tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24551261793753664902024-03-13T22:59:04.319-04:00BilleveséesFiction, non-fiction, and nonsense from an American in Paris (sometimes)William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.comBlogger1112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-13772088461306665382018-02-18T12:24:00.001-05:002018-02-20T14:56:18.518-05:00Catching Up With: Scott Frankel’s American Songbook<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKILRAsfGzDkBVmqhElO4rzGgMbzaRRKDfqBbxHnlo2GPbUgMdm6WJzwmZ_SzUZFvUjHThLcVRdI2_1tHnkQeSVDrsrN3E8I5T3JOXFM10gEVL0SyGGFGz1nPIvrTgV0cZ2MRG4dm7A/s1600/War+Paint+cast-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKILRAsfGzDkBVmqhElO4rzGgMbzaRRKDfqBbxHnlo2GPbUgMdm6WJzwmZ_SzUZFvUjHThLcVRdI2_1tHnkQeSVDrsrN3E8I5T3JOXFM10gEVL0SyGGFGz1nPIvrTgV0cZ2MRG4dm7A/s400/War+Paint+cast-1.jpg" width="400" height="225" data-original-width="970" data-original-height="546" /></a><br />
<i>The cast of <b>War Paint</b>.<br />
Joanna Glushak, a sister veteran of <b>Rags</b>, is third from right.</i></div><br />
Last night I braved a “wintry mix” and made my way to Lincoln Center’s off-campus Appel Room for the latest installment in the “American Songbook” series: a concert tribute to lyricist Michael Korie and composer Scott Frankel. The program featured songs from shows that have played in New York (<i>Grey Gardens</i>, <i>Happiness</i>, <i>Far from Heaven</i>, and the most recent, <i>War Paint</i>), as well as shows that haven’t. I knew <i>Doll</i> and <i>Meet Mr. Future</i> primarily from things Scott has told me about them, the former a portrait of the relationship between Alma Mahler and the painter Oskar Kokoschka (whose name Scott pronounces almost mockingly), the latter a vignette of the 1939 World’s Fair. I knew Scott’s version of <i>Finding Neverland</i> almost exclusively from what I read about it in the newspaper.<br />
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The “American Songbook” series is part of Jazz at Lincoln Center, and I don’t ordinarily think of Scott’s music as particularly jazzy — that’s an element of his work, an influence, but not the whole story. Still, two numbers from <i>Meet Mr. Future</i> vouched for Scott’s bona fides, right at the start of the concert, especially as performed by music director Andrew Resnick on piano, Mary Ann McSweeney on bass, Matt Smallcomb on percussion, Zohar Schondorf on horn, and Todd Groves on saxophone, flute, and clarinet. Tony Yazbeck’s rendition of “Just Around the Corner” and Brandon Victor Dixon’s “Progress Shuffles” offered contrasting perspectives in Depression-era New York, the former revealing an almost dogged determination to remain optimistic in hard times, the latter a reeling resignation to the reality that life in Harlem is not likely to get easier any time soon. Both numbers made me eager to hear more from this show.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0Y5aCap2MMrYcDY-JJIHp-5-ntLB8dRZiQsJItxbl2GtkQmO_gPt9G5Ah8vZE5jqLaqpM6mU4O0yo8WjKXcRZz6QANG3N7FMZ8UvJuMX7VrEMAQvg5gL3IEVnYXJRo-kqOXMhdoPlg/s1600/Scott+Frankel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0Y5aCap2MMrYcDY-JJIHp-5-ntLB8dRZiQsJItxbl2GtkQmO_gPt9G5Ah8vZE5jqLaqpM6mU4O0yo8WjKXcRZz6QANG3N7FMZ8UvJuMX7VrEMAQvg5gL3IEVnYXJRo-kqOXMhdoPlg/s400/Scott+Frankel.jpg" width="304" height="400" data-original-width="759" data-original-height="1000" /></a><br />
<i>Scott Frankel.</i></div><br />
The “songbook” rubric turns out to be exceedingly apt. Scott has shown a remarkable ability to turn the styles of earlier songwriters to his own purposes. In Act I of <i>Grey Gardens</i>, Big Edie runs the gamut of a century or so of American theater music, including minstrel shows and operetta; <i>War Paint</i> does something similar, with a narrower focus on the years of the action depicted. “Behind the Red Door,” for example, contains a brief “ooh-ooh” chorus that’s perfectly matched to a prevailing style of the year in which the scene is set, 1935. (Think of the Optimistic Voices in <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>.) <br />
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I hesitate to use the term of art, “pastiche,” because what Scott is really doing is more like psychically channeling historical styles to his own, thoroughly contemporary purposes. Scott is a prodigious pianist who made his concert debut at age 13 (with the Cleveland Orchestra under Pierre Boulez, for mercy’s sake) and who one evening entertained me by playing one song (I forget which) in about a dozen different styles, not even pausing when I called out the next request. But his own style always comes through, at once emotional and almost clinically detached: if you think of his arias for Christine Ebersole, “Another Winter in a Summer Town” and “Pink,” or almost any of the music he wrote for Kelli O’Hara in <i>Far from Heaven</i>, then you know what I’m talking about.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ke0SjTa6m85Z-GxN1nEKifMU3OR58EBgVTcqGNHmZpPE7p0_3jowyU5cGadZg3MRfGNwm0pMKTEO8pbQasxCrY2pfQoqjVzNOh810BR2yYyoEWW73qiTCvanQXP3_sATYIvfiYPFaQ/s1600/Far+from+Heaven+-+Kelli+O%2527Hara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6ke0SjTa6m85Z-GxN1nEKifMU3OR58EBgVTcqGNHmZpPE7p0_3jowyU5cGadZg3MRfGNwm0pMKTEO8pbQasxCrY2pfQoqjVzNOh810BR2yYyoEWW73qiTCvanQXP3_sATYIvfiYPFaQ/s400/Far+from+Heaven+-+Kelli+O%2527Hara.jpg" width="400" height="267" data-original-width="700" data-original-height="467" /></a><br />
<i>Kelli O’Hara in <b>Far from Heaven</b>.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
O’Hara was on hand for last night’s concert, offering welcome reminders of how perfectly Scott understands her voice and displays it to its best advantage. But we also had Leslie Kritzer and Scarlett Strallen to show that, no matter that <i>War Paint</i>’s music is precisely tailored to Patti LuPone and Christine Ebersole, it can be sung effectively by other people, too. (Kritzer and Strallen were, in fact, the first people I’d heard in this music who <i>weren’t</i> LuPone and Ebersole.) Last night, it became clearer than ever to me that Scott doesn’t merely write for an individual voice: it’s the other way around, and he writes music that requires an exceptional voice. He doesn’t merely showcase the singer, he <i>challenges</i> her to do her best work, and that in turn is why his music is so gratifying to the listener. <br />
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Exceptional voices abounded last night, and among the concert’s other highlights were two numbers from <i>Finding Neverland</i> from Julian Ovenden (who played James M. Barrie in the original cast) and Kelli O’Hara; “In My Father’s Garden,” Alma Mahler’s regretful résumé of her relationships with men, from <i>Doll</i>, sung by Leslie Kritzer; and Melissa Errico’s aching account of “Another Winter in a Summer Town.” For an encore, Scott accompanied Kelli O’Hara in “Heaven Only Knows,” and while I was grateful for the opportunity to hear him play, I really wished he had played more. <br />
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This is not to say that Andrew Resnick was ever less than excellent, but when Tony Yazbeck sang “Happiness the Second Time Around” (from <i>Happiness</i>), Resnick’s expert accompaniment made me realize two things: first, that the song is better than I’d remembered; and second, that the song is a reflection of the way Scott plays piano. His <i>attaca</i> is just that, an attack, and he uses his whole body to wrestle the instrument into submission to his will. While he achieves delicate effects when called for (and he did so in “Heaven Only Knows”), you sometimes wonder whether the piano can survive the passionate communion he creates. It’s as if the instrument is clay to be sculpted, a lover to be fucked. In “Second Time Around,” the character (originally played by Hunter Foster) makes a desperate plea for one more chance, hurling volleys of rage and regret. What Scott the pianist could do with Scott the composer’s work! <i>Happiness</i> turns out to be more personal and more honest than I’d realized on first hearing, and I found myself wishing for a “second time around” with that music. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLpy7h8LCK_ZUzR08XNo8NK4ByFvcCFLsOqO3zvYoNCAMQHvKwcPMgAPvw9TCABe5lfxMfsPPyl4qEIXH60ojEVGEmYeKBUU_jpo-gcUdOPhgcUQkKY5tINkD029LSvTbgZ0kd5-Jcw/s1600/War+Paint+-+Beauty+in+the+World.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXLpy7h8LCK_ZUzR08XNo8NK4ByFvcCFLsOqO3zvYoNCAMQHvKwcPMgAPvw9TCABe5lfxMfsPPyl4qEIXH60ojEVGEmYeKBUU_jpo-gcUdOPhgcUQkKY5tINkD029LSvTbgZ0kd5-Jcw/s400/War+Paint+-+Beauty+in+the+World.jpg" width="400" height="299" data-original-width="1235" data-original-height="924" /></a><br />
<i>“Beauty in the World”:<br />
LuPone and Ebersole on Broadway.</i></div><br />
I first saw <i>War Paint</i> in previews and vowed to return often; the vagaries of life in New York prevented me from keeping my promise until the final week of the run: I saw the two last Sunday matinées. The latter of these was the closing performance, a love fest without peer or parallel. Ebersole’s entrance stopped the show, and LuPone’s threatened to do the same until that great lady made a “knock it off” gesture that permitted her to proceed with her first number, “Back on Top.” I wouldn’t have thought that the two stars’ powerhouse performances could possibly be any more powerful, and yet they were turbocharged on that last afternoon. <br />
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The pleasures of Michael Greif’s production were so numerous that, each time I saw the show, I felt almost giddy. Ordinarily I can scarcely muster any interest at all in fashion, but Catherine Zuber’s costume designs were at once so historically accurate (over a 30-year time span) and brilliantly imaginative that I started to giggle with delight. Since the show closed, I’ve been listening to the cast album, and I’m able to concentrate more on the music. I find myself saying, “No, <i>this</i> is my favorite,” with each track in succession. <br />
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Ultimately, my favorite is and must be “Pink,” Elizabeth Arden’s eleven o’clock number and the summit (so far!) of the astonishing teamwork of Christine Ebersole and Scott Frankel. And yet I don’t believe the recording enhances my appreciation: I already appreciated the number when I heard it in the theater, and the cast album serves primarily as a document, a souvenir of a sublime experience. The same is true of Helena Rubinstein’s counterpart number, “Forever Beautiful,” a mini-opera for Patti LuPone. Even while replicas of various portraits of Rubinstein descended from the flies, creating a lasting monument to herself, I never took my eyes off of LuPone. I was completely under her spell, and that’s true, too, when I listen to the album.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Pp8lWxERbPdFIO_zUD2RE2MGCX_ppui2Knr430QzkV7KYqqEvkm2un9QclOdeW1RbZ0wj6K5vygtxSI_ezEsQPboOqOB4QjZ7-Hn015v_qtQwUiceE1Xh6V4WTaSDuImrwZIG_yvFA/s1600/War+Paint+-+Fire+and+Ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8Pp8lWxERbPdFIO_zUD2RE2MGCX_ppui2Knr430QzkV7KYqqEvkm2un9QclOdeW1RbZ0wj6K5vygtxSI_ezEsQPboOqOB4QjZ7-Hn015v_qtQwUiceE1Xh6V4WTaSDuImrwZIG_yvFA/s400/War+Paint+-+Fire+and+Ice.jpg" width="400" height="225" data-original-width="1280" data-original-height="720" /></a><br />
<i>“Fire and Ice”:<br />
Steffanie Leigh and Erik Liberman.</i></div><br />
The recording enhances my appreciation and understanding of other songs, such as “Fire and Ice.” Greif and choreographer Christopher Gattelli staged this number spectacularly — the blazing debut of Charles Revson (Erik Liberman) as the harbinger of a future that is already leaving Rubinstein and Arden behind. Hearing the song on the album, however, it’s no less effective without its glittering wardrobe, undulating performers, and shifting mirrors. The song comes at you like a tsunami; the bold rhythms and wild percussion won’t let you go. Throughout their careers, Rubinstein has promoted science, Arden has promoted gentility, but this is something altogether different: sex, and by God, it sells. The song is supposed to be a television commercial, and while listening to the album, I can picture Rubinstein and Arden’s horror as they watch — something the staging didn’t show us. Again and again, the album offers comparable revelations and delights.<br />
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The rivalry between Rubinstein and Arden is an odd, almost defiantly un-commercial choice of subject matter for a musical — as are all of Scott’s shows, with the debatable exception of <i>Far from Heaven</i>. Like the writer-director of the film <i>Far from Heaven</i>, Todd Haynes, and like that movie’s producer, Christine Vachon, Scott is an old friend, and I often brag that Scott writes shows to please me, just as Todd and Christine make movies for my personal enjoyment. The reality is, of course, quite different. My friends create art that pleases <i>them</i>. I’m sure they’re happy when other people like what they’ve done, but that’s not the goal they’re striving for. The result is art of the highest integrity, and the most gratifying rewards.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvnjWZhgLcSjKyf5u5HE1lXG7WhAcXaJkzWP89U_1HhrBvx9DLGmTC9_HEU3uouiweIpELWKte3qbEEwWUq7lwK0wNN94FUEXBCxGY8-1eyivnLEsCo1Q6wd8NvbtMl5h0Fq17v0mhw/s1600/Christine+Ebersole+%2526+Scott+Frankel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvnjWZhgLcSjKyf5u5HE1lXG7WhAcXaJkzWP89U_1HhrBvx9DLGmTC9_HEU3uouiweIpELWKte3qbEEwWUq7lwK0wNN94FUEXBCxGY8-1eyivnLEsCo1Q6wd8NvbtMl5h0Fq17v0mhw/s400/Christine+Ebersole+%2526+Scott+Frankel.jpg" width="275" height="400" data-original-width="411" data-original-height="597" /></a><br />
<i>The Evolution of the Musical Today:<br />
Christine Ebersole and Scott Frankel,<br />
during the run of <b>Grey Gardens</b>.</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-51611920520732444582018-01-05T16:45:00.000-05:002018-01-10T16:36:31.975-05:00Catching Up With: Jessica Gould<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRlHEmFsCfrO8gGzB3XKylRCGNozmeYczege75la16xNRmaKocyn2tJjUeiATmoRGW7IyC4K83RnVSVkILwhyphenhyphen_wIs4RtBHZhe420_dZbtUPX64QB9MSB_-89w6fLz60rDQ3r0mxWJwg/s1600/Jessica+Gould+photo+by+Nathan+Smith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRlHEmFsCfrO8gGzB3XKylRCGNozmeYczege75la16xNRmaKocyn2tJjUeiATmoRGW7IyC4K83RnVSVkILwhyphenhyphen_wIs4RtBHZhe420_dZbtUPX64QB9MSB_-89w6fLz60rDQ3r0mxWJwg/s400/Jessica+Gould+photo+by+Nathan+Smith.jpg" width="400" height="400" data-original-width="1399" data-original-height="1399" /></a><br />
<i>Photo by Nathan Smith.</i></div><br />
Soprano Jessica Gould sometimes projects a mournful quality with her voice (and more on that in a moment), but it’s been with great happiness that I’ve heard her again recently, both in concert, under the aegis of her Salon/Sanctuary organization; and on recording, with the recent release, <i>I Viaggi di Caravaggio</i> (The Travels of Caravaggio) [Cremona MVC 017 043]. Jessica is always up to something interesting, whether I write about her or not — and she has been busy.<br />
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The surprise of the recording isn’t its thought-provoking program of largely unfamiliar, deeply researched, thematically linked material. The surprise is that Jessica didn’t program it herself. Her performing partner, Diego Cantalupi, invited her to sing on the album, and he provides sensitive accompaniment on lute and theorbo, also having devised the program. Cantalupi identifies female models (mostly prostitutes) in Caravaggio’s paintings and associates them with music by the painter’s contemporaries or near-contemporaries. Many of these composers would have been familiar with Caravaggio’s better-known paintings, Cantalupi observes, so that it’s easy to imagine a connection between — for example — the painter’s <i>Crown of Thorns</i> and Benedetto Ferrari’s cantata <i>Queste dolenti spine</i> (These painful thorns). <br />
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Cantalupi has done a remarkable job of selecting music that <i>sounds</i> the way Caravaggio’s signature chiaroscuro <i>looks</i>, so striking that I still find it hard to believe that the painter didn’t invent electricity and spotlights. Even the choice of composers is illuminating, in the sense that I’d never heard of most of these fellows, though I’m delighted to hear them now. The delicacy of Cantalupi’s playing and Jessica’s melancholy singing create alternating waves of shimmer and shadow, to haunting effect. It’s a lovely album.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIQ9s0lS8CQMmVf0JEH0Ll81mug48T9nHoClYFaeJSAFJNaOugcges6FJHCKu9JEqmaRLdEI5TNF3CHggWcLEofi7HvyF4mZPzc_z7NvoizZ0xqT3SqO_hg3r-SzCda-HHJ7X1bmFTw/s1600/CdCaravaggio.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSIQ9s0lS8CQMmVf0JEH0Ll81mug48T9nHoClYFaeJSAFJNaOugcges6FJHCKu9JEqmaRLdEI5TNF3CHggWcLEofi7HvyF4mZPzc_z7NvoizZ0xqT3SqO_hg3r-SzCda-HHJ7X1bmFTw/s400/CdCaravaggio.jpg" width="400" height="400" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1598" /></a><br />
<span class="fullpost"> <br />
At New York’s Brotherhood Synagogue on November 16, Jessica offered a reprise of a program of her own devising, “From Ghetto to Capella,” in the company of several other musicians: Charles Weaver on theorbo, Loren Ludwig on viola da gamba, Elliot Figg on harpsichord, and the vibrant Italian mezzo Elena Biscuola. The selections explore what Jessica calls the “cross-fertilization between Jewish and Christian musical cultures” in Italy, primarily in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries (with a couple of numbers from earlier and later periods), and the program proved full of surprises as number after number revealed Middle Eastern influences in harmonies, modalities, and even — to the delight of the audience — the melody of the “Hatikvah” in an air from Rossi’s time, “Fuggi, fuggi,” performed here as a duet.<br />
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“From Ghetto to Capella” allows Jessica and her friends to return to the music of Salamone Rossi, whose remarkable career as a Jew in the court of Mantua inspired an earlier program, “From Ghetto to Palazzo.” Two arias by Barbara Strozzi — a rare woman composer in the seventeenth century — afforded each singer a welcome showcase, with Jessica locating a startling combination of pleading and ecstasy in the final notes of “Salve Regina,” and Biscuola making an entire opera out of the lament “Lagrime mie.” <br />
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As ever, one walks out of a Salon/Sanctuary concert feeling not only enriched by beautiful music but also a bit smarter. When Jessica sings, you learn something.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigdlv-roFpfQE8BMu5NmawsS2TWbsQWoHYWkJaJgdHs2Ro4-TMLEjJki8-cYUBcrCzZA60AWtBzubKVC5fuY235GPxoEZJIB7x_vdx2zMAnTdxMWt32JfIERYSmVaQiqcqiCxAFXBmAg/s1600/GCpic2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigdlv-roFpfQE8BMu5NmawsS2TWbsQWoHYWkJaJgdHs2Ro4-TMLEjJki8-cYUBcrCzZA60AWtBzubKVC5fuY235GPxoEZJIB7x_vdx2zMAnTdxMWt32JfIERYSmVaQiqcqiCxAFXBmAg/s400/GCpic2.jpg" width="400" height="267" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a><br />
<i>“From Ghetto to Capella,” November 16, 2017.</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-20646083173622011142017-12-18T13:23:00.001-05:002017-12-18T15:21:07.149-05:00Catching Up With: Adamo’s ‘Becoming Santa Claus’<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcfDsGcXUCZY_3Bh4aDRBzU8cwaQUGuWMDhf0OTutH1wkxJuBI4z5ak4qRc7UhoT073nqU2NSj9diC60h1ZY_EbMdABXbKvZk_CJSSjTAskWv8e8i5002hHYC2-NOyDeqhVc8KiIVeg/s1600/Becoming+Santa+Claus+finale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcfDsGcXUCZY_3Bh4aDRBzU8cwaQUGuWMDhf0OTutH1wkxJuBI4z5ak4qRc7UhoT073nqU2NSj9diC60h1ZY_EbMdABXbKvZk_CJSSjTAskWv8e8i5002hHYC2-NOyDeqhVc8KiIVeg/s400/Becoming+Santa+Claus+finale.jpg" width="400" height="267" data-original-width="1000" data-original-height="667" /></a><i>Foreground: Rivera, Boehler, Blalock; background: Plitmann, a bit of Jameson, Burdette.</i></div><br />
It’s usually the case that new operas require a second hearing from me: I can’t absorb all the music at once, and sometimes I can’t even be sure what I think of a work overall. This was especially true of David T. Little’s <i>Dog Days</i>, which I admired extravagantly and yet didn’t fully appreciate until I’d heard it several times. (Who knows? Maybe I <i>still</i> don’t fully appreciate it. I’d better keep listening to find out!)<br />
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As I’ve written here, I required a few hearings of <a href="http://www.markadamo.com/">Mark Adamo</a>’s first opera, <i>Little Women</i>, before I could separate what Mark actually wrote from what I expected. Unpredictability is an asset, and who knows whether I could have enjoyed so many performances — and a recording — of this opera over the years, if it actually <i>had</i> been the sound I originally anticipated? Mark is smarter about these things than I could ever be.<br />
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A company in Texas, Houston Grand Opera, produced the first performances of <i>Little Women</i>, and I first saw it not in the opera house but in a New York City hotel room, where the company had arranged a special screening of the video, for those critics and writers unable to watch the television premiere. Somewhat similarly, another company in Texas, The Dallas Opera, produced another premiere of an opera by Mark Adamo, <a href="https://dallasopera.org/becoming-santa-claus/"><i>Becoming Santa Claus</i></a>, and I first saw <i>that</i> at a special screening of a live performance that was simulcast in New York. Now <a href="https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/thedallasopera">a DVD of <i>Becoming Santa Claus</i></a> has been released, and I’ll have the opportunity to hear it and see it often — and I expect that I’ll want to. (I’ll also want to see a live performance in a theater one of these days. Opera companies, take note.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwpCAL82tOekL1nnQpk88AxIv1s6MJ3Kns9Yn5BUgI-RDaFVdyQpkcsUYtsppyaD6lbxClpok5NboTNfrujTmfQ4aEbAaKVeRw79r-wSX2q8iVCEm89QV-XHjFcWj0s0dLwnpy9qZwA/s1600/Becoming+Santa+Claus+Jonathan+Blalock.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKwpCAL82tOekL1nnQpk88AxIv1s6MJ3Kns9Yn5BUgI-RDaFVdyQpkcsUYtsppyaD6lbxClpok5NboTNfrujTmfQ4aEbAaKVeRw79r-wSX2q8iVCEm89QV-XHjFcWj0s0dLwnpy9qZwA/s400/Becoming+Santa+Claus+Jonathan+Blalock.jpeg" width="400" height="320" data-original-width="640" data-original-height="512" /></a><br />
<i>Jonathan Blalock as Claus.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
From the start of the overture, Mark makes clear that, while this is a “family opera” (as marketers like to call them), he refuses to talk down to child audiences. This is sophisticated musical writing, intriguingly scored — and in that respect it’s no different from Mark’s other work. He never lets the listener grow complacent; he always has a surprise up his sleeve. Consider the Toy Sequence in Scene Two, where the Elves’ quartet “will extend as far outside traditional operatic technique as taste and [the singers’] ability will permit,” Mark advises, aiming to include “jazz improvisation, rap, and/or quasi-percussive choral utterance.” For all the score’s ambition, however, it remains accessible — something that became clearer to me the second time I heard it, at a private screening of the DVD in New York.<br />
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<i>Becoming Santa Claus</i> is, like Mark’s other operas, designed to permit extraordinary performances from its cast. It’s also great fun. That Toy Sequence features some of the worst, ugliest toys you’ve ever seen. (Think of the Misfit Toys in <i>Rudolph</i>, then imagine even more catastrophic failures.) The bridge between Scenes Two and Three is an orchestral interlude that features a hilarious computer-animated sequence — which also recalls the film sequence in Berg’s <i>Lulu</i> (<i>not</i> hilarious) in its innovation and placement. In the finale, a handbell chorus of children emerges from the audience, and as charming as the Sensurround jingling is on DVD, it must have been thrilling to experience in the house. (And it’s a great way to involve the community at large.)<br />
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Mark’s libretto isn’t entirely secular — he hasn’t scrubbed away “the reason for the season” as other origin stories, such as Rankin/Bass’ <i>Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town</i>, do — and yet it treats religion lightly. More important are the relationships among the characters. The plot centers on Prince Claus, a spoiled brat whose parents, the King and Queen of frozen Nifland, have separated. Claus is looking forward to his thirteenth birthday — a celebration so lavish that the court servants, the Elves, haven’t had a day off in three years. But Claus’ uncles won’t be attending the party: a Donkey–Messenger announces that, instead, the three Kings are following a Star and will be giving presents to some other Child, who has just been born. <br />
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Declaring frankincense, gold, and myrrh to be unsuitable gifts for a baby, Claus decides to outdo his uncles, and instructs the Elves to make the best presents in the world, and lots of them. But then comes the question of how to deliver them. By the time Claus gets to the stable, Mother and Child have left already. Claus understands the difference between <i>presents</i> and <i>presence</i>, that it’s more important to be <i>with</i> someone than to give them fancy goods. He learns a lesson about himself, about family — and figures out what to do with all the presents that are piled up in his sleigh.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoBQ6UwYBXULB-wRu_UZxHJEzug9jS0GGaqBoeUlcfpOfrvaEnPaHPTLBj9hwvOV1K7sXFbffKMTthzaOHUxA_HRZfnydt-W04tUFXX6mVo5fyjHabaneGAt22dgGm3v2c_k6c1PsGQ/s1600/Becoming+Santa+Claus+toys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoBQ6UwYBXULB-wRu_UZxHJEzug9jS0GGaqBoeUlcfpOfrvaEnPaHPTLBj9hwvOV1K7sXFbffKMTthzaOHUxA_HRZfnydt-W04tUFXX6mVo5fyjHabaneGAt22dgGm3v2c_k6c1PsGQ/s400/Becoming+Santa+Claus+toys.jpg" width="400" height="267" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a><br />
<i>Who wouldn’t want a gigantic dancing Sham-Wow for Christmas?<br />
Jameson, Plitmann, Burdette, Schauffer, and the toys.</i></div><br />
For the world premiere, Emmanuel Villaume conducted with his customary deftness and attention to instrumental detail; I’ve admired his work many times, yet I think believe is the first time I’ve heard him in contemporary rep. And the company assembled a dream cast, with Jennifer Rivera as a delectably glamorous Queen Sophine; sonorous Matt Boehler as the Donkey–Messenger (with a secret); and an all-star assemblage of Elves: sky-high soprano Hila Plitmann (Yan), mezzo Lucy Schaufer (Ib), tenor Keith Jameson (Yab), and bass Kevin Burdette, having some fun after Dallas Opera’s <i>previous</i> world premiere, Jake Heggie’s <i>Great Scott</i>, just a few weeks before.* When you recall that some children in the audience probably never heard an opera before, you have to believe that surprise and delight ran rampant when the kids heard the range of things the human voice can do.<br />
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<a href="https://www.jonathanblalock.com/">Jonathan Blalock</a> stepped into the title role on short notice, yet it’s hard for a viewer to believe anyone else was ever considered. His clean, bright tenor voice displays an absolute command of the challenging score, he’s an affecting actor as always, and he looks gorgeous in Gary McGann’s costumes. You can be sure that dozens of little girls got crushes on him when they saw this opera.<br />
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McGann also designed the sets, with touches of Art Nouveau inspiration that recall (for this viewer, anyway) another Santa Claus origin story, the novel by L. Frank Baum. Sets and costumes are sumptuous, imaginative, and (like the rest of this opera) often great fun. (Those toys! Those dancing tables!) McGann’s work is one more reason to be grateful that this production was recorded on video, so that we can see not only how beautiful the designs are, but also how beautifully they functioned in the service of Paul Curran’s staging. Really, Curran couldn’t have done a better job of overseeing a production that shows off this opera to its best advantage; the physicality of the Elves and Queen Sophine, for example, is thoroughly thought out, and it shines brightly.<br />
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Need I point out that the DVD would make a great <a href="https://store.cdbaby.com/cd/thedallasopera">Christmas present</a>?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAxK3Mt2X25_wwaVrJmKN1dAE57kZvD5CNp3dca09kckQ4Gfg8UkDyxfUtGGuII124bM1rrbawbDE5JXn5NL92lscTqltwO8m8-6owOshobv9Bzl9D6LrfjThmPJOlbw2xkH_o1MahQ/s1600/Mark+Adamo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnAxK3Mt2X25_wwaVrJmKN1dAE57kZvD5CNp3dca09kckQ4Gfg8UkDyxfUtGGuII124bM1rrbawbDE5JXn5NL92lscTqltwO8m8-6owOshobv9Bzl9D6LrfjThmPJOlbw2xkH_o1MahQ/s400/Mark+Adamo.jpeg" width="267" height="400" data-original-width="1000" data-original-height="1496" /></a><br />
<i>Mark Adamo.</i></div><br />
<i>*NOTE: Mark has devised names for the Elves like the names of no elves you’ve heard before, as if they’re some extraterrestrial language.</i><br />
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</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-82469848162717812402017-11-24T09:00:00.000-05:002017-11-24T09:00:00.210-05:00Catching Up With: Jane Alexander<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYetrUbRLzORVn9UiT0fXbFI-MlFY5TBbk-3Q6X5tI7l0fyyKbM_sXJErzQTO0Lu8C4JCMaj7UqNjZ7e9n7fNDCXcxLioIttUa4T3Bg4w5rRFU-XBg4BrhV87fRbNA9qa53-QA3QfbQ/s1600/fireflies+-+jane+alexander.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNYetrUbRLzORVn9UiT0fXbFI-MlFY5TBbk-3Q6X5tI7l0fyyKbM_sXJErzQTO0Lu8C4JCMaj7UqNjZ7e9n7fNDCXcxLioIttUa4T3Bg4w5rRFU-XBg4BrhV87fRbNA9qa53-QA3QfbQ/s400/fireflies+-+jane+alexander.jpg" width="400" height="266" data-original-width="1024" data-original-height="682" /></a><br />
<i>Never lovelier.</i></div><br />
<b><i>NOTE: This is the first of what I expect to be several essays on topics that I should have been writing about on a regular basis, over the past several months.</i></b><br />
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Writing Madeline Kahn’s biography gave me the opportunity to meet, speak, and/or correspond with a number of people whose work I already admired — as well as coming to admire many of Madeline’s other colleagues, with whose work I had been unfamiliar. In the former category are of course great comedians such as Mel Brooks, Robert Klein, and Lily Tomlin, but also some Great American Actors who worked with Madeline onstage. In the past several months, I’ve seen both Jane Alexander and Kevin Kline return to the boards, offering welcome reminders that, no matter how they excel onscreen, they’re authentic theater animals. <br />
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Jane Alexander’s theater background helped me considerably the first time we spoke. When conducting a phone interview, I usually type while talking, transcribing the conversation immediately. Of all those interviews, only Jane Alexander did I trust to put on speaker phone: her diction is so flawless that, even over my crummy cell phone, every word rang clear. Over the course of her career, she’s performed in more than 100 plays (according to her bio in the playbill), so when I heard that she was rehearsing a new play at the Long Wharf in New Haven, I determined to go — little realizing that the play, Matthew Barber’s <i>Fireflies</i> — is set in South Texas, about 30 miles from my mother’s hometown.<br />
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I felt as if I were eavesdropping on the neighbors. Based on Annette Sanford’s novel <i>Eleanor & Abel</i>, <i>Fireflies</i> is a slight, sweet tale of a retired schoolteacher taking a late-in-life chance on love. The object of her affection is unlikely, and indeed she finds herself doing all sorts of things that don’t conform to her pre-existing patterns of behavior — even while she is true to herself, perhaps for the first time.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZjO_r56NAM0lOSJCbj88nBy_iViFUY8dB2kwGAXJP9qQZJWSS3cewPhbIbslgFpVKGxtEYZBc1H98ubKjg_IyMxX1r6xN92jrHWYhSfa2svilFlDcYPrsg5cG4dBsx9F89uHOFClqA/s1600/fireflies+-+jane+alexander+%2526+judith+ivey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZjO_r56NAM0lOSJCbj88nBy_iViFUY8dB2kwGAXJP9qQZJWSS3cewPhbIbslgFpVKGxtEYZBc1H98ubKjg_IyMxX1r6xN92jrHWYhSfa2svilFlDcYPrsg5cG4dBsx9F89uHOFClqA/s400/fireflies+-+jane+alexander+%2526+judith+ivey.jpg" width="400" height="267" data-original-width="600" data-original-height="400" /></a><br />
<i>Kitchen-sink zaniness: Alexander and Ivey.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
If the play struck me as having more resonance than it actually possesses or deserves, that may be because I saw it at a matinée, where, as the woman sitting next to me observed, I was probably the youngest person in the room. For the people around me, the play’s message — it’s never too late — was as meaningful as it was welcome. And as Jane Alexander flaunted her lustrous silver mane and her character repeatedly told us she’d begun using a new hair product that made her look so good, I contemplated my own grizzled locks and wondered where in the hell I could buy such a product. I’m sure I wasn’t alone.<br />
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<i>Fireflies</i> called upon both the character and the actress who played her to take chances and to reach beyond our expectations. When discussing Madeline Kahn’s performance opposite her in Wendy Wasserstein’s <i>The Sisters Rosensweig</i>, Jane Alexander remarked to me that she’s better known as a serious dramatic actress than as a comedian. One can excuse the people who cast her: when an actress is capable of her kind of command and authority, why wouldn’t you take advantage of that? She’s done more than 100 plays, according to her program bio, so I can’t with any certainty claim that she’s <i>never</i> played scenes of such broad comedy. But I’ve never seen her do anything like what she did in <i>Fireflies</i>. I came to the Long Wharf expecting a reminder of her mastery of the stage, but what I got was a revelation.<br />
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At the very least, <i>Fireflies</i> represented a change of pace for her. With the incomparable Judith Ivey playing Eleanor’s neighbor and best friend, the play at times approached the style of a more realistic, grounded <i>I Love Lucy</i> — kitchen-sink zaniness, if you will. Yet stage director Gordon Edelstein also incorporated elements of fantasy (dinosaurs, planetariums) and maintained the play’s emotional foundations with great skill, and he knew how to make certain that every audience member walked out with the lasting image of Jane Alexander dancing in her nightgown. I’ve never seen her lovelier than she was here.<br />
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In the Long Wharf lobby, paperback copies of Alexander’s most recent book were on sale, and I bought one — having already shared my hardback copies with friends. <i>Wild Things, Wild Places</i> is unlike any actress’ memoir that came before it, an account of Alexander’s many trips around the world to conduct field research in conservation. She has been doing this without fanfare for more than 30 years. I confess that, when I first saw that she described herself as an “environmental activist,” I originally supposed that she’d signed a few petitions and attended a rally or two. I should have known better. <br />
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Of <i>course</i> Alexander engages — actively — in her environmental concerns, just as she committed, body and soul, to her political and arts activism by accepting the (phenomenally difficult) job of chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts during the Clinton administration, as well as by taking on roles in projects such as <i>Testament</i> and <i>Playing for Time</i>. Now I found herself wondering, when she imitated a dinosaur in <i>Fireflies</i>, which wilderness creatures inspired her performance.<br />
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The British make it so much easier than the Americans do to identify their Great Actors: the Queen has an honors list, after all, to recognize her subjects for their service to art and society. All we can do is remind one another that Jane Alexander is one of the greatest actors this country has ever produced.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UfnGBr-ods7JY8xIk1lgUUP9a0MVpcPdvG3ioeN_rV8dlDV1qWTNLyHzi6qq91Bp1cMI2d6SYBpZl1uk6af3vzW10-MKwFa0H3h0eO9Cz-JdZMx7cAnOXmYYlP9Hz8Llx2hpnV7NEw/s1600/eleanor-and-franklin-jane-alexander-and-edward-herrmann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8UfnGBr-ods7JY8xIk1lgUUP9a0MVpcPdvG3ioeN_rV8dlDV1qWTNLyHzi6qq91Bp1cMI2d6SYBpZl1uk6af3vzW10-MKwFa0H3h0eO9Cz-JdZMx7cAnOXmYYlP9Hz8Llx2hpnV7NEw/s400/eleanor-and-franklin-jane-alexander-and-edward-herrmann.jpg" width="271" height="400" data-original-width="420" data-original-height="620" /></a><br />
<i>It’s a lucky name for her: Alexander as Eleanor (Roosevelt), with Edward Herrmann as FDR.<br />
This was my first glimpse of her, and I’ve admired her ever since.</i></div> <br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-51429271997962333692017-11-20T15:20:00.000-05:002017-11-20T17:18:40.426-05:00Joyce Castle Toasts Bernstein, Janice Hall Forgoes Opera at Urban Stages<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDXah2DY4hsZ2yrnjy_wKBY4xb7Ip2wLr_eMjjgthhj4mOfyBqiAiGOit56oVO6hRVG8uxXTxUsgvg-e_ds6lAzI0MpgniU39bMAoecqVrP-fJurOwUqidghytsHM24h5P9PJIlLtGw/s1600/LB+A%2527s+and+B%2527s.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDDXah2DY4hsZ2yrnjy_wKBY4xb7Ip2wLr_eMjjgthhj4mOfyBqiAiGOit56oVO6hRVG8uxXTxUsgvg-e_ds6lAzI0MpgniU39bMAoecqVrP-fJurOwUqidghytsHM24h5P9PJIlLtGw/s400/LB+A%2527s+and+B%2527s.jpeg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="703" data-original-height="527" /></a><br />
<i>Lenny and Joyce during the first performance of <b>Arias and Barcarolles</b>.<br />
With Michael Tilson Thomas also seated at the piano, and baritone John Brandstetter.</i></div><br />
Joyce Castle captivated me from the minute we met, more than 30 years ago. Since then, I continually discover that she’s had that effect on other people, too, many of whom I admire in their own right. When I interviewed director Harold Prince, for example, we concluded our conversation with praise of Joyce — almost as if we were trying to one-up each other, or competing for the presidency of her fan club.<br />
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Leonard Bernstein thought highly of Joyce, too: at one rehearsal, the height-challenged composer was so delighted that he pulled up a chair and stood on it to kiss her. Joyce sang the first performance of his <i>Arias and Barcarolles</i>, and she won the hearts of New York audiences (and a Grammy Award) playing the Old Lady in his <i>Candide</i> at City Opera in the 1980s. Joyce has sung Bernstein’s music all over the world, easily embracing both his show tunes and his “classical” compositions. She’s got the musicianship — and, importantly, the sense of humor — to field anything Bernstein throws her way.<br />
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Bernstein’s centennial (officially in August 2018) is already being celebrated by orchestras and other musical groups around the country. When Urban Stages invited me to produce a show for its annual “Winter Rhythms” series, I thought it would be nice to stage a tribute <i>now</i>, before audiences are overloaded with his music. Naturally, I thought of Joyce. Would she be interested in making a “special guest star” appearance in a Bernstein tribute? “Why don’t I do the whole thing?” she replied.<br />
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And that is how Joyce Castle will be making her first New York appearance in more than six years, on December 16, at 7 pm, in <a href="https://web.ovationtix.com/trs/pe.c/10218250"><i>LENNY! A Toast to Bernstein on the Eve of His Birthday</i></a>. With her longtime collaborator Ted Taylor on piano, Joyce will share songs and stories, reminiscing about the composer — and I couldn’t be more thrilled.<br />
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<i>A long way from Rovno Gubernia: Joyce as the Old Lady in São Paulo, with conductor Marin Alsop.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
This year’s “Winter Rhythms” series features 22 shows in 12 days, to benefit Urban Stages’ remarkable educational and outreach programs. The series kicks off on December 12 with a tribute to composer and music director Barry Levitt, whose sudden death this fall hit the cabaret community hard: remembering him in song is the perfect celebration of a much-loved man. People are <i>very</i> excited about the tribute to Broadway book-writer Michael Stewart on December 18, featuring Chita Rivera, Jim Dale, and Charles Strouse. On December 21, there’s a concert performance of Stephen Cole and Matthew Martin Ward’s <i>After the Fair</i>, marking that show’s twentieth anniversary; and the series wraps up with a concert of Disney songs on December 23. Over the 12-day period, more than 100 artists will perform, a who’s who of New York’s musical scenes, and every year, producer Peter Napolitano makes sure there’s something for every musical taste. Click <a href="http://urbanstages.org/winterrhythms2017">here</a> for a complete listing and descriptions of all the shows.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6lG7s5ZuAGuUqEqbVw8zMrA5qp4GJs_cx_4hTr8ZbjwstM1vGOIAAR6RqR7CCC59ht9JaLYO1XVx2eOdDvBEEiQAOtywDDsyAl_yOF9WJGQDSJ-EaWzex272m9dgQSDkNT9l5OgMDA/s1600/janice+opera+without+opera+Back+Side.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC6lG7s5ZuAGuUqEqbVw8zMrA5qp4GJs_cx_4hTr8ZbjwstM1vGOIAAR6RqR7CCC59ht9JaLYO1XVx2eOdDvBEEiQAOtywDDsyAl_yOF9WJGQDSJ-EaWzex272m9dgQSDkNT9l5OgMDA/s400/janice+opera+without+opera+Back+Side.jpg" width="400" height="300" data-original-width="960" data-original-height="720" /></a><br />
<i>Janice Hall draws on her own experiences from her operatic career.</i></div><br />
I’m especially looking forward to Janice Hall’s “The Opera Show with No Opera” on December 16 at 3 pm. I first saw Janice in an opera, Britten’s <i>The Turn of the Screw</i>, opposite Joyce Castle herself, and it was Janice who ushered me into the cabaret community. For this show, Janice will tell the stories of great operas — using songs by everybody from Billy Joel to the Smashing Pumpkins. “You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. Just like at the opera,” Janice promises. Peter Napolitano directs, and Matthew Martin Ward is music director. <br />
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If you want to see both Joyce’s and Janice’s shows (and you <i>do</i>), you can get a discount by clicking <a href="https://web.ovationtix.com/trs/store/34657/pk/95242">here</a>. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUT78afCDiv-d0WnXaFQaGR9a84HSD_yB_AVVXDFLg5S1Vq7OTanclu5G7z1CxCi6i1hf_n6paJ_PVnDiFxMpS14lCXAwdJW3mE8JzZcYitBLm1RZZXvqEhPo3B5rtsJgLVXlcVJ6IA/s1600/Winter+Rhythms+2017+poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOUT78afCDiv-d0WnXaFQaGR9a84HSD_yB_AVVXDFLg5S1Vq7OTanclu5G7z1CxCi6i1hf_n6paJ_PVnDiFxMpS14lCXAwdJW3mE8JzZcYitBLm1RZZXvqEhPo3B5rtsJgLVXlcVJ6IA/s400/Winter+Rhythms+2017+poster.jpg" width="400" height="389" data-original-width="497" data-original-height="483" /></a></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-69580449237508690962017-11-16T15:00:00.000-05:002017-11-20T15:28:45.618-05:00Adès’ ‘Exterminating Angel’ at the Met<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_19iC9oEPigEBqXesAMP1jySJjlKjlt1hwZ48LuWSHL9nkXcX3VD8JEZcEQveCQVvAYWUAYXgxqq0zHakoQzVl8CtLqrcqiRFO6YW4dA0vbk1qDPbtcNwG6LhewQPpb7_pjffTSTDw/s1600/Exterminating+angel+-+beginning+of+Act+I.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_19iC9oEPigEBqXesAMP1jySJjlKjlt1hwZ48LuWSHL9nkXcX3VD8JEZcEQveCQVvAYWUAYXgxqq0zHakoQzVl8CtLqrcqiRFO6YW4dA0vbk1qDPbtcNwG6LhewQPpb7_pjffTSTDw/s400/Exterminating+angel+-+beginning+of+Act+I.jpeg" width="400" height="225" data-original-width="970" data-original-height="546" /></a><br />
<i>An “Enchanted” Beginning:<br />
Act I at the Met.</i></div><br />
As an event, the Metropolitan Opera’s presentation of Thomas Adès’ <i>The Exterminating Angel</i> has pleased me. Boosted by a rave review in the <i>New York Times</i> and by worldwide press coverage of soprano Audrey Luna’s record-breaking achievement — reaching the highest note ever sung on the Met stage — the production has attracted large audiences, which isn’t always the case for new operas. (Indeed, for any opera written after <i>Madama Butterfly</i> and <i>Der Rosenkavalier</i>, <i>Turandot</i> [1926] being the notable exception.) Even more encouraging: the audiences have skewed younger than is typical for the Met or most other opera companies. When I started attending the opera, I was 13 years old and very often the youngest person in the auditorium. What’s dismaying is that, on many nights, more than four decades later, that’s still true — but not for <i>Exterminating Angel</i>.<br />
<br />
Beyond this, I welcome the Met’s casting so many singers whom I admire as artists and whom I know and like as people, offstage. But more on that in a moment.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCr3-AnTnnWB7xq04qmTPLYgz7qYEUKGIFO5F3a_FBfcuSnMqUVmhhY0yQkPWG4jUPXiET6Gt0ZhU1a7WRTq8mrD7csDwG6_b6GrrZq6i4wofHsSGVwtVn0X1PX0DiS4GZ2dDtfhE_g/s1600/exterminating+angel+-+luna+on+Seth+Meyers.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFCr3-AnTnnWB7xq04qmTPLYgz7qYEUKGIFO5F3a_FBfcuSnMqUVmhhY0yQkPWG4jUPXiET6Gt0ZhU1a7WRTq8mrD7csDwG6_b6GrrZq6i4wofHsSGVwtVn0X1PX0DiS4GZ2dDtfhE_g/s400/exterminating+angel+-+luna+on+Seth+Meyers.png" width="400" height="183" data-original-width="1135" data-original-height="520" /></a><br />
<i>Audrey Luna’s feat has attracted all sorts of attention.<br />
Seen here, NBC’s Late Night with Seth Meyers.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
About the opera itself, I’m of many minds. It’s a curious choice of subject matter to begin with, and I note that I still haven’t seen Luis Buñuel’s film. Certain choices seem dictated by what was in the movie, rather than the needs of this piece in the theater. An example is the arrival of a massive chorus at the start of Act III; the chorus returns at the end of the act, after a costume change. Yes, the opera does open up as a consequence, and we see what’s going on beyond the claustrophobic confines of the Nobiles’ home. Maybe we’ve had enough of the experience of being trapped in one room, as the principal characters are — though an argument can be made to the contrary, that we should remain trapped, sharing that psychological experience. On a practical level, however, <i>Exterminating Angel</i> — which saw its premiere at the Salzburg Festival, with the same production and many in the cast proceeding to Covent Garden and the Met, with a new cast to follow at Royal Danish Opera — will be prohibitively expensive for many other companies to produce. Is the movie’s precedent sufficient justification? I wonder.<br />
<br />
Adès has never been one to eschew attention-grabbing stunts, which is one reason we know who he is, whether or not we’ve seen his work. A musical blowjob in his first opera, <i>Powder Her Face</i>, garnered all sorts of headlines, and more when the opera was recorded, and yet more when the opera has been produced subsequently. <i>Exterminating Angel</i> contains other such <i>épater-les-bourgeois</i> ingredients, and indeed the entire opera both shocks the bourgeoisie and depicts the bourgeoisie itself in shocking circumstances. <br />
<br />
To an extent, even those record-breaking high notes are just another stunt. They don’t tell us very much about the character, an opera singer named Leticia, though certainly those notes do contribute to an overall atmosphere of otherworldliness. And nobody who’s a fan of bel canto can argue with the compositional device of generating excitement through feats of vocal derring-do. Leticia isn’t that far removed, really, from Tonio in Donizetti’s <i>The Daughter of the Regiment</i> and his high Cs. (His high notes do make plenty of dramatic sense, however: Tonio is ecstatic at what he believes to be his good fortune.)<br />
<br />
Certain of Adès’ compositional choices puzzled me, and while the language in this opera (to a libretto by the composer and Tom Cairns, who stage directed) is infinitely superior to that of the ludicrous doggerel in his <i>The Tempest</i>, he doesn’t seem any more concerned with whether the audience understands the singers (why bother, when there are titles?), whether his prosody mimics ordinary speech or departs from it, or whether he needs to make any clearly comprehensible choices about any of these matters. Another conductor might draw out more meaning from the score, but the composer himself is in the pit.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpntMoclsZW-TcA8HR66Af3xuvy1YvAFswvnxEmiSulE9-6EoaZyOuGEOL6f10S2v3S3FabxaOI6a1_p2R_e8MDogyjm-bisRm1ycPwYtffJJ7nUgy04ht93G3sqR7L1XUHwaWT_ZfA/s1600/Exterminating+Angel+-+conclusion+of+Act+III.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUpntMoclsZW-TcA8HR66Af3xuvy1YvAFswvnxEmiSulE9-6EoaZyOuGEOL6f10S2v3S3FabxaOI6a1_p2R_e8MDogyjm-bisRm1ycPwYtffJJ7nUgy04ht93G3sqR7L1XUHwaWT_ZfA/s400/Exterminating+Angel+-+conclusion+of+Act+III.jpg" width="400" height="266" data-original-width="768" data-original-height="511" /></a><br />
<i>Deliverance: Act III.</i></div><br />
Yet there are vast portions of the score that pleased me immensely. Adès shows mastery in the most intimate (a lullaby, a love duet for a dying couple) and the grandest passages (a hair-raising march number). He gives <i>almost</i> every character a spotlight. He resorts to a few easy tricks (the wind-up toy orchestration of the scene in which some characters indulge their most compulsive behaviors); and while the use of the ondes martenot doesn’t seem terribly original (we’ve heard it, or something like it, in old horror movies), it’s certainly effective. The score may not invite but it does welcome repeated hearings: I’ve seen the opera twice so far, and I expect to see the HD simulcast on Saturday afternoon.<br />
<br />
Now, about that cast. When I was a kid listening to Saturday afternoon broadcasts from the Metropolitan Opera, it never occurred to me that I would ever know any singers. I mean, I liked <i>Star Trek</i>, too, but I never expected to know any Vulcans. The very idea was pure fantasy. And yet today I know quite a few of these people, my life is all the richer for them, and some of them are on the Met stage right now.<br />
<br />
Case in point: Audrey Luna herself, who sang Zerbinetta in Fort Worth Opera’s production of <i>Ariadne auf Naxos</i>, in which I also appeared. She’s one of the loveliest people I know, and a wonderful singer. The role of Ariel in <i>The Tempest</i>, which Audrey sang at the Met, taps into some of her so-high-only-Jesus-can-hear extension, and as soon as she made her entrance in <i>Exterminating Angel</i>, I thought, “Well, Adès certainly got <i>her</i> number when she sang <i>Tempest</i>.” Her ability to extend her upper register while retaining a pleasing timbre and strength is remarkable, and while <i>Exterminating Angel</i> is, as I say, an ensemble piece, it is ultimately Leticia’s show: her big <i>scena</i> is integral to the <i>finale ultimo</i>. “She’s one of only two people on earth who can sing this role right now; the other is her cover,” mused one of her co-stars.<br />
<br />
Tenor David Portillo, who sang Tonio in <i>Daughter of the Regiment</i> as part of the same festival season in Fort Worth, has reached an extraordinary level in his singing these days, as further demonstrated in Handel’s <i>Ariodante</i> at Carnegie Hall last spring. There’s an effortless sweetness to his singing that makes him a dream to listen to in the role of <i>Exterminating Angel</i>’s ardent fiancé — and he, too, is a lovely person offstage. As the elderly Señor Russell, bass Kevin Burdette, whom I saw most recently in Santa Fe Opera’s <i>Die Fledermaus</i> in August, adds yet another distinctive portrayal to a gallery that also includes an ogre, a jack-in-the-box, a Mormon patriarch, and an aesthetic poet — just a few among those that I’ve seen. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33-8Yw0fkZquQ1P61RyBAWPwdZ56cOpWYJgEwwMTkJw6UZAenrtT-6ZKqL0-QfZtanu9cWuPiI1ipmoZT1zKyABu19d1eI-muuHwZbX_eI9dyR2XgQNE_atZM-15V1s7X9pK7uc-yfw/s1600/exterminating+angel+-+moore%252C+amanda+echalaz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj33-8Yw0fkZquQ1P61RyBAWPwdZ56cOpWYJgEwwMTkJw6UZAenrtT-6ZKqL0-QfZtanu9cWuPiI1ipmoZT1zKyABu19d1eI-muuHwZbX_eI9dyR2XgQNE_atZM-15V1s7X9pK7uc-yfw/s400/exterminating+angel+-+moore%252C+amanda+echalaz.jpg" width="400" height="307" data-original-width="512" data-original-height="393" /></a><br />
<i>David Adam Moore with Amanda Echalaz (Lucia Nobile).</i></div><br />
But the greatest satisfaction of hearing <i>Exterminating Angel</i> must be the success of baritone David Adam Moore. I've followed his career ever since I saw him in Neal Goren's production of <i>Dido and Aeneas</i>, and in turn his work has introduced me to the work of other remarkable artists, such as the designer Vita Tzykun, the composer David T. Little, and even the countertenor Anthony Roth Costanzo (whom I first heard co-starring with David at Glimmerglass, and whom I heard again recently, singing <i>and</i> dancing exquisitely to Pergolesi). <br />
<br />
Every now and then, David and I get together for coffee to catch up on each other’s news. A while back, he told me about <i>Exterminating Angel</i>. The announcement wasn't official (“You can't tell anybody” — and I <i>didn't</i>!), but he was slated to make his Salzburg debut as Colonel Gómez in the world premiere, with a real possibility that he’d follow this by repeating his role for his Covent Garden and Met debuts. <br />
<br />
As it was foretold, so it has come to pass. His musicality, his bearing, and his innate authority are ideal for the role. And the rest of us have confirmation that sometimes good things do happen to good people. I couldn’t be happier.<br />
<br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-3401690518509609922017-10-21T10:41:00.001-04:002017-11-20T15:29:06.635-05:00The Case for a Recording of ‘Paul’s Case’<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP-v7s48aE7bONaxPmvOJXW20V6itprmnPVBsgey4WMQ_jytUemSWT1jx_M8fBb9oAImS9LW0hMJZbezmjAiCjptF9DdQPyW_yXKg516lUgbXzyMHtRM0mZtxXLcfWEiNyjZ5DWOAMw/s1600/Paul%2527s+Case.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP-v7s48aE7bONaxPmvOJXW20V6itprmnPVBsgey4WMQ_jytUemSWT1jx_M8fBb9oAImS9LW0hMJZbezmjAiCjptF9DdQPyW_yXKg516lUgbXzyMHtRM0mZtxXLcfWEiNyjZ5DWOAMw/s400/Paul%2527s+Case.jpg" width="400" height="267" data-original-width="800" data-original-height="533" /></a><br />
<i>The original cast of <b>Paul’s Case</b>, in Kevin Newbury’s staging, with Jonathan Blalock in foreground.</i></div><br />
Some operas stay with you. Some performances never leave you.<br />
<br />
I had never read Willa Cather’s short story “Paul’s Case” before I read about Gregory Spears and Kathryn Walat’s operatic adaptation. The story is remarkable, poignant, chock-full of secrets and whispers. At its center is Paul, a young man who resembles the tenor Jonathan Blalock in every detail, to such a degree that you wonder what sort of time machine Cather used to visit our era and to meet Jonathan. She gets him, down to his mysterious smile. It’s as if Jonathan springs to life on her page.<br />
<br />
I’ve had this sensation before, when reading Stendhal’s <i>Le Rouge et le Noir</i> and seeing the actor Gérard Philipe in the central character of Julien Sorel. It was almost like fan fiction, as if Stendhal admired Philipe so much that he wrote a part especially for him. (Stendhal wasn’t above that sort of thing, I hasten to add.) Then one day I went to the <i>cinéma</i>, and there was Gérard Philipe playing Julien Sorel. The universe aligned, somehow. It was always necessary for Philipe to play this character, and then he did.<br />
<br />
Seeing the opera at its New York premiere, part of the Prototype Festival, in 2014, I discovered that the music for <i>Paul’s Case</i> suits Jonathan every bit as much as the character does. His clean, incisive tenor shines as the chamber ensemble slides and scurries around him. In <i>The New Yorker</i>, Alex Ross has written far more eloquently about this opera than I ever can, as is his wont, but allow me impertinently to vouch for him: He’s right. This is a gorgeous, important score.<br />
<br />
In an ideal world, we’d have a video of Kevin Newbury’s haunting, poetic production, for Urban Arias, with the original cast. We don’t live in an ideal world, however, and now Urban Arias is coming to the end of a fund-raising drive to finance an audio recording. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkufL3WT_7RV17ppxQYTF6fGOgmtKVCT9aN01AHnsvhv4q7UQx6DmLJ80E33iI-onFGtj66G_Hroa5gs13U4fhiWeY_6mxkNeRrGd35Lpwivca4eMejvkdJ4e3BT6CQ1TSc7NuQ0Gpw/s1600/paul1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkufL3WT_7RV17ppxQYTF6fGOgmtKVCT9aN01AHnsvhv4q7UQx6DmLJ80E33iI-onFGtj66G_Hroa5gs13U4fhiWeY_6mxkNeRrGd35Lpwivca4eMejvkdJ4e3BT6CQ1TSc7NuQ0Gpw/s400/paul1.jpg" width="296" height="400" data-original-width="267" data-original-height="361" /></a></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Imagine if Maria Callas had never recorded <i>Tosca</i>, if Lauren Worsham had never recorded <i>Dog Days</i>. That’s how you’re going to feel if Jonathan Blalock never records <i>Paul’s Case</i>. This is a once-in-a-lifetime portrayal. Sure, Spears’ opera is so powerful that other tenors will want to sing the role, some day. But they will never be quite like Jonathan, never quite so <i>right</i> and natural and expressive. They may or may not have lived out parts of Paul’s story — Jonathan has. They may never be able to give full voice to this character and his music — Jonathan does. They may never know what Jonathan has done with the role — I do.<br />
<br />
In a fund-raising drive like this one, every little bit helps. The campaign is coming to an end. If you can part with a little money, I hope you’ll do so. The link is <a href="https://www.hatchfund.org/project/urbanarias_records_pauls_case">here</a>.<br />
<br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-49123425627468507082017-05-12T18:04:00.000-04:002017-05-14T08:17:28.312-04:00Anne with an Execution<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxAXA9bThBFlzINel8zmdJbU1wlx8AbTuNfzL19jnXeS6gDG_O3HnWMBCr8Zdlni_LYJjYfXi3nUO1IdKQOC-Mmzk3CqqZaNlaYeerQcdk1rjLhi-mPghVQNpBeqBaDP5X6Y9MaQ9dQ/s1600/anne-with-an-e+-++amybeth+mcnulty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisxAXA9bThBFlzINel8zmdJbU1wlx8AbTuNfzL19jnXeS6gDG_O3HnWMBCr8Zdlni_LYJjYfXi3nUO1IdKQOC-Mmzk3CqqZaNlaYeerQcdk1rjLhi-mPghVQNpBeqBaDP5X6Y9MaQ9dQ/s400/anne-with-an-e+-++amybeth+mcnulty.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>Amybeth McNulty as Anne in the new series.</i></div><br />
<b>NOTE:</b> Netflix and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation are producing a “new, darker take” on Lucy Maud Montgomery’s beloved <i>Anne of Green Gables</i>. Called <i>Anne with an E</i>, the series premieres this week. As the success of <i>Riverdale</i> attests, “new, darker takes” are all the rage these days, and there’s really no reason not to push Anne Shirley <i>even further</i> toward the darkness.<br />
<br />
<i>We open with scenic vistas of Prince Edward Island. But the skies are ominous, wind tears through the trees, and we hear thunder and lightning in the near-distance.</i><br />
<br />
<b>MATTHEW CUTHBERT:</b> (Voiceover) You stay away from that girl, if you know what’s good for you!<br />
<br />
<b>GILBERT BLYTHE:</b> (Voiceover) But — but I don’t even like her! Everybody in Avonlea thinks there’s something wrong with her!<br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Interior, schoolroom. GILBERT pulls ANNE’s hair. She wheels on him and raises her slate to strike him.</i><br />
<br />
<b>MATTHEW:</b> (Voiceover) You heard me. You just stay away from her!<br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> GILBERT’S lifeless body on the schoolroom floor. Blood pools around his head. We hear a girl screaming.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGxdPB_MQWJQF7hA9FGwmFbNQCtYzSfxh14QQ2_R839C_WaNzH6HDRMWMZ6V3ebHCFrNzlqCBV200V9MC7GrsnQ7UTAZMV_sdmZjZcVqH-4cI0R_VQdgqFyjvSOza749z5m_Q01E0Wg/s1600/Riverdale-TV-Show-Details.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGxdPB_MQWJQF7hA9FGwmFbNQCtYzSfxh14QQ2_R839C_WaNzH6HDRMWMZ6V3ebHCFrNzlqCBV200V9MC7GrsnQ7UTAZMV_sdmZjZcVqH-4cI0R_VQdgqFyjvSOza749z5m_Q01E0Wg/s400/Riverdale-TV-Show-Details.jpg" width="400" height="229" /></a><br />
<i>“That Gilbert Blythe is the best-looking boy in town … or <b>was</b>.”</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Interior, Avonlea Town Hall. TOWNSFOLK are arguing. A MOUNTIE enters.</i><br />
<br />
<b>COOPER:</b> Sorry to trouble you folks. I’m Officer Dale Cooper of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I understand there’s a missing person.<br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> ANNE and DIANA BARRY, exterior Green Gables.</i><br />
<br />
<b>DIANA:</b> But Anne! No one has seen Gilbert Blythe since you hit him with your slate! Do you know anything about this?<br />
<br />
<i>Wordlessly, ANNE turns and faces the camera. Her hair is green.</i><br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Interior, Green Gables.</i><br />
<br />
<b>MARILLA CUTHBERT:</b> Officer Cooper, my brooch has gone missing.<br />
<br />
<b>COOPER:</b> Things in Avonlea aren’t as peaceful as they seem, eh?<br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Exterior, White Way of Delight, thunderstorm.</i><br />
<br />
<b>DIANA: </b> Anne! Anne! Where are you going?<br />
<br />
<b>ANNE:</b> I’m going to find Gilbert — dead or alive — if it’s the last thing I do!<br />
<br />
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<i>The victim was found right about here, eh?</i></div><br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Interior, Avonlea Constable’s Office.</i><br />
<br />
<b>COOPER:</b> Murder in Avonlea? I’m going to need another cup of that damned fine tea, Mrs. Lynde.<br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Exterior, Lake of the Shining Waters. Rain, heavy fog. ANNE and GILBERT are in a rowboat.</i><br />
<br />
<b>GILBERT:</b> Anne, we’re sinking!<br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Interior, Green Gables.</i><br />
<br />
<b>COOPER:</b> I take it you two aren’t married.<br />
<br />
<b>MATTHEW:</b> (Looks meaningfully at MARILLA, then) We’re brother and sister, sir.<br />
<br />
<b>MARILLA:</b> (Gazes inscrutably.)<br />
<br />
<i><b>CUT TO:</b> Exterior, forest. Tight close-up on ANNE. She has seen something unspeakable.</i><br />
<br />
<b>ANNE:</b> (Screams)<br />
<br />
<b>BLACKOUT</b><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpvVLa6kZ72VDDKRNno3BCxFDIPmYisGDTYivkChIq38KWkeoyejN1wikJcO_6L5hARV3xhehqgHFACzpf8VnxL5qMnwTSI9QUEczxgzwCnGy3cvFNiWmhyphenhyphenx-ifa1EGLpLWMu-odeWA/s1600/Thwack%2521_-_M.A._and_W.A.J._Claus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCpvVLa6kZ72VDDKRNno3BCxFDIPmYisGDTYivkChIq38KWkeoyejN1wikJcO_6L5hARV3xhehqgHFACzpf8VnxL5qMnwTSI9QUEczxgzwCnGy3cvFNiWmhyphenhyphenx-ifa1EGLpLWMu-odeWA/s400/Thwack%2521_-_M.A._and_W.A.J._Claus.jpg" width="268" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>It begins….</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-49826104639600630152017-05-02T09:53:00.002-04:002017-05-02T13:24:44.137-04:00Handling ‘Ariodante’ at Carnegie Hall<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigselzNZ9niXA6LfwgP6hJHJw56r8YJ2mkadN3yO8HIR4Yto2VM0KsHBzqKZAhgetF3-JqjDRdgi0-eGgVXZUzey5IChbxdFvlQu4_vSXPVRu8gdO9XpyX_OdtPccs8Q_YfFkn3RNY0A/s1600/j-did+Ariodante+30+april+2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigselzNZ9niXA6LfwgP6hJHJw56r8YJ2mkadN3yO8HIR4Yto2VM0KsHBzqKZAhgetF3-JqjDRdgi0-eGgVXZUzey5IChbxdFvlQu4_vSXPVRu8gdO9XpyX_OdtPccs8Q_YfFkn3RNY0A/s400/j-did+Ariodante+30+april+2017.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>Joyce DiDonato at Carnegie Hall,<br />
with Harry Bicket (seated at the harpsichord)<br />
and members of the English Concert.</i></div><br />
“You handle Handel like nobody handles Handel,” enthuses a fan upon meeting a famous conductor (Rex Harrison) in Preston Sturges’ <i>Unfaithfully Yours</i>, and it’s what I kept thinking throughout Joyce DiDonato’s performance in the title role of Handel’s <i>Ariodante</i> on Sunday afternoon at Carnegie Hall. Mind you, I’ve heard some extraordinarily good Handel singing in my day, but Joyce continues to surprise me, doing things that no one else does. When she sings Rossini, I can picture the composer strutting up and down the aisle at intermission, beaming and boasting, “Did you hear that? I wrote that!” When she sings Handel, I can picture the composer asking, “Hang on — did <i>I</i> write that?”<br />
<br />
Even in the hands of some very fine singers, Handel’s emotional and psychological palette used to seem simple to me. Arias expressed one of a very few emotions: joy, anger (usually vengeful), sorrow, determination, love. Somehow Joyce has located psychological depths that, as I say, the composer himself may not have suspected; but she presents them so persuasively that I wind up believing Handel is on a par with Shakespeare, Wagner, and Verdi, a master of theatrical arts to give voice to the soul. Who knew the old boy had it in him?<br />
<br />
I can only begin to understand how Joyce does this. For starters, in her arias she doesn’t merely ornament the vocal line. She deploys a variety of colors, and she makes uncanny use of her dynamic range. In piano and pianissimo passages, then, she evokes the thoughtfulness of the character, sometimes suggesting that the words she is singing are ones that her character can barely bring himself (Ariodante is a trouser role) to speak. She invites us to the innermost, most private domain of character.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiE008EauPlvuLuBHOMBQbH6G6EPQIXRABFIhJ9t08Wu0CSEbadbgjCcYB6wuVP7ncKQSEBgeT50CBkk4stKtkuEwu-bWs2a7U4FiScc1NYUHyxPidEIUJ_d8d4FA9wQ8AKUrfoJhPsw/s1600/MI0003182760.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiE008EauPlvuLuBHOMBQbH6G6EPQIXRABFIhJ9t08Wu0CSEbadbgjCcYB6wuVP7ncKQSEBgeT50CBkk4stKtkuEwu-bWs2a7U4FiScc1NYUHyxPidEIUJ_d8d4FA9wQ8AKUrfoJhPsw/s400/MI0003182760.jpg" width="392" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>Joyce recorded the opera with Il Complesso Barocco a few years ago.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Repetition is the foundation of Handel’s arias, in the da capo or “A-B-A” style prevalent in his day: in the first verse, the character makes a statement, repeating phrases several times; in the second verse, the character makes a contrasting statement, also repeating phrases; in the third verse, the character resumes the <i>first</i> verse, ornamenting the vocal line. What Joyce manages to do is not only stylish but thoughtful: it’s as if her characters are working out a problem, considering it from different perspectives, striving to explore and to understand the world around them. <br />
<br />
Especially in the long aria “Scherza infida,” on Sunday Joyce outdid herself — and brought me to the brink of tears. No ornament seemed gratuitous or ostentatious, and yet no note, no gesture seemed calculated or effortful. And it all seemed fresh. Indeed, returning to the recordings she’s made of the aria, I found constant affirmation of her continuing exploration of this music, the new insights she’s gleaned, her unstoppable willingness to try new approaches.<br />
<br />
Joyce was joined by a cast of excellent singers, including ripe-voiced Sonia Prina in the trouser role of the villainous Polinesso. Prina played her role to the hilt, until I wasn’t sure that certain vocal stunts were part of her technique (which is sometimes eccentric) or part of her deliciously juicy characterization. If she’d worn a mustache, I’m sure she would have twirled it, and it’s a tribute to her work that I came across one audience member at intermission who asked who the countertenor was.<br />
<br />
Leading the English Concert from the harpsichord, conductor Harry Bicket tended to <i>very</i> speedy tempos that may have reduced the playing time (the concert lasted about four hours as it was) but did few of the singers any favors, especially in Act I. Still, soprano Christiane Karg made an affecting Ginevra, and sweet-voiced soprano Mary Bevan was a revelation as the gullible Dalinda. Rivaling Bevan for mellifluous tone was tenor David Portillo as Lurcanio, Dalinda’s intended. Fondly remembered for his Tonio in Fort Worth Opera’s <i><a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-haushofmeisters-diary-part-15-rest.html">Daughter of the Regiment</a></i> four years ago, David is in exceptionally fine voice these days, as evidenced also in his recent run as Jaquino in <i>Fidelio</i> at the Met; this concert was his Carnegie Hall debut, and the audience cheered him. <br />
<br />
The role of Odoardo may be small, even thankless, but it served to make me want to hear more from tenor Tyson Miller, who turned in a nicely rounded characterization and elegant singing. Baritone Matthew Brook made his role, the King of Scotland, seem far more important than I’d remembered it to be, and he invested himself wholly in acting the part — even when (as in the conclusion of his “sorrow” aria in Act II, which found him on his knees) he overdid it. His warm tone beautifully suited his paternal character. Really, in most respects this concert performance was ready for the stage, with the trouser ladies wearing trousers and each singer providing thoughtful characterization in gesture as well as voice.<br />
<br />
I thoroughly enjoyed the work of the English Concert, notably Alberto Grazzi’s bassoon in “Scherza infida,” and Ursula Paludan Monberg and Martin Lawrence’s discreetly exultant horns; lutenist William Carter wielded a theorbo the size of that baby giraffe everyone’s talking about lately. The strings managed to be crisp, elegant, and supportive even when Bicket spurred them on to greater haste than I’d have liked. In all, it was an afternoon of memorably glorious music-making. <br />
<br />
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<i>Post-performance: Backstage with Joyce and a friend.</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-25576231003240012812017-04-24T16:00:00.002-04:002017-04-25T08:53:59.711-04:00Sympathy for the Diva, or Joan Crawford<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3KEEA0r8WrdOCQfHcJkSW1lR1gByooyRLeIFkQYJ5eg4B4q0vyGr8xZRhUPEiO2-h7fpDLMg3Np_f0b-QlmhlJVH5bb58MridlF7D0kAs7Cmxwy8vUlRdz0JEpIZwsCojzb2lnNII3Q/s1600/Mildred+Pierce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3KEEA0r8WrdOCQfHcJkSW1lR1gByooyRLeIFkQYJ5eg4B4q0vyGr8xZRhUPEiO2-h7fpDLMg3Np_f0b-QlmhlJVH5bb58MridlF7D0kAs7Cmxwy8vUlRdz0JEpIZwsCojzb2lnNII3Q/s400/Mildred+Pierce.jpg" width="400" height="292" /></a><br />
<i><b>Mildred Pierce</b>: The key that unlocks Joan Crawford?</i></div><br />
The writer Shaun Considine was a tremendous help to me while I researched <a href="http://madeline-kahn-being-the-music.blogspot.com/"><i>Madeline Kahn: Being the Music, A Life</i></a>. Shaun conducted the two most important magazine interviews Madeline ever gave: her first in a national publication, <i>After Dark</i>, and her only public statement after her departure from <i>On the Twentieth Century</i>. He was a good if not always close friend to Madeline, too, and he generously shared with me his exhaustive notes from the interviews, unpublished photos of Madeline, and copious advice. As an additional, indirect way of thanking him, I bought a copy of his most famous book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Bette-Joan-Divine-Shaun-Considine/dp/1631681060/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1493063321&sr=8-1&keywords=shaun+considine+the+divine+feud"><i>Bette and Joan: The Divine Feud</i></a>, and found it so utterly engrossing that I bought James M. Cain’s <i>Mildred Pierce</i> and devoured that, too.<br />
<br />
Naturally, my thoughts turned to Shaun while I watched the first episode of Ryan Murphy’s <i>Feud: Bette & Joan</i>. So much of Murphy’s series seemed to come directly from the pages of Shaun’s book that I wondered whether Shaun was getting any money out of the project. Then another writer, Dan Callahan (who’s written <a href="http://">incisive analyses</a> of <i>Bette & Joan</i> for <i>Nylon</i> every week), broke the sad news that Shaun died shortly before my book came out. Now I know why Shaun stopped answering my e-mails, and why he couldn’t join us for the book party. Without knowing it, I’d lost a mentor.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYiTscGURQWaYZs4uX5TWgDn0VLRqoaSd4BZfQrS5bEep9iuccE0p2yN1nFnZgxG5_iy-PmbMA4UW4TmnYdqaIvy8zDh_mDEmDUOETyGCwMKC6DPTjaeCB_PKrX2QR4PfIGIDCTlN2JA/s1600/Shaun+Considine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYiTscGURQWaYZs4uX5TWgDn0VLRqoaSd4BZfQrS5bEep9iuccE0p2yN1nFnZgxG5_iy-PmbMA4UW4TmnYdqaIvy8zDh_mDEmDUOETyGCwMKC6DPTjaeCB_PKrX2QR4PfIGIDCTlN2JA/s320/Shaun+Considine.jpg" width="320" height="320" /></a><br />
<i>Shaun Considine.</i></div><br />
But the process that Shaun set in motion continued, as Jessica Lange’s performance enhanced my growing understanding and appreciation of Joan Crawford. I never expected to feel anything at all for her: she struck me as a good but not great actor, whose offscreen life didn’t interest me. I did (and still do) admire Bette Davis passionately, and even wrote a fan letter to her (and received a lovely reply), so there was never a question whose side I was on. Thanks to Shaun Considine and Jessica Lange, that’s changed.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsjFUEuYswe2sIioxY_sg1zq1fQIzYT0h0g_t8KjIorYCrJrSz0-camYznUL9dW-vJemzzmx30s4MKtJUyTAFU1bEKKanELBW_5BH877y68n9jlQrhsFlFT6J8lyz0pSlxGNYs5nYRQ/s1600/Sarandon+and+Lange.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbsjFUEuYswe2sIioxY_sg1zq1fQIzYT0h0g_t8KjIorYCrJrSz0-camYznUL9dW-vJemzzmx30s4MKtJUyTAFU1bEKKanELBW_5BH877y68n9jlQrhsFlFT6J8lyz0pSlxGNYs5nYRQ/s400/Sarandon+and+Lange.jpg" width="400" height="289" /></a><br />
<i>Sarandon and Lange as Davis and Crawford.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Shaun suggests that <i>Mildred Pierce</i> is essential to understanding Joan Crawford: if an actor can be an auteur, then Crawford’s Mildred is an autobiographical portrait. Both the character and the actor were driven by ambition to rise above their lower-class origins. For Crawford, this ambition became an obsession. Born poor, abandoned by her father, unwanted by her mother, abused by her stepfather, Crawford endured a childhood like Charles Dickens’ telling of Cinderella. Young Joan was able to attend private boarding school only because she worked, scrubbing, washing, cooking for the other girls — so busy that she could seldom attend classes.<br />
<br />
As an adult, Joan was proud of her willingness to work hard, and even she marveled that, rather than developing a horror of housework, she enthused in it. The rest of us may look at her neat-freak tendencies and see an obsessive-compulsive, and Joan admitted that she was a perfectionist: an impeccably clean home was part of her need for control over her environment and a symbol of her aspiration to something <i>better</i>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUoqMq4o_xCsNl5oQIJemZu0WUTr0RgWBB9J8xi66y872_tkQP5YaqfHrm6Hf6IdkTW6MmzuKavGSWsFYFMqUT7N8baPiTos3CuwaWhREJFlvcTGswJvKroBRjvP27cG2fGr6pVglnXQ/s1600/joan+crawford+kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUoqMq4o_xCsNl5oQIJemZu0WUTr0RgWBB9J8xi66y872_tkQP5YaqfHrm6Hf6IdkTW6MmzuKavGSWsFYFMqUT7N8baPiTos3CuwaWhREJFlvcTGswJvKroBRjvP27cG2fGr6pVglnXQ/s400/joan+crawford+kitchen.jpg" width="400" height="303" /></a></div><br />
As a showgirl and then as an actress, Crawford escaped poverty primarily through her good looks and sex appeal, her talent as an actor, and her growing skills as an actor. In these areas, too, she was a perfectionist, constantly striving to improve herself. Marriage to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., marked the next crucial step in her evolution. Fairbanks was Hollywood royalty, highly educated and cultivated, and the stepson of Mary Pickford — who disapproved of the working-class Crawford. Joan set about compensating for her lack of formal education, reading widely, studying languages, etiquette, elocution, and (later) voice. Pickford grudgingly permitted her daughter-in-law to take a seat at the table, while Lucille LeSueur became Joan Crawford, once and for all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA76MHY-grFXHqDRmGbhjq2G7gJrXGxwBB7meb72v9CE1ZIQJM_cRrkcvJa9yiZjwM1OMKmVls7JasBZISrmmZdsjvUjpK3RCxb5R243jn8waN-CYTKUlOq1750Mf0C8yKPA17_8G_cg/s1600/joan+crawford+supermarket+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA76MHY-grFXHqDRmGbhjq2G7gJrXGxwBB7meb72v9CE1ZIQJM_cRrkcvJa9yiZjwM1OMKmVls7JasBZISrmmZdsjvUjpK3RCxb5R243jn8waN-CYTKUlOq1750Mf0C8yKPA17_8G_cg/s400/joan+crawford+supermarket+2.jpg" width="400" height="269" /></a></div><br />
The star who could not go to the supermarket without flawless makeup, hair, hat and gloves was a kind of female Jay Gatsby in Hollywood, self-created at great cost — and for Joan as for Gatsby, sex was one means to get ahead. She lost her Texas accent, she personified glamour, and she didn’t stop striving for <i>more</i>. Reading Shaun’s book, I got the sense of Crawford continually yearning for her own version of Gatsby’s green light, staring through the window at a life she wanted. Even at the end of her life, she spoke of getting a formal education, and it’s easy to believe she might crave respect from Bette Davis, whose gifts as an actor, as a fighter, and as an intellect the world seemed to accept without questioning.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9bgug2GQK3eSFIt7qH4-gJPRH6By2_WBo6x_D80pWTQpPPAiHJ1WQz7tiNr6df-MkDCa0Rh09XLFrX44NRxTJKWH4zPzLrVlx0gGbEV4G9zPum_I0qTmQuCx6csS_7JEpwv9qQrfkg/s1600/Joan+Crawford+and+Bette+Davis.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc9bgug2GQK3eSFIt7qH4-gJPRH6By2_WBo6x_D80pWTQpPPAiHJ1WQz7tiNr6df-MkDCa0Rh09XLFrX44NRxTJKWH4zPzLrVlx0gGbEV4G9zPum_I0qTmQuCx6csS_7JEpwv9qQrfkg/s400/Joan+Crawford+and+Bette+Davis.png" width="378" height="400" /></a></div><br />
By the time <i>What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?</i> began filming, both women had reached an age when Hollywood’s interest in them had waned. There was no Ryan Murphy building elaborate showcases for older actresses. Today Murphy wants to tell a story of Crawford’s looks versus Davis’ talent, and the manipulations of male-dominated Hollywood. There’s truth in this perspective, as far as it goes, and television necessarily requires simplification and condensation. But Shaun’s book makes clear that the reality was a good deal more complex, and arguably more illuminating about the very topics Murphy aimed to address.<br />
<br />
Shaun goes so far as to question whether there really was a feud at all, whether it was cooked up by Davis and Crawford themselves to promote the movie. (The book’s title gives you a fair idea what his conclusion is, but he does raise the question.) Again, Murphy’s take is that others imposed the feud on the women, to manipulate the performances they gave and to promote the picture; soon enough, the feud was bitterly heartfelt and authentic. In the final episode, Susan Sarandon as Davis makes clear that the feud is responsible at least in part for the public’s interest in her and for the talk-show appearances that afforded her the largest audiences of her later career: she can’t afford to let it go. <br />
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<i>What is an image when people no longer see it?<br />
Lange as Crawford.<br />
(In the background, the peerless Jackie Hoffman as Mamacita.)</i></div><br />
At times, Murphy’s pretty-vs.-smart dynamic risked becoming as cartoonish as a catfight between Daphne and Velma from <i>Scooby Doo</i>. But Lange’s performance consistently rose above the hit-or-miss material in the scripts, it enhanced my sympathy for Crawford, and it made me want to revisit the Crawford pictures I’ve seen and seek out others I’ve thus far missed. I’ve also caught up with some of Lange’s work with Murphy in <i>American Horror Story</i>, at once over-the-top and subtle. What struck me here was her ability to ground in realism yet another character who is, in her way, supernatural. Her Crawford is the grandest of <i>grandes dames</i>, a movie star, and yet very human indeed.<br />
<br />
What seemed clear as I read Shaun’s book was that Crawford realized too late that she was in over her head. Yes, she tried to assert herself over Davis — particularly during the lead-up to the 1963 Oscars — but she was no match for Davis. By then, it was too late to repair the damage Crawford had done, and her own later career represented a truly pathetic decline, making only a few terrible movies while descending into alcoholism, illness, and solitude. Listening to her audiobook, <i>My Way of Life</i> (which can be heard <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FRkY5HAjv2w">on YouTube</a>), she blithely describes days spent reading scripts and fielding movie offers — when we know she was putting on a brave face. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGuKWARPMr23nYPitFhUvBk7WcWO0Q-xuAd3DYnpzJKZG7Uqx0caiwIWR7NiDW94GNL-zIcS9bNKqQ9dqlGwziCbDXqGUELR6IE90Ya2zni9RpCEsz25MaGYLi9wGoi3R81dd9WoH3SA/s1600/mommie-dearest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGuKWARPMr23nYPitFhUvBk7WcWO0Q-xuAd3DYnpzJKZG7Uqx0caiwIWR7NiDW94GNL-zIcS9bNKqQ9dqlGwziCbDXqGUELR6IE90Ya2zni9RpCEsz25MaGYLi9wGoi3R81dd9WoH3SA/s400/mommie-dearest.jpg" width="400" height="300" /></a></div><br />
She had just made her final feature film, <i>TROG</i>, which really is as bad as everyone says it is. Bette Davis may have become her own caricature, her mannerisms overwhelming her later performances. Joan Crawford never really got the chance to do that — Faye Dunaway did it for her, after Joan died.*<br />
<br />
Some lucky ones among you may never have felt inadequate, may never have seen your inadequacies confirmed and shoved in your faces. I envy you. Joan Crawford — who spent so much of her life battling her inadequacies and the insecurities they generated — would envy you, too. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0RBLgHkLCfbq364iLXNeJGfH6HbH9Qnx7YhCIxAoLpTK8w6ayDR-4P6DhurC-4AKkFXvxMUBq-KbnK18eHcrYLGudR44RSPqJMQYJZwhyphenhyphenmF-t7W1afFgD7PPS7XzCPJh9eziInKJhA/s1600/Joan+Crawford+portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA0RBLgHkLCfbq364iLXNeJGfH6HbH9Qnx7YhCIxAoLpTK8w6ayDR-4P6DhurC-4AKkFXvxMUBq-KbnK18eHcrYLGudR44RSPqJMQYJZwhyphenhyphenmF-t7W1afFgD7PPS7XzCPJh9eziInKJhA/s400/Joan+Crawford+portrait.jpg" width="317" height="400" /></a></div><br />
<i>*NOTE: The great Joan Crawford caricaturist is of course Carol Burnett, whose loving spoofs amused Joan herself. “You put more production into that sketch than Jack Warner put into our entire picture,” Joan told Carol after seeing “Mildred Fierce.”</i><br />
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</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-37416899514173741332017-04-16T15:00:00.000-04:002017-04-16T16:18:27.094-04:00Interview: Lauren Worsham<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeY-DUde2S3fFByLrRdqUQiJk8S_5g4cEcCMVkLuhwy-VzdkXxeDyFljTK_KOCRjDEqo1opGxEeY9RrU_5s5EB6e8oLfNwVze8jHnckL6AOTDeLBxEf50GcHIT-7vsMS13yL2D1A7B5g/s1600/laurenheadshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeY-DUde2S3fFByLrRdqUQiJk8S_5g4cEcCMVkLuhwy-VzdkXxeDyFljTK_KOCRjDEqo1opGxEeY9RrU_5s5EB6e8oLfNwVze8jHnckL6AOTDeLBxEf50GcHIT-7vsMS13yL2D1A7B5g/s400/laurenheadshot.jpg" width="267" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>The limitless Lauren Worsham.<br />
Photos from <a href="http://www.laurenworsham.com/">laurenworsham.com</a>.</i></div><br />
It’s hard to imagine two works more dissimilar than Victor Herbert’s <i>Babes in Toyland</i> and <a href="https://davidtlittle.com/">David T. Little</a> and Royce Vavrek’s <a href="https://www.amazon.com/David-T-Little-Dog-Days/dp/B01M14FY98"><i>Dog Days</i></a>, but on April 27, when <a href="http://www.mastervoices.org/">Master Voices</a> performs <i>Toyland</i> in concert at Carnegie Hall, one woman will connect the two. Soprano Lauren Worsham — whose shattering performances as Lisa in <i>Dog Days</i> rank among the finest I have ever seen — will take the ingénue role of Jane. She may not yet be the music-theater equivalent of Kevin Bacon, the necessary link to everything and everyone, but give her time.<br />
<br />
Her limpid, vibrant voice commands attention, and she knows how to use it to project the kind of innocence that’s equally appropriate in <a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2016/02/a-little-mini-festival-in-new-york.html">Little’s Dystopia</a> and Herbert’s Toyland. Already she’s excelled in operetta at New York City Opera and, on Broadway, in an acclaimed turn as Phoebe in <i>A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder</i>, warbling her heart out and picking up Drama Desk and Theatre World awards and a Tony nomination. She runs an opera company, the Coterie, and is the lead singer in <a href="http://www.sky-pony.com/">Sky-Pony</a> — a rock band — while also appearing in concert and in cabaret. To this observer, it seems there’s nothing that doesn’t interest her, and nothing she can’t do.<br />
<br />
“I definitely try to do many things,” Worsham says, calling herself “a jack-of-all-trades and not necessarily a master of any of them.” (I beg to disagree.) “How did I get to the point where I can? I think it was more that I decided that I wanted to. I didn’t want to focus on one thing. As with most things in my life, my path found me.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6nrR0n1o2Oq14ty_5_j2AD1HGnL_KnwMvnyoKUA6vL4kCsNdXsBuRVj6AcY5th7fqu4DX1m3k2FIP5-ELQtCk3041FZ_DnR4wNBTWSWHKwbk7PIKf5URzQnLrVhEU_57FfO5YwtDgQ/s1600/DogDays.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo6nrR0n1o2Oq14ty_5_j2AD1HGnL_KnwMvnyoKUA6vL4kCsNdXsBuRVj6AcY5th7fqu4DX1m3k2FIP5-ELQtCk3041FZ_DnR4wNBTWSWHKwbk7PIKf5URzQnLrVhEU_57FfO5YwtDgQ/s400/DogDays.jpg" width="400" height="266" /></a><br />
<i>“Mirror, Mirror”: As Lisa in <b>Dog Days</b>.<br />
One of the most astonishing performances I have ever witnessed.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Growing up in Austin, Texas, Worsham sang the music that was in the air around her, rock and blues, and her first voice teacher was a blues musician. She also sang in her high-school choir, and her interest in musical theater led her to audition for a college production of <i>Candide</i>. After graduation from Yale (cum laude, because of course) and a stint in the first national tour of <i>The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee</i>, she found herself playing Cunegonde again, this time in New York City Opera’s revival of <i>Candide</i>, in 2008.<br />
<br />
Worsham had begun to broaden and deepen her understanding of opera, with which she’d been only somewhat familiar. But she says, “I love narrative and I love drama, and at that point opera wasn’t focusing on those things in the way that a college student would have been aware of.” In NYCO’s late, lamented VOX program for new work, Worsham met <a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2013/01/interview-david-t-little.html">Little</a> and Vavrek, who were about to change <i>many</i> people’s notions of narrative and drama in opera. “<i>Dog Days</i> is the greatest thing I’ve done, maybe the greatest thing I’ll ever do,” Worsham says — adding, “until the next time I work with David and Royce!”<br />
<br />
For City Opera’s <i>Candide</i>, “They double-cast me with a more trained singer,” Worsham remembers. “They set me up with a voice teacher, and I credit her with helping me open up my classical voice.” This training strikes me as crucial to her multifaceted career: the desire to do many things and the talent to persuade people to allow you to do many things will take you only so far if you don’t have the technique to pull it off. (My hat is off to Worsham’s teacher, Virginia Grasso.)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1ff4xgREaBrY6LjYEcFUV0wDncumQnRuqlTmEfHUf4Fu1F8_sLbETScjeUipAMG0xJNWi2zyVPPlTdYHI4bcCK4Juv9_at-obNXLjjJrx0OEgSCKGmwIICiURps6z2QHHx8m9ZVEqw/s1600/GentlemansGuide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO1ff4xgREaBrY6LjYEcFUV0wDncumQnRuqlTmEfHUf4Fu1F8_sLbETScjeUipAMG0xJNWi2zyVPPlTdYHI4bcCK4Juv9_at-obNXLjjJrx0OEgSCKGmwIICiURps6z2QHHx8m9ZVEqw/s400/GentlemansGuide.jpg" width="400" height="266" /></a><br />
<i>In <b>Gentleman’s Guide</b>, with Jane O’Hare and Bryce Pinkham.</i></div><br />
Worsham also respects “good vocal hygiene.” The main thing for me is not yelling in bars. [Presumably when she’s performing with Sky-Pony.] There’s a difference between doing something one night, or every night of the week. Everything requires a different kind of maintenance and paying attention to your body. I definitely learned that the hard way with <i>Gentleman’s Guide</i>.<br />
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“When I first started, I had a high, nasal speaking voice for Phoebe,” she continues. “For the first eight months, it was fine, but then it started to catch up with me. In the same way that if you woke up every morning and bend your knees, you’ll get more flexible, but if you sit at a desk all day, you’ll lose flexibility. Using that voice gave my larynx bad habits. I’d never done a show that many days a week for that long. There’s a difference between a long game and a short game.”<br />
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While Worsham’s rock voice doesn’t sound precisely like her operetta voice, it’s recognizably the same instrument, and just as irresistible. Her approach to any piece of music, she says, is rooted in character: “Different characters have different ways they carry their body and different ways they use their voice. Different songs have different characters and different textures. Sometimes it’s a choice: ‘This would sound good.’ When it comes to opera, that’s a matter of technique, but when it comes to something like pop music, a lot of the time for me it’s a matter of letting go, of trying to be ‘on the voice,’ just trying to tell the story.” <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_GkaeNxobVZZDtCoseNqICE7Ox4j3pUyWiqidxp-b80VgQtbDtd0stSdCFASgA-Ts2iSLsX_MbhkbKsNrGKdwPJ_AMgyH6dkLSL2r9rcn9AWgGxUBVT2eii1VGJR1GiW-1bW30KnPQ/s1600/SkyPony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid_GkaeNxobVZZDtCoseNqICE7Ox4j3pUyWiqidxp-b80VgQtbDtd0stSdCFASgA-Ts2iSLsX_MbhkbKsNrGKdwPJ_AMgyH6dkLSL2r9rcn9AWgGxUBVT2eii1VGJR1GiW-1bW30KnPQ/s400/SkyPony.jpg" width="267" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>Rocking out with Sky-Pony.<br />
Worsham’s husband, Kyle Jarrow, is also in the band.</i></div><br />
Story-telling is always her principal concern, though “in opera I’m also focused on continuation of the voice and on technique.” Recalling her harrowing aria from <i>Dog Days</i>, she says, “In the same way that I think I wouldn’t be telling the story we’re trying to tell if I belted ‘Mirror, Mirror,’ singing pop songs with perfect technique and vowels wouldn’t tell the story that song wants to tell, in that sense.”<br />
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Master Voices likewise believes in “The Art of Musical Storytelling,” and <i>Babes in Toyland</i> has told many over the years. At the time of its premiere, in 1904, it was customary to change the materials in American operetta, to drop one number and add another, or to re-work a scene to suit a particular performer. As the two movie adaptations show, the material is highly flexible: there’s no Laurel and Hardy in Disney’s <i>Toyland</i>. But there’s not really an Ur-text, and <i>Toyland</i> hasn’t seen a major New York revival in generations. Master Voices artistic director <a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2015/04/preview-collegiate-chorale-performs.html">Ted Sperling</a> has prepared a score and, with Joe Keenan, cobbled together a script. “It’s hilarious,” Worsham says, comparing it to classic movie scripts. “Everyone seems to have some zingers … there’s no straight man.” <br />
<br />
Sperling has assembled a spectacular cast for <i>Toyland</i>, led by another soprano who straddles both Broadway and opera, Kelli O’Hara. Jonathan Freeman adds another villain to his résumé (he’s played <i>Aladdin</i>’s Jafar in every medium you can name) with the role of Barnaby; and Jay Armstrong Johnson, a Broadway favorite who sang the title role in NYCO’s most recent revival of <i>Candide</i>, is Tom Tom, Jane’s love interest. And with the master clown Bill Irwin as the Toymaker and the irrepressible Christopher Fitzgerald as Alan, Jane’s brother, “I’ll be focusing on trying not to pee my pants with laughing,” Worsham says. “I’ve really got to be at the top of my game with those two.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTEUxF23NUEvABqk8juGTNm5xGs8shty9rNva2xSuuLtu-PI3rvvEkLP1kcihfEv2iJNvYnvq4xye9CdVQjN98pTZlFVZ7vKdb5hETBwErMdy7gueJCDUno5tQnwYhS5on99p_BA5iA/s1600/BroadwayDotCom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKTEUxF23NUEvABqk8juGTNm5xGs8shty9rNva2xSuuLtu-PI3rvvEkLP1kcihfEv2iJNvYnvq4xye9CdVQjN98pTZlFVZ7vKdb5hETBwErMdy7gueJCDUno5tQnwYhS5on99p_BA5iA/s400/BroadwayDotCom.jpg" width="320" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>Is this the face that launched a thousand quips?<br />
It will be on April 27.</i></div><br />
The audience can expect “a lot of fun, more than anything. I’m looking forward to that,” Worsham says. “I think we need it. Gosh, reading the news every day, it seems as if a little escape is harder to get to these days.” <br />
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<b>Master Voices presents Victor Herber’s <i>Babes in Toyland</i> in concert at Carnegie Hall, April 27 at 7:00 pm. For tickets and more information, click <a href="http://www.mastervoices.org/events/babes-in-toyland/">here</a>.</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1T0jIdr-XJ9SvaBjxvds1fR08_M1otj0buKW-YRykCskXicTTnhqzY_KneiVof6vLkboNNcJ5k6E93Xk1BvhFVayVcU1jrsShdsCVFiCVd4Oocb8OpuMufiPCb8AVw19Kqk9PI7erA/s1600/master-voices-babes-in-toyland-homepage-slider-desktop_v2-1200x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1T0jIdr-XJ9SvaBjxvds1fR08_M1otj0buKW-YRykCskXicTTnhqzY_KneiVof6vLkboNNcJ5k6E93Xk1BvhFVayVcU1jrsShdsCVFiCVd4Oocb8OpuMufiPCb8AVw19Kqk9PI7erA/s400/master-voices-babes-in-toyland-homepage-slider-desktop_v2-1200x600.jpg" width="400" height="200" /></a></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-50949083448914142732017-01-25T15:37:00.000-05:002017-01-25T15:37:21.542-05:00Mary Tyler Moore<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOTnkUt9eaO2IStzVgEQy5Pn0wdvCVRUku6Oih0b-Gf8Ggn9ezy0d-bYqWx5bvPwNBKlfAj1ZUALocLsP3FjeXefXnJGZVXBx6tXQ_ll6YMLISQmhpZse_kR1WztoJxlj_JXO8GwriA/s1600/mtm+-+lights+out.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBOTnkUt9eaO2IStzVgEQy5Pn0wdvCVRUku6Oih0b-Gf8Ggn9ezy0d-bYqWx5bvPwNBKlfAj1ZUALocLsP3FjeXefXnJGZVXBx6tXQ_ll6YMLISQmhpZse_kR1WztoJxlj_JXO8GwriA/s400/mtm+-+lights+out.jpg" width="292" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>Lights out.</i></div><br />
Mary Tyler Moore has died, and I am taking stock of her legacy. Two brilliant television shows, plus several not so brilliant (including <i>New York News</i>, her short-lived collaboration with Madeline Kahn). An unforgettable, Oscar-nominated performance in <i>Ordinary People</i>. An eternal role model for working women. And a role model for journalists, too. <br />
<br />
She often played journalists — even in the TV movie <i>First You Cry</i> — and her influence extends indirectly to Ed Asner’s Lou Grant, Nancy Marchand’s Mrs. Pynchon, and other characters. America seemed to feel differently about journalism in those days. Woodward and Bernstein became national heroes during the run of <i>The Mary Tyler Moore Show</i>, and Dan Rather became not just a reporter but a <i>star</i>. Mary Richards was cut from different cloth, and yet she was to me every bit as much an inspiration.<span class="fullpost"><br />
</span><span class="fullpost"><br />
It can’t really be said that I ever met Mary Tyler Moore. I encountered her once, at the CBS studios on 57th Street. I was walking down a hallway, and as I approached the corner, I heard voices, talking about the Broadcast Center. “It’s an old dairy,” somebody was saying, and I piped up, “Actually, it was a milk-processing plant.” And I turned the corner, and there was Mary Tyler Moore, accompanied by some people from WCBS, the local station, who were giving her a little tour. I was too startled to say anything else, and we passed each other. End of story. Not a meeting to rival Grant and Lee at Appomattox, or Taylor and Burton on the banks of the Nile.<br />
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Yet just a glimpse of the woman who played Mary Richards in my own newsroom was intensely gratifying. It occurred to me that afternoon that, although most of us talked (endlessly) about Edward R. Murrow, we were not ever going to be Murrow, or anything like him. We weren’t going to be <a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2007/07/eric-sevareid.html">Eric Sevareid</a>, either, or Walter Cronkite, and only one of us was ever going to be Dan Rather. The rest of us weren’t going to be heroic standard-bearers, or legends or stars. Few of us were going to set examples for the profession, or even break a story. We were mortals. We went to work, we did our paperwork and our petty daily grind, and we were anonymous. Just like Mary Richards.<br />
<br />
Mary Richards, of course, had her moments of valor. She went to jail once for refusing to name a source. She coped with outsize personalities — the tyrannical Lou Grant, the idiotic Ted Baxter and even the prima donna Sue Ann Nivens — yet she never seemed to resent her colleagues for making her job more difficult. On the contrary, she loved them and looked forward to coming to work, to being with them.<br />
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The people I worked with at CBS held lofty ideals. That’s one reason we held Murrow in such high esteem. Journalism, even TV journalism, was important, a public service, a vocation bigger than any one person: Murrow taught us that, and we believed it passionately. But few of us ever had the opportunity to go to jail for what we believed in, the way Mary Richards did. Many of us grumbled about the outsize personality we had to work with: depending on the day, Dan could embody all the worst qualities of Lou, or Ted, or Sue Ann, or any combination of the three. But most of us admired the guy, and many of us felt affection for him, and quite a lot of us were proud to be working with him.<br />
<br />
I went back to my office and wrote a radio piece for Dan, about how Mary Richards was not a bad role model, and that her small-scale, big-hearted professional ideals were ones real-life journalists could aspire to. I hoped we’d hear from Mary Tyler Moore after the piece was broadcast — she might even make a visit to our newsroom, just as Walter Cronkite once visited WJM. But that was the end of it.<br />
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And so she touched my life the way strangers sometimes do — and yet unlike anyone else. Then, now, and ever more, she pointed out a path that I follow, and she turned my world on with her smile. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxOXEFivxzN6A4qoUkiAnhodMeBP-IoQf5VD4e1spBlquAUa4eicGDW_oHybdW2LpRzL_LdCacrtyFFnuhC_wsRRy6GRNJhKiDlj-SIayn1pH6BUcRrABvkKXr81oz63DtmWhFLUWFrY/s1600-h/MaryHat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxOXEFivxzN6A4qoUkiAnhodMeBP-IoQf5VD4e1spBlquAUa4eicGDW_oHybdW2LpRzL_LdCacrtyFFnuhC_wsRRy6GRNJhKiDlj-SIayn1pH6BUcRrABvkKXr81oz63DtmWhFLUWFrY/s400/MaryHat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5096351379295041090" border="0" /></a></div><br />
<i>NOTE: Portions of this essay were originally published on this blog in 2007.</i><br />
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</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-28231604380452199752017-01-20T19:26:00.000-05:002017-01-20T20:14:20.098-05:00Meryl Streep’s Hardcore Kitchen, or ‘It’s Complicated’<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1P561vuRwXKXb4EHnqs49otmi60QUrtnRsqZAuYd1wGz3-A00v6cCLMcBuGHnVRg6xf_53P-cbzKnAGbri7wW1E5Yyf4OOiQkQNj6u2NRqBDZhoHk6-fsQ8LamJX_5asx0yceW3KoQ/s1600/it%2527s+complicated+empty+nest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1P561vuRwXKXb4EHnqs49otmi60QUrtnRsqZAuYd1wGz3-A00v6cCLMcBuGHnVRg6xf_53P-cbzKnAGbri7wW1E5Yyf4OOiQkQNj6u2NRqBDZhoHk6-fsQ8LamJX_5asx0yceW3KoQ/s400/it%2527s+complicated+empty+nest.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<i>Empty nest: Meryl Streep contemplates the dining room, while her kitchen lurks in the background, like the shark in <b>Jaws</b>.</i></div><br />
Hollywood has long presented audiences with all kinds of glamour to fuel escapist fantasy and aspirational dreams. We lose ourselves in the lives of better-looking, better-dressed people in lavish settings. But sometimes Hollywood gets carried away, and I found a prime example of excess in Nancy Meyers’ <i>It’s Complicated</i>, a film from 2009 which I watched recently because it was either that or <i>Tank Girl</i>. My roommate drives a hard bargain, though evidently he’s got a thing for blonde protagonists in improbable circumstances.<br />
<br />
I’d seen a couple of Meyers’ other movies, and so I thought I was prepared for this one. Meyers would yet again cater to the fantasies and aspirations of women who may be over 35 and therefore who, as far as the rest of Hollywood is concerned, do not exist. I figured Nancy Meyers would yet again give us a heroine of a Certain Age who is prosperous and accomplished and sexually desirable to multiple men, and who makes good decisions after some missteps. People who have seen even more of Meyers’ movies warned me that there would also be really nice kitchens. <i>It’s Complicated</i> goes beyond mere fantasy, however, to the realm of pornography.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMV-HA5uUVZ4eMbPrfoIR2y3jQv-PEwEUMEyavgnznDiRa74xa9Allu1kvqbHV_FrzPbhA3vn0SNSgCZCdyxG9X_e6p6qOgmSuriVTDlde6oxQ6x5I0UIf2PMazEWhwSbLdp6-pJdDpw/s1600/it%2527s+complicated+meryl%2527s+wine%252C+scene+37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMV-HA5uUVZ4eMbPrfoIR2y3jQv-PEwEUMEyavgnznDiRa74xa9Allu1kvqbHV_FrzPbhA3vn0SNSgCZCdyxG9X_e6p6qOgmSuriVTDlde6oxQ6x5I0UIf2PMazEWhwSbLdp6-pJdDpw/s400/it%2527s+complicated+meryl%2527s+wine%252C+scene+37.jpg" width="267" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>But it’s only her 397th glass today!<br />
And it must be four o‘clock by now.</i></div><br />
The first fantasy/aspiration I noticed was the wine. About three scenes in, I realized that people had been drinking wine ever since the movie started. Drinking wine is something that women like to do. I know this, and I sympathize — but as the movie continued, the wine kept flowing. Again and again, in scene after scene, we see wine and more wine. (Please note the Special Advisory at the end of this essay.)<br />
<br />
I also noticed — and sympathized with — the representation of friendship among women as a sisterhood. This involves drinking wine, talking about sex, and Mary Kay Place. Well, who wouldn’t want Mary Kay Place for a friend? I’m not even a woman, and yet I know for a fact that I would enjoy talking about sex with Mary Kay Place over a bottle of wine. “Hey, Mary Kay Place, my close personal friend,” I’d say, “men are slobs, aren’t they?” And Mary Kay Place would say, “They sure are! This pinot grigio rocks. Let’s get some ice cream, change into our flannel pajamas, and binge-watch <i>Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman</i>.” <br />
<br />
That would be fun. Don’t try to deny it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCDgxqBRmbwwCHKsqr0j6-wDE7Ewmf6UW_24jcrkRnMMYq9t3dKkCtQXPwuOs3tk6aPnMYqp-Nkr_lkSSH8LKEd8DdAQDsIjEsZvQFucMVtqhCD0zlHwi9ZA3Y1YiHCCmyCz5WAFjLw/s1600/it%2527s+complicated+more+wine%252C+rita%253F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCDgxqBRmbwwCHKsqr0j6-wDE7Ewmf6UW_24jcrkRnMMYq9t3dKkCtQXPwuOs3tk6aPnMYqp-Nkr_lkSSH8LKEd8DdAQDsIjEsZvQFucMVtqhCD0zlHwi9ZA3Y1YiHCCmyCz5WAFjLw/s400/it%2527s+complicated+more+wine%252C+rita%253F.jpg" width="400" height="215" /></a><br />
<i>Rita Wilson overshares over wine,<br />
while Meryl polishes off her 418th glass of the day.</i></div><br />
There are two other gal pals, one of whom I don’t recognize and the other of whom is Rita Wilson, who comes on a little strong and isn’t as non-threatening as Mary Kay Place is. We might not ask Rita Wilson to stay up and watch <i>Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman</i> with us, though it might be fun to give her a <i>little</i> more wine and then watch <i>Sleepless in Seattle</i>, just to hear what she has to say about that tramp, Meg Ryan. Come on, Rita. Have another glass and tell us how you <i>really</i> feel.<br />
<br />
Eventually Meyers gets around to addressing her principal theme, the Sexual Appeal of the Mature Woman — but that’s not where the pornography comes in. Sure, Meryl Streep plays the middle-aged mother of three children who is sought after by two men, one of whom happens to be her ex-husband. (It’s a sign of how far these actors have journeyed that, in this movie, Alec Baldwin is the funny one and Steve Martin is the serious one.) But the Meryl-Is-Sexy part of the movie is pretty realistic. Almost a documentary.<br />
<br />
Meryl Streep complains a few times about how awful she looks, now that she’s middle-aged and has had three children, but she’s just fishing for compliments because she looks fabulous and everybody knows it. Baldwin and Martin crave her, but they don’t maul her, because this is a <i>romantic</i> comedy. Baldwin goes in for the side of her neck and the shoulders — you remember those, don’t you, from <i>Sophie’s Choice</i> and <i>The French Lieutenant’s Woman</i>? Of course you do. And they’re still gorgeous. They deserve their own Lifetime Achievement awards. One apiece. There are probably plastic surgeons in Hollywood right now, working hard to make other women’s necks and shoulders look as good as Meryl Streep’s neck and shoulders look.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZoFV04NQ0kOQyuoXKpS-SbEoHVn8QnkUd1b-AB3SJ8WX8xFDD2mxwS1UiA6bpQ6Eh9QQit8A-XZ6hcPVtLxV-OxyqRrKmU3yqxkmdN4sMz6z3vIlDRPnyku8h8eBMJf1MaDna6Oryw/s1600/it%2527s+complicated+bathtub.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ZoFV04NQ0kOQyuoXKpS-SbEoHVn8QnkUd1b-AB3SJ8WX8xFDD2mxwS1UiA6bpQ6Eh9QQit8A-XZ6hcPVtLxV-OxyqRrKmU3yqxkmdN4sMz6z3vIlDRPnyku8h8eBMJf1MaDna6Oryw/s400/it%2527s+complicated+bathtub.jpg" width="400" height="266" /></a><br />
<i>Just watching you in the bathtub is erotically stimulating<br />
and not at all creepy.</i></div><br />
Meyers doesn’t show us any scenes in which Baldwin or Martin gives Streep a foot massage, but you can be pretty sure they’re in there somewhere, maybe in the DVD extras, because foot massages, like sensual shoulder-kissing and Mary Kay Place and a reliably constant supply of wine, are things that women want more of.<br />
<br />
Also, and most importantly, both Baldwin and Martin actually <i>talk</i> to Meryl Streep, and Martin actually <i>listens</i> to her, and as I can attest from my own personal experience, this is something that women definitely want more of. Martin’s character likes French movies, which we find out because he <i>listens</i> when Meryl Streep tells him she used to live in Paris, so he invites her to a French film festival, even though presumably that means reading subtitles and staying awake or at least not snoring like a cement mixer through the whole movie — and at this point I’m thinking, “Yo, Nancy Meyers, are you sure this Steve Martin character is straight?” For a lot of straight men, just watching <i>this</i> movie would be a challenge.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo67T640sKr4_De-45m4sVqtQrjfh2DS0VHRw_oZsquJgkuxK1IYrpY2nyOe9P88Lgwwv1zmUGbkb06klWGizNSSPyPH7w5y2K52wezT6wBI9V0yKxfPqu0CKUD7rkdX1Lfobkd9M5MQ/s1600/it%2527s+complicated+brandy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo67T640sKr4_De-45m4sVqtQrjfh2DS0VHRw_oZsquJgkuxK1IYrpY2nyOe9P88Lgwwv1zmUGbkb06klWGizNSSPyPH7w5y2K52wezT6wBI9V0yKxfPqu0CKUD7rkdX1Lfobkd9M5MQ/s400/it%2527s+complicated+brandy.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>We know things have gone to the next level,<br />
because these two have switched to brandy.</i></div><br />
Still, in a culture that so often addresses what men want — comic book characters, gun violence, car chases, explosions, women as objects who are under 35 and who don’t care whether you remember their birthdays — it’s nice to see a movie that caters to what women want, for a change. And again, this isn’t the pornographic part.<br />
<br />
No, the pornography is in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
You see, Meryl Streep — or Nancy Meyers, or both of them — is a kitchen size queen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLR6pvDNddkJqPpU_HXMMvnvLNe9lof0BpR9ba29XEpLDcmaCFHQGkI20IuEWvqjNA4qGViOI1KLTLy4EAsqPTDURVlu4UhcXp5p0B8374k9oRzd5E2S6qck5Bl_7mjxrCCYu6GVfAQ/s1600/it%2527s+complicated+kitchen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrLR6pvDNddkJqPpU_HXMMvnvLNe9lof0BpR9ba29XEpLDcmaCFHQGkI20IuEWvqjNA4qGViOI1KLTLy4EAsqPTDURVlu4UhcXp5p0B8374k9oRzd5E2S6qck5Bl_7mjxrCCYu6GVfAQ/s400/it%2527s+complicated+kitchen.jpg" width="400" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>Is it just me, or is it hot in here?</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
When we first see Meryl Streep’s kitchen, she’s taking stock of her suddenly Empty Nest, after her three air-brushed, genetically engineered, fully sanitized J. Crew adult children leave home. The kitchen is very, very beautiful, and it is as if Meryl Streep steps into a magazine. It’s like the way she stepped into <i>Travel + Leisure</i> in <i>Out of Africa</i>, only here the magazine is <i>Architectural Digest</i>, which, as we know, is to kitchens what <i>Playboy</i> is to naked ladies. A scientifically calibrated amount of sunlight fills the spacious room, bedecked with just enough cute personal items to let you know that human beings sometimes venture into this kitchen. There’s music playing, so you can’t quite hear the kitchen screaming “Home! Warmth! Fulfillment!” at the top of its lungs.<br />
<br />
However, as we will soon discover, this is not “the kitchen of my dreams,” which Meryl Streep has wanted for ten years. Reflect on that. <i>Ten years.</i> For <i>ten years</i> she has had to suffer with <i>this kitchen</i>, instead of reveling in the kitchen of her dreams. <i>Ten years</i>. With <i>this</i> kitchen.<br />
<br />
As we gaze upon this kitchen, we also see at least one of every cooking utensil known. Meryl Streep probably owns the gadget I just saw at Williams-Sonoma the other day, which is specifically and exclusively designed to cut up cauliflower, because obviously paring knives are not good enough for serious cooks, even if you live in Manhattan and barely have storage space for a paring knife, much less a paring knife <i>and</i> a cauliflower gadget. If you were a serious cook, you would find the space and you would own that gadget. Maybe several of them, because who can ever cut enough cauliflower, and who can be bothered to follow methodically the helical growth of the florets with a cheap-ass pedestrian paring knife that came from goddam Target? <br />
<br />
Meryl Streep’s character, we later discover, owns a bakery-restaurant-store sort of establishment, and she can tell at a glance when there’s too much powdered sugar on the pastry, so she is a serious cook. <br />
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<i>At the kitchen island, which we shall dub “Madagascar.”</i></div><br />
But she is also committed to family, which is why the island-slash-table in her eat-in kitchen is as big as a king-size bed. Her three children and her future son-in-law can glide as one from the J. Crew catalogue to gather around that table to share the gourmet-yet-cozy meal that Meryl Streep has lovingly prepared for them. Seriously, it probably takes Meryl Streep all afternoon just to set that table. She has to do yoga and weight training and stretching exercises just to pass around the wine. This may explain why her shoulders look so great.<br />
<br />
Now, supposedly we’re in Santa Barbara, which isn’t Manhattan, so I’m not exactly startled by the fact that Meryl Streep’s kitchen is the size of my entire apartment. I mean, when your immaculately landscaped yard is the size of Central Park, that’s what you do, you have a big kitchen. No, the surprise is that Meryl Streep’s big kitchen <i>isn’t big enough</i>. I have been in Williams-Sonoma stores that were smaller than Meryl Streep’s kitchen. But it will not do.<br />
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<i>We are in a bakery-restaurant-store slightly larger than a factory warehouse, but we should sit as close as possible, because I find you sexually desirable, you erotically empowered middle-aged woman, you.</i></div><br />
Enter Steve Martin as the architect who designs the kitchen of her dreams. Before designing that kitchen, he actually reads her e-mails on the subject. Reading e-mails probably isn’t as sexy as listening, but it shows how <i>sensitive</i> Steve Martin is. He respects her dreams. He wants to know all about them. Once he fully understands her dreams, he will fulfill them. That is what sensitive men do.<br />
<br />
Automatically, Meryl Streep knows that if she e-mails Steve Martin an invitation to Rita Wilson’s dinner party next Tuesday, Steve Martin is not the kind of man who is going to say, “Oh, I never saw that. I will be going out with the guys instead. Don’t wait up.” No, no, Steve Martin will say, “Oh, I read that as soon as you sent it. I already marked the date on my calendar. And I just bought a new blazer to wear that night, so that Rita Wilson will be reminded that I’m not one of the slobs like <i>her</i> husband, and besides, I always do my utmost to look good for you, particularly when it is, as Tuesday will be, precisely 147 days to your birthday. Shall I pour you some wine and rub your feet now?”<br />
<br />
Yes, Meryl Streep knows exactly what kind of man Steve Martin is. And that’s how we know she isn’t going to end up with Alec Baldwin. Alec Baldwin spends most of his time showing us how much he wants incredible sex with the middle-aged mother of his children, but Meryl Streep isn’t going to settle for incredible sex with the father of her children. No. That is not good enough.<br />
<br />
Neither is that kitchen. <br />
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<i>I have included several pictures of Meryl Streep’s puny, limp, pathetic, unsatisfying kitchen, because really, there are no words.</i></div><br />
That kitchen isn’t even the <i>only</i> kitchen Meryl Streep has at her disposal. Later in the movie, she takes Steve Martin to her bakery-restaurant-store, which is the size of a Wal-Mart, and sadly Nancy Meyers leaves out the part where they have to use a golf cart to get around. However, this may be where Nancy Meyers got the idea to have Anne Hathaway use a bicycle to get around her office in <i>The Intern</i>. (How zany, yet how practical!)<br />
<br />
Once again Meryl Streep reminds us that she is a serious cook, by whipping up a spur-of-the-moment batch of chocolate croissants, even though it’s the middle of the night. (How madcap!) And Steve Martin again demonstrates his exceptional sensitivity by helping her in the kitchen — I repeat, <i>helping her in the kitchen</i>! We are not supposed to notice that Steve Martin bruises the dough, though he <i>does</i>, and consequently it will not flake properly when baked, and Nancy Meyers will have to throw it out after she’s finished the take. However, this is not a big deal, because this is Hollywood and wasting dough is routine there. <br />
<br />
Also, you can tell we’re not supposed to notice, because obviously Meryl Streep would never favor a man who bruises her pâte feuilletée.<br />
<br />
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<i>If he’s that much of an oaf, who knows what he would do to her shoulders!</i></div><br />
We see yet <i>again</i> that Meryl Streep is a serious cook because she has her very own jardin potager the size of a soccer field, and of course she has a rumpled-yet-adorable straw hat to wear while she is picking picture-perfect tomatoes that are all exactly the same size, shape, and color, and that effortlessly line up in orderly rows when she places them in her basket, while you wonder whether that just happened by chance, or is Meryl Streep <i>really</i> a witch after all, or did Nancy Meyers hire a tomato wrangler for this movie?<br />
<br />
And yet we know that Meryl Streep is an ordinary woman, an Everywoman, with whom we can identify and to whom we can relate, because her name is Jane — just plain <i>Jane</i> — and doesn’t every woman have a jardin potager the size of Nebraska and a light-filled kitchen the size of a shopping mall stocked with every item in the entire Williams-Sonoma catalogue and probably Pottery Barn, too, and an impeccably dressed ex-husband with great hair who is literally fainting from the desire to kiss her shoulders and (probably) rub her feet, and who (mostly) listens to her when she talks and who can’t stop praising her incredible sexual appeal, even when she is picking tomatoes in her jardin potager? <br />
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<i>And yes, because she is a serious cook and used to live in France, she calls it a “jardin potager,” not a “kitchen garden.”</i></div><br />
But Meryl Streep wants more, she <i>deserves</i> more, so she has to find <i>another</i> man who will kiss her shoulders and rub her feet and build her a kitchen the size of <i>Alaska</i> and listen to her when she talks, and who <i>even reads her e-mails</i>. <br />
<br />
Because that kitchen is not big enough to satisfy a serious cook like Meryl Streep. Women should never have to settle, and what woman would settle for a kitchen like that? That kitchen is not the kitchen of Meryl Streep’s dreams. Women should fulfill their dreams and own their own businesses and have incredible sex and whip up chocolate croissants in the middle of the night and drink wine whenever they damn feel like it. Women should not only fulfill their own dreams, they should also fulfill Meryl Streep’s dreams, or hire Steve Martin to fulfill Meryl Streep’s dreams, and what woman would dream about a kitchen like that, anyway? Meryl Streep certainly would not dream about a kitchen that is merely spacious, inviting, well-appointed, and flawless.<br />
<br />
Sadly, Nancy Meyers seems to have omitted the scene where Meryl Streep moans, “Build that kitchen! Build it! Build it bigger! Bigger! Bigger! Yes! Yes! Yes!” <br />
<br />
Maybe that scene, like the foot massage, is in the DVD extras. For mature audiences only.<br />
<br />
I need more wine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pcpo8vQuLcnJx9-0x4U7o2OthQttCNYYnQ_IKdgmwkysP5WwyLgtd72YBxTkKlyLFkIDs9T3MxbSG0mhgVXu7Uv0tdLEnUNSG-0oWVOivctRw1VhcymMd7ef2Kbma9wV-RKtwcMDiA/s1600/it%2527s+complicated+sisterhood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7pcpo8vQuLcnJx9-0x4U7o2OthQttCNYYnQ_IKdgmwkysP5WwyLgtd72YBxTkKlyLFkIDs9T3MxbSG0mhgVXu7Uv0tdLEnUNSG-0oWVOivctRw1VhcymMd7ef2Kbma9wV-RKtwcMDiA/s400/it%2527s+complicated+sisterhood.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>Because we are your friends, we are laughing <b>with</b> you when we laugh at your tiny kitchen.</i></div><br />
<i>SPECIAL ADVISORY: If you watch this movie, do not play the drinking game where you take a drink every time the actors take a drink. Trust me on this one. You may, however, try taking a drink in every scene where no wine is involved.</i><br />
<br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-65617404591017639772016-12-30T13:09:00.000-05:002016-12-30T14:53:34.244-05:00Debbie Reynolds<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYC3JZSIWiYKE_pB3fFfExb8Q4FHnw9V0LTsFpqQHSdMJFy-_rTcvv3qHKGK-NJswcBf1kbuNFHaN5NL6CRMKrZQZc5lBYaND8xQy4RWZQ2V6glUkhFr9aiQ37wxw61_13T3i0cM3tWw/s1600/debbie+reynolds+auction+-+singin+in+the+rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYC3JZSIWiYKE_pB3fFfExb8Q4FHnw9V0LTsFpqQHSdMJFy-_rTcvv3qHKGK-NJswcBf1kbuNFHaN5NL6CRMKrZQZc5lBYaND8xQy4RWZQ2V6glUkhFr9aiQ37wxw61_13T3i0cM3tWw/s400/debbie+reynolds+auction+-+singin+in+the+rain.jpg" width="400" height="386" /></a><br />
<i>Taking stock of the treasure:<br />
With costumes from <b>Singin’ in the Rain</b>.</i></div><br />
Unlike most of us, Debbie Reynolds never seemed to question her luck. If she hadn’t become a movie star, who knows what would have happened to her? Can you imagine her waiting tables or teaching school? I can’t. Reynolds was one of the last products of the Hollywood studio system, making her greatest mark in cinema when she was only 19 years old, and she spent the rest of her life celebrating her stardom.<br />
<br />
If she ever gave an interview when she wasn’t “on,” I haven’t seen it, and most of her appearances in sitcoms were merely variations on the character Hollywood created for her, out of the raw materials she supplied: forever the energetic innocent. Even when times were tough, she seemed to <i>enjoy</i> her lot in life, as few people do. She might be broke, she might be down and out, but she was always a star.<br />
<br />
Reynolds returned the favor, though Hollywood didn’t seem to care. Recognizing that Hollywood movies are an essential part of our culture and our history, she set about collecting memorabilia that no one else seemed to value at all. We’re going to be very sorry, one day, that we didn’t hold on to Reynolds’ prizes, and keep them in one place, as she tried to do. Her own museum failed, and the Hollywood studios declined to establish another museum to take its place. She wound up selling the stuff at auction, and her life’s work went scattering to the winds.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubTYugVsgXoKDUdliuiFt4t_bcc-k1pdsbDJCyLa0HgUO82WDSzz8zXupXHl-r-EeEdwVOvL0sUmbd6tztylGc0OwxAZOaw6CvZEgEDydr5G7a9YxxyQl8blPGd24vL3rRL2jRy8skA/s1600/debbie+reynolds+auction+-+my+fair+lady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjubTYugVsgXoKDUdliuiFt4t_bcc-k1pdsbDJCyLa0HgUO82WDSzz8zXupXHl-r-EeEdwVOvL0sUmbd6tztylGc0OwxAZOaw6CvZEgEDydr5G7a9YxxyQl8blPGd24vL3rRL2jRy8skA/s400/debbie+reynolds+auction+-+my+fair+lady.jpg" width="257" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>With costumes from <b>My Fair Lady</b>.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Maybe Reynolds understood the value of Hollywood better than other people did because, as a girl, movies were forbidden to her, considered profane in the Nazarene church. But oh, what wonders of magic the movies could perform! Not least transforming a poor girl into America’s sweetheart. She’d lived the legend, and she knew it was real.<br />
<br />
Hollywood didn’t seem to appreciate Debbie Reynolds nearly as much as she appreciated Hollywood. For two of her best-known roles, she wasn’t the first choice: Gene Kelly wanted a real dancer to play Kathy Selden in <i>Singin’ in the Rain</i>, and just about everybody involved in <i>The Unsinkable Molly Brown</i> wanted Tammy Grimes to repeat the role she’d created on Broadway. When Reynolds made <i>Mother</i> with Albert Brooks, returning to the big screen after nearly a quarter-century, she delivered her best performance, by turns funny and exasperating and dear.<br />
<br />
Somehow the Academy didn’t reward her with what would seem to be a reflex, a nomination for an older actress in a good part, a highpoint in a long career. She went unnoticed that year, and Dan Rather and I took to the pages of the <i>Los Angeles Times</i> to protest. Reynolds wrote Dan a sweet note, declaring that the essay was “the nicest thing anyone has <i>ever</i> done for me.”<br />
<br />
Now she’s gone, upstaging her daughter one last time — in perhaps the most flattering way, and certainly the most show-biz. Hers was a grand exit, one that we’ll be talking about for years, and one that left us wanting more.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXa9GDYeGJBbK17KSlaEByQzD-fAhZzdWQM5JSSRbY2OXBZYCXpfiXmx4OEQUKFMwM0e2uOc28pOlzsErtaosweFlQuskDi2dtDRGYUTpJob_m7hCTGT4J1-nxSlMoNN4lc3GM0pm6A/s1600/debbie+reynolds+auction+-+wizard+of+oz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXa9GDYeGJBbK17KSlaEByQzD-fAhZzdWQM5JSSRbY2OXBZYCXpfiXmx4OEQUKFMwM0e2uOc28pOlzsErtaosweFlQuskDi2dtDRGYUTpJob_m7hCTGT4J1-nxSlMoNN4lc3GM0pm6A/s400/debbie+reynolds+auction+-+wizard+of+oz.jpg" width="275" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>There’s no place like Hollywood.</i></div></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-40268346580226374572016-12-13T11:55:00.004-05:002016-12-30T14:57:34.404-05:00Lyric Opera’s ‘Les Troyens’<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZxEkB8fD4SCF4Z1IOLB3FltHfTvZtck_dPSeVpA_xpeA8cWqKOCWXDst5s18zXd_TfQkpgZkgpD9jmE_OiydafgrivsiRC1soQD_uY8cUgZd-oLM4I5cvjP8greo4jQgQ2DEdac9KQ/s1600/Susan+Graham_Brandon+Jovanovich_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_1207_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8ZxEkB8fD4SCF4Z1IOLB3FltHfTvZtck_dPSeVpA_xpeA8cWqKOCWXDst5s18zXd_TfQkpgZkgpD9jmE_OiydafgrivsiRC1soQD_uY8cUgZd-oLM4I5cvjP8greo4jQgQ2DEdac9KQ/s400/Susan+Graham_Brandon+Jovanovich_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_1207_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
<i>Nuit d’ivresse: Susan Graham and Brandon Jovanovich.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> This and all photos ©Todd Rosenberg courtesy of Lyric Opera of Chicago.</span></i></div><br />
When Lyric Opera of Chicago announced that Susan Graham would be stepping into the role of Didon in Berlioz’s <i>Les Troyens</i> this fall, I welcomed the news. I’ve heard her each time she’s sung this opera, and I had supposed that her performances in San Francisco last year would be her last — no matter that she had never sung Didon better. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said to myself, and made plans to fly to Chicago.<br />
<br />
Little did I realize how, days after the announcement, the plot of <i>Les Troyens</i> would come to seem so timely: the opera depicts the collapse of not one but two governments, the demise of one civilization and a prediction of the demise of a second. Yet it wasn’t until the performance began that I fully understood the <i>necessity</i> of what was, in effect, a pilgrimage.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMctyKjqnTQyZY0jZJZb5wHAKV36ei-3sk-Ym-9pb4tai84WUT_CTb-YbDAi9xQszQfPTcC3wfuUbyge2ikfrSit_Yb7wUPdhGSyvvk4W6xVdLZpIhO8eDzkqKuNqPMpL4fZITD6tfg/s1600/LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0010_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyMctyKjqnTQyZY0jZJZb5wHAKV36ei-3sk-Ym-9pb4tai84WUT_CTb-YbDAi9xQszQfPTcC3wfuUbyge2ikfrSit_Yb7wUPdhGSyvvk4W6xVdLZpIhO8eDzkqKuNqPMpL4fZITD6tfg/s400/LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0010_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>Outside the walls of Troy.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Lyric’s production, the company’s first, featured a vast cast, most of whom but Susan were new to their roles; and a vaster chorus of 94 singers, with Sir Andrew Davis in the pit and Tim Albery providing stage direction. Sir Andrew and the orchestra got off to a blurry start on November 17, when the sheer strangeness of the music simply didn’t come across. Berlioz is creating a sonic environment that’s meant to be like nothing we’ve ever heard, automatically transporting us to another time and place. But within a few measures Sir Andrew corrected course and steered us ably onward. Part of the satisfaction of the performance was the vivid sense that the Chicago musicians had been yearning to play this score.<br />
<br />
Albery’s best decision may have been to keep so much of the principals’ action downstage, where we could better appreciate the relationships. For example, virtually every principal in Act II is a member of one family, and the stage groupings and the singers’ interactions made this clear. We weren’t merely watching heroes of legend, we were watching a family, people like us. When my biggest complaint is that the curved wall of Troy should be convex when the Trojans are outside it, and concave when they’re inside (instead of vice-versa), you know Albery succeeded overall.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLrRfoMD8gmdStw65iMxXi6ySuUQC6jQq9vQvrGB6BAetpbNmzHICVMCR7cIHttRFV2PumT6tZPNIslAUh_YO7q3L-fJJmdO1BKoJYeRXbZ7T6mtV_xTkY7PeE_c5uWuixFyOLhmjvw/s1600/Christine+Goerke_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0327_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYLrRfoMD8gmdStw65iMxXi6ySuUQC6jQq9vQvrGB6BAetpbNmzHICVMCR7cIHttRFV2PumT6tZPNIslAUh_YO7q3L-fJJmdO1BKoJYeRXbZ7T6mtV_xTkY7PeE_c5uWuixFyOLhmjvw/s400/Christine+Goerke_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0327_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>Goerke as Cassandre (foreground, with Meachem at center).</i></div><br />
Singing this opera for the first time in her career, Christine Goerke was the production’s great revelation, so right is she for the role of Cassandre. She sang magnificently, coloring her immense instrument with a wide range of emotions, knowing precisely when tenderness is required and when to let it all hang out. Her acting brought me to tears at the end of Act II, something no other Cassandre has accomplished. Now I may have to become a camp follower for Goerke’s Cassandre, the way I’ve been for Susan’s Didon.<br />
<br />
Okka von der Damerau was the wittiest Anna I’ve seen, a gleeful schemer in the scenes where she plays matchmaker for her sister, Didon, which makes for a nice contrast with her sorrow when that match goes awry at the end of the opera. Hers is a plush voice — she’s sung Erda with Lyric — so that vocally this was the definition of luxury casting. Lucas Meachem sang Chorèbe with great feeling, and he and Goerke made a plausible couple, giving the sense of a real history to the characters’ relationship. Annie Rosen was lively and appropriately <i>gamine</i> as Ascagne.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3T1tsUuA_9-TtheqG_DZ3YNu8EQ6rtlJg_exHohOW7vrCeAmm2O2MxwAr842_Z4jWVSFMqpE3XMYKL5SJ8PwEL7xKUOUJaiQs-I0LvcMjv5GAYwvcZU_wO4nl6z94VQTmjBQaTgBjNQ/s1600/Brandon+Jovanovich_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_1300_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3T1tsUuA_9-TtheqG_DZ3YNu8EQ6rtlJg_exHohOW7vrCeAmm2O2MxwAr842_Z4jWVSFMqpE3XMYKL5SJ8PwEL7xKUOUJaiQs-I0LvcMjv5GAYwvcZU_wO4nl6z94VQTmjBQaTgBjNQ/s400/Brandon+Jovanovich_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_1300_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" width="400" height="267" /></a><i>Jovanovich as Enée.</i></div><br />
The afternoon began with the announcement that tenor Brandon Jovanovich had a cold. At first my heart leapt — did this mean that my friend Corey Bix would step in to sing Enée, as he did when I heard <i>Troyens</i> in San Francisco? No, it did not; though he did step in for one performance after I left Chicago, Corey sang the role of Helenus this afternoon. Apart from a couple of notes (to which honestly I might not otherwise have paid attention), I’d never have known that Jovanovich was indisposed. His voice has matured so handsomely since I first heard him, and I’m hoping he’ll continue to sing Enée and to grow in the role.<br />
<br />
And then there was Susan. Albery’s production sets the opera in a non-specific near-present, and Tobias Hoheisel’s first costume for Didon made her look distinctly more like a prime minister or president than like a queen. Was it compensation — or the cumulative effect of having sung the role so many times — that made Susan’s Didon more regal than ever? The character’s awakening to love (a transition made more gradual by another nice directorial touch, making the “Royal Hunt and Storm” ballet the embodiment of the sleeping Didon’s dream*) became clearer: as she fell in love, she really did let her hair down.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5T55XWSKC1wZkGxvzCtdXE3BGn0s311iYXnEeZvhdpf1Q1-h_NRg4w4X6MBYQvAFFCG67lvd3bs0AQE1YpQQvAyCFSTc0XtSZ1x9LFg753IG1aO6KxrkoPVmNALdS9hxhZOj6A7lvQ/s1600/Susan+Graham_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0871_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5T55XWSKC1wZkGxvzCtdXE3BGn0s311iYXnEeZvhdpf1Q1-h_NRg4w4X6MBYQvAFFCG67lvd3bs0AQE1YpQQvAyCFSTc0XtSZ1x9LFg753IG1aO6KxrkoPVmNALdS9hxhZOj6A7lvQ/s400/Susan+Graham_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0871_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>Reine par la faveur des dieux.</i></div><br />
For financial reasons — namely, the need to avoid paying overtime — Sir Andrew and the team cut some music, pretty judiciously. Yes, I noticed the absences, but the plot didn’t suffer, and one passage (the long sequence of tributes in Act III) can be theatrically boring, no matter that the music is nice and it’s fun to hear people going on endlessly about how terrific Susan — I mean Didon — is.<br />
<br />
But some music in <i>Troyens</i> you wish could go on forever, particularly the duet “Nuit d’ivresse” that closes Act IV. As the music spun out in its dreamy, voluptuous whirls and eddies, Albery made use of Lyric’s new revolving stage, and Didon and Enée’s love carried them beyond all earthly concerns, beyond the earth itself, with stars and planets (projections by Illuminos) looking on. I hesitate to say “perfect,” but this was close to perfect, an entirely apt visual representation of what we heard and the characters felt.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFsS9pGlf7dkuNsf1zvvzS5NELk2KxNmJlazBwSyim_VzVo9oHx_FJ5PjFA5SCzGta-yygneqnNfhy6fIY4om3rTs4bTWsHzuIe4hDFqf_nnqyX3PxaOnKex_LSTUzmTeVzrQwDmcVw/s1600/LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0977_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZFsS9pGlf7dkuNsf1zvvzS5NELk2KxNmJlazBwSyim_VzVo9oHx_FJ5PjFA5SCzGta-yygneqnNfhy6fIY4om3rTs4bTWsHzuIe4hDFqf_nnqyX3PxaOnKex_LSTUzmTeVzrQwDmcVw/s400/LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0977_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" width="400" height="256" /></a><br />
<i>Didon’s dream: The Royal Hunt and Storm ballet.</i></div><br />
French repertoire has provided Susan with so many opportunities to revel in the sheer sensuality of her voice, and perhaps none better than “Nuit d’ivresse.” But she doesn’t stop there: then come the blind fury of Didon’s fight with Enée and the anguish of “Adieu, fière cité,” leaving me an emotional wreck. At a talkback after the performance, Susan said she thought she’d sung the aria better that afternoon than she’d ever sung it before — and I was in a position to confirm that she was right. <br />
<br />
It’s been a helluva ride, as I’ve followed Susan to Paris, New York, San Francisco, and now Chicago with <i>Les Troyens</i>. A friend estimates that I’ve spent two full days of my life sitting in theaters and listening to her Didon. She has made this music so meaningful to me, and never more so than this fall, when much of the world has seemed to be collapsing around us all. Didon is more, then, than a signal achievement in the career of an artist for whom I feel both admiration and affection. It’s a gift of art that Susan has shared, when we need it most.<br />
<br />
So if it should happen that she decides to sing it again — in Brussels or Barcelona or Bug Tussle — I’ll find a way to be there, too. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWA4zbkEE5LdaVoV9kuFigbk90dDi3bQrAaRlQQf5KtU6ue7mUO7l9-1qhDQqGXQFKbZ4DHr5b7HiZM1GFscbUx_iUVI0Kd6KQS6it8pOi5dA_2xTTNEpZYlpWGvuFdQKklKlu57ZlXQ/s1600/Annie+Rosen_Susan+Graham_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0911_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWA4zbkEE5LdaVoV9kuFigbk90dDi3bQrAaRlQQf5KtU6ue7mUO7l9-1qhDQqGXQFKbZ4DHr5b7HiZM1GFscbUx_iUVI0Kd6KQS6it8pOi5dA_2xTTNEpZYlpWGvuFdQKklKlu57ZlXQ/s400/Annie+Rosen_Susan+Graham_LES+TROYENS_LYR161109_0911_c.Todd+Rosenberg.JPG" width="400" height="264" /></a><br />
<i>A gift, an offering: Rosen as Ascagne with Graham.</i></div><br />
<i>*NOTE: To a degree, the start of the ballet reminded me of Laurie’s Dream in <b>Oklahoma!</b> — and I mean that in a good way. I’d love to see this staging concept developed further.</i><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-27489470224090379322016-11-26T14:45:00.002-05:002016-11-27T14:53:32.078-05:00‘Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life’ and Four Last Words<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bgWMMi5ubaPvvEm0D0FaWjS04tzNjlY_2PM3jGK403aqu48fgyS8lbCDZ8moHD07AgRq9Yp8EplwJCUQvVlrWX4fzWWkmOl4IxDPa8zt1X1p5zKwlR_9BW4nNiT8ocnwi55wERKFow/s1600/gilmore+girls-year+in+the+life-emily%252C+lorelai%252C+rory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9bgWMMi5ubaPvvEm0D0FaWjS04tzNjlY_2PM3jGK403aqu48fgyS8lbCDZ8moHD07AgRq9Yp8EplwJCUQvVlrWX4fzWWkmOl4IxDPa8zt1X1p5zKwlR_9BW4nNiT8ocnwi55wERKFow/s400/gilmore+girls-year+in+the+life-emily%252C+lorelai%252C+rory.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a></div><br />
The welcome return of <i>Gilmore Girls</i> in four new episodes entitled <i>A Year in the Life</i> to Netflix has been for this admirer a tremendous success. Naturally, it helps that Amy Sherman-Palladino and her husband, Dan Palladino, took charge, because the new episodes’ sense of the history of the show — the lives these characters have led — was just about impeccable. Actors returned to familiar roles, even minor ones, and only in a few instances did their homecomings strike me as contrived. And the <i>look</i> of the show couldn’t have been closer to the original. <br />
<br />
No matter that the original interiors had been discarded, no matter that the exteriors for Stars Hollow had been, right up until the day before production started, the exteriors for <i>Grease Live</i>, production designer Denny Dugally and art director Natasha Gerasimova recaptured every detail. When Emily (Kelly Bishop) points out all the changes she’s made to her living room, it’s an in-joke: nobody, Lorelai (Lauren Graham) included, can tell the difference. <br />
<br />
Costume designer Brenda Maben had a little more latitude — fashions change over the course of nine years — yet she got everything right, too. There’s never a scene in which you think, “Oh, she would never wear that.” The exception to that rule is, of course, Emily’s T-shirt and jeans, but that aberration is intended to show how badly she’s responding to the death of her husband. The T-shirt and jeans are all wrong, which means they’re perfect.<br />
<br />
The reunion of writers, producers, actors, and designers lends a sense of community to the proceedings, and since the community of Stars Hollow provides much of the appeal of <i>Gilmore Girls</i>, the episodes are even more satisfying to watch. When my worst complaint is that each episode doesn’t start off with Carole King’s “Where You Lead, I Will Follow,” we’re in pretty good shape.<br />
<br />
We got terrific performances from actors such as Graham, Bishop, and Liza Weil (the indispensable Paris Geller), and Alexis Bledel was charming as ever — though it’s getting harder to ignore Rory’s flaws. We got plenty of Stars Hollow eccentricity and Hartford snobbery. We even got a pig, which only raises the question why we never had one before. <br />
<br />
Above all, we got the sense that, while <i>we</i> had left the Gilmore Universe for nine long years, that universe proceeded. And there’s the suggestion that it will continue to do so, whether or not we’re privileged to return.<br />
<br />
There follow some plot spoilers. If you haven’t watched <i>A Year in the Life</i> and you’re a fan of the show, please don’t scroll further or click “Read more.” Seriously. Don’t do that to yourself. Do what I did: go to a friend’s house, order takeout, and watch the show. Enjoy it. This blog will still be here when you’re finished. <br />
<br />
As for the rest of you — click away.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yJUDwS2wx5kMigBYxDrHFbMacIPpcahmRZMd6YznnGW0szovqg-ZPQs9MR4QE56iS_J037Xpj-tO3nUAVqVw7VEw7-VlqrKwVXaGVDS3xoeqTtBdGZYvhkXblfUxTi9EMb4xdXC-6A/s1600/gilmore+girls-year+in+the+life-rory+and+lorelai+surprise.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3yJUDwS2wx5kMigBYxDrHFbMacIPpcahmRZMd6YznnGW0szovqg-ZPQs9MR4QE56iS_J037Xpj-tO3nUAVqVw7VEw7-VlqrKwVXaGVDS3xoeqTtBdGZYvhkXblfUxTi9EMb4xdXC-6A/s400/gilmore+girls-year+in+the+life-rory+and+lorelai+surprise.png" width="400" height="300" /></a><br />
<i>First, let the show surprise you.</i></div><span class="fullpost"><br />
Let’s start with the biggie: the Four Last Words. For years, Sherman-Palladino, who was bumped off the show before its final broadcast season went into production, teased us, telling us that she knew exactly how she would have ended the series. Speculation built as the revival drew nigh, and now I gather that quite a few people are disappointed (or worse) in the four-word exchange between Rory and Lorelai.<br />
<br />
It made sense to me. The original idea of <i>Gilmore Girls</i> was that a single mother and her daughter were best friends, and the show explored the ways in which mothers and daughters can be alike and different. Emily factors in, to display similarities and contrasts with Lorelai, of course, to the point where young Lorelai rebels constantly and eventually flees Hartford to keep from being like Emily. Lane and Mrs. Kim were foils to the other mother-daughter pairs. If the show had ended its original run with Sherman-Palladino in charge, then Rory would have announced that she was about to become a <i>young</i> single mother — like young Lorelai. <br />
<br />
Now, since the likely father, Logan (Matt Czuchry), presumably can't call off his engagement to the French heiress, Rory is facing the prospect of becoming a less-young single mother. (On the bright side, that means she doesn't have to listen to Logan call her "Ace" all the time.) Naturally, she'll turn to her trusted friend and advisor — Lorelai — for help. Lorelai even alludes to “the cycle of life” earlier. Well, we’re coming full circle now.<br />
<br />
And yeah, it does leave open the possibility of another new series (or single movie?).<br />
<br />
To support my analysis, I cite Richard Gilmore’s will, which leaves Luke (Scott Patterson) money on the condition that he expand and franchise his diner. A contrivance? A steal from <i>Middlemarch</i>? No, it’s a callback to the early days of Luke’s first affair with Lorelai, when Richard took him golfing. From the start, Richard didn’t believe that Luke’s Diner was a concern large enough to make Luke worthy of his daughter. After seeing Luke and Lorelai reunite, and last for nine years, naturally Richard is going to want to try one last time to instill some ambition in Luke, and the kind of success that Richard admires. The Palladinos really thought this stuff through.<br />
<br />
(By the way, there are several references to Luke and Lorelai’s having been together for nine years. Which means that, yes, just as we suspected and hoped, they did rekindle their relationship at the end of the last episode of Season Seven. History!)<br />
<br />
All that said, I could never stand Logan and am hoping the Wookiee is the baby daddy. After all, Lorelai got pregnant accidentally. This is a different kind of mistake — but like mother, like daughter....<br />
<br />
I also wouldn't be surprised if Jess (Milo Ventimiglia) stepped in and offered to marry Rory or to help her bring up the baby that isn't his own. Clearly he still carries a torch for her. And after all, Luke effectively adopted Rory — and like uncle, like nephew…. That idea probably appeals to me because I thought always Jess was a terrible boyfriend and a <i>wonderful</i> ex-boyfriend (which he proves again in <i>A Year in the Life</i>). <br />
<br />
The suspense in a future episode/series/movie, then, wouldn't be “Who's the daddy?” but “Will Rory really do this on her own — with an entire town to help her — the way Lorelai did?”<br />
<br />
To ask that question may be to answer it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0jfH5DIINKDAZDU7gIjpExTbw-HfN8Hv9VJ2V_AOLjY0_Hf49uievfmWn3lY158kK2YMcjsLnLfrgE4ZFV_gnUTw88Irm7QeIbHaPsqLDmEBvnOnQ8KErgu8EFCM8B-_1ClPSnRiJQ/s1600/gilmore+girls-year+in+the+life-rory+%2526+lorelai+at+the+gazebo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv0jfH5DIINKDAZDU7gIjpExTbw-HfN8Hv9VJ2V_AOLjY0_Hf49uievfmWn3lY158kK2YMcjsLnLfrgE4ZFV_gnUTw88Irm7QeIbHaPsqLDmEBvnOnQ8KErgu8EFCM8B-_1ClPSnRiJQ/s400/gilmore+girls-year+in+the+life-rory+%2526+lorelai+at+the+gazebo.png" width="400" height="222" /></a><br />
<i>In the space of a few minutes, Lorelai goes from becoming a Sadie to finding out that she’s going to be a zaydie.<br />
Oy, with the milestones already.</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-34782890365619829002016-09-02T19:55:00.002-04:002016-09-02T20:06:31.709-04:00Gene Wilder<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUOALQLddj7DMNEtFtspgWLbGzl6GE58MIbm4AX6mddLHHrlNDdV4XlHbgvyhpCTvWOsP50HWcAEWMUBCn-rDGSUDPArF1Mtevd9PSBZdVeMxe48IS99mqfGNGlYWO1IDA1AfIy7vyOA/s1600/gene+wilder+-+sherlock+holmes%2527+smarter+brother+promo+with+Madeline+Kahn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUOALQLddj7DMNEtFtspgWLbGzl6GE58MIbm4AX6mddLHHrlNDdV4XlHbgvyhpCTvWOsP50HWcAEWMUBCn-rDGSUDPArF1Mtevd9PSBZdVeMxe48IS99mqfGNGlYWO1IDA1AfIy7vyOA/s400/gene+wilder+-+sherlock+holmes%2527+smarter+brother+promo+with+Madeline+Kahn.jpg" width="400" height="300" /></a></div><br />
Gene Wilder was one of a handful of people I knew I’d have to talk to in order to tell the story of Madeline Kahn, the Oscar-nominated, Tony-winning star whom he described to me as his “most talented actress and favorite co-star.”<br />
<br />
A lot of fans consider Gene and Madeline one of the all-time-great movie couples. In reality, they made only three pictures together, and in one of those, they don’t share a scene. That’s <i>Blazing Saddles</i>. But Gene was so taken with Madeline that he hung around the set for every single take of her big number, “I’m Tired.”<br />
<br />
Afterward, he told Mel Brooks, “If the entire movie is just that one scene, it will be worth the price of admission.” The two immediately started trying to find a part for her in their next movie, <i>Young Frankenstein</i>. <br />
<br />
I was keenly aware that, without Gene, I wouldn’t have a book that would be worthy of Madeline herself.<br />
<br />
This accounts for some of my eagerness in our first interactions. Something he said when I first wrote to him, led me to believe that he’d be willing to meet face-to-face. So I offered to meet — and Gene’s response nearly exploded out of my laptop. NO, he did not want to see me! He was so skittish that for several nervous minutes I was afraid of losing him altogether.<br />
<br />
I wrote back to say that I’d be willing to ask him my questions any way he wanted. Telephone. E-mail. Semaphore. Smoke signals.<br />
<br />
He chose e-mail. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40dI_IxXoljkvxLvX-WCzKV9XFdgyllGpYJ-2FKRV0rI7cHGdNXQvijwIrgzglLOIW2ZRXi-0qg6YBEsHwG_G2fJZHFvrDXNQeE4C4sAv0mUAIOTbZOforHkPaWUZyyhj0Faf9tA3oQ/s1600/Gene+Wilder+-+The+Fox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh40dI_IxXoljkvxLvX-WCzKV9XFdgyllGpYJ-2FKRV0rI7cHGdNXQvijwIrgzglLOIW2ZRXi-0qg6YBEsHwG_G2fJZHFvrDXNQeE4C4sAv0mUAIOTbZOforHkPaWUZyyhj0Faf9tA3oQ/s400/Gene+Wilder+-+The+Fox.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<i>As the Fox, outstanding in his field.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
At first, Gene seemed a little … terse. He’d write no more than two or three sentences in answer to any question.<br />
<br />
Now, my aim in writing my book was to allow the reader to hear <i>voices</i> — not only Madeline’s voice, because I was looking at her first as a singer — but also the voices of the people she worked with. Gene’s answers weren’t what I’d imagined.<br />
<br />
Beyond that … was he brushing me off? I picked up his memoir, <i>Kiss Me Like a Stranger</i>. And then I understood. This was Gene’s writing style. To the point. Terse, if you will, but in keeping with a man, most of whose writing had been movie scripts. <br />
<br />
As I looked over what he’d written to me, and compared it with what he’d said about Madeline in other places, I saw that, so far from brushing me off, he was actually giving me his best material.<br />
<br />
I was reminded of one of his early movies, <i>The Little Prince</i>. Gene played the Fox. The Fox can’t be tamed, and he’s very shy. For the first time, I understood: when Gene played the Fox, he was typecast. And so I tried to keep myself at a distance where he’d be comfortable with me. He signed his notes “Gene,” but I never addressed him as “Dear Gene.” Maybe that was a mistake, but it’s too late now to undo it. <br />
<br />
Over the years, he continued to give me his best material, always answering me promptly. I seldom had to wait more than an hour for a reply to any of my questions.<br />
<br />
He was fastest when I wrote to get his response to Mel Brooks, who insisted, even as I objected, that Gene and Madeline must have had an affair. Quite a few fans still believe this. Madeline herself, Gene had told me, thought it was a good idea. His own stepdaughter believed it to be true. And now Mel — who knew both Madeline and Gene well — told me he couldn’t believe it <i>wasn’t</i> true.<br />
<br />
Yet again, Gene’s reply exploded out of my computer. This time in ALL CAPS. NO, he and Madeline never had an affair!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhWwlL7jMaUUQkLBiazU8Od8dWyP6F2VP31_9lrA2H4ytJINTveD8HoquklDg752SioHKTB67wtF-n_c65x2uC7CQTmfidFcwBRePNO6Ytvft-QvhXsDzcVWaJ7I5flGrihPHG1aMJg/s1600/Gene+Wilder+-+Everything+I+Ever+Saw+in+the+Movies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhWwlL7jMaUUQkLBiazU8Od8dWyP6F2VP31_9lrA2H4ytJINTveD8HoquklDg752SioHKTB67wtF-n_c65x2uC7CQTmfidFcwBRePNO6Ytvft-QvhXsDzcVWaJ7I5flGrihPHG1aMJg/s400/Gene+Wilder+-+Everything+I+Ever+Saw+in+the+Movies.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<i>“I want everything I’ve ever seen in the movies!”</i></div><br />
When it came time to solicit endorsements for the back cover of the book, Gene obliged. I wrote to thank him, and I never heard back. His birthday rolled around about six weeks after the book was released; I dropped him a note. I didn’t hear back.<br />
<br />
Maybe he didn’t like the book, I thought — despite the evidence that he <i>had</i> liked it. (I promise you, my publisher didn’t put a gun to his head when they asked for his endorsement.) Maybe he figured that my book was finished, and therefore that was the end of it.<br />
<br />
Or maybe he was only a little more than a year away from death.<br />
<br />
Reading his obituary, I realize that our later correspondence followed his Alzheimer’s diagnosis. He must have known that each note to me represented a last chance to express his feelings for a dear friend, whom he missed quite painfully.<br />
<br />
He was a helluva guy. Gene was very, very ambitious for himself. But he loved his friends. He made them his co-stars. And he did everything he could to make them look as good as possible. <br />
<br />
He wrote <i>The Adventure of Sherlock Holmes’ Smarter Brother</i> specifically for Madeline — and Marty Feldman, Dom DeLuise, and himself. Every one of them gets a chance to shine. You see a similar generosity in the scripts he wrote for Richard Pryor and Gilda Radner, too. This was a man who truly cared about the people he worked with.<br />
<br />
If you haven’t seen <i>Smarter Brother</i>, I hope you’ll do so soon. It was the first picture Gene wrote and directed, and he also stars. It’s not a perfect film, but it’s a beautiful tribute — to Madeline — to Marty — to Dom — and to Gene himself.<br />
<br />
Now, Gene didn’t write a movie for me. But he did what he could to help me. And make no mistake — that, too, was his tribute to Madeline.<br />
<br />
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</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-29193816812210259922016-08-14T16:11:00.000-04:002016-08-22T16:42:13.108-04:00The Florence Foster Jenkins Moment<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI_WJTL5E-GficyivXK56qj77sDAeLHfJe3JdnYIwktqrauqFpYRnUaZapS_fcyH1yqVr9iBQfOi9cQjX2rUrktphgrAKkl2bLVR22Mw7EbT-oyTOaa3XHMaHvqDPdRSmmu88bBchfA/s1600/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+-+Streep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI_WJTL5E-GficyivXK56qj77sDAeLHfJe3JdnYIwktqrauqFpYRnUaZapS_fcyH1yqVr9iBQfOi9cQjX2rUrktphgrAKkl2bLVR22Mw7EbT-oyTOaa3XHMaHvqDPdRSmmu88bBchfA/s400/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+-+Streep.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<i>Queen of Delight? Streep as Foster Jenkins.</i></div><br />
At movie theaters, we’re in the middle of a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6ubiUIxbWE">Florence Foster Jenkins</a> moment. Stephen Frears’ film, starring Meryl Streep, has opened in the United States — following Xavier Giannoli’s French film, <i>Marguerite</i>, released just a year ago and based on Foster Jenkins’ life, starring my beloved <a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2008/09/field-guide-catherine-frot.html">Catherine Frot</a> in a César-winning performance. In the works is a documentary, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt5199494/"><i>The Florence Foster Jenkins Story</i></a>, in which none other than Joyce DiDonato plays the demented diva.<br />
<br />
Why now? Is it merely that, at this historical moment, we happen to have three talented actresses who are willing and able to play the woman widely regarded as the worst singer who ever lived? Is there some vast audience that’s been demanding — for decades, presumably — multiple interpretations of this story? Does Foster Jenkins’ story speak to something current in our society? Is this just a fluke?<br />
<br />
Having seen the Frears and Giannoli films, I’m inclined to opt for Answer 1. Streep, who as a child studied with Estelle Liebling, is the right age, more or less, and quite open to the challenge of impersonating well-known women (Margaret Thatcher, Julia Child). Frot has made a career-long specialty of loopy <i>bourgeoises</i>, finding in their stories a measure of comedy and tragedy, and <i>Marguerite</i> offers audiences a taste of both. And Joyce, widely esteemed as one of the greatest singers alive, is also a good sport with remarkable sympathy for those less gifted: I once attended a dinner party at which we played some of Foster Jenkins’ recordings, and while the rest of us writhed in a mixture of agony and delight, dear Joyce refused to say a word against the woman.<br />
<br />
The next question, then, is what’s the point? What lessons are we to draw from Foster Jenkins? While I can’t yet address the documentary, I’m prepared to answer for the Giannoli and Frears films. Ultimately, <i>Marguerite</i> is the tragedy of a woman who doesn’t know herself; her delusions are at once her reason for being and her undoing. And <i>Florence Foster Jenkins</i> is a garden-variety biopic, leaving its message to the marketing team (“You don’t have to be good to be great,” runs the slogan). <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9g3JsKW04jIWYXYMNKTJOG8xvMlTajtZeJtbKH25poN9AaKklmQLN133ZdA2TTYamO_RLjwdzmDZjyRQ5eQCD3WYuELui7boaGpxf0yhuiGBwHdhLEMrbbcmUAB-spJbA6lEDzkhqAw/s1600/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+Story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9g3JsKW04jIWYXYMNKTJOG8xvMlTajtZeJtbKH25poN9AaKklmQLN133ZdA2TTYamO_RLjwdzmDZjyRQ5eQCD3WYuELui7boaGpxf0yhuiGBwHdhLEMrbbcmUAB-spJbA6lEDzkhqAw/s400/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+Story.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>On wings of song: DiDonato as Foster Jenkins.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Both films present a Foster Jenkins who is entirely unaware of how badly she sings; Frears’ film implies that neurological damage from syphilis accounts for her inability to hear herself as others hear her. Both films disregard the theory that Foster Jenkins was in on the joke, that her over-the-top performances were a sort of performance art <i>avant la lettre</i> — which may or may not be true, but which would make for an interesting movie.<br />
<br />
<i>Marguerite</i> comes closer to Tim Burton’s <i>Ed Wood</i>, the story of a man who doesn’t understand that his true talent is friendship — not moviemaking. If Burton’s film doesn’t attain the level of tragedy, it’s because the movie doesn’t permit the title character any recognition of his fatal flaw. He remains blithely oblivious to what he’s been doing wrong, and yet the message is clear and (for this audience) meaningful. At those many, many times when my writing career hasn’t gone as planned, I’ve wondered whether I hadn’t been kidding myself all along. Wood’s friendship with Bela Lugosi resembles in some ways my friendship with Dan Rather — and so on.<br />
<br />
<i>Marguerite</i> gives its heroine her Aristotelian moment, and so, to a degree, does Frears’ <i>FFJ</i>. But in general Frears is up to something different, and his film may be interpreted as a 110-minute expression of the popular maxim, “Dance as if no one is watching.” Florence does indeed sing as if no one is listening, much less judging. But <i>should</i> she? Music is her passion, and she follows her bliss. Okay. That’s fine for her. But what about the rest of us? Are we really supposed to follow her example? If so, I’ll book Carnegie Hall myself.<br />
<br />
Thus, despite all of Streep’s dazzle, the focus shifts to her common-law husband, St. Clair Bayfield, a ham actor who at least sometimes has the self-awareness <i>not</i> to subject other people to his “talent.” Effectively a kept man, he coddles Florence, pays off her critics, papers the house, indulges her fancies, and defends her dream world. Even in private conversation, he can’t bring himself to admit that Florence sings badly — as we see in a nice scene with her accompanist, Cosmé McMoon (his real name). And only when he lets down his guard — taking a vacation with his mistress — does Florence set in motion the Carnegie Hall concert that will at once fulfill her dream and bring it crashing down on her.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgr4hEUoOl6rMqH2xJkB1nLxhTSAhL_jfg63cGx_jbMQoIp4fSLdls6yDfc2cxKJI8t6dR9Uksy9ZMM-3DvjLJ2mgLP5WbP5ok3uLGkA4cYhWGlNbqPaMfcMFoLw_AhhjjRSN4rtUOg/s1600/Marguerite+-+Catherine+Frot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgr4hEUoOl6rMqH2xJkB1nLxhTSAhL_jfg63cGx_jbMQoIp4fSLdls6yDfc2cxKJI8t6dR9Uksy9ZMM-3DvjLJ2mgLP5WbP5ok3uLGkA4cYhWGlNbqPaMfcMFoLw_AhhjjRSN4rtUOg/s400/Marguerite+-+Catherine+Frot.jpg" width="400" height="279" /></a><br />
<i>Ah! Je ris! Frot as Marguerite.</i></div><br />
We get more insight into Florence’s character in a single scene than in the entire rest of the movie. On a surprise visit to Cosmé’s apartment, Florence talks about her youthful ambition of becoming a concert pianist, and reveals that damage to her hand cut short her career. Thereupon she and Cosmé sit at the piano and, one hand each, they play a Chopin étude. Suddenly, Streep’s performance isn’t about ticks and twirls, and least of all about her voice: it’s about a real woman who does not happen to be Meryl Streep. The Chopin doesn’t merely show us <i>that</i> music is important to Florence; it shows us <i>why</i> music is important to her, and what music does to her.<br />
<br />
Does Bayfield understand this? We never see any evidence, one way or another, and yet that explanation could elevate his behavior from self-interest (so long as he humors her, he enjoys a prosperous lifestyle) or benevolent affection (as depicted here, he really does love her). As the film is constructed, however, we get only hints of Bayfield’s attempt to define the point at which he does his lover no favors by telling her lies.<br />
<br />
Those hints come not so much in the dialogue but in the weary blue eyes of Hugh Grant, who plays Bayfield. It’s a remarkable performance, particularly coming from someone whose acting is known more for charm than for depth. He’s coasted on piffle in almost every movie he’s made — and he almost always seems to know it. But here he’s working with Meryl Streep, and he rises to the challenge. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_eM3WLADVLssKLvrOo4QFrSpaWDJ3Tm7fice28x0U4F1ZR5LBKeJADnnD9mOrJW4J8og1nlPMeRn-5BDEj82coUS_SAoM_c7jqBaOsNiyFejgBaIzWrFr_6a8d4t7ZwTnOesCi1D7A/s1600/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+-+Streep+%2526+Grant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_eM3WLADVLssKLvrOo4QFrSpaWDJ3Tm7fice28x0U4F1ZR5LBKeJADnnD9mOrJW4J8og1nlPMeRn-5BDEj82coUS_SAoM_c7jqBaOsNiyFejgBaIzWrFr_6a8d4t7ZwTnOesCi1D7A/s400/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+-+Streep+%2526+Grant.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<i>Happy, darling? That’s all that matters.<br />
Streep and Grant.</i></div><br />
For those who say Grant isn’t a <i>true</i> actor because he doesn’t (or can’t) play Shakespeare, he offers up a self-aware, truly terrible soliloquy. “No, I’m not Ken Bloody Branagh,” he seems to say, “and isn’t that perfectly marvelous?” In what’s almost a throwaway line, Florence tells Cosmé that she hides bad reviews from Bayfield — just as we know he hides them from her. That’s a theme that should have been explored at greater length. The deceptions are mutual, co-dependent, symbiotic.<br />
<br />
Yet even as he’s playing what amounts to a drawing-room comedy, Grant suggests, again and again, how much it costs Bayfield to sustain Florence’s fantasies. The script calls for him to retreat to his bachelor pad — and his mistress, and her bohemian friends — to recharge his batteries. But that’s not enough to save either Bayfield or Florence. Perhaps, then, the lesson of <i>Florence Foster Jenkins</i> is that friends don’t let friends dance like there’s no one watching when people actually <i>are</i> watching.<br />
<br />
On <i>The Big Bang Theory</i>, Simon Helberg plays Howard, who (at least in episodes I’ve seen) is often presumed to be gay. Here, he plays Cosmé, who really is gay — though the script doesn’t make much of that, and nothing at all of the immortal paradigm of Diva and Gay Disciple. To this day, Florence’s most ardent followers often are gay men, as they were in her lifetime. Perhaps in a nod to political correctness, the script makes only oblique references to Cosmé’s sexuality — too subtle, I think, since a gay man with whom I saw the movie didn’t understand what Cosmé meant when, arriving late and disheveled (but not bloodied or bruised) to an engagement, he explains that he’s been “waylaid by sailors.”<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6X7bj0XhOKN-AHaqSdqDLFvSw5rcTfBkicFKRcsWeeOTh8SDn22jVzPkP9LqhfOk6xFCWL4EBv0jqwCersXfYHLFY8jATpvl1YYeKKsJvq5ksGYqrpioHeJ9dOV-sEnGZEtWMmzoBlA/s1600/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+-+Helberg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6X7bj0XhOKN-AHaqSdqDLFvSw5rcTfBkicFKRcsWeeOTh8SDn22jVzPkP9LqhfOk6xFCWL4EBv0jqwCersXfYHLFY8jATpvl1YYeKKsJvq5ksGYqrpioHeJ9dOV-sEnGZEtWMmzoBlA/s400/Florence+Foster+Jenkins+-+Helberg.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<i>How do you get to Carnegie Hall?<br />
Helberg as McMoon.</i></div><br />
Seated at the piano, Helberg has to react more than speak, and some of his mugging seems better attuned to <i>TBBT</i> than to <i>FFJ</i>. But he knows how to bring Cosmé’s gayness just to the point of caricature and no further, and he plays piano quite well. He and Streep didn’t dub-and-mime their music, performing directly on camera instead, and their teamwork is inspired — one of many ways in which Frears pays gratifying attention to details that other filmmakers might neglect. But the character is barely sketched, and ultimately his motivation — like Bayfield’s — is summed up with the too-simple explanation that he, too, in his way has fallen in love with Florence.<br />
<br />
But <i>why</i> do these men love her? Is it her money, her joy, her vulnerability, all of the above? Ultimately, <i>Florence Foster Jenkins</i> skims along its frilly surfaces, and doesn’t dig terribly deep. That’s not a sin, and yet it’s a shame. The talent is on hand to make a truly superlative picture, one that we’re still talking about seven decades from now — the way we talk about Foster Jenkins herself.<br />
<br />
<i>Florence Foster Jenkins</i> is a charming entertainment, perfectly pitched to Streep’s fans and the diehard PBS viewer — which makes it all the more puzzling that the trailers “approved for this audience” all featured phenomenal amounts of violence. Well, I suppose it’s <i>possible</i> that the people who come to see <i>FFJ</i> will also want to see <i>Ben-Hur</i> and <i>Jack Reacher</i> and that other picture with explosions and noise, whatever it was. But really, the tone-deafness (and I use the word advisedly in this context) of the marketers makes it seem almost miraculous that there’s even one Foster Jenkins movie, to say nothing of three.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4D6QCGUJ4PxSFkLBibCvDvLPTZxO7J6mGk65O4l9BxJZv-BNL_vZ2BKKw8sGRAtJ1mtzidAv0hV675ldyThD0TIrUFEtNGI_3lcK-sLwAMiN2UZZnOZZYZpyO9oDyCxKa1gQeNOQnoQ/s1600/jack+reacher+-+tom+cruise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4D6QCGUJ4PxSFkLBibCvDvLPTZxO7J6mGk65O4l9BxJZv-BNL_vZ2BKKw8sGRAtJ1mtzidAv0hV675ldyThD0TIrUFEtNGI_3lcK-sLwAMiN2UZZnOZZYZpyO9oDyCxKa1gQeNOQnoQ/s400/jack+reacher+-+tom+cruise.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<i>In this deleted scene, St. Clair Bayfield confronts Foster Jenkins’ critics.<br />
(No, actually, it’s Tom Cruise in <b>Jack Reacher</b>, a film I’m unlikely to see, and less likely to enjoy.</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-8657666415593553732016-08-13T13:22:00.002-04:002016-08-13T15:09:50.349-04:00From the Archive: Has ‘Joker’ Actor Gone Too Far? Friends Express Concern<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Nq2ntxTPVYxHPL4r9QRBfoJNdOGbbE8GrNeFXamA69_SP_8GFJf8B18KKb55SG8w1ArpOX-HEbnBYb_XlkDFd7zNrQouvHTP36KL6xQcFaaBGB5VToXuw_UnqCXadeII481JNBwp7g/s1600/Romero-closeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Nq2ntxTPVYxHPL4r9QRBfoJNdOGbbE8GrNeFXamA69_SP_8GFJf8B18KKb55SG8w1ArpOX-HEbnBYb_XlkDFd7zNrQouvHTP36KL6xQcFaaBGB5VToXuw_UnqCXadeII481JNBwp7g/s400/Romero-closeup.jpg" width="400" height="300" /></a><br />
<i>Losing Himself? Romero as the Joker.</i></div><br />
HOLLYWOOD -- As shooting continues on ABC’s <i>Batman</i>, friends and family of actor Cesar Romero are growing increasingly concerned. “He’s completely losing himself in the character,” confirms Burt Ward, who plays Robin on the popular TV series. <br />
<br />
“It’s as if he can’t let go,” Ward continues. “Whenever I see him, he’s wearing wildly colored clothing, mincing around, gesturing flamboyantly — and worst of all, he can’t stop joking — and <i>laughing</i> at his own jokes, which aren’t even funny.”<br />
<br />
“He’s becoming a pain in the neck,” agrees Adam West, who plays the title role. “The other day, we were at a public appearance, signing autographs in the parking lot at a shopping mall. I said to him, ‘It’s pretty breezy out here.’ <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSm-j31i22MK1XTHKusETapr6__l4TU6x6yLZ6QA-PrSbJ4EEc-nDPpG99rUIQ4sVmwiLNsI6CUGnkJ5xKv0AP5nNOOUOZqBwB6KJophZUJiM9Bm4khIm8MU3dp_HKDRyq-Xe1SYHIow/s1600/Romero+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSm-j31i22MK1XTHKusETapr6__l4TU6x6yLZ6QA-PrSbJ4EEc-nDPpG99rUIQ4sVmwiLNsI6CUGnkJ5xKv0AP5nNOOUOZqBwB6KJophZUJiM9Bm4khIm8MU3dp_HKDRyq-Xe1SYHIow/s400/Romero+2.jpg" width="400" height="300" /></a></div><br />
“Without missing a beat, he said, ‘Just wait until the <i>fans</i> leave.’ And then he started hooting with laughter. I didn’t even get it, at first.” <br />
<br />
With a weary shake of his cowl, West adds, “I can’t tell any more where Cesar ends and the Joker begins.”<br />
<br />
Romero, who recently began taking classes at the Actors Studio, could not be reached for comment.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbHI02rEjp-UvhhtS1bqUHU9z366qRSqOnWNc37jhZm1gRKJW8j3aIuUF8LLymlKleb6bIRAzubhwLoLg7tqRexDhdQZNDUdmwigdxZedTDbhx1j9Ay1n1MUFDHYohZrG0OGCoyM52g/s1600/Romero+-+in+happier+times.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPbHI02rEjp-UvhhtS1bqUHU9z366qRSqOnWNc37jhZm1gRKJW8j3aIuUF8LLymlKleb6bIRAzubhwLoLg7tqRexDhdQZNDUdmwigdxZedTDbhx1j9Ay1n1MUFDHYohZrG0OGCoyM52g/s400/Romero+-+in+happier+times.jpg" width="342" height="400" /></a><br />
<i>In Happier Times: Friends see almost no trace of the Romero they used to know.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
“It’s really painful to see what he’s doing to himself for the role,” says Eartha Kitt, a frequent guest star on the show. “I guess he’s getting the purrrrrrformance he wants, but at what cost? And what will the viewers say? They’re not used to this kind of intensity. <br />
<br />
“Purrrrrrrrrsonally, I find it hard to watch,” Kitt adds.<br />
<br />
“I keep asking the producers when the breaking point comes, and when they’re going to stage some kind of intervention,” says Burgess Meredith, who plays the villainous Penguin. “I guess they’re just waiting for Cesar to crack-crack-crack-crack-crack.”<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMtU3dV8fR6kUAT3Dz-eW0FvIoybggrTRYG5Co28YWJj6rPdyaHlCRQYghWnG8KzL9ejHVo_WL2Vo9hyphenhyphenesdGFtpu6QbI_QecU2Xl0WK8VkzYJCSzDK6ztUSs4RFRJGBV9PrCYmIcSAQ/s1600/romero-could+be+worse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrMtU3dV8fR6kUAT3Dz-eW0FvIoybggrTRYG5Co28YWJj6rPdyaHlCRQYghWnG8KzL9ejHVo_WL2Vo9hyphenhyphenesdGFtpu6QbI_QecU2Xl0WK8VkzYJCSzDK6ztUSs4RFRJGBV9PrCYmIcSAQ/s400/romero-could+be+worse.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a><br />
<i>If Romero doesn’t get help, friends say, his condition will only get worse.</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-14578595806145385492016-06-30T20:27:00.000-04:002016-07-12T20:45:36.725-04:00Hello, My Name Is Sybil<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSD6BSYQ2Wmpg1vauxyRQi9rthnQJiRD2jTthbKCp1XIC0nLpfnSIjwvwgNYq_Afia_l_YjfmIwZnUIuCC13QefWEwk4fWFZDtXOnD-FzUl3xZ0aoCSV5D5MxtFCif17qkkkfaAkWR4A/s1600/Hello+My+Name+Is+Doris+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSD6BSYQ2Wmpg1vauxyRQi9rthnQJiRD2jTthbKCp1XIC0nLpfnSIjwvwgNYq_Afia_l_YjfmIwZnUIuCC13QefWEwk4fWFZDtXOnD-FzUl3xZ0aoCSV5D5MxtFCif17qkkkfaAkWR4A/s400/Hello+My+Name+Is+Doris+1.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a></div><br />
Lonely, eccentric <b>DORIS MILLER</b>, a sixtysomething bookkeeper, has developed a crush on <b>JOHN FREMONT</b>, a much younger colleague. Now, inspired by a self-help lecture, she decides to make a play for him. Through elaborate ruses, she manages to throw them together several times a day. Little does JOHN know DORIS is a hoarder … of personalities.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>DORIS</b><br />
<i>(Knocking on the door to John’s office.)</i><br />
John, do you have a minute?<br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
<i>(Scarcely looking up from his work.)</i><br />
Sorry, Doris — I’m in the middle of something right now. Can it wait?<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
It’s just that the exercise ball they gave me for an office chair — it’s got a leak. And I thought of your bicycle pump.<br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
Oh, sure. Sure. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll drop by your cubicle.<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
Thank you so much!<br />
<i>(She leaves John’s office, then returns almost instantly.)</i><br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
Is there something else, Doris?<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
Doris? <i>(She bursts into peals of tinkling laughter.)</i> Hahahahahaha! How could you possibly mistake me for her? Obviously, I’m Doris’ friend Vanessa.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8QI80A5RnV9_eD74S_CeZDSOfzOE2UmXJ87ehgDI1oLisCm_pfC2cQ2h-rZQdt3N7FYdVIIqAGiJZUGqXoo4zxaOhC5W5CnYP3wcDPMJoEeWu6qE3o3ZUYgJ-SUJS-YUPgv2k_v1Tw/s1600/Sybil+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB8QI80A5RnV9_eD74S_CeZDSOfzOE2UmXJ87ehgDI1oLisCm_pfC2cQ2h-rZQdt3N7FYdVIIqAGiJZUGqXoo4zxaOhC5W5CnYP3wcDPMJoEeWu6qE3o3ZUYgJ-SUJS-YUPgv2k_v1Tw/s400/Sybil+1.jpg" width="400" height="250" /></a><span class="fullpost"> <br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
Uh … is there anything I can do for you, Vanessa?<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
I hoped you could help me — the <i>loquet</i> on my necklace is broken, et je ne peux rien. Isn’t it <i>joli</i>? I’m so attached to it. Papa gave it to me during my last year at boarding school in Switzerland.<br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
I don’t really know much about repairing … lokay?<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
Hahahahahaha! Silly me — oh, what <i>is</i> the English word? Is it … hasp? Do you say hasp?<br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
Uh … can I come by your cubicle in a few minutes?<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
Bien sûr! A bientôt!<br />
<i>(She leaves, but returns immediately.)</i><br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
Vanessa, I really just need a few —<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
Vanessa? Who’s Vanessa? My name is Sister Bertrille, and I’d like to ask you to make a contribution to the annual fund drive for the Convent San Tanco.<br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
I’m Jewish. It’s kind of not my thing.<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
Oh! Of course. I’m sorry to interrupt you — have a nice day.<br />
<i>(She leaves, but returns immediately.)</i><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSptLjSr7Q3tZvEEMn816wMAVWHe0_v9D-Pw5YgNkt2WOC2aDrALkej9q8EnHpWaNsuBvEZ1IN7-5JStn47jRa04Z4rjPBTq54_SxF0_5BIjsH67MkduLMiu1ZqSLd19S2vb3uadjrxA/s1600/Hello+My+Name+Is+Doris+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSptLjSr7Q3tZvEEMn816wMAVWHe0_v9D-Pw5YgNkt2WOC2aDrALkej9q8EnHpWaNsuBvEZ1IN7-5JStn47jRa04Z4rjPBTq54_SxF0_5BIjsH67MkduLMiu1ZqSLd19S2vb3uadjrxA/s400/Hello+My+Name+Is+Doris+3.jpg" width="400" height="225" /></a><br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
Look, this is getting out of hand — <br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
I’ll say it is! Exercise balls instead of office chairs? The way they treat the workers in this shop is terrible! There’s only one solution. <i>(She holds up a sign with the word “UNION” scrawled on it.)</i> We’re going on strike! Are you in?<br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
Can I just get a few minutes —<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
You can think it over, but you’d better think fast! <br />
<i>(Singing “Look for the Union Label,” she leaves, but returns immediately.)</i><br />
<br />
<b>JOHN</b><br />
<i>(Really losing his temper by this time.)</i><br />
For Pete’s sake, I can’t even concentrate! Come on, Doris, just give me a few —<br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
<i>(Begins crying and muttering through her tears.)</i><br />
When — when you yell like that — it scares me! Break glass, Peggy! Need to break glass!<br />
<br />
<i>She beats her hand against the glass wall of John’s office, shattering it.</i><br />
<br />
<i>DORIS and JOHN stand in silence, staring at the glass. Then, brightly — </i><br />
<br />
<b>DORIS</b><br />
So … you want to have lunch sometime?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnQSlJbyw2DC1yPkbycxE-LMD_roF23-ZRv6GVSxjXSfhepWa7PWFd3yUfauI8XXELSGJGHKZf5XcTTdv3UEyWqUAx9mpKxTERsByQJQpn2rrst57HVwFBHHtZGg7HzSMXAst7P_fBA/s1600/Hello+My+Name+Is+Doris+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglnQSlJbyw2DC1yPkbycxE-LMD_roF23-ZRv6GVSxjXSfhepWa7PWFd3yUfauI8XXELSGJGHKZf5XcTTdv3UEyWqUAx9mpKxTERsByQJQpn2rrst57HVwFBHHtZGg7HzSMXAst7P_fBA/s400/Hello+My+Name+Is+Doris+4.jpg" width="400" height="267" /></a></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-23929655961060986282016-06-13T22:00:00.000-04:002016-06-14T11:09:00.621-04:00After Orlando, Pride<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8LiJhg8QBpLaXzP18J04uJ9DXhkTSa5D0Cu9_PjDMnRDcZgTnAmMgzPo9ttiF8ZoFzuTFG372jzQnLoe4IgJe8-2BZeImKsixxbwZ0e-lDhlxitjw5y6dYhXs6l54nsNwxL-RBHuTA/s1600/Memorial+at+Pulse.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR8LiJhg8QBpLaXzP18J04uJ9DXhkTSa5D0Cu9_PjDMnRDcZgTnAmMgzPo9ttiF8ZoFzuTFG372jzQnLoe4IgJe8-2BZeImKsixxbwZ0e-lDhlxitjw5y6dYhXs6l54nsNwxL-RBHuTA/s400/Memorial+at+Pulse.png" /></a></div><br />
“Time to paint up!” Porsche is wont to exclaim when she’s getting ready to put on a show. One of the most phenomenal vocal impressionists I’ve ever heard, Porsche wears a dress, heels, and a blond wig to work — as well as false eyelashes, lipstick, and foundation. Thus adorned, she sings: exactly like Eartha Kitt, exactly like Tammy Wynette, exactly like Debbie Reynolds. (Seriously. Who else does Debbie Reynolds?) <br />
<br />
Porsche is a man, a former high-school football player from Texas. She also sings exactly like Elvis Presley. <br />
<br />
You could take painted-up Porsche home to mother, and yet she is everything that some people want to eliminate. A gay man who dresses as a woman, works in gay bars, and drinks alcohol. (A necessary preparative for singing exactly like Janis Joplin.) She uses her artistry to express a range of feeling, but mostly to express and to inspire joy. <br />
<br />
Her shows are a regular summer feature at the Ice Palace in Cherry Grove, Fire Island. Yesterday, as news reports about the massacre at Pulse were still coming in (and they’re <i>still</i> coming in as I write), Porsche had to paint up. By this morning, she’d learn that one friend had been injured in the attack. Another friend did not survive. <br />
<br />
How do you put on a show, when all that is going on? How do you “address this,” as Porsche asked herself? You sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” is how. Because Porsche also sings exactly like Judy Garland, and when President Kennedy was shot, that’s what Judy sang. For gays, it’s not a hymn of Christianity. It’s a hymn of Judy-ism.<br />
<br />
The performance wasn’t merely “the show must go on.” This was defiance, and once again, as at so many points in our journey, a drag queen was leading the way. <i>We</i> will go on — we will go <i>marching</i> on. Whether you respect them or not, we will continue to celebrate art, and pride, and freedom, and love, and life itself. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy7y4hj1Sf2vkZXNVHoFWzoyvjj9qUAm3w4EgTuMhGR17UYbJPhifrDg7wkf7i-QmYvfWe-mNYNu13N561ewxsOHlfZTIywsgClynz4VKjf7MCI-_psHoqskqRS7r9-vALaLblNMtwTQ/s1600/Porsche+by+Kevin+McGann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy7y4hj1Sf2vkZXNVHoFWzoyvjj9qUAm3w4EgTuMhGR17UYbJPhifrDg7wkf7i-QmYvfWe-mNYNu13N561ewxsOHlfZTIywsgClynz4VKjf7MCI-_psHoqskqRS7r9-vALaLblNMtwTQ/s400/Porsche+by+Kevin+McGann.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Porsche.<br />
Photo by Jim McGann.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Again and again in recent years, I have asked myself how to respond. When — and how — do I move beyond grief and anger? And once I’ve done so, what do I <i>do</i>? Is it possible for me to make any gesture that represents what the fallen might have done, to pay tribute to their lost potential? “We don’t let the terrorists win,” okay, but in yesterday’s attack, there’s another factor. Daesh has been tossing homosexuals off of buildings for a while now, and as they bring their campaign to American shores, it was a matter of time before they specifically attacked gays and their friends. True, Daesh hates other people, too; their adherents could have gone after anybody. But Sunday morning, a man professing allegiance to Daesh went after the gays.*<br />
<br />
Daesh isn’t the only outfit that calls for the punishment of homosexuality by death, and it’s hardly alone in its enthusiasm for violence. Around the world, governments call for much the same, as do groups and individuals. In the United States, some people invoke religion to demand the execution of homosexuals. During the primary campaign, the Texan Senator Ted Cruz gratefully accepted the endorsement of one such pastor, and Cruz’s own father, also a pastor, is an outspoken homophobe. Neither fellow is a Muslim.<br />
<br />
Among the Republican politicians who tweeted their “thoughts and prayers” yesterday, I saw only one who referred to the scene of the attack as a gay club. It’s hard not to construe this across-the-board omission as a nod to social conservatives, who are eager to roll back the advances in civil rights made by gays in recent years.<br />
<br />
For now, at least, we still have the right to marry. And even Texas hasn’t passed a law subjecting us to the death penalty. But in many states, gays can legally be denied housing, employment, and basic services, simply because they’re gay. Gays are subject to daily persecution, and in many states, a crime against them is not considered a hate crime under the law, no matter how many times the assailant bellows, “Kill all the faggots.” The Red Cross may not want our blood, but plenty of other people do. We are still second-class citizens. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3rP3wfwX0YGmCobtPyWPT-qX4OZnJWmNKptfv2lUX-i-DeqOoMRM5wxU0guzcFP-RdnD1_huHoK0Kii8XFXCPC019UjGbbhPa1pE1kUGxhVVbg3bfesFcZ5MBUurU5v3F6WVC9A3Ww/s1600/Standing+guard+at+Boots+%2526+Saddle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3rP3wfwX0YGmCobtPyWPT-qX4OZnJWmNKptfv2lUX-i-DeqOoMRM5wxU0guzcFP-RdnD1_huHoK0Kii8XFXCPC019UjGbbhPa1pE1kUGxhVVbg3bfesFcZ5MBUurU5v3F6WVC9A3Ww/s400/Standing+guard+at+Boots+%2526+Saddle.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>At Boots & Saddle on Sunday.</i></div><br />
While Porsche was singing on Fire Island, another man from Texas, Miss Victoria Chase, had to paint up in Manhattan. Sundays are karaoke night at Boots & Saddle. But yesterday wasn’t like other Sundays. Wary of a copycat attack, police officers in combat gear stood guard outside the door. They carried automatic weapons. As one of Victoria’s friends observed, it’s a sign of progress that the police are now protecting, not raiding, gay bars — the Stonewall is just around the corner from Boots. But the <i>need</i> for protection is unnerving.<br />
<br />
How do you put on a show, with all that going on? By singing “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going,” Victoria’s signature number, which reliably brings me to tears. Leader of her community that she is, Victoria sang for all of us. No, no, there’s no way. We’re not going.<br />
<br />
In some ways, “And I Am Telling You” may seem like the flip side of “Battle Hymn,” immobility versus marching. Yet both songs are about prevailing, refusing to submit, and staying true.<br />
<br />
Victoria sang “And I Am Telling You,” she tells me, as part of her Pride Package, along with Aretha Franklin’s “Think.” Well, this is Pride Month, and we’re thinking hard. This year we’ll remember that the Stonewall Rebellion was a response to a violent attack. We’ll remember that Pride isn’t just a parade or a party. We’ll remember that Pride stayed strong even while thousands of us were dying. <br />
<br />
It’s time to paint up, stand up, and raise our voices. Most especially for those who no longer can.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtVhpId1ftRZo0ysLDx5-NF3WJlv8Hhqw8dPEtsKiGssXy28NpD7l2Dxb3tZx0oZ-RDfvaIgAYMSjxxoiZpFmbrS7YiSCT7ol4a28EzH2aRqLOpbIItUwO5kpDbz5SOHJKNHNAlkwSw/s1600/Victoria+Chase+by+Jim+Silvestri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtVhpId1ftRZo0ysLDx5-NF3WJlv8Hhqw8dPEtsKiGssXy28NpD7l2Dxb3tZx0oZ-RDfvaIgAYMSjxxoiZpFmbrS7YiSCT7ol4a28EzH2aRqLOpbIItUwO5kpDbz5SOHJKNHNAlkwSw/s400/Victoria+Chase+by+Jim+Silvestri.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Miss Victoria Chase.<br />
Photo by Jim Silvestri.</i></div><br />
<i><b>*UPDATE:</b> After I posted this essay, reports began appearing to the effect that the Orlando shooter may have been a closeted and/or self-hating homosexual; his affiliation with Daesh never seemed close, though Daesh gladly took credit after the fact. The shooter’s mental health (and his relationship with his father) surely factors into his motivation and his crime, as well. It will probably be a long while, if ever, before we know even a substantial part of the full story. However, it occurs to me that it’s possible to be both radicalized and closeted at once, as the 9/11 attacker Mohammed Atta reportedly was. And if anything, the new reports about the Orlando shooter confirm the need to respond to the massacre with pride. The more we break down the closets, the more society admits our worth and respects our rights, the healthier and safer we will be.</i><br />
<br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-38571858562493886262016-05-26T11:01:00.001-04:002016-05-26T21:03:22.592-04:00Returning to ‘Little Women,’ or How Mark Adamo Concord Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrrmn0YHIhN9bD3FjDEFCAEN1vqXHYg7h_pnjqrc0d4YsARYpHjWFULd27xIbIeFRogfUOYHGtqXcuIb83bKugBw8wk-IdfvWI1ovXq_v_EDOwWaiEC7bGLyABIYCRn43G6szKA4FedA/s1600/HGO-4-Sisters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrrmn0YHIhN9bD3FjDEFCAEN1vqXHYg7h_pnjqrc0d4YsARYpHjWFULd27xIbIeFRogfUOYHGtqXcuIb83bKugBw8wk-IdfvWI1ovXq_v_EDOwWaiEC7bGLyABIYCRn43G6szKA4FedA/s400/HGO-4-Sisters.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Where it began: the HGO cast in 2000.<br />
Margaret Lloyd, Stacey Tappan, Stephanie Novacek, Joyce DiDonato (my first glimpse of her).</i></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I first saw Mark Adamo’s opera, <i>Little Women</i>, in 2001, a video of the production from Houston Grand Opera (a revival of the world premiere, from 1998) projected on the wall of a New York City hotel room for the benefit of music writers who wouldn’t be able to watch the broadcast on PBS a few days later. The next year, I attended a performance at the Glimmerglass Festival — and I got a sense of the work’s power to move listeners. During Beth’s death scene, a man began to sob and ran out of the theater. The Glimmerglass production took the stage at New York City Opera in 2003, where I saw it again. A performance at the Seagle Music Colony in 2004 was the last that I would see — until now.<br />
<br />
I’d kept up with Mark and his work in the meantime. My interview with him, for a profile in <i>Opera News</i> in 2001, represented the first of many long conversations that have led to a rewarding friendship. I’ve heard much but not all of the stage work he’s written since <i>Little Women</i>: I’ve attended two performances of his <i>Lysistrata</i> and watched his <i>Becoming Santa Claus</i> — a live simulcast from Dallas, projected on another wall in New York. <br />
<br />
But what would I think of <i>Little Women</i> upon hearing it again after all this time? “Things change, Jo,” as Meg observes in the opera, and so of course do I. <i>Little Women</i> was Mark’s first opera, crafted on a much smaller scale than <i>Becoming Santa Claus</i> and the grand <i>Lysistrata</i>. Twelve years ago, I wasn’t hearing <i>nearly</i> as many new operas as I do today, and even a work I admired — Berg’s <i>Lulu</i> — contained passages I didn’t learn to love until last fall, when the Met unveiled its new production. My tastes are changing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONTDTC5fpIQlSkNzVtce3kf3MtfOgr-hqzezrhMvd2pKGRPpP4QdiCMkJDaehWagN5Pdnj_0mRjwxd6fLwXgBY4UnmpqWnjNdClvIa9-gj-LT4i098WExK1Ceks4xUCFztKifJoc1kA/s1600/mark-adamo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONTDTC5fpIQlSkNzVtce3kf3MtfOgr-hqzezrhMvd2pKGRPpP4QdiCMkJDaehWagN5Pdnj_0mRjwxd6fLwXgBY4UnmpqWnjNdClvIa9-gj-LT4i098WExK1Ceks4xUCFztKifJoc1kA/s400/mark-adamo.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Composer-librettist-conversationalist: Mark Adamo.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Even my admiration for <i>Little Women</i> developed gradually. The libretto won me over from the get-go, and thanks to Mark’s understanding that “almost alone among adolescent protagonists in classic American fiction (Tom Sawyer, Holden Caulfield, Roth’s Portnoy), [Jo is] happy where she is,” I’ll never think about Alcott’s novel the same way. As Mark dramatizes the story, Jo learns to accept change — and she’s powerless to resist it. (Her only option, represented by her fearsome Aunt March, is to seal herself off from the world — to bury herself alive in “a house of stone.”) That’s a good deal more compelling than the plot of a novel I found sticky-sweet and infuriatingly girly. And as a stage work, the opera provided performers with plenty of chances to shine — something that’s important to me as an unabashed diva-worshipper.<br />
<br />
But the music took a little longer. Not <i>terribly</i> long, but in retrospect I think that I, like so many others, expected an operatic adaptation of <i>Little Women</i> to sound like either Aaron Copland or Stephen Foster. It sounds like neither, and its only concession to the music of anyone other than Mark Adamo is Professor Bhaer’s Schubertian <i>Lied</i> “Kennst du das Land?” — so achingly beautiful that you’re grateful when he sings it a second time, in English. It’s a clever composer who writes the singer’s encore into the opera. And the song makes it easier than ever before to understand why Jo settles for the Professor. <br />
<br />
The trick of false expectations is that they can sometimes blind (or in this case, deafen) us to reality. Only at Glimmerglass was I able to begin to set aside my ideas about what I <i>wasn’t</i> hearing, and to pay attention to the music Mark actually wrote. The orchestral ensemble is small, so that a certain “American” openness is built in, and 16 years after I first heard it, the music is still fresh, even bracing. The vocal writing is gratifying to young singers especially, and where the music is spiky, “modern,” rebellious, uncompromising — well, aren’t those the qualities we cherish in Jo? You may think you want Stephen Foster, but what you require is Mark Adamo. He knows how to tell this story in sound.<br />
<br />
At the Gerald W. Lynch Theater on May 7, Joseph Colaneri led the Mannes Opera and the Mannes Orchestra in a production staged by Laura Alley. Insofar as the staging of a new opera can be traditional, this one was, and it looked a lot like the original production in Houston. My only quibbles were with the men’s hats (no, they wouldn’t wear them indoors) and the brief moment when Jo sets time in reverse (insufficiently clear). I’m always reluctant to write about student casts by name — the whole point is for them to learn, not for them to be perfect, or even to seek our approval. (Mine least of all.) But I’m happy to report that everyone performed with spirit, and mezzo Melanie Ashkar reminded me that Jo is a tour-de-force role, seldom offstage and usually singing. Colaneri elicited polished playing from his ensemble, and thus he gave me a real chance to concentrate on the music. <br />
<br />
Again and again, I found myself recognizing a theme that, I knew, would return later in the opera. I heard details in the orchestration that I hadn’t noticed before. I smiled at the familiar. I chuckled at the jokes. I looked forward to pleasures. And as I listened, I realized that this is what I do with any opera for which admiration has turned to affection, whether it’s <i>La Traviata</i> or <i>Lulu</i> — or, by now, even <i>Dog Days</i>. Over the years, <i>Little Women</i> has become a contemporary classic and a pillar of the standard repertory.<br />
<br />
Its status as such is confirmed by the myriad productions it receives — I’m told that this year alone there will be something like a dozen, maybe more — and by the ways in which audiences and young musicians take it to heart. You needn’t take my word for it. Just listen.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNh2O-iKwpAZj-wOXn3eDVvS0ViF9UVIJddnPgOBvmsUgWLR0PZdPuO2V1qAV24AmgQbFvvBeVDFUKAXlnmR3SH69tr3IxgPH1PGQAfziDZLzgLAO4bSAimEV7vw9A5zdKOqFB9ei2Q/s1600/APP_1549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSNh2O-iKwpAZj-wOXn3eDVvS0ViF9UVIJddnPgOBvmsUgWLR0PZdPuO2V1qAV24AmgQbFvvBeVDFUKAXlnmR3SH69tr3IxgPH1PGQAfziDZLzgLAO4bSAimEV7vw9A5zdKOqFB9ei2Q/s400/APP_1549.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Ava Pine in Mark’s <b>Lysistrata</b> at Fort Worth Opera.</i><br />
</div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-2752738169864873742016-04-11T17:27:00.000-04:002016-05-26T10:34:14.012-04:00In Search of Ana María Martínez<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvqS1OPDvj40P_4VLa5MYUrN8k7B5p1-Zor0SLBsY6Z8AVvKRU9PfVCiyvHqrBAMuNNICmM61ZO2Rlg_HnCNtl118n3h7HSL4HGxgkNdx6TDkeV-B0UCFV6QmZiqi6v2EBkqKnQzJhA/s1600/Ana_Maria_Martinez_as_Rusalka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCvqS1OPDvj40P_4VLa5MYUrN8k7B5p1-Zor0SLBsY6Z8AVvKRU9PfVCiyvHqrBAMuNNICmM61ZO2Rlg_HnCNtl118n3h7HSL4HGxgkNdx6TDkeV-B0UCFV6QmZiqi6v2EBkqKnQzJhA/s400/Ana_Maria_Martinez_as_Rusalka.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Ana María Martínez as Rusalka in Chicago.<br />
(Where I didn’t get to hear her.)</i></div><br />
If I had a nickel for every time a New Yorker has asked, “Why doesn’t the Met hire Ana María Martinez?” I could probably have paid for my airfare to Houston last January to hear her in <i>precisely</i> the sort of role the Met should be begging her to sing: the water nymph Rusalka in Dvořák’s Romantic fairy tale, in which she’d triumphed already at Glyndebourne and in Chicago. <br />
<br />
Ana made her Met debut as Micaëla in <i>Carmen</i> in 2005. I was in France and had to miss it. She went on to triumph in Paris, London, Santa Fe, Vienna, Munich, Dresden, Berlin, and Madrid (among others!). Chicago, San Francisco, and Washington became like second homes for her, and Houston really is her home. Meanwhile, New York had to wait. Opera lovers subsisted on recordings, video clips, her rave reviews, and the ecstatic word of mouth from friends who’d been able to hear her almost everywhere <i>except</i> New York.<br />
<br />
At last, ten years after her debut, the Met asked her back, this time as Musetta, the <i>seconda donna</i> in <i>La Bohème</i>. The choice of role was curious, since she’s sung Mimì to acclaim all over the world. On the plus side, all her experience means that she’s worked with many Musettas, so she must have some idea of what does and doesn’t work — a head start, even before she rehearsed. To her performances last December, she brought wit, sex appeal, and plush tone. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qTbUDNHPsk60m-vFKsAUd9lfAxju4hql9Xnxzd4ii5Tgjr6WmgkS5Tz_eYC66MZRy9li_qWP_-PNoMglyJnms8IgpRoUPEEILxAdyQRIZtjJcif8v91BgBiadnZe_1QtDoBnM8EdfQ/s1600/ana+maria+martinez+-+met+boheme.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6qTbUDNHPsk60m-vFKsAUd9lfAxju4hql9Xnxzd4ii5Tgjr6WmgkS5Tz_eYC66MZRy9li_qWP_-PNoMglyJnms8IgpRoUPEEILxAdyQRIZtjJcif8v91BgBiadnZe_1QtDoBnM8EdfQ/s400/ana+maria+martinez+-+met+boheme.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Welcome back! Ana as Musetta at the Met.</i></div><br />
I’ve come to expect the unexpected from her — the penetrating insight that changes my own perceptions — and yet I was almost startled by a seemingly insignificant moment in Act IV, when she brings a muff to warm Mimì’s hands. Mimì asks who’s speaking, and she answers, “Io, Musetta.” Listening to the tender warmth that Ana lavished on those words, I realized that I was hearing Musetta’s true character. This is who Musetta really is. She’s letting down her guard for once. She’s not putting on a show (as she surely is in her aria “Quando m’en vo”). She’s not playing with anybody’s feelings. She just wants to help her friend. <br />
<br />
Please note that Ana accomplished this on the words “I, Musetta” — just as Shakespeare would have wanted her to do, in any of his “I am” speeches.<br />
<br />
Running backstage after the performance, I greeted Ana with a happy “You’re alive!” — after all, she’s died in every other <i>Bohème</i> she’s ever sung. I had missed Ana: her performances, her winning smile, her kindness and wit. And when we spoke of the upcoming <i>Rusalka</i> in Houston, she added, “I hope you can see it. It’s something really special.” Now, Ana isn’t the sort of soprano to command her admirers to attend her performances, and she wouldn’t say something was special if it weren’t. <br />
<br />
So off to Houston I went. <br />
<br />
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<i>It was at Houston Grand Opera that I first heard Ana — as Mimì (here with Garrett Sorenson and Joshua Hopkins).</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Unlike Musetta in <i>Bohème</i>, the title role of Dvořák’s <i>Rusalka</i> vividly displayed a full range of what New York has been missing out on — not least because for most of Act II, she’s mute and must pantomime first her yearning for her Prince (tenor Brian Jagde), then her desperation when he turns to the Foreign Princess (soprano Maida Hundeling). Ana is so complete a performer (a <i>Gesamtkünstlerin</i>, if you will) that, without singing a note, she held the audience’s attention and sympathy at every moment. (I attended the January 31 matinée.)<br />
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The extraordinary grace Ana showed in Act I, “swimming” onstage, hoisted aloft, flipping an enormous mermaid tail (even during her Song to the Moon), now turned into the tentative footsteps of a woman who has never walked before and is honestly afraid that she’ll hurt herself if she tries. (We recall that Andersen’s Mermaid feels pain as if she’s walking on broken glass.) Through her physicality, Ana created a poignant awkwardness that reminded me of the effects Gilda Radner so often achieved (to very different ends). You wanted to hug her, to tell her everything would be all right.<br />
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But of course it wouldn’t. Not for Rusalka. As Bugs Bunny says, “What did you expect in an opera? A happy ending?” <br />
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Director Melly Still and designer Rae Smith rightly emphasize the darkness of this opera, and Ana revealed all the darker colors of her voice, so that her high notes came to seem like the moon itself shimmering on the surface of deep water. She drew on enormous reserves of power for the marathon Act III, and yet she still had energy for a talkback session with the audience after the show.<br />
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Jill Grove as the witch Jezˇibaba (at once comic and terrifying) and Richard Paul Fink as Rusalka’s father, Vodnik (stentorian and tender in an awful costume), were spectacularly good, and conductor Harry Bicket, whose work I had known exclusively from 18th-century music, made a strong case for his abilities in 19th-century repertoire, even while maintaining an almost Mozartean clarity in the lush Romantic orchestration. Donna Stirrup directed this revival of Still’s production.<br />
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<i>Like a sophomore attending the senior prom: she’s so sweet and pretty, but you know this isn’t going to turn out well.<br />
Ana as Rusalka, Act II.<br />
(Photo from the Glyndebourne performances.)</i></div><br />
Leaving Houston, I congratulated myself. I’d given myself a booster shot of Ana’s magic, enough to hold me until another season rolled around. Little did I know — little did anyone know — that she’d be back in New York within weeks. Called on to replace Hei-kyung Hong in the title role of <i>Madame Butterfly</i> at the Met, Ana flew to New York from Los Angeles, where she was rehearsing the same opera in a different production. I’m not certain of the exact logistics, but there were a couple of back-and-forth trips before she completed the last of four performances — of which I attended two.<br />
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<i>This</i> is Ana María Martínez’s repertory, folks. Yes, I’m sure she was a lovely Micaëla, and her Musetta was inarguably wonderful, but dramatic leads are her natural habitat, where she can explore a character’s psychology and exploit the expressive range of her voice. <br />
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Butterfly is often portrayed as naïve in the extreme, but Ana understands that the heroine of Puccini’s opera has led a life of hardship before she makes her entrance in Act I. She’s seen plenty, and as she suggests when describing her career as a dancer, a lot of it was ugly and unfair. Thus Ana’s Butterfly isn’t naïve — and in fact she’s extraordinarily intelligent. She realizes that Pinkerton may not be completely honest with her, but she <i>chooses</i> to believe him. She knows how to be tough when she needs to be, as she demonstrates in Act II, dispatching Goro and Yamadori. When she kills herself, it’s not because she’s heartbroken or trying to hurt Pinkerton or upholding a code of honor — but because she believes it’s her son’s only chance for happiness. If Butterfly doesn’t kill herself, she’s in for a terrible time. Rejected by her family and most of Japanese society, she’d easily wind up not a geisha but a prostitute or a beggar. And her son would know that, and be tormented. So through her death, <i>she frees him</i>.<br />
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<i>This</i> is what Ana brings to the stage, even in a role you think you know backward and forward. Astonishing. Every word of text conveyed meaning, and Ana’s voice exulted throughout the vast Met, soaring over the orchestra, spinning out high pianissimi, making you <i>listen</i>, no matter how familiar the music may be. This was my first viewing of Anthony Minghella’s celebrated production, and on the whole I admired it — not least because it gave Ana room to do what she does so well. Critics and audiences agreed with me: she received rave reviews and thundering ovations. <br />
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<i><b>Butterfly</b> at the Met: Ana with the indispensable Maria Zifchak as Suzuki.</i></div><br />
Having knocked out New York, Ana went back to Los Angeles for the run of the <i>Butterfly</i> production there — almost as if nothing unusual had happened. The Met went on about its business, too, and Ana isn’t on the roster for next season, not even in the new production of <i>Rusalka</i>. Who knows how long New York will have to wait to hear her again?<br />
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As for me, I’ve certainly made up for many of the performances I’d missed. And yet … she’s singing Elisabetta in one of my favorite operas, Verdi’s <i>Don Carlo</i>, in San Francisco in June. Ordinarily, I consider Eboli the more interesting woman onstage in that opera. But then again, I’ve never heard Ana’s Elisabetta. In fact, nobody has — this will be a role debut.<br />
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Can I justify the expense of flying out there? Can I justify missing out?<br />
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<i>Backstage after <b>Bohème</b>.</i></div><br />
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</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-89671685115147245512016-02-05T12:26:00.001-05:002016-02-05T16:30:27.574-05:00A Little Mini-Festival in New York<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9CvwH6CzzKWBVXNNqm4ovenHVA9xqr9ZQivk4tbYs6m1ClZ1I9O4osHVC1AvHb7Oy9lClacmmSB-hkjX_l97eYEQ9U6lFVWmqIQvW1NPJKf4rUiw0scq0KHzbdWYiSWoeCp-HGFtwdg/s1600/DTL+02+by+Merri+Cyr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9CvwH6CzzKWBVXNNqm4ovenHVA9xqr9ZQivk4tbYs6m1ClZ1I9O4osHVC1AvHb7Oy9lClacmmSB-hkjX_l97eYEQ9U6lFVWmqIQvW1NPJKf4rUiw0scq0KHzbdWYiSWoeCp-HGFtwdg/s400/DTL+02+by+Merri+Cyr.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>Man in Motion: David T. Little.<br />
Photo by Merri Cyr.</i></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">The past few weeks have brought me fresh opportunities to hear the work of composer David T. Little. First up was the New York premiere and my third hearing of his opera <i>Dog Days</i>, to a libretto by Royce Vavrek (from a short story by Judy Budnitz). My initial response to this piece was complex: the piece is so powerful, so compelling, and yet I needed a long time — years, actually — to sort out my thoughts.<br />
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<i>Dog Days</i> is a tough, uncompromising work that becomes even more so in its final sequence. Just when you think you can’t take any more, David and Royce throw more at you — and then more, and <i>more</i>. The staging (by Robert Woodruff), the plot, and the music almost insist that you turn away, cover your ears, flee. And yet there’s a fundamental message of hope. No matter where Lisa is going, no matter what happens to her, she will be what she has been: a bastion of humanity in a savage world. The one who keeps trying, no matter the odds, to connect with others.<br />
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Seeing the piece first in its premiere production in Montclair, NJ; again in Fort Worth in 2015; and again last month in New York (always with the same, brilliant cast), that message resonated more and more powerfully, and I am ever more convinced that David’s music conveys that message just about flawlessly. Because I am who I am, I gravitate to some of the more lyrical passages, notably the haunting lullaby that accompanies Lisa’s letter to her pen-pal at the end of Act I; and the variations on the hymn-like grace pronounced by the family over its dwindling dinners. But because David is who he is, he weaves in a variety of compositional styles, dissonant or lyrical by turns, including a Broadway-ready duet for Lisa’s horny teenage brothers; and elements of hard and electronic rock pretty far from what I ordinarily listen to. <br />
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The brothers (played by Michael Marcotte and Peter Tansits) reveal a great deal about the way characters are portrayed. Surely the boys are, by necessity, a good deal younger than the grown men who portray them: the younger boy hasn’t really hit puberty yet. This lends a twist, no matter what your eyes are telling you, to the scene in which the Captain (Cherry Duke) tries to persuade the Father (James Bobick) to let her enlist the boys in the army. It’s not only that the Father tries, throughout the opera, to assert himself as provider and protector of the family — it’s that the boys are <i>too young</i> to be soldiers. <br />
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At each performance, I admired the restrained, weary-seeming, thoroughly lovely performance of soprano Marnie Breckinridge as the Mother; and the ingenious portrayal of Prince, the dog–man, by actor John Kelly. Each character is trapped, in a way, acting out a role because neither knows what else to do. <br />
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<i>Worsham, in the world premiere.</i></div><br />
Above all, <i>Dog Days</i> has benefitted from the fearlessly acted, limpidly sung performances of soprano Lauren Worsham. What Callas was to Tosca, Worsham is to Lisa, and as a diva-lover, I can predict that one factor in this opera’s future life will be the desire of other sopranos to sink their teeth into this role. Never in any performance medium have I seen anything to rival the extended scena in which Worsham, as Lisa, contemplates her body, wasted by starvation, in a mirror. (Woodruff and his tech crew have installed a camera in the mirror’s frame, so that Worsham’s “reflection” is projected on a giant screen over the stage.) Dressed only in underwear, her nose running (at least in Montclair), her eyes watering, Worsham’s Lisa grows ecstatic, believing that at last she’s attained the kind of body she’s admired in advertising and fashion magazines. It’s total theater: a marriage of music, words, staging, and performance.<br />
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It’s no wonder that <i>Dog Days</i> put David, Royce, and their producer, the indispensable <a href="http://www.bethmorrisonprojects.org/">Beth Morrison</a>, on the cultural map. Thanks to <a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2011/06/littles-soldier-songs.html">David Adam Moore’s advocacy of David’s <i>Soldier Songs</i></a>, I was already keeping an eye on <a href="http://billmadison.blogspot.com/2013/01/interview-david-t-little.html">the composer’s work</a> — but <i>Dog Days</i> has turned my interest and appreciation into something like an obsession.<span class="fullpost"><br />
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That’s one reason I was so pleased to attend last night’s concert, at Opera America’s National Opera Center. Under the aegis of <a href="http://nyfos.org/">New York Festival of Song</a>, David hosted an evening of works by composers he knows and admires. This was an extraordinary opportunity to know a composer’s mind — what excites him? Where does he see himself in the contemporary landscape? Through hearing other music, I feel I understand David better. When he observed from the stage that, earlier in his career, he avoided the beautiful in music, I thought I knew what he meant: though I found passages of beauty in <i>Soldier Songs</i>, and vast quantities of the stuff (albeit unexpectedly) in <i>Dog Days</i>, I’ve heard a new maturity in his forthcoming opera, <i>JFK</i>, an outright embrace of beauty — of majesty — of mythology and mystery and timelessness. <br />
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The other selections on the program helped to put this development into context, with the result that I’m not only more eager for <i>JFK</i>’s premiere (at <a href="http://www.fwopera.org/">Fort Worth Opera</a>, April 23), I’m also more eager to hear the work of David’s colleagues.<br />
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First on the program was Colin Read’s <i>Fairy Tales and Letters</i>, an aptly magical song cycle, to texts by Lisa Rosinsky, performed by the pure-voiced soprano Justine Aronson (who might make a terrific Lisa), and, on piano, NYFOS associate artistic director Michael Barrett. From the stage, David observed that, the first time he saw Read’s score, he was struck by its “patience,” and indeed the music takes its (very) sweet time to make its points, spinning out the moments. The cycle is recital-ready, and I look forward to hearing it again.<br />
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In the most intriguing segment of the program, Kate Soper presented two excerpts from <i>Here Be Sirens</i>, singing alongside sopranos Gelsey Bell and Brett Umlauf. The sense of play — singing into and strumming the soundboard (my brother and I used to do this, far less artfully), using rocks for percussion, blending harmonies, extending notes and lines as if in a relay race (two singers kept singing while the third breathed) — combined with a sense of danger, until I felt as if I’d watched the women play with very deadly knives. Not only in the sheer curiosity is there an element of drama: the three sirens were distinctly characterized and fully compelling. Soper is clearly a talent to watch — I feel about this work much the way I felt about <i>Soldier Songs</i>. (Yes, some music is like a gateway drug.)<br />
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<i>Singer, composer, siren: Kate Soper.</i></div><br />
Also singing his work, Ted Hearne experimented with the conventions of pop music in “Intimacy and Resistance” (text by Allison Carter) and “Protection” (text by Meaghan Deans). David also takes inspiration from a variety of popular-music styles, and Hearne’s singing was marvelous. As grownup pop, aesthetically challenging, frequently surprising, Hearne’s songs score their points, but it’s not my field, and I’ll have to hear more before I grasp what he’s really after. (I emphasize: the fault is mine, not his.)<br />
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The always-impressive mezzo Eve Gigliotti performed Jeff Myers’ “Requiem Aeternam” — a poignant lullaby in which sleep brings intimations of death — from his <i>Pagtulog na Nene</i>, accompanied by string quartet (Ayano Ninomiya and Danbi Um, violin; Leslie Tomkins, viola; Alice Yoo, cello). After opening with tiny, thin lines from the violins, the entrance of the cello proved extraordinarily eloquent. Gigliotti delivered the text (in a Philippine language) with rich vocal colors and a smile that suggested that sleep <i>or</i> death might be a welcome comfort and release.<br />
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Gigliotti returned for David’s contributions to the program, two numbers from <i>JFK</i>: Jackie’s aria, “Caught in Shutterspeed” and her Moon Duet with Jack, sung by baritone Matthew Worth (who will sing this role, opposite Daniela Mack’s Jackie, at the world premiere). Full disclosure: I worked on <i>JFK</i> in its early stages, collecting research and interviews (which David and Royce didn’t need), and I’ve attended readings of the libretto and the score (minus a scene or two). This background doesn’t make me any more or less biased in the opera’s favor, though it does let me know in advance that the characterization of Jackie is going to be remembered as one of the signal achievements of opera in the 21st century, and a key to <i>JFK</i>’s future.<br />
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<i>Always a treat to hear her: Gigliotti.</i></div><br />
Indeed, it’s going to be a great pity if Gigliotti doesn’t wind up playing Jackie at some point. A born actress, she dug deeply into the character, and in her aria, eyes (including her own and mine) welled with tears. The Act I closer, “Shutterspeed” finds Jackie watching the sleeping Jack and rededicating herself to their marriage — on the night before his death.<br />
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The Moon Duet depicts Jack and Jackie’s courtship, compressing several encounters into one, from “Don’t I know you?” to “You love me,” and it offers us glimpses of two young people before history caught hold of them. Jack’s charm, Jackie’s shyness (and sly intelligence), the irresistible force of their union: it’s all here, and it, too, is poignant, because we know what comes after. <br />
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To judge by the reaction in New York last night, audiences in Fort Worth will need Sham-wows, not handkerchiefs, to wipe their tears. Maybe mops. This opera is going to be tremendous, and Worth is ready: uncannily, he looked more like Kennedy the more he sang. And this Little mini-festival has further whetted my interest, not only in <i>JFK</i>, but also in everything yet to come.<br />
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<i>Little and Vavrek, Together Again.<br />
For this fan, it’s like getting to follow Mozart and da Ponte wherever they go.</i></div><br />
</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2455126179375366490.post-71993622674334940272016-01-29T07:33:00.000-05:002016-01-29T07:41:27.103-05:00David Gilmour, 69, Reported in ‘Extremely Cautious’ Condition<div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8NeZi2FvUfNUt5S3tO1i3lc6_mScTKr3mJ-5OqmzkuoioOJ0Uod3nKSKKTLqWFZVICAJNO0r0nFkAwyUgQXM1vZWKzDjj6CC0JS4g8YNfqd5IBJZcajRU4EjPnVbb2JdlPiJOG-Vgw/s1600/David+Gilmour+recent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy8NeZi2FvUfNUt5S3tO1i3lc6_mScTKr3mJ-5OqmzkuoioOJ0Uod3nKSKKTLqWFZVICAJNO0r0nFkAwyUgQXM1vZWKzDjj6CC0JS4g8YNfqd5IBJZcajRU4EjPnVbb2JdlPiJOG-Vgw/s400/David+Gilmour+recent.jpg" /></a><br />
<i>“He won’t even go near the guitar anymore,” say family members. “‘Do you realize how easily I could electrocute myself?,’ he says.”</i></div><br />
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LONDON -- David Gilmour, 69-year-old guitarist and co-lead vocalist of the band Pink Floyd, is reported in “extremely cautious” condition at his home outside London, following a series of accidents that befell other people.<br />
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“Look, David remains an influential musician, a rock icon, and he’s 69 years old,” a friend told the Associated Press. “He sees the headlines. He knows what’s happening. Bowie, Alan Rickman, both 69. Glen Frey, <i>almost</i> 69. Paul Kantner and Natalie Cole — even Robert Stigwood and Pierre Boulez. Not 69, but also extremely influential. Céline Dion’s brother. It’s crazy. I mean, the odds are good that David is next.”<br />
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Gilmour has taken up a regimen that includes wearing a heavily padded jumpsuit and a bubble-wrap helmet, crawling very slowly on all fours on the rare occasions he leaves his bed, staying away from windows, and mashing up all his food for two daily feedings. “He’s ordered one of those plastic bubbles, like John Travolta had,” Gilmour’s wife, Polly Samson, told reporters. “Honestly, it can’t get here soon enough for me. <br />
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“Oh, dear God,” Samson added, “it’s almost Travolta’s turn, isn’t it?” <br />
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<i>In happier, much less risky times.</i></div><span class="fullpost"> <br />
Gilmour joined Pink Floyd in 1967; exponents of progressive and psychedelic rock, the band is perhaps best known for <i>Dark Side of the Moon</i> (1973) and <i>The Wall</i>, two of the best-selling albums of all time. Gilmour has also pursued solo projects, and in 2008, he received the Ivor Novello Contribution Award for music writing, which he now refuses to touch, for fear of cutting himself.<br />
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In other news, family members report that veteran actress Betty White, 93, has locked herself in her room. “She won’t come out,” says one friend. “She won’t eat anything — says we’re all trying to poison her. If we even try to open the door, she starts firing a pistol. And she keeps shouting, ‘They got Abe Vigoda, but they’ll never get me!’ We’re at our wits’ end.” <br />
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</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">Copyright ©2015 William V. Madison, all rights reserved.</div>William V. Madisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120331095634473021noreply@blogger.com0