Photo by Joan Marcus

Dead Accounts, is, for better or worse, best known as that “Katie Holmes” play, since it is largely the presence of its tabloid favorite star that finally led the show to Broadway after a decent reception in Cincinnati. But very quickly it is double Tony-winner Norbert Leo Butz who emerges as the true star of Accounts, Theresa Rebeck’s latest wisp of a Broadway show.

Butz plays Jack, one of six siblings who grew up in a suburban Cincinnati household presided over by matriarch Barbara (Jayne Houdyshell). One night, Jack enigmatically sneaks back to his childhood home, leaving his New York job, apartment and wife behind, with a thousand dollars’ worth of Graeter’s ice cream in tow. We first meet him devouring the dairy late at night with Lorna (Holmes), the only sibling still living at home and the only one ever seen onstage. Jack, who shares hyperkinetic theatre DNA with Burn This’ Pale, uses the milquetoast-esque Lorna primarily as a sounding board for his own manic anecdotal pontificating.

Eventually, we learn more about why Jack has fled Manhattan, the whereabouts of his wife, and why he is so comfortable buying bottomless amounts of ice cream, pizza and cheese Coneys. None of these revelations come as much of a surprise, but Rebeck seems to want them to, stretching them out so as to etch an aura of suspense to her nominally comedic plot – so I will refrain from divulging most of them here. (Jack’s situation directly applies to the play’s title.) But the end result, even with veteran director Jack O’Brien using plenty of tricks in his tool belt to establish a sense of tonal harmony, is an anemic work both lacking in a sense of identity and resolution.

Accounts is at its (relative) best when Jack’s histrionics take center stage, putting some wonderful – not to mention wonderfully disciplined – physicality on display (no surprise to anyone who witnessed his astonishing “Don’t Break the Rules” number in Catch Me If You Can) in his many endless riffs comparing the warmth of the Midwest to the unfeeling Big Apple. Scenic designer David Rockwell certainly deserves credit for a very realistic simulation of middle American domesticity. But under the surface, Accounts strives to be something both darker and deeper, with commentary on the current financial crisis, family and how both have tainted the American dream. And yet the show cannot sustain these themes. Crowd-pleasing monologues by both Butz and Holmes about, respectively, the hollowness of materialistic and the callowness of the banks come out of nowhere. Additionally, a thread about their ill offstage father is a red herring that dangles without any structural or dramatic heft to the show. Rebeck, clinging to sitcom formula, dilutes any potential statement about the corrupting forces of greed with her own cheap tricks.

Another problem is that Lorna, single, never married, and still pined for by Jack’s loyal friend, Phil (Josh Hamilton), remains a cipher. Sustained references to an unnecessary diet she keeps breaking every time Jack totes home junk food suggest a subtext that never rises to the surface. (Do we ever even learn what she does for a living?) It’s a flat, unchallenging role that Holmes embraces without authenticating. There is also little variation in her line readings, which mainly traffic in a shrill lane of weary but well-meaning indigence. Judy Greer, too, seems a bit out of her element as a shallow ice queen. Hamilton and Houdyshell are consummate pros, however. Both have some very subtle, spontaneous-feeling reactions in their scenes, and make one wish they were included in more of them. But it is Butz who dominates Accounts, adding far more currency than Rebeck herself seems able to supply.

Dead Accounts

Music Box Theatre, 249 W. 45th St. Through Feb. 24. www.deadaccountsonbroadway.com

Photo Courtesy of Wiki Commons

The Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes divorce saga is already off to a dramatic start. Many people expect their divorce to be messy, but these two are already torn on where to hold the proceedings.

When Holmes and Cruise were together, they lived in Los Angeles, reports Reuters, but Holmes filed for divorce in New York where rumor has it she secretly rented an apartment in Chelsea.  Holmes’s divorce papers claim both are New York residents, according to gossip site TMZ. Cruise, on the other hand, may look to move the divorce proceedings to California, where he could potentially gain more leverage.

Holmes is more likely to get sole custody of the couple’s daughter, Suri, if the divorce takes place in New York, Fox 25 reports. New York judges are more inclined to grant sole custody if parents cannot agree on decisions about the child’s life, and it’s rumored Holmes fears what role Scientology may have on her aging daughter.

If joint custody is granted in New York, one parent cannot override the decisions of the other, also according to Fox. In California, parents are able to make decisions alone. Rumors that Holmes wants to protect her daughter from “brainwashing” before it’s too late are likely motivating her decision to legally end the marriage in New York.

By Leonora Desar

Alec Baldwin is on top of the world, perched high above the deserted city on the rooftop of an exclusive nightclub just before the break of dawn. “Hand that back,” he says to Mary-Kate Olsen—or is it Ashley?—who snatches Baldwin’s cell phone away before sinking into a designer red velvet couch flush with fallen change and lost cigarette lighters.

Past them, supermodels like skyscrapers in summer blues and lilacs glide past one another like ships. “Leo, have you seen Leo?” they implore tipsily, backlit against the city as Tupac’s hologram slips out from some dark corner. Wispy and iridescent, it circles the bar like a fine thread of cigarette smoke before retreating behind the folds of a tightly drawn curtain.

Or so I imagined, along with all other sorts of outlandish, fictitious stories about Downtown celebrities. After all, in our star-obsessed culture, the rich and famous are seductive, mythical beings who flirt and play against only the most lavish of backdrops (which, for some reason or other, always seem to sit high up on rooftops).

To get past the velvet ropes, I asked New York’s servers to give me their dish on some Downtown superstars—the scandals! the tantrums! the intrigue! But what they served up was even harder to believe than what I had originally envisioned.

OK, so I didn’t expect to hear that Baldwin flirted with the Olsen twins. But I had hoped that digging around about the Greenwich Village actor, famed for his Twitter tirades as much as for his talent, would be a good way to go about researching this story. I must be in for some juicy revelations, right?

“He’s very friendly and polite,” declared a source at Nolita restaurant Emporio.

“He was a super nice guy, a good tipper,” gushed a former server at Popover Cafe. “He would always talk to some of the waiters who were also actors and see what they were doing, encourage them.”

“Alec’s awesome, he makes you feel like you’re at the table with him,” echoed an insider at Pure Food and Wine, where the 54-year-old star first met his 28-year-old fiancée, yoga teacher Hilaria Thomas. “When you walk by, he says, ‘Hey, good to see you.’ He’ll ask you how you’ve been and introduce you to someone. He’s not wanting you to go away. It’s almost hard to pull away from the table because he’s engaging you in this really fun, playful, sweet, witty way.”

But this was practically criticism compared to what people had to say about West Village star Sarah Jessica Parker, of Sex and the City fame.

“She’s a real doll, really nice and down to earth, just a regular girl,” Prime Burger owner Michael DiMiceli revealed. “I’ll never forget it, she was sitting one day by herself, trying to be inconspicuous, and there were a bunch of school kids here on a trip. They recognized her and went over to her one by one. She didn’t just sign an autograph, she asked each of them their name. I was very impressed by that.”

He was equally impressed when she chatted up his wife and daughter for half an hour. “She was having a regular conversation with them like she was nobody special. That’s what I really like about her—she’s always nice. She always pays her check, never expects things for free or anything like that.”

But if you want to hear someone really sing her praises, ask how the actress behaves on a bad night. Parker was dining at Café Luxembourg with husband Matthew Broderick when, according to her server, another patron mistakenly took her jacket. Inside were her lines for the Broadway show Once Upon a Mattress, which she was supposed to have learned for rehearsal the following day.

“She was gracious, didn’t lose her temper at all,” said the server. “She was also very personable and real with me. She acknowledged me as a person, not just someone waiting on her.”

You can imagine how, after all of this, I wasn’t exactly shocked when others started raving about Tribeca couple Beyoncé and Jay-Z. “So nice!” “So gracious!” “Super normal!” “Not at all high maintenance!”

“Jay-Z and Beyoncé are a casual, sweet couple,” praised one server. “They treat the staff very well, tip very well. They have a normal dinner and don’t ask for special treatment, even though they get it. They’re not picky or particular. You can tell they’re a regular couple enjoying each other’s company more than anything.”

Is there anyone who’s not so sweet and down to earth? I asked my sources.

“Katie Holmes was kind of standoffish,” confessed a Downtown waitress. “She was quiet, looked down a lot.”

Oh?

“It was hard for her to eat in the restaurant because the paparazzi kept trying to take photos of her through the windows. She wasn’t nasty or anything—she was respectful.”

The wind had finally left my sails. Where were the scandals? The tantrums? The intrigue? Celebrities were just about as exciting as your average New Yorker (though obviously with more glamorous clothes and high-powered friends). I was starting to see how the gossip rags might get desperate enough to embellish or even fabricate their material. At this point, I’d rather write a tell-all column about Mother Theresa.

“Well, what did you expect?” asked a friend and former server as we wove through Greenwich Village avenues, eyes peeled for familiar, front-page faces. “This is New York, not L.A. Even the most famous people are just living their lives here like everyone else. They get their takeout at the same place every day, go to Starbucks. It’s not an issue of who they are.”

But by now, all I see are celebrities. Celebrities standing beneath the eerie neon of a street lamp, silhouetted. Celebrities just beyond the glass pane of every taxi passing by. In the corner, by the DJ booth, on the red velvet sofas of another supposedly star-saturated lounge we’re about to leave behind.

But wouldn’t you know it? All the superstars and legends are really at home watching TV. The bar’s emptied out, and in the light, the designer couches are not truly red at all—just a deep, dull pink.