Theater of the Field

It feels like summer is slipping away.

I figure tonight's outdoor movie may the last of the season. After last night's 3 a.m. bedtime, I thought I'd take a quick nap before the film, only to wake up at 7:15 to fading daylight. Given the cooler temperature, I made sure to bring a sweater to the movie. Say it isn't so, summer.

I stopped by Tarrant's to-go on my way to Tredegar, in need of some fried chicken for a movie snack and wound up running into the new bride of a favorite bartender. We lamented August's rush to September and how we still want more time at the beach and river.

From last month's Starry Night Cinema Lawn Chair Series I'd learned that I didn't need to tote along my lawn chair and instead took one of the folding chairs set up in the grassy field above the iron works to enjoy my chicken dinner and the lights of downtown.

Last time, it was after 9 before it was dark enough to begin the film but not so tonight (sniff), I'm afraid. I'd barely wiped the grease off my fingers when the documentary "Evolution of a Criminal" was introduced.

I've been an avowed documentary dork for longer than I can remember, but I've never seen a documentary where the filmmaker (Darius Clark Monroe) is also the subject of the film. It can be a tad disconcerting to watch as subjects in the film answer Monroe's questions about his youthful bad behavior directly to him.

And what bad behavior! By age 16, his parents are in such dire financial straits that the teenager decides to get a couple friends to help him rob a bank to help his family's situation. Only a teenager could decide on such a foolish plan and not see the million red flags waving.

So of course they're eventually caught and Monroe is sentenced to five years in jail at age 17. It's tragic, but it's only right. The kid did rob a band, terrorizing customers with a gun and leaving with $140,000.

Interviewing his parents, grandmother, cousins, schoolmates and teachers, he asks the hard questions about who he was and if they ever expected such behavior out of him (no one had). One aunt admits that six people in their extended family have been to jail, so maybe it's in the kid's blood.

Still, it's unnerving to have a subject talk to the camera using the pronoun "you" as they share their memories with Monroe. When he talks about his time in prison, he says it's the mundane stuff he misses: washing dishes, taking out trash, smiling at his parents. It's intensely moving stuff.

But the best part of the story is that he gets his GED while in prison and when he gets out, he applies to NYU, having decided he wants to be a filmmaker and tell his story. For the record, he does not mention his prior convict status when he applies to the school.

Later he interviews some of his film professors, asking if they'd have treated him differently if they'd known. Sadly, they say the answer is probably, yes. The white, Texan district attorney who prosecuted him says she's happy he's turned his life around for now, but she won't believe it's true until he's 50 and still out of trouble. Ouch. Talk about racial profiling.

Call me gullible, but I saw a straight A kid who took honors classes and was psychologically affected by his family's poverty, making a stupid uninformed decision to "fix" the situation at a point in his young life when he wasn't capable of making truly thoughtful choices. After tonight, I also saw a gifted filmmaker, one I'm curious to see develop other stories beyond his own cautionary tale.

Afrikana Film Festival had chosen another outstanding offering by a black filmmaker, one I wouldn't have seen if they hadn't brought it to town.

Part of the charm of an outdoor movie is not being hemmed in by four walls while watching. Midway through tonight's film, fireworks began exploding over near Oregon Hill. A long freight train chugged along the river, its screeching competing with the movie's soundtrack. Someone sent four lit sky lanterns burning orange and sparkly soaring into the black sky.

Walking back to my car, I saw people walking along the riverfront under a clear sky and a yellow wedge of a moon. Realizing that nights this lovely are to be enjoyed while we still can, I joined them.

Gather ye summer nights while ye may. Color me wistful to see another warm season on its way out.

Keepin' It Fresh

Summer's in full swing with my second outdoor movie of the week.

Richmond may not have a drive-in, but that doesn't stop outdoor movie lovers from pining for cinema under the stars. Tonight's showing was courtesy of the Afrikana Film Fest and marked the premiere of their new Starry Nite Cinema lawn chair series. Count me in.

Even better, they were screening "Fresh Dressed," which I'd read a review of in the Washington Post almost a month ago but was certain would never play RVA. And, technically, it didn't, since no local theaters booked it.

I know, I know, you're scratching your head wondering why in the world a middle-aged white woman was interested in a film chronicling the complex relationship between fashion and hip-hop. Simple: I'm a documentary dork and I find fashion history fascinating (I just saw "Iris" just last month).

The screening was being hosted on the hill behind Tredegar Iron Works, a great location given that it boasted free parking in their lot and a fine view of the downtown skyline - first in the glow of the sunset and then lit up within - and a narrow peek at the Manchester Bridge high up between two of Tredegar's buildings.

Although I'd brought a chair, I arrived early enough to score a seat in the second row of plastic folding chairs set up in front of the screen.

Off to the left were heart balloons, which indicated the area where Speed Dating RVA was set up beforehand for those "who have a blanket but no boo." Tempted as I was (and I was very, very tempted...for journalistic reasons, of course), I had elected not to sign up.

The film laid out its premise from the opening scenes: being "fresh" meant more than having money to black culture. Even if you didn't have money (or a nice house or a car), you could dress stylishly.

It was an expression of aspiration.

Like all good documentaries, this one had plenty of archival footage, in this case dating back to the '70s and '80s, but the history lesson actually began in slave times when masters ensured that their slaves had Sunday clothes for church.

Explaining that black culture had a unique approach to fashion, they looked at the music's fashions from gospel to jazz to R & B to hip hop, using Little Richard's colorful wardrobe as a particularly strong example of wardrobe demonstrating freedom (to dress like a black Liberace, in this case).

The film traced street fashion's beginnings to the gangs in the Bronx in the '70s through the B boys of the '80s and the glut of hip hop artists with their own clothing lines by the '90s.

Urban boutique owner Dapper Dan, an institution apparently, explains how he started making Louis Vuitton hats and shoes to "blackenize" them, to make them look good on blacks. He says that for 8 years, his shop was open 24 hours a day with occasional 3-hour closings to nap.

I gotta say, this was one of the most educational documentaries I've seen. The bright colors that defined the fashions? Ripped from graffiti artists. The crux of hip hop fashion? You build your outfit off your shoes.

How did Tommy Hilfiger get so popular on the streets? Took his clothes to the hood and passed them out for free. Like a drug dealer, he hooked the kids on the style and then they had to keep buying more.

The film had a terrific sense of humor, putting up definitions for street terms the audience might not know. Urban customer: (noun): scary black or Latino person who wants to spend money.

For those of a certain age, it was also nostalgic, since every decade's urban style represented something I recalled seeing at the time, if only on "In Living Color."

Fully engaged in the movie, it was a shock when the screen suddenly went blank with less than 15 minutes to the end. After a short intermission, the film picked up where it left off, explaining how rappers now aspire to runway fashion over streetwear. Still aspirational, just to a different aesthetic.

Afterwards, I chatted about the documentary with one of the three people - two of whom were jazz guitarists - I'd seen tonight and knew. He recalled what a big deal his first pair of Ecko jeans had been to him in middle school in the '90s.

Can't say I could relate, except to our mutual agreement that it had been a perfect evening for a fashion lesson under the stars...even without a boo for my blanket.

Pipes and Pipelines

Why did it take me so long to break out of my same-old, same-old walking route?

Since it was 55 degrees when I got up today, it only seemed appropriate to head down to the river.

But instead of the route I'd taken Monday to do the same, this time I went down Belvidere to Byrd where I spotted a path alongside the Ethyl headquarters on the hill.

Sure, there was a gate blocking the path, but I also saw a young woman and her dog strolling down there, so at least I'd have company if we got hauled in for trespassing.

As I passed her, she greeted me and gave me a warning. "Be careful further on because my dog went off on the grass and the ground was hollow under him, so he started falling in. Stay on the path."

Will do, I assured her.

I followed it down to the back of Tredegar, unsure where I'd be able to cut back to the sidewalk, and just as I spotted an open gate, I heard bagpipes.

Now that was something I wasn't expecting but what could be lovelier than hearing that distinctive sound carried up on a river breeze?

I followed the music down Fifth Street, crossing the new pedestrian bridge to Brown's Island, which, I learned from reading a sign, now has free wi-fi.

After all, the river and scenery couldn't possibly be interesting enough to occupy visitors to the island, she said, tongue firmly in cheek.

After watching the guy play bagpipes for a while, I turned to cross the island, having just decided I would walk the pipeline trail.

Midway across, I saw a familiar face and then a couple more, all of them out of context.

My music world and my walking world were colliding right there at the riverfront.

It was the prettiest part of the Speckled Bird, Antonia, along with her music-loving parental units and her own progeny, baby Casimir, looking handsome and happy to be out on a beautiful morning.

We discussed the unlikeliness of hearing a bagpiper on our respective walks, but as she, an accordion player, noted, you can't practice bagpipes just anywhere.

I said what had surprised me was that he'd brought them down here on a bike, a risky endeavor I would think given how expensive they are and the possibility, however remote, of a spill.

But when the muse calls...

They were headed off the island as was I, but in opposite directions so I continued on to pick up the path through the woods, finding one section had been toilet-papered for some inconceivable reason, to get to the trail.

There are so many pleasures to walking the pipeline, from the balancing act of walking the uneven cement-covered section to seeing the huge flock of geese sunning on the rocks to the powerful sound of rushing water over falls and rocks.

Sadly, a glance up at the building fronting the river there (Vistas on the James maybe?) revealed not a single window open to that beautiful sound.

If I lived within hearing range of water in motion, you'd better believe I'd have my window open on a 55-degree day.

Of course, there's also a chance that the windows don't open and if that's the case, that's just tragic. Why live on the river if you can't hear or smell it through an open window?

Making a U-turn at the end of the pipeline, I went back the way I'd come and found the bagpiper packing up and mounting his bike.

I'd have liked to have heard more, but since I hadn't expected music at all, I felt fortunate to have heard any.

So many rewards for getting off my own beaten path.

Loving My Enemy Tonight

"If you're here, that means this is the best thing going on right now," the handsome bass player Matt told me when I arrived at the Camel.

Actually, there were two outstanding things going on at that moment (9:00) but I'd already taken in the first.

InLight had a different feel this year by virtue of being held in a central location rather than a streetscape; it seemed to make for more interaction among the attendees.

The first pieces I saw were lit boxes with cut-outs, including one that resembled a large creature.

Walking away from it, a guy came up behind me and said, "They stole that idea from Disney World. They have the same thing there but bigger. I just went there last month and saw it."

And here I just saw it for a whimsical and creative sea monster rather than stolen intellectual property.

Passing the lantern parade, I stopped in front of the RVA Dance Collective, who were doing a piece that ended with a scream.

"Well, that was interesting," a woman said sarcastically, rolling her eyes as she walked away.

Actually, it was. The sudden movements of the dancers, the still figures, all of it made for a visual treat that she clearly wasn't appreciating.

The interpretations using light were myriad. One showed lines of a Samuel Beckett poem and another just the face of a diva singing.

Since the aria was in Italian, it was all about the emotion in her face, which given her beauty and strength of voice, was considerable.

"Next! You can only look at that for so long," declared the man beside me to his friends leading them away after about five seconds of watching her sing.

It made me a little sad.

There was a lot more video this year, it seemed to me, focusing on things as disparate as "Recollections of Tredegar" to graffiti images from Broad Street and Fulton Hill.

Probably my favorite was a cloth-covered house with different video projections on the walls and roof.

Best of all, after you walked around to see all the various images, you could go inside it.

Standing inside with two guys sitting in the chairs there, I watched the shadows of kids dancing and frolicking outside against a video projection of a raging fire.

Flame images leaped up around their outstretched arms and bouncing forms.

The juxtaposition was fascinating, an unexpected moment that could not have been anticipated but captured the essence of InLight: people interacting with light.

To get to follow such a unique experience with great music was just a lucky break.

No two ways about it, I was excited to be seeing the Rosebuds again.

I'd first seen them back in early 2008 when they opened for British Seapower at the Satellite Ballroom in Charlottesville and again this summer at the National when they opened for Bon Iver.

And as much as I'd enjoyed them those times, seeing them in a small room like the Camel as the headliner was a guaranteed good time.

In yet another world-shaking moment, the show started on time, so many people missed White Laces' acoustic set.

Leader Landis admitted that they weren't used to playing acoustic and were going to make it a short set.

It was too bad because they played well and I would have liked for the crowd to have shut up, the better to hear them.

They did two covers ("This is the second song tonight we didn't write and that's disgusting," Landis said) in the five song-set.

Every time I hear these guys, their sound is slightly different and every time I like it.

Prabir and the Goldrush were up at bat next and I'm happy to report that Matt's bass was high enough in the mix to hear, not always the case, but a pleasure when it happens.

Why have an instrument that big if you can't hear it if you're in the audience?

It took forever to get the sound worked out for the Rosebuds, but the eager crowd waited without complaining.

It was the last night of their tour and they were happy to be playing to a small, enthusiastic crowd who obligingly sang along every time they were asked.

"F**k it, this is a dance song,"  lead singer Ivan said introducing "Get Up, Get Out" and you'd better believe people danced.

For that matter, the crowd went wild for the dancey "Woods" (coincidentally, full of light imagery) especially the two middle aged couples right in front of me.

They were definitely getting down with their bad selves.

My long-time concert buddy Andrew walked up to me, looked down, grinned and shook his head.

This has happened to us a time or two before; we attract the unexpected dancers and then sit back and watch.

I suppose if we had rhythm, we'd be dancing as uninhibitedly as they do.

A musician friend mentioned how poppy the Rosebuds are, unclear as to how they were considered indie when their sound could potentially suit the mainstream.

As if pop and indie are mutually exclusive. But to each his own.

In his defense, he had just come from a Dead Kennedys cover band rehearsal, so the transition may have been a bit tough.

Not so the transition from InLight to the Rosebuds.

Two superlatives in one night. It couldn't have been easier...or more satisfying.