What Will Be, Will Be

Let's spend Friday night looking at life, shall we?

In the case of the Anderson Gallery's new exhibit "Myron Helfgott: An Inventory of My Thoughts," it was a wide-ranging retrospective covering the 45-year artistic career of one of my favorite curmudgeons. I can say that because I've known Myron for 15 years and besides, he'd say it about himself.

Despite the multiple hours and afternoons spent in his studio interviewing him for my profile, here, in Style Weekly, I'd only seen a fraction of the work that made it into the show. So tonight's three-level exhibit was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of the world.

In 1971's "Salute," hands cast in lead were captured in a box with a lead flag on top. Lead, so different a material than the plywood and paper pieces he's been creating the past few years. Pieces such as "Windows" from 2013, a segmented view of the Kroger parking lot from his condo.

I was captivated by "We Share the Same Interests," a mixed media piece from 1981-82, comprised of a metal figure of a woman that Myron had taken all around town - Monument Avenue, MCV, VMFA - and had himself photographed with. The dated photos were part of the piece and provided a glimpse into Myron long before I met him in 2000.

Immediately recognizable was "Waterfall after Duchamp" from 1990 because it had been in the foyer of his condo when I'd first interviewed him. Here the motorized waterfall took its place among the many pieces powered by small motors.

"33 years and 6 months" was another lead piece, this one from 1970, showing a pair of men's underwear. "Don't look at that too long. People will talk!" a man stage-whispered in my ear as I gazed at it.

Listening to reactions from the ever-growing crowd, I overheard, "Phenomenal work" and "This is the shit, man. The shit!" High praise, indeed.

I went through all three floors of Myron's art twice, knowing full well I'll need to come back when the crowds are gone to enjoy it all without the socializing distractions. And they were many tonight, with all that old '70s VCU art crowd in attendance.

When I finally made it back to the tent, there was Myron, wine in hand, holding court. He pinched my cheek, he hugged me and he thanked me profusely for my article, especially thrilled that I hadn't talked about his work.

Who needs to try to describe astonishing art when there's a crabby old man with a lifetime's worth of opinions to share instead? Not that the work doesn't tell an amazing story of a man who never stopped evolving, but anyone with eyes can see that.

People were still pouring in to the gallery when I left to meet my theater date for dinner at Bistro 27, finding him at the bar with a Cosmopolitan in hand. The hostess raved about how cute my tights were and seated us with a great view of Adams Street. I kept my meal simple - Caesar salad with grilled shrimp - to offset a decadent chocolate torte for dessert.

Over dinner, we covered the multiple months' worth of life that had happened since we'd last gone to a play together. We compared notes on "Mame," made plans to see "Sister Act," exchanged Christmas vacation trip stories and restaurant gossip. Then we high-tailed it to Richmond Triangle Players for another kind of look at life.

It was opening night for 5th Wall's production of "The Lyons," a black comedy I'd first seen a sample of at the 5th Wall preview party last August. Even that snippet had been enough to see the potential of the play about nothing more than family relations, which is to say, everything.

But what a family! In a magnificent brown curly wig, Jacqueline Jones chewed up the scenery and spit it out as Rita, the matriarch of the Lyons family. This is an actress I've seen in all kinds of roles and never have I seen her so completely inhabit a character. She will be undoubtedly be honored come awards time next year for this part.

When her dying husband (the always excellent Alan Sader) muses that he may go to hell, she shoots him down succinctly. "What have you ever done to go to Hell? Who are you?" Nobody in this family seems to have a kind word for anyone.

The first act was mesmerizing as the parents had their adult children (a gay writer and recovering alcoholic mother with two kids) come to the hospital room to learn that their father was dying. Despite the seriousness of it, the family immediately devolves into bickering and bringing up old family issues. Meanwhile, Rita peruses decorating magazines, planning to redo their tawdry living room once husband Ben is dead.

No one feels comfortable when they're intimate. 
Your mother used to vomit a lot.

Watching this family argue - the father endlessly cursing because he has nothing to lose, listening to Rita criticize her dying husband and messed-up children - was like eavesdropping on a majorly dysfunctional family. Awkward but utterly compelling.

Significantly, playwright Nicky Silver even weaves in the particular bond of siblings; they may not like each other or respect each other's choices, but they share secrets that Mom and Dad were never privy to. That's real life.

Romance is a treacherous arena.

At intermission, my friend and I discussed how director B.C. Maupin had created a tightly wound production that never ceased to elicit reaction from the audience, whether we were squirming in our seats, anticipating discomfort, embroiled in embarrassment or mortified at how this family treated each other.

Meanwhile, a cadre of black-clad crew miraculously turned the hospital room set into a much, larger studio apartment, as big a set change as I've seen at RTP, a feat only believable if you saw the transformation.

After the first act, my friend had commented on the robust laughter coming from the back of the room and, sure enough, the Man About Town (the source of that laugh) stopped by to discuss Myron's show and our enjoyment of the play we were seeing.

Writing short stories is like selling Victrolas.

If the first act had set some people's teeth on edge, the second began with a scene uncomfortable in about a dozen more ways. As it unfolded with missed signals, over-reactions and brutality, little of the dark humor remained.

The set was again changed back to the hospital room, this time without an intermission, but it was accomplished briskly and efficiently while the audience listened to "Que Sera, Sera." It was so impressively done that the crowd broke out in spontaneous applause for the crew.

Since when do you talk like a character from "Cagney and Lacey"?

The final scene begins with the father dead, but the remaining members no less unhappy or rude to each other. Hello, real life.

Watching the widow tell her son and daughter that she's decided to go on with her life in a manner that appalls them becomes one of the most satisfying moments in the play. Changing from power pumps to pink slides before a flight to Aruba, Jones makes a compelling case for delayed happiness after a loveless marriage that's almost worth standing up to cheer for.

Some people are happy, some people are lonely, some people are mean and sad. That's the way of the world.

As 5th Wall's production so ably demonstrates, it's every person's choice to decide which of those people they want to be. As if I weren't already in the first category, a superbly-executed production such as this one makes me even happier because Carol Piersol is back at the helm of a cutting edge theater company in Richmond.

Here's to long, artistic lives. Fortunately, they seem to thrive in this town.

What is the City but the People?

Never let it be said that my tastes aren't diverse.

There's the emo lover in me.

She's the reason I was at Plan 9 for an in-store performance by Derek Evry, a pop/punk musician from Arlington.

Think Jimmy Eat World or even Green Day.

The first half of his set was just him and an acoustic guitar and included a stellar cover of A-ha's "Take on Me."

As my companion noted, "He's brave to do an acoustic cover of this."

And yes, I love No BS Brass band's instrumental cover of the '80s classic, but slowed down and with only acoustic accompaniment, it was a truly beautiful song.

He even got the crowd to join in on the chorus and a surprising number of people did.

Drummer Ben joined him for the second half of the set and it was then that I turned around to see it pouring rain through the open door.

We hadn't heard a drop over the music.

The music got louder and fuller with Ben's drumming and included a song about playing shows ("Tell Everyone") and Derek's comment, "On this one I get to play riffy stuff instead of just rhythm guitar."

You know, riffy stuff. It's a musical term.

Both guys were excellent musicians and despite the volume, sounded terrific.

By the time the music stopped, so had the rain. I picked up a couple of albums and we were off to 821 Cafe for eats.

Although I am devoted to 821's black bean nachos, I went renegade and got the smoked salmon instead.

I thought it would go better with my iced tequila since 821 isn't much of a wine place.

Delivering my plate, my server (a former Sprout favorite) apologized for the absence of pita.

Instead I had wheat toast points, which were a fine vehicle for the enormous slab of smoked salmon, dill cream cheese, capers and red onions on my plate.

Really, it was an appetizer for two and I was only one.

So, nutritional needs met, we moved on to Virginia Repertory Theater at Willow Lawn.

Okay, let's just call a spade a spade: Barksdale.

Tonight was a gender-reversed exploration of "Coriolanus," a Shakespearean tragedy I'd never read, much less seen produced.

Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another man's will; 'tis strongly wedged up in a blockhead.

The story of a celebrated warrior who refused to exploit his war wounds and victories for political gain was fascinating on a number of levels.

First, there was the A-list female cast playing all the male roles.

Twenty five women and four men.

It's not the odds I'd want in the real world, but onstage for Shakespeare, it made for a singularly distinctive theater experience.

He is a lion that I am proud to hunt.

Susan Sanford was commanding and funny in the tile role, much as she was "Spring Awakening," which I'd seen for the second time yesterday.

Having seen her perform and enjoy herself at the Ghost  Light Afterparty several times now, I had to laugh out loud when her line was, "Have we no wine here?"

Her occasional "huh?" added contemporary touches to her couplets.

But then so did the cell phone exchange between her and her enemy.

Let her alone, lady, as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth.

The story of a disgruntled people who cast out their warrior leader because of the way he treats them had particular resonance during this, an election year.

No Shakespearean tragedy is short, but the pacing on this one kept things moving and never lagged for a moment.

Before I knew it, Coriolanus had been victorious, dumped by his people, embraced his enemy (Molly Hood, as always strong, as Aufidius) and won back over by his tearful mother (a magnificent Alan Sader as Volumnia).

For certain, drops of salt have always been part of a woman's arsenal.

I know; I grew up with five sisters.

So, while I've seen some first class female drama in my lifetime, last night's was right up there.

I can only hope that director BC Maupin continues to charge ahead with his intent to produce the Bard's entire canon with gender-reversed explorations.

Count me in for watching girls take over boy parts.

You can take that any way you like.

The evening ended with music at Balliceaux because after great tragedy, I needed a little Brazilica.

Amazingly, I got world class stuff with Quarteto Olinda, four Brazilian guys on their first tour of the U.S.

That's right; they'd payed the Kennedy Center and Lincoln Center and now they were in Richmond.

I won't even bore you with my usual "is this a great town or what?" lecture, but there it is.

Kudos to the Virginia Center for Latin American Art for sponsoring the event.

The group's music, forro de rabeca, is based on the Brazilian folk fiddle, which I was surprised to see is played not on the shoulder and under the chin, but from just in front of the armpit.

And tonight it was played by Claudio in a vibrant orange flowered shirt, singing in Portuguese and moving his hips most seductively.

My partner in crime and I got our cold beverages and took seats on the back of the second booth so as to see all the dancing and the energetic band.

The four piece had that fiddle, a drummer, percussionist and, most surprisingly, an electric bass.

The percussion was zydeco-like and all four musicians traded vocals which were almost like chants.

And the crowd responded by dancing up a storm.

Toward the end, pairs of dancers would lock hands and other couples would dance through the "tower" of their arms.

After that, boys lined up on one side and girls on another, and people danced through the middle, Soul-Train-like.

The best way I can describe it is to say I felt like I was at a Brazilian hoedown.

I especially liked a song called "Carolina" maybe because I could imagine them singing "Karina" instead.

But at the end of their exuberant second set, it was time to bring the party to a close.

Reading phonetically from a piece of paper, bandleader Claudio said, "This is the last song. Thank you very much.We will see you next time."

But they gave that last song their all, blending traditional, rural Brazilian music with the unmistakable strains of "Eleanor Rigby" throughout.

Frickin' brilliant.

It was a closing masterpiece that put an exclamation point to a day that began with exuberant emo, fought its way through an estrogen-soaked tragedy and spit us out on the other end with a Brazilian dance party.

And all without having to disease my better mirth by driving to the Kennedy Center.

What blockhead wouldn't take advantage of such a smorgasbord on a Sunday night?

And the Award Goes to...

I got to play dress-up tonight because no cute boys were available.

My friend the theater critic hadn't met anyone he wanted to invite to the Richmond Theater Critics Circle Awards so he settled for inviting me.

"It's formal," he wrote. "Do you have a nice evening dress?'

Conveniently, I do and I can cover up my legs when it's required.

Despite me not being of the sex of his dreams, my date was gallant enough to pick me up since driving in a full-length dress is a pain.

The evening began at Popkin's for a reception and the first person I saw was singer Desiree Roots in a dress with a train.

A train. In Popkin's. Think about that.

After schmoozing and glad-handing for an hour, we moved across the street to the Empire Theater for the awards.

I didn't see many open seats and the crowd was a lively and stylish one, so it felt more like a seated party than a stuffy awards banquet.

And because these were theater people, there were not one but two intermissions to allow people time to get their drink on.

The entire show had been scripted with loads of inside jokes and lots of theater humor, including critic roasting.

When two of the presenters talked about acting versus teaching, one said that the advantage of teaching was that you could send difficult students to the principal..

Or even suspend them.

"I know some critics I'd like to suspend," actress Susan Sanford cracked. "From a bridge. Or a tall building."

Singer Susan Greenbaum asked co-presenter UR basketball Coach Chris Mooney why he'd wanted to participate, given his non-arts occupation.

He answered, "I'm not really known in this part of town." The audience loved that.

One of the biggest laughs went to Anne Holton when she was asked about the high points of being First Lady.

She mentioned the Queen's visit in 2007 and the challenges of learning all the protocols required.

"Thank God there are no queens here tonight," she deadpanned.

Another good pairing was Culture Works' John Bryan with DJ Melissa Chase.

Talking about the contribution of costume design, Bryan said, "Without costumes, theater would just be a bunch of naked people sitting around."

Pause. "Like in radio," he said.

"Hey, we wear headphones," Chase corrected him.

But it wasn't just banter. A song from each of the nominated musicals was performed throughout the evening.

Favorite lyric: "I'd rather be nine people's favorite than a hundred people's ninth favorite."


I, too, aspire to be nine people's favorite. I just want some say in who the nine are.

Like any awards show, there were surprises.

The very first  award winner wasn't present.

Another acknowledged how surprised she was with her win by saying, "I was so unprepared that I'm still chewing gum."

The very talented Alan Sader got my vote for most dapper evening attire for a male in his red plaid kilt and high socks.

He looked magnificent accepting his award for Best Actor in a Leading Role in a Play (for King Lear).

My money is on him winning next year for playing Big Daddy in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."

Best Musical was a tie between "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" and "Title of Show," prompting comments about RVA having room for the biggest musicals as well as the smallest (budget).

I had just turned to my (critic) seatmate and commented that Henley Street Theater hadn't won anything (she gave me a cryptic smile) when lo and behold, they won Best Play for "Last Days of Judas Iscariot."

When all was said and done, the crowd was well-lubricated, a bit hoarse after so much yelling for favorites and savoring the camaraderie of the Richmond Theater community.

What else could we do but go for munchies and rehash it all?

My handsome date who opened doors for me and introduced me all night long by saying, "This is my date. Isn't he pretty?" and I were joined by another couple at Third Street Diner.

Over diner food of nachos, cheeseburger, chicken fingers and fries (in our defense, they were out of lettuce), we watched a waitress clean the floor with the vacuum cleaner strapped to her back.

We talked about gay men with girlfriends for beards and which lecture topics attract lesbians.

And before we left, we ogled the contents of the vending machine at the front of the restaurant

Cigarettes, Advil, tampons; all the essentials of life were there.

Our server said the machine used to have candy and condoms, too but, alas, no longer.

Not that my date and I needed either. We were full and neither of us was getting that kind of lucky tonight.

Not that we hadn't looked fine enough to tempt a couple of (very different) guys.

We just didn't meet the right ones.