Joe's View

Just a few years ago, the gripping theater piece “Decade at a Glance” by Joan Evans would probably have felt harrowing but distant.

After all, Evans uses the Great Depression era photos of Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans (below) as the starting point for a theatrical examination of the impact of the financial apocalypse on Midwest farmers in the 1930s.

The loss of money and work and hope would be moving in any period, but at this particular moment — when we might still be on the edge of a global financial abyss — “Decade at a Glance” has the scary feel of history repeating itself.

Evans combines dance and drama and vintage tunes for a piece that only runs about an hour, but which will leave you with more to think about than the average play that is twice as long.

“Decade at a Glance” is a co-production of the Stella Adler Studio of Acting and the Harold Clurman Center for New Works in Movement and Dance Theatre. The show is being presented at the Adler studio through March 7 in a very intimate space that heightens the drama and the emotional impact of the material.

The piece begins in a city (presumably New York) where the ensemble sings a mordant version of “We’re in the Money,” dressed in ragged overcoats.

Evans and the cast quickly fill us in on the Franklin Roosevelt programs that put lots of urban people back to work (including artists like Lange and Evans who were hired by the federal government to travel the country photographing victims of the Depression).

The relief programs were focused mostly on the urban areas of the two coasts, however. The problems in the middle of the country actually got worse in the 1930s as poverty increased and climate changes devastated the area (i.e., the notorious dust storms that destroyed crops and killed farm animals).

For many of these Middle Americans, the only two choices were to starve where they were or to scrape a few bucks together and head out to California (the journey in Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath”).

“Decade at a Glance” features a wonderful ensemble of young actors, most of whom are recent graduates of acting schools around the city.

The company works together so tightly that it would unfair to single one or two of them out. The actors are: Lizzi Albert, Laura Carbonell, Erika Cazeneuve, Annie Chang, Aidan Koehler, Gaja Massaro, Rafa Miguel, Tommy Nelms, Sean Powell, Lulu Rossbacher, Melanie Siegel, Margaux Susi, Elise Toscano, Cythnia Vasquez and Sarah Wharton.

At $18 a ticket — students are only $5 — this is one of the great New York theater bargains of the moment. For more information, go to www.stellaadler.com.

“The Vicious Kind” is another one of the dozens — hundreds? — of recent American independent films that barely qualifies as a “movie,” in the sense of something that gets seen in a significant number of theaters.

The picture was shot in Norfolk, Connecticut, and was screened at last year’s Sundance Film Festival, but it sat on a shelf somewhere until last weekend, when it had its one-screen theatrical premiere in New York City just days before debuting on DVD via Image Entertainment.

Like so many other indie films that never really go anywhere, “The Vicious Kind” has the feel of one of those well-acted, semi-interesting off-Broadway plays that debut in some small space downtown and are never produced again.

You might describe the genre as David Mamet lite or sub-Neil LaBute. Lots of heavy male conflict — and rough tangling with women — but not much believability or depth. They are usually stories about angry men who want a woman in their life but who are so profane and hostile that they tend to scare most romantic prospects away.

“The Vicious Kind” opens in a diner where Caleb Sinclaire (Adam Scott, above) gives his callow younger brother Peter (Alex Frost) advice about women. Caleb’s bottom line is that “they are all whores.”

This scabrous scene could have been lifted right out of David Mamet’s early play “Sexual Perversity in Chicago” in which a jealous misogynist did everything in his power to discourage his buddy from getting serious about a woman. That play began with an obscene rant in a singles bar that was much like Caleb’s diner monologue.

In “The Vicious Kind” opening, we get to see the sensitive man under the barnacles when the younger brother goes to the bathroom — Caleb starts to cry and then quickly wipes his tears away before Peter returns.

Soon, Caleb is giving Peter and his new college girlfriend Emma (Brittany Snow) a ride home to the Sinclaire house for Thanksgiving.

Caleb is alienated from dad (J.K. Simmons) because of something terrible involving his late mother.

The set-up is shaky. Would the shy Peter bring his new girlfriend home for a four day weekend so soon? And would he want her to ride home with his trash-talking brother? Later in the film, when both brothers are vying for Emma’s attention, they get into sexual situations in their father’s home that are patently unbelievable.

What keeps writer-director Lee Toland Krieger’s movie going is his fine work with the cast and his non-condescending view of small-town, middle-class life. Scott and company are so good — and the setting feels so real — that the picture works on a scene-by-scene basis.

But, it never really adds up to much.

Writing about what he knows, international private investigator Steven Gore has made a smashing fiction debut with the recently published, “Final Target” (Harper).

It’s another post-9/11 thriller that unsettles a reader with its view of the nearly limitless ways in which the free flow of dollars and other forms of currency around the globe makes it easy for a new kind of terrorist to flourish. One who values money as much as political ideology.

Like most Americans, I love much about the modern cash-less society — the ease with which never-seen “money” flows into my bank account on payday and then out to my creditors via a debit card or the Internet.

I don’t like to think about the nuts-and-bolts of having all of my business floating in cyberspace, however. It turns money into an abstract idea with no language barriers and no national boundaries.

“Final Target” is about a U.S. defense contractor located in California that is about to collapse, leaving behind a very high profile criminal case that will make the prosecutors very famous and very happy men.

As the book’s wonderful investigator hero, Graham Gage, soon finds out, however, what is happening in California is just the tip of an iceberg that might involve catastrophic global political consequences.

The unraveling of an ever-widening conspiracy makes “Final Target” impossible to put down, as Graham struggles to save a friend/client who is about to be prosecuted and finds himself traveling to the Ukraine to get to the bottom of the case.

Gore saves the introduction of one of his best characters for the second half of the novel — a world weary, ex-intelligence officer named Ninchenko who assists our hero in the Ukraine and gives him (and the reader) a very scary education regarding the instability of life and politics there in the wake of the Soviet collapse.

It now seems quaint that there was a fear the espionage thriller would disappear after the Cold War ended. The dangers out there now might not be as severe as the feared nuclear apocalypse of the U.S./Soviet conflict days, but the ease with which our enemies can operate in a fluid, capitalist world is very frightening indeed.

I can’t wait to see what we else might learn from Steven Gore in his future novels.

I caught one of the final previews of Alexi Kaye Campbell’s “The Pride” at the Lucille Lortel Theatre in Greenwich Village over the weekend.

The official press opening is tomorrow night — you can expect to read some very strong reviews on Wednesday. I have a hunch this limited run under the auspices of MCC Theater will sell out quickly (and that someone will go to work on a Broadway transfer ala the MCC staging of “reasons to be pretty” last year).

Campbell’s play is a provocative look at gay life in England today and 50 years ago, with excellent performances by Ben Whishaw (above right, the rising film star who is making his U.S. stage debut), Hugh Dancy (above left), Andrea Riseborough and Adam James.

Instead of the usual preaching-to-the-converted, gay-is-good drama, “The Pride” raises some troubling questions about the way that the sexual freedom of gay men in the new century could be almost as damaging as the severe restrictions of the bad-old-days when gay relationships were illegal.

Campbell tells two parallel stories that are staged with remarkable fluidity by Joe Mantello. In the 1950s era scenes, Oliver (Whishaw) is a children’s book author struggling to be open about his sexuality and to find a life partner, while the married Philip (Dancy) has the occasional, guilt-ridden sexual encounter with a man.

In the present day moments, Oliver is a free-wheeling gay journalist who indulges in anonymous sex wherever he can find it while his romantic partner Philip demands monogamy.

The terrific Andrea Riseborough plays Sylvia — Philip’s wife in the ’50s scenes and Oliver’s open-minded best friend in the 21st century moments.

Campbell isn’t retrograde, but he questions the notion of anonymous gay sex as a form of sport or entertainment in the Internet age where opportunities for hook-ups are almost limitless. But then again, the writer asks, aren’t all men hard-wired to drift in the direction of sex outside of their romantic relationships from time to time?

“The Pride” examines the whole notion of what “gay” means — is it about the kind of sex a man wants, or is it about long-term emotional attachments between men?

Campbell doesn’t try to answer the tough questions he raises, but “The Pride” is a very gripping piece of drama with star performances that theatergoers will be talking about for many seasons to come.

Tom Santopietro is a film critic and biographer who seems to have a good handle on both the art and commerce that must be juggled by anyone who works in movies.

Santopietro carved out his own new turf in books he wrote about the film careers of two great pop singers who became accomplished actresses — Doris Day (“Considering Doris Day”) and Barbra Streisand (“The Importance of Being Barbra”).

The critical biographies are unusually smart career assessments by a writer who understands the strengths and weaknesses of his subjects — Santopietro also reminded readers how remarkable it was for the frequently underrated Day and Streisand to maintain careers at the highest levels of the pop music business and the Hollywood moviemaking machine.

The Santopietro book — “Sinatra in Hollywood” (Thomas Dunne Books), recently reissued in paperback  — seems like an inevitable outgrowth of the two earlier volumes. Frank Sinatra’s film and recording careers were strikingly similar to those of Day and Streisand but his pop cultural reach was even greater — Sinatra remained a superstar for a half-century and maintained nightclub and concert careers that the two female stars more or less let go of after they conquered Hollywood.

“Sinatra in Hollywood” tries to counter-balance the major criticism of the star’s work as a film actor — that Sinatra didn’t approach acting with the same level of concentration and seriousness that he brought to his singing.

The big knock against Sinatra in Hollywood was that he didn’t work hard enough on his film performances — he preferred to do as few takes of a scene as possible and insisted on a relaxed shooting schedule that allowed him to continue the nightowl lifestyle he lived as a big band and club singer.

Santopietro points out that Sinatra’s greatest film successes were not in musicals, but in dramas where he delivered devastating performances — “From Here to Eternity,” “The Man With the Golden Arm” and “The Manchurian Candidate.”

When the performer really connected with a part he was as good a film actor as any of his peers. He also displayed good taste as a producer — hand-picking screenwriter George Axelrod and director John Frankenheimer for “The Manchurian Candidate” and then agreeing to Frankenheimer’s crucial choice of Angela Lansbury for the key role that Sinatra originally wanted to offer to Lucille Ball.

“Contrary to popular legend, Sinatra didn’t just wing it in Hollywood,” Santopietro writes. “At the start of his film career, he visited sets, observed directors, and studied the actors.”

“Sinatra in Hollywood” takes us through the making of each film and includes Santopietro’s clear-eyed dismissal of unfortunate dogs such as “Assault on a Queen” and “Dirty Dingus Magee.” In some of the most illuminating sections of the book, the writer makes strong cases for a few of Sinatra’s least seen performances, including such late work as “The First Deadly Sin.”

(I’ve been off recharging my batteries for a few days, so I thought today and tomorrow would be a good time to re-explore two oldies but goodies that ran in this space before my blog expanded to four newspapers. I’ll be back Monday with reports on a terrific debut thriller by Steven Gore and a couple of new plays that are just about to open in Manhattan.)

You never know what you’re getting into when you pick up a show business memoir.

Some are unreadable.

Some are so egotistical and/or vitriolic that you end up hating the author (and yourself for wasting so much time).

Every once in a while, however, a superior example of the genre comes along — the Lauren Bacall and Mia Farrow books come quickly to mind.
But, Oscar nominee Christopher Plummer’s book, “In Spite of Myself” (Knopf) is in a class by itself.

Unlike some premature memoirists — who put out their first “book” in their 30s or 40s — Plummer has lived a full life and career worth writing about. A stage and screen star for more than a half-century, Plummer has earned the right to tell his story because he has triumphed in classic stage roles in New York, London and his native Canada and has proven himself to be an extraordinarily durable and powerful film actor.

The star has worked both sides of the show business fence — the high art of Shakespeare and the other great stage writers and the slightly lower art involved in being a jobbing film and TV actor.

Many actors tend to get a bit soft and sentimental as they age, but Plummer has stayed as sharp as a tack into his 70s, giving spectacular late-life performances such as his Mike Wallace in the Michael Mann film “The Insider” (1999) and a towering Lear at Lincoln Center four years ago.

I’ve had the pleasure of talking with Plummer a few times over the years and know him to be a wonderful story teller.

“In Spite of Myself” reveals Plummer to be a terrific writer who takes us through the highs and lows of his career with an unflagging sense of humor and a down-to-earth style that draws the reader right in (the 648 pages race by).

Of course, there are full acounts of such famous Plummer projects as “The Sound of Music” (1965) — which he has come to admire after dissing it in the years right after its huge success — and his key stage triumphs in the Archibald MacLeish-Elia Kazan collaboration “J.B.” and “Barrymore.”

But what I really love about the book is the way that Plummer tips his hat to the other actors who have played important roles in his life and career. Jason Robards and Julie Harris are just two of the legendary performers who are featured prominently and Plummer also took the time and space to remind us of such lesser known (and long gone) stage greats as Edward Everett Horton and Kate Reid.

“In Spite of Myself” takes us back to a halcyon era on Broadway in the 1950s when plays were as important as musicals and Plummer spent countless nights carousing in theater district bars with scintillating folks like Elaine Stritch, Jack Warden and Ben Gazzara.

There are several chapters that Plummer could have expanded into small books, especially his funny and scary account of the chaotic Russian production of “Waterloo” which he worked on with Rod Steiger in the late 1960s.

Another memorable chapter is devoted to Plummer’s experiences starring in one of the biggest and most expensive epics in movie history — “The Fall of the Roman Empire” (1964) which failed at the box-office in spite of awesome sets and costumes and a cast that included Sophia Loren, Alec Guinness, James Mason and Omar Sharif.

“In Spite of Myself” is a very big book, but I was still sorry to reach the last page.

“Heights” was one of the dozens of American indies tossed into art houses in 2005, where the picture sank without a trace. Even devoted movie buffs give a blank stare when the film is mentioned.

Director Chris Terrio’s 2005 debut is a sharp and well-acted portrait of Manhattan arts lifestyles.

The picture was made under the auspices of Merchant Ivory productions — famed for their genteel period pieces — and the young filmmaker clearly had enough funding to give the movie first-rate camera work and production design. But, Terrio also had a fine script (a collaboration with playwright Amy Fox) with which he was able to attract a strong ensemble of stars (Glenn Close), rising actors (Jesse Bradford, Elizabeth Banks – above and below), old-timers (George Segal) and real Manhattan artists (Rufus Wainright).

The movie is an episodic affair, centered on a New York stage and film star (Close) who is rehearsing a Broadway production of “Macbeth” while trying to convince her photographer daughter (Banks) to postpone — or even cancel — her forthcoming marriage to a handsome lawyer (James Marsden).

Other people enter the mix — a Brit journalist (John Light) in town to do a Vanity Fair story on a famous gay photographer who has slept with most of his models; an ex-lover of the Banks character (played by Matt Davis) who tries to lure her away from her fiance with a prestigious photo assignment in Eastern Europe; a young actor (Bradford) who is up for a role in a play that the famous actress plans to direct and who happens to live in the same apartment building as her daughter.

The drama and the fun in the movie derives from the unexpected collisions between these people and the surprising turns their lives take in one 24-hour period. “In this city there are only two degrees of separation,” the Close character says of the sometimes strangely small-town quality of life in Manhattan.

Most of the movie rings true and Close’s performance is one of her very best. “Heights” starts off with a real flourish, with the actress holding court at a master class at Juilliard, dressing down two ambitious students who decide to do a modern, “Sopranos”-style take on their Shakespeare scene.

The picture holds up well on television and should be added to your Netflix list if — like nearly everyone else — you missed it five years ago.

One-time Paul Taylor dancer David Parsons is among the handful of modern dance choreographers who has been able to launch a successful company of his own.

Parsons Dance — which is now 25 years old — is in residence at The Joyce Theater in Manhattan through Feb. 21 and the company is performing a reworking of Parsons’ most ambitious piece, “Remember Me.”

The evening-length piece about a tortured romantic triangle combines dance and live music in a collaboration with the Grammy-nominated East Village Opera Company.

The storyline was created by Parsons, EVOC lead vocalists Tyley Ross and AnnMarie Milazzo.

“Remember Me” has toured the country since an earlier version was presented at the Joyce last year.

Parsons has made modern dance more accessible through the use of commissioned scores by such major musicians as Dave Matthews and Milton Nascimento.

The current residency at the Joyce includes two other programs of shorter pieces. Both programs feature the amazing solo piece, “Caught,” that Parsons created for himself when he was still with the Taylor company. Through the use of a strobe light, the short abstract dance presents us with an array of live “still” images — many of which show the dancer seemingly “caught” in mid-air — that never fail to produce a rousing audience reaction.

Program C includes “Kind of Blue,” a wonderful piece Parsons choreographed to a cut from the great Miles Davis album of that title.

Tickets for Parsons Dance start at $10 and are available at www.joyce.org