Yeah, yeah—you love Mad Men, we love Mad Men, everyone loves Mad Men. But I'm going to make a bold statement: The best show on TV isn't the criminally underwatched Mad Men on AMC. It's the criminally underwatched Swingtown on CBS, now released on DVD.

If you’ve stopped crying “Blasphemy!” or composing an angry comment in your head, I’d like to continue. Swingtown, the ratings-deprived CBS drama about swingers in a suburb of Chicago during the 1970s, isn’t as smart or as caustic as Mad Men. Only a show created and run by a seemingly megalomaniac like Matthew Weiner could hope to achieve all of that. But what might elevate Swingtown above Mad Men is the attention to characters that the writers and creator Mike Kelley have brought to the show.

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Telling every child, no matter how average or sub-par they might actually be, that they’re “special” or “extraordinary” is one of the worst things to happen to the current generation since Columbine turned every weirdo into a potential murderer. And their post-liberal-arts-college shock is, of course, that the only thing awaiting them are low-level jobs that have nothing to do with their degree in art history, and they’ll never really accomplish anything truly spectacular with their lives.

Some people, however, never see the writing on the walls. At least, that’s how it seems with Sylvia (Rachel Schwartz) in "One Sixteenth." Convinced that she has greatness within her if she could only find the medium to express it, Sylvia spends forty minutes chattering away to herself, while a man (Adam Marks) plays her piano for underscoring. Star Schwartz is also the playwright, and gives herself plenty of quiet, poignant moments to shine; but she also repeats lines that she finds amusing, particularly an observation about pointy-toed shoes that gradually devolves into her yelling “pointy-pointies” several times.

And in an odd twist, poor Sylvia’s fate to be miserable in a perfectly ordinary life is highlighted by the subject of the evening’s second show. An episodic look at the life of early John Waters’ film star Cookie Mueller, "Love Dr. Mueller" paints a picture of a woman who haphazardly fell into the zeitgeist at every opportunity. Whether she’s finding herself enjoying an accidental jolt of electroshock therapy, wigging out in Haight-Asbury, or having sex with a chicken in a John Waters’ film, Mueller leads the kind of effortlessly exciting life that Sylvia might have assumed as her right.

Alternately played by three different actresses in three very different ways, Cookie Mueller comes across as a flaky ‘60s chick, a levelheaded provocateur and a slightly wry and wistful mother. Based on her own writings, "Love Dr. Mueller" (adapted by director Kareem Fahmy and the cast) manages to avoid the pitfalls of most biographical shows by eschewing thudding exposition and letting Cookie’s life speak for itself. A little more detail would be nice, since nothing more than a poster to end a scene (and a program note) mentions that Cookie dies of AIDS-related illnesses after being a heroin addict, but we’re quickly lured into her rollercoaster life by the immense charm of Heather Hollingsworth, Dana Jacks and McKenna Kerrigan, all of whom have obviously fallen a little in love with the woman they’re portraying.

Co-starring Matthew J. Nichols, Kyle Knauf and David Taylor Bennett as a welter of men (and women) in Cookie’s life, "Love Dr. Mueller" manages to both inspire and depress us not just with the breadth and effortlessness of Cookie’s fantastic picaresque of a life, but with her unflinching reaction to it. What else could we feel but awe after Kerrigan looks out at the audience and, in perfect deadpan, says of her rapist: “He wasn’t even good at it. And he was stupid.” If Love Dr. Mueller occasionally lapses (Fahmy’s direction could use a little tightening, and several of the actors could spend a bit more time with their scripts), the lapses are forgivable. After all, here’s a real life, down-and-dirty Holly Golightly—trading in a Henry Mancini theme song for a sex scene with poultry.

Photo of McKenna Kerrigan as Cookie Mueller and Matthew J. Nichols as The Nurse by Jasmine Pai

Tonight's performance at Hudson Guild Theater, then "Love Dr. Mueller" continues Nov. 18, 19, 22 & 24. West End Theatre, 263 W. 86th St. (betw. B’way & West End Ave.), 212-868-4444, $15.

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Every New Yorker should go to the Oak Room at The Algonquin Hotel at least once, even if the Algonquin’s slavish devotion to the infamous Round Table can make it feel like a tourist trap at times. And there will probably never be a better reason to go than Glimpses of the Moon, a new Jazz-age musical currently playing the Oak Room every Monday night.

First timers should be warned that the clientele runs on the older side. As in, some of the patrons may look like leftovers from lunch with Dorothy Parker. But although the audience may be cantankerous at times, Glimpses of the Moon is never less than charming, certainly far more so than most musicals currently playing around town.

Based on a comedic novel by Edith Wharton, original musical Glimpses (back after an acclaimed run earlier in the year) tells the tale of gold diggers Susy (Autumn Hurlbert) and Nick (Chris Peluso), who marry for the gifts and then find that they've fallen in love after all. Along for the ride every week is also a special guest star, a name performer who wanders to the piano during the second act, delivers a few lines and then a song, before exiting and presumably jumping into a homeward bound cab. Upcoming guest stars include cabaret star KT Sullivan, Lisa Asher and Jana Robbins. Liz Larsen performed for the musical’s first night back at the Oak Room, singing mostly through her nose while clad in a tight, purple costume that didn’t look anything like the 1920s.

But although the special guest star conceit feels a little cheap when the show itself is such an unceasing delight, the moment comes and goes and we’re back to Susy and Nick, trying to dodge true love in their pursuit of riches. Then it’s your turn, as you find yourself dodging canes and waiters on your way out.

Monday nights. The Oak Room at The Algonquin, 59 W. 44th St. (betw. 5th & 6th Aves.), 212-840-6800, 8, $65 plus a $30 food and beverage minimum.

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At what point did baby hunger become the hot cultural topic? 2008 has been saturated with cinematic tales of women lusting after children, from the hilarious Baby Mama to the dour Then She Found Me. Now playwright Jennifer Maisel has tossed her hat into the kiddie ring with There or Here.

But not content to settle for just one hot topic, Maisel has her childless couple Robyn (Annie Meisels) and Ajay (Alok Tewari) opt for outsourcing their pregnancy in India. This gives Maisel plenty of opportunities to comment on culture clashes, the lengths some couples will go to for children, and even cancer.

Unfortunately, Maisel relies on temporal shifts too often to give her stale material the illusion of freshness. As scenes jump from the present to the past, keeping up with the narrative thread isn’t too difficult—but you wonder why you’re being forced to work at paying attention when what you’re watching is so thin.

One of the recurring motifs of There or Here (other than distracting monologues in which Robyn suddenly begins describing her past in the third-person) is Robyn and Ajay’s inability to communicate with one another. Both seek comfort in faceless voices on the other end of the phone line. Ajay turns to a comically inept phone sex operator (whose accent marks her as a foreigner; in Maisel’s world, anyone with an accent is automatically working from another country). Robyn, meanwhile, is the kind of monstrously self-absorbed woman who strikes up a phone friendship with a computer support worker. We’re supposed to believe that she and the voice on the phone forge a relationship, but boring indeed is the job that would make calls from Robyn into special treats. In both instances, Deepti Gupta does a nice job as the voice on the other end of the line, slightly confused about playing therapist to these two needy Americans.

But as anyone who has ever seen a plot dependent upon a surrogate should know, Robyn and Ajay’s brilliant idea—hatched when they selfishly decide that they can’t wait until Robyn’s cancer is definitely in remission to have children—doesn’t go according to plan. And watching Ajay and Robyn drift further and further apart as one finds solace from a life unraveling in a phone sex worker and the other battles insomnia with a computer technician, their scheme to become parents seems like a quick fix in a marriage that’s rapidly disintegrating. Robyn, in particular, is the kind of naïve woman who calls a relative stranger in the middle of the night to drive her around the parts of India she’s never before seen the night before she and Ajay return to the U.S. To Meisels’ credit, she refuses to sand off any of Robyn’s rough edges in a fearless performance that doesn’t beg for the audience’s sympathy. That’s a relief, because eliciting sympathy for Robyn would be a tough sell for any actress.

Photo by Amy Feinberg
 
Thru Sept. 28. The 14th Street Theater, 344 E. 14th St. (betw. 1st & 2nd Aves.), 212-352-3101; $18.



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People who force their therapy into polite conversation are like those people who still believe that everyone else finds their dreams as endlessly fascinating as they do. And in both cases, they are mistaken. Paradoxically, however, the therapy scenes in Edith Freni’s new play Kidstuff are the most interesting ones in the whole play—probably because the focus is taken away from main character, the self-indulgent Eve (Sarah Nina Hayon).

But how could a therapy session that involves other people acting out scenes from your own past—and putting their own interpretations on your actions in the process—not be entertaining? Especially when the people riffing on your life are played by the smart and funny Vincent Madero, Sharon Freedman and Cynthia Silver. Battling with one another over eating habits, personal issues, and their own tangled romantic triangle, the only thing they seem to agree on is that Eve is pathetic.

And really, how could they not come to that conclusion when the thirty-year-old Eve presents a betrayal by her high school boyfriend as the turning point in her life, the beginning of her end? As she yells at the rest of the group for making her seem desperate, or screams at her family about her inheritance directly after her mother’s funeral, or flirts with that infamous ex-boyfriend of hers (now about to become engaged) after they accidentally meet one another, nothing she says or does convinces anyone else that she is worthy of sympathy. And Hayon unfortunately never reveals any layers to Eve other than her bristly exterior, fidgeting constantly on stage and rarely making eye contact with her fellow performers. Her Eve isn’t as charming as a little girl lost; she turns Eve into a woman composed of gangly limbs and frustrated snapping.

So, as always with shows about thirtysomethings yearning for something they can’t articulate, the bulk of the entertainment quota falls on the supporting players. And luckily, Kidstuff can boast Madero, Freedman and Silver, all in multiple roles. Madero gives an hysterically funny, physical performance in the group therapy scenes, all stretched legs and flexed biceps; Freedman, meanwhile, is perfect as the awkward girl who runs to cake every time she has an unhappy emotion.

But it’s Silver who scores the heartiest laughs as the bitchy girl in group. As Jemma, the only one who’s not afraid to call Eve out on her self-indulgence, she takes her own frustrations out during her scenes playing Eve in high school, plainly delving into her own troubled relationships under the guise of helping Eve with her boring issues. And when Eve whines for the umpteenth time that she’s recently lost her mother to cancer, it’s Silver who steals the show when she snarls, “We ITALknowITAL.” You wouldn’t want her in your own group therapy, but watching her lash into Eve is well worth sitting through the latter’s endless complaining.
 
Thru Sept. 27. The Kirk Theatre, 412 W. 42nd St. (betw. 8th & 9th Aves.), 212-279-4200; $18.



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Featuring a welter of different accents, acting styles, and direction by playwright Le Wilhelm that makes a hash out of the script, The Seduction of Edgar Degas feels frustratingly incomplete, despite some fine performances and a fascinating look at the artistic process.

The trouble begins early (at least with Cast A; there is also an alternate cast), when the decidedly twentieth-century Colleen Summa and Gabrielle Rosen scamper on stage as Marie-Auguste and Copine, respectively. Trading gossipy stories and giggles, they both seem more suited to dialogue as NYC gossip girls than 19th-century ballerinas, despite their slippers. But when the sturdy Mark A. Kinch strides in as painter Edgar Degas, hoping to paint one of the leading dancers, a small sigh of relief escapes. He handles the dialogue with ease, and compromises on the time and place by clearly enunciating with a hint of a British accent. Alas, soon joining him in the scene is Tony White, playing the girls’ backstage confidante Petit Pois as a mincing, swishing gay man straight out of a Tyler Perry movie. And from then on, it’s every man for himself as Degas and the celebrated dancer Eugénie Fiocre (a merry and appealing Kristin Carter) thrust and parry their way through their sittings, she alternately pouting and laughing, and he switching from charmed to snarling.

The long, dull first act serves mainly as exposition, as Degas finds himself drawn more and more to the backstage intrigues and the world of the dancers. The leaden proceedings quicken only when Carter and Kirsten Walsh—as the dragon lady in charge of the dancers—appear on stage. But the second act picks up considerably, as conflict after conflict pile onto one another; Wilhelm would have done well to move some of the crises into the first act for a stronger curtain, instead of relying so much on the friction between Fiocre and Degas. And though Degas is refreshingly period-correct in his patronizing views towards women (much to Fiocre’s horrified amusement), Kinch too often roars his lines when a steely menace would have been more welcome, especially in such a small space.

But if the first act is ultimately disappointing, the second act features some fine work from both Wilhelm and the actors. Lauren Ford, as the young dancer Cleo, does some particularly fine things with her angelic ballerina. So pure and good that she’s immediately marked for tragedy, Ford never overdoes the pathos or simpering sweetness of Cleo, quietly delivering her lines and filling in the blanks with her expressive eyes. But it’s Carter that you’ll leave remembering. Never once does she turn Fiocre into a caricature of a demanding diva. Instead, she remains perpetually bemused at the fuss and attention she receives, lashing out only when cornered by Degas. She and Ford both make it clear why Degas, who’d never painted dancers before, should find them so bewitching. If only the play itself had done a better job of showing that moment of seduction.

Thru Sept. 9. 59E59 Theatres, 59 E. 59th St. (betw. Madison and Park Aves.), 212-279-4200; $20.




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I  have lived with my shame too long, and I can't take it anymore. My name is Mark Peikert, and I'm a 24-year-old Miley Cyrus fan.

Notice I said Miley Cyrus, and not Hannah Montanna. I could care less about her Disney Channel juggernaut (although she has enough pull to nab Heather Locklear as a guest star). No, I am a lover of Miley's music career.

Like most addictions, the whole thing began innocently enough. A friend made me listen to "See You Again," without telling me the singer's name. Intrigued by the cigarette-gutted voice rasping out stalker-like lyrics, it wasn't until the chorus when she sang "She's just being Miley" that I realized, to my horror, I was rocking out to a tween idol.

I listened to "See You Again" over and over in secret, fascinated. How could she not be legally allowed to drive, but possess that husky, hoarse voice? Why did I like her so much? But with her new album, Breakout, all became clear: I love Miley Cyrus because she makes slick, insistently catchy music.

Take "Fly on the Wall." With a hook straight out of "Doncha" and the same heavy distortion that made Britney Spears seem capable of commenting upon her damage on Blackout, the whole song sounds light years away from most teenage singer's albums. But what I like best about Miley is that she plies that forty-year-old divorcée voice of hers to invest even her most insipid songs with a wisdom that never swerves over into creepy. Divorced from context, the singer seems world-weary, but not cynical or bitter. Within the context of the Miley Cyrus media circus, she just sounds like a very smart, self-aware teenager struggling with crazy boys and even (on the album's weakest track) global warming. That's quite an accomplishment, frankly.

And it also helps that Miley can rock out with the best of them. Her cover of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun," featuring heart-pumping strings, is the kind of high-energy song that it pays to make your wake-up song, along with "9 to 5" and Proud Mary." Download it, if you don't believe me. And there's no need to be ashamed to admit that a teenager is rocking your world. Miley Cyrus is a force of nature, and you might as well bend to her will. Besides, at least she's not one of those Jonas Brothers. Digging them would be really embarrassing.


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Though diminutive actor Leslie Jordan may be best known for his Emmy-winning recurring role as Beverly Leslie on Will and Grace, he's probably better loved by the obsessed fans of Del Shores' 2001 cult classic flick, Sordid Lives. Happily for anyone who's ever been charmed by Jordan's portrayal of Brother Boy, institutionalized by his family in Texas for being a gay man with a proclivity for dressing in drag and lip syncing to Tammy Faye songs, he's very much present in the new Logo television series based on the film.

Premiering July 23, Sordid Lives: The Series flashes back to a few years before the film's events took place. Tammy Wynette has just died, and Brother Boy is reeling. Meanwhile, Brother Boy's nephew, Ty (Jason Dottley), is struggling with his own homosexuality; matriarch Peggy (Rue McClannahan, upping her gay cred even more) has just bailed out lesbian singer Bitsy Mae (Olivia Newton-John, doing the same); and Noleta (here played by Caroline Rhea, replacing Delta Burke) can't bear the thought of her husband taking his wooden legs off for sex.

With most of the film's cast intact, save for Burke and original Ty Kirk Geiger, the first two episodes of Sordid Lives: The Series come close to achieving the giddy heights of the original, without its dull patches. But, like the film, the best parts of the show focus on Brother Boy. Flouncing his way through therapy to cure his homosexuality (and Jordan says that word better than anyone else alive, making it sound covered in ribbons and lace), seeing the ghost of Tammy Wynette in a vision, or threatening to kill himself now that Tammy has passed, Jordan owns both the role and the entire show. While longtime fans may be slightly annoyed that so much of the film’s plot is rehashed, the acerbic performances keep it all fresh, particularly Beth Grant as the pill-popping, chain-smoking, cement-haired Sissy. With a whip-smart script and solid performances, Sordid Lives promises to freshen up the sometimes heavy-handed programming already on Logo; after all, where else could one see Caroline Rhea pleasuring herself with a vibrator?



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