About Last Night
TERRY TEACHOUT on the arts
in New York City
(with additional dialogue by OUR GIRL IN CHICAGO)
Friday, February 16, 2007
TT: Back in Mint condition
It’s another off-Broadway week for my Wall Street Journal drama column, in which I review The Madras House and The Last Word…:
Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d write: Two of Harley Granville-Barker’s plays are running Off Broadway. To fully appreciate the unlikeliness of that coincidence, you have to know that Granville-Barker, who died in 1946, was a British playwright and director whose once-popular “problem plays” about Edwardian England and its social discontents are mostly long forgotten. “The Madras House,” for instance, was last seen in New York 86 years ago. Now the Mint Theater Company, whose smartly mounted revivals of neglected but worthy plays have put it on the map, has given “The Madras House” a staging of the highest possible quality, and guess what? It’s a terrific play.
The only reason why this doesn’t surprise me is that I’m one of the many New York theatergoers to have been thrilled by the Atlantic Theater Company’s similarly impressive and hugely successful revival of “The Voysey Inheritance,” Granville-Barker’s best-remembered play, which opened in December and has since been extended three times (it closes Mar. 25). “The Madras House,” written in 1909, is another school-of-Shaw play of ideas about a stageful of talkative characters who have come to question the cast-iron moral certitudes of their Victorian forebears. This time around, the parties in question are the well-heeled owners of a family-run department store in London, and the nagging doubts with which they find themselves beset prove to be the stuff of high drama—and much laughter….
Oren Safdie first caught my eye three years ago with “Private Jokes, Public Places,” a bristlingly intelligent, madly funny comedy about the aesthetic follies of celebrity architects (Mr. Safdie is the son of one, Moshe Safdie) that had a memorable downtown run. He then vanished without trace, leaving me to wonder what had become of so promising a debutant. Now I know: Mr. Safdie has been running Malibu Stage Company, a California troupe whose production of his latest play is currently being performed Off Broadway. “The Last Word…” (the ellipsis is Mr. Safdie’s) is a two-man comedy about an uncomfortable encounter between a pair of bad playwrights, one old, blind and grumpy (Daniel J. Travanti) and the other young and painfully earnest (Adam Green). It’s as clever as “Private Jokes, Public Places,” and Messrs. Travanti and Green sail through it with aplomb….
No free link. Go out and buy the Friday Journal, or do as hundreds of thousands of happy readers are doing and go here to subscribe to the Online Journal, which will give you instantaneous access to my column and the rest of our Friday arts package. (If you’re already a subscriber, my column is here.)
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TT: The mystery man of modernism
Who was Lincoln Kirstein? The co-founder of New York City Ballet is now mainly remembered by aging dance buffs, few of whom know anything about him save that he brought George Balanchine to America. Yet Kirstein was one of the most important figures in the history of American modernism between the wars, and his other achievements (which will be chronicled in Martin Duberman's forthcoming biography) deserve to be remembered and celebrated.
To find out who Kirstein was and why it matters, pick up a copy of tomorrow’s Journal, where you’ll find my column in the “Pursuits” section.
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TT: Almanac
"For the first time in my life I know what getting old is. It's wanting to be able to call for a time-out."
Richard Stark, Butcher's Moon
| Thursday, February 15, 2007
TT: A little list
I love fictional lists, so I thought I'd pass on a particularly good one. It's from Richard Stark's The Jugger:
Parker went through his pockets. Nothing in the jacket at all but that lavender handkerchief, which turned out to be scented. In the pocket of the orange shirt was an unopened five-pack of plastic-tipped little cigars. In the right-hand trouser pocket was a Zippo lighter inscribed FROM DW TO SF, neither set of initials having any connection with Tiftus. In the left-hand trouser pocket were fifty-seven cents in change, his hotel room key, and a rabbit's foot. In his hip pocket was his wallet, and in the wallet were a Social Security card made out to Adolph Tiftus, a Nevada driver's license, four black-and-white photographs of horses, a photo of Tiftus himself from a coin-operated photo booth, sixty-four dollars in bills, a clipping from a Daily Telegraph column that mentioned his name as present at the opening of Freehold Raceway one prewar season, a small torn-off piece of adding-machine paper with two telephone numbers written on it in pencil, and an obscene photograph in color of a Chinese couple standing up.
I especially like the lighter.
posted by terryteachout @ Thursday, February 15, 2007 | Permanent
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TT: So you want to see a show?
Here’s my list of recommended Broadway and off-Broadway shows, updated weekly. In all cases, I gave these shows favorable reviews in The Wall Street Journal when they opened. For more information, click on the title.
Warning: Broadway shows marked with an asterisk were sold out, or nearly so, last week.
BROADWAY:
• Avenue Q (musical, R, adult subject matter and one show-stopping scene of puppet-on-puppet sex, reviewed here)
• A Chorus Line (musical, PG-13/R, adult subject matter, reviewed here)
• Company (musical, PG-13/R, adult subject matter and situations, reviewed here)
• The Drowsy Chaperone (musical, G/PG-13, mild sexual content and a profusion of double entendres, reviewed here)
• Shipwreck (The Coast of Utopia, part 2)* (drama, PG-13, nudity and adult subject matter, reviewed here, closes May 12)
• Translations* (drama, G, too complicated for children, reviewed here)
• The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee (musical, PG-13, mostly family-friendly but contains a smattering of strong language and a production number about an unwanted erection, reviewed here)
• Voyage (The Coast of Utopia, part 1)* (drama, G, too complicated for children, reviewed here, closes May 12)
OFF BROADWAY:
• The Fantasticks (musical, G, suitable for children old enough to enjoy a love story, reviewed here)
• Room Service (comedy, G, reasonably family-friendly but a bit complicated for youngsters, reviewed here, closes Mar. 25)
• The Voysey Inheritance (drama, G, adult subject matter, reviewed here, closes Mar. 25)
CLOSING SOON:
• Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living In Paris (musical revue, R, adult subject matter and sexual content, reviewed here, closes Feb. 25)
• The Vertical Hour (drama, PG-13, adult subject matter, reviewed here, closes Mar. 11)
CLOSING THIS WEEKEND:
• Meet Me in St. Louis (musical, G, very family-friendly, reviewed here, closes Sunday)
posted by terryteachout @ Thursday, February 15, 2007 | Permanent
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TT: Almanac
"Things I've seen make me doubt if anyone but an old man can really put himself in an old man's place. Values seem to be different—I suppose; less and less matters to you. I hope so."
James Gould Cozzens, By Love Possessed
posted by terryteachout @ Thursday, February 15, 2007 | Permanent
link | Wednesday, February 14, 2007
OGIC: Oh, and...
Happy February 14th! I bet you thought I'd forgotten. What, forget you on Valentine's Day? Never!
Every day, but today especially, the Acme Heart Maker is at your command. (Credit where credit is due: originally brought to my attention by the Cinetrix, who also has Sturges on her mind today.)
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Wednesday, February 14, 2007 | Permanent
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OGIC: The wrong horse
So you’re Claudette Colbert, you’re cute as all get out, and you have a taste for the finer things in life: the couture, the cocktails, the coifs. You have a handsome and adoring husband who has some very grand business plans, but unfortunately few backers. Saved from a humiliating eviction on the sole strength of your personal charms, you resolve to fly the coop for Palm Beach, where you hear they grant a quick and easy divorce. You’re doing it for the sake of your hubby, mind you, who will have a quicker road to success without the burden of a wife whose domestic talents are restricted to winsome lolling about the apartment and quickly dispensing with any unanticipated funds that happen to alight on the household. It’s for his benefit that you pack your bags and set out to find a more able provider.
After batting your eyelashes into a first-class ticket on a Florida-bound train, you make the acquaintance of a sweet, nearsighted young fogy who turns out to be one of the richest men in the world. And this is where Preston Sturges’s Palm Beach Story had me torn, because though I could see where things were headed and that Rudy Vallee’s winningly stiff John D. Hackensacker III was not destined to get the girl—I could even see why he wasn’t—I couldn’t stop rooting for him. Maybe it was his inexhaustible reservoir of replacement eyeglasses, which Colbert’s Geraldine and a pack of baying hounds (don’t ask) have him repeatedly reaching for in the sleeper car scene where the two meet cute; the hapless millionaire, we get, has recognized himself early on as a man whose glasses routinely get stepped on and crushed—while they’re on his face—accepted this lot, and planned accordingly. Maybe it was the dogs’ unbridled, unanimous beeline for him and the equanimity with which he receives their slobbery respects. Certainly his shopping spree on Geraldine’s behalf once they arrive in Jacksonville had something to do with it; he's ten times giddier than she is about it, grinning dreamily as he adds up every last penny.
Oh, Geraldine. What were you thinking, going back to the vaguely sketched Tom (Joel McCrea)? As in Sturges’s greater picture The Lady Eve, the calculating dame handily hooks her feckless prize fish. Unlike Barbara Stanwyck’s Jean/Eve, however, Geraldine throws her catch back into the sea. Of course, married from start to end of the film, she has never been truly free to keep him. But the picture treats divorce lightly enough that her existing marriage never feels like very much of an obstacle. Still, the logic of the movie demands a reconciliation. It's a satisfying one, too, and Hackensacker does lose some of his appeal once his progress is complete from initial lovestruck bewilderment to pompous determined courtship.
He's still unflappably cute, though, and still my choice for Geraldine. In what books or movies, romantic comedy or otherwise, did you find yourself backing the wrong horse? The only other one I can think of off the top of my head is Steve Martin's L.A. Story, in which Martin's character holds out for the slightly dour if age-appropriate Brit over the pure spun-sugar confection that is Sarah Jessica Parker's SanDeE*.
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Wednesday, February 14, 2007 | Permanent
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TT: Almanac
"If all hearts were open, all desires known; and if no secrets were hid—each of us, I think, might do well to consider just where that would leave him personally, whether he'd still be quite so well regarded as he may be now."
James Gould Cozzens, By Love Possessed
posted by terryteachout @ Wednesday, February 14, 2007 | Permanent
link | Tuesday, February 13, 2007
TT: Speak now
I’ve written about Le Madeleine many times, both on this blog and in my Washington Post arts column. It’s my favorite theater-district bistro, a friendly, comfortable place where you can get an excellent meal without spending yourself into bankruptcy. It’s also the home away from home of the great jazz guitarist Gene Bertoncini, who can be heard in its main dining room most Sunday and Monday nights, playing solo and with whatever friends happen to drop by.
I can’t imagine Manhattan without Le Madeleine—but it seems I may have to. According to the management:
Le Madeleine has been in this location at 403 W. 43rd St. for 27 years, and, as of Jan 1, 2007, we will have 3 years left on our lease with an option to renew for another 8 years. But, we've received an EVICTION NOTICE from our landlord stating that he wants to DEMOLISH THIS BUILDING.
We don't believe that our landlord has the legal right to demolish our restaurant, and we're fighting this in court with everything we have….
I’m no lawyer, but I’d hate to lose Le Madeleine, and so would the other 2,144 people who’ve signed an online petition urging Mark Scharfman, the restaurant’s landlord, to think twice about tearing it down. To sign the petition, or to learn more about Le Madeleine’s increasingly urgent plight, go here.
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TT: Consider the source
I have a sneaking suspicion that my main contribution to the sum total of human happiness is the fact that I go well out of my way to provide a traceable source for this blog’s daily almanac entry. Cyberspace is cluttered with millions of pithy quotations, most of which are unsourced and thus unreliable. Not infrequently a bit of sophisticated surfing will allow you to pin down their sources, but too often they remain firmly rooted in the realm of conjecture.
Off the top of my head I can think of only two favorite quotations that I’ve never been able to trace to their original sources, and last week I finally pinned down one of them: “All knowledge is a descent from the paradise of undifferentiated sensation.” R.P. Blackmur said it, but prior to last Friday I only knew this brilliant apophthegm by way of Arlene Croce, who quoted it without source in one of her out-of-print collections of essays on dance. Now I can give it to you in the original:
For most minds, once doctrine is sighted and is held to be the completion of insight, the doctrinal mode of thinking seems the only one possible. When doctrine totters it seems it can fall only into the gulf of bewilderment; few minds risk the fall; most seize the remnants and swear the edifice remains, when doctrine becomes intolerable dogma. All fall notwithstanding; for as knowledge itself is a fall from the paradise of undifferentiated sensation, so equally every formula of knowledge must fall the moment too much weight is laid upon it—the moment it becomes omnivorous and pretends to be omnipotent—the moment, in short, it is taken literally. Literal knowledge is dead knowledge; and the worst bewilderment—which is always only comparative—is better than death. Yet no form, no formula, of knowledge ought to be surrendered merely because it runs the risk in bad or desperate hands of being used literally; and similarly, in our own thinking, whether it is carried to the point of formal discourse or not, we cannot only afford, we ought scrupulously to risk the use of any concept that seems propitious or helpful in getting over gaps. Only the use should be consciously provisional, speculative, and dramatic. The end-virtue of humility comes only after a long train of humiliations; and the chief labor of humbling is the constant, resourceful restoration of ignorance.
That thought-provoking paragraph is to be found in a 1935 essay by Blackmur called “A Critic’s Job of Work,” which was originally collected in Language as Gesture (1936) and is now more readily available in Selected Essays of R.P. Blackmur, a 1986 collection edited by Denis Donoghue. I feel better!
The only unsourced quote that continues to nag me is a remark allegedly made by Flaubert which I first ran across in Irving Babbitt’s Rousseau and Romanticism and later had occasion to cite in my Mencken biography:
More important, though, Babbitt was the first of Mencken’s critics to suggest that his noisy war against the booboisie had at last reached the point of diminishing returns: “One is reminded in particular of Flaubert, who showed a diligence in collecting bourgeois imbecilities comparable to that displayed by Mr. Mencken in his Americana….Another discovery of Flaubert’s may seem to him more worthy of consideration. ‘By dint of railing at idiots,’ Flaubert reports, ‘one runs the risk of becoming idiotic oneself.’”
Alas, Babbitt never gave his source for this beautifully balanced sentence, and despite making a public plea for help back in 2003, I’ve yet to be able to trace it. Anyone who can do so now will earn my permanent gratitude.
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TT: Almanac
"Son, when you can, always advise people to do what you see they really want to do. So long as what they want to do isn't dangerously unlawful, stupidly unsocial, or obviously impossible, you can, and you should. Doing what they want to do, they may succeed; doing what they don't want to do, they won't succeed."
James Gould Cozzens, By Love Possessed
| Monday, February 12, 2007
TT: Once removed
I stay in close touch with current events, mostly by way of my trusty iBook. The editors of The Wall Street Journal expect me to be both aware of what’s going on in the world of art and ready to write about it on short notice. For the most part I revel in this requirement, but sometimes it becomes a burden. The world was too much with me a week and a half ago, and I knew I had to let go of it for a few days.
Experience has taught me that this is all but impossible for me to do without getting out of town, so last Tuesday I packed a bag, rented a Zipcar, and headed south to Cape May, the island at the southern tip of New Jersey where I spent a reflective holiday last year. I brought along a half-dozen books, a short stack of DVDs, and some traveling music. It takes three hours to drive from Manhattan to Cape May, and I spent them listening to Blind Blake, Nat Cole, Hot Club of Cowtown, Mitchell’s Christian Singers, and Jimmy Yancey, about none of whom I had any plans to write a piece.
In case you’re wondering, I left my laptop behind. I made a point of warning my editors at the Journal that I wouldn’t be bringing it along, and while I’ve been known to cheat on such promises, I followed through on this one. I was out of touch with the world from Tuesday morning to Friday afternoon. I sent no e-mail and wrote no pieces, and the only person I called was my mother. I learned of the arrest of Lisa Nowak because I happened to be sitting in a Cape May bar whose TV was tuned to a NASA press conference, but that was the only piece of news I heard.
Instead of immersing myself in the fast-moving stream of postmodern life, I drove around Cape May and looked at old houses, ate three good dinners, spent several happy hours reading Bleak House, James Gould Cozzens’ By Love Possessed, and a book about Aaron Copland, and watched a couple of sunsets. Having found out in middle age that I love to be beside the seaside, I spent as much time as possible gazing at the ocean, which was conveniently located across the street from my front door.
Did I manage to keep my mind off my work? Mostly. I watched The Best Years of Our Lives and promptly started writing a piece in my head about Hugo Friedhofer’s Copland-like score, but at length I forced myself to shut off the flow of words and attend solely to the immediate experience. From time to time I thought of the deadlines that awaited me in New York, though not too often to wreck my holiday. Somewhere along the way I recalled the epigraph by Henri de Régnier that Maurice Ravel affixed to his Valses nobles et sentimentales: “…the delicious and always new pleasure of a useless occupation.” In recent weeks too many of my occupations have been useful, and it was good to be reminded that such need not always be the case.
Friday morning came too soon, and I drove back up the Garden State Parkway to New York, stopping along the way to eat a pair of rippers at Rutt’s Hut. I turned on my dormant iBook as soon as I got back to my apartment and found 278 e-mails waiting for me, one of which made my heart sink. It was from the anonymous author of a wonderful new blog I recently discovered:
Unfortunately, a mean-spirited blogger amused herself (and only herself) by revealing the place of my employment and posting a photo of it. Someone at my workplace was notified of this. Obviously, the intention of my anonymity was to preserve my job.
Since the blogger has ignored all of my E-mails, I'm left with no choice but to remove The Hotel Pianist blog….If you have linked to my blog, please delete the link as there is no longer a blog!
Sighing for the umpteenth time at the ceaseless folly of the inconsiderate, I turned to the news I’d missed since Tuesday, and discovered that Jules Olitski, the abstract artist whom I added to the Teachout Museum two years ago, had died at the venerable age of eighty-four. I also learned of the unexpected demise of Anna Nicole Smith, though I can’t claim to have been moved by it, not having previously known anything about her beyond the mere fact of her fame. (I still don’t know why she was famous.)
Within an hour or so I was back up to speed, and on Saturday I saw a press preview of The Madras House and started writing Friday’s Wall Street Journal drama column. I was glad to be back in harness, though my mind kept wandering back to Cape May, and to the delicious and always new pleasure of doing nothing in particular. I suppose even that would eventually grow tiresome—everything does—but I doubt I’ll ever find out how long it would take.
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TT: Almanac
“I once inhaled a pretty full dose of ether, with the determination to put on record, at the earliest moment of regaining consciousness, the thought I should find uppermost in my mind. The mighty music of the triumphal march into nothingness reverberated through my brain, and filled me with a sense of infinite possibilities which made me an archangel for the moment. The veil of eternity was lifted. The one great truth which underlies all human experience, and is the key to all the mysteries that philosophy has sought in vain to solve, flashed upon me in a sudden revelation. Henceforth all was clear: a few words had lifted my intelligence to the level of the knowledge of the cherubim. As my natural condition returned, I remembered my resolution; and, staggering to my desk, I wrote in ill-shaped, straggling characters, the all-embracing truth still glimmering in my consciousness. The words were these (children may smile, the wise will ponder): ‘A strong smell of turpentine prevails throughout.’”
Oliver Wendell Holmes, “Mechanism in Thought and Morals”
| Friday, February 17, 2006
TT: Kirk Douglas, master painter
Here's a little taste of my next “Sightings” column, which appears biweekly in the “Pursuits” section of the Saturday Wall Street Journal:
Fifty years ago, a film director known for his fluffy musicals rolled up his sleeves and shot a movie about a great artist—and it was good. Not only that, it made money.
Vincente Minnelli’s “Lust for Life,” which was released on DVD last week, is that rarity of rarities, a high-culture Hollywood biopic that isn’t unintentionally funny. To be sure, the snobs of the day tittered at the thought of Kirk Douglas playing Vincent van Gogh, and even now the film doesn’t get much respect, though a few latter-day critics have gone out of their way to praise it. One of them is David Thomson, the much-admired author of “The New Biographical Dictionary of Film,” who calls “Lust for Life” “as moving as anything in the American cinema.” He’s right...
As always, there's lots more where that came from. See for yourself—buy a copy of tomorrow's Journal and look me up.
UPDATE: The Journal has posted a free link to this column. To read the whole thing, go here.
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TT: Successful succession
All together now: it’s Friday! I’m still out of town, so Our Girl has kindly posted the weekly Wall Street Journal drama-column teaser, an all-Broadway edition in which I hold forth on the new cast of Doubt and the new revival of Barefoot in the Park:
Few tasks are so ungrateful as replacing the star of a Broadway hit—unless you’re Eileen Atkins, who just took over Cherry Jones’s part in “Doubt.” One of the great stage actresses of our time, Ms. Atkins doesn’t appear in the U.S. very often, and her last stint on Broadway was in a shoddy piece of theatrical goods, “The Retreat From Moscow.” John Patrick Shanley’s Pulitzer-winning play, by contrast, gives her plenty of elbow room to pass a miracle. As always, she delivers: Ms. Atkins’ stupendous performance is the best piece of acting in town….
Was it Neil Simon who invented the kind of play in which ordinary people talk like stand-up comics? If so, then “Barefoot in the Park,” Mr. Simon’s first megahit, belongs in the Smithsonian, preferably under glass. I know I’d rather see it there than on Broadway, even in a production as effective as the revival that opened last night at the Cort Theatre. Indeed, this “Barefoot in the Park” is something of a triumph for Scott Elliott, the highbrow director whose whip-smart production of Mike Leigh’s “Abigail’s Party” is still running Off Broadway. I wouldn’t have guessed Mr. Elliott to be the kind of director who’d be really, really good at staging slapstick, but most of the biggest laughs of the evening come from the crackling precision with which he puts Amanda Peet, Patrick Wilson, Jill Clayburgh and Tony Roberts through their physical paces….
No link, so proceed as follows: (1) Buy a copy of the Friday Journal. (2) Go here to subscribe to the Online Journal, which will provide you with immediate access to the full text of my review, along with lots more art-related coverage. (By the way, here's an unsolicited blogospheric tribute to the Journal’s arts coverage.)
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Friday, February 17, 2006 | Permanent
link | Thursday, February 16, 2006
OGIC: Slow blogging ahead
I hate to be idle when Terry's away, but I probably don't have much blogging in me this week. Up until last night, I had been working full-throttle against various deadlines with the full cooperation of my health. Within about 12 hours of my being clear and free, however, things broke down throatwise, and I spent today sick in bed. It wasn't the worst day I ever picked to get sick; in between bouts of that ultimate medicine sleep, I found distractions both on the ice and on the page. More to say about the latter soon, I'm sure. Just to remove the element of suspense, I like it, I really like it, though it's also the case that it has seemed heaven-sent for convalescence—the soothing literary equivalent of tea and honeyed toast on a tray.
Planning to rally and report for duty tomorrow morning, so I'm for bed now. I'll at the very least check in tomorrow night. Meantime, check out our confrères in the right-hand column.
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Thursday, February 16, 2006 | Permanent
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TT: So you want to see a show?
Here's my list of recommended Broadway and off-Broadway shows, updated weekly. In all cases, I either gave these shows strongly favorable reviews in The Wall Street Journal when they opened or saw and liked them some time in the past year (or both). For more information, click on the title.
Warning: Broadway shows marked with an asterisk were sold out, or nearly so, last week.
BROADWAY:
• Avenue Q (musical, R, adult subject matter, strong language, one show-stopping scene of puppet-on-puppet sex, reviewed here)
• Bridge & Tunnel (solo show, PG, some adult subject matter and strong language, reviewed here, closes Mar. 12)
• Chicago (musical, R, adult subject matter, sexual content, fairly strong language)
• Doubt (drama, PG-13, adult subject matter, implicit sexual content, reviewed here)
• The Light in the Piazza (musical, PG-13, adult subject matter and a brief bedroom scene, closes July 2, reviewed here)
• Sweeney Todd (musical, R, adult situations, strong language, reviewed here)
• The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee (musical, PG-13, mostly family-friendly but contains a smattering of strong language and a production number about an unwanted erection, reviewed here)
OFF BROADWAY:
• Abigail’s Party (drama, R, adult subject matter, strong language, reviewed here, closes Apr. 8)
• Slava's Snowshow (performance art, G, child-friendly, reviewed here)
• The Trip to Bountiful (drama, G, reviewed here, closes Mar. 11)
CLOSING THIS WEEKEND:
• In the Continuum (drama, R, adult subject matter, closes Saturday, reviewed here)
• Mrs. Warren's Profession (drama, PG, adult subject matter, closes Sunday, reviewed here).
• The Woman in White (musical, PG, adult subject matter, closes Sunday, reviewed here)
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Thursday, February 16, 2006 | Permanent
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TT: Almanac
"Progress celebrates Pyrrhic victories over nature. Progress makes purses out of human skin. When people were traveling in mail coaches, the world got ahead better than it does now that salesmen fly through the air. What good is speed if the brain has oozed out on the way? How will the heirs of this age be taught the most basic motions that are necessary to activate the most complicated machines? Nature can rely on progress; it will avenge it for the outrage it has perpetrated on it."
Karl Kraus, “The Discovery of the North Pole,” (Die Fackel, Sept. 1909)
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Thursday, February 16, 2006 | Permanent
link | Wednesday, February 15, 2006
TT: Almanac
"Why is it that we have enough memory to recollect the most minute circumstances of something that has happened to us, but not enough to remember how many times we have recounted them to the same person?"
La Rochefoucauld, Moral Maxims and Reflections
posted by terryteachout @ Wednesday, February 15, 2006 | Permanent
link | Tuesday, February 14, 2006
TT: Handing off
Sorry to be so unforthcoming, but the joint is jumping. I wrote all day yesterday and I've got to write all day today, after which I'll go hear the Lascivious Biddies at Makor (you come, too!). On Wednesday morning I'll be heading out of town yet again, returning just in time for a Friday-night preview of the Broadway revival of The Pajama Game on Friday night. I'm not taking my computer with me, either. Instead, I'm leaving my routine postings for Our Girl to publish, and I expect she'll be putting up a few things of her own as well.
See you next week. Happy Valentine's Day!
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TT: Almanac
"I’m a romantic—a sentimental person thinks things will last—a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
| Monday, February 13, 2006
TT: Up to your knees out there
I went down to Broadway on Saturday night to see a press preview of the new revival of Barefoot in the Park. It had only just started to snow when I left, and cabs were still easy to find. By the time the play was over, though, the night sky was full of swirling clouds of moist white flakes, and it was snowing furiously when I got up the next morning, having been awakened by the sounds of cheery children and crunching snow shovels. New York City had ground as close to a halt as it ever gets, which isn’t very close. The first thing I saw when I looked out my third-floor window was a bundled-up fellow walking his dog.
It was still snowing when I headed back down to Broadway in the afternoon to see the new cast of Doubt. Broadway theaters don't shut down for anything short of a 9/11-magnitude disaster, and the biggest snowstorm ever to hit New York didn’t make the cut, so I wrapped myself up tight and hit the road, giving myself an extra twenty minutes just in case.
Blizzards mean different things to different people at different times in their lives. To a fifty-year-old drama critic recovering from congestive heart failure who has to make his way to and from the theater district in two feet of blowing snow, a blizzard can be a fearful nuisance, depending on his schedule and his frame of mind. Fortunately, I live a block away from the subway and wasn’t in any great hurry. The streets and sidewalks were slippery but passable, and everyone I saw between my front door and the subway station was smiling. Most New Yorkers, however grumpy they may be on an ordinary day, respond festively to the short-lived chaos of a snowstorm. So did I, in part because I remembered the last time I’d been to a Broadway play in really cold weather, pausing every ten yards or so to catch my breath, wheezing and gasping and wondering whether I’d ever see the Great White Way again. Now I was strolling briskly down the street like everyone else.
No sooner did I reach the subway platform than a Broadway-bound train pulled into the station and whisked me away. I got to the theater district a half-hour ahead of schedule and took temporary shelter in a pizza joint, where I read M.F.K. Fisher’s Serve It Forth as I sipped a ginger ale. I looked out at the half-empty streets of the theater district and pondered her wise words:
An early evening meal—a long evening. A long evening—what to do with it? There is a fairly good play, a passable movie, a game of bridge—surely some way to kill a few hours.
But an evening killed is murder of a kind, criminal like any disease, and like disease a thorough-going crime. If Time, so fleeting, must like humans die, let it be filled with good food and good talk, and then embalmed in the perfumes of conviviality.
Though there were more than a few empty seats in the Walter Kerr Theatre, most of the ticketholders had chosen to brave the storm and were clearly in a mood to be wooed. After the last curtain call, Ron Eldred, who recently replaced Brían F. O’Byrne as Father Flynn, the priest suspected of molesting a child in his care, stepped forward to the rim of the stage. “We’re all really glad you came out today!” he told us, smiling broadly.
On the way home I stopped at the corner deli to pick up some paper towels. I stood in line at the counter behind a young man and his son. “How can you not like snow on a day like this?” the man said to me. Then I went home to my nice warm apartment, stripped off my wet socks, heated up a plate of leftovers, and settled myself on the couch to watch a little early-evening TV, reveling in the simple pleasure of venturing forth into a blizzard and coming back alive.
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TT: Faces in the crowd
I spent the second night of the Blizzard of ’06 watching two black-and-white movies. The first, On Dangerous Ground, is one of Nicholas Ray’s very best films, and the only film noir to have been scored by Bernard Herrmann (it has yet to turn up on DVD, alas, but the original soundtrack is available on CD). The second, Howard Hawks’ Ball of Fire, is a screwball comedy that contains more familiar faces per foot than any other film I know. Written by Billy Wilder and Charles Brackett in their pre-Double Indemnity days, it stars Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck, features the young Dana Andrews and Dan Duryea in supporting roles, and contains a nightclub scene in which Gene Krupa’s big band can be seen playing “Drum Boogie” with Roy Eldridge seated proudly in the trumpet section. As if that weren’t glory enough, the cast also includes such celebrated character actors as S.Z. “Cuddles” Zakall, the glutinous-voiced Richard Haydn, Leonid Kinskey
(he’s the bartender in Casablanca), Charles Lane
(who played Homer Bedloe in Petticoat Junction and recently turned 101), Henry Travers
(now best remembered as Clarence, the wingless angel of It’s a Wonderful Life), and Mary Field, everybody’s favorite cinematic spinster, who made more movies than I can count.
To top it all off in the highest possible style, the immortal Elisha Cook, Jr., has a walk-on as a waiter. You probably won’t know his name unless you have your film trivia down pat, but the chances are very, very good that you’ll recognize his face, for Cook, who died in 1995, made his first film in 1930 and his last TV episode in 1988, in between which he played small but splendidly vivid parts in such movies as The Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, Shane, The Killing, One-Eyed Jacks, and Rosemary’s Baby.
I was going to pay tribute to Cook's decidedly weird on-screen persona, but it seems that David Thomson beat me to it:
There are big stars in the movies who pass by, leaving us uninterested. And there are supporting actors whose faces will stop you dead as you flip through an album history. Who really wants to know more about Robert Taylor, say? But who wouldn’t want to read a good biography of Elisha Cook Jr.? He was small, scrawny; he was losing his hair, and he had a high-pitched voice; he had eyes screwed into his head with all the desperate resolve of wanting to be taken seriously….Put him in a bad picture, and he made it watchable for ten minutes. Put him in something good and he was a metaphor for glue, or the medium itself. He could make you trust a film.
You could do a whole lot worse than that, posterity-wise.
I don’t much feel like arguing about whether old movies are better than new ones—it’s a meaningless exercise—but I do think that one of the best things about studio-system Hollywood movies was the omnipresence of such gloriously characterful supporting actors as the ones seen in Ball of Fire. A few journeymen of genius managed to make their mark in the Sixties—Strother Martin and John Vernon
come immediately to mind—and the breed is not quite extinct today, as any paid-up member of the M. Emmet and J.T. Walsh fan clubs can tell you. But the old studios specialized in making resourceful use of these scene-stealing wizards, and it was their idiosyncratic presence that added a special richness of texture to the casts of the movies I’m most inclined to watch when there’s two feet of snow on the ground and I feel like staying home and keeping myself company.
I bless their memory!
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TT: Almanac
“A fresh performance of a 'classic' is only like a new edition of an established masterpiece of literature. And the literary critics do not have to review new editions at any length; they merely publish a paragraph drawing attention to the blue buckram, the gilt-edges, and the bold lettering. They are not expected to sit up late on a chilly night writing a column about nothing new at all. It is a pleasant task sometimes to do this writing about nothing new; it is a challenge to ingenuity, a sort of Chardin problem of setting whites in the foreground against whites in a background that is not far back enough; but the task and the pleasure need not be carried too far—certainly not beyond the extent of a column, with the midnight hour at hand, and the temperature falling, and a distance to cover before the weary scribe gets to his pillow, resigned to the thought that whatever he has written will not be read, ever again, after twelve o'clock the next day, but will go down slowly and unobserved into the general dust."
Neville Cardus, review of a concert by Sir Thomas Beecham and the Hallé Orchestra (Manchester Guardian, Oct. 20, 1938, courtesy of Richard Zuelch)
| Friday, February 11, 2005
OGIC: Hungry ear
Speaking of neologisms (which Terry was here) and of Lance Mannion (which I was here), I like Lance's neologism "Almodovarianally" in that same post, though to my ear something about that word wants to be stretched out even longer—to, say, "Almodovarianesqueishly."
It's like we used to say in high school: "You can beat a dead gift horse against the current, but you can't make him drink spilt milk."
And that, I think, is a sufficiently ridiculous note on which to close shop for the weekend. Have a good one.
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Friday, February 11, 2005 | Permanent
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OGIC: From the north
When most people imagine an ideal vacation, they head toward the equator in their minds. I dream in the opposite direction, magnetically attracted toward the nearest pole, to places like the Scottish Highlands and Denali National Park. Perhaps this, in addition to hockey love and frequent youthful border crossings, explains my lifelong Canada crush. Or perhaps mutual adoration set in after my star turn in a 1970s television spot for the CBC kiddie show The Friendly Giant (I was discovered in a Toronto park, mastered my line "I like Jerome the Giraffe" like a pro, and received one pre-Loonie Canadian dollar for my trouble.) I don't know—as with most crushes, I'm less interested in understanding it than enjoying it. And I don't think it has a thing to do with my getting a lot of enjoyment lately out of the newish CBC arts site. A few highlights:
• An appreciation/lamentation of Arrested Development—appreciating the show, lamenting the non-viewers who are dealing it a slow but certain death—here. Notable quote:
Maybe Arrested Development is the last great sitcom we’ll get for free.
• A snappy overview of recent movies about weddings, here. NQ:
As the movie wedding approaches, the bride is destined to be relieved of that thing called "agency," and she’s grateful for it. At the end of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Nia Vardalos, looking like a cloud vomited on her, thanks her family for their intolerance and intrusion. For a while pre-nuptially, she was actually in the process of toughening up and learning to stand up to her bossy family, but weddings demand the softening of women. Even the excellent The Philadelphia Story required Katherine Hepburn to slough off her haughty Hepburnness so Cary Grant could steal her away from the uptight idiot she only thought she liked. The transformation from calloused cellar sweeper to Cinderella princess is easy; just stick a toe into a glittery, loan-financed slipper. In modern wedding movies, love and marriage turns Type A career women—Roberts in Runaway Bride; Jennifer Lopez in The Wedding Planner—into…what?
• An anti-book-club rant, here. I've never been in a book club, so the author's pretty much singing to the choir here. In my experience, enough years of grad school tend to undermine the appeal. I myself am far more inclined to form a television club.
• This nuanced piece about the problems, aesthetic and ethical, inherent in making a film about genocide. This subject has been on my mind in a half-processed way lately, simply because I want to go see Hotel Rwanda but have failed to try to talk a friend into it. Nobody in my circle is apparently inclined to go. That doesn't mean they won't—but it does mean that to get them to, I have to do something akin to talking it up. Hmnh. Given the subject matter, I haven't found any way of doing this that won't surely sound bizarre or even ghoulish.
NQ:
Of course, such unimaginable moments have occurred, and are occurring, but do they lose their power when they become cinematic tropes, reducing horror to a plot point or a hero’s redemption? The danger of moviemaking is that it somehow levels genocide, and evil becomes as significant, or insignificant, as the predictable beats of a thriller or an epic weepie.
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Friday, February 11, 2005 | Permanent
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TT: Brush with greatness
My life is a congeries of implausibly cool things, some large and some small, and one of the coolest of them is the fact that I meet the most interesting people. On Thursday, for example, I got to share a studio at WNYC-FM with Dan Hicks, whose music I’ve loved for thirty years. I’m pleased to report that he is—as I expected and hoped—the very soul of unflappability.
If you weren’t listening live to yesterday's Soundcheck, on which I talked about Pat Metheny, go here to download the archived version. It’s not that I said anything stupefyingly brilliant in the first half of the show (though I had great fun as usual batting the conversational ball back and forth with host John Schaefer). No, the news of the day was that Hicks had everybody in the control room rolling on the floor as he chatted amiably about his new Hot Licks album, Selected Shorts. I plan to buy a copy the next time I get within five blocks of a record store. (O.K., ten.)
You’ll also hear Hicks trot out a brand-new word, equivalate:
I was more acoustic…but I was able to play right along in rock contexts, and it was talked about in Rolling Stone right away, which I liked—which I equivalate to maybe pop.
That's an excellent word. Don’t go looking for it in the dictionary—yet—but I certainly plan to work it into my pieces as often as possible from now on.
How lucky am I? So way.
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TT: W-O-N-D-E-R-F-U-L
I had a lovely week at the theater, and today’s drama column, in which I review The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee and the Storm Theatre’s revival of The Shoemaker’s Holiday, is proof thereof.
Putnam County is soooo da bomb:
Sometimes you can tell how good a show is going to be as soon as it starts. “The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee” was like that. The lights went down, the five-piece orchestra struck up, and an anxious-looking teenager walked on stage and sang, “At the 25th annual Putnam County Spelling Bee/My parents keep on telling me/Just being here is winning/Although/I know it isn’t so.” Pow! All at once Second Stage Theatre was filled with the warm, knowing laughter of a roomful of people who knew they were about to have their socks charmed off.
Let me pause for a moment so you can go right out and buy tickets, because William Finn, the writer-composer of “Falsettos” and “A New Brain,” and Rachel Sheinkin, author of the funniest musical-comedy book to come along in years, have blown the bull’s-eye off the target. “Putnam County” (as I’ll call it for short) is that rarity of rarities, a super-smart show that is also a bonafide crowd-pleaser. Directed by James Lapine, Stephen Sondheim’s longtime collaborator, it’s the best new musical I’ve covered, “Avenue Q” included, since I started writing this column. In fact, it’s the best show in town, and if it doesn’t move to Broadway sooner rather than later (it runs off Broadway through March 6), I’ll cook and eat my unabridged dictionary….
I had almost as much fun at The Shoemaker’s Holiday:
Thomas Dekker's “The Shoemaker’s Holiday,” first performed in 1600, hasn’t received a major New York production since 1937, when Orson Welles staged it for his Mercury Theatre. Now it’s being presented by the Storm Theatre, a tiny troupe of which I’d never heard until its press release popped up in my mailbox a couple of weeks ago (the company performs in a black-box theater a block from Broadway). The only reason I bothered to go was because I’d never seen Dekker’s most popular play on stage.
Well, guess what? It’s a peach. Peter Dobbins, artistic director of the Storm Theatre, strikes a perfect balance between bawdiness and deep feeling, something that Welles’ heavily cut, coarsely comic staging failed by all accounts to do. Dekker’s prithee-put-a-sock-in-it-old-codswallop dialogue is played to the hilt, especially by Hugh Brandon Kelly, the shoemaker-turned-sheriff (I’d kill for a big bass voice like that), and shameless scene-stealing is the order of the day (Amanda Cronk makes the funniest faces imaginable). Yet the serious parts are given full value, too….
No link. Do the newsstand thing, or the online edition thing.
P.S. Since my review went to press, The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee has extended its off-Broadway run to March 20. Don’t wait for it to move to Broadway—go now.
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TT: Almanac
"Deep in his heart he hankers to be an artist of some sort, but he is only an actor. To be an actor was his adolescent dream and has been his means of livelihood for fifty years or more; but although he has no complaints about that (indeed it would be ungrateful of him to make any) he knows that an actor is usually no more than an assortment of odds and ends which barely add up to a whole man. An actor is an interpreter of other men's words, often a soul which wishes to reveal itself to the world but dare not, a craftsman, a bag of tricks, a vanity bag, a cool observer of mankind, a child, and at his best a kind of unfrocked priest who, for an hour or two, can call on heaven and hell to mesmerise a group of innocents."
Alec Guinness, Blessings in Disguise
| Thursday, February 10, 2005
OGIC: Fortune cookie
"First off, following your heart is a really bad idea. This is why we have civilization, so people don't do that.
"Hearts are like pirate caves. They are reputedly full of hidden treasures but usually when you open one up a whole lot of bats, spiders, and angry bears come rushing out, and there's no gold."
Lance Mannion, Lance Mannion
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Thursday, February 10, 2005 | Permanent
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TT: See you on the radio
One last reminder: I’ll be on WNYC-FM’s Soundcheck this afternoon, talking about the Pat Metheny Group’s new CD, The Way Up, an hour-long jazz composition by Pat Metheny and Lyle Mays that’s just been released by Nonesuch. I’ll also be talking about other attempts by jazz composers to grapple with the problem of large-scale form.
In addition, Dan Hicks—yes, that Dan Hicks—will be stopping by the studio to talk about his new album, Selected Shorts. I’ve been a Hot Licks fan ever since high school (in fact, I’m listening to Where’s the Money? as I write these words), and I’m soooo looking forward to meeting His Coolness.
Soundcheck airs live in New York at two p.m. on 93.9 FM. To find out more about today’s show, to tune in online via streaming audio, or to listen after the fact by accessing the Soundcheck archive, go here. I’ll be heard at the top of the hour.
Give a listen.
posted by terryteachout @ Thursday, February 10, 2005 | Permanent
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TT: Afterword
When Nancy LaMott died in 1995, her friends and colleagues, myself among them, swore they’d never let her be forgotten. It was a promise more easily made than kept. I wrote a long essay about her for Commentary (the one collected in the Teachout Reader), and Jonathan Schwartz continued to play her records on his various radio shows, but once Nancy’s albums disappeared into limbo, there wasn’t a whole lot more we could do to keep her memory green. Though she was well known in the tight little world of New York cabaret, she had only just begun to make an impression outside it, and within a couple of years of her death it had faded almost beyond recognition. I tried on occasion to interest newspaper and magazine editors in a piece about her, but the answer was always the same: why would anyone care about a half-forgotten cabaret singer whose records were out of print?
So when Midder Music announced that it would be releasing Live at Tavern on the Green, Nancy’s first live album, and reissuing her other recordings, I knew the time had come for me to try to keep my promise. I wasn’t optimistic. She'd been dead for nine years, and though the circumstances of her death were intrinsically interesting, even romantic, I had no reason to suppose that very many people would now be interested in reading about her. Still, I was determined to give it a shot, and Eric Gibson, my editor at The Wall Street Journal, agreed to give me enough space to tell the tale as best I could. I sat down first thing Monday morning, wrote “An Encore for Nancy LaMott,” sent it off to Eric, and held my breath.
The piece ran in Wednesday's Journal, and no sooner did people start reading the paper than Live at Tavern on the Green started climbing up the amazon.com music chart. On Tuesday night it had been hovering around #300. Twenty-four hours later it had settled at #8, right behind Green Day’s American Idiot, Tina Turner’s All the Best, and U2’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, and just ahead of Norah Jones’ Come Away With Me. I’m amazed, and not a little humbled. Grateful, too, for it wouldn’t have happened had Eric not been willing to trust my judgment and lend me a prime chunk of real estate in the Journal so that I could write a few heartfelt words about an old friend who was also a great artist.
I don’t know what the future holds in store for Live at Tavern on the Green. My hope, of course, is that the ripples from my piece will continue to spread. But even if this is as good as it gets, I’ll always have the satisfaction of knowing that hundreds of thousands of people read about Nancy LaMott yesterday, and that what I wrote moved some of them to buy one or more of her albums. That's good enough for me.
If you didn’t see my piece in Wednesday’s Journal, here’s part of what I wrote:
Everything was going Nancy LaMott’s way in 1995. She was appearing regularly at Manhattan’s fanciest nightspots, from the Oak Room of the Algonquin Hotel on down. Her heartfelt, irresistibly appealing versions of such standards as “How Deep Is the Ocean” and “I Didn’t Know What Time It Was” had started to catch the media’s ear. She made her Carnegie Hall debut and recorded her first album with an orchestra, “Listen to My Heart.” She even sang at the White House. Then the clock ran out. Nancy died of uterine cancer that December, leaving behind a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of bookings she didn’t live to fulfill, six records that quickly went out of print and a grieving husband whom she married in her hospital room, an hour and a half before she died. She was just 43 years old.
It’s a tale almost too sad to tell—but now, at long last, it has something like a happy ending. Just in time for Valentine’s Day, Midder Music, Nancy’s record label, has brought out “Live at Tavern on the Green,” her first CD to be released since 1997, and reissued her earlier albums, which became caught up in a legal dispute shortly after her death and have since been unavailable….
I won’t pretend to be objective about Nancy—we were too close for that—but I was hardly the only critic to know her for what she was. John Simon, one of the toughest customers in New York, said that “she fully fathoms what a song is about, and then, rather than merely singing it, lives it.” Stephen Holden put it a different way in her New York Times obituary: “She brought to everything she sang a clean, clear sense of line, impeccable enunciation and a deep understanding of how a good song could convey a lifetime’s experience.” All this is on “Live at Tavern on the Green,” along with a special quality I tried to put in words when I wrote in the New York Daily News that she sounded “sincere and sensuous at the same time, as if the girl next door had snuck out at two a.m. to make a little whoopee with her steady boyfriend.”
I’ve often tried to imagine what might have happened to Nancy had she lived even a little longer. A few months after her death, the listening public discovered Diana Krall’s equally appealing way with a standard, and she began her fast climb to well-deserved fame. Would Nancy have caught the same wave of nostalgia for the romantic ballads of yesteryear, and become a full-fledged star? I think so, and with the release of “Live at Tavern on the Green” and the reissue of her other albums (my favorite of which is “Come Rain or Come Shine: The Songs of Johnny Mercer”), she has a second, posthumous chance to reach all the people who might have fallen in love with her singing a decade ago if they’d only known about it.
At the end of Nancy’s shows, she would leave the bandstand for a moment, then come straight back, grin at the audience and tell them, “Relax, this is cabaret—there’s always an encore.” She trots out that surefire line at the end of “Live at Tavern on the Green,” and it tugged at my heart to hear her speak those well-remembered words again. Now, nine years later, Nancy LaMott has finally come back for an encore. It’s about time.
If you haven’t yet climbed aboard the bandwagon, go here, order one of Nancy’s CDs, and find out what those of us lucky enough to have known and loved her have been missing all these years.
posted by terryteachout @ Thursday, February 10, 2005 | Permanent
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TT: Almanac
“Words with ‘k’ in them are funny. Casey Stengel, that's a funny name. Robert Taylor is not funny. Cupcake is funny. Tomato is not funny. Cookie is funny. Cucumber is funny. Car keys. Cleveland...Cleveland is funny. Maryland is not funny. Then, there's chicken. Chicken is funny. Pickle is funny.”
Neil Simon, The Sunshine Boys
posted by terryteachout @ Thursday, February 10, 2005 | Permanent
link | Wednesday, February 9, 2005
OGIC: Fortune cookie
"To be really good, you have to be willing to have everybody in the world hate you."
Amy Sherman-Palladino, Gilmore Girls creator, interviewed in the New York Times
(Thanks to the dashing Bondgirl for this and a trove of other GG links on the occasion of the show's 100th ep.)
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Wednesday, February 9, 2005 | Permanent
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TT: An encore for Nancy
I’m in Wednesday's Wall Street Journal with a piece about my beloved friend Nancy LaMott, the nonpareil cabaret singer who died nine years ago, and her newly released CD, Live at Tavern on the Green:
“Live at Tavern on the Green” is the only recording of any of Nancy’s live shows to have been released commercially. It was taped at her final public performance. She was wearing a wig, having lost her bottle-blonde hair to chemotherapy. Seven weeks later, she was dead. Yet her sweetly husky mezzo-soprano voice had somehow remained untouched by the terrible disease that would soon take her away from all the things for which she’d longed, and she sang as if she knew she’d never have another chance. When she was done, the Chestnut Room of New York’s Tavern on the Green exploded in rapturous applause. That’s how I remember it, anyway, and I was there….
No link, so pick up a copy of today’s Journal if you're out and about today. This one means a lot to me.
(To order Live at Tavern on the Green and Nancy’s other albums, go here.)
UPDATE: Live at Tavern on the Green is shooting up the amazon.com sales charts today. It's the #17 music seller as of this hour, up from roughly #300 last night. I can't even begin to say how gratified I am, though of course it's mixed with bittersweetness....
MORE: Now it's #7. It's been climbing steadily all day.
posted by terryteachout @ Wednesday, February 9, 2005 | Permanent
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TT: Turn your radio on
I’m not sure whether I mentioned it, but I've just become a regular contributor to WNYC’s Soundcheck. Henceforth I’ll be dropping by the studio at least once a month to talk to John Schaefer, the show’s host, about matters musical. Yay! I soooo love radio....
My next appearance on Soundcheck will be on Thursday, and the subject is The Way Up, the hour-long Pat Metheny-Lyle Mays composition for the Pat Metheny Group that’s just been released on CD by Nonesuch, Metheny’s new record label. I’ll also be talking about how other jazz composers from Duke Ellington to Maria Schneider have grappled—some successfully, some disastrously—with the challenge of large-scale musical form. I think it’ll be worth hearing, if only because (A) John is the perfect on-air conversational partner and (B) we’ll be playing excerpts from The Way Up and other works.
Soundcheck airs in New York live each weekday at two p.m. on 93.9 FM. To find out more about the program, or to listen online via streaming audio, go here. I’ll be heard at the top of the hour. Give us a listen.
(To read more about The Way Up, go here.)
posted by terryteachout @ Wednesday, February 9, 2005 | Permanent
link | Tuesday, February 8, 2005
TT: Where have I been all these years?
Duh, it only just hit me that I'd forgotten to update the "Second City" and "Teachout Elsewhere" modules of the right-hand column with my latest print-media stuff. Maybe I had too much fun this weekend!
Anyway, it's done now. Feast your eyes.
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TT: Entries from an unkept diary
• Eve Tushnet has posted a list of her personal tics and clichés:
I don't think I've written a story without using "pale" or (especially!) "blank" at least once. I blame Harold Bloom for the latter—go read his chapter on Emily Dickinson in The Western Canon, right now! I know one of the reasons I like "Grosse Pointe Blank" is that last word in the title….For some reason, I've twice written the "Sorry I'm late"/"You're not late—I'm early" exchange. And the early person is always the villain of the piece. This is one of those things that make me suspect I really don't understand how my own mind works.
I wonder how many writers have a like degree of insight into their own idiosyncrasies? Probably not a very large number (i.e., next to none), which is why a really good parody like The Mote in the Middle Distance, Max Beerbohm’s brilliant spoof of Henry James (“It was with the sense of a, for him, very memorable something that he peered now into the immediate future, and tried, not without compunction, to take that period up where he had, prospectively, left it”), is not only the cruelest but the most creative form of criticism.
I usually know most of my own clichés when I see them, and I think I could write a pretty good self-parody, but it probably wouldn’t be as good as these, for the simple reason that I’m not a masochist....
• My trainer, a twentysomething stud who wants to be an actor (and is, somewhat to my surprise, a good one), recently shared with me his “three-point plan” for dating. It was, shall we say, alarmingly straightforward. Since most of my women friends are on the youngish side, I’m always on the qui vive for insight into their generational quirks, so I was more than happy to hear his point of view. Alas, I have a sneaking feeling that it’s not all that applicable to the special needs of an aesthete of a certain age. When did I get to be so old? As I confessed to a friend the other day, “I feel like a visitor from another planet, discreetly trying to figure out the local customs without catching the eye of the Men in Black.” So far I seem to be doing all right—or at least well enough—but I doubt the world is ready for me to start putting the Three-Point Plan into practice.
If only I were Dave Frishberg, I could write a song about all the interesting things I’ve learned in the past couple of years. No, wait—he already did:
I was ready
Like a goose that’s cooked to perfection,
But I was open
For a left to the low midsection.
I’d been through it
Like a plumber who cleans the drains out,
But I blew it
When the good Lord passed all the brains out.
I was ready
Just like Oswald was ready for Ruby,
Like Michael Dukakis was ready to star on TV.
I was poised and well-prepared,
But who knew—and, what’s more, who cared?
I was ready for her,
Nelson Eddy for her,
I was ready for her,
But she wasn’t ready for me.
That’s my kind of romantic ballad.
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TT: They say it's my birthday
Things have been jumping here. Actually, I guess they’re always jumping in one way or another, but for the past few days I’ve been unusually busy, even for me, and happy to be.
It all started last Friday when I went down to Washington, D.C., to watch American Ballet Theatre roll out a major dance-reclamation project, a full evening of one-act ballets by Michel Fokine, the once-mighty pre-Balanchine choreographer whose work has mostly disappeared from the international dance repertory in the course of the last half-century. Not that there were any great surprises on the bill (Les Sylphides, Petrushka, Spectre of the Rose, and a revival of Polovtsian Dances staged by Frederic Franklin), but it was still hugely interesting to see a whole evening’s worth of Fokine’s choreography in a single sitting, ABT danced it convincingly, and I got to see Ethan Stiefel and Amanda McKerrow in Petrushka. What’s not to like?
It was also exciting to hear Stravinsky’s music for Petrushka used as an accompaniment to dancing rather than as a free-standing concert piece. I hadn’t seen the ballet in ages (not since the Joffrey Ballet last did it in New York, if memory serves), and though Petrushka is an enthralling musical experience in its own right, it acquires a whole new level of meaning and implication when you can see those matchlessly vital Stravinsky rhythms being brought to visual life on stage, the way the composer intended. I mentioned
the other day that I’d taken a New York music critic to see his very first Balanchine ballets. It was an all-Stravinsky program—Apollo, Orpheus, and Agon—and when it was over he told me that he felt as though he’d never fully understood the music until now. Petrushka is the same way, and as much as I love Stravinsky’s pungent score, I love it best of all in the theater, where it belongs. Cheers to ABT for bringing it back after too long an absence.
(ABT's Fokine program, by the way, will also be danced at New York’s Metropolitan Opera House as part of the company's upcoming season, which runs May 26-July 16. Mark your calendar. As my colleague Tobi Tobias pointed out last October on “Seeing Things,” her artsjournal.com blog, “This brave, admirable venture, clearly not driven by the commercial concerns that dominate arts management nowadays, looks like the impulse of an institution trying to retrieve its soul.” You said it, Tobi.)
Back in New York, I saw press previews of two plays. The first was The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee,
William Finn’s new musical, which opened last night to reviews that appear so far to be uniformly raving, as well as the kind of press attention, including a New York Times Magazine story, that usually ensures long lines at the box office. I also saw an off-off-Broadway revival
of an Elizabethan comedy, Thomas Dekker’s The Shoemaker’s Holiday, that hasn’t received a major New York production, so far as I know, since Orson Welles’ Mercury Theatre presented it on Broadway in 1937. I’m reviewing both shows in Friday’s Wall Street Journal, so I’ll save my own opinions until then. (Watch this space for a taste.)
Sunday was my forty-ninth birthday, and a gaggle of my jazz friends took me to Café Luxembourg for dinner that evening and showered me with gifts. The Mutant, bless her, presented me with her latest painting, a Hofmannesque magenta-and-orange companion piece to the one she did for me last year. A good time was had by all.
Needless to say, none of this frenzied activity stopped me from writing. On Saturday I had a working session with the woman who’s helping me research my biography of Louis Armstrong (she brought me buried treasure from the New York Philharmonic Archive!). On Sunday morning I knocked out a lecture that I’ll be delivering in Washington next month, and yesterday morning I wrote a piece that will be running on the Journal’s arts page later this week.
And now what? Well, tonight I’m going to a concert by the String Orchestra of New York City, which is premiering Morph, a new composition by Paul Moravec. Tomorrow I write my Wall Street Journal drama column. On Thursday I head downtown to the studios of WNYC-FM for a guest spot on Soundcheck, where I’ll be talking with John Schaefer about The Way Up, Pat Metheny’s new CD. The entire album is devoted to a new hour-long composition created by the guitarist for the Pat Metheny Group, and I’ll also be discussing some earlier attempts by jazz musicians to create formally coherent large-scale compositions intended for performance by jazz ensembles.
Whew, huh? Well, that’s my life, and the most recent installment of it has been pretty exciting. As Robert Louis Stevenson said, The world is so full of a number of things,/I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings. I am, way.
P.S. Yes, my blogmail is backed up. Forgive me! I'll get to it, but not right away.
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TT: Almanac
“I chose my career deliberately at the age of twenty-one. I had a naturally ingenious and constructive mind and the taste for writing. I was youthfully zealous of good fame. There seemed few ways, of which a writer need not be ashamed, by which he could make a decent living. To produce something, saleable in large quantities to the public, which had absolutely nothing of myself in it; to sell something for which the kind of people I liked and respected, would have a use; that was what I sought, and detective stories fulfilled the purpose. They were an art which admitted of classical canons of technique and taste. Their writing was painful—though much less painful than any other form would have been—because I have the unhappy combination of being both lazy and fastidious. It was immune, anyway, from the obnoxious comment to which lighter work is exposed. ‘How you must revel in writing your delicious books, Mr. So-and-So.’ My friend Roger Simmonds, who was with me at the University and set up as a professional humorist at the same time as I wrote Vengeance at the Vatican, is constantly plagued by that kind of remark. Instead, women say to me, ‘How difficult it must be to think of all those complicated clues, Mr. Plant.’ I agree. ‘It is, intolerably difficult.’”
Evelyn Waugh, Work Suspended
| Monday, February 7, 2005
TT: Entries from an unkept diary
• Like every other critic in the world, I noticed long ago that it was easier to write bad reviews than good ones, and I could never think of a succinct explanation of why this should be so. Then, shortly after I filed my drama column for last Friday’s Wall Street Journal, it hit me like a flounder across the chops: good reviews aren’t funny. Only when a show is horrible does a critic have legitimate occasion to make jokes about it, and it’s the jokes that make bad reviews so readable. So long as you've got a halfway decent sense of humor, it's not hard to make fun of a piece of junk. (On the other hand, the shrewd critic saves his outrage for the rare occasions when somebody who should damned well know better does something absolutely unforgivable.)
• An actress friend shared a delicious piece of theater argot with me yesterday. It seems that when you’re doing a comedy and no one in the audience is in the mood to laugh, the chances are good that somebody in the cast will sooner or later come storming offstage muttering, “That’s it—I’m dropping ’em.” (Meaning, of course, his or her pants.) Surely this is at least as good as any of my favorite jazz-related idioms, which tend in any case to be barely intelligible to outsiders.
If you're curious as to what I'm talking about, here’s a famous story known to all jazz musicians of a certain age: Lester Young, who drank like a fish, was riding back to Manhattan from the airport in a cab, suffering from a seemingly terminal hangover. The cabby hit a pothole dead center and Young moaned in response, “Oh, man, just play vanilla.”
• Sunday was my forty-ninth birthday, and I had a perfectly wonderful time the whole day long. In fact, I’ve been having a perfectly wonderful time ever since I posted my drama-column teaser on Friday morning and hit the road for Washington, so much so that I don’t yet feel like writing about any of it. For the moment, I’d rather keep on enjoying the echoes of recent pleasure that continue to bounce off me.
Right now, all I want to say is this: nobody in the world has better friends.
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TT: Almanac
“When I paint, I think that what would satisfy me is to express what Bonnard said Renoir told him: make everything more beautiful.”
Fairfield Porter, Art in Its Own Terms: Selected Criticism 1935-1975
| Saturday, February 14, 2004
TT: Not so wild a dream
Says James Tata:
In my dream, music pirating, by destroying the recording industry, and with it the concept of musicians getting paid for the recordings they have made, destroys the very concept of music recording. Instead of stars whose talent is primarily charisma rather than artistic substance, songwriters are the new stars, like they were when the music business consisted of sheet music publishers. Music then returns to its original state: if you want to listen, you have to be in the same room as the musicians. The ranks of paid performers swells--suddenly we all know several people who make a living singing or playing instruments. Musicians are as common as accountants. Better still, most of us spend a large part of our youth learning how to play instruments. The piano again furnishes every middle class home. And, because we are all so musically sophisticated, we never have to listen to disco during halftime at the Super Bowl again.
Needless to say, James has bought himself a ticket to Fantasy Island. But of course (as he says) it is a dream that he's recounting, one in which he envisions an ideal state by whose imaginary coordinates we might steer a bit closer to something that might actually come to pass.
Like, say, what? Well, I wrote a long essay for A Terry Teachout Reader called "Life Without Records" in which I speculated about the possible effects of the coming collapse of the classical recording industry (which I foresaw several years ago) on the culture of classical music. Here’s some of what I wrote:
The collapse of the major classical labels and the rise of the Internet as a locus for decentralized recording activity will almost certainly prevent the re-emergence of anything remotely resembling the superstar system. What would classical music look like without superstars? A possible answer can be found by looking at classical ballet. Few ballet companies tour regularly, and some of the most important, like New York City Ballet, are rarely seen outside their home towns; videocassettes are a notoriously inadequate substitute for live performances, and thus sell poorly. For these reasons, the major media devote little space to ballet, meaning that there are never more than one or two international superstars at any given moment. Most balletgoers spend the bulk of their time attending performances by the resident companies of the cities in which they live, and the dances, not the dancers, are the draw. (It is The Nutcracker that fills seats, not the Sugar Plum Fairy.)
In the United States, regional opera works in much the same way. Only a half-dozen major American companies can afford to import superstars; everyone else hires solid second-tier singers with little or no name recognition, often using local artists to fill out their casts. Audiences are attracted not by the stars, but by the show—that is, by dramatically compelling productions of musically interesting operas. If the larger culture of classical music were to be reorganized along similar lines, then concert presenters, instead of presenting a small roster of international celebrity virtuosos, might be forced to engage a wider range of lower-priced soloists, possibly including local artists and ensembles with a carefully cultivated base of loyal fans. Similarly, regional symphony orchestras would have to adopt more imaginative programming strategies in order to attract listeners who now buy tickets mainly to hear superstar soloists play popular concertos in person. It is possible, too, that with the breakup of the single worldwide market created by the superstar system, we might see a similar disintegration of the blandly eclectic "international" style of performance that came to dominate classical music in the Seventies. Performers who play for the moment, rather than for the microphones of an international record company primarily interested in its bottom line, are less likely to play it safe—and more likely to play interesting music.
In the midst of these seemingly endless uncertainties, one aspect of life without records is not only possible but probable: henceforth, nobody in his right mind will look to classical music as a means of making very large sums of money. Of all the ways in which the invention of the phonograph changed the culture of classical music, perhaps the most fateful was that it turned a local craft into an international trade, thereby attracting the attention of entrepreneurs who were more interested in money than art. Needless to say, there can be no art without money, but the recording industry, by creating a mass market for music, sucked unprecedentedly large amounts of money into the classical-music culture, thereby insidiously and inexorably altering its artistic priorities….
Read the whole thing here—when the book comes out, that is. (You can order it in advance by clicking on the link.)
posted by terryteachout @ Saturday, February 14, 2004 | Permanent
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TT: Almanac
AMANDA: Don’t laugh at me, I’m serious.
ELYOT [seriously]: You mustn’t be serious, my dear one, it’s just what they want.
AMANDA: Who’s they?
ELYOT: All the futile moralists who try to make life unbearable. Laugh at them. Be flippant. Laugh at everything, all their sacred shibboleths. Flippancy brings out the acid in their damned sweetness and light.
AMANDA: If I laugh at everything, I must laugh at us too.
ELYOT: Certainly you must. We’re figures of fun all right.
Noël Coward, Private Lives
posted by terryteachout @ Saturday, February 14, 2004 | Permanent
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TT: Just in case you were wondering
I don't respond to people who write dumb stuff about me, nor do I link to them. But I do appreciate being defended by bloggers who know it's dumb. Thanks, guys—and gal.
(Now, aren't you curious?)
posted by terryteachout @ Saturday, February 14, 2004 | Permanent
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OGIC: Unmasked
The New York Times reports that a technical glitch at Amazon Canada last week caused the real user names of reviewers to be displayed instead of their chosen pseudonyms. Hilarity ensued:
John Rechy, author of the best-selling 1963 novel "City of Night" and winner of the PEN-USA West lifetime achievement award, is one of several prominent authors who have apparently pseudonymously written themselves five-star reviews, Amazon's highest rating. Mr. Rechy, who laughed about it when approached, sees it as a means to survival when online stars mean sales.
"That anybody is allowed to come in and anonymously trash a book to me is absurd," said Mr. Rechy, who, having been caught, freely admitted to praising his new book, "The Life and Adventures of Lyle Clemens," on Amazon under the signature "a reader from Chicago." "How to strike back? Just go in and rebut every single one of them."
[snip]
But even with reviewer privacy restored, many people say Amazon's pages have turned into what one writer called "a rhetorical war," where friends and family members are regularly corralled to write glowing reviews and each negative one is scrutinized for the digital fingerprints of known enemies.
One well-known writer admitted privately—and gleefully—to anonymously criticizing a more prominent novelist who he felt had unfairly reaped critical praise for years. She regularly posts responses, or at least he thinks it is her, but the elegant rebuttals of his reviews are also written from behind a pseudonym.
Numbering 10 million and growing by tens of thousands each week, the reader reviews are the most popular feature of Amazon's sites, according to the company, which also culls reviews from more traditional critics like Publishers Weekly. Many authors applaud the democracy of allowing readers to voice their opinions, and rejoice when they see a new one posted—so long as it is positive.
But some authors say it is ironic that while they can for the first time face their critics on equal footing, so many people on both sides choose to remain anonymous. And some charge that the same anonymity that encourages more people to discuss books also spurs them to write reviews that they would never otherwise attach their names to.
Jonathan Franzen, author of "The Corrections," winner of the National Book Award, said that a first book by Tom Bissell last fall was "crudely and absurdly savaged" on Amazon in anonymous reviews he believed were posted by a group of writers whom Mr. Bissell had previously written about in the literary magazine The Believer.
"With the really flamingly negative reviews, I think it's always worth asking yourself what kind of person has time to write them," Mr. Franzen said. "I know that the times when I've been tempted to write a nasty review online, I have never had attractive motives." Mr. Franzen declined to say whether he had ever given in to such temptation.
The suspicion that the same group of writers, known as the Underground Literary Alliance, had anonymously attacked his friend Heidi Julavits prompted the novelist Dave Eggers to write a review last August calling Ms. Julavits's first novel "one of the best books of the year."
Mr. Eggers, whose memoir, "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius," made him a literary celebrity, chose to post his review as "a reader from St. Louis, MO." But the review appeared under the name "David K Eggers" on Amazon's Canadian site on Monday, and Mr. Eggers confirmed by e-mail that he had written it.
Oh, that Dave Eggers, always so shy and retiring. Will he ever come out of his shell?
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Saturday, February 14, 2004 | Permanent
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OGIC: No! Canada
Terry and I have been following the Don Cherry story this week, and he suggested I blog about it. But I couldn't find the remotest arts angle to hang a post on. If you don't know who Don Cherry is (think Canadian hockey) or don't know about the events of the last week, Colby Cosh's site is the best place to go to catch up.
Meanwhile, guess what? The Canadian government has handed me my arts angle on a silver platter. After the Conan O'Brien show taped in Toronto the last few days, with a Canadian government subsidy, Ottawa is scandalized by what they saw, and on the offensive:
Canada's government on Friday condemned a show by U.S. late-night television host Conan O'Brien that insulted people in French-speaking Quebec and seemed to suggest everyone in the province was homosexual.
Ottawa and the province of Ontario paid $760,000 to help O'Brien—who appears on the NBC television network—bring his show to Toronto for a week to boost the city's profile after a deadly SARS outbreak last year.
But the federal government said O'Brien had gone too far with the show broadcast on Thursday in which he went to Quebec, a province which has had separatist governments for much of the last 20 years and is a delicate political topic in Canada.
"We want to disassociate ourselves from the comments which were broadcast last night because we do not support them in any way," junior government minister Mauril Belanger told Parliament.
At one point in the show, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog—a hand puppet that is a regular on the show—said to a Quebecer: "You're French, you're obnoxious and you no speekay English." It told another: "I can smell your crotch from here."
O'Brien's team were also shown replacing street signs in the province with those that read "Quebecqueer Street" and "Rue des Pussies."
Alexa McDonough, a legislator for the left-leaning New Democrats, described the program as "racist filth" and "utterly vile" and demanded the government seek the return of the C$1 million subsidy.
This is pretty surreal. To someone who has a soft spot for most all things Canadian, it's also a glass of cold water in the face. Clearly a lot of the jokes that offended were allusions to the Cherry affair; as such, they seem at least as much aimed at Cherry as at the Québécois. If there's anything I know about Conan's humor, it's that it doles out "offense" indiscriminately.
But somehow I don't think you're going to talk much reason to people fuming about how downright insulting that Insult Comic Dog was. Gee, who'da thunk?
UPDATE: Slate rounds up the Canadian media coverage of this story.
posted by ourgirlinchicago @ Saturday, February 14, 2004 | Permanent
link | Friday, February 13, 2004
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