Archives for April 2004

Apropos of God of the Machine’s wicked parody of one of my more breathless contributions to “About Last Night” (scroll down), is there anything more frustrating than ransacking your failing memory for the source of a half-recalled quote? That’s what I’ve been doing ever since I got back from lunch with Supermaud (who says hi). At last, the coin dropped, and I went to my shelf of art books, took down N. John Hall’s Max Beerbohm Caricatures, turned to page 15, and hit the jackpot:

As Edmund Gosse told a fellow writer whom Max had just caricatured: “I feel it my duty to tell you that something has happened to you that sooner or later happens to us almost all. Max has got you. We don’t like it and you won’t like it, but you must pretend you do. You can console yourself at any rate with the thought that it will give uncommon pleasure to your friends.”

What threw me off the track was that I wrongly remembered this letter as having been sent by Gosse to Henry James apropos of “The Mote in the Middle Distance,” the James parody in Beerbohm’s A Christmas Garland (“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”), which also contains eerily exact parodies of G.K. Chesterton, Joseph Conrad, Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling, George Bernard Shaw, and H.G. Wells. I chased that hare in vain for a good ten minutes, though I did find this highly relevant footnote in Simon Nowell-Smith’s The Legend of the Master: Henry James as Others Saw Him:

Gosse told Siegfried Sassoon that James had roamed round the room discussing, “with extraordinary vivacity and appreciation, not only the superlative intelligence of the book as a whole but ‘The Mote in the Middle Distance’ itself, which he had read in a self-scrutinizing bewilderment of wonder and admiration.”

As you may have gathered, I love parody and caricature, and it’s one of my medium-sized regrets that I have no gift for either (though I can do adequate impersonations of a few of my friends). Alas, I find it impossible to get inside another person’s prose style. I once tried to write a parody of a Jeeves novel in the style of Bright Lights, Big City. That was actually a pretty good idea, conceptually speaking, but I stalled out halfway through the fourth sentence, so it went unwritten, and the only thing I can remember about it now is that the very first word was, of course, “you.”

This incapacity is all the more vexing because I believe parody to be one of the most powerful and illuminating forms of criticism. Some of Kenneth Tynan’s most brilliant drama reviews were parodies, including his double-edged skewering of William Faulkner’s Requiem for a Nun, which he rewrote in the style of Our Town:

Well, folks, reckon that’s about it. End of another day in the city of Jefferson, Yoknapatawpha County, Mississippi. Nothin’ much happened. Couple of people got raped, couple more got their teeth kicked in, but way up there those faraway old stars are still doing their old cosmic criss-cross, and there ain’t a thing we can do about it. It’s pretty quiet now. Folk hereabouts get to bed early, those that can still walk….

I wouldn’t kill to be able to do that, but I might be willing to maim.

Wednesday was a very, very long day. I wouldn’t have skipped a moment of it, not for anything in the world.

– I woke up at five-thirty to find my as-yet-unwritten Wall Street Journal review of Jumpers, A Raisin in the Sun, and Bombay Dreams rattling around in my head. It seemed pointless to try and go back to sleep, so I climbed down from the loft, booted up my iBook, and started writing. The piece was slow going–Jumpers isn’t easy to sum up in four paragraphs, which was all I could spare–but I finally got it written.

– Midway through the first draft, I took a break and picked up my copy of Fairfield Porter’s Broadway from my framer. It turned out that the upper right edge of the print had been slightly damaged in transit, which saddened me. But once I carted it home and hung it over the mantelpiece, I found that the flaw didn’t bother me all that much, especially since the frame is so handsome–the photo the dealer sent didn’t do it justice. Every time I walk into the living room, it’s as if I see A Terry Teachout Reader writ large on the wall. I wonder how long it’ll take before the association fades and I start to see Broadway solely as a work of art in its own right rather than a beautiful symbol of the pride I feel in my new book. Maybe never–and that’ll be all right, too. In any case, I’m hopelessly in love with the latest addition to the Teachout Museum. For the moment, my other prints have receded into the background, and I now find myself staring at Broadway for minutes at a time, drinking it in.

– With Broadway safely hung, I sent off my Journal review, read and corrected the proofs of my Commentary essay, and checked in with the editor of my Washington Post column, which runs in Sunday’s paper. (He had a few last-minute suggestions, all of which I gladly took.) Then I ran downstairs, hailed a cab, and hurtled across Central Park to watch Maria Schneider
and Bob Brookmeyer
rehearse tonight’s concert at the Kaye Playhouse (go here for details). I can’t be there–Thursday is the only night I can see New York City Ballet dance George Balanchine’s Liebeslieder Walzer
this season, and it could easily be several years before they do it again–so I talked my way into the sound check instead. I’d never before had the privilege of watching Brookmeyer rehearse his music with a big band, and it was fascinating to watch him put Schneider’s players through their paces on Celebration, the four-movement suite they’ll be performing tonight.

– Back home again to return phone calls, check my accumulated e-mail, and read another half-chapter of W. Jackson Bate’s Samuel Johnson. (Incidentally, Erin O’Connor linked to what I wrote yesterday about the experience of revisiting one of my favorite biographies. Take a look–I like what she had to say.)

– Dinner with an out-of-town friend, then down to the Village Vanguard to hear Jim Hall‘s eleven o’clock set. Hall is my favorite living jazz musician, and I’ve never heard him play guitar other than wonderfully well, but this performance was memorable even by his own rarefied standards. Maybe it was because he’ll be recording live on Friday and Saturday, or because Lewis Nash, the drummer, was in awesome form–I would have sworn he was channeling Shelly Manne. Whatever the reason, I’ve never heard Hall, Nash, or Scott Colley play better. “That’s exactly how I’d want to play all those instruments, if I could play any of them,” a singer friend told me afterward. What she said.

Perhaps the most striking thing about the set was that nobody played above a mezzo-forte all evening long. Even under the best of circumstances, the Vanguard can be an exasperatingly noisy place, but I didn’t hear a single stray peep out of the enthralled crowd. It was a night of whispered confidences and sweet surprises. I’m going back on Saturday, and I’ll be taking Sarah, who’s in town for the week. She’s in for a treat–to put it mildly.

Now that I’m home at last, I’m starting to feel the cumulative effects of the long day. I wish I could sleep in, but I have to haul myself out of bed in the morning and finish writing a speech before I head downtown to lunch with Supermaud. I suppose this whole week has been too much of a great many good things–but is that really possible? I’m not so sure.

I can’t remember the last time it occurred to me to quote William Saroyan (he isn’t exactly a favorite of mine), but a half-remembered line of his popped into my mind as I climbed the stairs of the Vanguard an hour or so ago: “In the time of your life, live–so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it.” And that’s what I did on Wednesday: I lived.

UPDATE: This inverted axiom just occurred to me: The unlived life is not worth examining.

“When Goldsmith said, ‘We have a claim upon you,’ Johnson replied, ‘I am not obliged to do any more. No man is obliged to do as much as he can do. A man is to have part of his life to himself.’ Though he is quite justified, he is plainly uneasy in his own conscience as he continues to rationalize; and when Boswell, instead of dropping the matter, says, ‘I wonder, Sir, you have not more pleasure in writing,’ there is the testy response: ‘Sir, you may wonder.'”

W. Jackson Bate, Samuel Johnson

Tuesday was the second busiest day of a rocky week: I wrote two pieces, went to an appointment in between, then headed south for a Broadway preview from which I only just returned. Today will be even busier: I have to write my Wall Street Journal column and a speech, go to an afternoon rehearsal, meet an out-of-town visitor for dinner, then take a cab to the Village Vanguard to hear Jim Hall (you come, too). Things will ease off a bit after that, but I’m still double-booked through next Monday, my day off. That’s my life, and though I’m not really complaining–it’s nice to be wanted–anybody who tries to get me to do anything on Monday is looking for t-r-o-u-b-l-e.

Enough said. Here’s what’s been happening on the art front:

– I saw a press preview of Bombay Dreams, which opens Thursday at the Broadway Theatre. I’ll be reviewing it in Friday’s Journal.

– I watched the first part of The Letter, William Wyler’s 1940 film version of Somerset Maugham’s short story. It’s not bad, and Bette Davis (of whom I’m not usually a fan) was quite good, but I’d rather read Maugham than watch him, so I switched off after Davis spilled the beans to her stiff-uppah-lip lawyer.

– As I mentioned the other day, I’m currently rereading W. Jackson Bate’s Samuel Johnson, something I do every year or two. For me, Johnson is the most sympathetic figure in all of English literature, and the courage with which he climbed out of the abyss of failure and depression has helped nudge me through more than one dark patch of my own life. Not only is Bate better than Boswell when it comes to this particular aspect of Johnson’s psychology, but his biography is a masterly piece of writing for which no stylistic apologies of any kind need be made. Would that all academics wrote so lucidly. A friend of mine who studied under Bate at Harvard assures me that his Johnson class was better than the book, but I wouldn’t know–I didn’t go to Harvard, or even Yale! All I can tell you is that I’ve read Samuel Johnson at least ten times since it was published in 1977, and profited from it every time, this one included.

– My copy of Fairfield Porter’s Broadway, the color lithograph reproduced on the cover of A Terry Teachout Reader, was delivered today. It proved to be even more beautiful than I expected (and my expectations were high). Alas, the print came loose from its mounting tape in transit, but a quick trip to my framer should set things right, and then I’ll hang it over my mantelpiece. If I wasn’t so busy, I’d invite a few select friends over for a hanging ceremony! I’m having lunch with Supermaud on Thursday, so maybe I can lure her uptown to take a peek.

– Now playing on iTunes: “Rapunzel,” a sinuously hip bebop line by Walter Becker and Donald Fagen (that’s Steely Dan to you) performed by nonpareil tenor saxophonists Pete Christlieb and Warne Marsh on Apogee, their Steely Dan-produced 1978 duet album, now available on CD for the first time with three previously unreleased bonus tracks. I’ve loved this record ever since I first heard it a quarter-century ago, and wondered why it never made it onto compact disc. Now it has, and I’m ecstatic. “Rapunzel,” by the way, is a contrafact of “Land of Make Believe,” a song by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, of all people. Three words to the wise: buy this album.

And so to bed. I’m bushed. Don’t be surprised if I maintain radio silence on Thursday. I promise to get back to you as soon as things calm down a bit. Not only do I have a hatful of links crying out to be posted, but I want to write a few heartfelt words about Carolina Ballet‘s remarkable dance version of Handel’s Messiah, which I flew down to Raleigh to see immediately after finishing my Balanchine book but haven’t had time to blog about other than in passing.

All this and more once the clouds roll by! Meanwhile, I’m still hoping that Our Girl will feel like coming out and playing one of these days….

Terry’s going to fall flat on the floor, I think, when he sees that I’ve actually posted. Breathe, Terry. Get a glass of water. In your shock, you neglect to notice I have stolen your category. Here I am, though I’m not sure how much more you’ll see of me before next week. I have a stiff schedule the next day and a half, followed by what will no doubt be a panicky sprint to the airport to catch a flight to Washington for a bridal shower. And perhaps to make the acquaintance of a blogger or two.

The other night I saw the Italian import I’m Not Scared, which is rated super-fresh over at Rotten Tomatoes.* I wasn’t crazy about it, though, and couldn’t really put my finger on the reason. As usual, someone else has said it better than I could. Stanley Kauffmann’s review hits the nail on the head, and the lack of purpose he points to made the film feel, to me, just the slightest bit prurient. The movie tries to be both a crime story and an evocation of the sensations of childhood, especially the uneven nature of children’s understanding, the way they can see certain aspects of the adult world only foggily but others more clearly than adults. I often like this sort of crossover film that’s reflective or introspective as well as action-packed, but here the results just come out feeling vaguely exploitative. I get the feeling it was a better book.

*Attention Jon Stewart! Those aren’t asterisks, sweetie, those are smashed tomatoes.

Sorry, but I’m swamped: too many deadlines, too many appointments, too many performances. Instead of blogging, I’m going to bed at a reasonable hour so that I can get up at an unreasonable hour (for me) and write another piece. I’ll be back as soon as I can.

In the meantime, set your sights on the right-hand column, scroll down to “Sites to See,” and visit some of those cool blogs thereunder.

Later.

“She liked to think of herself as a straightforward person. ‘People always know where they are with me,’ she would say rather smugly; it never occurred to her that people might not always want to know such things.”

Barbara Pym, No Fond Return of Love

As of this moment, “About Last Night” is being read in thirteen time zones worldwide.

A message to everyone out there: Tell your friends about us. We don’t advertise. Instead, we count on you (and our fellow bloggers) to spread the word. This blog isn’t just for New Yorkers, or big-city types in general. It’s for everyone, everywhere, who’s interested in the arts…and tonight it’s being read more than halfway around the world.

Thanks for visiting. Next time, bring a friend.