GRAND HOTEL

By Luther Davis
Directed by Eda Holmes
At the Festival Theatre, Shaw Festival
Niagara-on-the-Lake, May 23-October 14, 2018

James Daly (Baron) and Michael Therriault (Kringelein) with the Company

This 1989 musical, based on Vicki Baum’s 1929 novel and the all-star MGM film of 1932, won 5 Tonys and ran for 1,107 performances, mainly because of Tommy Tune’s brilliant direction and choreography which earned two of those Tonys. Alas, the Shaw Festival version isn’t very grand, nor is the hotel much to write home about. Of course, it is a schematic musical because (as Ken Tynan reminded us in an old film review), like many old-fashioned extravaganzas, the story and characters are confined in cubicles or rooms or (if at sea) cabins, and characters are thrown together or, wander around, at any rate, in the same environment, whether this be an aeroplane, ship, bus, or island. Grand Hotel is set in Weimar Berlin but this is not quite the Berlin of Kander and Ebb’s Cabaret (a far superior musical because of far superior Isherwood source material and technical accomplishments from set, lighting, and music to choreography and acting), though the music and lyrics pay some homage to Kurt Weill and German jazz and director Eda Holmes probably desperately wishes it were Kander and Ebb. Without the seedy, devilishly seductive rogue-emcee of Cabaret, she gives us (with the collaborative performance of Steven Sutcliffe) a seriously crippled drug addict of a Colonel-Doctor who limps around on what could well be at least one wooden leg while sounding deliberately ironic: “People come and people go. Nothing ever happens.” Well, true on at least one count, though what really happens in this instance is a largely boring failure.

The crucial element in the story is the ease with which it interweaves characters and stories from different strata of society. There is the industrialist Preysing (Jay Turvey), whose shady tactics are catching up with him. His secretary Flaemmchen (Vanessa Sears) has Hollywood stars in her eyes and is more than willing to sell her glam body for stardom. Then there are the aging ballerina Elizaveta Grushinskaya (Deborah Hay) who is desperate to revive her fading career, and her loyal personal aide Raffaele (Patty Jameson) who has more than a platonic affection for her employer. The ballerina comes to life when she meets a charming young Baron (James Daly) who for all his dash is a rather broke jewel-thief. This mixture of sociology and romantic danger is complemented by a dash of comic pathos in the figure of the fatally ill Jewish bookkeeper Otto Kringelein (Michael Therriault) who is determined to have a wild fling with adventure at the hotel before death claims him.  An assortment of very busy and noisy telephone operators and a corps of hotel maids, bellhops, chauffeur, scullery worker, courtesan, and two Jimmys round out the ensemble, along with a nervous young assistant concierge Erik (Travis Seetoo) who is an expectant father-to-be.

The Broadway original had all the dash, sass, verve, and vigour of an American musical, with a spectacular double-decker set and a staircase to rival those in Hello, Dolly or Gone with the Wind. In other words, the decadence was divine for the concoction of lust, love, deception, and doom. At the Shaw, Judith Bowden’s design wants to thrive on decadence without the divine. Her largely empty set seems deconstructed, with chairs either suspended mid-air or upturned on the floor where a chandelier also lies, and Kevin Fraser’s lighting is adapted to the general gloom, though, thankfully, it recovers for the big show-stopping numbers. But, truly, these are few and far between because there is really only a single outstanding male dancer (Matt Nethersole) and two female ones (Kiera Sangster and Vanessa Sears). As for the singing, nothing really hit the heights, apart from Sears’s life-affirming “Girl in the Mirror,” though Hay (terribly miscast visually and physically as the despondent ballerina) is touchingly wistful in her solo “Bonjour Amour.”

The general acting is cliched and rather empty, and I was mainly bored with the show, though Michael Therriault as the old, suffering Jew with a heart of gold, provides small relief as he repeats some of his highly praised and practised physical clowning from last season’s justly celebrated Me and My Girl. He is funny without being truly moving, but his very drunken, rubbery-legged “We’ll Take a Glass Together” (with support from the Baron, the Jimmys, and the Company) is a definite relief in this mediocre hotel, where banalities thrive in the shallows of creative imagination.

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THE MAGICIAN’S NEPHEW

By C.S. Lewis
Adapted by Michael O’Brien
Directed by Tim Carroll
At the Festival Theatre, Niagara-on-the-Lake
Till October 13, 2018

Travis Seetoo (Digory), Vanessa Sears (Polly), and Matt Nethersole (Fledge) (photo: Emily Cooper)

The world premiere of Michael O’Brien’s stage adaptation of a C.S. Lewis classic (one part of a seven-part fantasy series) is given added lustre by Tim Carroll’s whole-hearted belief in the power of our own “imaginary forces.” The story in The Magician’s Nephew is a prequel to the world-famous The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, but was actually published later. In it, the audience is taken back to the start of how Narnia came into being when two children left their own home to time-travel, as it were, into another, strange but magical one. As director, Englishman Carroll himself travels between worlds, not only as artistic director of the largest Canadian theatre company dedicated to the plays of George Bernard Shaw but as a resourceful theatre director diving back into his own boyhood in England when he grew up reading the Narnia books, when children were not seduced by mega Hollywood films with mega-expensive special effects. The strongest artistic resource, he knows, is also the simplest one: human imagination that can charm an audience into becoming collaborators with tale-tellers. Carroll had a larger production budget at Stratford a couple of years ago when he directed a colourfully expansive version of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. At the Shaw this season, he works more economically on a children’s tale but no less magically.

Before the tale proper is told, there are “dream detectives”—in this case, characters in tweed who speak in English accents because, of course, this is a tale from England about very English (which is to say, articulate) children of a certain class in a literate era. The “detectives” are investigating dream activity in wartime England—really London of a century ago. They are experts in the reconstruction of dreams, and they wish for the audience to share a particular dream—and herein starts the tale proper about young Digory (Travis Seetoo), whose father is away in the army, and whose mother is ailing. Digory’s Uncle Andrew (Steven Sutcliffe in the most detailed character study) is always in his study or attic lair, concocting some magic or other having to do with coloured rings made from fairy dust (one colour to take you somewhere, another to bring you back). The prospect of Digory and his friend Polly’s (Vanessa Sears) travelling between worlds is wonderfully brought to stage life—and it is chiefly achieved by cardboard boxes and by paper masks. Talk about wartime austerity in Britain, but austerity is very much the mother of invention in this case.

Ensemble configuring boxes in a scene change for The Magician’s Nephew (photo: Emily Cooper)

Carroll’s cast never pretends it is not pretending. Seetoo and Sears make for good foils to each other, he with a touch of premature chauvinism, she with totally non-cloying good sense. Jay Turvey calls out cues for scene changes, and the ensemble goes through its paces in multiple roles. Early 19th century London is evoked by cockneys (most prominently by Michael Therriault’s cabbie), gas lamps, Kyle Blair’s patriotic soldier (though not mysterious enough later in the actor’s doubling as Aslan), and horse-drawn carriages. The most memorable London horse is Strawberry, mimed excellently by Matt Nethersole. In another dimension, in a universe far away, the protagonists encounter Jadis, the sleeping witch who has killed off an entire kingdom with her deadly spells, and whom Deborah Hay plays vividly with a mixture of sinister arrogance and English music-hall comedy. Narnia is created right before our eyes out of common material. But there is real artistry at work. Douglas Paraschuk’s set is a semi-circular arrangement of hanging panels of coarsely-textured fabric that are coloured by Kevin Lamotte’s lighting and Cameron Davis’s projections—especially for the stunning appearance of Aslan the Lion whose function and power as a Christian symbol are muted here but who serves as catalyst to Digory’s mission to save the world. And the simple cardboard boxes assume various cut-out configurations, most pragmatically for the mechanical planetary system in Andrew’s study, and magically for the huge tree at the end while fantasy animals are superbly created by white masks and paper puppets, especially for the winged horse ridden by Diggory and Polly. Kudos to Alexis Milligan for movement and puppetry, and to Jennifer Goodman for costumes.

If a critic needs to carp (and which critic doesn’t?), objections could be made to Blair’s rather unimposing Aslan (though not to his soldier-father), the limited use of music, and the fact that the happy ending lands without enough oomph. Children, I am sure, would disagree.

SUTRA

Direction & Choreography by Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui
A Sadler’s Wells London Production
At the Sony Centre. Toronto Premiere May 12, 2018

 

photo: Hugo Glendinning

Sutra is not a new dance piece, having debuted in London in 2008, but it seems brand new by virtue of its meditative minimalism that calibrates décor, costuming, lighting, music, and movement perfectly while tracing a mini odyssey into the mind (as it were) of Zen Buddhism. Sidi Larbi Cherkaoui (who even performed in it on its debut) has created over 50 fully-fledged choreographic pieces that have earned him numerous international awards. Sutra is his sterling collaboration with British artist Antony Gormley and kung-fu Shaolin monks. Sixty-minutes long, it has an abstract formalism that is open to interpretation because of its elliptical nature, but virtually everything about it is thrilling and not just in a common sense.

 

Sutra begins with a small boy (Xing Kaishuo) who observes a Western adult (Ali Thabet, co-choreographer and dancer) who traces patterns with his fingers and who has a wooden model of the boxes used in the piece. The adult’s gestures and the boy’s imitations of them mirror and expand what transpires apart from them—in the movements of the powerful Shaolin monks, all youths with fine physiques, balance, gymnastic verve, and versatile elasticity. The title of this dance derives from Sanskrit and means “threads.” The piece’s connections to Zen Buddhism show only filaments of links to that way of belief. However, they are absorbing and delightfully expressed in the scenography (a 3-sided grey box that uses 21 6-foot blonde wood boxes in various configurations), costumes that begin with grey and deepen to black, and lighting that is in pale shades and that uses black dramatically at important points. The boxes, designed by sculptor Gormely, create a mobile architectural space, as it were, continually changing planes, shapes, angles, surfaces. They serve as plinths, trapdoors, caves, tombs, river, wall, skyscrapers, coffins—once surprisingly as Stonehenge shapes, twice thrillingly as collapsing dominoes and as an unfolding lotus. But all this is merely an environment for the outer and inner movements of the piece for Sutra is always about being and becoming. When the boxes become coffins, they symbolize mortality. When they are building blocks, they represent creativity.

Shaolin kung-fu is well established and celebrated as martial arts spectacle, with its men wielding lances, swords, and staffs with eye-popping velocity and ease, and executing their repertoire of high leaps, rolls, backward flips, deep plies, scissored kicks, and backbends with speed and finesse, building canons of explosive movement. But Cherkaoui has managed (with the help of four musicians behind a background scrim who play Szymon Brzoska’s melancholy Polish music on percussion, violin, cello, and piano) to temper its innate force and tight practised shapes, turning the warriors on occasion into lyrical dancers of extraordinary balletic grace and balance, as well as, briefly, into hip hop virtuosos. This is achieved by And, even more thrillingly, he and Thabet have created a contrast of energy and movement with young male dancers who are not easily trained in Western dance styles. So, for instance, a warrior can leap high on a solitary pole, balancing with one leg on its slant in raw defiance of gravity. Or another can seem to pause in a towering leap before landing softly. There are even comic moments, where the boy imitates a mischievous monkey or walks into a wall. These moments can seem cheesy to some audiences but they do have a showbiz allure.

photo: Hugo Glendinning

But what of the filaments of Buddhism? They are present from the outset, with the adult’s being a cultural and spiritual outsider (an autobiographical connection to Cherkaoui, who sought to be accepted by the monks in Henan) who is questing to imitate the monks’ unity of mind and body. He often struggles literally to be accepted, even though he offers sturdy and consistent physical support to the boy while training himself to execute the monks’ hazardous and demanding corporeal routines. At one point, he walks around with one foot trapped in a box, as if he can go nowhere significant; at another, he is bumped off a high wall by a group of monks as if he was an unwanted alien. And the boy represents a Shaolin warrior and temple guard in the making. Even his miming of a monkey and fish have connections to Buddhism for the first creature represents folly, vanity, and mischief (real vices we must learn to expunge), while the second represents freedom, happiness, and fearlessness for it thrives in its natural domain. Eventually, the boy becomes the young Buddha in prayer, seated at the center of a large lotus, surrounded by respectful monks.

(photos: Hugo Glendinning)

A TASTE OF EMPIRE

A rice & Beans Theatre and Cahoots Theatre Co-production
At the Factory Studio. Opened May 2, 2018

Derek Chan (image: Brenda Nicole Kent and Jules Le Masson)

The theatrical conceit is a “live” cooking show; the tone satirical; the principal theme imperialism. Derek Chan, born and raised in colonial Hong Kong, speaks the text in Cantonese (with English and simplified Chinese captioning) serves as translator, as well as the principal performer, with a talent to amuse, even while assiduously struggling to prepare rellenong bangus (stuffed milkfish), a Filipino specialty (really a fish sausage, as it were). According to the conceit, Chan enters the scene at the last-minute to replace the formidably vaunted chef Maximo Cortes (who owns three three-star Michelin restaurants) has been called away to an emergency appeal by an anonymous VIP. Chan impersonates the rather overbearing, stentorian Cortes, or at least his vocal manner, and in a manner that suggests something of the pompous Iron Chef shows, where competing Asian and Caucasian chefs acquire some of the fervour of martial artists. These moments are the least convincing and interesting ones, but otherwise Chan does excellent service to the script as sous-chef, accentuating the comedy by handling the milkfish with practised comic vulgarity, eviscerating it in a highly obscene fashion, while simultaneously making points about colonial imperialism with illustrations and didactic summaries. The dish, of course, is a fusion of Philippine fish and colonial Spanish flavours, but if the results of colonialism were but a rather tasty fish sausage, no matter how coarsely prepared, history would never amount to much more than diversionary bunk. Fortunately, the history lesson encompasses colonial Spain, the United States, China, and Canada, so it ranges far and wide, also bringing in economic, political, and social implications. What makes it all palatable (in a way that far transcends any dull academic dissection that has plagued many a Canadian documentary play for the past half century) is the satiric quotient which is entertainingly pointed enough to justify 90 uninterrupted minutes with Chan and his poker-faced, silent kitchen help played by Pedro Chamale with even funnier seriousness as he suffers the slings and arrows of outrageous vocal abuse in Cantonese, no less! And at the end, audiences get an opportunity to taste a very small portion of the fish sausage, whether or not they care to recall Mark Twain’s dictum (repeated in the play): “People who love sausage and respect the law never watch either one being made.”

FUN HOME

Book & Lyrics by Lisa Kron
Music by Jeanine Tesori
Directed by Robert McQueen
A David Mirvish Presentation of the Musical Stage Co. Production
At the CAA Theatre, April 19-May 20, 2018

Hannah Levinson (small Alison) balancing on her father Bruce (Evan Buliung) (photo Cylla von Tiedemann)

American cartoonist Alison Bechdel turned her own eccentric and troubled family story into a moving graphic novel (named one of the best books of 2006), and then came librettist/lyricist Lisa Kron and musician Jeanine Tesori, who seized the opportunity to turn domestic and personal dysfunction into a riveting musical that mixes pop with ballads and Sondheim-like song-dramas. Fun Home won deserved Broadway fame in 2015, and now the Musical Stage Company has put it on the Toronto theatrical map with a production that is probing, nervous, exultant, sweet, melancholy, and suffused with pathos without wallowing in self-pity.

Considered “the first mainstream musical about a young lesbian,” Fun Home has far more going for itself than its chief protagonist’s sexual orientation. An ironically entitled, explicit memory-play that has ostensibly been created out of Alison Bechdel’s memories and detailed journals she kept since the age of 10, growing up in rural Pennsylvania, it chronicles her childhood and the years preceding and following her gay father’s suicide. There are three Alisons in the musical or, rather, three ages of the same character: nine-year old Small Alison, Medium Alison, the college student, and adult Alison (feeling “stuck” at age 43) who literally looks over the shoulder of each of her younger selves as they experience various vagaries of life, and sketching scenes from her past in order to make sense of raw life. The father, Bruce, is a high school teacher who likes restoring old houses and who runs a funeral parlour (the fun home of the title) on the side. He is sometimes nastily authoritarian about order and neatness (his first song is about white damask), though his own private life is ruckled by his secret homosexuality. The libretto encapsulates things with staccato brevity, as the adult Alison remarks: “He was gay. I was gay. He killed himself and I became a lesbian cartoonist.”

Camilla Koo’s scenic décor expresses the father’s urge towards maintaining at least a façade of neat order by rigid straight lines of a minimalist set, with white walls and a green door, before morphing into a suggestion of a realistic home. The white walls of the opening link to the adult Alison’s vocation as cartoonist because they could be taken as a blank sketchpad for drawings or a white screen for her mental projections. The musical intertwines past and present, and the score and lyrics are dynamic interrogations in pursuit of certitude. Jeanine Tesori’s combination of musical styles are an ambivalent mix of anger and love, often creating (like Sondheim) a clever dissonance in multiple-part songs interspersed with pastiche numbers (a parody of the Partridge Family and a Jackson Five celebration). There are two numbers about sexual awakening (college-student Alison’s hymn to Joan in “I’m Changing my Major” and her ode to a striking delivery woman), and all these are part of a unified totality to articulate the principal themes and drive both the comedy and drama.

Alison (Laura Condlln) looking over the shoulder of Medium Alison (Sara Farb) (photo: Cylla von Tiedemann)

It is a textured musical that holds fast to the modern trend in musicals to be exploratory, even diffuse as they explore themes that were hardly ever touched by old-style musicals. Yet, it is not without a fair share of zany humour as it balances the light and the dark, the joyous and the sad. It tells a story with remarkable conciseness, and this Canadian production honours the story with some remarkable performances. Eric Morin plays multiple roles, the most important probably being that of the young man who feeds Bruce’s covert sexual urge. The actor, though, looks too ripe for this part, though this is not to deny his acting talent. Eleven-year old Hannah Levinson plays young Alison with an appealing mixture of fun and frustration, delighting at balancing herself like an aeroplane on her father’s legs one moment, yet begging for his attention at another. Fuelled by irrepressible energy, she and her two younger brothers (played with a sense of naïve mischief by Jasper Lincoln and Liam MacDonald) can play in coffins, but Alison is a rebel at heart, especially when it comes to displaying her distaste for a “stupid” dress she is forced to wear by her father. Levinson gives a remarkably true and touching performance, and her singing is superb, especially in “Ring of Keys,’ with a display of amazing vocal and acting virtuosity. Sara Farb as Medium Alison maintains the high standard with her knockout solo “I’m Changing My Major,” a candidly comic coming-out number, giddily ardent yet nervously insecure about her falling helplessly in love with butch activist Joan (Sabryn Rock). Farb has never been more moving than in this role. And holding firm as the adult Alison, bespectacled Laura Condlln is almost a lookalike of Rachel Maddow, though very correctly without that journalist’s self-assured loquacity and irony. Condlln is the conscience of the piece, creatively questioning as she gives shape and substance to her ghosts of memory. And she sings far better than I expected, shining in the pointillist “Telephone Wire.”

Another standout number is Cynthia Dale’s rendition of “Days and Days,” Alison’s mother’s tortured cry from the heart about her dysfunctional marriage to a man tormented and tormenting. However, her role is thin and Dale gives rather mechanical line-readings at times. Evan Buliung as her husband Bruce acts with prickly edginess, though, ultimately, he misses achieving pathos—perhaps because he allows the character’s external mask to obscure the inner human vulnerability.

Robert McQueen’s production gleams with intelligence, taste, and measured control, maintaining admirable tension without becoming glum or overly sombre. Its only significant shortcoming is the lack of powerful sublimity at the end, but it has more than its fair share of virtues. In fact, it deserves to enter the history books as one of the best musical productions ever done in Toronto.

THE OVERCOAT: A MUSICAL TAILORING

Libretto and Direction by Morris Panych
A Canadian Stage Co-Production
with Tapestry Opera and Vancouver Opera
March 29-April 14, 2018

Geoffrey Sirett as Akakiy (photo: Dahlia Katz)

An ordinary man’s life is turned upside down after he has a new overcoat made for him. You wouldn’t necessarily think much of this seed of a plot, but Gogol made immense satire of it in his 1842 short story, and over a hundred years later, Morris Panych devised a gleaming mime-and-movement piece that went on to win immense favour and critical awards. Being a clever artist, Panych has not left this critical and popular success go to waste. Two decades after the debut of his smash hit, Panych has re-tailored his wordless Overcoat into an opera, with the considerable help of James Rolfe’s music that uses and reshapes Shostakovich, with some quotation from Bach and Beethoven, and a witty nod to Gilbert and Sullivan. Panych’s long-time collaborator and real-life partner, Ken Macdonald puts his own creative resourcefulness to the test, re-painting and adapting his modular set from Sweet Charity a few seasons ago at the Shaw to the minimalist requirements of this musicalized fable.

The physical scale of the production is still large, but the lyrics and music ally with the ensemble’s movement (choreography by Wendy Gorling) to expand the core feelings behind the characters and themes. After all, musical theatre cannot have the same verbal dexterity of intricate thought that straight theatre can have, but Panych knows this already, and he also exploits the potential of physical theatre to express human emotion. After all, movement divorced from feeling is abstract to a fault, and Gogol’s fable is anything but abstract. It satirizes human need, urgency, and foibles. Akakiy (lanky baritone Geoffrey Sirett) is an accountant who rhapsodizes numbers in his head. “Is there anything that doesn’t count?” he wonders aloud, suggesting extra connotations for the question. Zero is his favourite numeral. However, though his mind expands with the ecstasy of enumeration, his image shrinks in the eyes of others because of his shabby government overcoat that provokes their disdain and distaste. When the snuff-addicted tailor Petrovich (a very fine Peter McGillivray who also doubles as the officious Head of Department) makes Akakiy an imposing, almost regal overcoat, Akakiy’s fortunes turn. Panych repeats the wonderful moment when the new overcoat takes on a headless life of its own, with Akakiy’s rapture clearly showing. But the accountant’s material fortune doesn’t take into account the vagaries of life, and Akakiy is eventually reduced to a frustrated madman, imprisoned in an asylum where other inmates serve as a chorus or corps to register his descent into lunacy, with the overcoat becoming Akakiy’s straitjacket.

Akakiy surrounded by Mad Chorus (photo: Dahlia Katz)

Panych’s production is colourfully stylized, wonderfully lit by Alan Brodie, and cleverly costumed by Nancy Bryant in a manner that allows freedom of expressive movement, though the choreography of the commuters is sometimes overly repetitive with diminishing returns. However, the score (played by a 12-piece orchestra conducted masterfully by Leslie Dala), the ensemble sequences, and the singing work together to make the re-tailoring a major achievement, with especially fine work accomplished by Sirett (whose kinetic blissful quirkiness morphs into demented immobility), McGillivray (a double treat as tailor and head bureaucrat), Andrea Ludwig as a louche landlady who could have been generated by Brecht, and a superb mad chorus by Magali Simard-Galdes, Caitlin Wood, and Erica Iris Huang.

THE GOD GAME

By Jeffrey Round
Dundurn
326 pages, $16.99 (paper)
ISBN: 9781459740105

Lambda Award-winning Toronto writer, Jeffrey Round, should be a household name in households that value gay detective fiction. The God Game, his new Dan Sharp mystery (the fifth in a series), is suspense-filled, has a vivid sense of place, and shows off Round’s special talent in the genre. Its plot concerns the missing husband of a gay Queen’s Park aide who seems to have run off to escape gambling debts, and gay detective Dan Sharp is hired to track him down. The nuts and bolts of detective fiction are in operation (a dead MPP; a mysterious figure who makes or breaks reputations of rising politicians; two sisters who trade identities; a political journalist who comes to a bad end; etc.), and the novel holds the reader’s attention throughout. But I, who am not a connoisseur of or an inveterate fan of detective fiction, don’t read Jeffrey Round merely for his tricks of suspense. I value him for his true literary motive: an exploration of human relationships within the circumscription of milieu, circumstance, and character—in other words, the exigencies of our lives, especially of gay lives, that (as Edmund White puts it) express the introspective advantages of the “outsider, of the foreigner and of the pioneer.” As a creator of gay fiction, Round performs meticulous research (on anything from gambling and local politics to gay art, LGBT issues, Weimar history, rap music, and funerary customs). He demonstrates a sensitive understanding of minority groups, and he habitually exercises an ability to reflect in fresh terms on themes of love, parenthood, friendship, disappointment, and survival in a changing world.

Every Jeffrey Round novel has a vivid sense of place, and this one is no exception. This is an instantly recognizable Toronto, with a crack-addicted mayor, gay MPP, and ethnic and stratified minorities, and its ambience is palpable, whether it issues from old-money, WASPish Rosedale, the working-class area of Bathurst and Dupont, or Queen’s Park. And Dan Sharp easily transcends clichés of the genre by the facts of his identity and unfolding existential complications. He is a gay father to an occasionally doubting son, a conflicted same sex partner, and the estranged lover of a man who provokes him into reflecting painfully on how one learns to love “through disappointment and doubt.” And Round’s flashes of wit (his chapter titles, his acidulous comment on gay status symbols, and his sketches of character) are signs of literary finesse—perhaps none so much as this phrase that crystallizes Dan’s ex-lover: “Narcissus crossed with a Botticelli angel.”