| . | 10/12/2009
Wishful Drinking
By: Eugene Paul
Carrie Fisher Photo by Joan Marcus
Say what you will about Carrie Fisher, she’s said it all already, louder, cleverer, wittier and much worse, up there on the stage, night after night or strolling down in the audience sprinkling ersatz stardust, a perfect metaphor for her far from perfect life. The only thing missing is a very long clothes line on which she hangs all the dirty linen – and polyester – from adorable childhood to much larger than desired middle age. Carrie lets it all hang out and makes you want to hang with her because she’s so goddam funny and a helluva performer as she stomps all over the clay feet of many an idol, all of them tangled up on the crass-cross webbing of family and friends, very intimate friends. One of Carrie’s achingly amusing demonstrations is her explication of relationships among a welter of familiar faces displayed on a large lecture board so that we do not miss a thing as she tries to establish that the child of one set of marriages may be related to the child of still another of the Fisher connected marriages. Or not. It’s beyond complicated, it’s hilarious, and a good dose of vicious, the kind we love so to dwell on. Carrie obviously can take it and, baby, can she dish sit out. She might well have called her show “Dishful Winking”. (There. I’m glad I said it.)
Tony Taccone has directed Fisher in this opus since 2006, tweaked it over a national hopscotch of theaters and in the intervening years shined it until it gleams like a Tecla Pearl. From the moment Carries comes on (through a galaxy of Lucas inspired infinite, spacey stars straight out of Star Wars) she has the audience eating out of her hand, the one with which she sprinkles glittering motes and reams on the pates of all the audience members she can reach who don’t flinch away. And she’s off, recounting her drug and drink sodden life from the very moment of her birth. Even before. With such nice big illustrations. In fact, Alexander Nichols, who did the scenic, lighting and technical design, gets four deserved stars (which, in this show means bupkes) and a big kiss for his deftness and shtick. Did I say that there are dainty Jewish references throughout? Not that any dainty or non- dainty Jews will love them.
It’s a terrible blow to learn that George Lucas owns her image. But then, she reveals that Lucas made her take her bra off for Star Wars because of his certain knowledge that there aren’t ‘t any bras in space, one of those arcane factoids only a very few knew until Carrie let the cat out of the bag. (Hmm. Wrong image.) Among cascades of pithy revelations covering a wide spectrum of relatives as well as those less formally attached is the bit of lore about six year old Carrie being locked in her grandmother’s closet for misbehaving. After an hour, she asks her grandmother for some water. “Why?” “Because I’m all dry from spitting on your dresses and now I want to do your shoes.” With anecdotes like that to leaven revelations concerning stays in mental hospitals for bi-polar treatment, stays in rehab for drug addiction, stays in more rehab for alcoholic addiction, all spit out with the sturdiest of good cheer it is all but impossible to tear yourself away for fear of missing a single bon mot of her two hour catharsis, a venting like no other. One thing is absolutely clear: nobody could possible blackmail her. No, two things: she’s having a ball. So some of the skewering is angry as well as funny. Can’t blame her. Besides, isn’t it tastier that way? Goodness, she looks like such a well fed, harmless Westchester matron. With glitter on her face. Delicious.
Studio 54, 254 54th Street near 8th Avenue. Tickets: $31.50-$111.50. Tue-Sat 8 pm. Mats, Wed, Sat, Sun 2 pm.
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