"Where Is Love" and "The Touch of Art"

Time to catch up again.

The last two performances I saw at Round House Theatre had nothing to do with each other; one was produced by Adventure Theatre MTC, the children's theater training camp at Maryland's Glen Echo park, and the other was RHT's entry in the regionwide Women's Voices Theater Festival. And though they had nothing to do with each other, Oliver! and Ironbound had more in common than the latter did with another WVTF entry at Ford's Theatre, The Guard.

[I interrupt this brief recap to report another RHT-hosted production I saw a few days before Oliver!, evidence of which is a xeroxed list of the 11 "clumps" of one-minute plays in the obviously named One-Minute Play Festival. The audience seemed to be composed mainly of authors of the 50 or 60 "plays," who laughed and cheered noisily in support of each other's art. I can recall almost none of this now, not even the date of the production, which failed to make it onto the one-page info sheet.]

Adventure Theatre's Oliver! happened to be my first exposure to the stage version of one of my all-time favorite movie musicals. My 12 1/2 year-old within is still in love with Jack Wild's Academy Award-nominated performance as the Artful Dodger, so my biases on movie versus stage were pre-formed. I loved the dancing in the AT show, and I thought the little actor playing Oliver (Franco Cabanas, per my program) had a gorgeous voice. The failure to cast a like-sized Dodger, as in the movie with Wild and Mark Lester, proved a big disappointment to me, and their voices never blended in that chummy way they should.

The next RHT production, season-opening Ironbound, was a world premiere play by Martyna Majok, focusing on the struggle of a single immigrant mom, statically positioned at a bleak New Jersey bus stop, poised between failed romances.

As far as women's voices go, this was one I couldn't really relate to, and it was yet another one of those stories about people I simply don't want to spend time with. Yet, upon further review, I found the story had a lot in common with Oliver!. Like the orphan begging to be fed more of even the worst gruel, ironbound Darja (Alexandra Henrikson) hungers. That ill-defined hunger exposes her to a cruel lover or two, a cruel life, and a cruel yearning, "Please, sir, I want some more."

I think what Darja wants is to matter. Her "where is love" plea is a demand for respect. Things seem to turn around for her when she meets her own "Artful Dodger" in the form of a random kid (William Vaughan as Vic), who finds her at the bus stop one night, badly beaten up, and reaches out to help her.

Ironbound's William Vaughan and Alexandra Henrikson. Photo by Cheyenne Michaels, RHT/Facebook

Moving along on the Women's Voices series, The Guard actually had less to do with "women's voices" and turned out to be the kind of play I wish I could write: witty, touching, philosophical, a portrayal of what art means to us (me). It was a bit smutty, though, so I'm happy to leave it to more sophisticated talents.

Playwright Jessica Dickey's story starts and ends with a museum guard (Mitchell Hébert) goaded into touching Rembrandt's painting, Aristotle with a Bust of Homer.

The Guard's Mitchell Hébert, Katherine Tkel and Josh Sticklin. Photo by Scott Suchman, Ford's Theatre/Facebook

This "touch" takes us back in time to Rembrandt's (Hébert again) daily life, and then further back to Homer (Craig Wallace) complaining about people wanting to write down his poems. They're meant to be heard, he says, so people can zone out if they want (says Homer/Wallace, glaring at the audience). Back to the guard's present, he has been fired for touching the art. He then devotes himself not to art, but to life, caring for his partner (Wallace again), a dying poet, tenderly touching his head as Rembrandt's "Aristotle" touched the bust of Homer.

love, hosaa
touched by art

Haiku: Season's End

Barker's voice grows hoarse,

carnival rides shake and sieze.

Help Wanted: Grown Ups.

Diary of a Mad Gogol

It's been a while since I've read one of my 19th-century Russians, and normally I would go for any Dostoevsky or Tolstoy I hadn't read yet (or reread lately), but there was something about Gogol that was gnawing at me.

I'd read Dead Souls a number of years ago, or at least most of it. I'd had the 1961 David Magarshack translation sitting patiently on my shelf, and I really enjoyed it up until I started seeing things like [Here ends the manuscript of the first four chapters of Part Two] and [Part of the manuscript is missing here]. There had been no indication on the cover of the book that I was about to embark on an unfinished story. I see by my old business-card/bookmark that I didn't even make it all the way to the end of the incomplete manuscript.

Yet, Gogol, I felt, was a master satirist, storyteller, scene maker, and character analyst. I'll put him ahead of Chekhov anytime for the sheer joy of reading. But I had a little bit of a Gogol block years ago when I took up my thrift-store 1960 Andrew R. MacAndrew story collection. It opens with "The Diary of a Madman," which so happens to begin on my birthday. I took it as an evil omen and threw it across the room.

Recently, a scholar among my friends was talking about the significance of particular dates used in texts. I decided to conquer my Gogol superstition and take up the Madman's diary again. It was hilariously disturbing.

As the protagonist inexorably slips in and out of delusion, from his conversations with neighborhood dogs to his revelation that he is the king of Spain, his diary-dating system reflects his growing madness: From October 3, he goes as normal through the end of December, then abruptly finds himself in Year 2000, April 43; then Martober 86, between day and night; then No date. A day without a date; Faubrarius the thirtieth; 25th date; and finally da 34 te Mnth. Yr. yraurbeF 349.

The other short stories in the collection capture the absurd, dream/nightmare-like frustrations of civil servants and petty functionaries in Russian life. "The Nose," in which a man's proboscis escapes his face and literally takes on a life of its own, is as surreal as anything you'd find in Kafka.

The MacAndrew collection ends with the something-completely-different historical romance of "Taras Bulba," which I was vaguely aware had been a movie with Yul Brynner. Set in the 17th-century Ukraine's Cossack battles against the Poles, Tartars, Catholics, Jews, and other infidels, this novella contains a great deal of manly violence, drunkenness, and treachery.

It also contains some of the richest expository writing you'll find, and the loveliest treatment of romantic love as Taras's younger son, Andrei (Tony Curtis in the movie), is enchanted by a Polish general's daughter:

But neither chisel nor brush nor the mighty word can express what may be found sometimes in the eyes of a woman, any more than they can convey the storm of tenderness which sweeps over the one those eyes are looking upon.

Not bad for a writer who supposedly never had love in his life.

love, hosaa,
back from a 19th-century view of the 17th-century steppes

Cheers, Edward Duke

For Edward Duke, who would have been 62 today.

from The French Lieutenant's Woman, with Jeremy Irons

Love, hosaa

singing his praises, toasting his memory

A Tale of Two Plays

Slightly behind in my recapping enables me to bring two current productions together: A Tale of Two Cities performed at Synetic Theater and NSFW performed at Round House Theatre.

Coincidentally, the term NSFW was just added to Merriam-Webster's dictionary, which defines it as "not safe for work" (meaning, if you're e-mailed a link or attachment so labeled, don't open it at the office).

In the RHT production, the term is expanded to "not safe for women," meaning workplaces such as playwright Lucy Kirkwood's two fictional commercial magazine offices, Doghouse and Electra, that sexualize, objectify, exploit, and manipulate images of women. While I could relate a bit to the young woman working at Doghouse (she needs the work), there are compromises and comeuppances in this story that I just don't get. (Thank goodness for noncommercial journalism, right?)

In a way, exploitation and objectification of female imagery is also what the drag queen Jerry (Alex Mills) does at Synetic's Tale, in an adaptation originated by Everett Quinton. Jerry entertains an irrationally inserted baby in his apartment (Vato Tsikurishvili as Dorian the baby) as he prepares to perform his act.

Alex Mills (Jerry) and Vato Tsikurishvili (Dorian), A Tale of Two Cities. Synetic Theater

The parallels between Jerry's primping for his act and Electra editor Miranda's (Deborah Hazlett) primping for a night out were astonishing. (No production photos for NSFW up yet, but if you see both shows, you'll see what I mean.)

Alex Mills, A Tale of Two Cities, Synetic Theater

Alex Mills, A Tale of Two Cities, Synetic Theater

The lesson is clear to me: 'Tis a far, far better self-actualization when you take control over your own life, work, image, sexuality, and self-expression.

Love, hosaa
safe for work

A Tale of Two Cities
Synetic Theater (1800 South Bell Street, Crystal City, VA 22202)
May 13 through June 21, 2015

NSFW
Round House Theatre (4545 East-West Highway, Bethesda, MD 20814)
May 27 through June 21, 2015

The Mahler Ballet

As promised, here is the result of my scribbling the other day while listening to the working rehearsal of Mahler's Fifth Symphony.

The Officer's Bride

Place: A seaside market town.

Time: About when they usually place stories like this, vaguely 19th century.

I

A rising storm bodes ill. War is imminent. The villagers are aware their young men will be called away, but their fears are abstract and distant. Life goes on, markets are busy, and there's a big wedding to prepare for: the mayor's daughter, Barbara, and her betrothed, the handsome officer Gregor.

As the young men march into the square in their identical uniforms, Barbara laughingly pretends not to recognize any of them, though they are all her childhood friends and the sweethearts of her bridesmaids. Barbara tells all her friends to give their sweethearts a handkerchief in his favorite color--a token to remind him he is unique and loved. Barbara gives Gregor a crimson handkerchief, which he kisses and tucks into his coat.

The call to war is heard, alarming the mothers of all the young, inexperienced soldiers. The fathers try to assure their wives and advise their sons.

II

A month later, a witness arrives to describe the battle. As mothers mourn and fathers put on a brave front, the Mayor (Barbara's father) questions the witness further. They learn that it was not their sons who fought in this particular battle, but their turn may soon come.

III

Barbara attempts to keep her friends' spirit up by making them continue preparing for the wedding. She tells them how she and Gregor met and fell in love. And she asks her friends each in turn, Was it not this way for you? Her friends dance while waving their brightly colored scarves, which match the colored kerchiefs they gave their sweethearts, 

IV

Months pass; the war is over, and the men are to return. They were victorious in their battle, but the villagers are aware many will not return. The wedding preparations have turned into a welcome home, but it is tinged with dread.

One by one, the uniformed soldiers return, each greeted by his sweetheart all dressed in his special color. the square is filled with a joyous, multicolored bouquet of humanity.

V

As the square clears, Barbara is alone, in her bridal white, but with a black mourning scarf over her shoulders. Her Gregor has not returned. The villagers, in mourning black, attempt to revive her spirits. She dances with all her friends' sweethearts, but she reunites them each with their true loves, telling them all to be happy. This is the life that her Gregor fought and died to secure for them.

Barbara's father drapes his mayoral sash over her shoulders, declaring her his logical successor to lead the village. As the men of the village lift her on their shoulders, she lifts her mourning scarf over her head. She flips it over and holds the crimson side upwards, showing it to Gregor in heaven.

My, My, Mahler

I'm already late in my recap of yesterday's working rehearsal for the NSO performance last night of Mahler's Fifth Symphony at the Kennedy Center, so the Washington Post's review, focusing on guest violinist Leonidas Kavakos's participation, should fill in my usual gaps.

What I love about the working rehearsals is seeing the actual work go into an artistic performance. The musicians are not demigods, delighting the elites among us mere mortals (though you do have to be elite enough to join the Kennedy Center's second-to-lowest membership level to score a rehearsal invite--a privilege I have to forgo for the next season due to my recently compromised budget). The disadvantage is that you don't get the whole impact of the performance, as there are fits and starts, do-overs, and, as I learned, movements might get moved out of order.

Yesterday's experience was a delight on at least two levels for me, so there will be a part two of this post coming later (I know not to say "Soon" in some of my social circles).

The Level One delight (for blog post Two) was hearing Mahler's Fifth Symphony and being caught up in a vivid and very visual narrative. Some call that daydreaming; others call it plot development. The result was a treatment, a story line, for a ballet. There was enough light in the Concert Hall's orchestra seats to let me scribble notes throughout the rehearsal, which apparently broke for an intermission before completing all five movements.

I know this because, ignorant as I am about music, I never demur from asking stupid audience questions when given the opportunity. And I got that opportunity, so this gave me a bonus delight from yesterday's experience. A woman sitting in the row in front of me appeared very knowledgeable about what was going on, and I overheard her tell her seatmate that the conductor left something out. There was something wrong about the movements and the order in which they were rehearsed.

And this expert in the audience also happened to notice me scribbling in my Handy Dandy Notebook. She assumed I had some musical knowledge and would be able to answer her question about the missing Mahler movement. I oh-so-casually said, No, I never heard this piece before. I'm just writing a ballet here. Heh.

We had a lovely conversation after that. My new friend, a violinist, was happy to hear how I, as an audience member, responded to the music. (I won't lie, I don't know how proficient any particular musician is except how he or she makes me feel; that Mahler piece, despite all the interruptions, had me in tears.)

So at the end of the working rehearsal, I got to ask my Stupid Audience Question, something that had been niggling at me since last year's NSO working rehearsal with clarinetist Martin Fröst and guest conductor Osmo Vänskä, performing a clarinet concerto by Finnish composer Kalevi Aho. I noticed that the musicians were very busy scribbling notes on their sheet music so as to execute Vänskä's instructions on the obviously difficult piece. So my question was, Do the musicians get to keep the sheet music?

The answer, my friend informed me, is No. The sheet music used by the NSO is returned to the orchestra's library, where someone erases all the pencil marks scribbled by the musicians. Mystery solved! I love it.

Next time - Notes on a Ballet inspired by Mahler's Fifth Symphony.

Love, hosaa
dancing in my mind