Archives for 2012

From 2006:

I have a feeling that the reason why awards in the arts tend irresistibly toward irrelevance is that they contradict the essential nature of art. The fact is that there are only two “prizes” worth having, short-term success and long-term acclaim, neither of which can be conveyed by any means other than the uncoerced consensus of the relevant public. Yet as self-evident as that might seem, there is some irresistible impulse built into the human psyche that makes us keep handing out awards anyway….

Read the whole thing here.

“It had been a joke, another Dalziel story to tell old friends, but Pascoe had since realized what he recognized once more now as he looked around this smoke-filled room with its gaudy vinyl wallpaper, its formica tables and stackable chairs, its shouted conversations and screeched amusement, its pints of bitter and port and lemons–that some catch of self-awareness in him could never be released sufficiently to let him plunge without restraint into these less than Byzantine pleasures. It wasn’t just the natural watchfulness which becomes second nature to most detectives. It was a need to assess before experiencing. It was a distrust of the commonality of pleasure. It was a sense of the cry of bewilderment in human laughter. Above all, it was a longing for joy and a fear of being duped and debased by some shoddy substitute.”
Reginald Hill, A Pinch of Snuff (courtesy of Mrs. T)

John Douglas Thompson, Gordon Edelstein, and I have a week’s worth of rehearsals for Satchmo at the Waldorf under our belts. We’re very pleased with our progress to date. Not only is most of the script now staged, but Lee Savage’s set (the model for which is pictured above) and Ilona Somogyi’s costumes are under construction at Shakespeare & Company in Lenox, and I’ve written three new speeches since we went to work on Tuesday.

Mrs. T and I celebrated last night by watching Mike Leigh’s Topsy-Turvy, the greatest backstage movie ever made. Now that I’ve collaborated on two operas and a play, I understand better than ever before exactly how good it is. As I wrote in a 2011 “Sightings” column about Gilbert and Sullivan, Topsy-Turvy is

a deeply knowing fictional study of how a theatrical production takes shape….We visit the office of Richard D’Oyly Carte and notice with surprise that he has a phone on his desk; we dine in Victorian restaurants, sit in Victorian parlors, go backstage at the Savoy Theatre and watch a prop man shake a piece of sheet metal to simulate the sound of thunder. Detail is piled on imaginatively re-created detail, and by film’s end you feel as though you’ve taken a stroll through a vanished world.

Whenever I watch Topsy-Turvy, I’m reminded of how much I love being immersed in the endlessly complex process of rehearsing a show. You feel as though you’ve slipped through a hidden door and vanished into a secret world, a parallel universe populated by variously eccentric geniuses who are totally devoted to lifting your script off the page and bringing it to life. I treasure every minute I spend in their company, and I learn a hundred priceless things each time we assemble in the rehearsal room.

Tonight I’ll be watching a preview of Into the Woods in Central Park, but I plan to drive back to Massachusetts as soon as it’s over. I’ve got an eleven o’clock call in Lenox tomorrow morning, and I can’t wait to rejoin my new friends and resume the ecstatically hard work of putting Satchmo at the Waldorf on stage.

Dizzy Gillespie and his big band play “Salt Peanuts” in the 1946 film Jivin’ in Be-Bop:

(This is the latest in a series of arts-related videos that appear in this space each Monday and Wednesday.)

“Patience, n. A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.”
Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

In today’s Wall Street Journal I review a rare and important regional revival, the Peterborough Players’ production of J.M. Barrie’s The Admirable Crichton. Here’s an excerpt.
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When the spotlight goes out on theatrical fame, it leaves behind impenetrable darkness. A century ago J.M. Barrie was as well known as George Bernard Shaw or Henrik Ibsen. Today “Peter Pan” is the only one of his many plays that continues to be performed in this country, and most Americans think that Jerome Robbins wrote it. Were it not for Mr. Robbins’ much-loved musical-comedy version of the 1904 stage fantasy about a plucky boy who refused to grow up, Barrie would be nothing more than a footnote to the history of Vicwardian theater. Might he be due for a second look? Gus Kaikkonen, the artistic director of the Peterborough Players, thinks so, for his company is currently performing “The Admirable Crichton,” a once-famous Barrie comedy that disappeared from the American stage decades ago–and judging by Mr. Kaikkonen’s brilliantly effective production, it’s a not-so-minor masterpiece…
First performed in London in 1902, “The Admirable Crichton” is the story of an upper-class London family whose eccentric but well-meaning patriarch, Lord Henry Lasenby, the Earl of Loam (Michael Page), subscribes to the Rousseauvian notion that “our divisions into classes are artificial” and that “if we were to return to nature, which is the aspiration of my life, all would be equal.” Not so Crichton (Tom Frey), his omnicompetent, ultra-conservative butler, who believes no less devoutly that the English class system is “the natural outcome of a civilized society. There must always be a master and servants in all civilized communities…for it is natural, and whatever is natural is right.”
Both men’s convictions are put to the test when the Lasenbys are shipwrecked on a deserted island. No sooner do they prove preposterously incapable of fending for themselves than Crichton, who has hitherto treated his employers with impeccable deference, assumes his natural status as a leader of men and becomes the island’s benevolent but iron-willed dictator….
All this is, of course, the stuff of sky-high comedy, and Barrie rings the comic changes on his promising theme with satisfying skill. The first half of “The Admirable Crichton,” in fact, is as witty and fresh as anything that Oscar Wilde ever wrote–and the second half, in which the Lasenbys are rescued by a passing ship and Crichton returns to his status as a servant, is even better. What started out as a fluffy backstairs farce effortlessly changes key and becomes a dead-serious comedy about how the English class system stunts the emotions of all who subscribe to its soul-deadening tenets….
I’ve praised Mr. Kaikkonen often in this space, both for his Peterborough Players productions and for his work with New York’s Mint Theater. His uncluttered, untricky stagings never fail to give value for money, and this one is no exception. It deserves to be remounted in Manhattan…
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Read the whole thing here.

In my “Sightings” column for today’s Wall Street Journal I pay tribute to two famous pieces of incidental music. Here’s an excerpt.
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“A melody is heard, played upon a flute. It is small and fine, telling of grass and trees and the horizon. The curtain rises.” Those are the first lines of Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman.” Have you ever read a more evocative cue for music? You wouldn’t think that Mr. Miller’s notoriously tinny ear was that good–and you’d be right. He penned that sentence after he heard the music that Alex North composed for the play’s original Broadway production, and was so struck by what he heard that he wrote it into the script….
Nowadays it’s unusual for a straight play, whether on Broadway or elsewhere, to make use of incidental music for any purpose other than signaling to noisy audiences that the curtain is about to go up. But well into the Fifties and after, American playwrights and the composers who collaborated with them frequently employed music in much the same way that it is used in movies. As the film composer Bernard Herrmann wrote, “Music on the screen can seek out and intensify the inner thoughts of the characters….It often lifts mere dialogue into the realm of poetry.” It can also do that on the stage–as it does in “Death of a Salesman,” whose limpid, graceful score makes more out of Mr. Miller’s words than he put there in the first place.
Music is even more central to “The Glass Menagerie,” Tennessee Williams’ first stage success, which was scored by Paul Bowles in three days for a flat fee of $50. I doubt that so small a sum has ever been spent to better effect by a producer. A minute after the curtain goes up, Tom Wingfield, the narrator, speaks these words: “The play is memory. Being a memory play, it is dimly lighted, it is sentimental, it is not realistic. In memory everything seems to happen to music.” Underneath his speech you hear a distant, delicate musical phrase that sounds as fragile as spun sugar. Variations on this phrase are heard at key moments throughout the play, usually in connection with the collection of glass animals owned by Laura, Tom’s shy sister, who fears life and lives in a world of dreams….
Mr. Bowles’ score is still heard from time to time in modern productions of the play, while Mike Nichols made memorable use of Mr. North’s “Death of a Salesman” music in his recent Broadway revival. But if you want to acquire the best possible understanding of how these scores work, you need to hear them up close–and now you can. Both have been released as mp3 “albums” that can be downloaded from Amazon, iTunes and other web-based music dealers. The “Death of a Salesman” score was recorded by the four musicians who played it on Broadway in 1949, while Mr. Bowles’ music for “The Glass Menagerie” was used in a studio recording that was made for Caedmon in 1964 by Montgomery Clift, Julie Harris, Jessica Tandy and David Wayne….
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Read the whole thing here.

“We are rarely proud when we are alone.”
Voltaire, Philosophical Dictionary