“Make Mine Manhattan.” This slogan, usually applied to my favorite mixed drink, also names the American city I most like to visit.
Ever since early life, I have regarded New York City with wonder. This attitude may seem naïve in later life–but the people, the buildings, the stores, and the arts continue to dazzle me every time I see them.
Earlier this month, the city’s museums provided me and my companions with an extraordinary visual feast: great portraits from the Italian Renaissance; French paintings and sculptures that had been collected by Gertrude Stein and her family; and a small, enchanting collection of full-length figures by Renoir.
I will not soon forget one work in particular, the 15th century portrait by Domenico Ghirlandaio of a grandfather with a bulbous nose reaching down affectionately to his young grandson.
But I also enjoyed Picasso’s portrait of a young Gertrude Stein foreshadowing her older self, and the charm of Renoir’s young Parisians.
Obviously, I love pictures of human beings. Perhaps this has some relation to the fact that I also love Broadway theater, and try to see a play during each visit to New York.
On this occasion two family members accompanied me to a play called “Seminar.” It attracted us in part because other family members have known the playwright, Theresa Rebeck, and because we have enjoyed some of her previous work.
I write about this play here because seeing it provoked among my companions and me much discussion of values, artistic standards, and our own standing in current society.
“Seminar” focuses on an odd situation: two young women and two young men have hired a well-known writer to help them with their own writing.
They are lively, intense, and ambitious, engaging with each other in various patterns of friendship, passion, and hostility. Their mentor, despite his prestige and air of superiority, shares their failings.
Notwithstanding the presence of Alan Rickman in the role of the mentor, the play failed to engage me for a number of reasons. It lacked dramatic structure, and its central issue seemed less than compelling. But my main problem was the language, which was overwhelming in its vulgarity.
To express anger or contempt, to describe carnal relations, or simply as an all-purpose adverb, the author has recourse to a single four-letter word that I cannot publish in this newspaper. Used occasionally, this term can make a dramatic point or help to define a character. Used constantly, it is can do neither of these things.
After seeing the play, I shared this view with some young family members and friends who had seen it earlier.
They did not exactly roll their eyes, but I sensed that I had been relegated to the early twentieth century, if not the Victorian era. Was I being a prude? Had I lost my status as a modern man?
For a while, I feared that this was true. After all, I do share the Victorian affection for taste and moral tone. But then, I reflected on the wonderful twenty-first century plays that I had seen in the last few years: “Doubt,” “Good People,” and “August: Osage County.”
The language of these plays is sometimes raw, but it is rich and vital, and captures the individuality of the characters.
It is perhaps trite to remark that playwrights share a lot with portrait painters. Both use their art to express something about human appearances and human hearts.
In New York City, it is possible to see the best of both. This time the painters won, hands down. But I am already planning the next trip.