Yesterday I went to see The Devil Wears Prada because I tried for Little Miss Sunshine and it was sold out (GOOD FOR THEM!). Prada is an okay piece of fluff, but nothing to write home about, except for one thing and that is Meryl Streep.
She plays Miranda Priestley, who everybody knows is based on Anna Wintour, a creepy, skeletal being that sometimes roams the streets of the village looking like a ghoul with a wig and sunglasses three sizes bigger than her head. She looks like one of those aliens from Roswell, but with a tan.
La Streep doesn't look anything like Miss Wintour but her performance is a marvel. She sports a voice like half an octave lower than her usual and never ever raises it. She uses her beautiful, patrician nose almost like a weapon. That she says the most insulting things as if she was running out of breath only enhances her ruthless power. I was on the verge of thinking that the performance was kind of one note, when there was a dramatic scene where Miranda has a personal breakdown. She wears no makeup and is completely distraught. Well, she made me gasp in amazement. Meryl rules, rules, rules, rules and then she rules some more. Now, get ready to stand in line overnight to see her in Mother Courage and Her Children, which includes Uncle Chris Walken in it.
Last time they were together at the Delacorte it was for The Seagull, a splendid production directed by Mike Nichols. At the time, Mr. Ex-Enchilada and I wanted so much to see the play that we became members of the Public and paid like 500 bucks for assured seats and the privilege of not having to wait in line with the plebeians. For that price you also got to see four other abominable plays in the typical fashion of the Public, but for The Seagull, for Streep and Walken and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and especially for not having to boil like stew on the pavement of Lafayette St from the break of dawn, it was worth every penny.
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May I suggest that you enjoy the line experience with me and Mr. Sleeping Giant in the Park? We've got it down to an art. Make preparations the night before (folding chairs by the door, Citarella picnic packed and at the ready). Wake up obscenely early -- skip the shower, who's going to see you in line in Central Park? -- and take the subway up to the Park. Once you get there, set up your chairs, and order large coffees from the deli that delivers to the line (I've got their business card). Pull out your selected reading material (been meaning to catch up on your back issues of the New Yorker?) and munch on a tasty pastry or, if you're low-carbing, have some delicious rosemary chicken salad. MUCH better than broiling on Lafayette Street -- even if you live 3 blocks from Lafayette Street. Being in the Park makes the whole thing a festive summertime activity instead of some endless-seeming purgatory you must endure to attain the heaven of Streep on stage. Let me know!
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