I am but mad north-north-west.
What are the chances I'd see "Hamlet" the same day I saw the film that takes its name from a line in "Hamlet"? Apparently, pretty good.
It wasn't very difficult to find a willing date for dinner and outdoor theater, even if we did arrive at Agecroft just minutes before the sky opened up, full as ticks and willing to sit in the car and listen to music until the subsequent rainbow appeared and we felt cleared to make our way to the courtyard.
There, from our second row seats, a minstrel greeted us with song - "Welcome to Elsinore, leave your morals at the door" - as the post-rain weather enveloped us in cooler temperatures and lower humidity.
Don't tell Quill Theater I said it, but perhaps every production should begin with pouring rain to clear the air.
Be thou familiar but by no means vulgar.
Despite it being my 17th year of attendance, my date was a first-timer to Shakespeare at Agecroft, agog at the 500-year old architecture and entranced with the notion of theater there. To prove to me his devotion to "Hamlet," though, he recited soliloquies learned long ago in his nerd days. You know I was impressed.
And not just with him, but with Molly Hood as Hamlet. Make no mistake, I was well aware of her stunning ability to play Shakespeare's men, having seen her in any number of local director BS Maupin's gender-reversed Shakespeare readings over the years (a long-time favorite series of mine...hey, BC, when's the next one?). The woman is a master with the Bard's language.
When I had seen this hot love on the wing.
Director Jan Powell had updated the play in other ways, with actors carrying cellphones and taking selfies, the seersucker suit-wearing Polonius pulling out his checkbook and Rozencrantz and Guildenstern (wearing Wittenburg baseball caps) dressed as preppies.
I have lost all my mirth.
My date took as much pleasure as I always do from the distinctive moments that are unique to an Agecrodt performance: the sound of a train rolling by, the lightening bugs and moths that join the actors onstage, the bats swooping overhead.
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.
During intermission, I grabbed my companion and took him on a tour of the grounds, up to the terrace for a view of the panorama, down to the gazebo where couples could be alone, to the picaresque herb garden and along every darkened path, all under a fingernail sliver of a moon.
When I pulled out a bar of dark chocolate with sea salt, he said, "You really are the best date ever." Roger that.
When you're working with a script the caliber of "Hamlet," a director can only hope for a cast worthy of it and Powell had chosen well.
Casting Hood had been a brilliant stroke because she can play heartbreaking and ball-breaking equally well, but just as impressive was her decision to refer to her as a "she," and a she who was in love with another she, Ophelia.
That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
For sheer watchability, Jeff Clevenger nailed both his roles as the eager but inept Polonius and the southern-accented grave digger singing "I Ain't Got Nobody" as he shovels skulls out of the ground, to great comedic success.
Thomas Cunningham, strong in every role I've ever seen him in, was Hamlet's bespectacled rock as Horatio and Foster Solomon commanded his scenes with his sheer physical presence and authoritative diction as the plotting Claudius.
You would pluck out the heart of my mystery.
No matter how many times I see the tragedy of Hamlet play out, I am struck by the sheer sadness of its scope - the evil, the corruption and deception, the overwhelming grief that finishes with so much death and loss.
"I teared up at the end," my date told me walking out. That's the most ringing endorsement I can imagine for his baptism by fire with the Richmond Shakespeare Festival.
Only problem is, now that he's seen Molly Hood in the lead role, he may never be able to go back to a male Hamlet. The play may be the thing, but in this case, it played far more compellingly with girl parts.
Therein lies the rub.
Showing posts with label molly hood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label molly hood. Show all posts
Monday, July 20, 2015
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Daylight and Champagne
Virginia is no longer just for straight lovers, but for all lovers. And about damn time.
With gender issues blaring from the headlines this week as same sex marriage became legal here, it's kind of thrilling to step out of the shadow of so many embarrassing stories about Virginia and feel proud we are, if not ahead of the curve, at last riding the wave of progressive thought for a change.
What better reason to spend an evening further blurring gender lines using magnificent language and a ratio of 13 women to 4 men to tell a tale of cross-dressing, passionate love and drunkenness? What I mean is, I may not want to be a man, but I can dig watching women play men all night long.
That's just what I was going for when Pru and I made our way to the Speakeasy, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward, for a gender-reversed exploration of "Twelfth Night."
The latest in director BC Maupin's mission to produce Shakespeare's entire canon using women in men's roles, I've yet to miss a reading and, frankly, it's because of girl parts.
I love seeing that many women on stage. It doesn't matter what the play is - goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" produced a lot - because even a familiar play takes on a different shape and feel when women are playing the male roles.
We arrived in time to grab a good table and eat bowls of gumbo full of shrimp, chicken and sausage topped with a perfect ball of rice and cornbread buttons before the play began. I was asked to move my chair around a bit as I was apparently right in one of the paths the actors would be using to come and go.
The action began with several locations - on top of the upright piano, from upstairs in the balcony where part of the audience sat and from either side of the bar behind us.
It was clear we were in for a treat when Molly Hood and Melissa Johnston Price stumbled out from between the tables playing drunken cohorts Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch.
A plague o' these pickle herring!
While technically, these gender-reversed plays are readings because the cast is still holding their scripts, it's not the kind of reading where actors sit in chairs and just read. Instead, they're out there cutting a caper, one might say, especially these two drunken masters.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now.
Ditto Robert Throckmorton who was playing the fair Olivia, the object of the Duke of Orsino's affection, who after saying the line, "Give me my veil. Come, throw it over my face," proceeded to clip sunglasses shades over his regular glasses.
Our cross-dressing heroine Viola was played by Alexander Sapp with a scarf on his head and adoration in his eyes.
During the scene where the fake letter is left out for Malvolio to "accidentally" discover," the drunken trio of Toby, Andrew and Fabian (the always funny Jacqueline O'Connor) crouched behind a nearby bar table subbing for a hedge of bushes. Moving from there to beside our table, Toby and Fabian pulled out straws to mooch sips of people's drinks from them, including Toby taking a long pull on Pru's Pinot Noir.
The versatility award went to the energetic Rebecca Anne Muhleman playing Feste, the fool, singing like an angel and even playing piano when necessary.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The Speakeasy space was put to excellent use, given that it was crowded with tables full of Shakespeare fans, like when the excellent Becki Jones as the beleaguered Malvolio is in jail, with the railing of the balcony suggesting the bars on his cell.
Watching the tall Jay Millman play the servant wench and instigator Maria, a character I think of as short and curvy (busty even), I had to keep reminding myself he was a she.
No matter how well you know the play, it was inevitable that there'd be times when you were looking at the actors trying to remember who was who. As a guy at the next table asked, "So, that's a guy playing a girl who's a boy?" His date nailed the answer. "Okay."
To put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
It was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy watching the sexes play each other. One thing I did notice was how much more believable women are at playing men than men playing women. Maybe it's just me, but it rings truer to see women showing strength than seeing men showing adoration and fawning.
Of course, an added bonus of "Twelfth Night" is that in addition to all that great comedy plus love stories, you get the touching scene at the end where siblings Viola and Sebastian realize the other isn't dead, a truly moving moment even after so many times.
Love sought is good but given unsought, better.
During the talkback with the actors afterwards, there was much discussion of whether it's harder playing the opposite sex in a comedy or drama.
Price/Sir Toby was adamant that doing comedy as a man was much more difficult and that she only relaxed after she'd gotten her first few big laughs from the crowd. "We knew you had a drunk man inside you," quipped Sapp.
Even if we didn't, it was a distinct pleasure to watch the actors relax into their roles, begging the question of what a full production with plenty of rehearsal time to work out playing against your sex might be like.
Good question. I'm still working out getting good at the one I was born with and it's taking a lot longer than I expected.
One thing I do know is Sir Toby, you're wrong. 'Tis never too late to go to bed. 'Tis only too early to get up.
With gender issues blaring from the headlines this week as same sex marriage became legal here, it's kind of thrilling to step out of the shadow of so many embarrassing stories about Virginia and feel proud we are, if not ahead of the curve, at last riding the wave of progressive thought for a change.
What better reason to spend an evening further blurring gender lines using magnificent language and a ratio of 13 women to 4 men to tell a tale of cross-dressing, passionate love and drunkenness? What I mean is, I may not want to be a man, but I can dig watching women play men all night long.
That's just what I was going for when Pru and I made our way to the Speakeasy, right here in lovely downtown Jackson Ward, for a gender-reversed exploration of "Twelfth Night."
The latest in director BC Maupin's mission to produce Shakespeare's entire canon using women in men's roles, I've yet to miss a reading and, frankly, it's because of girl parts.
I love seeing that many women on stage. It doesn't matter what the play is - goodness knows I've seen "Twelfth Night" produced a lot - because even a familiar play takes on a different shape and feel when women are playing the male roles.
We arrived in time to grab a good table and eat bowls of gumbo full of shrimp, chicken and sausage topped with a perfect ball of rice and cornbread buttons before the play began. I was asked to move my chair around a bit as I was apparently right in one of the paths the actors would be using to come and go.
The action began with several locations - on top of the upright piano, from upstairs in the balcony where part of the audience sat and from either side of the bar behind us.
It was clear we were in for a treat when Molly Hood and Melissa Johnston Price stumbled out from between the tables playing drunken cohorts Sir Andrew Aguecheek and Sir Toby Belch.
A plague o' these pickle herring!
While technically, these gender-reversed plays are readings because the cast is still holding their scripts, it's not the kind of reading where actors sit in chairs and just read. Instead, they're out there cutting a caper, one might say, especially these two drunken masters.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now.
Ditto Robert Throckmorton who was playing the fair Olivia, the object of the Duke of Orsino's affection, who after saying the line, "Give me my veil. Come, throw it over my face," proceeded to clip sunglasses shades over his regular glasses.
Our cross-dressing heroine Viola was played by Alexander Sapp with a scarf on his head and adoration in his eyes.
During the scene where the fake letter is left out for Malvolio to "accidentally" discover," the drunken trio of Toby, Andrew and Fabian (the always funny Jacqueline O'Connor) crouched behind a nearby bar table subbing for a hedge of bushes. Moving from there to beside our table, Toby and Fabian pulled out straws to mooch sips of people's drinks from them, including Toby taking a long pull on Pru's Pinot Noir.
The versatility award went to the energetic Rebecca Anne Muhleman playing Feste, the fool, singing like an angel and even playing piano when necessary.
I am indeed not her fool but her corrupter of words.
The Speakeasy space was put to excellent use, given that it was crowded with tables full of Shakespeare fans, like when the excellent Becki Jones as the beleaguered Malvolio is in jail, with the railing of the balcony suggesting the bars on his cell.
Watching the tall Jay Millman play the servant wench and instigator Maria, a character I think of as short and curvy (busty even), I had to keep reminding myself he was a she.
No matter how well you know the play, it was inevitable that there'd be times when you were looking at the actors trying to remember who was who. As a guy at the next table asked, "So, that's a guy playing a girl who's a boy?" His date nailed the answer. "Okay."
To put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver.
It was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy watching the sexes play each other. One thing I did notice was how much more believable women are at playing men than men playing women. Maybe it's just me, but it rings truer to see women showing strength than seeing men showing adoration and fawning.
Of course, an added bonus of "Twelfth Night" is that in addition to all that great comedy plus love stories, you get the touching scene at the end where siblings Viola and Sebastian realize the other isn't dead, a truly moving moment even after so many times.
Love sought is good but given unsought, better.
During the talkback with the actors afterwards, there was much discussion of whether it's harder playing the opposite sex in a comedy or drama.
Price/Sir Toby was adamant that doing comedy as a man was much more difficult and that she only relaxed after she'd gotten her first few big laughs from the crowd. "We knew you had a drunk man inside you," quipped Sapp.
Even if we didn't, it was a distinct pleasure to watch the actors relax into their roles, begging the question of what a full production with plenty of rehearsal time to work out playing against your sex might be like.
Good question. I'm still working out getting good at the one I was born with and it's taking a lot longer than I expected.
One thing I do know is Sir Toby, you're wrong. 'Tis never too late to go to bed. 'Tis only too early to get up.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Life is Like Dancing
Nothing like poetry and dance to cleanse the soul.
Not that I know that my soul's in particularly bad shape, but it never hurts to pay it forward.
That and on my walk this morning, I'd overheard a VCU student on the phone saying she was on the way to the li-berry.
Truly, I worry for our linguistic future sometimes. Poetry helps assuage those fears.
Chop Suey was hosting poet and Library of Virginia literary award finalist Luann Keener-Mikenas reading from her books "Color Documentary" and "Homeland," the nominated one.
"Elephants" provided the evocative phrase, "Deep in your many-corridored memory," but "The Indigo Bunting," took the prize for my favorite line.
These days we look through the nothing that is not there to the everything that is.
Kind of a life philosophy, I thought.
Literary soul thus fed, a friend and I traversed the river for some cultural feeding of the highest order.
Dogtown Dance Theater was hosting the 15th annual Yes! National Dance Invitational, an evening of some of the country's best dance troupes.
Before the show started, we were advised to silence all cell phones and devices and to stow any small children under the stairwell.
I love a director with a sense of humor and the right attitude about rug rats.
As the lights came up and the back curtain began to open, I was struck again by what a superior dance performance space this theater is.
With a front row seat and a towering ceiling, it was easy to feel one with the dancers without any coordination required.
Gin Dance company out of northern Virginia led off with "The Core," precisely executed by the raven-haired Shu-Chen Cuff at center, surrounded by four dancers with much lighter tresses complementing her hair and eastern dance movements.
Melissa Chisena choreographed and danced a piece called "Breathe," mesmerizingly set to a woman (what else?) breathing into a microphone while nearby a man played a jug for percussion.
Her every movement was matched by syncopated breath work that became the music of the piece. It was a truly unique piece.
S/OAP Lab's piece, "Praedari," began with the sound of thunder and was compelling to watch because one dancer portrayed the predator and the other the prey.
Very aware of each other, but maintaining their distance for most of the piece, it was hard not to empathize with the one being stalked.
Okay, and hard not to admire the lithe, chiseled body of the predator.
Richmond's own K Dance did "The Dog" by David Mamet, a piece that began with Kaye Weinstein Gary singing "How Much is that Doggy in the Window?" to a stuffed dog before sliding off the pedestal to dance and move to the sounds of a dog barking and whimpering in between lines of Mamet's monologue.
"Rebound" got its title from the first two members of Houston Met Dance company who were tethered to each other, necessitating that they move in tandem, much like prisoners shackled together.
Two more couples soon joined them and instead of tethers, each wore a large black belt that his or her partner could use to lift and/or direct the other to a dramatic piece of music featuring piano and drums. It was an elegant ebb and flow of movement.
During intermission, we were kept amused by a raffle for a bottle of wine.
The woman at the end of our row was asked to pull out the winning name and, as luck would have it, pulled the name of her companion sitting right next to her.
What are the chances?
The second half of the program began with stellar local actress Molly Hood beginning a scene from Marsha Norman's short play "140."
Directed by the inimitable Billy Christopher Maupin, the theater/dance piece was a thought-provoking meditation on infidelity.
Weaving dialog at the front of the stage with a Greek chorus of dancers at the back of the stage moving silently, the scene revolved around characters discovering their lover was unfaithful but wanting to keep the lover anyway.
It heart-breakingly ended with each begging of the person they wronged, "Undo this."
If only the world worked that way.
Last, but certainly not least, was one of Dance Magazine's "25 to Watch" troupes, BodyTraffic from Los Angeles.
Using the great American songbook- "Sunny Side of the Street," "All of Me," "Someone to Watch Over Me"- the wildly exuberant "o2Joy" was the killer closer the show deserved.
Taking inspiration from old musicals and with a definite nod to Gene Kelly, the five young dancers used jazz hands, lip synching, and tight choreography to express what absolutely felt like an ode to joy.
Come to think of it, the joy of watching so many talented dancers from all over the country all night long was yet another example of how lucky culture lovers are to be in Richmond.
Best of all, the performance repeats tomorrow afternoon and evening, meaning dance and theater lovers can savor a variety of dance, much the way many of us sampled a variety of music last weekend at the Folk Fest.
Sure, it'll feed your soul if that's what you need, but if your soul's fine, it'll also delight your senses.
Who'd have thought that Dogtown was the place to look through the nothing that is not there to the everything that is?
Anyone who saw tonight's performance, that's who.
Not that I know that my soul's in particularly bad shape, but it never hurts to pay it forward.
That and on my walk this morning, I'd overheard a VCU student on the phone saying she was on the way to the li-berry.
Truly, I worry for our linguistic future sometimes. Poetry helps assuage those fears.
Chop Suey was hosting poet and Library of Virginia literary award finalist Luann Keener-Mikenas reading from her books "Color Documentary" and "Homeland," the nominated one.
"Elephants" provided the evocative phrase, "Deep in your many-corridored memory," but "The Indigo Bunting," took the prize for my favorite line.
These days we look through the nothing that is not there to the everything that is.
Kind of a life philosophy, I thought.
Literary soul thus fed, a friend and I traversed the river for some cultural feeding of the highest order.
Dogtown Dance Theater was hosting the 15th annual Yes! National Dance Invitational, an evening of some of the country's best dance troupes.
Before the show started, we were advised to silence all cell phones and devices and to stow any small children under the stairwell.
I love a director with a sense of humor and the right attitude about rug rats.
As the lights came up and the back curtain began to open, I was struck again by what a superior dance performance space this theater is.
With a front row seat and a towering ceiling, it was easy to feel one with the dancers without any coordination required.
Gin Dance company out of northern Virginia led off with "The Core," precisely executed by the raven-haired Shu-Chen Cuff at center, surrounded by four dancers with much lighter tresses complementing her hair and eastern dance movements.
Melissa Chisena choreographed and danced a piece called "Breathe," mesmerizingly set to a woman (what else?) breathing into a microphone while nearby a man played a jug for percussion.
Her every movement was matched by syncopated breath work that became the music of the piece. It was a truly unique piece.
S/OAP Lab's piece, "Praedari," began with the sound of thunder and was compelling to watch because one dancer portrayed the predator and the other the prey.
Very aware of each other, but maintaining their distance for most of the piece, it was hard not to empathize with the one being stalked.
Okay, and hard not to admire the lithe, chiseled body of the predator.
Richmond's own K Dance did "The Dog" by David Mamet, a piece that began with Kaye Weinstein Gary singing "How Much is that Doggy in the Window?" to a stuffed dog before sliding off the pedestal to dance and move to the sounds of a dog barking and whimpering in between lines of Mamet's monologue.
"Rebound" got its title from the first two members of Houston Met Dance company who were tethered to each other, necessitating that they move in tandem, much like prisoners shackled together.
Two more couples soon joined them and instead of tethers, each wore a large black belt that his or her partner could use to lift and/or direct the other to a dramatic piece of music featuring piano and drums. It was an elegant ebb and flow of movement.
During intermission, we were kept amused by a raffle for a bottle of wine.
The woman at the end of our row was asked to pull out the winning name and, as luck would have it, pulled the name of her companion sitting right next to her.
What are the chances?
The second half of the program began with stellar local actress Molly Hood beginning a scene from Marsha Norman's short play "140."
Directed by the inimitable Billy Christopher Maupin, the theater/dance piece was a thought-provoking meditation on infidelity.
Weaving dialog at the front of the stage with a Greek chorus of dancers at the back of the stage moving silently, the scene revolved around characters discovering their lover was unfaithful but wanting to keep the lover anyway.
It heart-breakingly ended with each begging of the person they wronged, "Undo this."
If only the world worked that way.
Last, but certainly not least, was one of Dance Magazine's "25 to Watch" troupes, BodyTraffic from Los Angeles.
Using the great American songbook- "Sunny Side of the Street," "All of Me," "Someone to Watch Over Me"- the wildly exuberant "o2Joy" was the killer closer the show deserved.
Taking inspiration from old musicals and with a definite nod to Gene Kelly, the five young dancers used jazz hands, lip synching, and tight choreography to express what absolutely felt like an ode to joy.
Come to think of it, the joy of watching so many talented dancers from all over the country all night long was yet another example of how lucky culture lovers are to be in Richmond.
Best of all, the performance repeats tomorrow afternoon and evening, meaning dance and theater lovers can savor a variety of dance, much the way many of us sampled a variety of music last weekend at the Folk Fest.
Sure, it'll feed your soul if that's what you need, but if your soul's fine, it'll also delight your senses.
Who'd have thought that Dogtown was the place to look through the nothing that is not there to the everything that is?
Anyone who saw tonight's performance, that's who.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
A Ripping Good Time
We should confine ourselves to conversation and not attempt anything intelligent.
So wrote Noel Coward, inspiring a decidedly urbane evening.
A favorite girlfriend reported to Jackson Ward exactly on time, notable because she is usually not the punctual sort.
The conversation began the moment we were in the car together, both of us unwilling to wait to hear the latest.
Stop #1 was Virginia Rep's box office to score rush tickets and where the ticket seller informed me that there are three other people with my exact name in their database.
I was a little surprised, never having met another.
Tickets in hand, we got ourselves downtown for a little pre-theater supper by candlelight.
As many times as I've had lunch at La Parisienne, I'd only been there once at night and that was before they had a full dinner menu.
Our host led us to a two-top by the big front window, advising us to, "Imagine you're in New York City."
After a few minutes ensconced at our table, my friend dryly noted, "Well, it could be New York except there's no people walking by."
She had a point.
We began with glasses of Cotes du Rhone and a little verbal volleying with our server whom, we learned, was named after his grandfather and father, meaning he used his middle name.
I assumed that meant his predecessors had a different middle name, but I was mistaken.
He was a most affable guy, friendly and willing to accommodate our truncated visit, even bringing us an extra table when we ran out of room on ours.
We started with caramelized onion dip with fried crepe chips, surprised at the huge mound of salted and seasoned chips that accompanied the tiny ramekin of dip.
The richness of the dip soon explained itself as the reason why so many crepes had died in service to it.
Once we heard tonight's specials, we chose one of them, a half a lobster tail with Chimay sauce and a carrot slaw over micro-greens.
When we informed our server of our ignorance of Chimay, he offered that it was a reduction of a beer made by Trappist monks in Belgium, "And that's about the extent of what I know."
I like a man who acknowledges his limitations.
All that mattered was we both got a piece of a lobster tail and I got a nice little slaw and salad because my girlfriend doesn't care for mayo.
Next came Zee Onion Soup, a house specialty and ideal when you're sitting next to a window on a cold evening.
It arrived a bit tepid, but our gracious server whisked it back to the kitchen and returned the two crocks piping hot.
The owner came over and when I asked about the music they have on the second Tuesdays of the month, he did a little hip shake, saying, "You should come and dance the salsa."
I clarified my (sadly) rhythm-less state, citing my whiteness, and he laughed saying, "They look at me and think I can dance when I can't. I'm the same as you!"
So we were looking at a man who can't dance because he's white and French, I suppose.
Although we were rapidly running out of time to make our curtain, we couldn't leave without a sweet, choosing a cream puff from the front case rather than something off the dessert menu.
To accompany it, we had a Merlot/Grenache blend from Pomerol in the heart of Burgundy, with dark fruit, a little spiciness and beautiful balance.
Then, like Cinderella's clock chiming midnight, we jumped in the car and headed up the hill to the November Theater.
If I'd forgotten for a minute that it was First Friday art walk, I was soon reminded as clueless pedestrians stepped off curbs against the traffic lights again and again.
"You're better than me," my friend noted." I'd have never seen them and they'd have been hood ornaments."
It's better that I drive when we are downtown.
We made it into the theater and our second row left seats (surprisingly good for last minute and cheapo) with time left to peruse the program.
When the curtain came up on Noel Coward's "Hay Fever," it was on a lovely set of the drawing room of an English country house, complete with windows overlooking the garden and staircase to the second floor.
Not to mention being immediately plunged into the wildly dysfunctional Bliss family and their full house of weekend guests.
I warned him not to expect good manners.
With a writer father and a retired actress mother, the grown Bliss children, Sorel and Simon, are very aware that their family is weird.
And not just aware, but completely accepting of it.
We're very slapdash.
All the members of the very bohemian Bliss family are appalled to learn that each has invited a guest for the weekend without the rest of the family's knowledge.
Needles to say, afternoon tea is very stilted with so many unwanted visitors.
You do say ripping things.
During the first intermission, two women came to stand and chat behind me and I overheard them trying to one-up each other.
"My husband died in 2007," one said about coming to the theater alone.
"I lost mine in 2001," the other countered. "Boy, it goes so fast, doesn't it?"
Anybody got a tissue?
The second act begins after dinner and the fun begins as they all try to play a parlor game involving adverbs and guessing,
These games are too brainy for me.
The cast was extremely high energy, with Irene Ziegler leading the charge as the matriarch, all high drama and garden hats.
I'm a big fan of Molly Hood, who played Myra, one of the visitors, and here she was a saucy brunette, but as always, her diction was superb.
It was great fun seeing Maggie Roop as Jackie, a flapper with no confidence, smiling and crying at the same time, as she tries to navigate a houseful of insanity.
Once the game dissolves, the oddest people pair up and next thing we knew, there was a whole lot of kissing going on.
I never realize how dead I am until I meet people like you.
But it's the Bliss family, so it's kissing for kissing's sake and no one's really in love.
You kissed me because you were awfully nice and I was awfully nice and we both liked kissing very much. It was inevitable.
After the second intermission, it was the next morning and by now all the guests have realized they are visitors at a nuthouse and go to pack.
Do you think they know they're mad?
By the time the Bliss family convenes for breakfast, it's back to business as usual, meaning endless bickering, sibling smackdowns and general chaos.
They never even notice when the guests sneak out the door to escape back to London.
Given so much witty dialog, all kinds of era-appropriate costume changes and two intermissions, I was amazed to find us out on Broad Street only a little after 10:00.
I feel certain Noel Coward would have expected our sophisticated little evening to have lasted a tad longer.
Fortunately, the conversation we'd confined ourselves to had been outstanding, so we'd barely missed anything intelligent at all.
Maybe that just means we're okay with being slapdash.
So wrote Noel Coward, inspiring a decidedly urbane evening.
A favorite girlfriend reported to Jackson Ward exactly on time, notable because she is usually not the punctual sort.
The conversation began the moment we were in the car together, both of us unwilling to wait to hear the latest.
Stop #1 was Virginia Rep's box office to score rush tickets and where the ticket seller informed me that there are three other people with my exact name in their database.
I was a little surprised, never having met another.
Tickets in hand, we got ourselves downtown for a little pre-theater supper by candlelight.
As many times as I've had lunch at La Parisienne, I'd only been there once at night and that was before they had a full dinner menu.
Our host led us to a two-top by the big front window, advising us to, "Imagine you're in New York City."
After a few minutes ensconced at our table, my friend dryly noted, "Well, it could be New York except there's no people walking by."
She had a point.
We began with glasses of Cotes du Rhone and a little verbal volleying with our server whom, we learned, was named after his grandfather and father, meaning he used his middle name.
I assumed that meant his predecessors had a different middle name, but I was mistaken.
He was a most affable guy, friendly and willing to accommodate our truncated visit, even bringing us an extra table when we ran out of room on ours.
We started with caramelized onion dip with fried crepe chips, surprised at the huge mound of salted and seasoned chips that accompanied the tiny ramekin of dip.
The richness of the dip soon explained itself as the reason why so many crepes had died in service to it.
Once we heard tonight's specials, we chose one of them, a half a lobster tail with Chimay sauce and a carrot slaw over micro-greens.
When we informed our server of our ignorance of Chimay, he offered that it was a reduction of a beer made by Trappist monks in Belgium, "And that's about the extent of what I know."
I like a man who acknowledges his limitations.
All that mattered was we both got a piece of a lobster tail and I got a nice little slaw and salad because my girlfriend doesn't care for mayo.
Next came Zee Onion Soup, a house specialty and ideal when you're sitting next to a window on a cold evening.
It arrived a bit tepid, but our gracious server whisked it back to the kitchen and returned the two crocks piping hot.
The owner came over and when I asked about the music they have on the second Tuesdays of the month, he did a little hip shake, saying, "You should come and dance the salsa."
I clarified my (sadly) rhythm-less state, citing my whiteness, and he laughed saying, "They look at me and think I can dance when I can't. I'm the same as you!"
So we were looking at a man who can't dance because he's white and French, I suppose.
Although we were rapidly running out of time to make our curtain, we couldn't leave without a sweet, choosing a cream puff from the front case rather than something off the dessert menu.
To accompany it, we had a Merlot/Grenache blend from Pomerol in the heart of Burgundy, with dark fruit, a little spiciness and beautiful balance.
Then, like Cinderella's clock chiming midnight, we jumped in the car and headed up the hill to the November Theater.
If I'd forgotten for a minute that it was First Friday art walk, I was soon reminded as clueless pedestrians stepped off curbs against the traffic lights again and again.
"You're better than me," my friend noted." I'd have never seen them and they'd have been hood ornaments."
It's better that I drive when we are downtown.
We made it into the theater and our second row left seats (surprisingly good for last minute and cheapo) with time left to peruse the program.
When the curtain came up on Noel Coward's "Hay Fever," it was on a lovely set of the drawing room of an English country house, complete with windows overlooking the garden and staircase to the second floor.
Not to mention being immediately plunged into the wildly dysfunctional Bliss family and their full house of weekend guests.
I warned him not to expect good manners.
With a writer father and a retired actress mother, the grown Bliss children, Sorel and Simon, are very aware that their family is weird.
And not just aware, but completely accepting of it.
We're very slapdash.
All the members of the very bohemian Bliss family are appalled to learn that each has invited a guest for the weekend without the rest of the family's knowledge.
Needles to say, afternoon tea is very stilted with so many unwanted visitors.
You do say ripping things.
During the first intermission, two women came to stand and chat behind me and I overheard them trying to one-up each other.
"My husband died in 2007," one said about coming to the theater alone.
"I lost mine in 2001," the other countered. "Boy, it goes so fast, doesn't it?"
Anybody got a tissue?
The second act begins after dinner and the fun begins as they all try to play a parlor game involving adverbs and guessing,
These games are too brainy for me.
The cast was extremely high energy, with Irene Ziegler leading the charge as the matriarch, all high drama and garden hats.
I'm a big fan of Molly Hood, who played Myra, one of the visitors, and here she was a saucy brunette, but as always, her diction was superb.
It was great fun seeing Maggie Roop as Jackie, a flapper with no confidence, smiling and crying at the same time, as she tries to navigate a houseful of insanity.
Once the game dissolves, the oddest people pair up and next thing we knew, there was a whole lot of kissing going on.
I never realize how dead I am until I meet people like you.
But it's the Bliss family, so it's kissing for kissing's sake and no one's really in love.
You kissed me because you were awfully nice and I was awfully nice and we both liked kissing very much. It was inevitable.
After the second intermission, it was the next morning and by now all the guests have realized they are visitors at a nuthouse and go to pack.
Do you think they know they're mad?
By the time the Bliss family convenes for breakfast, it's back to business as usual, meaning endless bickering, sibling smackdowns and general chaos.
They never even notice when the guests sneak out the door to escape back to London.
Given so much witty dialog, all kinds of era-appropriate costume changes and two intermissions, I was amazed to find us out on Broad Street only a little after 10:00.
I feel certain Noel Coward would have expected our sophisticated little evening to have lasted a tad longer.
Fortunately, the conversation we'd confined ourselves to had been outstanding, so we'd barely missed anything intelligent at all.
Maybe that just means we're okay with being slapdash.
Monday, July 16, 2012
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?
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?
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Merry and Tragical
Park once, party twice. Sadly, though, I paid the price.
Nay, faith, let me not play a woman, for I have a beard coming.
And that's the beauty of a gender-reversed play. Those actors playing women do have beard potential.
Firehouse Theater was doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with fifteen women playing the male parts.
As if the pleasure of men playing women wasn't sufficient, there were also actors of a tender age playing believable love-besotted youths (Hermia and Lysander).
There was anachronistic humor, like when the bumbling troupe needed moonlight for their play and decided to check the calendar to see if the moon would be bright for them.
In this version, that calendar was on a smartphone, around which they all gathered to determine that the moon would indeed be shining for their performance.
There was innuendo, like when Bottom (played to perfection by Molly Hood) said, "I could munch your good dry oats."
So that's what the kids were calling it in Shakespeare's time. Munching.
There was physical humor, as when Demetrius says, "Let's follow him and, by the way, let, whoa, us recount our dream."
The "whoa" occurred when she nearly ran into a pole.
Or when Bottom says, "And, most dear actors, eat no onion nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath," as one of her fellow actors takes a bite of sandwich, leaving onion hanging from her mouth.
There was the most plaintive and unloved Helena imaginable in the always hysterically dour Dean Knight.
There was mad doting by multiple couples not to mention lovers making moan.
The performance was especially timely since I'd just seen Richmond Shakespeare do the very same play at Maymont not three weeks ago.
Of course, in that version Hermia didn't stand up to pee and Theseus didn't have breasts.
Call me a mortal fool, but all shall be well when Firehouse does a gender exploration of anything by the Bard.
In other words, count me in.
From the forest of the fairies to a blog's birthday party we went. Luckily it was on the same block.
RVAPlaylist was celebrating its second birthday, and as I explained to a fellow music lover, it wasn't that I wanted to go, I had to go.
Of course I wanted to as well.
And why not? The show was free, there was a band I'd never seen and was eager to, one of my long-time favorite bands was playing and there would be birthday cake.
Oh, yes, and literally dozens of people I knew would be there.
Happily, I walked into the Camel to a clutch of familiar faces right up front.
Greeting people, hugging friends and hearing my name called, I turned to see a friend with outstretched arms.
"Is this the Karen receiving line?" he asked only half mocking.
Why, yes, it was.
Against Grace were already playing their brand of pop punk (think Jimmy Eat World) to a crowd of rapturous fans exactly like my friend had described them.
Devoted.
Once their set ended, I set out to finish saying hello to everyone I knew, a never-ending attempt, since inevitably I'd see someone else I hadn't yet seen.
Dead Fame played second and brought their 21st-century take on Joy Division (and a different crowd) to life under minimal lighting and a crowd that moved incessantly with the beat of the music.
As a pal noted, the band had done their 80s homework and lead singer Michael was a study of Ian Curtis as he delivered post-punk and staccato dance moves.
Marionette was last and they too had their own fan base, allowing them to take their music in some new directions instead of playing only familiar material.
We die hards love that kind of fan-centric set list.
Guitarist Adam began their set by thanking Andrew, RVAPlaylist's author, for his long-time interest in the band.
The only thing Adam forgot to mention was who had originally introduced Andrew to Marionette's music.
I don't want to name names, but it was the same woman (not played by a man tonight) who was assured that if she came to the birthday party tonight, not only would there be cake, but she was free to lick the icing off the edge of the plate.
That's a pretty sweet enticement.
All in all, the birthday party had been great fun and it's hard to beat free music.
Well, not exactly free.
I walked out to find a $60 ticket on my car. Really? This is what our cops are doing with their time at night?
Although I'd parked in the same space I've parked for years to go to the Firehouse and the Camel, apparently now it's off limits after 11 p.m.
Ah, well. The course of true fun never did run smooth.
Nay, faith, let me not play a woman, for I have a beard coming.
And that's the beauty of a gender-reversed play. Those actors playing women do have beard potential.
Firehouse Theater was doing "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with fifteen women playing the male parts.
As if the pleasure of men playing women wasn't sufficient, there were also actors of a tender age playing believable love-besotted youths (Hermia and Lysander).
There was anachronistic humor, like when the bumbling troupe needed moonlight for their play and decided to check the calendar to see if the moon would be bright for them.
In this version, that calendar was on a smartphone, around which they all gathered to determine that the moon would indeed be shining for their performance.
There was innuendo, like when Bottom (played to perfection by Molly Hood) said, "I could munch your good dry oats."
So that's what the kids were calling it in Shakespeare's time. Munching.
There was physical humor, as when Demetrius says, "Let's follow him and, by the way, let, whoa, us recount our dream."
The "whoa" occurred when she nearly ran into a pole.
Or when Bottom says, "And, most dear actors, eat no onion nor garlic for we are to utter sweet breath," as one of her fellow actors takes a bite of sandwich, leaving onion hanging from her mouth.
There was the most plaintive and unloved Helena imaginable in the always hysterically dour Dean Knight.
There was mad doting by multiple couples not to mention lovers making moan.
The performance was especially timely since I'd just seen Richmond Shakespeare do the very same play at Maymont not three weeks ago.
Of course, in that version Hermia didn't stand up to pee and Theseus didn't have breasts.
Call me a mortal fool, but all shall be well when Firehouse does a gender exploration of anything by the Bard.
In other words, count me in.
From the forest of the fairies to a blog's birthday party we went. Luckily it was on the same block.
RVAPlaylist was celebrating its second birthday, and as I explained to a fellow music lover, it wasn't that I wanted to go, I had to go.
Of course I wanted to as well.
And why not? The show was free, there was a band I'd never seen and was eager to, one of my long-time favorite bands was playing and there would be birthday cake.
Oh, yes, and literally dozens of people I knew would be there.
Happily, I walked into the Camel to a clutch of familiar faces right up front.
Greeting people, hugging friends and hearing my name called, I turned to see a friend with outstretched arms.
"Is this the Karen receiving line?" he asked only half mocking.
Why, yes, it was.
Against Grace were already playing their brand of pop punk (think Jimmy Eat World) to a crowd of rapturous fans exactly like my friend had described them.
Devoted.
Once their set ended, I set out to finish saying hello to everyone I knew, a never-ending attempt, since inevitably I'd see someone else I hadn't yet seen.
Dead Fame played second and brought their 21st-century take on Joy Division (and a different crowd) to life under minimal lighting and a crowd that moved incessantly with the beat of the music.
As a pal noted, the band had done their 80s homework and lead singer Michael was a study of Ian Curtis as he delivered post-punk and staccato dance moves.
Marionette was last and they too had their own fan base, allowing them to take their music in some new directions instead of playing only familiar material.
We die hards love that kind of fan-centric set list.
Guitarist Adam began their set by thanking Andrew, RVAPlaylist's author, for his long-time interest in the band.
The only thing Adam forgot to mention was who had originally introduced Andrew to Marionette's music.
I don't want to name names, but it was the same woman (not played by a man tonight) who was assured that if she came to the birthday party tonight, not only would there be cake, but she was free to lick the icing off the edge of the plate.
That's a pretty sweet enticement.
All in all, the birthday party had been great fun and it's hard to beat free music.
Well, not exactly free.
I walked out to find a $60 ticket on my car. Really? This is what our cops are doing with their time at night?
Although I'd parked in the same space I've parked for years to go to the Firehouse and the Camel, apparently now it's off limits after 11 p.m.
Ah, well. The course of true fun never did run smooth.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Much Ado About Estrogen
As much of a theater lover as I am, I am devoted to plays turned on their ears.
One of my all time favorite examples was seeing TheaterVirginia do an all-black version of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."
Talk about taking Southern dysfunction to a whole new level.
Likewise, last July Firehouse did a staged reading of a gender-reversed "Hamlet," here, that I still rave to people about.
And tonight I got all those girl parts in comedic form with a gender-reversed "Much Ado About Nothing."
I knew enough to arrive by 7:00 to ensure a seat (and a good one, at that) for all the fun. It was a smart move.
"For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"
Tonight's performance was dedicated to Freddy Kaufman, an actor who had originally been part of the cast until he took ill.
Having seen his comedic presence grace more than one stage, I appreciated the loss.
"I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue."
Molly Hood, who had played Hamlet, here deftly played the confirmed bachelor Benedick, even as he fought off feelings for the strong-willed Beatrice.
Director Billy Christopher Maupin doubled as Beatrice, as fierce a girlfriend as I've ever had.
"Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably."
Unlike the last time girls were playing boys, the crowd tonight made no obvious sounds of disbelief when certain lines came from an unlikely face.
Granted, there are far more female characters in this play than "Hamlet," so maybe we got used to it more quickly.
"Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me."
It's difficult to make some men understand, but given how male-centric Shakespeare's plays are, it's a huge kick to see one staged with eighteen women and only four men.
With some top-notch local actresses on board, it was a pleasure to hear them speak the words of men.
"For I will be horribly in love with her," Benedick admits.
Horribly in love is so much more intense than terribly in love, I think.
"Do you not love me?"
"No more than reason."
So much of the reading was laugh-out-loud funny because of all the gender issues, relationship and love talk and the stubbornness of the unmarried.
"When I said I would a die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I was married."
As the actors moved around (for actors at these staged readings thankfully never actually sit and read) on stage, it was hard not to appreciate the talent involved in selling yourself as the opposite sex.
One of my favorites was Lisa Kotula as the hilarious Dogberry, he of the endless malapropisms ("Thou will be condemned into everlasting redemption for this") and usually played by someone far less attractive.
But aside from all the mistaken identities, trickery, and purported infidelity, it's really just that old chestnut of a hard-headed woman and a confirmed bachelor who are destined to be together.
It was out of their hands.
"Come, I will have thee."
By the end of the play, everyone was married so the dancing and singing began. Whether they lived happily ever after or not, we'll never know.
But surely being horribly in love is a good start.
One of my all time favorite examples was seeing TheaterVirginia do an all-black version of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."
Talk about taking Southern dysfunction to a whole new level.
Likewise, last July Firehouse did a staged reading of a gender-reversed "Hamlet," here, that I still rave to people about.
And tonight I got all those girl parts in comedic form with a gender-reversed "Much Ado About Nothing."
I knew enough to arrive by 7:00 to ensure a seat (and a good one, at that) for all the fun. It was a smart move.
"For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"
Tonight's performance was dedicated to Freddy Kaufman, an actor who had originally been part of the cast until he took ill.
Having seen his comedic presence grace more than one stage, I appreciated the loss.
"I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue."
Molly Hood, who had played Hamlet, here deftly played the confirmed bachelor Benedick, even as he fought off feelings for the strong-willed Beatrice.
Director Billy Christopher Maupin doubled as Beatrice, as fierce a girlfriend as I've ever had.
"Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably."
Unlike the last time girls were playing boys, the crowd tonight made no obvious sounds of disbelief when certain lines came from an unlikely face.
Granted, there are far more female characters in this play than "Hamlet," so maybe we got used to it more quickly.
"Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me."
It's difficult to make some men understand, but given how male-centric Shakespeare's plays are, it's a huge kick to see one staged with eighteen women and only four men.
With some top-notch local actresses on board, it was a pleasure to hear them speak the words of men.
"For I will be horribly in love with her," Benedick admits.
Horribly in love is so much more intense than terribly in love, I think.
"Do you not love me?"
"No more than reason."
So much of the reading was laugh-out-loud funny because of all the gender issues, relationship and love talk and the stubbornness of the unmarried.
"When I said I would a die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I was married."
As the actors moved around (for actors at these staged readings thankfully never actually sit and read) on stage, it was hard not to appreciate the talent involved in selling yourself as the opposite sex.
One of my favorites was Lisa Kotula as the hilarious Dogberry, he of the endless malapropisms ("Thou will be condemned into everlasting redemption for this") and usually played by someone far less attractive.
But aside from all the mistaken identities, trickery, and purported infidelity, it's really just that old chestnut of a hard-headed woman and a confirmed bachelor who are destined to be together.
It was out of their hands.
"Come, I will have thee."
By the end of the play, everyone was married so the dancing and singing began. Whether they lived happily ever after or not, we'll never know.
But surely being horribly in love is a good start.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Stick Your Finger in My Pain
When talking about love, a former boss always used to say, "There's a lid for every pot."
One of the oddest lid/pot combinations I've ever seen was the couple in Rajiv Joseph's play "Gruesome Playground Injuries," the subject of tonight's staged reading at Firehouse Theater.
Joseph is the theatrical golden boy at the moment because his play (and Pulitzer Prize finalist) about Iraq "Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo" just finished a Broadway run, making this a most interesting choice for Firehouse to stage as a reading.
Imagine two kids who meet in the school infirmary at the tender age of eight; she's throwing up non-stop and he's ridden his bike off of the school's roof. Because boys are dumb.
The immediately bond over shared maladies.
Over the next thirty years, they continue to see each other periodically, always due to one or the other's sickness or injury.
They're both damaged souls and whether it's a fireworks accident that causes Doug to lose an eye or Kayleen's self-medicating and cutting, the two continue to share a bond of personal pain throughout their friendship/love.
Like many in the audience, I kept hoping that they would acknowledge their feelings for each other, but there were always hospital beds and comas and psychiatric institutions keeping them distracted.
As with any two-actor production, even a limited one like a staged reading, it's all about the chemistry of the actors and Molly Hood and Billy Christopher Maupin, both stalwarts of the local theater scene, were terrific.
Unlike some readings where the actors sit and merely read, scenes had been blocked and there was not only movement but the actors played to one another, often emotionally.
Only occasionally did their scripts get in the way, which made the evening feel more like a production than many readings do.
Music marked scene transitions and the passage of time.
From "Signed, Sealed and Delivered" through "Every Breath You Take" to the incredibly sappy but appropriate "I Will Always love You," the music helped with the ten- and fifteen-year jumps the script made. One particularly clever device was that the scenes did not play out in chronological order, so we saw them first as children, then young adults, then teens, then slightly older adults, and so on.
A new friend and fellow theater lover found me after the show and joined me for some conversation before the finale. These readings always include a talk-back with the director and actors afterwards and I usually stay for the insight to be gained as well as hearing other audience members' interpretations to compare to my own.
Because of the troubling nature of the script (self-destructive behavior, even in a relationship play, much less blood and guts, aren't everyone's cup of tea), I wanted to hear how much others liked it.
A lot, as it turned out. A spirited discussion of how to direct, whether the characters loved each other and the use of a narrator all came up. At the end, my friend cleverly noted, "That was like the best episode of 'Inside the Actor's Studio' I've ever seen."
Don't I know it. I'll tell you what; for five bucks, Firehouse's Readers' Theater series is one of the best entertainment values (with a capital "V") going.
I say that as a lid still in need of my pot, but one who's always appreciative of a good night's entertainment.
One of the oddest lid/pot combinations I've ever seen was the couple in Rajiv Joseph's play "Gruesome Playground Injuries," the subject of tonight's staged reading at Firehouse Theater.
Joseph is the theatrical golden boy at the moment because his play (and Pulitzer Prize finalist) about Iraq "Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo" just finished a Broadway run, making this a most interesting choice for Firehouse to stage as a reading.
Imagine two kids who meet in the school infirmary at the tender age of eight; she's throwing up non-stop and he's ridden his bike off of the school's roof. Because boys are dumb.
The immediately bond over shared maladies.
Over the next thirty years, they continue to see each other periodically, always due to one or the other's sickness or injury.
They're both damaged souls and whether it's a fireworks accident that causes Doug to lose an eye or Kayleen's self-medicating and cutting, the two continue to share a bond of personal pain throughout their friendship/love.
Like many in the audience, I kept hoping that they would acknowledge their feelings for each other, but there were always hospital beds and comas and psychiatric institutions keeping them distracted.
As with any two-actor production, even a limited one like a staged reading, it's all about the chemistry of the actors and Molly Hood and Billy Christopher Maupin, both stalwarts of the local theater scene, were terrific.
Unlike some readings where the actors sit and merely read, scenes had been blocked and there was not only movement but the actors played to one another, often emotionally.
Only occasionally did their scripts get in the way, which made the evening feel more like a production than many readings do.
Music marked scene transitions and the passage of time.
From "Signed, Sealed and Delivered" through "Every Breath You Take" to the incredibly sappy but appropriate "I Will Always love You," the music helped with the ten- and fifteen-year jumps the script made. One particularly clever device was that the scenes did not play out in chronological order, so we saw them first as children, then young adults, then teens, then slightly older adults, and so on.
A new friend and fellow theater lover found me after the show and joined me for some conversation before the finale. These readings always include a talk-back with the director and actors afterwards and I usually stay for the insight to be gained as well as hearing other audience members' interpretations to compare to my own.
Because of the troubling nature of the script (self-destructive behavior, even in a relationship play, much less blood and guts, aren't everyone's cup of tea), I wanted to hear how much others liked it.
A lot, as it turned out. A spirited discussion of how to direct, whether the characters loved each other and the use of a narrator all came up. At the end, my friend cleverly noted, "That was like the best episode of 'Inside the Actor's Studio' I've ever seen."
Don't I know it. I'll tell you what; for five bucks, Firehouse's Readers' Theater series is one of the best entertainment values (with a capital "V") going.
I say that as a lid still in need of my pot, but one who's always appreciative of a good night's entertainment.
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