Two items to share today.
The first is Frank Rich's farewell op-ed in today's NYTimes. Good thing he's only going to my guilty pleasure-- NY Magazine.
The second makes Black Swan look like absolute child play.
Watch it and gasp. And then stretch. So that one day... you too might be able to...
Showing posts with label kudos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kudos. Show all posts
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
me and the Suicide Girls
I am directing a play right now where I thought it might be useful to use the Suicide Girls as a point of reference in talking to the playwright, actors and designers. In my research I came across one interview today where some SGs discuss how they used to feel like freaks but now that they ‘know there are others like them, they feel better.’ These characters are also sort of politically-minded post-feminists, but I was reminded of what the SG in the interview said when I was reading Sarah Ruhl’s Dead Man’s Cell Phone tonight. About finding your social/intellectual/spiritual brethren.
I have been meaning to read it for a couple of years—I devoured all of her other plays—and I read this one in one sitting… and this thing happens that happens often when I read her plays, or books by certain people (Nicole Krauss, Jonathan Safran Foer, Paul Auster, Sophie Calle, Annie Baker), or watch certain movies/tv shows (The Office, Me and You and Everyone We Know) – where I literally feel like I have had an identical experience/thought/conversation/longing/image/string of words in my head.
In this play it was: the cellphone ballet (eavesdropping/stolen moments), the Hopper sequences, the semi-vegetarianism. But it has happened with all of Ruhl’s plays that I have read. I used to want to perform in them—though in a way that feels a little redundant since I already feel like I LIVE in them… now, I can’t wait to DIRECT them.
I also think to myself, the whole thing is sort of strange though.
And there are two ways to go from here…
1) Well, how about that, maybe it’s true… nothing is original…
AND/OR
2) How absolutely wonderful. There are others like me. I am not so alone. And thank god these people write and make plays and movies and tv shows and I can read/watch them and laugh and cry and make sense of it all much more because I am not the protagonist in these stories.
Anyway, when I was thirteen I actually believed that my friends invented graffiti. So, there is a long history of having an inflated sense of my own life.
I’m sure it’s just the same for the Suicide Girls.
I have been meaning to read it for a couple of years—I devoured all of her other plays—and I read this one in one sitting… and this thing happens that happens often when I read her plays, or books by certain people (Nicole Krauss, Jonathan Safran Foer, Paul Auster, Sophie Calle, Annie Baker), or watch certain movies/tv shows (The Office, Me and You and Everyone We Know) – where I literally feel like I have had an identical experience/thought/conversation/longing/image/string of words in my head.
In this play it was: the cellphone ballet (eavesdropping/stolen moments), the Hopper sequences, the semi-vegetarianism. But it has happened with all of Ruhl’s plays that I have read. I used to want to perform in them—though in a way that feels a little redundant since I already feel like I LIVE in them… now, I can’t wait to DIRECT them.
I also think to myself, the whole thing is sort of strange though.
And there are two ways to go from here…
1) Well, how about that, maybe it’s true… nothing is original…
AND/OR
2) How absolutely wonderful. There are others like me. I am not so alone. And thank god these people write and make plays and movies and tv shows and I can read/watch them and laugh and cry and make sense of it all much more because I am not the protagonist in these stories.
Anyway, when I was thirteen I actually believed that my friends invented graffiti. So, there is a long history of having an inflated sense of my own life.
I’m sure it’s just the same for the Suicide Girls.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Killian's Red
I'm exhausted and over-extended at the moment-- I literally drove 11 hours in a 28-hour period this weekend, and the bookends to the time in Maine were not R&R, but rehearsals, rehearsals, and more rehearsals. I'm directing two shows that open next week and doing a lot of tutoring since it's the 'busy season' for college applications... but one day last week I was reading this story on the train and I have been thinking about it ever since. It grabbed my heart and made tears stream down my face even as I walked along 42nd street during rush hour with my eyes glued to the page.
It's super-inspiring and makes me think about how even when I feel like I'm having a hard day or things aren't going well in some small way-- I am very, very blessed. My job is to live this life to its fullest and to make the most of myself; and experience and share joy with the people I love. And hopefully, through my work, share some magic with people I don't know personally too.
Read this amazing story.
It's super-inspiring and makes me think about how even when I feel like I'm having a hard day or things aren't going well in some small way-- I am very, very blessed. My job is to live this life to its fullest and to make the most of myself; and experience and share joy with the people I love. And hopefully, through my work, share some magic with people I don't know personally too.
Read this amazing story.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
its really good when it feels like the world is converging
so, in recent personal news: I guess I moved back to NY. I am kind of happy, kind of sad. I really love LA but fortunately I really love NY too. For now, this is where it's at. I love my work and I am here to make it happen.
Tonight I went to see Fuerza Bruta.
I was traveling solo which was a little self-conscious-making at first.
I felt like I had wandered into a rave only everyone was sort of old and speaking German and Portuguese. The haze was steady and the beat was pounding as we stood in an area marked with a circle of tape on the floor. Over the course of the next hour I watched a Bond-type dfigure bound forward on a giant treadmill pushing through heavy rain, strong winds, a door, styrofoam crates and a wall of boxes. I watched two Amazonian women defy Newton's laws and chase each other on gorgeous giant mylar-- they ran at an angle very wanting for V8. There bodies were perpendicular to all of us standing on the ground and they were flying and tumbling and leaping across mylar that moved like sheets of rain in a hurricane, their bodies tiny at 60 feet high. A gaggle of mermaid-like beauties in gauzy dresses ran, dove, stretched and pounded on a football-size sheet of heavy-duty plastic filled with varying-degrees of water. The surface started high above us and floated down to just above our heads. Putting fingers to the surface, I could feel the dancers heat if not their wetness. In another section the entire cast did a sort of cross between Capoeira and aggressively-athletic Irish step dancing in unison while deconstructing a prototypical 'house' set. My favorite part was at the end though. I thought I had seen and felt it all. The gunshots and bloody shirt early on made me think of death, the fetal-like women encircling each other in womb-like water had made me think of birth.
The music got louder and louder and the lights and rain and smoke machines were dancing and everyone there joined in. All the Brazilian girls and German children ran towards the center and the rain started to pick up. Soon we were all drenched and sopping and sloshing to the music. I didn't feel alone at all anymore. Everyone seemed young and fun and beautiful.
Plus-- my friend Ryan Templeton's friend Jon Moris who I'd hung out with in LA was in the show and when I went to say hi one of my favorite LA people-- choreographer and designer extraordinnaire Ryan Heffington was there too. I saw friends, I danced with strangers; there was great SPECTACLE and I felt some real emotion. Brute force indeed.
All in all, good night.
Tonight I went to see Fuerza Bruta.
I was traveling solo which was a little self-conscious-making at first.
I felt like I had wandered into a rave only everyone was sort of old and speaking German and Portuguese. The haze was steady and the beat was pounding as we stood in an area marked with a circle of tape on the floor. Over the course of the next hour I watched a Bond-type dfigure bound forward on a giant treadmill pushing through heavy rain, strong winds, a door, styrofoam crates and a wall of boxes. I watched two Amazonian women defy Newton's laws and chase each other on gorgeous giant mylar-- they ran at an angle very wanting for V8. There bodies were perpendicular to all of us standing on the ground and they were flying and tumbling and leaping across mylar that moved like sheets of rain in a hurricane, their bodies tiny at 60 feet high. A gaggle of mermaid-like beauties in gauzy dresses ran, dove, stretched and pounded on a football-size sheet of heavy-duty plastic filled with varying-degrees of water. The surface started high above us and floated down to just above our heads. Putting fingers to the surface, I could feel the dancers heat if not their wetness. In another section the entire cast did a sort of cross between Capoeira and aggressively-athletic Irish step dancing in unison while deconstructing a prototypical 'house' set. My favorite part was at the end though. I thought I had seen and felt it all. The gunshots and bloody shirt early on made me think of death, the fetal-like women encircling each other in womb-like water had made me think of birth.
The music got louder and louder and the lights and rain and smoke machines were dancing and everyone there joined in. All the Brazilian girls and German children ran towards the center and the rain started to pick up. Soon we were all drenched and sopping and sloshing to the music. I didn't feel alone at all anymore. Everyone seemed young and fun and beautiful.
Plus-- my friend Ryan Templeton's friend Jon Moris who I'd hung out with in LA was in the show and when I went to say hi one of my favorite LA people-- choreographer and designer extraordinnaire Ryan Heffington was there too. I saw friends, I danced with strangers; there was great SPECTACLE and I felt some real emotion. Brute force indeed.
All in all, good night.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
moving circles
I went to see Les Ephemeres by Ariane Mnouchkine and Theatre du Soleil at the Armory as part of the Lincoln Center Festival tonight. The only other time I saw this company was at their home, the Cartoucherie, outside Paris, in June 2000. So much has happened since then. That show, Tambours sur la Digue, really changed my life-- and I'm not exaggerating.
As my friend Rob was saying yesterday, you can't judge what other people decide is their 'big stuff.' What they get worked up about, what pain they struggle with. It is all relative. And for me-- Theatre du Soleil and that show in particular was a PRETTY BIG DEAL.
The show tonight was a series of short vignettes, MANY vignettes-- that added up to an epic almost 3 1/2 hours. And that was only Part 1. The company has endeavored to bring a bit of the circus-barn feel to the Upper East Side and the audience was seated on bench seating with small cushions and not-deep backs on pretty steep risers. The audience faced each other and the action was played in a playing space with pewter silk fabric billowing at either end whenever a platform was wheeled on. The space was very long and the depth was further exploited when scenes would continue on in a sense, even as they were disappearing into the distance. A young adulterous mother sitting at a table with a single candle burning on Christmas Eve. A transexual woman and and a little girl watching an old movie right after blowing out the lights on the birthday cake. That sort of thing.
The NY Times did a bang-up job of describing the show and I won't make any attempt to do better. What I will say is what it left me with.
Mnouchkine is so genius at marrying an seemingly impossibly abstract idea/theme/issue to a visual/objective manifestation-- and the way this show was played was genius. This show is about the ephemerality of everything, of youth, of love, of family, of life... and so it of course is about memory. Each of the scenes were played on platforms on wheels-- most of them round, and one to three company members moved like serpentine gondoliers surreptitious manipulating them through the space. The 'plates' were always 'spinning.' Like a memory that swirls through your mind, as one element or person shifts into the foreground and then another, as your point of view invariably changes over time... and then inevitably, it all recedes. Spinning away into darkness.
Also, Mnouchkine is a genius at choosing both the extraordinary and the mundane. The extraordinary in the ordinary.
My boyfriend Alex and I had moments of impatience-- he thinks anything really profound can be said in 90 minutes... or 80 even... but that doesn't account for the transfixing meditation factor. And there was definitely a value-add as the piece played on. Storylines wove through each other and I felt like I was reading the Westing game all over again as I tried to put the puzzle pieces together.
In the final moment as the company took apart the circle where the last scene had taken place, and the theatrical lights turned to flashlights which gave way to tiny lights illuminating only the mass of people across the playing space, in near-darkness, in silhouette, I thought of our own ephemerality. How one day, not too long from now-- all the people in this theater will be gone, the moments of their lives spinning away into the darkness.
And the music swelled. And a few tears welled up. And I didn't want any of it to end.
As my friend Rob was saying yesterday, you can't judge what other people decide is their 'big stuff.' What they get worked up about, what pain they struggle with. It is all relative. And for me-- Theatre du Soleil and that show in particular was a PRETTY BIG DEAL.
The show tonight was a series of short vignettes, MANY vignettes-- that added up to an epic almost 3 1/2 hours. And that was only Part 1. The company has endeavored to bring a bit of the circus-barn feel to the Upper East Side and the audience was seated on bench seating with small cushions and not-deep backs on pretty steep risers. The audience faced each other and the action was played in a playing space with pewter silk fabric billowing at either end whenever a platform was wheeled on. The space was very long and the depth was further exploited when scenes would continue on in a sense, even as they were disappearing into the distance. A young adulterous mother sitting at a table with a single candle burning on Christmas Eve. A transexual woman and and a little girl watching an old movie right after blowing out the lights on the birthday cake. That sort of thing.
The NY Times did a bang-up job of describing the show and I won't make any attempt to do better. What I will say is what it left me with.
Mnouchkine is so genius at marrying an seemingly impossibly abstract idea/theme/issue to a visual/objective manifestation-- and the way this show was played was genius. This show is about the ephemerality of everything, of youth, of love, of family, of life... and so it of course is about memory. Each of the scenes were played on platforms on wheels-- most of them round, and one to three company members moved like serpentine gondoliers surreptitious manipulating them through the space. The 'plates' were always 'spinning.' Like a memory that swirls through your mind, as one element or person shifts into the foreground and then another, as your point of view invariably changes over time... and then inevitably, it all recedes. Spinning away into darkness.
Also, Mnouchkine is a genius at choosing both the extraordinary and the mundane. The extraordinary in the ordinary.
My boyfriend Alex and I had moments of impatience-- he thinks anything really profound can be said in 90 minutes... or 80 even... but that doesn't account for the transfixing meditation factor. And there was definitely a value-add as the piece played on. Storylines wove through each other and I felt like I was reading the Westing game all over again as I tried to put the puzzle pieces together.
In the final moment as the company took apart the circle where the last scene had taken place, and the theatrical lights turned to flashlights which gave way to tiny lights illuminating only the mass of people across the playing space, in near-darkness, in silhouette, I thought of our own ephemerality. How one day, not too long from now-- all the people in this theater will be gone, the moments of their lives spinning away into the darkness.
And the music swelled. And a few tears welled up. And I didn't want any of it to end.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
art I recommend
I am so in love with art, and the brave, hardworking souls who make it.
Two pieces I saw in the last few days have totally floored me.
Now maybe I am coming really late to this party but Up was my first Pixar film. Truth be told, probably one of only a handful of animated movies I've ever seen. I don't know if they are all this good. But this one is. SO BRILLIANT and beautiful and heartbreaking. I cried. Twice. And I smiled a lot. And guffawed a couple of times too.
The other piece, the Broadway musical Next to Normal gave me a similar sensation. I stood in the rush ticket line this morning, which of course only adds to the experience-- should a person be lucky enough to get in. [Or you can get there at 5am, as many people did, mothers and daughters and young Hugh Jackmans with their folding chairs and snacks and theater trivia games.] I listened to so many repeat offenders, young and old people who love this show and are so empowered by it. People were trading lots of stories, how mental illness or the loss of a child had touched their lives personally. Then, tonight, I sat smack in the center of the front row and watched a bunch of sickly talented superstars sing and move and talk in really gut-wrenching, visually-satisfying, emotionally-potent ways. I am so amazed at the boldness of this show-- dealing with this very real, little-talked about subject matter. And it reminds me of how I felt when I saw Rent, in 1997.
And it also reminds me that theater (insert: 'that I like') doesn't always have to cool, or even try to be cool. It will serve me to remember that when people make something that is true and beautiful and depressing and sincere and (seemingly) hopelessly un-commercial it is VERY cool. It is very cool to feel things deeply. Especially in live performance. Sometimes it's easier to feel things more in movies, that distancing effect, (watching movies on airplanes even more so!)-- but it's not impossible to be completely transported by live theater. It's hard, but worth the try I guess.
In the front row next to me tonight two college-age girls held hands as they shook with tears streaming down their faces. Then after the show, they both said how much better they felt and how much people were talking about 'stuff-- because of the show.'
Talking about 'stuff' ... and also empowered and seriously entertained.
Two pieces I saw in the last few days have totally floored me.
Now maybe I am coming really late to this party but Up was my first Pixar film. Truth be told, probably one of only a handful of animated movies I've ever seen. I don't know if they are all this good. But this one is. SO BRILLIANT and beautiful and heartbreaking. I cried. Twice. And I smiled a lot. And guffawed a couple of times too.
The other piece, the Broadway musical Next to Normal gave me a similar sensation. I stood in the rush ticket line this morning, which of course only adds to the experience-- should a person be lucky enough to get in. [Or you can get there at 5am, as many people did, mothers and daughters and young Hugh Jackmans with their folding chairs and snacks and theater trivia games.] I listened to so many repeat offenders, young and old people who love this show and are so empowered by it. People were trading lots of stories, how mental illness or the loss of a child had touched their lives personally. Then, tonight, I sat smack in the center of the front row and watched a bunch of sickly talented superstars sing and move and talk in really gut-wrenching, visually-satisfying, emotionally-potent ways. I am so amazed at the boldness of this show-- dealing with this very real, little-talked about subject matter. And it reminds me of how I felt when I saw Rent, in 1997.
And it also reminds me that theater (insert: 'that I like') doesn't always have to cool, or even try to be cool. It will serve me to remember that when people make something that is true and beautiful and depressing and sincere and (seemingly) hopelessly un-commercial it is VERY cool. It is very cool to feel things deeply. Especially in live performance. Sometimes it's easier to feel things more in movies, that distancing effect, (watching movies on airplanes even more so!)-- but it's not impossible to be completely transported by live theater. It's hard, but worth the try I guess.
In the front row next to me tonight two college-age girls held hands as they shook with tears streaming down their faces. Then after the show, they both said how much better they felt and how much people were talking about 'stuff-- because of the show.'
Talking about 'stuff' ... and also empowered and seriously entertained.
Friday, August 29, 2008
"a change we can believe in"
That was the theme of the Democratic National Convention last night as Obama took the stage for the biggest speech of his life. A minor thing but as my Obama-blogging friend Sam pointed out-- that line begins with my three initials... Coincidence??
Just kidding.
After the second performance of Sexual Perversity in Chicago at the WHAT Harbor Stage a few of us went over to my friend Siri's house for an impromptu viewing party. My very old friend (and the director of SPC) Brendan Hughes came, as did the actor Lewis Wheeler. Siri's younger brother and sister were also there and we watched the coverage completely rapt in almost total silence for over an hour. We got excited about all the different viewing parties that were being shown (Times Square had the look and energy of a typical New Year's there) and were delighted that people of all ages, classes, ethnicities seemed to be energized by Obama's words the way sports fans might watch the Superbowl or cinephiles-- the Oscars. But this is neither sport nor entertainment-- there is an aspect of each... but this is MUCH more serious than that.
I was so thrilled by all of the points Obama raised, his elegant tone, the nitty-gritty of his policies and the McCain attacks he anticipated and gracefully shot down. I loved his charisma and his warmth and his passion. Brendan was saying he is like a cross between JFK and Abraham Lincoln and I like that idea. Most of all, I trust him. And really, that is the most important thing. When he spoke so eloquently about the complexities of race politics in that speech in Philadelphia I was amazed at his unbelievable (and sometimes rare in men, much less politicians) ability to see the multitudinous sides of a thing, different and valid perspectives, different motivations, generations of ignorance/patterned behavior, etc. Again last night I felt like his recognition of how our different life circumstances inform our different hopes/desires/needs from our leaders and our government. [When he talked about how a hunter would have different ideas about gun control than city dwellers threatened by gun violence, etc...] His understanding of America is incredibly-nuanced and as such his record and his ideas for the future are exactly what this country needs right now. Not only for our domestic policies but for international diplomacy and America's street cred as a great and generous nation... Obama and Biden are our ticket.
Most of all the message that resounded with me last night was about compassion. We might not always be perfect, we might not always be at the top of our game, but we must ALWAYS be compassionate. We must help each other, and treat each other with respect and dignity, and look out for the future of our children and our planet.
Brendan has a one-man show that he has been working on and performing weekly out here in Wellfleet called Oomphalos. [Last show this Saturday at 9pm, what.org] I saw it last week and I loved it. One of the major points Brendan touches on in the show is also about compassion. He shares tons of facts and philosophy with us, and a fair share of personal history-- and makes us laugh and makes us pluck rubber bands that give the sensation of our heart strings reverberating... and he shares his wonderful world view. He says if the 20th century is about ideas and great inventions and the like... the 21st century must be about how we treat each other and our planet.
Last week he also made a video that he showed as it was indeed the fateful anniversary... and I think it will make you laugh and think a little bit.
Just kidding.
After the second performance of Sexual Perversity in Chicago at the WHAT Harbor Stage a few of us went over to my friend Siri's house for an impromptu viewing party. My very old friend (and the director of SPC) Brendan Hughes came, as did the actor Lewis Wheeler. Siri's younger brother and sister were also there and we watched the coverage completely rapt in almost total silence for over an hour. We got excited about all the different viewing parties that were being shown (Times Square had the look and energy of a typical New Year's there) and were delighted that people of all ages, classes, ethnicities seemed to be energized by Obama's words the way sports fans might watch the Superbowl or cinephiles-- the Oscars. But this is neither sport nor entertainment-- there is an aspect of each... but this is MUCH more serious than that.
I was so thrilled by all of the points Obama raised, his elegant tone, the nitty-gritty of his policies and the McCain attacks he anticipated and gracefully shot down. I loved his charisma and his warmth and his passion. Brendan was saying he is like a cross between JFK and Abraham Lincoln and I like that idea. Most of all, I trust him. And really, that is the most important thing. When he spoke so eloquently about the complexities of race politics in that speech in Philadelphia I was amazed at his unbelievable (and sometimes rare in men, much less politicians) ability to see the multitudinous sides of a thing, different and valid perspectives, different motivations, generations of ignorance/patterned behavior, etc. Again last night I felt like his recognition of how our different life circumstances inform our different hopes/desires/needs from our leaders and our government. [When he talked about how a hunter would have different ideas about gun control than city dwellers threatened by gun violence, etc...] His understanding of America is incredibly-nuanced and as such his record and his ideas for the future are exactly what this country needs right now. Not only for our domestic policies but for international diplomacy and America's street cred as a great and generous nation... Obama and Biden are our ticket.
Most of all the message that resounded with me last night was about compassion. We might not always be perfect, we might not always be at the top of our game, but we must ALWAYS be compassionate. We must help each other, and treat each other with respect and dignity, and look out for the future of our children and our planet.
Brendan has a one-man show that he has been working on and performing weekly out here in Wellfleet called Oomphalos. [Last show this Saturday at 9pm, what.org] I saw it last week and I loved it. One of the major points Brendan touches on in the show is also about compassion. He shares tons of facts and philosophy with us, and a fair share of personal history-- and makes us laugh and makes us pluck rubber bands that give the sensation of our heart strings reverberating... and he shares his wonderful world view. He says if the 20th century is about ideas and great inventions and the like... the 21st century must be about how we treat each other and our planet.
Last week he also made a video that he showed as it was indeed the fateful anniversary... and I think it will make you laugh and think a little bit.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
pouring pride
It is a rainy afternoon in the Berkshires and I just finished sewing my snow bag
(almost every show I have put together since, oh, Moriah and my birthday's in 1986 or so have had snow scenes in them, I grew up on The Nutcracker-- what can I say?)
I have a moment to look out the window and take it all in and I am filled with so much pride and happiness.
I have had this same feeling several times in the past couple months. A feeling like in some way the universe in converging in a good way for some of the extraordinarily talented people I know and they are pouring forth their gifts and the universe is RECEIVING them most graciously and with smiles on everyone's faces. I am really really proud of all the hard work these people I know have been putting in, and I have recognized their talents for a long time, and it is a damn good feeling when good things happen to good people. It gives me hope and renews my faith and it is fun to have really successful friends too. Because they are doing what they love and they are happy. Which makes me happy.
Here's a little ditty:
Yay for Alex T. & Sara B. & Beau W. & Sam G.
& Erica R. & Tom F. & Emily R. & Emily C.
Yay for Adam H., Jimmi S. & my old babysitter Brendan
making a ruckus in Wellfleet Harbor
also for Sara-had-a-little Lamb
way across the pond in London-tam...
horrible. I know. Well, it's the thought that counts. Right?
(almost every show I have put together since, oh, Moriah and my birthday's in 1986 or so have had snow scenes in them, I grew up on The Nutcracker-- what can I say?)
I have a moment to look out the window and take it all in and I am filled with so much pride and happiness.
I have had this same feeling several times in the past couple months. A feeling like in some way the universe in converging in a good way for some of the extraordinarily talented people I know and they are pouring forth their gifts and the universe is RECEIVING them most graciously and with smiles on everyone's faces. I am really really proud of all the hard work these people I know have been putting in, and I have recognized their talents for a long time, and it is a damn good feeling when good things happen to good people. It gives me hope and renews my faith and it is fun to have really successful friends too. Because they are doing what they love and they are happy. Which makes me happy.
Here's a little ditty:
Yay for Alex T. & Sara B. & Beau W. & Sam G.
& Erica R. & Tom F. & Emily R. & Emily C.
Yay for Adam H., Jimmi S. & my old babysitter Brendan
making a ruckus in Wellfleet Harbor
also for Sara-had-a-little Lamb
way across the pond in London-tam...
horrible. I know. Well, it's the thought that counts. Right?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I love the zamboni cart guy
the unexamined life is not worth living
age 17 on a blanket with daphne, then finding it on the inside of a DRUM tobacco wrapper. really.
the examined life is not living
the time in your life when thinking or being told any thing immediately sends you into a tailspin imagining its inverse, converse, or opposite.
when you draw attention to the moments by doing something so small, so still, it almost seems obvious. that is brilliant.
age 17 on a blanket with daphne, then finding it on the inside of a DRUM tobacco wrapper. really.
the examined life is not living
the time in your life when thinking or being told any thing immediately sends you into a tailspin imagining its inverse, converse, or opposite.
when you draw attention to the moments by doing something so small, so still, it almost seems obvious. that is brilliant.
Monday, March 3, 2008
leap boy!
well, there is a new man in my life. He is twenty inches long and he made an Auntie out of me and he was born on the most special, truly most rare day of the year.
I came across these blogs, thank you Erica, and they make for lovely and amazing thoughts.
the first one makes me think of the many wonderful boys/men I have known in my life, how there is a little bit of a pirate spirit in many of them... not scary or violent pirates, but adventurous and full of romantic notions and wildly original. I still gotta see Pirates of the Caribbean but I'm thinking the Johnny Depp character, Jack Sparrow, is sort of a good prototype. Swaggering and unpredictable but loyal and with a heart of gold. And this blog is full of great pictures and clever quips and I don't think it's just for boys.
http://theborderlinesociopathicblogforboys.blogspot.com
this next one is by the same author but tackles or just sorta ruminates on questions of a slightly weightier sort. I wish he could go head to head with Hillary and Barack and raise these weaknesses of the euphemized-to-death 'universal healthcare' agenda... I am not big on going to the doctor for a cough or cold, but I think realize that even as I am in one of the lowest income-brackets I am still in the catbird seat when it comes to taking my health and access etc for granted, especially as I don't have a family of my own to worry about.
http://sippicancottage.blogspot.com
I especially like the postings froms February 28th and 29th. And crazily enough, this writer man is from a small little town outside Boston that I have spent a lot of time. Small world.
I came across these blogs, thank you Erica, and they make for lovely and amazing thoughts.
the first one makes me think of the many wonderful boys/men I have known in my life, how there is a little bit of a pirate spirit in many of them... not scary or violent pirates, but adventurous and full of romantic notions and wildly original. I still gotta see Pirates of the Caribbean but I'm thinking the Johnny Depp character, Jack Sparrow, is sort of a good prototype. Swaggering and unpredictable but loyal and with a heart of gold. And this blog is full of great pictures and clever quips and I don't think it's just for boys.
http://theborderlinesociopathicblogforboys.blogspot.com
this next one is by the same author but tackles or just sorta ruminates on questions of a slightly weightier sort. I wish he could go head to head with Hillary and Barack and raise these weaknesses of the euphemized-to-death 'universal healthcare' agenda... I am not big on going to the doctor for a cough or cold, but I think realize that even as I am in one of the lowest income-brackets I am still in the catbird seat when it comes to taking my health and access etc for granted, especially as I don't have a family of my own to worry about.
http://sippicancottage.blogspot.com
I especially like the postings froms February 28th and 29th. And crazily enough, this writer man is from a small little town outside Boston that I have spent a lot of time. Small world.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
it's not a glass half-empty or half-full thing
I was awake and walking downtown near the LA River this morning just before the sun rose. The adventure of the hours before is a story for another time but this pre-dawn walk got me thinking. And probably the state I am in now, more than twelve hours later and with little sleep in between is making me extra sensitive... but I just read this article and I want to share it with you. I have always been 'on the sensitive side,' which is great in some ways-- when I am very happy, it is a very deep and resounding celebration... but when I am sad, or upset, or frustrated, or just sort of gloomy-- that course runs deep as well. I have always been fascinated with certain 'dark' things, sad songs, so-called 'depressing' movies/books/plays/art etc... and whatnot. The colors of Van Gogh's emotional drama. The angst of Conor Oberst's aching loneliness paired with his incredible social insight. The stark and unadorned beauty of Bergman's or Tarkovsky's perspectives on life, and love, and family, and death. Even the seemingly objective resignation to the daily traumas of life in Joan Didion's writing make me feel sad, but also happy, because they ring true for me. I didn't even realize Sarah Kane's "4.48 Psychoses" was a 'depressing' play per se-- I just thought it was so pure and true. Now I can see that it verily is depressing, as well as pure, and incredible, and sadly quite prophetic for it's author... anyway, I have loved Sarah Ruhl's "Melancholy Play" since I first read it a year ago and this article seems incredibly aligned with it. Like the circa-1500 treatise referenced within the play.
from today's LA Times...
The miracle of melancholia
We're a nation obsessed with being happy, but sometimes feeling bad can do you some good.
By Eric G. Wilson
February 17, 2008
In april of 1819, right around the time that he began to suffer the first symptoms of tuberculosis -- the disease that had already killed his mother and his beloved brother, Tom -- the poet John Keats sat down and wrote, in a letter to his brother, George, the following question: "Do you not see how necessary a World of Pains and troubles is to school an Intelligence and make it a Soul?"
Implied in this inquiry is an idea that is not very popular these days -- at least not in the United States, which is characterized by an almost collective yearning for complete happiness. That idea is this: A person can only become a fully formed human being, as opposed to a mere mind, through suffering and sorrow. This notion would seem quite strange, possibly even deranged, in a country in which almost 85% of the population claims, according to the Pew Research Center, to be "very happy" or at least "happy."
Indeed, in light of our recent craze for positive psychology -- a brand of psychotherapy designed not so much to heal mental illness as to increase happiness -- as well as in light of our increasing reliance on pills that reduce sadness, anxiety and fear, we are likely to challenge Keats' meditation outright, to condemn it as a dangerous and dated affront to the modern American dream.
But does the American addiction to happiness make any sense, especially in light of the poverty, ecological disaster and war that now haunt the globe, daily annihilating hundreds if not thousands? Isn't it, in fact, a recipe for delusion?
And aren't we merely trying to slice away what is most probably an essential part of our hearts, that part that can reconcile us to facts, no matter how harsh, and that also can inspire us to imagine new and more creative ways to engage with the world? Bereft of this integral element of our selves, we settle for a status quo. We yearn for comfort at any cost. We covet a good night's sleep. We trade fortitude for blandness.
When Keats invoked the fertility of pain, he knew what he was talking about. Though he was young when he composed his question -- only 24 -- he had already experienced a lifetime of pain. His father had died after falling from a horse when the future poet was only 9. A few years later, Keats nursed his mother assiduously through tuberculosis, but she died in 1810, when he was 15. Soon after, he was taken from a boarding school he loved and required to apprentice as an apothecary; he then underwent a gruesome course in surgery in one of London's hospitals (in the days before anesthesia).
Orphaned and mournful, Keats spent his days brooding. But after much contemplation, he decided that sorrow was not a state to be avoided, not a weakness of the will or a disease requiring cure. On the contrary, Keats discovered that his ongoing gloom was in fact the inspiration for his greatest ideas and his most enduring creations.
What makes us melancholy, Keats concluded, is our awareness of things inevitably passing -- of brothers dying before they reach 20; of nightingales that cease their songs; of peonies drooping at noon. But it is precisely when we sense impending death that we grasp the world's beauty.
Keats was of course not the only great artist to translate melancholia into exuberance. This metamorphosis of sadness to joy has been a perennial if frequently unacknowledged current in Western art.
Consider George Frideric Handel, the 18th century composer. By 1741, when he was in his mid-50s, Handel found himself a fallen man. Once a ruler of the musical world, he had suffered several failed operas as well as poor health. He was left in a state of poverty, sickness and heartsickness. Living in a run-down house in a poor part of London, he expected any day to be thrown into debtor's prison or to die.
But then, out of nowhere, as if by some divine agency, Handel received a libretto based on the life of Jesus and an invitation to compose a work for a charity benefit performance. On Aug. 22, 1741, in his squalid rooms on Brook Street, Handel saw potentialities no one had before seen. Immediately, he felt a creative vitality course through his veins. During a 24-day period, he barely slept or ate. He only composed, and then composed more. At the close of this brief period, he had completed "Messiah," his greatest work, a gift from the depths of melancholia.
We could also recall Georgia O'Keeffe, the 20th century painter. In the late 1920s and early 1930s, O'Keeffe left the East Coast for Taos, N.M. She fell profoundly in love with the lonely vistas of this world denuded of human corruption. However, even though she was enlivened by this part of the world, in 1932, her lifelong battle with melancholia caught up with her. She was hospitalized for psychoneurosis.
Rather than quelling her creative spirit, this breakdown did the opposite. Upon being discharged, she returned to the Southwest. There, in 1935, she painted some of her bleakest and most beautiful landscapes: "Purple Hills near Abiquiu" and "Ram's Head, White Hollyhock Hills." Both feature dark things amid the desert's glare -- gloomy shadows and stormy clouds. Into these haunting shades -- hovering amid hard-scrabble rock and a sinister skull -- one stares. One senses something there as silent and sacred as bones.
Joni Mitchell confessed in an interview that she has frequently endured long periods of gloom. But she has not shied away from the darkness. Instead, she sees her sorrow as the "sand that makes the pearl" -- as the terrible friction that produces the lustrous sphere. Given her fruitful struggles with sadness, Mitchell has understandably feared its absence. "Chase away the demons," she has said, "and they will take the angels with them."
Melancholia, far from error or defect, is an almost miraculous invitation to rise above the contented status quo and imagine untapped possibilities. We need sorrow, constant and robust, to make us human, alive, sensitive to the sweet rhythms of growth and decay, death and life.
This of course does not mean that we should simply wallow in gloom, that we should wantonly cultivate depression. I'm not out to romanticize mental illnesses that can end in madness or suicide.
On the contrary, following Keats and those like him, I'm valorizing a fundamental emotion too frequently avoided in the American scene. I'm offering hope to those millions who feel guilty for being downhearted. I'm saying that it's more than all right to descend into introspective gloom. In fact, it is crucial, a call to what might be the best portion of ourselves, those depths where the most lasting truths lie.
Eric G. Wilson is a professor of English at Wake Forest University and author of "Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy."
from today's LA Times...
The miracle of melancholia
We're a nation obsessed with being happy, but sometimes feeling bad can do you some good.
By Eric G. Wilson
February 17, 2008
In april of 1819, right around the time that he began to suffer the first symptoms of tuberculosis -- the disease that had already killed his mother and his beloved brother, Tom -- the poet John Keats sat down and wrote, in a letter to his brother, George, the following question: "Do you not see how necessary a World of Pains and troubles is to school an Intelligence and make it a Soul?"
Implied in this inquiry is an idea that is not very popular these days -- at least not in the United States, which is characterized by an almost collective yearning for complete happiness. That idea is this: A person can only become a fully formed human being, as opposed to a mere mind, through suffering and sorrow. This notion would seem quite strange, possibly even deranged, in a country in which almost 85% of the population claims, according to the Pew Research Center, to be "very happy" or at least "happy."
Indeed, in light of our recent craze for positive psychology -- a brand of psychotherapy designed not so much to heal mental illness as to increase happiness -- as well as in light of our increasing reliance on pills that reduce sadness, anxiety and fear, we are likely to challenge Keats' meditation outright, to condemn it as a dangerous and dated affront to the modern American dream.
But does the American addiction to happiness make any sense, especially in light of the poverty, ecological disaster and war that now haunt the globe, daily annihilating hundreds if not thousands? Isn't it, in fact, a recipe for delusion?
And aren't we merely trying to slice away what is most probably an essential part of our hearts, that part that can reconcile us to facts, no matter how harsh, and that also can inspire us to imagine new and more creative ways to engage with the world? Bereft of this integral element of our selves, we settle for a status quo. We yearn for comfort at any cost. We covet a good night's sleep. We trade fortitude for blandness.
When Keats invoked the fertility of pain, he knew what he was talking about. Though he was young when he composed his question -- only 24 -- he had already experienced a lifetime of pain. His father had died after falling from a horse when the future poet was only 9. A few years later, Keats nursed his mother assiduously through tuberculosis, but she died in 1810, when he was 15. Soon after, he was taken from a boarding school he loved and required to apprentice as an apothecary; he then underwent a gruesome course in surgery in one of London's hospitals (in the days before anesthesia).
Orphaned and mournful, Keats spent his days brooding. But after much contemplation, he decided that sorrow was not a state to be avoided, not a weakness of the will or a disease requiring cure. On the contrary, Keats discovered that his ongoing gloom was in fact the inspiration for his greatest ideas and his most enduring creations.
What makes us melancholy, Keats concluded, is our awareness of things inevitably passing -- of brothers dying before they reach 20; of nightingales that cease their songs; of peonies drooping at noon. But it is precisely when we sense impending death that we grasp the world's beauty.
Keats was of course not the only great artist to translate melancholia into exuberance. This metamorphosis of sadness to joy has been a perennial if frequently unacknowledged current in Western art.
Consider George Frideric Handel, the 18th century composer. By 1741, when he was in his mid-50s, Handel found himself a fallen man. Once a ruler of the musical world, he had suffered several failed operas as well as poor health. He was left in a state of poverty, sickness and heartsickness. Living in a run-down house in a poor part of London, he expected any day to be thrown into debtor's prison or to die.
But then, out of nowhere, as if by some divine agency, Handel received a libretto based on the life of Jesus and an invitation to compose a work for a charity benefit performance. On Aug. 22, 1741, in his squalid rooms on Brook Street, Handel saw potentialities no one had before seen. Immediately, he felt a creative vitality course through his veins. During a 24-day period, he barely slept or ate. He only composed, and then composed more. At the close of this brief period, he had completed "Messiah," his greatest work, a gift from the depths of melancholia.
We could also recall Georgia O'Keeffe, the 20th century painter. In the late 1920s and early 1930s, O'Keeffe left the East Coast for Taos, N.M. She fell profoundly in love with the lonely vistas of this world denuded of human corruption. However, even though she was enlivened by this part of the world, in 1932, her lifelong battle with melancholia caught up with her. She was hospitalized for psychoneurosis.
Rather than quelling her creative spirit, this breakdown did the opposite. Upon being discharged, she returned to the Southwest. There, in 1935, she painted some of her bleakest and most beautiful landscapes: "Purple Hills near Abiquiu" and "Ram's Head, White Hollyhock Hills." Both feature dark things amid the desert's glare -- gloomy shadows and stormy clouds. Into these haunting shades -- hovering amid hard-scrabble rock and a sinister skull -- one stares. One senses something there as silent and sacred as bones.
Joni Mitchell confessed in an interview that she has frequently endured long periods of gloom. But she has not shied away from the darkness. Instead, she sees her sorrow as the "sand that makes the pearl" -- as the terrible friction that produces the lustrous sphere. Given her fruitful struggles with sadness, Mitchell has understandably feared its absence. "Chase away the demons," she has said, "and they will take the angels with them."
Melancholia, far from error or defect, is an almost miraculous invitation to rise above the contented status quo and imagine untapped possibilities. We need sorrow, constant and robust, to make us human, alive, sensitive to the sweet rhythms of growth and decay, death and life.
This of course does not mean that we should simply wallow in gloom, that we should wantonly cultivate depression. I'm not out to romanticize mental illnesses that can end in madness or suicide.
On the contrary, following Keats and those like him, I'm valorizing a fundamental emotion too frequently avoided in the American scene. I'm offering hope to those millions who feel guilty for being downhearted. I'm saying that it's more than all right to descend into introspective gloom. In fact, it is crucial, a call to what might be the best portion of ourselves, those depths where the most lasting truths lie.
Eric G. Wilson is a professor of English at Wake Forest University and author of "Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy."
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
"happiness is only real when it's shared"
I saw Into the Wild the other night and I can't stop thinking about it.
It made me feel an incredible amount, which is something I always appreciate, and I am excited that the feeling has not waned in the days since I saw the movie. If anything, the feelings have grown. I walked out of the movie about 4 minutes after the last people had left the theater, and I felt so moved it was literally hard to walk. My knees didn't seem to work. As if the feelings, the thoughts and the change in me was physical.
My favorite parts about the movie/story were
* Chris' conviction, integrity, COMMITMENT
* the relationships, and the way they differed, but all showed that loving someone SO MUCH can sometimes mean letting them go, (away even) ... and even if you are worried for their judgement or their future or them forgetting about you ... when you really love someone you want them to fully realize who THEY are MORE than you want to see their beautiful face everyday. [Sometimes, maybe, the two are not mutually exclusive.]
* the simplicity Chris was able to find in moments, exchanges, stupid jobs, -- the ecstasy of the apple scene, his time with Wayne, his time with Rainey and Jan, the naked hot dog couple, ... even working at Burger King
* "I've never been as happy as when I was penniless"
* his lack of obstinacy regarding change in the realms of his plans, his vision, his pleasures, relationships ... it is well and GOOD to be flexible, and fluid, and OPEN
* his embrace of intensity -- feeling things deeply, caring DEEPLY for people in his life (without suffocating them), for his goals, for his values, for his perseverance, sensitivity, quest for truth-- 'calling things by their true name'
* his sense of humor and perspective
* his sincerity
... ALL of this achieved without riches, addiction, drugs, alcohol, or drama ...
but instead, through balance and conviction
and most importantly, that last line (and the title of this post):
"happiness is only real when its shared"
I loved the film. the story as Sean Penn saw it. the (probably) myth of Chris McCandless ... the performances, the cinematography, the people who inspired Chris, the book and writers and nature, and Eddie Vedder's music ...
Damn. gush gush gush
now what?
(everything is changing)
It made me feel an incredible amount, which is something I always appreciate, and I am excited that the feeling has not waned in the days since I saw the movie. If anything, the feelings have grown. I walked out of the movie about 4 minutes after the last people had left the theater, and I felt so moved it was literally hard to walk. My knees didn't seem to work. As if the feelings, the thoughts and the change in me was physical.
My favorite parts about the movie/story were
* Chris' conviction, integrity, COMMITMENT
* the relationships, and the way they differed, but all showed that loving someone SO MUCH can sometimes mean letting them go, (away even) ... and even if you are worried for their judgement or their future or them forgetting about you ... when you really love someone you want them to fully realize who THEY are MORE than you want to see their beautiful face everyday. [Sometimes, maybe, the two are not mutually exclusive.]
* the simplicity Chris was able to find in moments, exchanges, stupid jobs, -- the ecstasy of the apple scene, his time with Wayne, his time with Rainey and Jan, the naked hot dog couple, ... even working at Burger King
* "I've never been as happy as when I was penniless"
* his lack of obstinacy regarding change in the realms of his plans, his vision, his pleasures, relationships ... it is well and GOOD to be flexible, and fluid, and OPEN
* his embrace of intensity -- feeling things deeply, caring DEEPLY for people in his life (without suffocating them), for his goals, for his values, for his perseverance, sensitivity, quest for truth-- 'calling things by their true name'
* his sense of humor and perspective
* his sincerity
... ALL of this achieved without riches, addiction, drugs, alcohol, or drama ...
but instead, through balance and conviction
and most importantly, that last line (and the title of this post):
"happiness is only real when its shared"
I loved the film. the story as Sean Penn saw it. the (probably) myth of Chris McCandless ... the performances, the cinematography, the people who inspired Chris, the book and writers and nature, and Eddie Vedder's music ...
Damn. gush gush gush
now what?
(everything is changing)
Sunday, October 21, 2007
on a dime
Things can change.
I just stopped by my dad's blog (http://bigmangettingsmaller.blogspot.com/) ... which I wonder may one day be akin to stopping by someone's home for a sit-down and storytelling... I can tell you right now I would love to visit with many loved ones, but the 3,000 mile distance makes looking at their words a bit more do-able.
I just finished writing the posting below and felt inspired and fairly happy in the 'outlook' department when I hit the Play button on the 'soundtrack' my dad selected for today's writing. It is an amazing song I have been obsessed with since I first heard it at age 9 when my sister brought it home from summer camp with her. It is called "Kilkelly, Ireland" and my dad has found an incredible video that is sort of a visual narrative of the song (which was based on actual letters from a father to his son) using historical photographs.
Perhaps needless to say but I sobbed for the next 4 minutes. I have been thinking about 'important things' an unusual, and perhaps unhealthy, amount lately. I am torn over whether I am sort of a glutton for sadness right now or if I am just being honest with myself and doing the necessary 'riding it out.' It is hard sometimes not to let the sad and horrible things going on in the world, both macro and micro, get a sensitive girl down. Thank goodness for jokes and funny movies and the Red Sox right now!!
My dad's writing is quite powerful as well and I recommend to all taking a look.
I just stopped by my dad's blog (http://bigmangettingsmaller.blogspot.com/) ... which I wonder may one day be akin to stopping by someone's home for a sit-down and storytelling... I can tell you right now I would love to visit with many loved ones, but the 3,000 mile distance makes looking at their words a bit more do-able.
I just finished writing the posting below and felt inspired and fairly happy in the 'outlook' department when I hit the Play button on the 'soundtrack' my dad selected for today's writing. It is an amazing song I have been obsessed with since I first heard it at age 9 when my sister brought it home from summer camp with her. It is called "Kilkelly, Ireland" and my dad has found an incredible video that is sort of a visual narrative of the song (which was based on actual letters from a father to his son) using historical photographs.
Perhaps needless to say but I sobbed for the next 4 minutes. I have been thinking about 'important things' an unusual, and perhaps unhealthy, amount lately. I am torn over whether I am sort of a glutton for sadness right now or if I am just being honest with myself and doing the necessary 'riding it out.' It is hard sometimes not to let the sad and horrible things going on in the world, both macro and micro, get a sensitive girl down. Thank goodness for jokes and funny movies and the Red Sox right now!!
My dad's writing is quite powerful as well and I recommend to all taking a look.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Miss Musical
Apparently I am a huge musical aficionado. Actually, I'm not. But I have seen two in the past four days. And I saw a couple this summer, and I saw one this spring/summer about 7 times. Why, you ask? Well, for many reasons. For love. To support. For fun... For reasons to do with the musical that my mom and I are working on. For the reason of being on a quest to satisfy multiple unusual obsessions with the recordings of musicals I had not yet seen. That sort of thing.
On Saturday I went to Wicked which I feel like I am the last person I know to see-- even all the 11 year-olds I know saw it LAST year... and tonight I saw A Catered Affair, a brand spanking new musical by Harvey Feurstein. It is going to Broaway next Spring but if you can get to San Diego in the near future-- go see it!!!!!!! it was absolutely amazing. There was a talk back after, which was actually very illuminating and lovely because no one was too full of themselves, even though in my book these people have a right to be, and the dramaturg stayed out of the way and didn't get too esoteric or abstract... anyway, some people felt that it was more of a play with music but it truly was a musical, just a COMPLETELY UNIQUE one. and not in the way the Spring Awakening is unique-- because it uses rock and minimalism and has so much style... but because I literally felt inside of it, on a journey with the characters the entire time-- beginning to end. That never happens in musicals. Rarely does it even happen in plays for me. Truth be told, and I hope this doesn't scare anyone away, ... I also felt like my eyes were nearly filled with water/three stoplights short of full-on tears for most of the show. The subject matter is ordinary and yet momentuous. It is 1945 or so and a son is dead and a daughter is getting married, and money is tight and tempers are fierce. It had the simplicity of It's A Wonderful Life-- and of course, in that simplicity there is a universality. Wow. CHARGED.
Now as a theatermaker myself, the differences between WICKED and A CATERED AFFAIR were huge, Wicked was massive and epic and spectacular, a spectacle with substance to back it up... and A Catered Affair started quiet and simple and surreptitiously snuck inside you and rocked you to the bone; heart and mind's string playing vibrato...
musicals really are a wide open affair.
go figure
On Saturday I went to Wicked which I feel like I am the last person I know to see-- even all the 11 year-olds I know saw it LAST year... and tonight I saw A Catered Affair, a brand spanking new musical by Harvey Feurstein. It is going to Broaway next Spring but if you can get to San Diego in the near future-- go see it!!!!!!! it was absolutely amazing. There was a talk back after, which was actually very illuminating and lovely because no one was too full of themselves, even though in my book these people have a right to be, and the dramaturg stayed out of the way and didn't get too esoteric or abstract... anyway, some people felt that it was more of a play with music but it truly was a musical, just a COMPLETELY UNIQUE one. and not in the way the Spring Awakening is unique-- because it uses rock and minimalism and has so much style... but because I literally felt inside of it, on a journey with the characters the entire time-- beginning to end. That never happens in musicals. Rarely does it even happen in plays for me. Truth be told, and I hope this doesn't scare anyone away, ... I also felt like my eyes were nearly filled with water/three stoplights short of full-on tears for most of the show. The subject matter is ordinary and yet momentuous. It is 1945 or so and a son is dead and a daughter is getting married, and money is tight and tempers are fierce. It had the simplicity of It's A Wonderful Life-- and of course, in that simplicity there is a universality. Wow. CHARGED.
Now as a theatermaker myself, the differences between WICKED and A CATERED AFFAIR were huge, Wicked was massive and epic and spectacular, a spectacle with substance to back it up... and A Catered Affair started quiet and simple and surreptitiously snuck inside you and rocked you to the bone; heart and mind's string playing vibrato...
musicals really are a wide open affair.
go figure
Monday, May 21, 2007
as Borat says, "I liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiikkke"
I saw an amazing play yesterday called "Yellow Face" by David Henry Hwang at the Taper in downtown LA. It dealt with issues of race versus culture, identity/ethnicity politics, racial profiling, wrongly accused scientist Ho Min Lee, Jonathan Pryce's portrayal of the Vietnamese pimp in Cameron McKintosh's Miss Saigon, the case around Hwang's father and the Far East Bank... and it was funny, sad, sharp and electric. Very exciting and potent theater.
Also, I just read a remarkable screenplay, "Kinsey," ... remarkable most especially because of the subject matter and the actual source material Bill Condon weaves into the writing. The book, called "Kinsey: Public and Private" includes newspaper articles from the 1940s and 1950s responding to Kinsey's research and various publications, actual interviews with subjects, biographies of Kinsey, general historical context info, writing by leading sex and gender-research specialists, and more. Fascinating.
I highly recommend checking out both if you can.
Also, I just read a remarkable screenplay, "Kinsey," ... remarkable most especially because of the subject matter and the actual source material Bill Condon weaves into the writing. The book, called "Kinsey: Public and Private" includes newspaper articles from the 1940s and 1950s responding to Kinsey's research and various publications, actual interviews with subjects, biographies of Kinsey, general historical context info, writing by leading sex and gender-research specialists, and more. Fascinating.
I highly recommend checking out both if you can.
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