#emma stone cabaret

[fireworkss-exe]

y'all see it right.....

[ailurusbunny]

嗯嗯嗯女仆装💗🖤🤍

[moonmunson]

does anyone have a cabaret bootleg of the 2014 revival with alan and emma stone? i do not have anything to trade but i need to see the show SO bad

[eddie-redmayne-italian-blog]

The Untold History of Cabaret: Revived and Kicking

As Broadway welcomes the ever-evolving musical, its star, Eddie Redmayne—along with Liza Minnelli, Joel Grey, and Sam Mendes—assess its enduring power.

As director Rebecca Frecknall was rehearsing a new cast for her hit London revival of Cabaret, the actor playing Clifford Bradshaw, an American writer living in Berlin during the final days of the Weimar Republic, came onstage carrying that day’s newspaper as a prop. It happened to be Metro, the free London tabloid commuters read on their way to work. The date was February 25, 2022. When the actor said his line—“We’ve got to leave Berlin—as soon as possible. Tomorrow!”—Frecknall was caught short. She noticed the paper’s headline: “Russia Invades Ukraine.”

Cabaret, the groundbreaking 1966 Broadway musical that tackles fascism, antisemitism, abortion, World War II, and the events leading up to the Holocaust, had certainly captured the times once again.

Back in rehearsals four months later, Frecknall and the cast got word that the Supreme Court had overturned Roe v. Wade. Every time she checks up on Cabaret, “it feels like something else has happened in the world,” she told me over coffee in London in September.

A month later, as Frecknall was preparing her production of Cabaret for its Broadway premiere, something else did happen: On October 7, Hamas terrorists infiltrated Israel, killing at least 1,200 people and taking more than 240 hostages.

The revival of Cabaret—starring Eddie Redmayne as the creepy yet seductive Emcee; Gayle Rankin as the gin-swilling nightclub singer Sally Bowles; and Bebe Neuwirth as Fraulein Schneider, a landlady struggling to scrape by—opens April 21 at Manhattan’s August Wilson Theatre. It will do so in the shadow of a pogrom not seen since the Einsatzgruppen slaughtered thousands of Jews in Eastern Europe and in the shadow of a war between Israel and Hamas that continues into its fifth month, with the killing of thousands of civilians in Gaza.

Nearly 60 years after its debut, Cabaret still stings. That is its brilliance. And its tragedy.

Redmayne has been haunted by Cabaret ever since he played the Emcee in prep school. “I was staggered by the character,” he says. “The lack of definition of it, the enigma of it.” He played the part again during his first year at Cambridge at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where nearly 3,500 shoestring productions jostle for attention each summer. Cabaret, performed in a tiny venue that “stank,” Redmayne recalls, did well enough that the producers added an extra show. He was leering at the Kit Kat Club girls from 8 p.m. till 10 p.m. and then from 11 p.m. till two in the morning. “You’d wake up at midday. You barely see sunshine. I just became this gaunt, skeletal figure.” His parents came to see him and said, “You need vitamin D!”

In 2021, Redmayne, by then an Oscar winner for The Theory of Everything and a Tony winner for Red, was playing the Emcee again, this time in Frecknall’s West End production. His dressing room on opening night was full of flowers. There was one bouquet with a card he did not have a chance to open until intermission. It was from Joel Grey, who originated the role on Broadway and won an Oscar for his performance alongside Liza Minnelli in the 1972 movie. He welcomed the young actor “to the family,” Redmayne says. “It was an extraordinary moment for me.”

Cabaret is based on Goodbye to Berlin, the British writer Christopher Isherwood’s collection of stories and character studies set in Weimar Germany as the Nazis are clawing their way to power. Isherwood, who went to Berlin for one reason—“boys,” he wrote in his memoir Christopher and His Kind—lived in a dingy boarding house amid an array of sleazy lodgers who inspired his characters. But aside from a fleeting mention of a host at a seedy nightclub, there is no emcee in his vignettes. Nor is there an emcee in I Am a Camera, John Van Druten’s hit 1951 Broadway play adapted from Isherwood’s story “Sally Bowles” from Goodbye to Berlin.

The character, one of the most famous in Broadway history, was created by Harold Prince​​, who produced and directed the original Cabaret. “People write about Cabaret all the time,” says John Kander, who composed the show’s music and is, at 96, the last living member of that creative team. “They write about Liza. They write about Joel, and sometimes about us [Kander and lyricist Fred Ebb]. None of that really matters. It’s all Hal. Everything about this piece, even the variations that happen in different versions of it, is all because of Hal.”

In 1964, Prince produced his biggest hit: Fiddler on the Roof. In the final scene, Tevye and his family, having survived a pogrom, leave for America. There is sadness but also hope. And what of the Jews who did not leave? Cabaret would provide the tragic answer.

But Prince was after something else. Without hitting the audience over the head, he wanted to create a musical that echoed what was happening in America: young men being sent to their deaths in Vietnam; racists such as Alabama politician “Bull” Connor siccing attack dogs on civil rights marchers. In rehearsals, Prince put up Will Counts’s iconic photograph of a white student screaming at a Black student during the Little Rock crisis of 1957. “That’s our show,” he told the cast.

A bold idea he had early on was to juxtapose the lives of Isherwood’s lodgers with one of the tawdry nightclubs Isherwood had frequented. In 1951, while stationed as a soldier in Stuttgart, Germany, Prince himself had hung around such a place. Presiding over the third-rate acts was a master of ceremonies in white makeup and of indeterminate sexuality. He “unnerved me,” Prince once told me. “But I never forgot him.”

Kander had seen the same kind of character at the opening of a Marlene Dietrich concert in Europe. “An overpainted little man waddled out and said, ‘Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome,’ ” Kander recalls.

The first song Kander and Ebb wrote for the show was called “Willkommen.” They wrote 60 more songs. “Some of them were outrageous,” Kander says. “We wrote some antisemitic songs”—of which there were many in Weimar cabarets—“ ‘Good neighbor Cohen, loaned you a loan.’ We didn’t get very far with that one.”

They did write one song about antisemitism: “If You Could See Her (The Gorilla Song),” in which the Emcee dances with his lover, a gorilla in a pink tutu. At the end of the number, he turns to the audience and whispers: “If you could see her through my eyes, she wouldn’t look Jewishhh at all.” It was, they thought, the most powerful song in the score.

The working title of their musical was Welcome to Berlin. But then a woman who sold blocks of tickets to theater parties told Prince that her Jewish clients would not buy a show with “Berlin” in the title. Strolling along the beach one day, Joe Masteroff, who was writing the musical’s book, thought of two recent hits, Carnival and Camelot. Both started with a C and had three syllables. Why not call the show Cabaret?

To play the Emcee, Prince tapped his friend Joel Grey. A nightclub headliner, Grey could not break into Broadway. “The theater was very high-minded,” he once said. When Prince called him, he was playing a pirate in a third-rate musical in New York’s Jones Beach. “Hal knew I was dying,” Grey recounts over lunch in the West Village, where he lives. “I wanted to quit the business.”

At first, he struggled to create the Emcee, who did not interact with the other characters. He had numbers but “no words, no lines, no role,” Grey wrote in his memoir, Master of Ceremonies. A polished performer, he had no trouble with the songs, the dances, the antics. “But something was missing,” he says. Then he remembered a cheap comedian he’d once seen in St. Louis. The comic had told lecherous jokes, gay jokes, sexist jokes—anything to get a laugh. One day in rehearsal, Grey did everything the comedian had done “to get the audience crazy. I was all over the girls, squeezing their breasts, touching their bottoms. They were furious. I was horrible. When it was over I thought, This is the end of my career.” He disappeared backstage and cried. “And then from out of the darkness came Mr. Prince,” Grey says. “He put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Joely, that’s it.’ ”

Cabaret played its first performance at the Shubert Theatre in Boston in the fall of 1966. Grey stopped the show with the opening number, “Willkommen.” “The audience wouldn’t stop applauding,” Grey recalls. “I turned to the stage manager and said, ‘Should I get changed for the next scene?’ ”

The musical ran long—it was in three acts—but it got a prolonged standing ovation. As the curtain came down, Richard Seff, an agent who represented Kander and Ebb, ran into Ebb in the aisle. “It’s wonderful,” Seff said. “You’ll fix the obvious flaws.” In the middle of the night, Seff’s phone rang. It was Ebb. “You hated it!” the songwriter screamed. “You are of no help at all!”

Ebb was reeling because he’d learned Prince was going to cut the show down to two acts. Ebb collapsed in his hotel bed, Kander holding one hand, Grey the other. “You’re not dying, Fred,” Kander told him. “Hal has not wrecked our show.”

Cabaret came roaring into New York, fueled by tremendous word of mouth. But there was a problem. Some Jewish groups were furious about “If You Could See Her.” How could you equate a gorilla with a Jew? they wanted to know, missing the point entirely. They threatened to boycott the show. Prince, his eye on ticket sales, told Ebb to change the line “She wouldn’t look Jewish at all” to something less offensive: “She isn’t a meeskite at all,” using the Yiddish word for a homely person.

It is difficult to imagine the impact Cabaret had on audiences in 1966. World War II had ended only 21 years before. Many New York theatergoers had fled Europe or fought the Nazis. There were Holocaust survivors in the audience; there were people whose relatives had died in the gas chambers. Grey knew the show’s power. Some nights, dancing with the gorilla, he’d whisper “Jewish” instead of “meeskite.” The audience gasped.

Cabaret won eight Tony Awards in 1967, catapulted Grey to Broadway stardom, and ran for three years. Seff sold the movie rights for $1.5 million, a record at the time. Prince, about to begin rehearsals for Stephen Sondheim’s Company, was unavailable to direct the movie, scheduled for a 1972 release. So the producers hired the director and choreographer Bob Fosse, who needed the job because his previous movie, Sweet Charity, had been a bust.

Fosse, who saw Prince as a rival, stamped out much of what Prince had done, including Joel Grey. He wanted Ruth Gordon to play the Emcee. But Grey was a sensation, and the studio wanted him. “It’s either me or Joel,” Fosse said. When the studio opted for Grey, Fosse backed down. But he resented Grey, and relations between them were icy.

A 26-year-old Liza Minnelli, on the way to stardom herself, was cast as Sally Bowles. The handsome Michael York would play the Cliff character, whose name in the movie was changed to Brian Roberts. And supermodel Marisa Berenson (who at the time seemed to be on the cover of Vogue every other month) got the role of a Jewish department store heiress, a character Fosse took from Isherwood’s short story “The Landauers.”

Cabaret was shot on location in Munich and Berlin. “The atmosphere was extremely heavy,” Berenson recalls. “There was the whole Nazi period, and I felt very much the Berlin Wall, that darkness, that fear, all that repression.” She adored Fosse, but he kept her off balance (she was playing a young woman traumatized by what was happening around her) by whispering “obscene things in my ear. He was shaking me up.”

Minnelli, costumed by Halston for the film, found Fosse “brilliant” and “incredibly intense,” she tells Vanity Fair in a rare interview. “He used every part of me, including my scoliosis. One of my great lessons in working with Fosse was never to think that whatever he was asking couldn’t be done. If he said do it, you had to figure out how to do it. You didn’t think about how much it hurt. You just made it happen.”

Back in New York, Fosse arranged a private screening of Cabaret for Kander and Ebb. When it was over, they said nothing. “We really hated it,” Kander admits. Then they went to the opening at the Ziegfeld Theatre in New York. The audience loved it. “We realized it was a masterpiece,” Kander says, laughing. “It just wasn’t our show.”

“PAPA WAS EVEN MORE EXCITED ABOUT THE OSCAR THAN I WAS,” SAYS LIZA MINNELLI. “AND, BABY, I WAS—NO, I AM��STILL—EXCITED.”

The success of the movie—with its eight Academy Awards—soon overshadowed the musical. When people thought of Cabaret, they thought of finger snaps and bowler hats. They thought of Fosse and, of course, Minnelli, who would adopt the lyric “Life is a cabaret” as her signature. Her best-actress Oscar became part of a dynasty: Her mother, Judy Garland, and father, director Vincente Minnelli, each had one of their own. “Papa was even more excited about the Oscar than I was,” she says. “And, baby, I was—no, I am still—excited.”

By 1987—in part to burnish Cabaret’s theatrical legacy—Prince decided to recreate his original production on Broadway, with Grey once again serving as the Emcee. But it had the odor of mothballs. The New York Times drama critic Frank Rich wrote that it was not, as Sally Bowles sings, “perfectly marvelous,” but “it does approach the perfectly mediocre.” Much of the show, he added, was “old-fashioned and plodding.”

In the early 1990s, Sam Mendes, then a young director running a pocket-size theater in London called the Donmar Warehouse, heard the novelist Martin Amis give a talk. Amis was writing Time’s Arrow, about a German doctor who works in a concentration camp. “I’ve already written about the Nazis and people say to me, ‘Why are you doing it again?’ ” Amis said. “And I say, what else is there?”

At the end of the day,” Mendes tells me, “the biggest question of the 20th century is, ‘How could this have happened?’ ” Mendes decided to stage Cabaret at the Donmar in 1993. Another horror was unfolding at the time: Serb paramilitaries were slaughtering Bosnian Muslims, “ethnic cleansing” on an unimaginable scale.

Mendes hit on a terrific concept for his production: He transformed his theater into a nightclub. The audience sat at little tables with red lamps. And the performers were truly seedy. He told the actors playing the Kit Kat Club girls not to shave their armpits or their legs. “Unshaved armpits—it sent shock waves around the theater,” he recalls. Since there was no room—or money—for an orchestra, the actors played the instruments. Some of them could hit the right notes.

To play the Emcee, Mendes cast Alan Cumming, a young Scottish actor whose comedy act Mendes had enjoyed. “Can you sing?” Mendes asked him. “Yeah,” Cumming said. Mendes threw ideas at him and “he was open to everything.” Just before the first preview, Mendes suggested he come out during the intermission and chat up the audience, maybe dance with a woman. Mendes, frantic before the preview, never got around to giving Cumming any more direction than that. No matter. Cumming sauntered onstage as people were settling back at their tables, picked a man out of the crowd, and started dancing with him. “Watch your hands,” he said. “I lead.”

Cumming’s Emcee was impish, fun, gleefully licentious. The audience loved him. “I have never had less to do with a great performance in one of my shows than I had to do with Alan,” Mendes says.

When Joe Masteroff came to see the show in London, Mendes was nervous. He’d taken plenty of liberties with the script. Cliff, the narrator, was now openly gay. (One night, when Cliff kissed a male lover, a man in the audience shouted, “Rubbish!”) And he made the Emcee a victim of the Nazis. In the final scene, Cumming, in a concentration camp uniform affixed with a yellow Star of David and a pink triangle, is jolted, as if he’s thrown himself onto the electrified fence at Birkenau.

“I should be really pissed with you,” Masteroff told Mendes after the show. “But it works.” Kander liked it too, though he was not happy that the actors didn’t play his score all that well. Ebb hated it. “He wanted more professionalism,” Mendes says. “And he was not wrong. There was a dangerous edge of amateurishness about it.”

The Roundabout Theatre Company brought Cabaret to New York in 1998. Rob Marshall, who would go on to direct the movie Chicago, helped Mendes give the show some Broadway gloss while retaining its grittiness. The two young directors were “challenging each other, pushing each other,” Marshall remembers, “to create something unique.”

Cumming reprised his role as the Emcee. He was on fire. Natasha Richardson, the daughter of Vanessa Redgrave and director Tony Richardson, played Sally Bowles. She was not on fire. She’d never been in a musical before, and when she sang, “There was absolutely no sound coming out,” Kander says.

“She beat herself up about her singing all the time,” Mendes adds. “There was a deep, self-critical aspect of Tash that was instilled by her dad, a brilliant man but extremely cutting.” He once said to her out of nowhere: “We’re going to have to do something about your chin, dear.” As Mendes saw it, she always felt that she could never measure up to her parents.

Kander went to work with her, and slowly a voice emerged. It was not a “polished sound,” Marshall says, but it was haunting, vulnerable. Still, Cumming was walking away with the show. At the first preview, when he took his bow, the audience roared. When Richardson took hers, they were polite. Mendes remembers going backstage and finding her “in tears.” But she persevered and through sheer force of will created a Sally Bowles that “will break your heart,” Masteroff told me the day before I saw that production in the spring of 1998. She did indeed. (Eleven years later, while learning how to ski on a bunny hill on Mont Tremblant, she fell down. She died of a head injury two days later.)

The revival of Cabaret won four Tony Awards, including one for Richardson as best actress in a musical. It ran nearly 2,400 performances at the Roundabout’s Studio 54 and was revived again in 2014. And the money, money, money, as the song goes, poured in. Once Masteroff, having already filed his taxes at the end of a lucrative Cabaret year, went to the mailbox and opened a royalty check for $60,000. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” he snapped.

Rebecca Frecknall grew up on Mendes’s Donmar Warehouse production of Cabaret. The BBC filmed it, and when it aired, her father videotaped it. She watched it “religiously.” But when she came to direct her production, she had to put Mendes’s version out of her mind.

Mendes turned his little theater into a nightclub. Frecknall, working with the brilliant set and costume designer Tom Scutt, has upped the game. They have transformed the entire theater into a Weimar cabaret. You stand in line at the stage door, waiting, you hope, to be let in. Once inside, you’re served drinks while the Kit Kat Club girls dance and flirt with you. The show’s logo is a geometric eye. Scutt sprinkles the motif throughout his sets and costumes. “It’s all part of the voyeurism,” Scutt explains. “The sense of always being watched, always watching—responsibility, culpability, implication, blame.”

REDMAYNE’S EMCEE IS STILL SEXY AND SEDUCTIVE, BUT AS THE SHOW GOES ON HE BECOMES A PUPPET MASTER MANIPULATING THE OTHER CHARACTERS, SOMETIMES TO THEIR DOOM.

Mendes’s Cabaret, like Fosse’s, had a black-and-white aesthetic—black fishnet stockings, black leather coats, a white face for the Emcee. Frecknall and Scutt begin their show with bright colors, which slowly fade to gray as the walls close in on the characters. “Color and individuality—to grayness and homogeneity,” Frecknall says.

As the first woman to direct a major production of Cabaret, Frecknall has focused attention on the Kit Kat Club girls—Rosie, Fritzie, Frenchie, Lulu, and Texas. “Often what I’ve seen in other productions is this homogenized group of pretty, white, skinny girls in their underwear,” she insists. Her Kit Kat Club girls are multiethnic. Some are transgender. Through performances and costumes, they are no longer appendages of the Emcee but vivid characters in their own right.

Her boldest stroke has been to reinvent the Emcee. She and Redmayne have turned him into a force of malevolence. He is still sexy and seductive, but as the show goes on, he becomes a skeletal puppet master manipulating the other characters to, in many cases, their doom. If Cumming’s Emcee was, in the end, a Holocaust victim, Redmayne’s is, in Frecknall’s words, “a perpetrator.”

Unwrapping a grilled cheese sandwich in his enormous Upper West Side townhouse, Kander says that his husband had recently asked him a pointed question: “Did it ever occur to you that all of you guys who created Cabaret were Jewish?”

“Not really,” Kander replied. “We were just trying to put on a show.” Or, as Masteroff once said: “It was a job.”

It’s a “job” that has endured. The producers of the Broadway revival certainly have faith in the show’s staying power. They’ve spent $25 million on the production, a big chunk of it going to reconfigure the August Wilson Theatre into the Kit Kat Club. Audience members will enter through an alleyway, be given a glass of schnapps, and can then enjoy a preshow drink at a variety of lounges designed by Scutt: The Pineapple Room, Red Bar, Green Bar, and Vault Bar. The show will be performed in the round, tables and chairs ringing the stage. And they’ll be able to enjoy a bottle (or two) of top-flight Champagne throughout the performance.

This revival is certainly the most lavish Cabaret in a long time. But there have been hundreds of other, less heralded productions over the years, with more on the way. A few months before Russia invaded Ukraine, Cabaret was running in Moscow. Last December, Concord Theatricals, which licenses the show, authorized a production at the Molodyy Theatre in Kyiv. And a request is in for a production in Israel, the first since the show was produced in Tel Aviv in 2014.

“The interesting thing about the piece is that it seems to change with the times,” Kander says. “Nothing about it seems to be written in stone except its narrative and its implications.”

And whenever someone tells him the show is more relevant than ever, Kander shakes his head and says, “I know. And isn’t that awful?”′

You can also listen the entire article here !!

https://www.vanityfair.com/style/cabaret-revival

I know it's a very long article , but very interesting!!

[dujourslavemix]

found this pic last night, awesome 🐆

[hyzenthlayroseart]

I remembered that back in 2014 Emma Stone starred on Broadway as Sally Bowles in Cabaret, and since I love Emma Stone and Cabaret is one of my favorite musicals I had to draw her as Sally.

Sigh....who wants to make a time machine so I can go back to 2014 and see her perform as Sally in person.  Oh but first we'll have to rob a bank so we can actually afford to see a Broadway show lmao.

[supercantaloupe]

tag meme post thread was long as shit so i'm starting a new one instead. anyway tagged by @flammableengineering thank youu

i shall tag @tragedyposting @signawyvern @theresa-of-liechtenstein @malusienki and @leporellian

[michiruze]

this....i have Broadweeb (aka broadway lovers -- it's a term i use to describe them hehe) moots and sometimes i wonder how they're able to even watch them?? I want to get into Ramin Karimloo but I don't even know how to even -find- recordings of his stage performances. At least I have his singing voice to listen to.

I get if they're hyping up National Theatre productions which they sometimes let us watch recordings of it online but American theatre productions very rarely gets releases of recordings :(

theater is such an expensive hobby damn maybe i'm glad i'm just surface level lmao?

[gepetordi2]

Emma Stone / publicity photo for the Broadway production of Cabaret (2014)

[icedsodapop]

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A post shared by Shoshana (@bwaysho)

Finally, some fucking good stunt casting. Both of them are actually talented performers for Cabaret who are also actually queer to boot, compared to previous A-list actors who have been in Cabaret. Full disrespect but Eddie Redmayne can go fuck himself for his centrist stance on Rowling's transphobia and Emma Stone cannot sing for shit.

[quinnfebrey]

i’m watching cabaret w alan and emma stone and wow i really feel like the current revival hid from the politics of the show and i can’t figure out why :/

[eddieredmayneargentinablog]

New post: "EDDIE REDMAYNE & GAYLE RANKIN BRING AUDIENCES INTO THE KIT KAT CLUB"

FRANK DILELLA | FEBRUARY 6, 2024.

Starting April 1, a hearty “Willkommen” awaits at the enticing and electrifying Kit Kat Club (a.k.a., the August Wilson Theatre) on 52nd Street on Broadway. The London transfer of the 2022 Olivier Award–winning revival of Cabaret is one of the most highly anticipated musicals of the spring season. Tony-winning actor Eddie Redmayne is set to reprise his performance of the Emcee, a role he won an Olivier for when he opened the show in the West End. He’ll be joined by actress Gayle Rankin, who is new to this production of Cabaret, taking on the show’s leading lady, Sally Bowles. Entertainment journalist for Spectrum News NY1 Frank DiLella caught up with both Redmayne and Rankin to talk their love of Cabaret and much more.

Eddie, congratulations on the Broadway transfer of this brilliant revival. How are you feeling knowing you’re once again taking on the Emcee in Cabaret?

EDDIE REDMAYNE: Thanks so much. Honestly, this is one of the pieces that made me fall in love with theater as a kid, so the fact that I got to play this iconic part on stage professionally in London was truly a bucket-list moment fulfilled. But when I was about 9 or 10, I became oddly obsessed with New York. London was home, but I was always looking at photographs of New York, researching the place. When I eventually came to the city and went to Times Square, it was one of those completely overwhelming sensations. I remember my whole body reacting. So the idea that I now get the chance to play this part in this show that I’m so passionate about in the mecca of musical theater — which is Broadway — is beautifully daunting and also 100 percent thrilling!

Gayle, Cabaret seems to be your show. You were part of the 2014 Roundabout revival with Alan Cumming — you played Fraulein Kost.

GAYLE RANKIN: I can’t tell you how moving it is to have worked on Cabaret a decade ago, and after lovingly letting it go, it’s come back to me with the gargantuan gift of Sally. [Laughs.] It is my show! I feel wildly privileged to be able to say that. I know I have to continue to earn that privilege because of what the show is and what it means. But I have never felt more ready to do that now, inside of this amazing production and with this incredible group of artists.

Eddie, when were you first introduced to Cabaret?

ER: I was first introduced to it when I was in school; I was around 15 or 16, and there was a little production being done at my school. And that was the first time I listened to the music. I remember hunting down all the possible CD versions I could find. I remember looking for a production to see, but there were none playing in London, so the very first production I ever saw of Cabaret was, randomly, the Spanish version in Madrid — and it was the Sam Mendes version, but in Spanish! I was 19 and completely blown away. Since then, I saw Emma Stone and Alan Cumming do it brilliantly in New York, and of course Rufus Norris’s version in London. I’m a sort of Cabaret junkie.

How about you, Gayle?

GR: The first time I was introduced to it was when I was in a musical-theater program in Scotland and one of the other young women had been given the song “Maybe This Time,” and I remember being like, “Wow! What a song!” That’s when I was introduced to Cabaret as a property.

Eddie, it’s my understanding that you were instrumental with making this production of Cabaret take shape.

ER: Ha! It’s been a long old road. After I did Cabaret in school in my late teens, there was an amateur production of Cabaret going to the Edinburgh Festival, and I got cast in that, and the venue that we were doing the show in was called The Underbelly. It was dark and damp and people were sitting around tables. I loved every minute, and it affirmed my want to be an actor. The guys who set up that venue became producers professionally and the Underbelly transformed to become a brilliant venue and producing house in the U.K. They approached me about seven years ago and asked if I would ever consider doing Cabaret again. It had always been on my bucket list, and I thought long and hard about it — as I said, it’s dream territory. Then Jessie Buckley leapt into my mind, who is an extraordinary actor and singer, and she and I plotted together. We both approached the brilliant director Rebecca Frecknall, and piece by piece this thing built momentum. But it had been done so beautifully and vividly before, we only wanted to do it if we could find a new way in, something that perhaps hadn’t been explored before.  And with Rebecca, the brilliant Tom Scutt, Julia Cheng, and Jordan Fein — our designer, choreographer, and prologue director — we took on this idea of inviting an audience through the underbelly of the theatre, taking them through this experience so by the time they arrive in the theatre, they’ve truly left all their troubles outside.

Eddie, you’re taking on one of the great roles of the musical theater, the Emcee, and I have to say, having seen you on stage in London, your Emcee is different compared to Joel Grey’s and Alan Cumming’s.

ER: I think one of the reasons he’s such an appealing part is because he’s one of the most enigmatic parts that I’ve ever read, witnessed, or experienced. The Emcee was a part that was created by Joel and Hal Prince [director of the original Cabaret] to join scenes together. He has no literary basis. So in some ways, the part exists in an abstract way. One of the things that I tried to do when I first started was I attempted to rationalize him and create a backstory. But the second you try to pin him down, he falls flat — he’s too quixotic for that. In the end it became trying to find a way into him physically and through instinct alone. It felt like a high-wire act. But a thrilling one.

Gayle, Sally Bowles is one of the great female roles in musical theater. Who is your Sally?

GR: My Sally is close to me. I think she’s only to be known truly by me. Sally can infamously live in a space where she can be pitied to people, and I don’t think that’s the whole story. There’s more to be told about her. And I feel compelled to take that on.

Do you feel that your experience of doing the 2014 Cabaret revival with Alan Cumming, where you played a Kit Kat Club girl and Fraulein Kost, prepped you for Sally?

GR: How could it not? For something to live inside of you both consciously and unconsciously — I hope I’ve evolved as a person and as an artist, and I feel like I’ve never been more ready to take Sally on. And I feel like I’m a big enough girl to admit the 2014 production — I was not in a place or was the right person to play Sally even though I had the time of my life with that show.

Sally gets some amazing musical moments. “Maybe This Time,” “Cabaret,” “Don’t Tell Mama” … Favorite tune in the show?

GR: It’s always been “I Don’t Care Much” [sung by the Emcee]. Sally’s songs are almost too meaningful; I can’t pick one, they’re like children. [Laughs.] But there’s something about “I Don’t Care Much” that’s so essential to the conversation and the story and lives inside of all those characters. This longing for hope during so much horror. That song just moves me.

Gayle, take me to your opening night, when you take your bow as Sally Bowles.

GR: [Laughs.] Frank! What a question. Now I’m crying. My niece will be there, and she’s 12, and I’ll probably be looking at her. I’ll probably be tired. [Laughs.] I think I’m going to be really happy.

This show is quite the experience. Give a little preview of what New York audiences can expect once they enter the Kit Kat Club.

ER: I can’t paint that picture for you just yet because it’s in the process of being built and designed by Tom Scutt. Tom Scutt is one of the most thrilling creative minds I’ve had the privilege to work with. What his plans are for New York are completely captivating. The idea is that you’re brought in as an audience not through the conventional way of the theatre — you’re met by an entire prologue cast of dancers and musicians. You are submerged into the world of Cabaret from the second you pass the threshold. For me, I hope it makes the experience — you will feel like you’re part of an all-consuming event. You will also get to witness Gayle’s Sally — Gayle is a volcano of talent — Bebe Neuwirth’s Fraulein Schneider, Ato Blankson-Wood’s Cliff, Steven Skybell’s Schultz. A staggering ensemble — the list goes on. So many exciting things.

Eddie, you’re following in the footsteps of two celebrated actors who played the role of the Emcee: Joel Grey and Alan Cumming. Any interaction with them?

ER: I haven’t with Alan since I’ve played it. I met Alan in Los Angeles years ago and he’s just an extraordinary talent. Joel, I had never met, but then I got through the first act of Cabaret on opening night in London, and at the interval some flowers arrived and I opened the card and it was from Joel Grey. And in the midst of our opening night show, opening his generous card was one of the great moments.

I was so haunted by this production when I saw it in London. The time feels right to see and experience Cabaret.

ER: There is something so searingly relevant with this piece. And I feel like whenever Cabaret is being done, it’s relevant. But with what’s going on in the world today, I feel like it’s a cautionary tale — it sings loudly and clear and it’s this idea of the fear of the other. The political gain of “othering” people. And that constant repetition of scapegoating and hatred is what we’re seeing in our politics now.

GR: I’m not sure what John Kander and Fred Ebb and Joe Masteroff were channeling when they were writing this — they were able to tap into something that’s so cyclical. And as a humanity, I think we all hope that Cabaret becomes not as relevant as it is.

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[angstics]

UGHHHHH i shouldve downloaded that cabaret emma stone boot that was on youtube for some reason so i couldve started trading as a hobby

[imintoomanyfandomss]

ok so google drive has messed me up and deleted my drive with all my bootlegs so i’m after losing over half of my bootlegs so here’s an updated list of what i manage to still have!

- Rent: Hope Mill Theatre

-Six: - West end

- Hampton court audio

-A new brain: 1998

-Amelie: - Broadway

- London cast

- Pippin: Pro shot

- The Prom

- Grease: Us Tour

- Angels in America

- Alice by Heart

- Come from away

- Anastasia: Closing night

- Ride the Cyclone

- Sweeney Todd: 3rd revival preview 2023 (audio)

- Lion King: OBC

- Chess

- Cabaret: third broadway revival (emma stone)

- Frozen: Us tour

- Almost famous: Broadway (October 8th 2022)

-Into the woods: 2nd revival Broadway (22/23) (audios)

- Moulin Rouge: Broadway (Aaron Tveit)

- Wicked: Broadway

- Catch Me if You Can: Broadway (Aaron Tveit)

- Company: Broadway

- Aaron Tveit Concert

- Beetlejuice: Broadway reopening (April 2022)

- Phantom of the Opera: Broadway (March 23)

- Kimberly Akimbo: Broadway November 2021

- Legally Blonde: West End Regent Park

- Newsies: West End Audio

[eddie-redmayne-italian-blog]

New Article Interview!!

Tonys Roundtable: Rachel McAdams, Kelli O’Hara, Leslie Odom Jr., Sarah Paulson, Daniel Radcliffe and Eddie Redmayne on Broadway Paths, Parts and Pet Peeves

The talented sextet — nominated for 'Mary Jane,' 'Days of Wine and Roses,' 'Purlie Victorious,' 'Appropriate,' 'Merrily We Roll Along' and 'Cabaret,' respectively — sat down with THR ahead of the 77th Tony Awards.

BY SCOTT FEINBERG

Ph. JESSE ILAN KORNBLUTH

Eddie, you grew up in England but made it to New York when you were still very young… EDDIE REDMAYNE I was a kid of the ’80s in London, which meant the mega-musicals were a massive deal — the [Andrew] Lloyd Webbers and the [Alain] Boubil and [Claude-Michel] Schonbergs. The first theater I saw — I was aged about 7 — was Cats, and I remember the sets, these gigantic tomato ketchup things, and then it would turn in the round, and then suddenly cats appeared at my feet and scared the living daylights out of me. And I was completely seduced. PAULSON That’ll do it. REDMAYNE Exactly, some ’80s leotards and some cracking songs — talking of which, Cats: The Jellicle Ball is about to start here! PAULSON Sign me up — to watch it! [Laughs.] REDMAYNE But I remember, I instinctively just loved it so much. My parents, for my birthday, would take me to see one of these shows, and — this is slightly embarrassing to admit — I remember I would weep at the interval because I knew I only had half of it left. As far as New York was concerned? We were brought up on American culture, so seeing this city, it was the zenith of aspiration. When I came in my early teens or whatever, I remember coming to Broadway, and to this day, as we walk on the way to work from the subway, you walk past Times Square, and it just has this thing, doesn’t it? It’s electric, and it’s vibrant, and it never loses that “Come on in!” Its pulse is pulling you in. And so yeah, it was always something that I aspired to.

Eddie, in Cabaret you play The Emcee at the Kit Kat Club in Berlin as the Nazis come to power. The show has been around since 1966, and the film version came out in 1972, but your version is, from what I’ve gathered, very deliberately different than prior incarnations with Joel Grey, Alan Cumming and others. And you have your own long history with it… REDMAYNE I played The Emcee when I was about 15 years old at school — which feels a bit inappropriate now, I think. I didn’t know Cabaret when I first did it, so I watched the film and listened to all the recordings and was just stunned by it. It seduced me. It moved me. It made me laugh, and it made me think, “That’s what I dream of when I go to the theater.” And even though I didn’t necessarily understand all those things when I was a kid, it really stuck with me. Then, I did it again at the Edinburgh Festival when I was about 19 in a production in this grimy venue; we were out flyering every day trying to persuade people to come to the festival dressed in latex and PVC, and then at night we would do the show at 8:00 in the evening, and it would finish at 11:00, and then we’d have half an hour and do another show. And then the people who created that venue at the Edinburgh Festival — they’re called The Underbelly, and it became their business, these site-specific comedy shows — became really successful in London. About nine years ago, they asked me, “Would you ever consider doing this again?” And since then I’d seen every production of Cabaret that I could touch. I saw the Sam Mendes production in Barcelona, in Spanish; I’d seen Alan do it with Emma Stone so stunningly here; I’ve seen the Rufus Norris production; and I just love it. So, when they approached me about doing it, I thought, “I would love to, but only if we’re going to do something that hasn’t been seen or a new take on it.” And I’d just seen this production of Summer and Smoke in London, directed by Rebecca Frecknall, that had blown my mind — it was so poised, and it was stunningly designed by a guy called Tom Scott — so I went and spoke to Frecks and she said, “I’d love to do it.” But at this point, we didn’t have the rights. It’s impossible to get the rights to Cabaret — everyone dreams of doing it! So it became one of those pipe dreams that was never going to happen. But, even at that stage, we wanted to do it site-specific, so we’d found this old music hall in London underneath a train station in Angel, which basically now looked like a concrete car park in the shape of the Globe Theatre, and we thought, “If we could take people down fire escapes, and then the show could turn into Bergheim afterward and into a club, could that be interesting?” Then COVID happened. Afterward, the producers, ATG, who had jumped on board, said, “Look, we’ve got all these theaters that have been sitting empty. Could we ever take the experiential idea of taking an audience to an evening where, once they step over the threshold, they pass dancers and musicians and get discombobulated into a world where, by the time they reach the show proper, they’ve left all their troubles behind?” And I’ve always loved the backstage of theaters and seeing the grime and the grot behind the presentation. So that’s what we dug into.

And on Broadway, you guys basically invite people to arrive at 6:45 p.m. for what you call a prologue, and for over an hour before you ever show up onstage, bars are open and dancers are dancing and a whole vibe is created — it’s really its own show. REDMAYNE The dancers are extraordinary. Our choreographer, Julia Cheng, comes from a clubbing background, so one of the things we’re trying to do with the show is, although it’s very specifically set in its period, the echoes are so tangible now, and so the dance vocabulary is from waacking, from voguing, from contemporary club culture in the same way as the costumes. We’re not going, “This happened then; it can never happen again.” The costumes refer to contemporary fashions. There aren’t lots of Nazis in Nazi uniforms. It’s all trying to go, “Wait. There are regressions, things that we’ve talked about now, powers and rights being taken away and pulled back, and the loss of individuality.” Hopefully, the evening makes you think.

REDMAYNE I certainly agree with you about the physical costs. What I find interesting about doing Cabaret in the musical theater world is it demands a different set of skills that I’ve not necessarily harbored all my life and trained all my life. And whilst I look forward to serving this extraordinary piece every night, I’m filled with fear of whether technically I’m going to be capable to serve that. My wife, as I was having a complete meltdown in the lead-up to doing this, was back in London and reading Andre Agassi’s memoir [Open] — O’HARA Oh, it’s the best memoir! REDMAYNE And there’s a passage in it in which he talks about going to a musical on Broadway and how he relates to musical theater people because it’s that monastic, athletic living of having to eat, sleep and breathe something. My wife was sending it to me basically going, “Come on, you’re like Agassi!” But I’ve found that nothing upsets me more than when I have to go onstage to serve this stunning score in this extraordinary part in a beautiful — or I hope it’s a beautiful — production, and you are worried that you don’t have the facility to serve it to its full potential.

Does your ability to handle the demands of these parts vary depending on specific days of the week?

PAULSON Can I ask a question? Does anybody else loathe when people come on a Tuesday?

MCADAMS Yes!

PAULSON I hate the Tuesday show! When you come to see me on a Tuesday, I am so upset. People are like, “Lady, this was the time I could come…”

I would have assumed that on Tuesday, having had Monday off, you’re at your freshest…

O’HARA No. You’re not warm.

PAULSON A Tuesday, to me, I just feel like I’m finding my sea legs for the first 20 minutes of the play.

MCADAMS Yeah, you only had one day off, but it feels like a month.

O’HARA Tuesday’s not a good day. Don’t come on Tuesday.

REDMAYNE Guys! We need people to come on Tuesdays! [laughs and then jokingly continues] It’s my favorite night of the week!

RADCLIFFE It could go either way. It either feels like, “Oh, I’m back and I feel fresh,” or “I feel like I’ve never done the show before.”

Right. When I saw that, and ever since, I have said, “This is the greatest voice I’ve ever heard.” It was a great show. But it didn’t last very long. You never know what goes into these things — I read something where Leslie said that if Hamilton had come along five years earlier, who knows if even it would’ve clicked. It may be about just catching the zeitgeist. So I just wonder the degree to which you guys think about these things…

ODOM I’d love to hear you [O’Hara] talk about it because I —

O’HARA Why? Because this one closed too? [Laughs]

ODOM When I came to see you guys, man, did I love it so much.

O’HARA Listen, this musical was about alcoholism. Deep, dark alcoholism. And a love story, but riddled with this third player, right? So it wasn’t for everybody. I knew that it wasn’t the most commercial thing. It was an art piece, and I was so proud of that, actually. And we’re lucky that it had a space on Broadway for even a minute. But what killed me is that I felt like the population that needed it — us all being the daughter or having had that mother or knowing that father or whatever it was — I was worried that we hadn’t reached them. I sometimes worry that the business can be very formulaic, especially in how we sell things. And I was concerned that we weren’t reaching the audience, the whole new generation of sober-curious people, and people that don’t usually come to theater, or whole organizations that thrive and survive on sobriety or that need to have the conversation constantly or to see themselves in a story.

We were being told to sell it as a love story. We were deceiving people as they walked in the door, and I’m saying this out loud because it was one of the most painful parts of the process for me — to be doing that much, to be giving that much of my heart, and being so satisfied by the performance, and then I would literally have someone every single night come and see it and say, “Oh, I had no idea it was about alcoholism.” I jumped back on social media when we got the closing notice and started trying to promote the show, sweating, just to get more people in front of this beautiful piece of work. And I felt sad and angry because there was a time when that wasn’t your job as much; your job was to do eight shows a week with all your heart. But it felt like, “Gosh, I should have been more of an influencer. I should have been having things on the sidewalk [like Hamilton did].” And I started to get desperate because when you work on something for 20 years, and you know how special it is… But then you have to check yourself and say, “It’s special to me, and that doesn’t always translate to special to the larger community.” But it’s painful. When you’re in something that means the world to you, and it’s closing, it’s heartbreaking because it feels like a death.

REDMAYNE There’s something interesting that I’ve noticed, and that’s the extraordinary difference between doing a commercial play in the West End and on Broadway. The idea of grosses being announced and your makeup artist knowing them every Tuesday and telling you? In London, I had no idea. But here, as a producer on Cabaret as well, I had to say, in the producer meetings, “I’ll sit on all the calls, but I don’t want to know.”

With our remaining time, I’m going to give a few prompts and ask you to say the first thing that comes to your mind. To begin with: Excluding family, whose attendance at one of the performances of your show has meant the most to you?

PAULSON Laurie Metcalf.

RADCLIFFE Martin Short.

REDMAYNE Joel Grey.

MCADAMS Linda Maskell, my high school drama teacher — the reason I’m here.

ODOM Kathleen Battle came to our last performance, and I fell on the floor.

What’s the most unusual thing in your dressing room?

RADCLIFFE A small plastic basketball hoop that was left by Alex Edelman, who was in the show before ours. He said, “Do you want to keep it?” I was like, “Yeah, obviously!”

PAULSON I had a fan send me what looks like a taxidermy dog that is an identical replica of my dog. Everyone walks in the room, and they’re like, “Your dog is so calm!” I was like, “This is not a real dog.”

REDMAYNE Mine is something that looks like a loaf of really soft white bread, but it’s a stress ball. It was given to me by Jamie, who does my wigs. One day I was so in tears that she was like, “Eddie, you need some anger bread.”

What’s the most annoying thing that audiences, or at least some members thereof, are doing these days?

ODOM The cell phone thing. We had one crazy show where we had three or four cell phones going off. When you hear the first one, you should think, “Oh, shoot, let me actually turn mine off.” But there was a second one. And a third one. And it was in the first 20 minutes of the show. And so I did have to stop the show and say, “There’s grace in this moment. There’s amnesty. Let’s really do it [turn off all phones].”

PAULSON Good for you. God, I love that you did that. There is this thing of, “Let’s just be here together, all of us. You do your part. I’ll do mine.” I do feel like there is an alchemy every night, depending on what the audience is bringing and what we’re bringing.

O’HARA Oh, sure. They’re the final collaborator.

PAULSON Yes, they are the final collaborator.

MCADAMS I think people don’t realize that. I think they think you can’t even see them. I thought I wouldn’t be able to see them, but I can see everything. I can see when you’re sleeping. I can see you when you open your phone to see what time it is.

PAULSON I think the most annoying new thing that’s happening is everyone seems to have their cell phone in their lap, and so there’s all the phones dropping on the floor. And at the Helen Hayes, where we started, there’s no carpet, and so it would just be like [makes clanking noise]. Now, at the Belasco, you just hear this dull thud onto a carpet.

Eddie, there’s a lot of people that are getting smashed at your show, right? Is that an issue?

REDMAYNE “Come to Cabaret and get smashed!”

O’HARA “Especially on Tuesdays!”

REDMAYNE We do have a few vocal people. There was a moment last night when Gayle [Rankin, Redmayne’s Tony-nominated co-star], who is extraordinary in the show, was singing “Mein Herr,” and she got to that bit, “And I do, what I do, and I’m through, toodle-oo” — and literally there was a woman like, “Oh, my gosh, I love the ‘toodle-oo’!” [Laughs.] So occasionally, you get a good vocal Cabaret support.

MCADAMS Just a question. I remember someone — was it Jack White? — was asking people at concerts to put their phones in lockers or something. Has that happened on Broadway?

PAULSON They did it during Take Me Out because of the nudity. They did that. So, I know it can be done, and I would love to know why we don’t just do it. Just put your phone in a cubbyhole —

MCADAMS We’ll charge it for you.

PAULSON Would that be some cost-prohibitive thing to implement?

RADCLIFFE At Merrily, it’s been OK. I think being in a musical covers a lot — I’m sure stuff’s happening during those songs, but I can’t hear it. But since we’re here, my two favorites: On Equus, there was seating onstage, and I was onstage the whole time, and if I wasn’t in the scene I would just go back to sit on one of these four blocks — it was supposed to be my room at the hospital. And there was one night when I got to my block in the first scene that I wasn’t in, and two girls in the seats just started talking to me, just full voice, while Richard Griffiths and Kate Mulgrew were doing a scene behind me, just going, “Dan! Dan! Look up here!” It carried on through the whole first act. And then I was like, “I don’t need them to leave. But can they just go into the main auditorium so that they’re not just trying to speak to me through the show?” And then my other favorite audience member? I was doing Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead in London, and this dude came in, sat down, and, through Josh McGuire’s first monologue as Guildenstern, which is incredibly complicated, took out a footlong sandwich, wrapped in tin foil, unwrapped the whole thing, ate it in its entirety and fell asleep for the rest of the first act. But then in the second act, he was the most attentive audience member — jumped up at the end and clapped. I wanted to be like, “Wait, did you have a good time?” “Yeah. I had a dinner, had a sleep and saw half of a great show.”

If you could snap your fingers and make it so, what would be the ideal number of performances your show would offer per week?

RADCLIFFE I don’t want to make myself unpopular, but I like the grind.

ODOM I mean, listen, the ideal would be six, right? Six or seven.

PAULSON I think the Wednesday matinee is the one I would chuck. Because when you start the Tuesday week, and then you’ve got that matinee right away? I would like to do seven with no Wednesday mat.

O’HARA I would do anything to have two days in a row off.

REDMAYNE When you get two days off, your voice can really recover.

MCADAMS Oh, fuck that Tuesday show. [Laughs.] To get the Sunday or the Sunday night-Monday-Tuesday stretch off — I mean, I might actually leave the city and go somewhere where there’s nature.

Last one. If you could play any role on the stage that you have not played before — somebody’s listening — what would it be?

PAULSON I would like to do The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?

REDMAYNE Oh! Which I would love to see you in. That was the first play I ever did in London, and you would be magnificent in that part.

RADCLIFFE I’ll know it when I see it.

REDMAYNE I’m exactly the same. I’m much better when people tell me which part I should play.

ODOM Someday — and it ain’t soon — I want to do Lear.

And the Purlie musical maybe still?

ODOM It could happen.

Rachel? Are you going to come back for more after this?

MCADAMS Not next year! [Laughs.] I would love to star in any musical, but that will never happen. So this is just all pipe dreams. But yeah, anywhere I could sing. I started out doing Disney musicals at theater camp, and I was so bad that the teacher said to me, “You know, you might be really good in the Shakespeare camp,” and sent me on my way, and it was devastating. But it was the right thing in the end.

full interview here!!

https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/lifestyle/arts/tony-nominations-roundtable-rachel-mcadams-daniel-radcliffe-eddie-redmayne-1235918192/

[kiras-monkey-bum-face]

omfg my favourite cabaret bootleg with emma stone has found its way back to youtube it's a fucking party in my bedroom tonight