NY Mirror


If you sing, dance, and serve a nosh, they will come. And so Blatt’s Dinner Theatre, a cozy barn in the middle of nowhere (well, Kutztown, Pennsylvania, actually), does just that, and the locals pantingly line up for the show tunes and steamed beans. To add to the mix, a bunch of jaded city slicker friends and I bought tickets recently, hoping the place—”where Broadway meets the local cuisine!”—might provide a new frontier for offbeat entertainment, and it did, it truly did. The down-homey shrine to cheering with your mouth full was much more aesthetically pleasing than a similar joint I’d been to in Long Island, where people loudly clanked and chewed all the way through a musical version of Look Homeward, Angel. That turned my stomach—and so did the show.

At Blatt’s, the grub is strictly from prison, but the ambience is super friendly—cast members warm up in the parking lot and a rustic Welcome mural greets you as you enter—and everyone’s finished eating by the time the show starts, so the actors don’t have to compete with all the scraping and sucking. For $35, you get the world’s most well-meaning mass-produced feast, which consists of roast turkey squares, bizarre sausage stew, a “signature salad” no one would sign his name to, buttered corn right out of a road company of Oklahoma!, some glutinous cherry pie from outer space, and all sorts of freaky fixin’s like pepper cabbage and “chow-chow” (a demonically sweet vegetable concoction particular to the heartland—truth be told, I sucked in a mountain of it). When Annie‘s orphans complained about having to eat mush, I wanted to yell, “Shut up and throw me some!” But we knew this wasn’t going to be Alain Ducasse, and the mild indigestion was worth it for the nuttily lowbrow wonder of it all.

There are so many perks. Before the show even started, we were made to clap along to a ragtime
pianist, then were alerted to birthdays and special groups—like folks from the nearby J.C. Penney outlet—in the audience of all-white, all-fat ladies in appliquéd blouses. Next, the MC begged us to adopt Buford, a precious little dog from the show—I held out for Annie herself—after which cast members from the upcoming Forever Plaid production previewed some perky numbers and the co-owner pranced through the crowd to give away a specialty drink to a lucky alcoholic!

And then—belch—Annie itself began, and you know what? It wasn’t terrible! I was suffering a little during parts of Act I—it naturally wasn’t up to Times Square standards, and yet it was by no means so bad it was hilarious—but Act II went by breezily, and I have to commend the overall professionalism and determination on display, from the first doggy wiggle to the very last googly-eyed “Leapin’ lizards!” On its own darling little scale, the production was perfectly cute—do I sound patronizing?—and I defy you to find another place where you can get this level of simultaneous song medleys and vegetable medleys.

The bad news? Blatt’s has canceled its upcoming staging of A Chorus Line because they couldn’t get the rights. The good news? You can buy jars of chow-chow at the gift counter!

Even farther from civilization, in the twin cities—no, not the famous ones in Minnesota, but Shreveport-Bossier, Louisiana—the Miss Teen USA pageant provided a so-awful-it’s-awfully-good campfest, and the best thing of all was that you could sit at home, spread out the chow-chow, and watch it unfold on TV, where it couldn’t hurt you that much. The pageant was one long travelogue for that torpidly hot locale, which—all the puffery aside—looked like the saddest place on earth. (They actually have a glass factory outlet, an airplane, and probably even some dinner theaters!) The judges included Julio Iglesias‘s other son, the guy who played Mini-Me, and someone who was thrown off Survivor. Even more dubiously, the host was an MTV himbo—”I suck,” he admitted after trying to do a Latin dance—abetted by two syndicated bimbettes, a second-tier boy band, and a 15-year-old Jennifer Lopez wannabe who had to keep repeating her one song until the last mutant evening gown had darkened the stage’s runway.

But oh, the girls! They strutted, sashayed, and swished, all while being made to confront important current-events issues, like what they’d like to be wearing if Freddie Prinze Jr. happened to rescue them from a desert island. (Nothing, of course!) In between the parade of Kotex commercials, the highlight was the Q&A segment, during which all the finalists who’d said they wanted to be transplant surgeons when they grow up unwittingly made it clear that their first professional assignment should be to get themselves a brain donor. Asked to describe men in three words, one genius came up with eight! The same sheltered gal was asked if her personality’s more suited to Grease! or My Fair Lady and responded, “I’ve never seen My Fair Lady.” (I bet she’s seen Annie, though—she’s from Pennsylvania.)

When another bikinied Einstein was asked something about her speculative cosurvivors—see, these dingleberries were supposed to pretend they were in a beauty version of Survivor—she winced and said, “My cosurvivors? Who are they?” Golly gee, she didn’t have any, actually—she was promptly thrown off the fake island and the girl who was clueless about My Fair Lady miraculously snuck into the winner’s tiara. I guess they figured she could always catch that show over a heaping bowl of sausage stew.

After seeing an upcoming Cinemax program called Princess Diana’s Dresses, I want to be stewed and wearing a Versace gown when Freddie Prinze Jr. rescues me—and even if he never shows up, I’ll still have the joy of that impossibly glitzy fabric cradling my frenzied flesh. The documentary focuses on the loony tunes—and even a few sensible people—who now own the ensembles that once helped our fair lady spontaneously go from dowdy duck to downy swan to the tune of a few kazillion smackers. Among the real-life characters interviewed is an outrageous drag queen named Zondra Foxx, whom I’ve always been extremely afraid of, though it turns out she’s a serious art collector with something to say. Zondra, who bid on a deafeningly loud red dress of Di’s at Christie’s, offers this by way of secular art history: “Diana has the iconography of a saint in having relics and in being martyred. In baroque painting, there are always young women being stripped to their birthday suit and being horribly tortured by these evil-looking characters who may be construed today as the paparazzi pursuing and torturing Diana.” Zondra certainly went for baroque on that Di dress. Alas, she was outbid.

And now, it’s ciao-ciao to chow-chow and hello to Forever Plaid. Chomp-chomp-chomp-chomp . . . bravo!