All good gifts . . .

By virtue of the Creation, and still more of the Incarnation, nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see.
-- Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Into the Woods

Excellent! Blue Hill Troupe’s production of Into the Woods is top notch from start to finish. I loved it every bit as much as the 2002 Broadway revival, which I saw twice. In fact, with this cast’s clear articulation of the songs and earthy approach to the characters, I experienced the show in a far deeper way than I had before.

Under the skilled direction of Andy Sandberg, the 20-member cast is equally strong in presenting the humor of the work and the dark side that surfaces in the second act. I found myself continually being surprised by the songs and wondered briefly if they were using an alternate text. Then I realized it’s just that I had never understood all of the words, despite having listened to the original cast recording I’m sure close to 100 times. These performers bring to life all of Stephen Sondheim’s lyrics and James Lapine’s book. The orchestra, under the direction of Matthew Rupcich, does full justice to Sondheim’s engaging music.

Into the Woods, which opened on Broadway in 1987, won several Tony Awards including those for Best Score, Best Book and Best Actress in a Musical (Joanna Gleason as the Baker’s Wife). It interlaces the classic tales of Cinderella, Little Red Ridinghood, Rapunzel, the Wolf and the Witch, with a Baker and his Wife added. When the characters face loss and danger, they find they must band together as they discover their personal strengths in battling the darkness that lurks in the woods. “Anything can happen in the woods,” as one song says, and much does, including adultery and murder. They learn that if “no one acts alone,” they can survive: “Into the woods, you have to grope,/But that’s the way you learn to cope./ Into the woods to find there’s hope/Of getting through the journey.”

Among my favorite comic moments of Blue Hill’s production were Geoff Gaebe and John C. Taylor as the Princes. They really bring out the humor in the song “Agony” as they sing of their unobtainable love -- for Cinderella and Rapunzel, respectively. When Gaebe complains about pursuing a woman who always runs from him, Taylor tops him with the challenge of desiring a woman imprisoned in a tower. “Agony, far more painful than yours,/when you know she would go with you,/if there only were doors.”

I also loved Jennifer Dorre, the Baker’s Wife, as she sings in “Moments in the Woods” of her befuddlement after her fling with Cinderella’s Prince in the woods. “Was that me? Was that him? Did a prince really kiss me? And kiss me? And kiss me? And did I kiss him back?” Gaebe, Taylor and Dorre have the timing and delivery of the best of Broadway’s musical comedy stars.

In the second act, when the shadow side of human nature emerges, the actors made me feel the darkness in a way I hadn’t before. This could be because they aren’t well-known performers like Vanessa Williams, who played the Witch in the revival I saw. They seemed more believable to me and I felt I was with them in the woods.

Just as the timing was right in the funny scenes, it also was in the second act when fallen human nature temporarily takes over. In “Your Fault,” Jack (Ken Kiernan), the Baker (Kevin Murray), Little Red Ridinghood (Alison Plotkin), the Witch (Tracy Bidleman) and Cinderella (Amanda Smith) point fingers of blame at each other over who is responsible for the angry Giant running wild in their community. This is a difficult number in which much of the plot is recounted in a fast-paced manner as the characters all try to shift the focus to someone else. They handle it perfectly.

The production team is every bit as professional as the actors. Special applause goes to Denise Paglina and Suzanne R. Taylor for their evocative costumes, Douglas Larson and Richard Chung for designing and constructing simple sets that easily move in and out and to Sam Militello for the fabulous sound and special effects. It really sounds as if beanstalks are falling and a Giant is stomping around up there!

The Blue Hill Troupe, Ltd. brings high-quality theatre performances to New York City audiences while raising money for local charities. The Troupe has raised nearly $3 million since its founding in 1924. It has twice performed at Carnegie Hall with the New York Pops, and is featured annually in the Metropolitan Museum of Art concert series. On television, the Troupe has been profiled on “CBS Sunday Morning” and the "MetroArts/Thirteen" performance series.

Proceeds from Blue Hill Troupe's productions in 2008-2009 will benefit Inwood House's new Financial Literacy & Empowerment Initiative, equipping young mothers to become economically self-sufficient and create cycles of success for themselves and their families. Inwood House is an internationally recognized leader and innovator in youth development, teen pregnancy prevention and family support, serving nearly 5,000 young people in New York City and New Jersey.

As of Friday’s opening night when I was there, the show’s run was 80 percent sold out, so I advise you to call immediately to get tickets so you don’t miss this dynamic production of Sondheim’s classic. Only five more performances remain -- Nov. 12, 13, 14, 15 at 7:30 p.m. and Nov. 15 at 2 p.m. -- at Dicapo Opera Theatre, 184 E. 76th St., between Third and Lexington Avenues. Preferred seating tickets are $45 and standard seating tickets are $35. Call (866) 811-4111.

Scott Hamilton -- Fighting Spirit

This essay by Scott Hamilton appeared in Guideposts magazine.


I skated out to center stage, or rather center ice, 10,000 people cheering me on at The Forum in L.A. I know it sounds hammy, but I’m a performer, and all my life center stage is where I’ve wanted to be. This was my comeback performance —my comeback from testicular cancer. Everyone, including me, wanted to see if I was as good as I’d been before the cancer. It had been 14 years since I won the gold medal at the Sarajevo Olympics. My own expectations were probably higher than they should’ve been.

I waited for my friend, country music singer Gary Morris, to begin singing “With One More Look at You.” I chose it as a tribute to my mother, Dorothy. She died of breast cancer when I was in high school. Everything I knew about courage and determination, I owed to her.

Gary started singing. I launched into my routine. Within the first minute, I realized how tough this was going to be. My body felt different. Logy, weak. It had been just five and a half months since my chemo, four months since major surgery. It was like I had no leg muscles at all.

I was determined, though. The show must go on. All my skating friends were there, in tribute. Kristi Yamaguchi, Brian Boitano, so many others. CBS-TV was doing a special broadcast.

I gathered myself and, as the music reached a crescendo, I flew into my signature jump, a triple toe loop. Somewhere in midair I lost control. Next thing I knew, I was flat on the ice. The crowd hushed. Gary paused. In my head I could hear my mother say, You’ve got to keep going. That would have been just like Mom, always urging me to do my best. Especially when it came to my skating.

From the very first day I laced up skates when I was nine, I loved it. I glided to the center of the rink and waited for the music. “Look at him go,” the kids from school said. I ate up the attention. I loved showing what I could do. I was too small to be good at any other sport. On the ball field, I was always the last one chosen. Skating, though, was different. I didn’t have to be bigger or stronger or faster. Just myself.

By middle school, I was winning events and gearing up for the Junior Nationals. Mom was very involved, always looking out for my best interests. “You can be as good as you want,” she said. “If you make the commitment, we’ll make the commitment with you.”

“Okay, Mom,” I said, not even sure what she meant.

Next morning Mom woke me at 5:30. “Ready?” she asked. She drove me to the skating rink, then sat on the sidelines and watched, peeking at her lesson book. Mom was a second-grade teacher. But she had other plans.

“I’m going back to school,” she told my dad. “Scott has a real chance to do something special, and the only way we can afford to pay for his coach and ice time and equipment and all of his travel to competitions is for me to get a better-paying job.”

Evenings, after teaching all day, after fixing dinner, she studied for her master’s degree in education. She parlayed it into an associate professorship in family relations at Bowling Green, where Dad was a biology professor.

Even that wasn’t enough. The more I advanced, the more coaching and training I needed. She convinced Dad to sell our house and move to a smaller one out in the country. One spring morning I found her and Dad digging up the backyard.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m planting lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers—a vegetable garden,” Mom replied. She did it to save money—money she used to pay for more ice time and more lessons for me.

I was young and self-absorbed, and didn’t think too much about it. Skating came so easily. Maybe too easily. I kept winning competitions, but didn’t always train as hard as I should have.

Then Mom got sick. Doctors found a lump in her breast. When Dad brought her home and they told us the diagnosis, I could see in her eyes that she was scared. But her voice was firm. “I’m going to beat this. Don’t worry,” she said. I was 15 years old, a sophomore in high school.

Me, I would have been a quivering mess. But Mom was so positive. She acted like cancer, chemo and surgery were opportunities to finally do all the things she’d wanted to do. When chemo made her hair fall out, she happily got wigs. “It was such a pain to have my hair done all the time,” she said. The chemo also killed her appetite. She lost weight and showed off her new figure to her friends, telling everyone how great she looked. But she never let a soul see her pain.

The last time she saw me compete was at the 1977 U.S. Senior Figure Skating Championships, my first year at the senior level. I went out and laid an egg—I dropped to ninth after the free skate, my strongest event. My new coach, Carlo Fassi, couldn’t get me to focus and work hard. I was more into hanging out with my friends. But that day when I looked to my mother in the grandstand, I could see the disappointment in her eyes.

The day Mom died I went for a long walk. I was angry and feeling sorry for myself. My prayers were all complaints: “God, why did you do this to me? I’m too young to lose my mother.” What was I going to do now? How could I go on?

But then I thought about how Mom dealt with her cancer. She never complained. She never gave up. Instead, she made the most of every minute God gave her. Wasn’t that a challenge I had to take up now?

The first thing after Mom’s funeral my coach called to express his sympathy. “Carlo,” I said, “I want you to know that a different person is coming back to you to train. He is going to be totally dedicated to being the best he can be.”

Carlo was skeptical. But from then on, it was like Mom was still urging me on. I went to bed early. I ate properly. I didn’t waste a moment on the ice. There was no quit in me. I worked till I got things right. Four hours a day on compulsory figures. Two hours a day on my free skate. Weightlifting two or three times a week.

By the time the 1984 Sarajevo Olympics rolled around, I was in the best shape of my life. I was ready. And when the competition was over, I stood atop the podium listening to our national anthem. My first thought during the ceremony was, Mom, without you, this would never have happened.

The Olympics opened doors. It made life as a professional skater possible, and I went at my pro career with the same intensity as my run-up to the Olympics. If I wasn’t working every week, I felt like I was letting Mom down. With my skating friends I launched a series of ice shows that played 70 cities a year. It was hugely successful.

Then, on tour in 1997, I felt a pain in my abdomen. I pushed my belly button and it changed shape a little bit. It had this odd feeling. I couldn’t describe it.

All I knew was it didn’t feel normal. My stamina slipped. I told myself that it was an ulcer. Or maybe I was just burned out. At the end of the tour I’d get it checked out. But the pain got worse. One afternoon in Peoria, Illinois, I couldn’t straighten up. A few hours before the show that night, I went to the emergency room. The doctor asked me a ton of questions and ran a battery of tests. Then he sat me down. “We’ve found a mass,” he said. “You need to take care of this right away.”

I did the show that night and made sure it was great. I was afraid it would be my last show ever. The next morning I checked into the Cleveland Clinic Taussig Cancer Institute. This is going to be the biggest battle you’ve ever faced, I told myself. I would need to hold on to the faith and determination I found after Mom’s death. Fighting cancer, she had taught me how to live.

When the doctors returned with my diagnosis—testicular cancer—I was ready. “Let’s get started,” I said. “I have a skating tour in the fall.”

“You may want to reconsider,” one doctor said. “Chemotherapy and surgery take a lot out of you. It will be a while before you can get back to your life.”

“You don’t understand,” I told them. “I determine what I do, not this cancer.” It’s exactly what Mom would have said.

The chemo and surgery were rough, I’m not going to kid you. But I had this attitude: Cancer likes darkness; it doesn’t like light. And I was going to attack it with all the light I possibly could. I prayed. I surrounded myself with good friends, I watched videos and read books that made me laugh. When I woke up in the recovery room after surgery, totally free of cancer, I felt like my life had just begun.

That’s what had led me to that comeback night at The Forum in L.A., and here I was, splayed on the ice. But not for long.

The audience began to applaud. The sound grew louder and louder—the kind of cheering I heard at Sarajevo. There was only one thing to do. Get up. I popped to my feet and went back to my routine. A smile lit my face that just wouldn’t go away. I could fall again, I might get sick again. That didn’t matter. What mattered was making the most of what I’d been given.

Go for it, I thought. I flew across the ice, leaped as high as I could and landed a perfect double axel. Then another. I felt like the night needed to end with an exclamation mark, so I did several back flips. Mom would have been so proud. She was always my biggest fan.

Answered prayers

YES, WE DID!!!

Jennifer Hudson

My Grateful Heart

Of all the gifts my grandmother gave me, including my singing voice, there’s one I treasure above all the others.

BY JENNIFER HUDSON

This interview appears in Guideposts magazine. It was conducted before the murders of Hudson's mother, brother and nephew.


Even I can’t believe it sometimes, how incredibly blessed I’ve been in my young career. Not that I haven’t worked hard and kept believing in the face of setbacks, but so have plenty of other talented people and they’re still waiting for their big break. I went from my first professional job, singing in a local production of Big River when I was 19 to being on "American Idol" to winning an Academy Award for my portrayal of Effie White in "Dreamgirls." I turned 27 this fall, and I have a lot to celebrate and be thankful for. Incredibly thankful. My first album just came out—something I’ve been dreaming of for years! And now I’m playing the strong, outspoken character Rosaleen in the movie version of Sue Monk Kidd’s bestseller The Secret Life of Bees.

You might think all of this success would go to my head. It’s exciting, definitely, and I’m enjoying every minute of it. But no matter how many red carpets I get to walk down, no matter how many big names I’m fortunate enough to know, or how many albums and movies I make, I’ll always be the same girl whose greatest joy in life was singing, even if there was no one around to listen. I’ll always be my grandma’s girl.

That would be my mother’s mom, my late grandmother Julia Kate Hudson. Our family’s what we call “born into the church,” and I was no exception. So many of my earliest memories are of being at Pleasant Gift Missionary Baptist Church on the south side of Chicago. We were there Tuesday night for choir rehearsal, Wednesday night for Bible study and all day Sunday—morning service, evening service, communion, everything.

My grandmother was a deeply spiritual woman, the soloist in the church choir and the singer in the family. She was so good that people used to tell her she could be a professional, but she always insisted that her voice was a gift from the Lord and the best way to show her gratitude was by using it to serve him. Like when she was singing one of her all-time favorites, “How Great Thou Art.”

No doubt about it, I got my voice from my grandma. I didn’t realize that right away, but everyone else knew. My mom likes to tell a story about when I was a lap baby, not even one yet, sitting with her during choir rehearsal. The choir director was trying to get the group to hit a certain note, and they didn’t do it. But out of the blue, I opened my mouth and hit that note right on! I can almost imagine my grandma slapping her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t giggle out loud.

The fact is, I was surrounded by music. Not just at church, but at home too. My grandma couldn’t live on her own because of her health—she had diabetes and seizures—so she lived with us. I was the youngest. When my mom was picking my sister up from school and my brother was out playing basketball or riding his bike, it was just Grandma and me in the house. She’d sing, I’d listen.

One day—I don’t even remember what prompted it—I joined in and something just clicked. I felt beyond happy. I felt connected to something larger and more beautiful than I’d ever imagined. I didn’t have the words for it then, but now I’d say it was a rightness in my soul, the kind of feeling you get when you sense something is meant to be. I was only seven years old, but from then on, I knew singing was what I wanted to do, what I was meant to do.

That’s why I started asking around at church, “Could I have a solo? Please?” I begged the choir director, who sent me to the head musician, who sent me to someone else. They kept giving me the runaround. I got so frustrated that I hid in the bathroom and cried. “If nobody will listen to me,” I decided, “I’ll listen to myself sing.

I did just that until I finally wore the choir director down. I got my first solo, “Must Jesus Bear the Cross Alone.”

I practiced and practiced in my little pink bedroom on the third floor of our house. I couldn’t wait to show everyone what I could do.

That Sunday I got up in front of the congregation. I stood there and looked at everyone sitting in the pews—my family, my friends, people from the neighborhood. Then I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Not a sound! Here it was, my big moment, and I forgot the words!

I closed my eyes, praying that I’d remember just one word, one note. Dear Lord Jesus, help me! I’m stuck! All of a sudden I heard a beautiful sound. Someone singing the first words of the hymn. I opened my eyes. It wasn’t just one person; it was the whole congregation helping me along, lifting me up with their voices until I found my own again.

It started to dawn on me then what my grandmother meant about singing being an expression of gratitude. To God, first and foremost, and to the people he put in my life to support me and inspire me.

I thought about that a lot when my grandma’s health was failing. By the time I was in seventh grade, she was bedridden. She couldn’t really carry on a conversation anymore, let alone sing. So I sat with her and sang to her: “How Great Thou Art” and “Jesus Promised Me a Home Over There,” all her old favorites from church. And a new song—the first one I ever wrote—“To Love Somebody.” It was my way of thanking her for all she had given me. It probably wasn’t enough, but it was everything I had.

Even though my grandmother died in 1998, I kept thinking of her, singing for her. Like when I was voted off American Idol. I was shocked at first. I thought that my biggest opportunity had just been lost. Was it time for me to give up trying to make it as a singer? Just go home to Chicago and do something else? Who did I think I was, anyway? But the next morning I woke up and remembered how my grandmother used to say her voice was a gift from the Lord. I still have my voice, my gift, I thought. No one can take that away because God put it in me. He made music a part of me. I couldn’t give it up. I knew I couldn’t walk away.

Of course, I haven’t. I love singing for people, moving them and inspiring them, like music has inspired me since I was that little lap baby sitting in choir practice. But I also sing every day without consciously thinking about it. It feels as natural to me as breathing or praying. I sing even if there’s no one around to listen. Actually, I take that back. There’s always Someone listening. And like my grandmother before me, I know he hears in my voice how grateful I am.

Jennifer’s Inspirational Playlist

“What songs inspire you most?” we asked Jennifer.

1. “Encourage Yourself” by Donald Lawrence. I tell everyone to listen to this. Sometimes you have to encourage yourself. What you think, how you feel, what you believe—all you’ve got to do is set your mind to it.

2. “I Believe in Music” by Donny Hathaway. I love what this legendary soul singer is saying: “Music is the universal language and love is the key.”

3. “Can’t Give Up Now” by Mary Mary. All of the songs from this sister duo are uplifting, this one especially.

4. “There Is No Failure in God.” God will do whatever you ask him to, but you need to have faith.

5. “Impossible Dream” sung by Luther Vandross. Such a motivator for me!

6. “How Great Thou Art.” Every time Grandma would get happy she’d shout, “How great thou art!” We’d be in the car and she’d see clouds or mountains or trees and say, “How great thou art.” I wondered, What does Grandma mean? But now I understand, and it’s why I feel so blessed—that God, out of all the things he does, took time to touch me, to give me a gift. When I did the song “And I Am Telling You” in "Dreamgirls," everyone asked me where all that emotion came from. It was from this song “How Great Thou Art”—because Grandma used to sing it. I had a recording of it and listened to it before I did that scene.

The Master Builder

I’ve heard there’s a first time for everything, but experience had led me to believe that as far as the Irish Rep is concerned this wouldn’t be true. Their shows have consistently been first rate, so I assumed they always would be. Sorry to say, with the current staging of The Master Builder, I experienced a first at that theatre -- a really disappointing production.

Director Ciaran O’Reilly has mounted what sounds more like an initial run-through than a finished product. The weakest link is, unfortunately, the main character. James Naughton’s portrayal of Halvard Solness is stiff and lifeless. Every line is delivered in such a wooden monotone that I had trouble staying awake during the 90-minute first act. If it hadn’t been that I care about this play, I would have left at intermission.

I don’t know whether Naughton, a two-time Tony Award winner for his performances in musicals, was miscast or merely misdirected, but in the second most important role, that of Hilde Wangel, Charlotte Parry seems to have been both. Miscast because she seems too old and misdirected because she seems downright dangerous. Ibsen meant for Solness to feel threatened by youth, but not in the way Parry comes off. Her portrayal has a dark undercurrent that makes Hilde seem subversive. When she reminds Solness of the time she met him 10 years before when she was about 12, she tells him he kissed her many times. Rather than being playful and teasing, she sounds as if she’s about the spring a child sexual abuse suit on him. This is not how it should be. Hilde should be youthful, fresh and idealistic. She wants “castles in the air,” but with Parry she seems like someone who would settle for the monetary equivalent.

Getting the characterization right is crucial because the plot revolves around this relationship. Solness is a successful but embittered architect and builder in a small Norwegian town. Afraid that the younger generation will replace him, he mercilessly dominates his employees. His marriage holds no love and his twin infant sons died years ago. Then Hilde arrives unannounced. A vivacious young woman, Hilde has idolized Solness for 10 years, since he built a large church in her hometown and, when it was completed, climbed to the top of the tower to place a wreath at its dedication. He had promised to return and build a “kingdom” for her and now that the 10 years are up she has come to collect.

Hilde’s illusions are understandable -- she’s young. Parry makes her too calculating. Solness is a man who has given up on illusions until Hilde’s spirit infects him, and his judgment. Naughton’s lifeless portrayal never captures that vulnerability.

This production of The Master Builder, which was commissioned by the Irish Rep, marks the world premiere of Irish playwright Frank McGuinness' adaptation of the 1892 classic, one of Ibsen’s last. McGuinness’s past adaptations of Ibsen's work by have received acclaim, including a Tony Award for Best Revival in 1997 for A Doll House.

Besides Naughton and Parry, the cast includes Letitia Lange, Kristin Griffith, Daniel Cameron Talbott, Herb Foster and Doug Stender. Performances continue to Nov. 30. The Irish Repertory Theatre is at 132 W. 22nd St. For more information, call (212) 727-2737 or visit irishrep.org.

Amazing Grace update

All of us who are eagerly awaiting a production of the new musical Amazing Grace: The True Story can now enjoy new recordings online of several of the show’s songs. Check out http://agmusical.com/concept_recordings.html.

Christopher Smith, who wrote the music, lyrics and book, tells me he’ll soon be shooting a new video about the production in NYC featuring all of the stars. Fundraising has begun for the New York company, headquartered at producer Carolyn Rossi Copeland’s offices on Broadway  -- Carolyn@agtts.com .

More exciting news that Chris shared with me is that he and Carolyn have started talks with a major East Coast regional theatre about an out-of-town tryout. The theatre, which I can tell you is a really good one, contacted them, not the other way around, so that’s encouraging.  Please keep this show in your prayers.  With its message of the amazing power of God’s love to change lives, it needs to be out there in the world in a big way. It needs to be on Broadway!

Check out the site, listen to the songs -- and pray.