Ay, AI, Aida
Hunnybear’s wakeup call came on schedule at 4:30 a.m.—1:30 West Coast time—and before I knew it she was out the door on her way to tell the cabbie, “LaGuardia Airport, driver, and step on it!” I slept another few millennia and finally roused myself for a walk over to Times Square. It was cooler today—sunny and in the low 70s. It was a great day to see a movie. I selected AI: Artificial Intelligence, the project dumped in Steven Spielberg’s lap by Stanley Kubrick, who struggled with it for 10 years before he died. It was playing at Loews in Times Square, but silly me, I thought there would be only one Loews in Times Square and there were two. By the time I got to the right theater it was just a couple minutes to showtime so I bought my ticket from the robot for a shocking $10, almost the price of a martini, and raced upstairs. I was hungry so I tried to buy some overpriced junk food but the service was so slow I gave up and went into the mostly empty theater, settling into an excellent seat.

The meandering AI failed to break new ground not only in the science-fiction genre, but even in the robot-with-feelings story line, saying very little we didn’t already get from Bicentennial Man. Its best shot was an examination of the human dependence on the myth, but the murky treatment of that theme degenerated into cute allusions to Peter Pan and E.T. William Hurt was wasted on a cardboard character and the usual compelling performance from Haley Joel Osment wasn’t enough to stretch this Brian Aldiss short story into a serious feature film.

The weather was even better when I emerged onto 42nd St. so I thought I’d check out The Producers to see if I might score a ticket for tomorrow’s show. I talked to one of the theater workers, who said Nathan Lane was out tonight and they didn’t know if he’d be back tomorrow. If he wasn’t there could be more than the usual number of cancellations, so I decided to come back late tomorrow afternoon and see if I could land a single. I wasn’t about to wait in line all day like the two dozen people I saw there, Tonys or no Tonys.

I was really hungry by this time so I picked up a meatball hero from Little Italy and brought it back to the suite at the W New York. I made plans to meet Michael at the rotating bar on the eighth floor of the Marriott Marquis and changed into some nicer clothes for tonight’s theater. New York is such an easy place to get exercise, especially if you’re cheap and don’t want to take a taxi. I walked back to Times Square and toward the Marriott, where they were having a convention of wheelchair-bound veterans. Hundreds of them were lined up to get their chairs in and out of those tiny aggressive elevators. I squeezed in between three wheelchairs and got to the eighth floor, where I discovered my bar was closed because the work so I went to the nearby atrium bar instead and ordered a Makers Mark Manhattan, up, shaken very cold. Michael arrived in short order and after only one round we headed down to the show.

It’s the rare opera I appreciate, classic or modern, but I had hoped the critically acclaimed Aida would be an exception. Composer Elton John had created so many wonderful songs and lyricist Tim Rice had penned such an array of clever verses that I had high hopes for their collaboration. But I didn’t like it. Aida’s clichéd tale of star-crossed lovers didn’t provide enough drama to hold my interest. No performances were outstanding, no songs terribly memorable, and only the superb lighting design rose above a thoroughly mediocre production. Attempts to be clever with anachronism and fourth-wall violation failed as they almost always do, especially the portrayal of Pharaoh’s daughter as a Jewish American Princess. The funniest line in the show was a thoroughly out-of-character quip by the serious princess Aida posing as a handmaiden: “You Egyptians sure have great thread counts.” We left before we had to endure the obligatory Broadway standing ovation.

After the show we decided on a late supper at my favorite Churrascaria Plataforma, the all-you-can-eat Brazilian meat-lover’s palace. Tonight the highlights were lamb, top sirloin, and garlic steak carved at the table from huge skewers. The manager recommended a nice Argentinean red and we got away for only $140 including a generous tip. Michael walked me back to the W and then headed a few more blocks home to his apartment.

[next installment tomorrow]


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