badly but all that came out was the nervous giggling of a nun in a cucumber patch. He is beautiful, though, and did a damn fine job pushing that elevator button. If memory serves, he did say "Hello"; I replied with, "Teeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeeheeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Anyway, I digress.

Patrick Stewart is Henry. He makes some really interesting choices in his portrayal, and they all work with remarkable success. His Henry is not quite the loud, terrifying tyrant of O'Toole's imagining (though Stewart does have some powerfully enraged scenes in that beautiful lush baritone of his); he is more focused on Henry's sensitivity. His performance is the character study of a man on the verge of a complete emotional collapse, worn away by a life spent in the thick of both internal and external war. Stewart also brings out a raw sexuality in his Henry; his interactions with Alais, and even at times with Eleanor, are laced with sensual intimations and a physicality bordering on seduction. It's easy to see why women fell for this man, and fell hard. It's a new and fearless take on an old character, and the result is refreshingly poignant.

And then there is Glenn Close as Eleanor. Now, Glenn Close is not only one of my favorite actresses, but she's also my all-time favorite person to watch have an emotional breakdown. She is in touch with something that can almost be called primal. It's mesmerizing to watch. But mental breakdowns aside (and Close has a few truly heartbreaking ones in TLIW), this performance is perhaps the finest of her career -- a career rich with flawless performances. Unlike Hepburn, Close's Eleanor is a much more accessible character. Though she attempts to hide it beneath layers of ice and malice, for fear of being perceived as "weak", this Eleanor wears her emotions on her billowing sleeve. Close is clued in even to the tiniest smidgen of feeling coursing through her labyrinthine character. Even when she's proclaiming the opposite of what she feels, we can read every painful truth on Eleanor's radiantly mask-like face. She's also a much more maternal character than Hepburn's. While it was difficult to find any sense of motherly affection in The Great Kate's Eleanor, Close does not make us doubt for a second that Eleanor did indeed love her children. But as such a constantly scheming and underhanded character, one can't look to Eleanor's words as the truth in her heart. We must look into Close's eyes, and the truth -- sometimes warm, sometimes cutting -- is there. She plays Eleanor with a raging fire: a winning mix of devotion and deception, rage and sadness, delicious wit and devastating melancholy.

The 2003 cast is rounded out by a team of strong performances from some up-and-coming young actors. The intense, talented [and one of my pretend boyfriends] Jonathan Rhys-Meyers is a moving, unconventional Philip. Andrew Howard as Richard and Rafe Spall as John are both solid and effecting. As Geoffrey, John Light is pitch-perfect: he has the shifty eyes, cautious bearing, and emotional coldness of the ignored young duke. (Interestingly, both actors to play Geoffrey on film, John Castle in the original, and John Light in the remake, are almost painfully sexy actors, as if to say, "Well, Geoff was surely ignored and unloved, but he was DAMN HOT!" Both actors, incidentally, do a stellar job.) Julia Vysotskaya, a ravishing Russian actress, shines as Alais, providing a heightened and often over-the-top story with its very fragile human center. Like Close, Vysotskaya's face is a breathtaking canvas of human emotion, and her Alais's utter heartbreak and confusion is so tangible that we can almost reach out and touch it.

One more thing I love about "The Lion in Winter". Amidst all the secrets that come to light throughout the course of the story, it is revealed that Richard and Philip were, at one time, lovers. The 1968 film is surprisingly daring and commendable in its handling of this scene, but the 2003 version, of course, is able to do a bit more with it. Howard and Rhys-Meyers slip into this scene with bravery and abandon, and the result is not only tremendously moving but quite sexy as well. Though there's no sex (come on, it's 1183 and there are people behind the tapestries!), the sexual tension and erotic energy between these two is raw and honest. It's better than any porno I've ever seen.

The messages and themes of "The Lion in Winter" are many and intricate. What it all comes down to, I think, is that you can pick your friends, you can pick your lovers, but you can't pick the tyrannical king, exiled queen, and brood of rivals you're born into. We make the best of it. We've always made the best of it. Even in 1183, they were making the best of it. But just remember: war starts at home. So, too, does peace.

As Eleanor says in one scene, "What family doesn't have its ups and downs?".



A scene from the 1968 version of "The Lion in Winter".



The trailer for the 2003 version of "The Lion in Winter".

Communion (Or, Confessions of a Theater Queen)

"When you come into the theater, you have to be willing to say, 'We're all here to undergo a communion, to find out what the hell is going on in this world.' If you're not willing to say that, what you get is entertainment instead of art, and poor entertainment at that." -David Mamet


Damn Judi Dench!

This is all her fault.

Several days ago, I posted a YouTube clip of Dame Judi's phenomenal interpretation of "Send in the Clowns" from the musical "A Little Night Music". If you haven't watched this yet, do so now and I promise I won't hurt you. Watching this flawless performance will give you a better idea of the fever that has gripped me since posting the clip.

Most people know that I'm a bit of a theater queen. I own this title unabashedly, as live theater is a vital nutrient to my own happiness and sanity. I've always wanted to be an actor, for as long as I can remember. I went to acting school after high school, I "pounded the pavement" in L.A. for a few years thereafter, then I promptly abandoned those dreams for a more "sensible" life. Interpretation: I handed in my lifelong dreams of the stage in order to sell my oh-so-valuable "customer service skills" and how fast I type and how good I am at Excel. Old dreams do indeed die hard. And for me, they don't die at all.

They live somewhere just below the surface. Even now, writing is my passion, but I still regard myself as an actor who likes to write. I view my world through the lens of a performer, which, I think, is similar to that of a writer -- yet they are not the same animal. I am fortunate, I suppose, that I can digest the universe as both, but the actor in me often feels slightly more authentic than the writer. It's as if I could get up on a stage in the warm blinding arm of a spotlight and perform this blog entry for you in an infinitely more effective way than I can write it here. It's tricky. I love acting and I love writing. And the sad fact is, it's nearly impossible to make a living doing either.

After falling in love with Dench's "Clowns", I happened upon an old forgotten CD: the soundtrack to the musical version of "Sunset Blvd". I was lucky enough to see this show in its pre-Broadway days, with Glenn Close as Norma Desmond. It was one of those performances that defies words (once again, you can hear the actor in me trying to play the writer). Close was electrifying, in a way I've never seen before or since. How else can you explain the magnitude of a performer who gets a standing ovation before she even gets on stage? When you encounter a stage presence that majestic, it's an experience that sticks with you...and I, being so young at the time, was shaped by it. "Sunset Blvd" was a musical plagued with inner drama, lawsuits, and mixed reviews. But it will always be my favorite musical: for the memorable songs, the lush and sweeping orchestrations, the gothic, behemoth sets, the extraordinary performances...and for it's complete claim on my impressionable young heart.

So while I was sucked back into 1950 Hollywood and Norma Desmond's turbulent turban, it was not hard for me to remember the starry-eyed kid I was at the time I saw it. I was so full of youthful vigor, surprising balls, and theatrical dreams. At that time, I never thought it was a question of If. I thought it was a question of When.

Enter the Tony Awards. Sunday night, a gay man's dream: the best and brightest of Broadway getting a rare television spotlight. For the first time ever, I watched the entire show (I never used to sit through all the musical numbers). I was transfixed. I was that kid again, albeit older, with less hair, dark circles under the eyes, and massive credit card debt. I was startled that that kid even still existed. I thought he was bludgeoned to death years ago by one too many office jobs or serving gigs. At best, I thought he was probably forever trapped in a four-sided cubicle, with an inbox full of emails outlining how he has violated company policy by asking questions of the wrong people.

Imagine my surprise. He's still alive. And he was fed -- there's no other word for it -- by the magic of the theater.

Patti LuPone, arguably the greatest musical theater actress of our time, and one of my favorites, sang a song from "Gypsy", in the role she eventually won a Tony for later in the evening (her second, after winning for "Evita" 29 years ago). The song, "Everything's Coming Up Roses", and "Gypsy" itself, are of course classics of the genre. But I've always viewed them as a bit tired, over-produced, and consistently revived (the show was revived just a couple of years ago with Bernadette Peters) despite a decades-old expiration date. Well, I should've known better. LuPone does nothing half-assed, and it is impossible for her not to pour her heart into everything she does. She TORE UP "Everything's Coming Up Roses" and brought the house down. The audience thundered to it's feet: the only full-house standing ovation of the evening. She breathed new life, a complex emotional terrain, and a fevered desperation to her impeccable performance. My heart swelled as I watched: this is the power of the theater. This is the power of a great performer. This is LIFE. This...this is what it's all about.

Now, if you may permit me, I have a personal connection with Patti LuPone. I've always been a big fan. Hell, when I was a kid, I played the cassette of her "Patti LuPone Live" so many times the tape wore away to smithereens. I saw her on Broadway about ten years ago in the play "Master Class", where she played the great opera diva Maria Callas. Her performance as Callas was of course amazing -- but "Master Class" is a play. Not a musical. She did not sing. Flash forward to 2005, just before I moved to Boston. Patti came to Minneapolis for a concert, her one-woman show for her album "Matters of the Heart". My mom and I went, and somehow we managed to get front row center seats. Patti was just steps away from me. I was mesmerized, in absolute awe the entire time. Remember that LuPone is first and foremost a musical theater actress. She's used to singing her songs to someone else on the stage. Being this was a solo show, just Patti, her piano accompanist, and a string quartet, there were no other performers onstage with which to connect. And so, she chose me. It was obvious. I was sitting right there in front of her, and she sang nearly every song to me. Our gazes locked, our passions united, I was lucky enough to become a part of Patti's performance. During her final number, she gave me roses. What's also interesting to note is that during her bows, when she came out to receive the roaring standing ovation we had given her, she was weeping with gratitude. I don't mean a little tear. I mean she was sobbing with thanks and appreciation. It was the most honest, authentic response I've ever seen a performer give to an audience's reaction. She felt it. She felt us. She winked at me. If an audience is a mirror for the person onstage, Patti certainly felt our respect and adoration...and returned it back to us tenfold. Patti LuPone's generosity as an entertainer is like nothing I've ever witnessed.

This is precisely the reason I cannot so easily abandon my own dreams of the stage. When everything falls into place, and the stars are aligned just so, the relationship between an actor and his/her audience can transcend all parties involved to a place that can only be called magical. It's not about where you're sitting, or what the set looks like, or even if you like what's being performed. It's about a connection: a group of people, varied and diverse and never again to be assembled together, sharing the same air and space in order to experience life at its fullest. It doesn't happen every time. But oh, when it does happen....

On Tuesday, John and I went with our friend Elizabeth to see the great Broadway singer Brian Stokes Mitchell in concert at Boston Symphony Hall. Mitchell is a true Broadway leading man (The New York Times christened him "Broadway's Last Leading Man"). Not only does he ooze class and grace, but he's got this big beautiful bass voice that shakes you to your very soul. It's a voice I just want to curl up in and go to sleep. Though we were perched in the third balcony cheap seats, I could not have had a better experience had I been sitting up there beside him. With all these theater dreams sprung anew, I embraced every minute of his performance. And then, near the end of the show, something totally unexpected happened. Mitchell did a song that I've since learned (thanks, Google!) is an old Bruce Hornsby song from the 80s. It's called "Hooray for Tom", and it's performed from the viewpoint of a little boy. I didn't see this coming...but I started crying during this song like I haven't cried in ages. In fact, I was still crying yesterday. Unfortunately, Mitchell's version of "Hooray for Tom" is not available online, but you can hear Bruce Hornsby's original version by going here. This song struck really deep within me, and I feel like something has forever changed. What it might be I haven't entirely figured out yet. All I know is that I can't go back to how I was before. I need to reevaluate my own life and my own dreams. I need to give further thought and respect to all those plans I had when I was a kid.

And who knows? Maybe someday they'll say hooray for me.