Motherland

by Amy Sohn

  “I had business in L.A.”

  “You came all the way down here from L.A.?”

  “Someone told me about it.”

  “Waves are supposed to be smaller tomorrow,” said Jeff Spicoli. “You should come out then. If you have time. How long are you staying in L.A.?”

  “I . . . I’m not sure.”

  They went around and each told stories about times they’d gotten whacked on the head. Some involved stitches and concussions. A discussion ensued on the proper treatment of the wound. Butterfly. Krazy Glue. Duct tape’ll work in a pinch.

  “Where you from?” asked Spicoli.

  “Brooklyn,” Danny said.

  “I got a niece in Brooklyn. City of churches.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “You never heard that?” Spicoli asked. “More churches per square mile than anywhere else in the country.”

  They looked at him, squinted against the sun. “I’ve been that guy,” said Richard softly.

  “What?” Danny asked. The other two were nodding.

  A slow, benevolent, half-stoned smile crept over Richard’s face. “I’ve been that guy, standing in the parking lot, barefoot, waiting for the lockout company. I’ve been you, man. We’ve all been you.”

  Fifth of July/Schmifth of July—What about Jon and Melora?

  BEN BRANTLEY

  * * *

  THEATER REVIEW

  There is much to be said about Pulitzer Prize–winner Lanford Wilson’s play, “Fifth of July,” and the reasons the time is right for a Broadway revival. Rage over an unjust war, failed leadership, the dashed idealism of left-wing boomers—all of these themes still resonate today, though for different reasons than in 1980, when the play first appeared on Broadway.

  But let’s be honest. You don’t care about any of that. You want to know about the stars: Jon Hamm of television’s “Mad Men” in the role of Ken Talley, Jr., and Melora Leigh, most recently of Adam Epstein’s “Yellow Rosie,” as the copper heiress, aspiring singer, and train wreck Gwen Landis.

  There is bad news and good news. Mr. Hamm, who has proved himself a comedic talent on “30 Rock” and “Saturday Night Live,” is woefully miscast as Ken, whose acerbic one-liners were one of the great pleasures of the play after Richard Thomas took over for Christopher Reeve in the original Broadway production. The same affectlessness that often reads as mystery on Mr. Hamm’s television series reads as dullness here. His diction is poor and his projection spotty.

  But Ms. Leigh, who has struggled in recent years to find herself in film, turns out to have been born for the theater. (She won sound reviews for her last appearance on Broadway in a 1994 revival of “Bus Stop” opposite Ethan Hawke.) Her portrayal of Gwen, a role for which she is too old by a decade, is fearless, original, and laugh-out-loud funny. She has found the Catskillian comedy in Gwen and this redeems the character.

  What makes Gwen sympathetic is that she realizes she’s a hot mess. Leigh’s chemistry with Alessandro Nivola, who plays her husband, John Landis, is electric. The age difference between them only heightens the concupiscence. Gwen is a cougar and John her himbo, a bisexual who stays with her out of loyalty, while she stays with him out of sexual need. It’s a clever casting choice on the part of director Teddy Lombardo. In his production you understand their codependency in a way you don’t when the actors are peers.

  A brief primer on the plot for those not in the know: The year is 1977 and Ken Talley has invited some of his old radical friends from Berkeley, Gwen and John, to his family farm in Lebanon, Missouri. Along for the ride are Ken’s sardonic sister June (Allison Janney, showing pathos and depth), her daughter Shirley (a spirited Madison Fanning), Ken’s lover Jed (the tumescence-inducing Ben Whishaw), Ken and June’s aunt Sally (a regal Blythe Danner), and Gwen’s composer Weston (a hilarious if overly Ruffalo-derivative Chris Messina).

  The primary plot centers, as in Chekhov, on real estate. Ken wants to sell the farm to Gwen and John, but when Sally finds out she is furious. It’s old versus new, idealism versus cynicism. There are revelations, regrets, blowout fights, and an ample dose of Mr. Wilson’s sly humor.

  Some scenes play like sitcoms of the brainier variety in vogue today, and one sees the debt young writers owe to Mr. Wilson, one of the originators of comic awkwardness. The structure of hidden revelations can feel outdated to modern audiences accustomed to the layered plot twists of premium cable dramas, but the text is so large-hearted that you are willing to stick with Mr. Wilson for the joy of his language.

  Mr. Hamm does a credible job with Ken’s paraplegia and a far less credible one with his homosexuality. Instead of underplaying the camp, he is too flamboyant by half. Mr. Whishaw is content to be more low-key but struggles with his American accent.

  Attention must be paid to Ms. Janney and Ms. Fanning, who convey a realistic mother-daughter relationship. Their dialogue has the freshness of “Juno” without the irritating language. Ms. Danner nearly steals the show, carefully treading the line between dottiness and wisdom as she did so well in the lamented short-lived Showtime drama “Huff,” proving that she only grows more riveting as she ages.

  Despite these strong performances, it is Ms. Leigh who is the irrefutable star of this production. The walk she has chosen for Gwen, half Jessica Rabbit, half “Project Runway,” perfectly encapsulates Gwen’s ever-present need for attention. In several drug-using scenes she is able to capture precisely what is irritating about pot-smokers—their stubborn inability to get thoughts out at anyone else’s pace. Her comedic timing, which she seldom gets to show off in heavier roles, shines.

  Unlike other screen actresses who have attempted Broadway in recent years only to realize that the stage demands a more outsize presence than the screen, she projects beautifully. If Mr. Lombardo was hoping Ms. Leigh’s popularity in the tabloid press made her a worthier choice for Gwen than a lesser-known theater actress, he has gotten his money’s worth and more. She proves that a nimble actress can make herself at home on stage as well as screen.

  A plea to Ms. Leigh: Put your film career on hold for a while and do some more theater. It would be a crime to rob the Broadway community of your multiple and many-layered talents. Maggie needs you, and Nora and Stella. For the sake of theatergoers, please stay on the stage!

  Melora

  At the Fifth of July opening-night after-party at the Lambs Club, no one could get enough of Melora. Brantley’s review had come out that morning, and her phone had been ringing off the hook with congratulations. The show had sold $3 million worth of tickets just that day, and Vanessa had gotten calls from half a dozen Hollywood directors who wanted to work with her.

  Tonight’s show had been the icing on the cake, and the party was Melora’s chance to relax, gloat, and preen. She stood on the photo line for forty-five minutes and then gave half a dozen interviews to the print, Web, and TV journalists, all of whom wanted to know whether she had been studying with a new teacher and who it was. “Just myself,” she kept repeating.

  All night fans came up to her to tell her how funny she was. Naomi Watts said she had an actor crush on her, and Mamie Gummer called her inspiring. Björk, whom Melora knew from Saint Ann’s, said she wanted to work with her one day. Gwyneth Paltrow made some vague complimentary comments, and Melora wondered if Teddy really had considered her for the role.

  It was eleven o’clock by the time someone brought her a plate of Long Island duck, roasted cauliflower, and shrimp cocktail. Lulu came up and said, “Fucking brilliant. I never got that play when we read it in contemporary drama, but tonight I totally did. No way your director can be mad at you after that review.”

  “He hasn’t talked to me about it.” Melora was worried that Teddy was angry with her, even though she had saved the show and cemented his reputation as a brilliant director. She could see him across the room, chatting with Paul Haggis. He hadn’t spoken to her yet that night, though they had posed for pictures together, smiling silently.

  “How come
you didn’t invite my dad?” Lulu asked.

  “I didn’t know theater was his cup of tea.”

  “I wish he had come.” Melora had called to invite him, but he never called back. “He fucking would have loved this. Gwen says whatever she’s thinking. You actually remind me of him a little.” Melora wished he had seen her, wished he knew how good she was.

  From across the room, Teddy’s eyes met Melora’s. She couldn’t read his expression. What if he didn’t care what The New York Times thought and fired her for doing Gwen her own way? It was insurgence not to take a director’s direction. She had seen actors fired for it before.

  Jon Hamm came over with Jennifer Westfeldt. Melora introduced them to Lulu, who licked her lips at Jon. She had heard that Jon didn’t read reviews, but he had seemed distant before the show and she was convinced it wasn’t true.

  “Very bold what you’ve been doing,” he said to Melora. “I wouldn’t have had the courage.”

  “You think it’s better, though?” she said. “Than it used to be?”

  “I can’t insert myself into your thing with Teddy.”

  “Has he said something to you?”

  He shook his head. Politic till the end, resistant to compliment her until he knew what Teddy thought. Jen pulled him away, and he followed. Lulu spotted Björk and said she was going to ask for her autograph.

  Alessandro approached, a martini glass in his hand. “You were on fire!” he said. “Even more than you were last night. Could you feel it? I mean, could you feel the heat between us?” She nodded gleefully. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Bottom of Act Two, I got wood.”

  Teddy was approaching. He was wearing a pair of 1950s glasses that Melora had never seen him in, and against the glare it was hard to read his expression. They were probably fake. “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Alessandro said, and went off to find Emily Mortimer.

  Teddy ushered Melora off to the back of the restaurant, just outside the bathrooms. “I’ve always had an issue with the character of Gwen,” he said. “I thought she was overwritten. I was convinced the secret was to underplay, not overplay, the lines. But I was wrong. You’re a natural comedienne, and I shouldn’t have discouraged you from exploring that. Gwen is the funniest character in the play, and if her lines don’t land, it’s too much, too heavy, for an audience to take for two and a half hours. This was one of Wilson’s preachy plays, so it needs Gwen. You were stellar tonight. Keep it up. Congratulations.” He kissed her on both cheeks and walked away. She ducked into the bathroom and put on a fresh coat of lipstick and then pushed the heavy door open into the restaurant, toward the light and the noise.

  Rebecca

  The Maialino hostess led Rebecca and CC to the best table in the house, the center of the front room. Rebecca was wearing a Sophie Theallet off-the-shoulder silver silk dress with a gold bow on the side, just below the waist, and no bra. When she walked in, a few steps in front of CC, she saw heads turning. She didn’t know whether people were staring at her because they’d read the tabloid reports that Stuart had a new girlfriend or because she looked fantastic, but she didn’t care.

  It had been a mostly easy though painful decision to move the kids into Stuart’s loft so that both would be safe from the threat of Muno returning. Stuart had been irrepressible, seductive, in control, and funny. He maintained his sense of humor through the move and her adjustment, the Aussie thing he did that made her feel far away from the grind of Park Slope and its matriarchal monotony, what Marco called Motherland. The kids had adjusted over the past two weeks, the way kids always did, to Stuart’s enormous loft and their brand-new “brother,” Orion, who was surprisingly tender with Benny.

  Only the public aspect of the move had been hard. Just a few days after she shacked up with Stuart, Us Weekly had run an article, complete with a shot of her, Stuart, Abbie, and Benny riding bikes by the West Side Highway.

  In an exclusive story, Us Weekly has learned that actor, writer and director Stuart Ashby, 41, is the father of an illegitimate son born to a Brooklyn mother. Sources say the woman, clothing store owner Rebecca Rose, 37, has moved in with Ashby, along with their son, Benny Wilson, 2, and her daughter, Abbie Wilson, by her architect husband. The four have been spotted at City Bakery, various playgrounds in Chelsea, and emerging from Ashby’s loft on Twenty-fourth Street.

  A source close to Rose says, “Rebecca reunited with Stuart after seeing him on Cape Cod this summer and decided to try out a relationship. She always felt Benny should know his real father.”

  Ashby and Rose have issued no public statements but have been seen in Manhattan and Brooklyn. Ashby settled his divorce with two-time Oscar-winning actress (and subject of raves for her Broadway performance in Fifth of July) Melora Leigh, 41, earlier this year. The former couple lived in Park Slope, Brooklyn, before selling their town house to a pair of Google millionaires and moving to artist Julian Schnabel’s building in WeWeVill. Leigh and Ashby share custody of Orion Leigh-Ashby, 6.

  When the article came out Rebecca had to call her parents and tell them everything about the conception, the lying, and the separation. Her mother had been at a loss for words. Rebecca had always suspected she disliked Theo because he wasn’t Jewish and came from a broken home. After her mother got over her initial speechlessness, she seemed almost excited by the idea that Rebecca was living with a Hollywood movie star. First choice was a Jew, second choice a man of means.

  “Here you are, Ms. Rose,” said the hostess, indicating a four-top. The room was quiet and calm; the sound went up into the ceiling so you could hear each other talk. Rebecca felt elite and cut off from the world. There was an entire New York of people who never came in contact with the homeless, thought nothing of dropping five hundred dollars on a dinner, and went everywhere by private car.

  The hostess pulled out the seats for them and handed them menus. Rebecca noticed Sean Penn a few tables away, with a knockout black woman who had a shaved head. She nudged CC, who nodded excitedly. Rebecca had heard good things about the restaurant, a Danny Meyer Roman trattoria in the Gramercy Hotel, and when CC called to say she needed to talk about something, Rebecca had the idea to take her there. She went on OpenTable to get a reservation, but the only seatings available were five-thirty and nine-thirty, so she asked Stuart for help. Two minutes later, she had a reservation for eight P.M. She enjoyed her newfound power, the way doors opened now that she was living with someone famous.

  When she first moved in, she had been nervous that he was having an affair with Christine, the live-in nanny, but after she saw them interact, she became convinced that there wasn’t anything between them. He had been warmer, more sexual, and more attentive lately, as though realizing he needed to tend to Rebecca and not just Benny. Just that afternoon he had taken her shopping at Jeffrey and spent seventeen thousand dollars buying her Marni, Proenza Schouler, and Sophie Theallet. As she had changed in the dressing room in front of him, Stuart editing the selections like the Australian metrosexual he was, she felt a mix of nausea and excitement. Was this who she was, a woman who let a man buy her thousands of dollars’ worth of clothes? After they came home, she put on the Sophie Theallet dress, and then he took it off her and they made love.

  The waiter came over, one of those officious thin men in his twenties who took service extremely seriously. He presented them with the menus and told them about the specials, going on about the salumi. Rebecca inquired about a few of the more expensive red wines—she had never ordered a bottle of wine that cost over fifty dollars—and selected a Brunello di Montalcino for $185. After she, Benny, and Stuart had gone for a paternity test at a lab and the results had shown he was Benny’s father, he had made her a co-signer on his AmEx Centurion.

  “God, that dress is unbelievable on you,” CC said.

  “It’s fun to dress up for no reason,” Rebecca said. She hadn’t been able to wear clothes like this in a long time because of the nursing, but Benny had weaned the day after
he met Stuart at Seed. He woke up and wouldn’t take the breast, and she decided to stop nursing, thinking it was worse to force it on him than to let him wean himself.

  “Do you ever feel like a kept woman?” CC asked. She saw the look on Rebecca’s face and changed tack. “So how are the kids?”

  “They’re doing well. So well. I can’t believe it. Abbie’s back to spending half the week with Theo now that he’s repaid the drug dealer.”

  “How many people was he dealing to?”

  “A couple dozen, I think. That’s why he was in David Keller’s garden that day. David hired Theo’s firm to redo his kitchen, and they hit it off. Theo gave him some Park Dope for free, and then David became a client. He said his old dealer moved to Montclair.”

  “You’re not worried that Muno guy might come back and hurt Theo?” CC asked.

  “Theo gave him all the pot and all the money. He cashed out his IRA because he was worried about Abbie’s safety. He says he’s never dealing again.”

  “How did he take it when you told him about Benny?”

  “He said he didn’t know. It was kind of weird. He had an emergency appointment with an ear, nose, and throat doctor to get his nose reset after the dealer broke it. I told him when he was lying on the bed with cotton up his nose. He didn’t have much of a reaction. I couldn’t tell whether it was stoicism or Percocet.”

  They regarded their menus. Rebecca had already looked at it online and decided to order the spaghetti carbonara with guanciale, black pepper, and egg. Guanciale was a kind of bacon prepared from the pig cheek that she had read about but never tried. She would follow that with a cioppino stew. She was excited to try so many courses. Everything was different when you weren’t being careful about money.

  “What did you need to talk about?” she asked CC.

  CC took a deep breath. “When Gottlieb comes back from L.A., I’m going to tell him he has to move out.”