Westend theater review

As I write, the French countryside is slipping by at 190 MPH. I look up from my tablet frequently so as not to miss a glimpse of a passing chateau, hilltop castle, or gothic church tower as we hurtle down the Rhône Valley. We’re on the homeward leg of a quick trip that began with a flight to London at the beginning of the week from where we then hopped on an evening train to Paris for a couple of nights, before heading south on this train. We’ll have dinner in Barcelona ( . . . castle) before climbing aboard another high-speed coach for the final leg down to Valencia.

The planning for this jaunt was all rather spontaneous, resulting from a casual dinner conversation ( . . . hill town) one evening about how much we miss live theater – our beginner level Spanish being wholly inadequate to the task of comprehending, let alone enjoying, teatro Valenciano.
“We should hop up to London,” Bonnie says. I don’t actually remember if it was her or me that said this, but I’m going to credit her as the one most likely to want to hop about anywhere, anytime. (. . . vineyards!)
“Yeah, okay,” I must have replied. “I would love that!” Minutes later we’re online reading reviews of the latest shows, and checking our hotel options. Before you know it, I have tickets to four shows over three Westend days in mid- February. “Will you be my Valentine?”

In the weeks leading up to this trip, our expat friends in Valencia wanted to hear the details of our plans. We went on at some length extolling the wonders of British theater, even going so far as to modestly insult a Manhattanite with a lifelong passion for Broadway. We have a seriously romanticized recollection of the Westend. ( . . . Mountains! . . . wait, what mountains?) So, unsurprisingly I suppose, we had a decidedly mixed experience. Would you believe Londoners are just as eager to offer weak musical kitsch for tourist dollars as Broadway? Worse, it turns out that contemporary audiences are apparently enraptured by rock concert levels of amplification and the same bubble gum pop that turns adolescents into cultural icons. ( . . . seriously, Ed, do you hear yourself? When did you transition to geezer?)

I will spare you any more groaning about the state of musical theater in the world, however, and turn my attention ( . . . clouds of pink blossoms) to the one bit of “serious” theater we enjoyed.

I booked seats to “The Hills of California” with some trepidation. Opening at the Harold Pinter Theater just a week or two before our trip, this is the premiere of a brand new drama with only the reputation of the playwright to recommend it. (Well, there is also that title.) The author, Jez Butterworth, has been celebrated for another effort titled “Jerusalem” which the Guardian declared to be “unarguably one of the best dramas of the twenty-first century.” As I read of Mr. Butterworth’s accomplishments and credits, I began to understand, once again, how far out of date I have drifted. ( . . .aah, red clay tile roofs – must be in Provence) This guy is a superstar playwright and screenwriter! Tony awards, Critic’s Circle awards, Hollywood star directors, this retirement thing has come just in time. I have so much catching up to do!

I’ll spare you a retelling of the plot points and production details beyond the basic conceit: four sisters are attempting to process the emotional trauma of their childhoods as they gather for the first time in many years to say goodbye to their dying mother. Suffice it to say that we laughed and cried and talked for hours about what we had seen. It was brilliant, our faith in the magic of live theater was replenished, and even without the two musicals, the moldy Agatha Christie performed in an actual courtroom, a visit to the Petit Palais, or the underground Paris jazz club on our last night, the trip would have been entirely satisfying on the basis of that one evening of great art. (. . . flamingos – not making this up – pink flamingos – along the Med . . . )

My god, I love retirement.