It takes a brave man to eat at a restaurant famous—or rather, notorious—for the death of one of the leading theatrical celebrities of the 20th century. And I’ve been there twice.
Descending into this place from the sidewalk of Manhattan’s east side, one encounters an ethical vegan’s nightmare, an Auschwitz of animal protein, where large herbivores aren’t dissembled in the kitchen by anything as subtle as butchers’ cleavers, but rather knocked into still-recognizable pieces by being run into at high speed by a late-model Studebaker. Charred rib steaks are served with the cow’s rib still attached, a monstrous grizzled appendage sticking out beyond the plate, as though to snare anybody trying to squeeze between the densely packed tables. To make certain that one’s cardiovascular system is properly oleaginated, syrup pitchers of schmaltz—that’s semi-liquid chicken fat to you, goyim—are handily available, to drench anything that hasn’t already earned the American Heart Association’s black skull-and-crossbones “Eat & Die” symbol.
Reputedly, that’s what happened to Zero Mostel, back in 1977. Gorged per usual, he staggered back up into the autumn New York night, clutched his chest and toppled to the sidewalk like a human seismic event. It’s a testament to what a gargantuan personality he was, with both appetites and capabilities matching his bulk, that it took a lifetime of eating not just at that joint, but also its equivalents all around the world, to finish him off. (The official verdict is that it was an aortic aneurysm that did the job, combined with a disastrous weight-loss regimen—take that, nutritionists!)
Which is the reason why all versions of Mel Brooks’ The Producers, subsequent to the original 1968 movie, have the same problem. They all have a Zero Mostel-size hole at their centers, which would take a troupe of this mediocre century’s downsized talent to fill. It’s a tribute to not just the chutzpah but also the showbiz skills of Tony Danza that he comes closer to pulling it off than anyone else has.
Given Nathan Lane’s current pre-eminence as a performer, it’s only to be expected that the Max Bialystock role was his for the asking, both in the Broadway stage version and the 2005 film. If a singin’, hoofin’ remake of On the Waterfront were to be floated, Lane would probably be tapped for the Marlon Brando role, and we’d be treated to all the pathos of his version of the “I coulda been a contenduh” line, which might not be that bad a thing. But Max Bialystock is almost literally a monstrous role, which it takes a monster to convincingly portray. Nathan Lane, however, has completely nailed his claim to the title of World’s Cuddliest Human Being, Gay or Straight. Through sheer charm—not to mention his considerable talent and work ethic—he’s probably done more to advance gay rights in this country than all the congressional pages in Washington, D.C., combined. It’s not Lane’s fault that however deep his actor’s bag of tricks is, “monstrous” ain’t in it.
It might not be in Tony Danza’s bag either, but he’s got something else that works nearly as well. When Zero Mostel created Max Bialystock, he was midway between his stage performance in Eugene Ionesco’s Rhinoceros and his genuinely scary performance in the 1974 American Film Theatre version, where his transformation into the other-than-human still gives nightmares to those who saw it. Danza still carries with him, this many years later, the baggage of his note-perfect rendition of blue-collar, smart-mouthed goombah charm in the TV shows Taxi and Who’s the Boss? That’s something that Danza smartly uses to make the creaky gears of The Producers’ duct-taped storyline actually work.
Even in The Producers’ original version, it never had any more plot than could be written on the back of a postcard. And in Las Vegas’ stripped-down, shot-from-a-cannon version at the Paris, designed to deliver the major laughs and get the audience back out to the slots in a little over 90 minutes, the plot is more like what could be written on the back of a postage stamp. But what plot exists is driven by the element of Bialystock’s personal desperation—he’s a man who’s outlived his charm, which was all the capital he ever had. Like Chicago’s Roxie Hart, he’s older than he ever planned on being. Which is why he clings to the accountant Leo Bloom like a drowning man thrown, if not a rope, at least a thread. It’s not that the plan they concoct is so brilliant, but rather that it’s the only one left to Bialystock. Right now, at this point in Nathan Lane’s career arc, it’s hard to imagine any character he plays being that bereft and friendless.
Danza, however, pulls it off. He’s done the part before, so he already knew the dialogue and shtick before moving into the production at the Paris. But there’s more to his performance than that. Unlike Nathan Lane’s babyish punim, Danza’s face has broadened and creased, Travolta-like, into a road map of life experiences, good and bad. The charm that once could be turned on as easily as a light switch, based in sheer good looks and the bantamweight Italian-Stallion testosterone-radiation that perfectly fit the small screen, has had to be replaced by the predatory cunning and jettisoning of all moral hesitations that a real Max Bialystock would be built out of. With his little razor-knicked gunslits of eyes, versus Mostel’s straining, exophthalmic display of about-to-blow high blood pressure, Danza makes the role his own.
God knows The Producers is only an airy trifle of a show, but for it to work at all it has to have a real actor at its heart, and that’s what Tony Danza has become. Or more accurately, it’s what we the audience can now recognize him as, having previously mistaken the hard work he put in all along as just charm and personality and nothing more.
Then again, it’s the remnants of that old Danza, whom one always suspected of getting more “action,” both on and off the set, than any of his co-workers, that manages to push along one of the other story elements of The Producers. There’s a sexual rivalry between Bialystock and Bloom for the affections of the cartoon-Swedish Ulla—but frankly, anybody who can imagine Nathan Lane experiencing a groin-rush at the thought of bedding Uma Thurman, or anybody else of that gender, has powers of suspending disbelief far beyond the normal. In this post-Will & Grace, post-Brokeback Mountain world, where anybody can try on any part regardless of personal sexual persuasion, Nathan Lane has every right to take on any role he cares to. But not all attempts are met with equal success, and while Tony Danza might have what some would consider an unfair advantage in pulling off this particular aspect of the Max Bialystock character, it’s only right to acknowledge that he makes the most of what he still definitely has.
Not that I personally would know about that, but it seemed to be the judgment of the women in the audience. If Tony Danza is ever reduced to putting the moves on old ladies with chrome walkers, he’s apparently got a considerable constituency built up.
The Producers
At the Paris Las Vegas, Mon.-Sat. 8 p.m., $69-$143.50
946-4567