About Last Night

Here’s a line from Thursday’s Wall Street Journal that caught my eye. The author is referring to the announcement of the finalists for this year’s National Book Awards:

Judges chose, and presumably read, from 1,259 books submitted by publishers.

Readers with long memories won’t need to be reminded of the reason for that skeptical “presumably,” but for the benefit of those who have better things to do than read everything Michael Kinsley writes, he’s to blame.

As for me, I was one of the judges for the 2003 nonfiction award, and wrote about the selection process here:

We considered 436 books (some of them very, very briefly, but they all got talked about at some point in the past few months). We never raised our voices, never argued with one another, never got angry. Our deliberations were civilized, collegial, and great fun. When we met yesterday afternoon to make our final selection, it was the first time all five of us had been in the same room at once–we mostly deliberated via e-mail and in conference calls–and the atmosphere, far from being tense, was positively festive.

In case I didn’t make myself clear, let me say unequivocally that I read some of all 436 books. I don’t claim to have read all of them, or all of most of them, or very much of some of them–but, then, anyone who’s reviewed a book knows that you don’t have to read very far in certain books to know that they’re no damn good.

I might add that I haven’t read a single one of this year’s finalists, though two of them are on my list of books I’d like to read. (In fact, I hadn’t even heard of most of them.) Alas, those who write for a living must ration their literary intake severely! Besides, now that I no longer review books other than occasionally, I find it an incredible luxury to be able to read only what interests me, and nothing more. Time is a lovely thing to waste–so long as you get to decide how to waste it.

“Perhaps it is freedom, of speech and conduct, which is really envied by the unsuccessful, not money or even power.”

Graham Greene, Travels With My Aunt

I spent most of last week deep in the woods of Connecticut, where I worked on Hotter Than That: A Life of Louis Armstrong. When not clicking away at the laptop, I watched In Cold Blood (about which more later in the week), Journey into Fear, The Lady from Shanghai, and Our Man in Havana, read Simon Callow’s Orson Welles: Hello Americans, Graham Greene’s Travels With My Aunt, Chester Himes’ Blind Man With a Pistol, Muriel Spark’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, and Patrick S

“One’s life is more formed, I sometimes think, by books than by human beings: it is out of books one learns about love and pain at second hand. Even if we have the happy chance to fall in love, it is because we have been conditioned by what we have read, and if I had never known love at all, perhaps it was because my father’s library had not contained the right books.”

Graham Greene, Travels With My Aunt

I review two Broadway shows in this morning’s Wall Street Journal, the Roundabout Theatre Company’s revival of Heartbreak House and the Manhattan Theatre Club’s production of Losing Louie:

George Bernard Shaw used to be a near-constant presence on Broadway. Now he’s history. The Roundabout Theatre Company’s revival of “Heartbreak House” is only the second Shaw play (not counting “My Fair Lady”) to be seen there since 1993. Could it be that American audiences have finally tired of the garrulous Irishman who devoted his long life to telling the world how to fix itself? Perhaps–but I hope not. Though Shaw could be a frightful bore, his best plays have remained vibrantly stage-worthy, and “Heartbreak House,” the oddest and least characteristic of them, has grown ever more contemporary in the 86 years since it was first performed on Broadway. This production features some fine acting, and if the overall results are no better than goodish, Shaw’s intentions still come through clearly.

Shaw called “Heartbreak House” “a fantasia in the Russian manner on English themes,” by which he meant to suggest a resemblance to the rambling, atmospheric plotlessness of the plays of Chekhov. (Most of Shaw’s own plays, by contrast, are linear to a fault.) It starts off, however, in the cozy manner of a good old-fashioned weekend-in-the-country comedy, the kind in which unsuspecting visitors to an English country house find themselves swept up in amusing romantic hijinks. But Captain Shotover (Philip Bosco), the octogenarian sailor whose living room looks strangely like the stern gallery of a sailing ship, is half-senile–or seems to be–and the other members of his family turn out to be as amusing as a basketful of unfed snakes….

If you think Broadway doesn’t produce enough unfunny comedies of its own, you’ll be happy to hear that Simon Mendes da Costa’s “Losing Louie” has made its way from London to the Manhattan Theatre Club’s Biltmore Theatre, where it came perilously close to putting me to sleep….

No free link. To read the whole thing, buy a copy of today’s paper and turn to the “Weekend Journal” section, or go here to subscribe to the Online Journal, which will give you instant access to the complete text of my review. (If you’re already a subscriber, you’ll find it here.)

In my next “Sightings” column, to be published in Saturday’s Wall Street Journal, I consider the wider implications of the revival of Grease that opens on Broadway in June. The stars of this production will be chosen not by the director or producers, but by the viewers of You’re the One That I Want, an NBC reality-TV series that makes its debut later this season. Yes, it’s a gimmick–but I have a sneaking feeling that when all is said and done, You’re the One That I Want will prove to have been a very significant episode in the history of commercial theater in America.

To find out why, pick up a copy of tomorrow’s Journal, where you’ll find my column in the “Pursuits” section.

– I was interviewed by the BBC last week for Pods and Blogs, a radio series on which I discussed my recent Wall Street Journal column about YouTube and the fine arts. The interview aired on Tuesday. To listen via streaming audio, go here. (If you’re in a hurry, my segment starts roughly forty-four minutes into the hour.)

– Doug Ramsey, a/k/a Mr. Rifftides, reported the other day on a fascinating concert by the Bill Mays Trio (a group I admire without reserve) that blended jazz and classical music to what sounds like brilliant effect. To read what he wrote, go here. I mention it because Doug is now reporting that part of the concert will be broadcast in streaming audio via the Web this coming Sunday at four o’clock Eastern. For further details, go here.

Should the broadcast not fit into your schedule, you can get a taste of the Bill Mays Trio on its own by purchasing this CD. I commend it to your attention.

– A reader reports that Mark Swed of the Los Angeles Times recently delivered himself of this one-sentence summary
of Wagner’s Ring of the Nibelungs:

Wotan, the king of the gods, driven by lust and power, makes bad bargains and then is forced by his wife to contend with their consequences, losing control of the world in the process.

That is, if I do say so myself, pretty damn neat. I seem to remember a Comden and Green lyric that dealt no less efficiently with the plots of a number of classic novels, but I’m away from my library this week and so can’t check it out for myself. Can anyone out there oblige me?

– Another reader passes on this quote from the great jazz drummer Art Blakey:

Jazz is known all over the world as an American musical art form and that’s it. No America, no jazz. I’ve seen people try to connect it to other countries, for instance to Africa, but it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with Africa.

No source, alas–I’ve done a bit of surfing to try and track it down, but everyone cites it without identifying the occasion on which Blakey said it. Having spent more than a little bit of my spare time running down alleged remarks by H.L. Mencken that turned out to be apocryphal, I’m reluctant to accept it as authentic without a source. Once again, I’d appreciate a steer in the right direction.

“A dramatist is one who believes that the pure event, an action involving human beings, is more arresting than any comment that can be made upon it.”

Thornton Wilder, interview, The Paris Review, Winter 1956