AISLE SAY New York
2009's APRIL "SHOWER"
April is, as William Goldman called it in his
largely-still-relevant 1969 book The Season, the hardest month. And critics are hit
as hard as anybody; suddenly
the parade of productions opening becomes a dense thicket: you rarely
get a
night off; and being selective becomes something of an art and a gamble
because, unlike most other times of the year (when you weed out all but
exceptional off-off Broadway invitations and only minor off-Broadway
ones), April
is the month in which, no matter
how
judicious you are, no matter how you manage your time, you are guaranteed
to miss at least a few things of
note and
value. And when youre like me, a reviewer on the side, its also the month in which your writing
time (and
in my case zine-maintaining time) gets commensurately crunched.
So
in order to keep up and stay current, I have to review somewhat more briefly here a fairly large number of
major
productions, to the like of which Id usually devote individual
notices.
(Usually I try to keep round-ups limited to select off- and
off-off-Broadway
fare with very limited runs.) So with apologies to regular readers, the
noble
friendly press reps who generously keep me active, perhaps a number of
production personnel and anyone else who looks forward to my in-depth
essays, I
beg your indulgence as I bend to necessity. But Ill do my best to have
these
compact notices be meaningful to how you spend your theatre dollar,
and/or
consider your theatre experience nonetheless. (And as I proofread this
paragraph and look over what Ive written thus far below, very few of
the
reviews are capsule-brief;
maybe
I just needed the psychological aid of knowing I had but one file to
prepare!)
Anyway, thats the deal. So here we go:
I
didnt get to the revival of Nol
Cowards supernatural comedy Blithe
Spirit
until
late, as the Drama Desk
voter invite was held in abeyance until a week or two after the
official
opening, and alas, its not worth an overabundance of anticipation.
Its
respectably enough mounted, and Michael
Blakemores direction
typically keen to the
nuances of such
material, but this confectionabout poor, beleaguered Charles (Rupert
Everett) who, due to an
unfortunate sance
conducted by an eccentric clairvoyant (Angela Lansbury), agreed to by him only as an amusement,
finds
himself haunted by the spirit of his late and highly capricious first
wife (Christine
Ebersole), much to the
consternation of
his more restrained and living second wife (Jayne
Atkinson)is simply not a very
good play, and has
become even more quaint with time, along with so many other light
comedy ghost
stories from the first half of the 20th century. Supernatural tales,
even the
giddily comedic ones like Ghostbusters, have become so
much more
sophisticated in the treatment of manifestation, that certain glib
romantic
farces seem to fight the suspension of disbelief. It doesnt help that
in
Cowards storytelling universe, marriage seems more about affection and
convenience than genuine love (social contract at its driest), and
the
notions of dead spouses, having been or being widowed/widowered &
etc. have
little more emotional consequence than discovering youve run out of
your
favorite biscuit for tea. Im not saying the cast doesnt get their
appreciative laughsMs. Lansbury especially, as she goes through an
arcane dance of invocation which, like everything else, is too daffy to
pass
the test of even comic verisimilitudebut theres nobody to care about,
and the plot points are variously unresolved or mechanical, with two
supporting
charactersa neighboring doctor and his wife (Simon Jones and Deborah Rush) having no structural function save to
be the
facilitators of the psychics appearance, making them, as characters,
even more
transparent than the ghost they unwittingly encourage. I will, however,
give
the production this much: it is a far defter and funnier incarnation
than the
revival which hit Broadway about 20 years ago, starring a desperately unfunny
Richard Chamberlain. (And I like Richard
Chamberlain. But oh did he not know how to deliver a joke)
*******
By
contrast, the revival of Samson
Raphaelsons Accent
on Youth at the
Samuel J.
Friedman Theatre, under the
banner of the Manhattan
Theatre Club, is delightful.
Where the
Coward play, to my taste, is a piss-elegant creaker, Accent on
Youth, having
its first Broadway production since its 1934 debut, is just short of a
little
gem. The comedyabout a playwright (David Hyde Pierce) whose exploration of an Older
Man/Younger Woman
affair in his latest play unexpectedly presages a similar affair in his
life,
and the various requisite joys, headaches and heartaches that would
naturally
attend itis too modest to be great, but is nonetheless possessed of
style, wit, unexpected character and story turnsand a sensibility that
seems very
sophisticated and psychologically insightful for a 1934 light
diversion. Though
Id certainly known of Raphaelsons career (among other things, he
wrote The
Jazz Singer, which was adapted into the first talking
feature
film, starring Al Jolson), this was my first exposure to any of his
plays, and
it was rather like discovering one of those brilliant, forgotten
novelists who
toiled in the obscurity of the pulps and suddenly has a posthumous
resurgence.
He writes with a unique, confident voice and displays the technique of
an
impeccable professional.
The
play is given a suitably charming production, under the direction of Daniel
Sullivan, and his cast gives it
exactly
the right twinkle, striking the delicate balance between modern acting
values
and the verisimilitude of the plays era. Among those who share the
stage and
shine with Mr. Pierce are Mary Catherine Garrison (as the young woman), Charles
Kimbrough (as his butler),
plus, as a variety of actors
employed by the playwright, Byron Jennings, David Furr, Rosie
Benton and Lisa Banes.
********
A
likewise excellent revival of Joe
Turners Come and
Gone
comes by
way of the
Lincoln Center Theatre and
director Bartlet
Sher at
the Belasco. I
seem to recall that this second play
in August
Wilsons Pittsburgh
Cycle,
a
decade-by-decade examination of
the African-American experience in the 20th Century, got one of the
more modest
critical receptions of any Wilson play up to that time, but also
remember
thinking it ironically among his strongest, for its mix of gentle
comedy, human
drama plus both lyric and magic realism. Set in the 1910s, this one
represents
a generational transition between black folks old enough to remember
slavery
and a new generation carving out its own identityand what better place
to examine passing on cultural lore and passing through states of
being and
identity than a boarding house? With Ernie Hudson as
the house-owner and steadying hub of the piece (I
cant help it, ever since Hill
Street Blues, I always think
of the lynchpin in an ensemble
drama
like this as the guy in the Captail Furillo position; idiosyncratic and
nobodys cipher to be sure, yet the glue and the standard bearer who
holds a
disparate lot together), an excellent ensemble including Roger
Robinson,
Anjanue
Ellis, Arliss Howard and LaTanya
Richardson Jackson, among
others, make the
play seem as fresh and vital as if it were just off the page; and
create an
inspiring reminder of what infusing dialogue with a sense of poetry,
even music
and rhythm is all about.
********
Speaking
of inspiration
IMNSHO,
as the net-breviation goes, there simply arent that many avant
garde and/or absurdist plays necessary
to performacademic study and
reading for
enlightenment/edification is enoughbut there are a very few worth a periodic look, because they
represent the
anarchic, symbolic genre at the zenith of its artistry, and perhaps
none more
so than Waiting for Godot by Samuel
Beckett
and
may it always get the superior treatment it receives courtesy of the Roundabouts new production, directed by Anthony
Page (an old hand at this play)
at Studio
54.
One
of the plays best conceits is that, despite exploring themes of
hopeless hope,
desolation, and the fragility of mortal existence (in both the physical
and
spiritual senses), its meant to be performed by genuine clownshobo
clowns, to be precisethe funnier, the better. Humor, of course, finds
its power in truth, and when you combine brilliant technique with
heartfelt
delivery, the result is something so sad it must evoke belly-laughs or it would be too
horrible. Waiting for
Godot comes by its Theatre of
the Absurd
label honestly, being such a stunning essay on the eteral absurdities
of life.
And
who better for the hobos at the center, Estragon and Vladimir, ever
waiting for
Godot (here given the Brit pronunciation, GOD-oh) than, respectively, Nathan
Lane and Bill Irwin. Mr. Lane, perhaps never more inspired
and in
control as here, fashions his clown as an oddly buoyant pessimist; and
Mr.
Irwin lends a kind of bumbling sobriety as the counterpart: a
fatalistic
optimist. Representing the intruders on their barren landscape are John
Goodman, his enormous size and
booming
voice making him iconic in the role of wandering aristocrat Pozzo; and John
Glover as his abused, ancient
manservant,
the ironically dubbed Lucky. (Best bitthose of you who know the play
will know the moment I mean, those of you who dont, I envy you the
discoveryMr. Glovers Happy rant becoming madder, more
incomprehensible and more threatening; as Mr. Lanes Estragon, backing
away from
it step for step, tries to placate him with illustrative gestures,
hopelessly
improvised in a desperate attempt at creating a calming communion.
Almost
impossible to describe, utterly impossible to forget.)
A
glimpse of a sort of hell, this play, but truly, in this production,
the purest
possible heaven
*******
Very
nearly as funny, and
exploring more linearly
narrative
absurdities, are the trio of short plays that make up Ethan Coens Offices, at the Atlantic
Theater. The premises of the
plays are so slight (theyre
extended sketches, really, comprised of numerous short, punchy scenes
each,
with bizarre twists, turns and shifts of perspective) that I celebrate
the
necessity of reviewing in brief, because a great deal of the fun is in
discovering Mr. Coens eccentricyet recognizably accuratespins on
office politics and protocols freshly and without predisposition.
As
with Mr. Coens previous Almost an Evening, Neil Pepe has
directed with a sure comic hand, and F. Murray Abraham is along to lend his own brand of
fearless lunacy to
the proceedings. Other notables in the nine-member cast include John
Bedford-Lloyd and Mary
McCann.
********
A
different kind of absurdity
goes hand in hand
with the
jukebox musical Rock of Ages,
which weaves classic rock of the 70s and 80s against a
suitably
silly boy-gets/boy-loses/boy-gets girl story, but without virginal
artifice.
Rock stars, wannabe rockers, a club owner, his sidekick-slash-our
narrator, a
venal German industrialist, and his effeminate-but-straight son are
among those
belting out very respectably (if thats the word) infectious cover
versions of
the tunes that informed a lot of youth and coming-of-age rituals in
more
generations, it seems, than just its own.
For
those who would be into such a thing, its grand silliness. For those
who
wouldnt (I, for example, dont have many of my nostalgia roots or
sentimental
predilections there), the chances are decent that youll at least find
it
tolerable fun. The key may be in attending with someone wholl embrace
it with
shameless abandon. And there seem to be plenty of those; its inspiring
a
flabbergasting amount of repeat business. (My own companion expressed
an
enthusiastic intention to re-attend.)
For
me, the most interesting
thing to note
was how tightly put together and snazzily delivered the production was,
under
the direction of Kristin Hanggi. If shes anywhere near
as good
with new original book musicals as she is with the jukebox thing, Rock
of
Ages may well mark the emergence
of a
prominent force.
********
Good
as I can be at plot summary,
Im happy to
avoid it when
classics are involved, as so many public domain ones abound, so heres
a
somewhat doctored (by me) partial of the Wikipedia one (big spoilers
removed)
for Friedrich Schillers Mary
Stuart, currently
in a
new production from Londons Donmar Warehouse, directed by Phyllida Lloyd in a new translation by Peter
Oswald:
Mary
Stuart (Janet McTeer) is
nominally
imprisoned in England for the murder of her husband, but the real
reason is her
claim to the throne of England as rightful heir. While Marys cousin,
Queen
Elizabeth I (Harriet Walter), is
hesitant about signing her death sentence, Mary is hoping for a
reprieve. After
she finds out that Mortimer, the nephew (Chandler Williams) of her custodian Paulet (Michael
Countryman) is on her side, she
entrusts
her life to him. Mortimer, a non-historical character invented by
Schiller, is
supposed to give the Earl of Leicester (John Benjamin Hickey) a letter from Mary in which she asks
him for help.
This is a delicate situation because Leicester seems to
be a
supporter of Queen Elizabeth, though hes a practiced, sly and
opportunistic
political chameleon. After numerous requests, Mary is finally granted
the
opportunity to meet Queen Elizabeth (something that, in reality, also
never
happened). The outcome of this meetingwell, those of you who know
history know
the ultimate verdict, but
Schiller is
more interested in political intrigues and the game of diplomacy.
For
all that this production arrived with sold-out-in-the-UK hoopla, it seems an oddly subdued affair
here. Both
the imported stars, Ms. McTeer (operatically struggling with herself to
keep
her sense of regal birthright in check) and Ms. Walter (the epitome of
the
superstar whose every whim needs coddling, lest disaster ensue), are
suitably
impressive as befits their status and the hype, and the ensemble of
American
actors surrounding them provide admirable support, but the production
itselfa variant on the barren-stage/black box paradigmseems too
matter-of-fact for controversy, and the text too long-winded and
repetitive for
maximum effectiveness. As with Exit the King, its one of those classic plays whose
indulgence in
long-windedness is an artifact of a bygone sensibility, and one that
need not
be revered or regarded as sacrosanct. By all means, preserve it all in
print
forever, but on stage lets trim away the fat, to better highlight the
themes
and the elegance. (Postscript for TV aficionados motivated
enough to
download "unofficially": Harriet Walter is also currently the Police
Chief to whom the
cop
half of the drama reports in Law
and Order
UK, the new Brit-accented flavor of the famous franchise.
Seven 'net-available
episodes so far.)
*****
When
Alan Ayckbourn is
on the money, as he is in whats arguably his masterwork, the The
Norman Conquests trilogy,
I think hes the literary heir of Chekhov, and of fully equal power:
Its rare
that Chekhovs plays are performed in a way that represents them as the
comedies he intended them to be and formally labeled them, but when
they
areas with Austin Pendletons thrilling Uncle Vanya earlier this seasonyou can be awed by the
balance of human misery with human irony. You realize, when the laughs
hit,
that Chekhov did not mean comedy as in everything turns
out for the
best, a somewhat classic
definition, but
merely as in our foibles, flaws and endless capacity for
projection,
self-delusion and self-destruction in pursuit of the things we can
never obtain
are funny. Ayckbourns best
comedies
dramatize much the same thing and in the Norman trilogy, he does it to near perfection.
The focus is
a family weekend at the house of unglamorous yet not-unattractive Annie
(Jessica
Hynesbest known here as the leading lady in the signature Doctor
Who episode Human
Nature) and her offstage mother.
Annie is often visited by
the smitten, yet impossibly reserved and shy veterinarian Tom (Ben
Miles)
who tends her cat as an excuse to drop by. Also on hand are her brother
Reg (Paul
Ritter) who likes to invent
board games,
and his control-freak wife Sarah (Amanda Root) who is too literal-minded a to enjoy
them. And
finally theres Annies vivacious, cynical sister Ruth (Amelia
Bulmore) and her determinedly
disheveled
husband, dedicated layabout and social iconoclast Norman (Stephen
Mangan). Norman is something of
a
heat-seeking missile with the ladies, and he has the uncanny knack for
knowing
how to feed off their neuroses, frustrations and desires while
satisfying and
exacerbating his own. And the trick of the trilogy is that each of its
three
components, Table Manners,
Round and Round the Garden and Living Together is set in another locale
about the house, respectively
the kitchen, the back yard and the living room. Each tells its own
self-contained story, but viewed collectively, they become an ber-tale
of
connections made, connections missed and that old favorite, quiet
desperation.
This
production in the round, directed by Matthew Warchus at the Circle in the Square
Theatre, with its original
British cast exported is as well
done and as individualistic as the other two iterations Ive seen (the
BBC-TV
version [1977] and the previous, debut Broadway production [1975],
which
featured an all-star American cast). If I have any reservation at all,
its
that I personally found Stephen Mangan to be an oddly charmless Norman,
especially in the wake of Tom Conti on television and Richard Benjamin
onstage.
But Ive mentioned this reaction to a number of other colleagues and
only one
was in agreement, the others thinking that charm was his strong suit.
So there you
are. In these days of absurd ticket markup, the price for each play is
relatively reasonable ($49), so it will be possible for some to avail
themselves of the trilogy entire without stretching their budget too
much
*****
Why
Torture is Wrong and
The People Who Love
Them may
well be the Christopher
Durang play for people who
usually dislike
Christopher Durang plays, a group in which I tend to find myself. Most
of
his signature universe-gone-mad extremes and ultra-Left biases are
featured, in
this story about Felicity (Laura Benanti)
a young woman who wakes up after a drunken one-night stand, to discover
shes
married to Zamir (Amir Arison)
who is very likely a terrorist; and her subsequent introduction of
Zamir to her
parents, Luella (Kristine Nielsen),
abstracted, obsessed with NY theatre minutiae and loopy after too many
years
under the thumb of her domineering husband; and aforementioned
husband-and-father Leonard (Richard Poe) a radical right-wing lunatic with a top
secret
butterfly collection in his attic. (Various other eccentric roles are
played
by John Pankow, David
Aaron Baker and Audrie
Neenan.)
The
one thing that hasnt come
along for the
ride in this Durang-fest, even though he threatens to bring it along, is misanthropic
hopelessness. Its
almost as if, in knowing what it is that has so continually thwarted
the
success of all but his earliest plays, in having tired of the
complaints of his
preaching-to-the-converted, cruel-humor proclivities, he wrote just
this one to get past the
nay-sayers. And
its not that hes conceded much; indeed the device with which he
squeaks by is
such an open contrivance
as to
seem a conscious and pointed response to his recent works worst reputationbut
the play, especially
with this rousingly game, perfectly toned and appropriate cast (Ms.
Benanti, always
a revelation, even more so as a brilliant comedienne) under the
direction of Nicholas
Martin, gets him so many
laughs and earns him so much
good
will thatIm sorry, I have to put it this wayhed have been an
utter asshole to deny the audience the catharsis of positive resolution
and
hope.
Though
Ill add, as I write this, it occurs to me that maybe Mr. Durang himself is feeling hopeful, along with the rest
of America,
for the first time in a long while, and this play, which does address
the
current state of the country, is his typically skewed way of saying so.
The
play wont necessarily convert anyone who isnt already disposed toward
his
sensibility, and its too chatty and dishy to survive long in the
literature,
despite what may be the length of its current runbut it comes by its
audience favor honestly and cleverly, and not even the most reasonably
cynical Durang-watcher (among
which I count
myself) will feel violated or numbed for having spent the time.
*****
The
Singing Forest, by
Craig Lucas,
is an unusually misfire for this playwright, and an one of an epic
nature
(three acts and almost as many hours), as if inspired by the more
complex
constructions of Caryl Churchill and/or Tom Stoppard, as he uneasily
tries to
blend elements of farce, social commentary comedy and Holocaust
tragedy.
(Perhaps it's no coincidence that direction of the piece fell to Mark
Wing-Davey) But the elements
stubbornly
refuse to blend, with the result that the farce is labored and unfunny,
the
social commentary contrived and the Holocaust tragedy (which provides a
third
act flashback to the character at the hub) almost shockingly unmoving.
(Almost, because its hard to be genuinely shocked by
something
that doesnt actually stir
you.) All
this despite a game cast, headed by Olympia Dukakis,
doing their
best to rescue what probably seemed much more engaging on paper.
To
describe the plot would be an exercise in spoilerism without really
illuminating the play. Suffice it to say that Mr. Lucas posits a small
circle
of people in NYC who are all connected by random coincidence, and yet
unable to
really connect, in that
manner of people
too trapped by their own isolating michegoss. The play ultimately means
to
beor so it would seem, based on the outcomea metaphor for a virtual
society of missed connections and ultimately a plea for better
communication.
And in the end the experience is rather like being in the moderate
middle of the
community swimming pool: its just that deep and just that shallow.
Interestingly,
theres a program note from Public Theatre
artistic director Oskar Eustis mentioning
that Lucas has been working on this play for about a decade andas my
companion of the evening pointed outit seems like it;
theres that mix of sensibilities, a disjunct in the physical set and
properties (i.e. an elaborate gag involving two landline phones in
different
locales crossing wires, used by characters who by now would employ
handsets or
cell phones) that suggests the authors desire for the play to be set
in the
present day fighting with the eraa pre 9/11 era, come to think of
itin which he conceived it.
*****
You
wonder why certain
contemporary plays find
their way
into the literature, and why others dont. Why has Jason Millers
multi-award-winning That Championship Season all but vanished? What happened to the
oevre of Ronald Ribman? Why do
we never see revivals of Herb Gardners Thieves or Conversations With My Father? And what is it that makes British
obscuranta like Christopher
Hamptons The Philanthropist worthy of not merely its Broadway debut in 1971, but two
NYC revivals, one in 1983 (at the
Manhattan Theatre
Clubs original mid-upper East Side venue) and the current one by way
of the Roundabout
company, on Broadway at the American Airlines Theatre.
It
seems it isnt just social mores, subject matter and presentation
styles that
can be judged harshly by the test of time, but sometimes even generic
storytelling tropes. The Philanthropist, written
when Hampton was 24, gained a good deal of praise in its time for being
a
clever inversion of Molires The Misanthrope; where the French classic is the study of a
man who
finds something to loathe in everyone, Hamptons play is about the
flipside,
Philip (Matthew Broderick) who tries to take people at
face value
and see the good in everythingwhich renders him weirdly as isolated.
The
British seem to haveor at least have hadthis vogue for academic,
university-employed characters who are
passive or passive-aggressive observers who are ultimately the
architects of their
own misery (the works of Simon Grey abound with them) and I must admit,
when I
first made the acquaintance of a few, as a young man in the 70s, I was
as
taken as anyone by the wit, wordplay and performances that infused
them. (Even
including Philip; I saw the 83 production, in which he was much more
cleverly
played by David McCallum.)
But
time has not been kind to the likes of Butley, Quartermaine or The
Ginger
Man (an Irish one, that), and
though I
cant tell you why for sure, I think its that the beat and hippie
generations,
which were concurrent with the creation of these characters, embraced a
free-spiritedness that sometimes encouraged being a
layabout as well (witness the revival of Hair), and I think that, somehow, certain of
the concepts
leeched into mainstream storytelling, morphed to fit different venues
and
locales, and indirectly gave rise to the storytelling paradigm of the
anomaly
within the establishment system, exploiting its protocols to deflect
responsibility, camouflage ineptitude and/or wield petty power.
And
while Philip is a kinder, more responsible soul than all the others in
this
Brit-misfit canon, hes still too oblivious to evoke much empathy, and
a cipher
as well. It doesnt help that Matthew Broderick, at far too young an
age, has
finally become such a parody of himself that his patented, mannered,
milquetoast characterization can be appreciated just as much before
youve seen the play as after.
That quite aside, the
personal stakes of the play, despite a cheekily shocking opening scene,
are
never very high, nor are any passions that would matter, so the rest of
the
cast, giving far more credible performancesmost notably Steven
Weber,
Jonathan Cake, Anna
Madeley and Jennifer
Mudgeare only giving blood and
voice to characters
youd find insufferably supercilious in real life. And the literary
conceitthe spin on Molireis just that, an academic
accomplishment. Yay and so what?
The
production, directed by David Grindley,
would seem to have been inspired by one he directed at Londons Donmar
Warehouse in 2005, starring Simon Russell Beale.
*****
Finally,
theres a just-dandy
revival of 1776
at the Paper
Mill
Playhouse in Milburn, NJ.
Helmed by Gordon
Greenberg, its perhaps the best
production of the show Ive seen since (though not including) the
original
Broadway production. As I've said before, 1776 is my
favorite
musical
by far, along wih Sweeney Todd it
possesses the best libretto in the canon, and if you've never seen it,
especially if you're on a budget, forget the franchise tuners and the
new age hoo-hah, this is
where to spend your musical theatre dollar this season.
The
cast is an unusually star studded one (in NY terms) for a regional
mounting,
featuring the likes of Robert Cuccioli (Dickinson),
James Barbour (Rutledge),
Conrad
John Shuck (Franklin), Nick
Wyman
(Hancock), Kerry
OMalley (Abigail Adams) and Lauren
Kennedy (Martha Jefferson)
among others, each turning in a
stirling and memorable performance.
My
carp is with Don Stephenson
in the central role of John
Adams. I think its very possible he has a great Adams in himhes
charismatic and gifted enoughbut he has spent waaaaayyy
too long serving the Musical Comedy Shticklach Gods, and has forgotten
(if he
every really knew) how to simply have a conversation without
overwrought affectation. (Speaking in terms of a certain personal
energy and appearance, I was
not alone
among those I knew attending the opening night who thought that
watching Stephensons
interp was weirdly like watching the role as if played by Maury
Yeston.) If its in director Greenberg to sit Stephenson
down, give
him cogent notes and slap the excesses away, the performance could be quite powerful. (It would be better
Adams and better Yeston.)
The
good news is, Stephenson lands all the dramatic points and doesnt kill
any but
a scant few of the jokes (his nor the ones others make at Adamss
expense)and both production and musical are so sturdy that no real
damage is done.
I
have a lot more to say about this musical, but Ive already said it
here, in a review of the 1998 Broadway
revival,
along with a history of the reconstructed film, which features most of
the
original Broadway cast. Though the history refers to the laser disk
release of
the mid-90s, there has been a subsequent releasenot just a
reconstruction, but director Peter
Hunts
own subsequent directors cuton DVD, and its still very inexpensively
in print.
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