Archives for February 2005

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 Caf

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.

– Eve Tushnet has posted a list of her personal tics and clich

• 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.

“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

I didn’t enjoy myself at the theater last week, and my weekly drama column for The Wall Street Journal, in which two newly opened shows catch several kinds of hell, reflects that fact with alarming clarity.

First under the lash is Good Vibrations:

Harpo Marx described the famously awful, extremely popular “Abie’s Irish Rose” as “no worse than a bad cold.” Judged by that yardstick, “Good Vibrations,” the new Beach Boys musical that opened Wednesday at the Eugene O’Neill Theatre, is more like a stroke–one that leaves you capable of movement but knocks 15 points off your IQ. By the time I finally staggered up the aisle, I found it hard to remember that there was once a time when even the most blatantly commercial musicals were put together with a modicum of intelligence and craftsmanship….

I’m not saying there’s nothing good about “Good Vibrations.” I liked the tall, cheery-looking blonde in the blue top, for instance. But outside of the dogged professionalism of the hard-working cast, there’s precious little else to admire outside of the undeniable fact that it never pretends to be anything other than a big dumb applause machine. Somehow I can’t see paying $100 a seat for a musical that’s unpretentiously horrible.

No less unpleasing was Brooklyn Boy:

Donald Margulies, who won a Pulitzer Prize for “Dinner With Friends,” has now written a play about a struggling young Brooklyn author who writes a best-seller about his unhappy youth and promptly discovers that all that glitters is not gold. Excuse the clich

“The transition from tenseness, self-responsibility, and worry, to equanimity, receptivity, and peace, is the most wonderful of all those shiftings of inner equilibrium, those changes of personal centre of energy, which I have analyzed so often; and the chief wonder of it is that it so often comes about, not by doing, but by simply relaxing and throwing the burden down.”

William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience

I note with sadness the death of John Vernon. You won’t recognize his name unless you know a lot about movies, but it’s way better than even money that you’d know his face and voice in an instant. A Canadian character actor who came south to Hollywood, he specialized in playing a certain kind of villain–serious, deep-voiced, a bit prissy and creepy, almost visibly compromised–and did it with such vivid exactitude that he thereby found his way into a number of memorable films, among them Point Blank (his big-screen debut), Dirty Harry, Charley Varrick, and The Outlaw Josey Wales. Then he landed a part that allowed him to play his “natural” type for laughs, Dean Vernon Wormer of Animal House, seizing the opportunity with such self-evident relish that my generation will always remember him as the hapless stiff who put Delta House on double secret probation.

Like Strother Martin and J.T. Walsh, Vernon was that most admirable of small-part actors, a professional with flair, and I hope he gets some nice obits this weekend. (He made it into Friday’s Washington Post, but the New York Times, as is its increasingly frequent wont, dropped the ball.) He deserved them.