Let's Hear it For the Girls: Aida at the Met

When I find myself in times of trouble, I go to the Metropolitan Opera House.  There's something about being there that never fails to make me feel better.  I can pretend to be wealthy and schmooze with those who actually are. I started this tradition freshman year of college.  The music and the singers were unlike anything I'd ever seen at that point, and the glory of the Zeffirelli La Traviata left me speechless.  Since then, I've seen quite a few Met Operas from the standing room section of the balcony:  two beautiful versions of La Traviata, three acts of Die Walkure, a Janacek opera, and LaPage's Faust.  And a standing room ticket at the Met is barely more than the price of seeing a movie in New York City.

The seating chart: I went from watching at the Family Circle to the Orchestra!

Last night, I felt such an excursion was necessary.  Aida was playing, and I'd never before seen it.  In fact, the only music I'd heard from it was the Grand March in Act II.  I had, however, long ago seen the Elton John musical adaptation, which I knew would be nothing like walked from my friend's work in mid town to Lincoln Center and approached the ticket booth.  I was impressed by the short waiting line-- I've usually only gone to productions where the standing room tickets were much in demand.  I requested one, and the man behind the glass asked if I had a student ID.  I handed it to him, and after inspecting it, he handed me the best seat I've ever sat in by far:  Orchestra, Row M, seat 25.  Full-price tickets for those seats run between a hundred and two hundred dollars. 

As the first notes of the overture played, I immediately noticed how nice it was to sit in the orchestra level.  The acoustics in the Met are just fine anywhere you sit (or stand), but I felt spoiled sitting so close to the orchestra.  It was unbelievable.  I doubted whether, after this experience, I could ever go back to my perch in the balcony.

The breathtaking Radvanovsky

I'd noticed in my program that Violeta Urmana was sick and wouldn't be playing the title role, but I was excited to see Stephanie Blythe again.  She sang Fricka in last year's Die Walkure and was one of the highlights in a very good show.  The sets and costumes were gobstopping from the very beginning.  They used the full height and opulence of the Met, and I was in heaven.  It was a traditional and rather staid production, one that I felt I could have seen in 1871, when Aida was first produced.  Grand? Yes.  Impressive? Yes.  Innovative?  Absolutely not. I found the men's performances lacking.  Their vocal power and acting chops just couldn't match up with the ladies'. 

I couldn't help but ogle, though, at the cast of what seemed like hundreds and live horses that paraded onstage.  But the most masterful part of the production was the performances put forth by Stephanie Blythe and Sonya Radvanovsky, who was replacing Urmana in the role of Aida.  Radvanovsky's Aida was breathtakingly gorgeous.  Her top notes were floated in a way I'd never even heard before.  Her "O Patria Mia," an aria in Act III, was incredibly moving.  And Stephanie Blythe, of course, was marvelous.  Her voice cut through the orchestra like a warm, buttery knife.  I was so lucky to be sitting in such a great seat in order to better hear these women's voices.

Cute as a Button: A Review of The Artist

Jean Dujardin and Berenice Bejo in The Artist

I loved The Artist. There, it's out of the way.  I loved it.  I loved the concept behind it and thought it was very cleverly done.  The production design, all Art Deco and late-twenties chic, was gorgeous, and the acting nigh impeccable.

I saw The Artist at the East Village Cinemas on Saturday night, late, less than twenty-four hours before the Oscars.  I'd seen so few nominated pictures this year I felt it was necessary.  So a friend and I strolled in to the 11:30 showing and sat down.

The Artist is a silent film about a silent movie star, George Valentin, who finds his career fading with the fade of his medium.  Played by Jean Dujardin, who won Best Actor, Valentin is haughty, proud, and devastatingly handsome.  His salvation comes in the form of Peppy Miller, played by the sprightly Berenice Bejo.  Throwing more winks than Rip van Winkle caught during his lengthy nap, she sashays across the screen, pausing now and then to shed a single tear by a window, or in the backseat of a car.

That single tear-- nice work, Bejo.

She is the antidote to Valentin's brooding, alcoholic depression-- but will he let her help him?  With a little help from a movie exec played by John Goodman, he just might. 

I nerded out over the gorgeous costumes (if Bejo sported one more monkey-fur coat I think I would have had a heart attack out of aesthetic happiness) but fell in love with the genius soundscape, most of which was comprised of the film's score.  However, there was one scene about a third of the way in that really hooked me in to the movie.  It used sound in a completely novel way, and in a way that completely illuminated and supported the action.  If you've seen the movie, you may know what I'm talking about, but I don't want to give anything away.

I began this review by writing that I loved this movie.  I do love it.  That said, it's not the best movie I saw this year.  I left Melancholia seeing the world differently-- even leaves blowing across the sidewalk looked somehow cinematically heartwrenching.  I laughed till I almost cried at Bridesmaids and had the best time at any movie I've seen in a while at The Muppets.   I do, as usual, disagree with the Academy, but highly recommend The Artist nevertheless.

Race and Rock 'N Roll: A Review of Memphis

This past week, my high school choir teacher was in town with the all-girls choir, and she invited me to see the current Broadway production of Memphis. Memphis was produced in my hometown of Mountain View, CA several years ago at Theatreworks. Sadly, I didn't see that incarnation of the show, so I can't speak to the changes that have happened since its original production.

This version of the show, though, was classic Broadway glitz and glamor. Centering around the music scene in 1950s and 60s Memphis, it follows Huey Calhoun, an aspiring disc jockey who just wants to spread "the music of his soul." The problem is, the music of his soul is performed by and targeted to black audiences, and given the racial tensions in the city is deemed unfit for whites. Huey falls in love with a black singer, Felicia, and the obligatory racial issues ensue. Throw in a mute character who begins speaking and, yes, singing at a pivotal moment, appropriate references to political and cultural events of the 1960s South, and a racist mother who eventually sees the light of God and acceptance, and you have yourself a Tony Award winner.

And, in fact, Memphis won the Best Musical Tony award in 2010. It is, technically speaking, a very sound musical. It tugs at your heartstrings, it's beautifully sung, and it's about Racism. Capital R. The set by David Gallo was functional and well-done. The lights by Howell Binkley were flashy and colorful. The costumes by Paul Tazewell were appropriately period-specific with just a touch of Broadway schmaltz. (Slits up-to-here? Check. Costume change just for curtain call? Check. Makes me green with jealousy over what must be an exorbitant budget.)

Maybe it's my distrust of the institution of Broadway speaking, but I couldn't help but feel something lacking in the performance I saw on Thursday night. In the cast was the impeccable Montego Glover and Adam Pascal of Rent fame. Both have unbelievable voices and the kind of acting chops that Broadway loves.

What didn't sit quite right with me became apparent just before the end of Act I. Huey and Felicia are discovered kissing on the street, and a group of white men beats them up. It was choreographed unrealistically, with clearly no physical contact between the baseball bat and Huey or the fist and Felicia. In fact, I would estimate nearly a foot of air existed where there should have been a punch. In a play that employs a realistic approximation of life, this shying away from racial violence seems not only strange but a cop-out. The play is meant for Broadway audiences, yes, and so it has to be somewhat palatable, thus the uplifting gospel songs and dance numbers. But if a play is going to be living in a world of theatrical realism, it is avoiding the emotional truth to choreograph the violence in such an abstract way.

On the whole, Memphis avoided a real delving into the issue of racism. Again, it's Broadway, so the deepest and the darkest of American horrors probably can't be fully explored. But it seems a shame and perhaps even irresponsible to patch over the reality of 1960s Memphis with an interracial double dutch dancing number.

I saw some parallels in Memphis to West Side Story. Some of the choreography was similar and both center around racial issues in 1950s-60s America. However, where West Side Story succeeds is in its complete abstraction of violence with dance, and in its masterful Bernstein score. The complexity of the music in West Side Story saves it from devolving into the sugary camp of Memphis. In contrast, the relentless four-chord traditional songs in Memphis served only to sweeten the sour dish it was serving and repackage an ugly side of history into something that can be bought and sold for the price of a ticket. The book went for the cheap shots: as I mentioned earlier, a mute character began to sing just before the curtain fell for Act I. It didn't ask any of the tough questions, like how does an interracial couple surmount cultural differences? Where does such deeply embedded institutional racism come from and in what ways does it still exist? Instead, it pointed to clear, cut-and-dry examples of racism, examples that are well documented and established as wrong in the canon of American history, such as a beating or enforcing segregation. And it asked, can you "Stand Up" (song title) against this?

Of course you can.

It came as no surprise to me that the book and lyrics were both written by white men, David Bryan of Bon Jovi fame and Joe DiPietro. Had Toni Morrison had a hand in this work, it might have been more deeply felt (and certainly more beautiful.) It's a tough question-- when writers write about what they haven't experienced, does is it automatically devalued? I would argue, no, of course not. Otherwise, we'd have no historical fiction, no science fiction, and perhaps no fiction at all. But when writers whitewash a subject that they haven't experienced in favor of commercial success and palatability, I might offer a different answer.

Overall, I did enjoy myself. The music was catchy and fun, even if the lack of diction caused me to only partially understand the lyrics. The choreography was great and at times breathtaking. But I just couldn't get over the commercialized, sterile treatment of the time period. It seems to only add to, not alleviate, the current situation of racism today. What the play seemed to perpetuate was the erroneous mindset that everything is hunky-dory now that there are no Jim Crow or anti-miscegenation laws, interracial couples can exist without harassment, and everyone is legally equal, when in fact this is not the case. Lauding and Tony-awarding this work seems like a step in the wrong direction, but enjoying it for a night was just fine.

The Beauty in Simplicity: Review of Let Us Think...

Almost a month ago now I entered PS122's storied building on First Ave to watch Every House Has a Door's new show, Let us think of these things always. Let us speak of them never. I was unspeakably excited. Two of the co-creators of this show, Matthew Goulish and Lin Hixon, were members of Goat Island, a theater collective I've read much about but never got to see live. In fact, I suspect in my three and a half years of undergrad I've read about a hundred pages on the creative process authored by Matthew Goulish. He's an articulate, inventive, and often beautiful writer, and I was thrilled to finally, finally get to see some of his work.

Let us think of these things always. Let us speak of them never is a collaboration between American and Croatian artists that focuses on films by Ingmar Bergman and Dušan Makavejev, whose work I am not familiar with. The show began with a voiceover, telling us what we were about to see. The disembodied voice explained that familiarity with Bergman and Makavejev was not essential to the show. It also explained that soon, three performers would come out and sit on the four stools onstage, and that's how we'd know the performance had begun.

These things came to be, and that was incredibly satisfying. The middle part of the show, perhaps not so much. Let us think of these things always. Let us speak of them never had an extensive middle section punctuated with movement in an attempt to recreate movies by Bergman and Makavejev. The performers watched these movies on laptops, leaping around for what seemed like forever. They ate apples doused in chocolate sauce, flung red fake flowers across the stage. It was amusing for a while, and even entertaining, but this portion constituted the majority of the show, and I found it redundant after a few minutes.

As the section was winding down, the performer covered the considerable mess they'd made onstage with white sheets. The debris was piled beneath, lumpy and indeterminate.

They did explain one key thing, though. Goulish, in a monologue, describes a scene in a film (can't remember now whether Bergman's or Makavejev's) where piles of bodies, all victims of the Holocaust, are seen on a riverbank through a blue filter. (Goulish did a much better job painting the picture than I'm dong here.) The horror and deep sadness of that image was really potent.

The ending ten minutes of the show were some of the most stunning I've ever seen onstage. A Croatian performer and an American performer told the single female performer (in their native languages) that they would go out of the theater doors a little ways, and yell the performer's name. They would return, check to see if she'd heard it, and then repeat the process until they could no longer be heard. That way, they explained, we'll know where the theater ends.

Just like the beginning of the show, these things came to pass. Three times we could hear the two men shouting, and on the fourth, we waited several minutes perhaps with bated breath. The sole performer on stage was listening intently. And then, after a while, she went offstage. The lights faded slowly, but just before they went out they became blue, and we could see the aftermath of the performance scattered about the space. The debris from the earlier, more active section became what looked like corpses underneath the white sheets, and just for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

Then the performance ended.

That moment was one of the most powerful I've ever experienced in a New York theater. I'm still thinking about it often. I wonder if it would have been just as powerful if the middle section had been edited a bit more, or hadn't existed at all. I'm not sure. I do know that there were ten minutes of some of the best theater I've ever seen in Let us think..., but I'm not sure how I feel about the remaining hour of it.

Womanity in Motion: Untitled Feminist Show Review

On Wednesday night, I sat down in a theater in the Baryshnikov Art Center. It was warm in the room, and I couldn't help remembering the last time I saw a show there. I fell asleep while watching my first and only Wooster Group show. (Sorry, Kate Valk.)

I did not feel the need, or even the wish, to sleep during Young Jean Lee's Untitled Feminist Show.

Alright, let's be fair: I was dying to love this show. Young Jean Lee is one of my heroes and I love all her work I've come into contact with. Even after working on a production of her Lear, just reading the script brings me to tears the way no other script does, save Our Town. I think her work is smart, funny, and human. But through all this love for her work, I still hadn't seen a production that she'd actually worked on. Let's just say I had high hopes.

Thankfully, my girl Young Jean didn't let me down. The first image of the show was six naked women breathing heavily while walking down the aisles, and from there the images kept getting more and more beautiful. Untitled Feminist Show is a movement piece (I think that's what I'd pigeonhole it as) in which the six performers are entirely naked throughout. There are no words, though there is singing.

The piece went on with an almost vaudevillian flair: the six women performed what could be called "bits" or "sketches" to a rather ingenious soundscape designed by Chris Giarmo and Jamie McElhinney. One involved a witch attempting to capture small children, another was a dirty pantomime featuring the hilarious Lady Rizzo, and one was a beautiful pas de deux in which two women traded off playing the traditional man's role in the dance, assisting lifts and spins. The show was funny, even side-splitting at times. It was cute and serious and entertaining. I had a great time.

In the time since I left the theater, I have read virtually every review of Untitled Feminist Show. Most seem to get hung up on one thing: was the show feminist? Male reviews of the show have typically posed the question then dismissed it, praising the show for its virtues over its weightlessness. Female reviewers tend to bash the show. Culturebot featured a particularly scathing take on it, even calling it "toothless." (Though to be fair, another Culturebot review, also written by a woman, was mostly positive.)

My take? The show was lovely. It was entertaining and I loved nearly every minute of it. I think others are getting hung up on the word "feminist" in the title. True, if an artist brands their work "feminist" then the matter is most definitely to be discussed. What I think Young Jean Lee and company accomplished was a funny and not entirely feathery look at gender roles. Sure, they didn't probe as deeply as possible into the issue as they might've. Sure, there's a lot more to the complex conundrum of gender roles in society than I saw onstage at the Baryshnikov Art Center. But there's also something to be said for seeing a show about an issue so fraught as gender politics and walking away smiling and hopeful. I appreciated the hope, the celebration, the joy that was sewn into this work. And I highly recommend it to anyone with the chance to see it.

Pina in 3D

Yesterday I saw the matinee showing of Pina in 3D at BAM, and was constantly shocked by the beauty in it. The film follows the work of the late, great choreographer Pina Bausch, and is comprised mostly of footage of her dance shows, sometimes onstage, and sometimes in unconventional, incredible settings. A particularly memorable scene happens on board an above-ground train, as a man with large cardboard mule ears sits solemnly, one hand raised in the air.

The movie also offers a look into her company, with interviews with dancers who worked with Pina, both recently and for many years. It is here that the movie falls flat. Ms. Bausch's recent death has obviously affected the company, and the commentary they offered was mostly filled with grief and nostalgia, which was completely warranted but not necessarily illuminating.

Pina in 3D was at its best showing what Pina did best-- her beautiful work. The choreography in the film and the cinematography behind it was absolutely stunning. The film of Cafe Muller made me weep (though that seems to be happening less and less occasionally now).

All in all, Pina in 3D was not a very good documentary, but a great dance film.

Exciting things

This is what the coming seven days looks like:

• Working box office
• Seeing Pina in 3d-- CANNOT WAIT
• Tuesday: Mission Drift by the TEAM, part of ps122's COIL festival. I've waited to see this show for so long.
  
• Wednesday: Newyorkland by Temporary Distortion, part of PS122'S COIL festival.
  
• Thursday: Untitled Feminist Show by Young Jean Lee, one of my favorite playwrights.
  

Thoughts on these to come.