Three Men in a Book

... not to mention the boat, the dog, and an aggressively polite cat.

I fell a little behind in my recaps, what with work and life and all.

Step into the not-very-way-back machine to June 8: On the final day of the production, I got to see Synetic Theater's nifty little rendition of one of my favorite Wodehouse precursors, Jerome K. Jerome's Three Men in a Boat (subtitled To say nothing of the Dog!). As you can see from searching Amazon, there a few different editions of the 1889 classic; the one I have features a cover illustration by Alan Aldridge (who also seems to have designed the Hard Rock Cafe logo, among other achievements):

But I digress. Of course, the point of the story is digression. The narrator, "J," tells of the dire need he and his friends have to take a vacation from their hard working Victorian lives in the city. They take a boat trip on the Thames, a few days' adventure, the telling of which wouldn't normally last the 184 pages allowed in this Penguin edition with small type and narrow margins. So the narrator casts a line out and fishes in a number of tales from similar adventures in his and his friends' past experience.

It's a wonderful parlor story, told in a parlor; in the Synetic version (with a cast led by my favorite local farcemeister, Tom Story), the parlor furniture served amiably as boat and landscape, with a hint of the outdoors projected delicately onto a screen background. And when the story lay down for the night, the stage darkened under the glow of stars covering the entire audience.

My friend who is a Synetic subscriber and enthusiast was a little put off by all the dialogue of our three men and their dog. Synetic is known as the dance-and-movement company, and even Shakespeare's immortal text is lovingly elbowed aside for the alternative language of gesture. Why was Jerome's language so necessary when Shakespeare's could be abandoned?

It's probably because there wasn't much else to recommend the story itself. It's a series of amusing anecdotes without much in the way of higher passions and tragedies beyond the legends of the transporting of cheese, a prize fish caught by innumerable local fishermen, and of course the good dog Montmorency's encounter with a tom cat.

I was very happy that this latter anecdote was not excised from Synetic's production and that it was our Tom who enacted the part of the tom cat. Here is but a brief excerpt from the book:

I never saw a larger cat, nor a more disreputable-looking cat. It had lost half its tail, one of its ears, and a fairly appreciable proportion of its nose. It was a long, sinewy-looking animal. It had a calm, contended air about it.

Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty miles an hour; but the cat did not hurry up--did not seem to have grasped the idea that its life was in danger. It trotted quietly on until its would-be assassin was within a yard of it, and then it turned round and sat down in the middle of the road, and looked at Montmorency with a gentle, inquiring expression that said:

"Yes! You want me?"

Montmorency does not lack pluck; but there was something about the look of that cat that might have chilled the heart of the boldest dog. He stopped abruptly, and looked back at Tom.

Neither spoke; but the conversation that one could imagine was clearly as follows:

The Cat: "Can I do anything for you?"

Montmorency: "No--no, thanks."

The Cat: "Don't you mind speaking, if you really want anything, you know."

Montmorency (backing down the High Street): "Oh, no--not at all--certainly--don't trouble. I--I am afraid I've made a mistake. I thought I knew you. Sorry I disturbed you."

The Cat: "Not at all--quite a pleasure. Sure you don't want anything, now?"

Montmorency (still backing): "Not at all, thanks--not at all--very kind of you. Good morning."

The Cat: "Good morning."

Then the cat rose, and continued his trot; and Montmorency, fitting what he calls his tail carefully into its groove, came back to us, and took up an unimportant position in the rear.

To this day, if you say the word "Cats!" to Montmorency, he will visibly shrink and look up piteously at you, as if to say:

"Please, don't."

Tom Story as Jerome (and the Cat); Alex Mills as Montmorency. Photo by Koko Lanham, ShowBizRadio.com

Sweet gallery of photos from this production by Koko Lanham at ShowBizRadio.com.

Saving Mr. Barrett

Speaking of Father's Day (not that we were), one of my favorite movies about fathers and sons is Love Story.

Right, you didn't know it was about fathers and sons because you probably didn't read the novel by Erich Segal - or, more specifically, the novelization that he wrote after the screenplay was accepted and undergoing the lengthy process of being developed into a major motion picture.

Basic story is this: Rich boy who resents his successful but elitist father falls in love with a poor girl whose relationship with her own father is warm, open, and nurturing. Misunderstandings ensue.

The problem with the WASP elitist father, Oliver Barrett III, is that he wants his son to be equally successful in all aspects of his life--sports, academics, love. (Success is, by man's definition, what happiness is.) Oliver IV is particularly resentful of his father's rejection of Jenny, who is not only poor, but also Catholic.

Though the audience is pretty certain of Ollie 4's love of Jenny, Mr. Barrett suspects that his son is merely rebelling against him by marrying this non-Abigail Adams ("or Wendy WASP").

Jenny tries unsuccessfully to help Ollies 3 and 4 better understand each other, and --- SPOILER ALERT ---

... she dies having failed in the attempt. Meanwhile, Jenny's dad bonds with Ollie 4 over Jenny's deathbed.

In truth, Mr. Barrett was quite charmed by the lovely Jenny and, if Ollie 4 hadn't been so antagonistic, might have put his prejudices aside eventually. When he learns Jenny is dying, he rushes to the hospital to be at her (and his son's) side.

"I'm sorry," says Mr. Barrett to Ollie 4.

"Love means never having to say you're sorry," Ollie 4 retorts.

Here's where the movie is different from the novelization. In the movie, actor Ryan O'Neal retains his frosty demeanor, stalking off to start his flashback about the girl who loved Mozart, Bach, and the Beatles. The "Love means never having to say you're sorry" lesson that he learned from his beautiful and brilliant wife turns into a rebuke to his father, a slap in the face.

Ollie 3 deserved better, and he got better in the novelization. Here:

MUCH better ending, in my opinion. Which is why it's one of my favorite Father's Day stories. If only Ryan O'Neal had let himself cry....

Update June 28: I see by my Yahoo News that Love Story stars Ali MacGraw and Ryan O'Neal have had another reunion. In this interview with Hollywood Reporter, Ali calls her famous line "a crock." Whatever, dude. (Didn't Candice Bergen say pretty much the same thing in the sequel, Oliver's Story? Maybe it was some other parody I'm thinking of.)

Ali: "It's a crock." Ryan: "You'd better say you're sorry." Via The Hollywood Reporter.

I've spent years (decades) trying to understand the line, but I think Segal's ending in the novelization illustrates it well: Love is compassion. Love is understanding. When it's mutual and complete, love encompasses an unspoken forgiveness that doesn't require or demand a statement of contrition.

Love, hosaa
sobbing

Stripped Productions and Big Blonde Vocals

Back from Ordinary Days last night at the Round House and will use this to catch up with one other previously unreported artistic experience, the concert version of A Midsummer Night's Dream by the Baltimore Symphony, performed at the Strathmore.

I'm not a fan of overproduced shows, and it's a problem in musicals, especially, when I can't hear the lyrics to the songs. In a show like Ordinary Days, which is sung through, I wouldn't have much of a chance of following the plot if it weren't for the stripped down production--in this case, a pianist (musical director William Yanesh) and the powerhouse vocals of the actors.

I was excited to see a couple of familiar names on the program: adorable Erin Weaver as quirky, neurotic graduate student Deb and the handsome Will Gartshore as man-in-love Jason. Will has been around the Round for quite a while, but I really took note of him in this season's This. And Erin was the fabulous Juliet at the Folger's R&J production earlier this season. That's a little bitty blonde with a great big voice, and she took over Ordinary, too.

Erin Weaver. Courtesy of RHT via Facebook

Will Gartshore. Courtesy of RHT via Facebook

Likewise, the stripped down production of Midsummer was a full concert with seven actors running in and out of the orchestra, changing costumes on stage, and speaking their Shakespearean lines whenever the orchestra put Mendelssohn on pause.

Again, one of the attractions for me is always a familiar name/face, in this case Katie deBuys, who played Shakespeare's Hermia and was last seen at RHT in Seminar. But in this case, the "blonde with the big vocal" and very comical presence was Kate Eastwood Norris as Helena.

Maybe they teach you this in Shakespeare Clown School, but Kate had a way of running hilariously, like Tom Story did in Winter's Tale back at Shakespeare Theatre Company. It involves the arms flapping and flailing over one's head or outstretched in front while exiting (whether chased by bear or not). Anyway, she cracked me up.

Kate Eastwood Norris, via KateEastwoodNorris.com

Levity, lightness, a deft touch and a powerful voice. That's all it takes, and it's what I go to the theater for.

That, and the confetti. ;)

ephemera collected from Ordinary Days at Round House Theatre

ephemera collected from Ordinary Days at Round House Theatre

Love, hosaa
prop stealer

Membership Has Its Rewards

What a nice little surprise in the mail today - a "token" of appreciation from the Kennedy Center for being a member for 25 years. Keen! Nice to have an anniversary to celebrate.

I'm trying to remember "where" I was in my life and career 25 years ago that I decided I had enough moolah to start contributing it to arts organizations, which are, after all, not curing cancer or providing shoes to ailing orphans. I'd been at my job going on eight years and so must have just begun putting the "salad years" behind me. (Trust, me it's still rather famished around my checkbook even today.)

Anyway, recognizing the joys, and even meaning, that theaters, museums, and concerts have given me, that's about when I began signing up. The membership benefits are pretty nice, though I don't always take advantage of them. At the Kennedy Center, only in the last couple of years have I done the Thursday morning NSO dress rehearsals. At my level, I'm entitled to bring a pal, but everyone I know works at that hour of the week. I myself never took that Arts Day Off until last year. If I'd known how fun it was, I would have done it sooner. (Another benefit I was too shy to take advantage of on my own was a recent reception and backstage tour of the Eisenhower Theater.)

Ford's Theater is another one with nice member benefits. I get the annual Ford's Theater calendar, which is beautifully photographed and printed, but which I always give away because I make my own calendars every year (two, in fact--Clay and non-Clay).

The sweetest benefit at Ford's is the personal touch. If you're a member, and you buy your theater tickets through the box office instead of Ticketbastard, you get a nice envelope taped to your seat, with a thank-you note on letterhead and a slim box of mints with Lincoln's face (on the box, not the mints). This last time, when I went to 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, I even got a handwritten "enjoy the show" message from the staff member I've been harassing to find me a recording of either Clay Aiken singing "Sarah" at the 2008 gala or Edward Duke during any of his Jeeves appearances, 1984-89.

Ford's also sends invitations to lots of events, most of which, again, I'm too shy to attend on my own. (If I were to give my theaters a little tiny suggestion: do Meetups.)

Museums and galleries also offer social events as membership benefits, but I get more out of the magazines, even if they do pile up in my "reading" tray. Some good ones are Folger Shakespeare Library, the Phillips Collection, the National Museum of Women in the Arts, American Indian, and of course Smithsonian (which, ironically, somehow missed sending me the May issue, on science fiction and futurism. Maybe they were too ashamed!)

Also noteworthy in the member-benefits department is the fabulous Shakespeare Theatre Company, though I have to say I've mostly been mooching off a friend's STC member benefits. Yes, it's probably about time I invested in my own.

So anyway, thank you, Arts, for letting me join you once in a while. And Happy Anniversary, dear Kennedy Center.

Love, hosaa
Member of a civilization worth supporting

Second-to-Last Row

Happy Mother's Day to those who have not voluntarily remained in the audience of this big stage of a world. Pardon me while I reflect from my seat in the second-to-last row.

Yes, I do miss my mother today, but, upon reflecting on the last few years of her life, I probably miss having children more. That is, I see what life may be like for me in the future, and find that it would probably have been a good idea to have a good, well-brought-up kid around to look after me when I get wicked and stupid.

(Note, I loved my mom. She wasn't really wicked or stupid. Her afflictions, addictions, and infirmities did bad things to her throughout her life. That's what I resented and, for myself, what I fear.)

Hawaii, 1993

Observers of life's dramas can learn from watching others, though. That's part of the point of going to the theater. Artists have a way of working things out and explaining things (it's like the reasons the spiritually inclined folks go to church, in many ways--to connect with our fellow humanity, to make sense of things).

I had a great time at the theater yesterday, specifically 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee at Ford's. It was a lively, fun production, very talented cast portraying high-striving, high-achieving kids mostly hoping to earn their parents' approval and love.

Now, as a grown-up, I realize that I was never motivated by a need to earn my parents' approval and love. I always had it. Mom started telling the world of my wonderfulness as soon as possible, putting me in the Little Miss Christmas beauty pageant at the tender age of five. It was up to my teachers to poke my intellectual complacency in the ribs.

So, those are my Mother's Day reflections. Excuse me if I don't particularly wish to join the celebrations of mothers and their daughters today. I'm in a mood.

Pink tulips at the Kennedy Center. Photo by C. G. Wagner, 2014

Love, hosaa
A pretty good kid after all, but arranging her own bouquets.

Art Day Interrupted

This past Thursday was supposed to be one of my semi-annual art therapy days, beginning with the morning working rehearsal for the National Symphony Orchestra at the Kennedy Center. (It was heavily attended last year when I went for a big-name guest artist, Emanuel Ax, so this year I went for someone I never heard of. More on that in a moment.)

Like last year, I intended to spend the afternoon exploring one of the galleries I hadn't had the chance to visit in awhile. I started aiming for the Phillips Collection (north of Dupont Circle), but Madame de Which-Way here got a bit lost around Washington Circle. So I took the familiar and predictable Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House and the Corcoran, which is where I went last year.

Unfortunately, the doors to the Corcoran were closed. The sign out front, disappointing a good half-dozen other visitors to town, indicated that there was a big event going on later, for which the room was being prepared. I told the out-of-towners that the Renwick was handy, just up yonder, ornate red brick building ... and it's the Smithsonian, so it's free!

I charged up on ahead of the group to find, to my chagrin, another closed-for-internal-reasons sign. Apologies to all the out-of-towners I misdirected. I was frustrated, too. And I hope a part of the Renwick's two-year restoration project will include adding a cafe, because not only was I tired at this point, I was also hungry.

The Phillips being a straight shot up 17th/Connecticut was still a bit of an enticement, but at about 10 long city blocks, not enough of an enticement. So I called it a day, ducked into the Metro, and headed home. (If the Metro had run just five minutes faster, I would have made it to the afternoon showing of Grand Budapest Hotel, though I confess the sticker shock at the box office probably would have deterred me anyway. The point of Art Therapy Day is to do free stuff, or at least stuff that was part of my membership benefits, like the NSO rehearsal and entry to Corcoran and Phillips.)

Art therapy days are also supposed to be based on serendipity, so I don't usually research my destinations. This worked out well in the past for such things as that great Diaghilev show at National Gallery of Art last year. But clearly planned serendipity doesn't always work out.

What really did work out this time was the NSO working rehearsal. The guest conductor was Osmo Vänskä, working with guest clarinetist Martin Fröst for the performance of a clarinet concerto by Finnish composer Kalevi Aho. What I didn't realize was that this trio was well established, and the Fröst-Vänskä recording of the Aho piece is available at iTunes. (Sample it on the Aho page linked above.)

Martin Fröst and Osmo Vänskä, February 2014, via Facebook

via martinfrost.se/images/

via martinfrost.se/images/

It was a lot of fun watching Vänskä do the work of preparing the orchestra for the performances (which were Thursday night and tonight). He was an exacting but patient and cordial instructor. Fröst came on first to prepare the clarinet concerto, though it would be performed second on the program, right before the intermission.

Fröst is boyish, geeky, and super-cool in that Scandinavian way, animated and uninhibited. The NSO musicians could scarcely keep their eyes off him! His rapport with Vänskä made it all supernaturally natural, permitting them to communicate through quick glances, nods, and that delightful, cheekbone-carving grin that a skilled clarinetist can manage when his mouth is otherwise occupied.

Spoiler alert here: They also rehearsed an encore for Fröst when the Aho piece was wrapped up. No announcement, obviously, but we all recognized the flavor of the piece: pure Klezmer! Upon further research, I see Fröst recorded some Klezmer for his album entitled Dances to a black pipe (2011). As breathtaking as the Aho piece was, its sobering Finnish expressionism was not quite the crowdpleaser that the Klezmer dance encore was.

As conductor/instructor, Vänskä was very chatty and gave instructions throughout the rehearsal. The musicians took notes and asked "Maestro" questions frequently. I liked the interruptions, actually. I like seeing the work of arts. As I've said before, just because you know the trick doesn't mean it isn't magic.

Love, hosaa
still planning some more serendipitous art, if I can get off my lazy butt

ETA - great interview with Martin Fröst at WETA-FM.

At the Ballet: Don Quixote and Friends

One of my mantras in life is "More information is better than less information," so when American Ballet Theatre's spring appearance at the Kennedy Center was originally announced, with no mention of our favorite Daniil Simkin, I pretty much blew it off. The schedule gets overloaded this time of year anyway.

From 2011: Daniil Simkin at the Kennedy Center.

I'm amending my mantra: "More information, sooner, is better than less information." The moment that I learned the team of dancers participating in the D.C. tour ending this afternoon now included Daniil, I bought my ticket for the most convenient performance for me, the Saturday afternoon matinee. He was to dance the lead role of Basilio in Don Quixote! Yay!

The price and timing for tickets being what they were, I ignored the fact that Daniil would also be dancing in the mid-week mixed rep, a program that included Frederick Ashton's "The Dream." If I'd had the money and time, this would have brilliantly enhanced my 2014 collection of A Midsummer Night's Dream adaptations (including last month's Bristol Old Vic & Handspring Puppet version and next month's BSO concert at the Strathmore). Damn.

Daniil Simkin as "Puck." Photo by Gene Schiavone via Facebook.

At any rate, the DQ performed yesterday was nothing but delightful, and I benefited from a fortuitous audience enhancement. The couple sitting next to me had come down from New York especially to see this performance. They were huge ABT supporters and fans of Daniil Simkin in particular.

Since not everyone can be expected to know everything about their favorites, it's a gift when you can swap information. I shared the fact that Daniil had been posting some fabulous photos and videos on his site, demonstrating remarkable transplatform versatility. My neighbors shared with me some knowledge about Daniil's early training (which I already knew: basically home-schooled by his ballerina mother), which led them to observe that his partnering skills have long been wanting. The demanding DQ pas would be revealing (it's one of the pieces Leslie Browne and Mikhail Baryshnikov performed in The Turning Point).

Lack of early training in partnering is the least of Daniil's problems--he is not a burly Bluto of a man. He's Ariel, he's Puck. Can he lift his lady? Can he hold her steadily as she turns? Can he keep from dropping her on her head whenever she flies headfirst into his arms?

Yes, yes, and yes. And his lady, Isabella Boylston, even shot him a sweet smile of tender confidence during some of these difficult moves. (Yes, I brought my binoculars. Always.)

My knowledgeable friends next door were quietly commenting on much of the program in play; this was one of the very few times in my theater-going experience that I didn't object to neighbors chatting. In fact, I wished I could hear what they were saying. "Disappointing" caught my ear. Yikes! What was disappointing about what I just saw? Nothing! Nothing! Certainly not Daniil. At the intermission, they turned immediately to me to see my reaction, and of course I loved it. They said that Daniil was dancing fantastically, so--whew--he was not the source of that fleeting "disappointment."

Another comment I overheard was that so-and-so should be promoted out of the corps de ballet--she (or he) is too good. I was too shy to ask who. Really, eavesdroppers need to be careful about digging for dirt, even if it's good dirt.

One young dancer they did point out to me as a future superstar was the male half of the Gypsy Couple, Zhiyao Zhang. "He's just a teenager!" my neighbor enthused while the young man was dancing. He'd mentioned also that this Saturday matinee cast was far from being "the B team"; rather, it was the "young team." (ZZ is actually 20 or 21, according to his bio.)

In all, the dancing was beautiful, the sets and costumes were beautiful. I loved the curtain projection of a giant painted fan decorated with Spanish scenes of villages and bullfights.

So glad I went. I had ditched the stage door after the last time Daniil danced here (midweek evening performances are very taxing), but it was a lovely early evening by the time curtain came down yesterday. I joined the other bunheads (about two dozen of various ages) at the Opera House stage entrance, and all seemed to be waiting for Isabella and Misty Copeland (DQ's fiery street dancer). Both lovely ladies delighted the fans with photos and autographs.

Isabella Boylston

Misty Copeland

Now, I did see Daniil peek out the door, still in makeup, and happily inviting a young female friend backstage. There were a few VIP friends and family of dancers invited through the big door. But Daniil didn't come back out to greet the fans as he had done three years ago. There were only about six of us ladies left waiting when a stage door guardian informed us no one else would be coming out. (Looking at the time stamp on my 2011 photo, I see Daniil took at least an hour after curtain before emerging that time, so I was prepared for a wait.) It might have been a ruse to clear the corridor. Several ladies hung back a bit, but the guard stood at the door, seemingly keeping an eye on errant fan behavior.

Maybe that's what happens when you become a superstar. (It is also possible he was simply deferring to the ladies this time. Despite his thunderous ovations, he didn't take a soloist's bow at curtain. He presented his lady, who sweetly shared one of her beautiful roses with him.) I don't deny Daniil or anyone the privilege of managing his time or audience face-time. He did what he was supposed to do: Delight.

Love, hosaa
not really a bunhead

ETA, April 21 - Awwwww!

Post by Daniil Simkin.