About Last Night

(1) Since I fell ill on Friday night, I haven’t listened to a note of music. All I feel like doing is reading, watching TV, and looking at the art on my walls. Would anyone care to speculate on why music hath temporarily lost its charms for this sick blogger?

(2) The incoming mail is going unanswered. Sorry. I’ll catch up when I feel a little better.

(3) I managed to rise from my sickbed over the weekend and post a bit, so please take a look.

(4) Have you tried the new search engine yet?

I’m still sneezing and wheezing. I cancelled all my weekend performances (I can’t believe I was too sick to go hear Chanticleer’s annual Christmas concert at the Metropolitan Museum!), and I haven’t set foot out of the apartment since Friday night other than to buy food and drugs. All I’ve done is sleep, watch TV, and read.

The last of these has proved to be an unexpected delight, though, for my six-month stint as a judge for the National Book Awards left me next to no time to read purely for my pleasure, and it’s been fun to chew through a stack of books simply because they looked good to me.

No pleasure should remain unshared, so here are three books I read this weekend that I strongly recommend:

Notes on Directing, by Frank Hauser and Russell Reich (RCR Creative Press). Exactly what does the director of a play do? This book wasn’t written to answer that question, but it does so anyway. Notes on Directing is a 126-page Strunk-and-White-type list of 130 annotated dos and don’ts for theatrical directors, some as bluntly practical as a slap in the face (“1. Read the play”), others subtle and suggestive (“67. Never express actions in terms of feelings”). I’ve never read anything that taught me more about the theater in so short a space.

Nutcracker Nation: How an Old World Ballet Became a Christmas Tradition in the New World, by Jennifer Fisher (Yale University Press). Just a couple of months ago, a friend asked me if anyone had ever written a book that compared all the different versions of The Nutcracker. Nutcracker Nation isn’t quite that, but it’s even better: a lucidly written, thoroughly informed cultural history of the reception, spread, and significance of The Nutcracker in the United States. Like Notes on Directing, it’s concise (230 pages), full of fascinating things I didn’t know, and a perfect stocking-stuffer for the balletomane on your Christmas list.

Aaron Copland: A Reader, Selected Writings 1923-1972, edited by Richard Kostelanetz (Routledge). America’s greatest classical composer was also a first-rate critic and essayist. This anthology, the first to be drawn from the complete body of Copland’s prose writings, offers a representative cross-section of his views on matters musical, cultural, and autobiographical. Some pieces, like Copland’s 1949 address to the Waldorf Peace Conference, have never been collected, and a brief but evocative selection of previously unpublished letters and diary entries serves as a useful reminder that he was also a fine letter-writer whose complete correspondence is sorely in need of publication. Essential reading for anyone who cares about American music.

Oh, yes–while you’re at it, don’t forget to buy The Skeptic!

Somebody asked me what movies I’d seen since I retreated to my couch to tough out the Great Cold of 2003. I’ve mentioned a few, but here’s a more or less complete list: Yellow Sky, The Cincinnati Kid, Johnny Guitar, The Lady Eve, The Shop Around the Corner, The Gunfighter, Bringing Up Baby, The Tin Star, Passion Fish, and Holiday Affair.

All, incidentally, were plucked from cable TV by my trusty digital video recorder, for which I give much thanks.

“There is a passage in the autobiography (more or less true) of Alonso de Contreras, who began life as a scullion and ended it as a Knight of Malta, that has always seemed to me a masterpiece of narrative and an example of perfect style. Having at one period of his picturesque career married the well-to-do widow of a judge his suspicions were aroused that she was deceiving him with his most intimate friend. One morning he discovered them in one another’s arms. ‘Murieron,’ he writes. ‘They died.’ With that one grim word he dismisses the matter and passes on to other things. That is proper writing.”

W. Somerset Maugham, Don Fernando

The Criterion Collection’s DVD of Jean Renoir’s The Rules of the Game, all scrubbed up and fitted out with gazillions of special features, is now available for pre-ordering at amazon.com by clicking here. Do so. Even if you don’t share my passionate belief that it’s the greatest movie ever made, surely you’ll agree that it comes damned close–and if you’ve never seen The Rules of the Game, now’s the time. The street date is Jan. 20.

For some reason, mention of The Rules of the Game put me in mind of the annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award, whose unfortunate winner, Aniruddha Bahal, was announced last week. Or maybe it was vice versa. The Rules of the Game, after all, is a film about sex (among other things) in which you don’t see anything but people talking and (occasionally) kissing. Yet there’s never any question in your mind about what’s going on behind all those closed doors.

I’m not prudish about on-screen sex: I just don’t think it tends to be especially memorable or persuasive. More often than not, as in the case of Kissing Jessica Stein, it’s far more effective–not to mention sexy–when the details of the act itself are left to the viewer’s imagination. But I readily make an exception for those rare sex scenes that are used to deepen our understanding of the characters. John Sayles is particularly good at this, especially in Baby It’s You and Lone Star, where the sex scenes tell us important things about the participants. Another film in which an on-screen portrayal of sexual intercourse is used to brilliant (and joltingly unsexy) effect is The Dreamlife of Angels. And I hasten to add that I can also think of a few fairly explicit on-screen sex scenes that are just plain arousing, foremost among them the ones in The Big Easy.

Any thoughts on this topic, OGIC?

“With her brightest students Miss Batterson was always on terms of uneasy, disappointed admiration; their work never seemed to be helping their development as much as the work of the stupider students was helping theirs. Every year there was a little war–an eighteenth century one, though–about whether the school magazine was printing only the work of a clique. Miss Batterson was perfectly good-hearted in this: if you cannot discriminate between good and bad yourself, it cannot help seeming somewhat poor-spirited and arbitrary of other people to do so. Aesthetic discrimination is no pleasanter, seems no more just and rational to those discriminated against, than racial discrimination; the popular novelist would be satisfied with his income from serials and scenarios and pocket books if people would only see that he is a better writer than Thomas Mann.”

Randall Jarrell, Pictures from an Institution

Joseph Epstein, my favorite essayist, has a witty and thoughtful essay in the current Weekly Standard:

Funny, but I do look Jewish, at least to myself, and more and more so as the years go by. I’m fairly sure I didn’t always look Jewish, not when I was a boy, or possibly even when a young man, though I have always carried around my undeniably Jewish name, which was certainly clue enough. But today, gazing at my face in the mirror, I say to myself, yes, no question about it, this is a very Jewish-looking gent….

I have always wondered what it might be like not to be Jewish but to have a Jewish-sounding name–Sarah Jacobson, Norman Davis, Mark Steyn–and often be taken for Jewish. First, there would be the worry that someone might hold your being Jewish (when you’re not) against you; and, second, there is the discomfort entailed in getting special treatment from another Jew or philo-Semite because that he or she thinks you are someone you are not. I once saw a man who was a dead ringer for the old actor Cesar Romero wearing a bright red T-shirt with bold white lettering that read “I Am Not Cesar Romero.” Perhaps people with Jewish-sounding names ought to wear T-shirts, or at least carry business cards, that read, “I’m Sidney Ross, But Not Really Jewish.” Glenn Gould, whose name and face and manner all falsely suggest Jewishness, could have used such a T-shirt.

Read the whole thing here.

So far as I know, I’ve never been “taken for Jewish,” nor do I expect to be. I doubt if anyone in the United States looks more goyische than me, and “Terry Teachout” is roughly as Jewish-sounding as “Thurston Howell III.” I do, however, have highly cultivated tastes for lox and bagels, the fiction of Isaac Bashevis Singer, and Jewish jokes of the way-too-close-to-the-knuckle sort, and it also happens that I’m the music critic for a magazine Jewish enough to have been mentioned by name in Annie Hall. I keep hoping that some raving anti-Semite who only knows me on paper will jump to the wrong conclusion, thus allowing me to reply, “No, but I wish I were.” Alas, it hasn’t happened yet….

I know a very WASPy-looking WASP musician, by the way, who used to play a lot of recitals at synagogues, where she would invariably be approached at the post-concert reception by at least one old lady who told her, “You don’t look Jewish, darling.” Eventually she came up with the perfect response: “I know, that’s what everybody says!”

UPDATE: Cup of Chicha links to this posting, and (as always) adds some intriguing comments of her own. Take a look.

Doug McLennan of artsjournal.com, our prize-winning host site, has installed a search button in the top module of the right-hand column. Click on CLICK HERE TO SEARCH SITE and you will be taken to a Google-driven search engine that allows you to search the “About Last Night” archives at will.

Try it, you’ll like it.