102. "Best and Worst of Times: Best Books vs. Bestsellers in a Changing Business," journalism school, Dec. 4: The upshot: More books are being published now than ever, but the best-selling books hog a lot more of the market. As for the “best” books -- those critically acclaimed works that win prizes -- there are only a few of them on the best-seller lists. Thirty years ago the major booksellers didn’t need marketing departments; now they’re necessary to cut through the clutter. You could say the same thing for movies.
103. “What Didn’t Happen,” Duke Theater, Dec. 5: An apt title, indeed. Christopher Shinn’s drama practically gets down on its knees and begs you to believe that some ominous, dramatic event will somehow tie together its portentous, flashblack-laced rumblings. Yet at the end, nothing much happens. We’re left with a rather typical mentor-protege botched relationship in which each (Scott, an aspiring Columbia grad student, played by Matt McGrath, and Dave, his struggling-author professor, played by Steven Skybell) disappoint the other. It’s a play about the struggle between art and commerce: Peter (Chris Noth of “Sex and the City”) is a best-selling novelist who’s peddled schlock for years, and he taunts Dave for sticking to his literary pretensions. The funny thing is, the play itself is so pretentious that it makes you feel a little guilty at the end for wishing that something DID happen.
104. Group discussion with Robert O’Meally and Chris Washburne, journalism school, Dec. 6: Jazz was the topic of the day: O’Meally and Washburne are part of Columbia’s Center for Jazz Studies, and they discussed the advantages (and occasional pitfalls) of having it absorbed into the academic environment.
105. “The Lesson,” Columbia black-box theater, Dec. 6: A spirited rendition of Eugene Ionesco’s happily absurd one-act about a Professor (and if there’s ever characters who should be capitalized, these are it) and an enthusiastic Student cramming for the all-important Complete Doctorate. The play tackles such themes as the silliness of higher education and roils in its own odd examination of sexual-harassment issues. But it’s at its most delightful when it skewers the obfuscation of language. A word is a word is a word, the Professor exclaims, and then he demonstrates how to say the same thing in a variety of “languages” -- neo-Spanish among them. Words can be used to clutter minds as well as educate them. This snappy little production -- with dramaturgy by classmate Kelina Gotman -- made me want to read more Ionesco.
106. “Fidelio,” Metropolitan Opera, Dec. 7: It’s no surprise that Beethoven only wrote one opera. The music’s great, but the story is so dorky you can practically imagine it slinking off in a dunce cap. Marzelline (Hei-Kyung Hong) is in love with young Fidelio. But she doesn’t realize “he” is actually a “she”! (You’d think that her beloved sings soprano would be a clue.) Fidelio is actually Leonore (Waltraud Meier), whose political-prisoner husband is locked in dank dungeon. She infiltrates the household of the jailer, Rocco (Matti Salminen), so she can come to the rescue. The opera practically turns comical at the conclusion, when the cross-dressing ruse is revealed and poor Marzelline is left to sob, without even one aria to proclaim “But hell, what about me?” This production looked spiffy, with Fascist underpinnings (rifles and cameras and an early 20th Century feel), along with hordes of docile prisoners decked out in creamy shades of white singing about the joy of the sun upon their unjustly prisoned arms.
107. “Ghosts,” Classic Stage Company, Dec. 8: Lanford Wilson’s breezy, whip-through-the-dark-family-secrets translation of the august Henrik Ibsen drama has sort of a lite-mayonnaise feel to it: You get the essence of the thundering weight of the story, but the flavor seems a bit diluted. The acting in this production was particularly fine, with Amy Irving as a dull-white Helen Alving, Ted Schneider as her melancholy son, David Gerroll as an obtuse clergyman and David Patrick Kelly as a sea-farin’ drunk who knows where the family’s skeletons are buried. The play’s shocking revelations seem rather muted: Is it worse that the son has syphillis? Or that he’s unknowingly been making out with his sister? At barely 85 minutes, Wilson has stripped away so much of the play’s wrenching bulk that it seems better suited for the clean, concise confines of network TV.
108. “Winterreise,” Trisha Brown Dance Company, John Jay College Theater, Dec. 9: Schubert’s song cycle tells the story of a Wanderer abandoned by his sweetheart. In this interesting (and occasionally downright strange) production, the singer, Simon Kennlyside, became a “dancer” as well, joined by three others (Brandi L. Norton, Seth Parker and Lionel Popkin) to illustrate the inner torment of alienation, isolation and eventual desire for an early death. What I liked about the production wasn’t so much the grace or innovation of the choreography but the emotional bond between the four of them on stage. While the text positively preens
with melancholy, and Schubert’s lush and sad melodies paint a musical portrait of bleak despair, the fact that this loner is somehow supported in the world by the other three offers a sliver of hope. At one point, two of the dancers actually form a “bed” upon which the Wanderer can rest, and for a moment, you get the sense that -- as Sondheim put it in “Into the Woods” -- no one truly is alone.
109. American Museum of Natural History, Dec. 10: The big show of the moment is “Einstein,” billed as the most comprehensive presentation ever mounted on the life and theories of the most famous scientist of the 20th Century. There’s something particularly delightful about seeing the report card of the young Albert under glass (and no, he didn’t get straight A’s), realizing that this precocious little boy (said to be born with an abnormally large head) would so greatly influence the world. His eccentricities, including his turbulent personal life (including his marriage to his cousin and numerous affairs), are covered dispassionately, without any sense of seaminess. While the science in the exhibit was so easy to understand (even I understood most of it) that it’s probably been dumbed down too far, it was an interesting recapitulation of the most sturdy of Einstein’s contributions, including his special and general theories of relativity. The idea of “time travel” (that there is no such thing as fixed time but it depends on your position and speed) and the impossibility of traveling at the speed of light (thereby destroying the idea of “Star Trek”) might still seem hopelessly hypothetical. But the power derived from splitting the atom became far too practical an application of scientific theory. Einstein’s unabashed efforts to ban nuclear weapons and promote world government show that he was willing to use his awesome celebrity -- his name itself synonymous with “genius” -- to a greater good. It’s probably inevitable that Einstein became so famous, because people needed an easy way to personify the tremendous impact of science upon 20th Century life. What’s remarkable is how much of a human being this Super Brain was as well.
110. “Talk to Her,” Lincoln Plaza Cinemas, Dec. 10: A new Pedro Almodovar film is a cause for celebration, and with this lithe, quiet, affecting, darkly amusing tale of loneliness and quite possibly the strangest coupling in the world, the director has risen to new heights. Poor Alicia (Leonor Watling) is a young dancer lying in a coma -- she’s been that way for years, brain-dead to the world. But there are those in that world who are very much connected to her, especially a male nurse, Benigno (Javier Camara in a long-lidded, skittishly cherubic performance), who seems to relish the task of annointing her skin, massaging her muscles and chatting up a one-sided storm. Meanwhile, another comatose patient has entered the hospital -- this one a feisty bull fighter, attended by her grieving writer boyfriend, Marco (Dario Grandinetti). Marco and Benigno become friends, and in a macabre (and very amusing) moment, the men drag their beloveds outside to sun themselves on deck chairs; it’s almost as if they’ve brought their Barbies to the beach. It soon becomes apparent that Benigno, who assures Alicia's family that he is gay, has actually bonded with his patient in inappropriate ways, a message that Almodovar gets across in spectacular fashion as the character relates a bizarre movie about an incredibly shrinking man who finally enters his beloved through her vagina. (How’d you like to be the set decorator on this film?) Even with all this weirdness, however, at no point do the proceedings get too maudlin, nor even too unconventional, given the circumstances; at the end I felt as if I’d been privileged to watch love working at its most extreme. There’s someone for everyone, it seems, even if that someone doesn’t have registering brain waves.
111. “The Mercy Seat,” Acorn Theatre, Dec. 11: As Neil LaBute’s latest play gets under way, its two characters exchange the kind of “isn’t it awful” platitudes about Sept. 11 that were so thick in the air after the disaster. In fact, Abby (Signourney Weaver in a performance so sharp and vigorous it’s as if she’s pummeling herself) seems to want to hear as many of these words as possible, if only to assure herself that Ben (a tall, strong and riveting Liev Schreiber) at least has the capacity to engage in such socially acceptable group shock. But this MCC production isn’t a typical 9/11 play -- no surprise considering the dark and simmering LaBute (“In the Company of Men”), whose call in life seems to be to traipse merrily down the windpipes of ordinary lives and find the darkest, gunkiest stuff he can dredge up in the soul below. We soon learn that Ben was getting a blow job the moment the first plane struck the World Trade Center. In fact, he was supposed to be in that building and not fooling around with his boss in her apartment. Now, a day later, he still isn’t answering his cell phone, and he’s come up with an audacious plan: Let the world think he was in that building, leave his wife and children behind and start his life anew. That this plot was derived, at least at some level, from the fertile imagination of urban myth only adds to its mystique. Who among us hasn’t wondered what it would be like to start over? As Ben and Abby converse, however, “The Mercy Seat” becomes much more about them as a couple than what’s going on outside. Abby is in love with this younger man, even though she knows the risks of dating her subordinate. Yet she can’t seem to break it off. And Ben, too, seems enchanted with this woman, so much so that he’s willing to entertain the notion of never seeing his children again just so he can be with her unencumbered. But do they “love” each other? In one harrowing monologue, Abby relates how much it disturbs her that Ben only enters her from behind during sex -- and she even admits that she sometimes imagines that it’s Ben’s wife that’s pounding her. (There’s a lot of guilt up there on stage, and it isn’t only of the “I survived 9/11” mentality.) Dark, corrosive and fascinating, “The Mercy Seat” moves from the trite to the explosive. It’s riveting.
112. “Yellowman,” Manattan Theatre Club, City Center Stage, Dec. 12: To the “enlightened,” discriminating against someone based on the color of their skin seems the height of barbarism. So why do people do it? And why, of all people, do black people do it -- black people, who should know better than anyone what discrimination is all about? Dael Orlandersmith’s “Yellowman” doesn’t pretend to answer these greater philosophical questions, but it does make them hang heavy in the air. Alma (Orlandersmith) is a heavy, darker-skinned woman remembering her childhood friendship and later romance with Eugene (a terrific Howard W. Overshown), a lighter-skinned (some call him “yellow”) black who loves her dearly. “Yellowman” is their story, yes, but in a way it’s as much about their parents. Eugene’s father is a darker-skinned black, and his mother paid the price for marrying him from her own father. Alma’s mother, meanwhile, has always resented her own darkness, and in one harrowing vignette, Alma recalls the day that her father left her mother on her knees in a dusty road, begging with him not to leave. The play’s production design is dramatically simple: Just a couple of chairs (and beautiful lighting design by Russell H. Champa), leaving us lots of room of imaginative room to follow the characters from their childhood in a forgotten Southern town to the bustling streets of New York City. Unfortunately, there’s a bit of a too-pat construction to the narrative; you know early on that these two young people won’t be allowed to let their love blossom, and the climax -- with Eugene killing his father in an argument -- seems too studiously theatrical.
113. “Medea,” Brooks Atkinson Theatre, Dec. 13: When this Abbey Theatre production opened at BAM earlier this year, it became the impossible ticket -- which helped it make the leap to Broadway. This brisk, brutal rendition of the Euripides tale swells with jealous rage and all-consuming jealousy, and while it doesn’t necessarily explain why Medea does what she does -- what mother can butcher her children? -- it goes a long way to creating a pressure-cooker atmosphere that makes you imagine that she could really do the deed. (The weird, industrial, glassed-in set contributes to the sense that all the steam that’s built up is going to have to go someplace.) Fiona Shaw is all limbs and muscles, and while she seems an overly mature Medea (especially to Jonathan Cake’s ravishing, rock-star-looks Jason), the wildness in her eyes and the near-spasms of her body helps her create an all-consuming characterization. When she does kill the kids, it’s a moment of supreme theatricality: the lights turn blinding and the sound builds to seat-shaking volume, and then a splotch of red splatters against a frosted window. Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a murder depicted with such visceral power, even in the bloodiest movie -- this was an example of how theater can completely encompass an audience. I found it interesting afterwards talking to mothers -- you’d think they’d scoff at Medea’s character, finding it completely implausible. Yet there’s probably a tiny part of every parent who at one point toys with the idea of simply dispatching his or her offspring (granted, most parents keep such impulses so deeply hidden they’d never even recognize it), and perhaps there’s something dark and primal in “Medea” with which parents especially connect.
114. “Dance of the Vampires,” Minskoff Theatre, Dec. 14: Two words: free ticket. Was it as bad as the critics say? Yep. My top 10 cheesiest things about this Michael Crawford calamity:
10. There’s a production number about “Garlic.”
9. The overexuberant fog machine wiped out the first five rows of the orchestra, turning high-paying patrons into program-fanning desperados.
8. With his dyed long locks and enough pancake makeup to choke the heartiest pore, Crawford looked like a post-mortem Fabio.
7. The book (by Michael Kunze) is slapstick stupidity, completely at odds with the score (by Jim Steinman), which is bombastic ‘80s pop opera. It’s like a longtime married couple that can’t even conduct a decent dinner conversation.
6. Rene Auberjonois (!) is forced to recite a bad Gilbert & Sullivan rapid-fire parody.
5. Did I mention the production number about garlic?
4. Crawford and his designated beloved (Mandy Gonzalez) start off Act II with a duet of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Enough said.
3. The flamboyant gay vampire (playing Crawford’s son) oozed more sexuality in one brief scene than Crawford managed to exude throughout the entire play. Vampire Viagra, anyone?
2. The earnest young tenor (Max Von Essen) was as bland as tofu cream cheese -- and didn’t even have that great of a voice.
And the No. 1 top cheesiest thing about “Dance of the Vampires”: In the final scene, which depicts a Times Square in a future world ruled by vampires, an ad for the show “Bats” proclaims “Now and Forever: Now in it’s 39th smash year.” Doesn’t anyone proofread the scenery?
115. “A View from the Bridge,” Metropolitan Opera, Dec. 16: This new Met production had its compelling moments, but the operatic version of the Arthur Miller play was hard to interact with emotionally. Perhaps it’s the structure of the book: a lawyer named Alfieri (Michael Devlin) is relating the sad tale of Eddie Carbone (Richard Zeller), a hard-working Brooklyn man who welcomes his wife’s two illegal-immigrant Italian cousins into his home. His niece, Catherine (Isabel Bayrakdarian), soon falls for blond-and-earnest Rodolpho (Gregory Turay), a happy-go-lucky guy who’d just as soon spend his paycheck on a new suit than worry about the future. It slowly becomes apparent that Eddie has inappropriate feelings for his newly matured niece, and his jealousy at her love for Rodolpho soon boils over into rage. The moment when Eddie’s wife (Catherine Malfitano) finally voices that she realizes her husband has crossed the line is powerful indeed -- her voice rings out with all the sad, abused feelings racking her soul. William Bolcom’s music is stubbornly non-melodic, however, except for a few sweet arias (notably one called “New York Lights” sung by Rodolpho), and there’s a stern, academic feel to the proceedings.
116. Metropolitan Museum of Art, Dec. 17: A tour of the Robert Lehman Collection, spanning from the Renaissance to the 20th Century. Among the highlights:
Simone Martini, whose “Madonna and Child” of 1326 set a new standard – the idea of the Madonna as nurturing maternal figure, head cocked, cradling a Christ child that seems like a real baby, not a grown man disguised as an infant. Use of egg tempera.
Petrus Christus, whose “A Goldsmith in His Shop” was the first genre picture of that era in the Netherlands. Oil paint instead of egg. Incredible detail – even down to the shark teeth in the painting that were part of the common currency.
Greco’s “St. Jerome” – gotta love the long beard, silky red coat, sunken cheeks and thinning hair. What a scowl of determination and devotion.
Jean-Auguste Dominique Ingres’ “Princesse de Broglie” – a sumptuous vision of this woman in striking blue gown. Ingres was a neoclassicst who believed in line before form, and it’s virtually impossible to see his brush strokes. Corot described Ingres as “all fire and ice” – an apt description, because even though the princess has a most decided pulse, there’s still something cool, detached and regal about her depiction.
117. Jewish Museum of New York, Dec. 17: Special exhibit on Franz Kafka’s connection to Prague. Kafka was a troubled, brilliant man who somehow tapped into the human disdain for but hopelessly entangled relationship with bureaucracy. A sad life: He loved four women but never managed to forge a marriage (even though he desperately wanted so-called normalcy), and he died a terrible, lingering death from tuberculosis – he actually starved to death because his body could no longer process food. The exhibit itself was mightily clever, with out-of-scale filing cabinets and creaky mazes emblazoned with Kafka quotes; the curators practically made a Disneyland ride out of his life with little more than photos and books. On my list: I want to read Kafka’s “The Castle,” and perhaps his novel “Amerika,” too.
118. “A Man of No Importance,” Lincoln Center Theater at the Mitzi E. Newhouse, Dec. 18: The second time for this sweet, sad little musical about poor, repressed Alfie Byrne. What struck me was how much more emotionally involved I got in the production, particularly the first act; there’s a melancholy to the lilting Irish melodies and an earnestness to the politically correct sexual politics that made me identify intensely with the main character. Sure, it’s about a gay man who has never known what it’s like to love. (When Alfie tells his sister that he’s never touched anyone, it’s a moment that aches.) But in a larger sense, it’s about the way that so often we love the person we shouldn’t – in this case, Alfie’s feelings for young, virile (and decidedly heterosexual) Robbie. You have to love who you love, or so the song goes – but what if he doesn’t love you back?
119. “The General from America,” Lucille Lortel Theatre, Dec. 18: Richard Nelson’s historical drama about Benedict Arnold – synonymous with “traitor” in the American vocabulary – was packed with interesting information. But it’s a defiantly expository play, and Nelson’s lackluster, static direction did little but serve up the material with the officiousness of a history textbook. It turns out that Gen. Arnold (Colin Redgrave in a harrumphing performance) had good reason to be bitter before his defection to the British. He was caught abusing his position as military governor of Philadelphia, and instead of being absolved by Gen. George Washington (himself under constant fire by the Continental Congress), he was demoted to commandant of West Point. Burning with indignity at what he considered a double crossing by Washington, Arnold struck a deal with British Gen. Henry Clinton: In exchange for 10,000 pounds, he’d switch sides. To sweeten the deal he offered maps of West Point and the chance to capture Washington himself, who planned a visit; the war might even had ended there and then if a simple misunderstanding hadn’t foiled it. There are two domestic dramas that play alongside the political one: Arnold’s young wife, Peggy (Yvonne Woods) is tired of the coarse manners of the colonials and longs for the refinements of British life; and a hinted-at homosexual affair between Clinton and his aide, John Andre (Paul Anthony McGrane) complicates matters when Andre is caught as a spy and eventually hanged. The irony: Andre (an actor) is lauded for his dignified death, while Arnold is despised by most of the British, who can’t abide a traitor. Besides the drama of Arnold’s life (which isn’t really done justice in this play, despite the powerhouse actor playing the lead role), what was really striking about “The General from America” is the fact that it addresses wartime revolutionary America, something that seems to have slipped from the national consciousness. The public was not solidly unified against the British – for a time, no one really knew which side would prevail. Inflation was rampant, food scarce, crowds volatile. It was a time of hardship and of a good deal less idealism than the sort of heavenly-repose wisdom that most of us associate with the Founding Fathers.
120. “Metamorphoses,” Circle in the Square, Dec. 20: A bright, soothing collection of Greek tales that could have emerged as McMyth Lite. As it is, Mary Zimmerman’s cheeky compilation is sweet and fun, and while it can be sometimes a little too obvious, the play doesn’t succumb to the lowest-common cultural-literacy denominator. (Narcissus, the best known of the characters, doesn’t even get any lines – there’s a brief, knowing reference to the story that takes about 30 seconds.) It was fascinating to watch this play just a week after “Medea” – a reminder that the Greeks had their soft and silly side, too. This production will probably best be remembered for its imaginative use of a full-size wading pool; under Zimmerman’s playful direction, it becomes a stormy sea, a tranquil lake and – in more than a few moments – the equivalent of a 2-year-old’s bath tub.
121. Chelsea gallery tour, Dec. 21: An interesting stop at the Paula Cooper Gallery in Chelsea, where Christian Marclay’s “Video Quartet” offers a mesmerizing marriage of cinema and music. The 17-minute segment is a four-screen projection that borrows from hundreds of films: mostly of those visually charged music-making moments that shatter the senses, from the clap of a hand to the crash of a cymbal. Fast-paced and seemingly encyclopedic, it nonetheless feels much more than a simple music video. Also on this mini-Chelsea tour: a stop at the James Cohan Gallery to see Richard Long’s “Lake to Stones to Crows” show. Long considers himself a “land artist,” and over his career he has taken long country walks, which he considers works of art in themselves. His “sculptures” are carefully planned groups of rocks for which you can buy the blueprint.
122. “The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers,” Green Valley Cinemas, Watsonville, Dec. 27: Frodo, Sam and the gang are back for Part 2, which seems even more visually spectacular than the first, if but a bit more firmly in the camp of hardcore Tolkien fans. What weighs this sequel down, of course, is that it occupies the middle part of the trilogy, which means that ultimately the film is only really setting up the concluding third film. From a structural standpoint, Tolkien sort of took the easy way out with “The Two Towers.” Instead of cutting back and forth between the three main plot threads – Frodo, Sam and Gollum heading toward Mordor; Aragorn, Legolas and Grimlee trying to find them; and Merry and Pippin hanging out with the race of trees known as the Ents – Tolkien pretty much tells the stories one after another without bothering to integrate them. Peter Jackson couldn’t get away with that on screen, of course, and “The Two Towers” manages to blend the all-over-the-map adventures into a reasonably cohesive whole (though Gandalf’s part in the proceedings, particularly his last-minute save-the-day cavalry charge, is a bit muddled. What this film will probably best be remembered for is the incredible CGI character of Gollum, who is so realistic that it’s hard to believe he isn’t really there.
123. “Chicago,” Sony Metreon, San Francisco, Dec. 28: Quite simply, one of the best movie musicals I’ve ever seen – and from a sheer structural standpoint, the absolute best. Part of this is because of the nature of “Chicago” itself. The staged musical is detached and cynical – it keep its characters at a bemused distance, always reminding you of the artifice of theater. Such an approach would have been disastrous in a feature film, so instead Marshall and screenwriter Bill Condon stage all of the musical numbers as fantasies from the point of view of Renee Zellweger’s Roxie Hart. Cutting between what’s happening in “real” life and her mind, the story of Roxie killing her lover takes on a sensual, jazzy feel that’s somehow still rooted in mundane reality. And in a flash, Marshall removes for what many people is the major complaint about musicals: the self-conscious moment when people break into song and dance. (Of course, movies are filled with many other examples of artifice – like characters falling off 10-story buildings and walking away unscathed -- but people don’t seem to react as strongly against them.) In some ways, “Chicago” the movie is even better than the musical, mostly because Marshall cast Zellweger for her acting and not her singing. (Obviously.) Why does this work? Because Roxie Hart is mediocre in the first place. The only way she’d ever be able to break into vaudeville would be to have a gimmick (like becoming a murderess). On stage, though, we watch Roxie belt out her songs and slink through her dances with astonishing professional skill; who really believes she’s mediocre? Within the more intimate confines of the big screen, it’s far more important to feel the character than get jazzed by her performance, and Zellweger gives us the perfect combination of vulnerability and thick-headed persistence. And on top of all that, the dancing is great, Catherine Zeta-Jones is acceptable as Velma Kelly, and John C. Reilly almost walks off with the picture with his sad-clown portrayal of hapless Amos Hart.
124. Bobby Slayton, Punchlines comedy club, San Francisco, Dec. 29: Slayton is supposed to be the “bulldog of comedy” or some such growling persona, but his anti-politically correct stand-up act wasn’t so much offensive as it was dated. He’s nearing 50 and still doing jokes about blowjobs? Tired stuff.
125. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, Dec. 29: A retrospective of German artist Gerhard Richter. What’s fascinating about him is his clear mastery of both representational and abstract forms – he’s produced works so photo-realistic it’s creepy and works so abstract they look like typical blobs of color. (Richter actually prefers a palate heavy with whites, blacks and grays.) Many of his works are purposefully fuzzy and out-of-focus, with subjects little more than an I-can’t-find-my-glasses blur. The effect is slightly sinister, as if someone is trying to tweak with your sense of reality.
126. “Tartuffe,” American Airlines Theatre, Jan. 2: Moliere’s famous comedy comes across in this crisp, spiffy new Roundabout Theatre production as half-sitcom, half emphatic philosophic treatise on the dangers of religious fundamentalism. The character of Tartuffe – a hypocritical social climber who uses religion as a way to insinuate himself into the household of a wealthy landowner – is almost synonymous with that of the Houseguest from Hell, and indeed, by the time that Henry Goodman (of fired “Producers” fame) slinks on stage, he’s been built up as only slightly less villainous than Satan himself. The great conceit in “Tartuffe” is that everyone can see through him, of course, except the one person in the household who matters: Orgon (Brian Bedford in a delightfully complex harrumph of a performance), who ultimately calls the shots. Why is Orgon so blind? It’s partly for comic effect, but the character’s obliviousness has a darker side as well: When piousness has gripped your heart, one of the first things you lose is a sense of humor. J. Smith-Cameron gives a delightful turn as Dorine, the household’s sharp-tongued maid.
127. “Station to Station,” Chashama gallery, Jan. 2: Lisa Gidley’s solo photo show is built on an intriguing premise: She plans to take a photo within a block of each of New York City’s 490 subway stations. (None of the photos can include the stations themselves.) What a cool idea! This introductory show included 14 prints; when the series is completed, it’ll be quite a sight.
128. P.S. 1 Contemporary Arts Center, Jan. 3: This refurbished elementary school provides compelling spaces for modern art. That much of it is offbeat, bizarre and even stupid is almost beside the point. I’m sure a case could be made for the significance of an artist like Vito Acconci, say, whose video offerings include a 17-minute film called “Pryings” in which a man tries to pry open a woman’s eyelid, or Paul McCarthy’s videos of drooling saliva and a chef in a pig’s mask playing with ketchup. But so much of the context surrounding these works seems like so much effluvia – mostly gaseous, pompous intelluctalities that go to great lengths to justify why a video clip of someone setting fire to the nape of his neck, then quickly exterminating the flames, deserves to be celebrated in our great institutions of culture. Still, there was stuff I liked a lot: Arnold Mesches’ show about his released FBI files (he was under surveillance from 1945-72) was cheeky and fascinating. And I really liked the video art of Gary Hill, whose “Site/Recite” showed various objects on a rotating disc coming in and out of extreme depths of field, accompanied by langorous narration.
129. Museum of Modern Art, Jan. 3: Another trip to MOMA’s temporary home in Queens, this time to catch the superlative “Drawing Now: Eight Propositions” show, a sampling of 26 young artists. My favorites: Chris Ofili’s “Afrofantazia,” in which musical notes are formed by tiny little Afro heads, and his “Afrofilia,” same concept except with penises; and Paul Noble’s fantastic, eerie cityscapes, especially his “Nobspital.” In that drawing you get a sense of ambition and technical prowess past its prime; within the ambitious rooms of the hospital you can see bedpans and buckets, stains on the walls, a puddle where it shouldn’t be. Even the grandest of human schemes can become decrepit if not constantly maintained. Also viewed: “The Changing of the Avant-Garde: Visionary Architectural Drawings from the Howard Gilman Collection.”
130. “Dialogues des Carmelites,” Metropolitan Opera, Jan. 4: During France’s Reign of Terror, the world was turned upside down – so much so that even cloistered nuns weren’t safe from the guillotine. This beautiful modern opera, with music by Francis Poulenc, captures the sense of despair and loss during such a time, and John Dexter’s radiantly spare production is so stark and sure of itself that it almost made me gasp. Blanche de la Force (Patricia Racette, strong and sure), decides she wants to leave her upper class home and join the Carmelite order. But even nuns aren’t safe from the terror. And neither are they safe from the kinds of fears that prey on all humans – fears of doubt, anguish and puzzlement over one’s place in the universe. The ending is one of the most dramatic in history: The nuns sing a soft chant together and are led off one by one. The first thwack of the guillotine pierced the audience like a knife, and even though I knew the next one was coming – and the next one – each off-stage drop of the blade was as potent as the first. Soon, of course, there’s only one voice, and then none. Wrenching stuff. But the truly triumphant moment in this production came from Felicity Palmer, the prioress of the convent, who is nearing death. As her end comes, her faith wavers: Why should she care about God, she asks. Shouldn’t He be caring about her? Just before she dies, she hoists herself off her deathbed, and in a frightening whoosh expires before our eyes. To be reduced to such suffering after dedicating one’s life to God – where is the heavenly justice in that?
131. Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, City Center, Jan. 5: My first time to see this company, and what a sumptuous performance. While the signature piece “Revelations” was of course wonderful – with the dancers strutting to the gospel – my favorite was Ulysses Dove’s “Vespers,” with the company’s female dancers conveying a coiled, wound fluidity as they flitted across the stage. (At one point two of the women seemed to spiral into themselves, suggesting perhaps that if you could just dance hard enough, you’d be able to morph into pure energy.) Also on the program: the gritty, political “Apex” by Francesca Harper, which featured muscular moves and an intriguing political message, but some of the more theatrical elements (such as a big-booted dancer reading off names of political prisoners) seemed perfunctory.
132. “Altogether Different: Doug Elkins Dance Company,” Joyce Theater, Jan. 8: If the Alvin Ailey company suggests muscled fluidity, what to say of the gentle, jerky, be-bops of Doug Elkins? There was something incredibly taut and consistent about the seven dancers in this exceptional company, yet they seemed at the same time so relaxed they could go to sleep right there on stage. In “The Look of Love,” danced to the vintage pop sounds of Burt Bacharach, the dancers formed intriguing combinations of twos and threes, suggesting the temporary fixations and eventual disillusions of love. (At many times the female dancers lifted their male partners, a nice illumination of how power can ebb and flow in relationships.) Elkins is known for using classical moves with a mixture of martial arts, gymnastics and even club dancing, and the combination is a light, virile, graceful style. The other dance on the program: the world premiere of “I Hear Mermaids Singing,” done to the accompaniment of Polynesian and South Pacific chants and hymns.
133. “Adult Entertainment,” Variety Arts Theatre, Jan. 10: Consider this double-header: “Debbie Does Dallas” followed by “Adult Entertainment.” Quite the little naughty romp, eh? But I get the feeling from observing the audiences at both Off-Broadway shows that mild titillation doesn’t exactly provide a fertile environment for art. Jokes about porn films somehow seem so dated; once you’ve blown through (um, excuse the pun) a dozen or so jokes about “On Golden Blonde” and “Saving Ryan’s Privates,” the bald, bad fact is evident: Nobody on stage is getting any. Indeed, both “Adult Entertainment” and “Debbie Does Dallas” is far tamer than some other shows on Broadway these days in terms of nudity, language and simulated sex, etc., and for all the nudge-wink humor, it’s hard to keep the proceedings from having a slightly musty odor, like listening to a bunch of old sailors shooting the breeze. In “Adult Entertainment,” Elaine May comes up with what she obviously thinks is a wildly funny premise: A group of aging porn stars decide to make their own X-rated movie, but this one with a “real” story. That such a story would require “real” acting seems self-evident, but that doesn’t seem to occur to these happy-go-lucky sex-industry workers. Even the most pragmatic of the bunch, Guy Aikens (Danny Aiello), doesn’t take much convincing. All you have to do is find a writer and bang – sorry – you’ll practically have Miramax breathing down your neck. May does manage to wring some nice laughs out of the premise, and when she rolls out her next silly gimmick – the idea that if you expose porn stars to great writers it will change their lives – it seems as if it has potential. But the promising first act sags after intermission; we’re left with a sentimental, dopy, plodding story that found all its high points in the first act and is left to become increasingly desperate. Jeannie Berlin, as quite possibly the most stupid porn star on the planet, is a high point; it’s like watching a gentle breeze trying to arm wrestle. But by the time “Adult Entertainment” grinds to the end of its two and a half hour running time, I was ready to change the channel to "Sesame Street."
134. New York City Ballet, New York State Theater, Jan. 12: My first outing to the ballet – and what a powerhouse event, featuring an all-Balanchine program. “Serenade,” set to Tschaikovsky’s “Serenade for Strings,” was the first ballet created by George Balanchine in America. As the curtain rose on all the women dancers, clad in blue dresses against a blue backdrop, it was like watching a graceful living organism – a whale, perhaps, performing delicate back flips and sliding smoothly through the sea. Balanchine used the ballet as a lesson in stage technique, and he even worked in incidental events: When a dancer slipped and fell, that became part of the choreography, and when one arrived late one day, that became a part as well. (Imagine missing the bus being memorialized for all time.) Also on the program: “Le Tombeau de Couperin,” which divides eight couples into right and left quadrilles; “Pavane,” danced solo by Kyra Nichols; and the crowd-pleasing “Western Symphony,” which suggested what would happen if a dude ranch met a Lycra factory.
135. “Falsettos,” Playwrights Horizons mainstage theater, Jan. 13: What a privilege to see this concert version of two of William Finn’s celebrated musicals: “March of the Falsettos” and “Falsettoland” with their original casts almost entirely intact. (The occasion: the opening of the new Playwrights Horizons theater on 42nd Street. And we’re talking brand new: The stairways weren’t even finished.) I know this music so well that watching these shows performed on stage the first time was like greeting an old friend. Chip Zien as Mendel: funny, throaty, so short! And Alison Fraser and Faith Prince, reprising their roles as Trina No. 1 and Trina No. 2: This is what show-stopping Broadway leading ladies are all about. And when Michael Rupert as Marvin sings “What Would I Do?” to Whizzer (Jonathan Dokuchitz, not one of the original cast members but superb), it’s one of those biting, tear-stained moments of musical theater that can make your heart heave..
136. American Folk Art Museum, Jan. 14: This tall sliver of a museum – five compact floors – has a nice spirit and an uncluttered, non-pompous sense of American artistry. The point at where “fine” art and folk art intersect can be a prickly subject – I could imagine curators from other museums arm wrestling over some of the gorgeous quilts in this collection – but at heart there’s an untrained, optimistic, can-do feel to the pieces on display here. And they aren’t always as of-the-people simple as you might expect. An example: the whirligig “Early Bird Catches the Worm.” (A whirligig is a device that looks sort of like a weathervane but has no practical purpose.) The people depicted on top are white and working hard, while the darker-skinned characters on the level below are playing cards – thus reinforcing dominant stereotypes of the day. Some of the pieces are absolutely gorgeous: one of my favorites is Rebecca Scattergood Savery’s “Sunburst” quilt, which features a whopping 2,900 diamond shapes pieced together in subtle, swimming patterns. Also: Howard Finster’s three-dimensional “Cathedral in Heaven” (which has tiny peepholes that let you see the angels frolicking inside) and Madge Gill’s creepy painting “Three Women,” which she attributed to a spirit named Myrinerest. And, of course, there was William Edmondson’s gravestone carving “Lady With Muff”; I told Susan she should embark on a new carving career.
137. Architecture walking tour, Prospect Park, Jan. 14: Just off the Grand Army Arch in Brooklyn, Susan and I wandered several of the well-kept blocks and marveled at the superb brownstones. Plus there’s the Venetian-inspired Montauk Club, which looks like it should be sitting on a canal.
138. Frick Collection, Jan. 14: My second trip to the Frick, which continues to amaze. This time the room on the other side of the rotunda from Frick’s grand long gallery was open, which meant I got to see the collection of Whistlers this time. James Whistler is the only American (besides Gilbert Stuart) represented in the Frick (which probably has more to do with Mr. Frick’s anti-American artistic bias than any question of quality – where are the Copleys and the Bierstadts?), and even then, Whistler was a defiant expatriot who lived all his adult life in Europe. The artist’s creed of form over representation yields some beautiful, astonishing images, such as his “Portrait of Mrs. Frances Leyland,” and his dark paintings, such as “Arrangement in Black and Gold: Comte Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac," with the human figure almost entirely disappearing into the black background, almost veer toward pure abstraction. Also on my return engagement tour: Turner’s wonderful “Antwerp” with its shiny white city in the ghostly distance; and Hogarth's “Miss Edwards” with her self-assured, I-am-woman, bash-the-husband stare.
139. “Def Poetry Jam on Broadway," Longacre Theatre, Jan. 14: Seething anger isn’t exactly the dominant motif that Broadway theatergoers – at least the ones who blithely plunk down $100 for full-price tickets – expect on stage. But anger is what you get in this punchy, passionate evening that tries – only partially successfully – to transfer the electric undercurrent of poetry slams to the staid setting of a Broadway house. The concept is simple: We’re introduced briefly to the studiously rainbow-colored group of real, live, working poets, and then listen as they return, one by one, to riff on life, love and the pissed-off laments of their generation. While I was caught up by the intensity of some of the poems – including Beau Sia’s Chinese-centric posturing, Mayda Del Valle’s beautiful “Cocina” ode to her mother’s kitchen, and the hoot-a-line self-deprecation of Poetri’s “Dating Myself” – I couldn’t help but think that the group seemed uncohesive as a group and even a little uncomfortable on stage together. There isn’t really an arc to the evening, any through line that binds the poems together beyond the somewhat tired, generalized categories of love, say. Still, when the group gathers for its last, thunderous volley at the audience, I delighted in the power of the words.
140. “Hairspray,” Neil Simon Theatre, Jan. 15: The most I can say about this wildly popular, sold-out musical: It’s fun, most of the time, when it isn’t completely caught up in its smoothly commercial ways; at times this stage adaptation has about as much in common with John Waters as Barnes & Noble does with an ratty used bookstore. From the opening number – “Good Morning, Baltimore,” presided over by Tracy Turnblatt (Marissa Janet Winokur) in full-bore Relentlessly Cheerful Mode – it’s evident we’re in for a light, comic-book romp. Tracy wants to get on a local TV dance show, even though she’s fat, and of course she falls for the cutest guy on the program. Plus there’s a more “serious” side as well – call it full-bore Relentlessly Social Commentary Mode – in which the audience is lightly preached to about integration and body image. Harvey Fierstein, in drag as Tracy’s ironing mom, does the show-stopping thing with wit and style, even though his grating voice starts to grate, and there are nice comic touches throughout. What this musical lacks, though, is anything to cut the sweetness, and Jack O’Brien’s direction and Jerry Mitchell’s choreography more often evokes bland corporatization than defiant youthful exuberance. (The fanciful sets and bright colors are fun, and the musical certainly delivers its final dollop of blissful camp when Fierstein emerges in a flagrant red dress from the world’s biggest can of hairspray.) I would have liked to see Tracy hurt a little more; it’s like she uses her cantaloupe-sized grin as a force field to deflect any and all unpleasantness. The actual touching moments are few and far between, however. In the wonderful “I Can Hear the Bells,” Tracy fantasizes about a perfect life with Link (Matthew Morrison), right down to their nuptials, and for a minute she seems like a real person instead of an economy-sized Musketeer.
141. World Trade Center architecture proposals, Winter Garden, Jan. 15: One result of the World Trade Center tragedy is that the idea of architecture suddenly seems more immediate; we’re talking about filling not only a hole in the ground but a hole in the national psyche, and passions (and opinions) about what’s to go there are being expressed in levels usually reserved for bone-crunching sports team rivalries. The display at the Winter Garden is smooth and somehow soothing – even if none of these designs is built, it’s good to know that thoughtful possibilities abound. My favorite design: Richard Meier’s Memorial Square, consisting of five vertical sections and interconnecting horizontal floors – creating a checkerboard, sweeping design that would nudge New York’s skyline in an entirely new direction.
142. Ellis Island National Immigration Museum, Jan. 16: This was my second visit to this beautifully restored building, which includes the famous Registry Hall through which millions of immigrants passed into this country. (My first visit was back in 1998, when I wrote a story for The Bee about a photo exhibit about Armenian immigrants.) The museum does a nice job not only of documenting the actual Ellis Island experience – you can see the triple-level bunks in which immigrants slept – but also giving an insight into the diversity of backgrounds and the humble lives those immigrants led. (One striking photo shows a small child taking a bath in filthy water in the sink, which doubled as a washing machine.) What stuck with me most from this visit was the optimism and dreams of the people who came to this country, even if they were soon to discover that the streets really weren’t paved with gold. But there was also sadness at leaving their family and native lands behind. In a reminiscence from an immigrant named Luciano DeCrescenzo, documented in the book “LaMerica” (Temple University Press, 1985), we learn about a quaint custom that was enacted when immigrants left for the New World on their huge steamer ships: People on board would give balls of yarn to someone left behind on shore, and then would take the end of the yarn and let it unspool as they sailed away. When the length of yarn was exhausted, the person on the ship let go, and all that was left of them was the length of yarn blowing in the breeze. The thought of that sight – of hundreds of pieces of colored yarn tangled in the sea wind as the ship slowly sails out of sight – seems to capture a world both of promise and sadness.
143. Chelsea gallery tour, Jan. 16: A whirlwind tour along 24th Street with Susan – and certainly not my most memorable visit. For starters, we confronted Eric Wesley’s exercise in “African-American self-empowerment” at Metro Pictures gallery. The shtick: Wesley is growing bootleg tobacco and selling it to the (white) world of contemporary art. In various rooms in the gallery, Wesley lays out the steps of tobacco production, from incubating seedlings in a grow house to showing us a baggie of the finished product. Inexplicably, he includes a replica of a U-Haul trailer. Perhaps he’ll use it to pack up the exhibit afterwards and flee town? Also on the “huh” list: Paul Ramirez Jonas’ “The Earth Seen From Above” at LFL Gallery, which includes a “50 State Summits” photo exhibit that documents the artist’s journeys to the highest points in each state. (He doesn’t even hike all the time; sometimes he drives.) In each photo, he takes a self-portrait waving a hand-made flag that says “OPEN.” But Jonas hasn’t even conquered all 50 peaks (and has avoided most of the tall ones, such as Alaska) – the idea is that half this project is still to be completed, and the “art” is more in the idea of filling in the blanks. Um, OK. At this point 24th Street seems more like Snake Oil Way. But down the street, some much more compelling shows: Tom Holland’s colorful geometric shapes cut from aluminum sheets and riveted together at the Charles Cowles gallery; Edward Burtynsky’s stark and big photos of oil fields, at the same gallery (Susan particularly enjoyed those, seeing how they brought back warm Bakersfield memories); and, most delightfully, Michael Craig-Martin’s vividly colored everyday objects – in shades of shocking pinks, glowing greens, moody blues and garish yellows – at the Gagosian Gallery.
144. Budapest Festival Orchestra, Carnegie Hall, Jan. 16: A vigorous – and invigorating – performance by this earnest, muscular orchestra. On the program: Wagner’s “Prelude to Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg” and “Prelude and Liebestod, from “Tristan und Isolde.” My favorite: Liszt’s “A Faust Symphony,” particularly the
third and final movement, “Mephistopheles,” which practically seethes with the slippery, seductive, winsome appeal of all that is dark and tasty. Must add this one to my CD collection.
145. Barnes Foundation, Merion, Penn., Jan. 17: Simply put, one of the most moving museum visits I’ve ever experienced. Walk into the elegant, refined Barnes estate – which looks from the outside like a pleasant country home (albeit for the filthy rich) – and suddenly you’re in a world of art that is somehow grandiose and yet at the same time cozy-comfy friendly, like you’ve been invited to the fanciest afternoon tea in the world . Dr. Albert C. Barnes was a man who had definite opinions not only on what makes good art – he scooped up 181x Renoirs, for example, more than twice than in the Musee d'Orsay in Paris – but on how that art should be displayed. His philosophy: a piece of art isn’t meant to be enjoyed alone, as it is so often in our spacious museums that tend to isolate each great work; his idea was to group his paintings together, along with decorative objects and furniture, into clusters of theme, color, size and feel. In other words, he was a little like the world’s most extravagant layout artist – I could almost imagine him setting out a precious pile of Cezannes, Matisses and Picassos on the floor, say, and toying with different combinations until his talented eye was satisfied. Up to this point, I’d always thought of the salon style of display – in which groups of paintings are stacked upon each other – as little more than unorganized clutter. But in Barnes’ vision, that clutter becomes sharp and delineated, and each individual painting seems even more enjoyable. (Well, most of the time; Barnes could get a little too precise and analytical at times with his groupings, such as one room in which all the paintings are arranged simply by size. What I reveled in most with this collection was the wealth of Modiglianis – I counted 13 works (!), including one of his sculptures. (Among them: “Reclining Nude from the Back,” “Young Redhead in an Evening Dress,” “Girl with Polka-Dot Blouse” and “Portrait of Leopold Zborowski.”) There’s a whole story about the Barnes that’s political to tell as well – about the terms of Barnes’ will, and control of the collection, and the attempt to move it to more accessible digs in downtown Philadelphia. I don’t know all the details, but I could guess that if Mr. Barnes was around today, he’d want as many people as possible to see his art.
146. Whirlwind tour of Philadelphia, Jan. 17: I’m not surewhat else to call this brief but memorable whoosh through the City of Brotherly Love. With Carole at the wheel of the minivan, all revved up to show off some of her favorite haunts (she used to live here a while back), it sort of felt like a “10 Countries in 14 Days Tour” on amphetamines. (Especially when she yelled at Anya and Rebecca, who were gossiping in the back seat, to pay attention to her tour-guide narration.) Among our stops: looking at the wonderful, multi-story murals that adorn some of downtown’s rugged neighborhoods; a brief foray into the Reading Terminal Market, where we watched Amish women make pretzels, which we then ate; driving through downtown, including 25 mph views of the new Kimmel Center for the Performing Arts and the Liberty Bell (hey, it beats waiting in line for two hours); and dropping Anya off at the Philadelphia Art Museum for a piano concert. Oh, and we used the New York Times to clean the windshield. At least it wasn’t the Inquirer.
147. Institute of Contemporary Art, University of Pennsylvania, Jan. 17: Yes, we worked in half an hour at an art opening, too, complete with hordes of students sipping $2 glasses of wine and looking vaguely interested in the art. Actually, half an hour was more than enough time for Edna Andrade’s eye-gyrating “Optical Paintings, 1963-68.” If you stared long enough at her incessant triangles and squares, it was like drinking without drinking. More interesting was a show called “Intricacy,” curated by the architect and theorist Greg Lynn, which included fanciful models that seemed folded, interwoven and layered upon themselves. You couldn’t build these fantastical structures – but it’s fun to imagine trying. Overall, however, I’m sure what we’ll remember most about the visit is the Doris Day parking space that Carole found right in front of the museum – and the parking ticket we received afterwards because we forgot to feed the meter.
148. “Our Town,” Booth Theatre, Jan. 19: Here’s the irony: When Thornton Wilder wrote “Our Town,” he was eschewing sentimentality (even though he admitted he liked it when audiences left the play crying). Yet the essence of this particular Broadway production rests upon sentimentality. Most of the audience was there to see a 78-year-old Paul Newman and celebrate him not so much as an actor but as an icon. (Indeed, in his Playbill bio, Newman quips that he “is probably best known for his spectacularly successful food conglomerate.”) It’s difficult as an audience member today to imagine this play when it first opened, and how the ground-breaking techniques – bare stage, omnipotent narrator, slyly Brechtian sense of alienation – would have seemed so ground-breaking. Today, they just sort of seem gentle, and maybe even a little melancholy. And then there’s the All-American sense of the town – just whose is it, anyway? When you dig beneath the surface you realize that Wilder plants lots of hints that Grovers Corners isn’t quite the idyllic little slice of Americana that you might think, from the “Polack” side of town to the percentage of Republicans. (Even back then, Wilder, who was gay, might have had a premonition of the religious right.) And when you think about how Emily doesn’t follow on her hopes and dreams of public speaking or politics and settles down instead for life as a farmer’s wife and mother (which leads to her death), she becomes a truly tragic figure, not a young and spry heroine who slips softly off into the other world. There were two major flaws in this production: Newman’s mild-mannered, shuffling Stage Manager, who never gave the proceedings the edge they needed; and the letdown of the ending. Even if you’re putting together a postmodern “Our Town,” complete with a layer between the audience and the sentiment, you still have to make the last scene tug at the heartstrings. It’s the heart of the play, after all: Emily, in the graveyard, gets the chance to pick one day of her life to go back and relive again. Yet when she does so, it’s so painful that she can’t go on. It’s then that she realizes that the “living” – us, in other words – don’t know and can never know, really, what it’s like to live in the moment. We’re always projecting ahead, or stewing about the past, and ignoring the fact that our present is constantly slipping away from us, just out of reach. That realization is a whopper – and for me, it’s what should cause the tears, not the pull of a heartstring for a fictional character. Yet this production’s peak was the scene between Emily and George in the soda shop – it’s when it felt most alive, and by the time I got to the end, I couldn’t be sad for all of humanity, just Emily.
149. “Violet,” Playwrights Horizons, Jan. 19: Sometimes you can sum up a heart-raising theater experience in just a moment. For me, that moment in this good-hearted, beautiful little musical comes in three syllables: when Flick, the African-American soldier who has fallen in love with the title character, scarred face and all, confronts her at the end: “Vi-o-let,” he intones, “maybe you still feel 100 miles from who you are.” There’s just something about that pert little name, drawn across three beats, that sounds so wistful, and yet so bursting with promise. Flick continues: “But if you could see your face when you got off that bus …” And you know, at that moment, that Flick loves Violet, scar and all, because he’s seen how beautiful she can be when she isn’t feeling sorry for herself. This concert version of the musical reunited much of the original cast, and what a treat to hear the voices I’d memorized on CD: Lauren Ward’s plaintive but vigorous Violet, who was wounded in a tragic childhood accident and has carried the physical and emotional scars ever since, prompting a cross-country bus pilgrimage to a TV evangelist in hopes she can become “pretty” again; Michael McElroy’s sympathetic, booming Flick, who slowly falls in love with Violet on the bus journey but worries about the racial implications; and Michael Park’s pretty-boy Monty, who sees Violet as an easy conquest but slowly, inexplicably, begins to fall for her pert, scrappy charms as well. What I like so much about this show – beyond Jeanine Tesori’s sweet, twangy score and the gently uplifting racial message – is how it’s much more than just an ugly duckling story. Violet doesn’t need to have her scar removed to be “cured,” she just needs to realize that there’s someone out there who will love her anyway. Hopelessly idealistic? Sure, especially in a society in which physical beauty is so highly prized. But that’s what musicals are all about: taking us to places that we don’t get to go in everyday life.
150. Roundtable reading, Lark Theatre Company, Jan. 20: A read-through of Jim Hindman’s “Mercada and the Shooting Stars,” about a young Caribbean woman who befriends a comatose man in a hospital. Mercada has always believed she’s magical – a faith healer – and there’s an interesting contrast between the high-tech medical environment and her own attitude toward healing. The most intriguing aspect: You never really know whether she’s magical or not, and in fact it’s difficult to know if she’s really truly sane. This was my first reading as part of my practicum at the Lark – and it’s quite an adventure being able to hear a play read – sometimes for its first time – and then listen to the playwright and others dissect the work.