Plaza Suite is an annoying little entry in the “everything’s connected in a building” genre (see also William Inge’s seven-part “Apartment Complex,” the early Oscar-winner “Grand Hotel,” or Krzysztof Kieślowski’s TV series “Dekalog”). Then again, McGrath has a Tony, so I doubt he was the problem. I suppose it’s possible I would have given “Plaza Suite” a standing ovation, too, if Matthew Broderick’s understudy Michael McGrath hadn’t been subbing in for him that night (Broderick got COVID, and as of this writing, Parker has it, too - the show is being extended a week to make up for some of the canceled performances). Embracing Trump’s politics, David Mamet has become the Kanye West of American letters.Martin Scorsese, whose sense of humor I usually trust, thought Lebowitz was hilarious enough to merit 200 minutes of film, roughly the same amount he needed to explain what happened to Jimmy Hoffa. Deeds Goes to Town?” “The Jerk?” Fran Lebowitz is still alive, I realize, but probably the kindest thing I can write about her is that she’s a venerable relic of an ancient, comedy-challenged civilization. Lenny Bruce? Bob Hope? Johnny Carson? “Mr. Then there are the times when you revisit the humor of the past and wonder what all the fuss was about. Maroon me on a desert island with some Marx Brothers Blu-Rays and I might lose interest in getting rescued. Evelyn Waugh? Dawn Powell? “Bringing Up Baby?” “Ninotchka?” “His Girl Friday?” Society has come a long way in the last couple of decades, but when I think of these examples, I doubt it’s gotten any funnier. Sometimes you revisit the humor of the past and come away gasping for oxygen.
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