As summer winds down, let’s take a break from the pressing issues of the day (affordable housing, Housatonic drinking water/working fire hydrants, school district merger, and river cleanup chief among them) to briefly consider the cultural paradise we share.
I realize this is no news flash, but have you recently stopped to consider that this tiny corner of the country offers gigantic cultural opportunities for months every summer, and then continues to do so year-round at favored places like the Mahaiwe and Colonial theaters? As my mother would say, how did we get so lucky?
The quality and number of stunningly wonderful performing arts events is mind boggling. If one had the stamina and lucre to make a nightly ritual out of it, there is not an evening in which something truly remarkable isn’t being performed. We are often frustrated by the choices we have to make: Do we go to see this wonderful performance or hear that renowned musician? The rest of the country would be lucky to have such problems.
As COVID dragged on (still drags on?), I was skeptical that the arts could recover. Were performing art centers now just our living rooms and dens? We enjoyed streaming Broadway productions, including “Hamilton” and “Come Fly Away”; would this become a thing? No, we have been voting with our feet in droves. The arts aren’t back to 2019 attendance levels, but the trend looks very good. I was pleased to stream Lin-Manuel Miranda in “Hamilton,” but I missed the communal experience of being in the theater—far fewer standing ovations in our living room. And the fact is that watching “Oppenheimer” on any home screen would not be the bomb. (Please forgive me.) The slogan gets it right. Go big or go home.
I will not pretend to be qualified to review the arts. I have also often wondered about the utility of reviewing a production after it has closed. Still, to illustrate my point, permit me to note just three experiences this summer for which I am grateful.
Sutton Foster at the Mahaiwe was such a pleasure. Truth be told, my expectations were on the lower side. Sure, I am aware of the Tonys, but would she own the stage with just a pianist and microphone? Would musical standards be meaningful without, you know, the musical? First, I have to say, sitting in the Mahaiwe is our happy place. Its restored grandeur and pitch-perfect sound would make a full-throated reading of children’s rhymes worth attending. Let’s just say, if it were a 50-yard dash, anything at the Mahaiwe gets a 10-yard head start. But Ms. Foster did not need the Mahaiwe’s advantages to win the night. She brought her A-game, hit every note with mighty range out of the park, and couldn’t have had a more endearing stage presence. In this non-reviewer’s opinion, if you get the chance to attend one of her performances, you shouldn’t pass up the opportunity.
The Williamstown Theatre Festival was in reinvention mode this year. My understanding is that no full shows were performed this summer because the festival needed to rework a business plan that long depended on unpaid or low-paid interns. There was a time when it was generally considered a fair trade to give an intern an unparalleled work experience in exchange for no pay. Not here to judge, but the festival was late in realizing that the time had passed.
Instead of staging productions, the festival presented a variety of other arts experiences. We went to two readings of plays, Anton Chekov’s “Three Sisters” and Martin McDonagh’s “The Pillowman.” The last time I can recall having the script of a play being read to me was in high school. I did not particularly enjoy it then and did not expect to enjoy it now. This was not high school. Along with other terrific actors, “Three Sisters” was performed by Meryl Streep’s three daughters and son. Mesmerizing. Such a delight. The acting force is strong in this family. In this non-reviewer’s opinion, if the Streep family asks to come to your home to read the yellow pages (in this fantasy, they still exist), you should surely say “yes.” And “The Pillowman,” by a wonderful playwright, was equally compelling. With little more than words on the stage, the artists vividly brought each play to life. I only wish I had been in their high school English classes.
Last, there is little I can add to what has already been said about Tanglewood, but let me briefly describe a magical evening on the lawn for Jackson Browne’s recent concert. We are among those odd ducks that lined up before the gates open to find a nice spot on the lawn, picnic for a few hours, and chill. We have also heard artists’ soundchecks in line before, but they usually end by the time the gates open. Jackson Browne did not only reward us in line with full songs during his soundcheck, but once the gates were open, he took requests from the early birds. It felt intimate and special. Unlike so many legacy artists, Jackson Browne’s singing voice is as strong today as it was decades ago. A memorable evening in a picture-perfect spot.
As the summer winds down, there will be far fewer arts opportunities, but they never stop. We look forward to Barrington Stage Company’s 10×10 New Play Festival every winter; enjoy Berkshire Theatre Group’s offerings at the Colonial and its other theatres, including Hershey Felder’s annual run of notably dead composers; and the Mahaiwe’s offerings of the Met opera, National Theatre plays, and touring performers. We don’t mind fewer offerings, as it gives us a chance to read before a nice fire.
If your response to this column is “tell me something I didn’t already know,” I get it. But we spend so much time noting this problem and fighting that battle that we may forget how truly blessed we are to live in such an amazing community. Just don’t tell too many people. It will just make access to affordable housing that much harder.
