Nothing worked out as expected and everything worked out great.
The plan was to go to Petersburg to have a picnic on the lawn and see Sycamore Rouge's free production of "Twelfth Night."
Free Shakespeare outdoors, hell, yes.
I mean, yes, please.
On the drive down 95, it began to rain.
By the time we got downtown it was more like a monsoon.
We pulled up right in front of the Petersburg Art League and sat there in the car, hoping to wait out the rain and hope that the play would still begin in just over an hour.
I suppose we were a little obvious, sitting there idling and staring, so when a woman stuck her head out the door, I rolled down my window and asked if the play was still happening.
It was, only inside now and, yes, we could bring our dinner in with us.
Being straight-haired women, we opted to wait out the worst of the rain before making a mad dash for the door.
All at once, my friend had a flash of clarity.
"Wine!" she exclaimed, pulling a bottle of Rose d'Anjou from the back seat.
She's brilliant, that one.
So that was us, the two happy theater lovers sitting in the Mini sipping Rose as the rain fell harder and car tires disappeared into the enormous puddle across the street.
Once we'd gotten into the wine, we couldn't help but get into the food we'd brought from Garnett's and next thing you know, I'm eating a farmer's salad and she's downing a black forest ham sandwich and potato chips which had morphed from extra crispy to slightly soggy in the humid air.
About 7:15, a woman came out of the building, indicating we should roll down the window and said, "If you want to come in, we're going to start in about fifteen minutes."
Food and wine consumed, we soon joined the small crowd inside.
No doubt many people had assumed the outdoor show had been called off by the bad weather, but they'd have been wrong.
You know what they say about assumptions.
We had our pick of seats and choose two in the front row, the better to see the mistaken identities and cross-gartered stockings up close.
The cast, full of fine voices, began the show by singing "Walk Like a Man" before they were off and running.
I heard you were saucy at my gates.
"Twelfth Night" is a play I've seen many times (Scott Wichmann was my first Mavolio, what, over a decade ago?) and one I still enjoy with the right cast.
This was the right cast and the right chaise, the only prop.
O, time, thou must untangle this, not I.
This production included a lot of popular music - "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," "Leavin' on a Jet Plane," "Get Off of My Cloud"- played to a guitar strummed by the especially well-acted Feste, the fool (whose voice sent both Friend and I into palpitations).
As I am, all lovers are.
Having the Art League as the backdrop for the play instead of the great outdoors meant that behind the actors hung a show by Adam Juresko, an artist with whom I'm well familiar since two of his pieces hang in my living room.
All I'm saying is, you could do a whole lot worse for set decoration.
Let thy love be younger than thyself.
That's always been my M.O.
When intermission arrived, we stretched our legs by going outside during a momentary break in the rain and admired the little park and stage next door where the play is usually performed.
Seeing it made us both want to come back and try the picnic/play thing again.
But indeed, words are very rascals.
During the second act, I got the payoff for being in the front row when the actor playing Sebastian leered at me mid-dialog and inquired, "So, I'm Sebastian. What are you doing after the show?"
It's always nice to be singled out.
When after a discussion with his servant, Antonio, he finds he has an hour and some cash to kill, he leered again, as if to check if an hour would be enough.
I could work with an hour.
Why, this is very mid-summer madness.
Despite the small crowd and move to the indoors, the cast was energetic, delivering their lines as if to a lawn full of people.
Which is, I bet, what they will have for all their other performances considering how well-executed and hilarious this production is.
I recognized a couple of people since I was practically up in their faces.
Matt as Sir Andrew was laugh-out-loud funny with his big eyes and effortless broad physical comedy, once even knocking the curtain off the opening to the backstage area in his exuberance.
Despite having seen Nick wow me with show tunes at Ghost Light Afterparty so many times, his turn as Malvolio was a treat, as he played alternately egotistical and angry and oh-so dapperly yellow.
McLean's Olivia was funny, self-involved but enthusiastically devoted to the man/woman she thought she loved.
Besides, by the end of the play, everyone had been found out, marriages made and Malvolio clear that he'd be revenged on the lot of them.
By the end of my night, I'd had wine and dinner in a car during a rainstorm and seen a rollicking good play inside instead of out.
Not what I expected, but what you will.
Showing posts with label sycamore rouge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sycamore rouge. Show all posts
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Theory of Want
Steven Spielberg be damned.
I didn't say that, Sycamore Rouge did (figuratively, of course) when the director, who's shooting in Petersburg these days, asked if he could buy out the house for Friday and Saturday nights this weekend to cater for the crew.
Gambling, Sycamore Rouge said no. In a great cosmic payback, they sold out the house both nights.
Tonight, my girlfriend and I were the last patrons to arrive and duck into our table just as things were getting started.
"Picasso at the Lapin Agile," a play about a fictional meeting between Picasso and Einstein at a Parisian bar in 1904 was written by comedian Steve Martin.
In fact, at times, the dialog sounded far more 1993 (when it was written) than 1904 when it was set.
References to girls being no good at science and "Men want, women are wanted" had a contemporary ring to them, although the science comment elicited loud groans from the crowd.
Picasso: But I appreciate women. I draw them, don't I?
Suzanne: Well, that's because we're so goddamn beautiful, isn't it?
Like Martin's comedy, the play was full of wordplay and one liners, like when a girl is explaining how she couldn't say no to sleeping with Picasso.
"The word became as unpronounceable as a Polish town." But then how many girls did say no to an advance by Picasso?
Adam Mincks played Einstein and I always enjoy watching him perform because his timing and delivery are typically spot-on.
After coming out looking very circumspect, one of his best moments came when he let loose his long curly hair to look more like the popular culture image of Einstein.
Picasso and Matisse's art dealer was played by understudy Elise Boyd tonight and she brought great presence and humor to the Gertrude Stein-like role.
The play was short, but the dialog flew fast and furious and there was almost always something to laugh at.
My friend and I agreed that Sycamore Rouge, although cooler than we would have liked on such a cold night, was very much to our liking.
Sitting at tables with tablecloths and candles (and a nearby bar) made it feel like a night at a club in another era.
Walking outside afterwards, though, by an adjacent movie set and the attendant bright lights brought us right back to the 21st century.
So rather than settle for a bar with patrons not likely to offer up the likes of Picasso and Einstein, we went back to her place and drank our wine there.
We may not have had the philosophical arguments those men did about art versus science (since we already knew it takes both to make the world go round) but I think we pretty much cleared up that whole "men want, women are wanted" business.
It's as simple as Einstein's theory of relativity, really.
Women are wanted and women want.
Fact, not theory.
I didn't say that, Sycamore Rouge did (figuratively, of course) when the director, who's shooting in Petersburg these days, asked if he could buy out the house for Friday and Saturday nights this weekend to cater for the crew.
Gambling, Sycamore Rouge said no. In a great cosmic payback, they sold out the house both nights.
Tonight, my girlfriend and I were the last patrons to arrive and duck into our table just as things were getting started.
"Picasso at the Lapin Agile," a play about a fictional meeting between Picasso and Einstein at a Parisian bar in 1904 was written by comedian Steve Martin.
In fact, at times, the dialog sounded far more 1993 (when it was written) than 1904 when it was set.
References to girls being no good at science and "Men want, women are wanted" had a contemporary ring to them, although the science comment elicited loud groans from the crowd.
Picasso: But I appreciate women. I draw them, don't I?
Suzanne: Well, that's because we're so goddamn beautiful, isn't it?
Like Martin's comedy, the play was full of wordplay and one liners, like when a girl is explaining how she couldn't say no to sleeping with Picasso.
"The word became as unpronounceable as a Polish town." But then how many girls did say no to an advance by Picasso?
Adam Mincks played Einstein and I always enjoy watching him perform because his timing and delivery are typically spot-on.
After coming out looking very circumspect, one of his best moments came when he let loose his long curly hair to look more like the popular culture image of Einstein.
Picasso and Matisse's art dealer was played by understudy Elise Boyd tonight and she brought great presence and humor to the Gertrude Stein-like role.
The play was short, but the dialog flew fast and furious and there was almost always something to laugh at.
My friend and I agreed that Sycamore Rouge, although cooler than we would have liked on such a cold night, was very much to our liking.
Sitting at tables with tablecloths and candles (and a nearby bar) made it feel like a night at a club in another era.
Walking outside afterwards, though, by an adjacent movie set and the attendant bright lights brought us right back to the 21st century.
So rather than settle for a bar with patrons not likely to offer up the likes of Picasso and Einstein, we went back to her place and drank our wine there.
We may not have had the philosophical arguments those men did about art versus science (since we already knew it takes both to make the world go round) but I think we pretty much cleared up that whole "men want, women are wanted" business.
It's as simple as Einstein's theory of relativity, really.
Women are wanted and women want.
Fact, not theory.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Amuse & "Art" If It Makes You Happy, You Can Afford It
If it weren't for all the entertaining of the bar crowd that I do, the staff of Amuse would no doubt be sick of me by now.
But if I'm going to a play at the museum at 8:00, the fact is I'm going to park once and party twice and that means drinks and dinner at Amuse.
Only one bar stool stood empty when I arrived. We call that kismet.
Since not everyone takes up residence at the bar, I had a rotating cast of people with whom I could converse, making for a lively evening before heading downstairs to the theater.
My sparkling rose arrived almost unbidden, but I declined a dinner menu for the time being.
I soon had the pleasure of one of the curator's company while he waited for his dining companions, but I had to work for it..
Ignoring the empty stool beside me, he stood at the end of the bar, necessitating me asking him, "What's wrong with sitting next to me?"
Bartender Stephen kindly gave me a reference, saying, "You're not going to get better conversation anywhere else."
Thus vetted, he was willing to give me a shot and sat down next to me.
It's hard to do better than a curator for company when you're at a museum.
After an enjoyable talk, I lost him to his tardy friends.
I met a charming couple from Alexandria, visiting for the day (she was a teacher on spring break) to see Picasso.
Learning I was a DC native, they asked me all kinds of questions about Richmond and what to do on their next trip down.
Being the unabashed supporter of our fair city that I am, I gushed to the point that they asked if I worked for the tourism board.
And then I sent them on their way insisting they take Monument Avenue out so they'd have one last scenic view before it got dark and they had to hit soul-sucking I-95.
They thanked me profusely.
They were soon replaced by another even younger couple who reluctantly admitted that they had just seen the Picasso show despite living a mere five blocks from the museum.
Hey, it's not for me to judge.
They are three weeks from their wedding day, so their excuse was that they hadn't been getting out much due to wedding responsibilities.
Tonight was their big date night out and they were reveling in it.
When they discovered where I live, they wanted the scoop on First Fridays and I gave them both the larger and smaller picture; they were practically taking notes.
"We'll look for you!" they said.
I didn't have the heart to explain the folly of that.
Although I'd heartily recommended the mussels and Sausagecraft sausage in garlic butter to both couples (who raved about them and thanked me), I couldn't let Stephen tease me for ordering them yet again.
I more than made do with the grilled asparagus with garlic and Pecorino in olive oil, followed by the seared rare Ahi tuna over sticky rice with a coconut green curry dressing and fried ginger.
My friends followed suit by getting the tuna once they saw mine and heard me raving.
All of a sudden it was 7:55, so I hightailed it down three flights to the Leslie Cheek Theater.
I was excited because this run of Yasmina Reza's "Art" is the first production at the theater in eight years.
And it was a joint effort of Richmond Shakespeare and Sycamore Rouge, making for double the talent.
I'd seen many plays at Theater Virginia back before it had been closed down prior to the VMFA renovation.
An all-black cast production of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" remains a favorite to this day.
The Tony-award winning play about art, friendship and philosophy was great fun.
It centered on three friends, one of whom had spent 200,000 francs on a white on white painting ("Can you see the lines?" the purchaser asks his friend), much to the consternation of his long-time buddy, whom he accused of "running down modernism."
The third friend is far more accepting ("If it makes him happy, he can afford it") but becomes the target of barbs from the other two for trying to quell their disagreements about the painting.
But it wasn't as much about the painting as it was about the friendship and eventually the one admits to the other, "The older I get, the more offensive I hope to become."
Not me.
How can I expect curators and visitors to sit next to me that way?
But if I'm going to a play at the museum at 8:00, the fact is I'm going to park once and party twice and that means drinks and dinner at Amuse.
Only one bar stool stood empty when I arrived. We call that kismet.
Since not everyone takes up residence at the bar, I had a rotating cast of people with whom I could converse, making for a lively evening before heading downstairs to the theater.
My sparkling rose arrived almost unbidden, but I declined a dinner menu for the time being.
I soon had the pleasure of one of the curator's company while he waited for his dining companions, but I had to work for it..
Ignoring the empty stool beside me, he stood at the end of the bar, necessitating me asking him, "What's wrong with sitting next to me?"
Bartender Stephen kindly gave me a reference, saying, "You're not going to get better conversation anywhere else."
Thus vetted, he was willing to give me a shot and sat down next to me.
It's hard to do better than a curator for company when you're at a museum.
After an enjoyable talk, I lost him to his tardy friends.
I met a charming couple from Alexandria, visiting for the day (she was a teacher on spring break) to see Picasso.
Learning I was a DC native, they asked me all kinds of questions about Richmond and what to do on their next trip down.
Being the unabashed supporter of our fair city that I am, I gushed to the point that they asked if I worked for the tourism board.
And then I sent them on their way insisting they take Monument Avenue out so they'd have one last scenic view before it got dark and they had to hit soul-sucking I-95.
They thanked me profusely.
They were soon replaced by another even younger couple who reluctantly admitted that they had just seen the Picasso show despite living a mere five blocks from the museum.
Hey, it's not for me to judge.
They are three weeks from their wedding day, so their excuse was that they hadn't been getting out much due to wedding responsibilities.
Tonight was their big date night out and they were reveling in it.
When they discovered where I live, they wanted the scoop on First Fridays and I gave them both the larger and smaller picture; they were practically taking notes.
"We'll look for you!" they said.
I didn't have the heart to explain the folly of that.
Although I'd heartily recommended the mussels and Sausagecraft sausage in garlic butter to both couples (who raved about them and thanked me), I couldn't let Stephen tease me for ordering them yet again.
I more than made do with the grilled asparagus with garlic and Pecorino in olive oil, followed by the seared rare Ahi tuna over sticky rice with a coconut green curry dressing and fried ginger.
My friends followed suit by getting the tuna once they saw mine and heard me raving.
All of a sudden it was 7:55, so I hightailed it down three flights to the Leslie Cheek Theater.
I was excited because this run of Yasmina Reza's "Art" is the first production at the theater in eight years.
And it was a joint effort of Richmond Shakespeare and Sycamore Rouge, making for double the talent.
I'd seen many plays at Theater Virginia back before it had been closed down prior to the VMFA renovation.
An all-black cast production of "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" remains a favorite to this day.
The Tony-award winning play about art, friendship and philosophy was great fun.
It centered on three friends, one of whom had spent 200,000 francs on a white on white painting ("Can you see the lines?" the purchaser asks his friend), much to the consternation of his long-time buddy, whom he accused of "running down modernism."
The third friend is far more accepting ("If it makes him happy, he can afford it") but becomes the target of barbs from the other two for trying to quell their disagreements about the painting.
But it wasn't as much about the painting as it was about the friendship and eventually the one admits to the other, "The older I get, the more offensive I hope to become."
Not me.
How can I expect curators and visitors to sit next to me that way?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
