By Anna Merlan
By Anna Merlan
By Julie Seabaugh
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Alex Distefano
By Scott Snowden
Feldman informed me that he's a longtime Douglas fan, "and I contrived my characterization based on all of his characters wrapped into one. But it's all about the lips." I knowScarlett Johansson told me. As for Corey's hot boddisplayed to excellent effect in the showhe said he doesn't work out per se, but he's a vegetarian, he doesn't drink, and he's always dancing. Hey, me tooexcept for the vegetarian thing and the not drinking and the dancing!
There's no chorus and in fact there are no accoutrements at all in Primo, another of those no-overhead evenings that, rather than dramatize events, have a solitary actor tell you what happened, in this case by reciting passages adapted from a memoir. (Imagine a Hamlet with one guy standing there saying, "Hi! My mother and my uncle, whom she's dating, killed my father, and . . . "). Fortunately, Primo Levi's detailed descriptions of his Holocaust horror are eternally worth hearing and the deeply committed ANTONY SHER barely pauses lest you start wanting someone else onstage. But don't look in the Playbill or you'll be less stirred by the survival-against-the-odds theme when you learn that the brilliant Primo apparently ended up offing himself.
A survivor of JOYCE DEWITT, spunky SUZANNE SOMERS is also doing the solo thing with The Blonde in the Thunderbird, which is described as "a one-woman musical joyride"a subtitle that scared the bejesus out of me because Joy Ride, you'll recall, was a horror film second only to The Devil's Rejects. Actually, to us jaded city critics, Thunderbird is not far from that, though Home Shopping types might be riveted by its synthesizer-accompanied parade of personal psychodramas and upbeat resolutions. ("My cup runneth over!") The show is a weird mix of self-help and self-congratulation, in which you learn everything imaginable about Somers as she talks back to prerecorded voices representing everyone from her alcoholic father to her cautious breast doctor, and gamely conquers unemployment, fear, cancer, and low self-esteem. Lightening up the crying jags, birth simulation, and flashback voices from her abusive childhood ("Who's gonna be it tonight . . . it tonight . . . it tonight?"), is a really neat montage of Somers's glamorous magazine covers. It all leads to our star finding release as a bestselling advice dealer who decides that everything's a gifteven her son's life-threatening accident, because as a result she got a really good therapist! I worship Suzanne's stellar presence and radiant spirit, but a really good script doctor might have been better.
FIRE BURN AND CAULDRON BUBBLE
At a recent high-profile event, two long-famous African American stars were heard chatting about that Motown legend. Star one, a singing diva, volunteered, "I made up with her and buried the hatchet." Star two, an award-laden movie-TV actress, reportedly chimed in, "Not me! I still think she's a fucking bitch!" . . . As for more current fucking legends, WHITNEY HOUSTON has reached a whole new level on the mesmerizingly messy Being Bobby Brown reality show. If you were smart enough to read the captions recently (the Browns talk in such inimitably incomprehensible tones that they often require them), you saw Bobby reveal that Whitney once had a "doody bubble"i.e., a turdso big he had to manually pull it out. "That's love!" observed someone else in the room. Whitney's butt runneth over.
I hear the folks at A&E were in a tizzy recently when ZSA ZSA GABOR had a stroke. They must have thought she was a goner, dahling, because spies say they were trying to whip up a Biography about the lady faster than you can slap a petulant cop. AlasI mean thank GodZsa Zsa survived.
And how about Gabor's ex-husband's great granddaughter, PARIS HILTON? Well, she certainly lives, and so does her music CD, though Hilton is telling people it's been delayed because three tracks were stolen and released online. (Gee, I wonder if they're pornographic.) One of the surviving tunes is Paris's cover of Blondie's "Heart of Glass," and DEBORAH HARRY, I hear, is surprisingly cool with the idea. And that's the end of my blonde gossip, unless you wanted me to tell more about Suzanne Somers' show. I didn't think so.