Making "The Taming of the Shrew" relevant for 21st century audiences is challenging and therein lies the rub.
I have seen the play produced every which way: set in the wild, wild west at an outdoor stage framing Roanoke Sound; set on a 1930s Hollywood movie set at a toney West End school; and as a staged reading where Petruchio lost his place in his script, causing Katarina to shrewishly shout, "Page 42!"
And while I have been a devoted audience member for gender-reversed stagings of many of the Bard's best - Much Ado About Nothing, Twelfth Night, Hamlet, Midsummer Night's Dream and even Coriolanus - I had never seen a Shakespeare play done by an all-female cast. Until tonight.
Hallelujah and pass the estrogen.
With so much talent and so many girl parts on stage, it felt like a fitting production to follow the women's soccer team's world triumph. 2019, the year of girl power continues. Knowing that men had originally played all the women's parts in Shakespeare's time made it all the sweeter.
Foto Boy and I began the evening in the front tiki booth at My Noodle & Bar for dinner, scarfing my broccoli and chicken entree and his green curry tofu while he tried to cool down after a hot day spent holding a yard sale. Our server couldn't refill the blue water bottle on our table often enough.
Anticipating a sweaty evening at an outdoor stage - and because this wasn't my first Agecroft rodeo - I'd brought along fans for us both. For myself, I'd chosen a fan that doubled as a program from a 2013 Sycamore Rouge production of "Twelfth Night" in Petersburg. When I saw that the director of that production is now the artistic director of Quill and tonight's production manager and that the actress who'd played Viola would play tonight's Petruchio, it seemed like an inspired choice.
You can be sure I showed it to both of them before the night was over.
We found seats in the second row, only to wind up behind the three tallest people in attendance. When I told the guy in front of me that he won for best shirt - brown with leopard markings and bees embroidered on the front - he said I got the best lipstick award. Sharing that it's called Violetini, his response was, "Hello, Violetini."
Best summation of what we were about to see: "I know it's a problem play, but it can't be misogynistic with an all women cast, right?" Um, we'll see?
The show began, appropriately enough, with songs of female empowerment - "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar," "You Don't Own Me" and "I'm Just a Girl" - sung by the cast and accompanied by guitar, ukulele, kazoo and random compliments like, "You're so beautiful you could be an air hostess in the '60s."
Use thoughts and wits to win her
We were just getting into the set-up of the story, so it was well after Baptista tells his daughter Bianca's multiple suitors that she will not be married off until her shrewish sister Katarina gets hitched, yet not long past when Petruchio arrives looking "happily to wive and thrive as best I may" that there was a shout behind us because a woman in the audience had fainted.
All eyes turned to see.
After she came to in her seat, a cluster of doctors who just happened to be out for a night of Shakespeare, began gathering around her, suggesting she lay down on the ground for a bit. Eventually she stood and her date led her across the now-empty stage toward the building.
House manager Noah took to the stage, saying, "So, everybody hydrate! We'll resume in just a minute. Just ignore that ambulance out there. It's definitely not the first time this has happened."
Ah, the hazards of Shakespeare outdoors in July.
Waiting for the play to resume, the tall trio in front of us shared that the fainting was all their fault. Seems whenever they go out together, bad things happen to others. Sometimes it's minor, like somebody vomiting nearby and other times, like when they were at a restaurant for Cinqo de Mayo, somebody committed suicide by jumping off the balcony.
Foto Boy and I inched our chairs back away from these Typhoid Marys and hoped for the best.
When the play started up again, the brilliantly comedic Maggie Bavolack playing the aged Gremio observed, "I had forgotten my line anyway!" before taking up the script exactly where she'd left off. Not long after, as a small plane flew overhead, she improvised, "Hark! There's a plane!" and cracked up the entire audience. Like the talented comedienne she is, she waited for the laughs to die down before saying, "Hark! This gentleman is happily arrived" and then posing, hands under chin with a big smile.
I know she is an irksome, brawling scold
Bianca Bryan was masterful as Petruchio, denying his bride Kate her creature comforts (food, sleep, clean clothing), but also hilarious, as when she showed up for their wedding wearing dirty pants with "Kiss me, Kate" embroidered on the back pockets.
For I am rough and woo not like a babe
During intermission, bottles of water were handed out for free and after claiming ours and pouring their contents into the large water bottles we'd brought, we strolled over to the stone patio to admire the waxing moon ahead of Tuesday's full moon.
Overheard on the way back to our seats: "You didn't tell me I needed to see movie before I came tonight!" to which her friend explained that "Kiss Me, Kate" was based on "Taming," not the other way around. I suppose reading it - even a synopsis - never occurred to the angry first-timer.
Act II began with the cast singing Adele's "Hello" followed by "Why Do Fools Fall in Love?" and "Tell Me Do You Love Me, Too?" and an extended kazoo solo by the actress playing Bianca. Petruchio and Kate then took the stage so he could serenade her with the greatest stalker song of all time, the Police's "Every Breath You Take" while she grimaced at the lyrics.
I'm with you, girl, that is so not a love song. Creepy, that's what it is.
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich
Throughout the hot, sticky evening, Foto Boy and I marveled at the actors running, jumping and stage fighting in layers of heavy men's clothing while we sweated in our minimal summer garb.
Director Chelsea Burke kept the thirteen talented women busy moving the story along with only a few of the actors being difficult to hear. Allison Paige Gilman shone as the small but mighty Tranio, her sense of comedic timing impressive, her face wildly expressive and her physicality fun to watch. Desiree Dabney turned the Hortensio role into something special with her asides and noises of upset and displeasure. Easily one of the best at nailing the Bard's cadences and projecting her voice to the fainting seats was Meg Carnahan as Biondello.
But truly, everyone shone (and not just from perspiration) and you could tell how much fun they were having with this all-female cast doing such a dated, chauvinistic play. Besides, I always tell myself that while Katarina appears to have been subdued, when they're alone she calls all the shots and Petruchio does her bidding willingly.
But that's just my take so I can enjoy it without feminist guilt.
Because of the delay - where's a fainting couch when you need one? - by the time we left Agecroft, it was time to head directly to the Basement for the piano bar known as the Ghost Light afterparty, which was in full swing when we walked in.
There were cast members from "Dance Nation" already with beverages in hand and soon some of the "Taming" cast showed up, along with theater types and lovers from all over town.
As host Matt (also part of that 2013 cast on my fan from Sycamore Rouge) proclaimed in between songs, "Through musical theater, we can do all things!" Evenings like this are proof of that, no?
We found room to stand at a table near the back with a great view and fine acoustics for songs sung by anyone who cared to get up there. Song choices always vary widely and yet still hue to millennial favorites with a surprise or two thrown in, a fact I know from all my years attending these after parties.
There's "Seasons of Love" from "Rent, a perennial singalong favorite with this crowd, but also "A Whole New World" because of the crowd's childhood nostalgia. A song from "The Fantasticks" because it's currently in production at the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen. Tonight we got a couple of unlikely choices: Radiohead's "Creep" and Elvis' "Blue Christmas."
When Foto Boy wondered aloud about the odder selections, I explained that there's no rhyme or reason to what you hear at Ghost Light. You come for the buzzy vibe, fabulous voices and to see what craziness might happen over the course of the evening.
Why, indeed. As the Bard so wisely put it, "Sit by my side and let the world slip; we shall never be younger." It's really that simple.
Truth be told, after a night at Agecroft, the air conditioning doesn't hurt either.
Showing posts with label Agecroft. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Agecroft. Show all posts
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Sunday, July 22, 2018
Running into Strange Capers
All the world may be a stage, but when Mother Nature wants to assert herself, it's all the players and audience who get wet.
After many rainy afternoon hours, the sky finally cleared a bit or at least enough to hope that Quill Theatre would be able to stage tonight's installment of the 20th Annual Richmond Shakespeare Festival so we could see "As You Like It" at Agecroft. If nothing else, we were guaranteed that the extensive gardens and grounds surrounding the old Tudor mansion would would have had a good soaking, making them completely inhospitable to dining al fresco.
Which is a shame because picnicking is always part of the festival's charm.
Cut to Plan B, which involved the same picnic goodies spread out on a blanket on my living room floor. Two benefits to the indoor picnic? Drinking our Rose out of glass instead of plastic and being able to cue up "Music for Dining" on the turntable. Because nothing says impromptu indoor supper quite like a 1954 record by British orchestra the Melachrino Strings.
Only once the album and meal were finished did we venture to Agecroft, hoping all the while that the show would go on. Shakespeare lovers were already heading into the courtyard while we claimed our programs at the box office and found seats in the second row in time for the audience selfie.
What care I for words? Yet words do well when he that speaks them pleases those who hear.
Unlike so many overly warm nights watching Shakespeare at Agecroft, the rain had left behind cool air and high hopes we could make it through the love antics of the Forest of Arden crew before Mother Nature returned to her wet ways.
But then we're optimists like that.
My affection has an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal
Did someone say Portugal? The first act passed in a flurry of love, cross-dressing and, yes, a wrestling match, as the Shakespeare fan next to me and I couldn't help but laugh out loud at the enthusiastic wooing and new relationship foibles on full display in front of us.
No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy.
The cast wasn't just strong, they were also embracing the spirit of the pastoral play with much scampering, confusion and poetry writing. The reliably brilliant Luke Schares had kicked the evening off by taking introduction duties, but followed that with his hilariously melancholy take on the exiled duke's buddy, Jaques. Rebecca Turner's Rosalind was particularly fetching as her male alter-ego Ganymede and truly, what woman wouldn't enjoy a turn coaching her beloved in how best to woo her?
Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
It was my date's first time not only seeing "As You Like It," but also seeing the indefatigable John Mincks pull off his distinctive brand of comedic delivery (biting off his consonants and enthusiastically spitting out his retorts) and superb physicality in the role of the jester, while Nicole Morris-Anastasi nerdily nailed Phoebe's lovesick passion with the skill of a natural comedian.
Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.
During intermission, the man sitting next to me came back from a bathroom break looking like he'd seen a ghost. What he'd actually seen was a mummified cat in one of the walls and it had so unnerved him that he was sharing the details with us so he didn't have to deal with it alone. And he didn't just tell us, he proceed to Google it so he could know there and then the cat's story, and regale us with more information than we ever needed to know about Britain's long history of dead cats in house walls.
When we finally started looking pained at his in-depth dead cat rantings, he then pulled up the audience selfie from earlier and pointed out how we'd at least made ourselves notable in the photo while he and his wife sat there like bumps on a log. All I know is, you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family...or your seatmates.
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
As satisfying as the second act's shenanigans are, they were immeasurably aided and abetted by the fine rain that began falling not long after it began and kept up until the bows. Not anything heavy or obnoxious, but a delicate precipitation that left droplets on the people's hair in front of us and came down in front of the stage lights like a steady snow shower.
Because if you're going to enjoy "As You Like It" on a cool July evening - and especially if it's someone's first time seeing it performed live - there could be no more magical way to see it than in a soft, summer rain. Worm weather.
Take it from a woman who doesn't hesitate to speak what she thinks, all the more so when it pleases he who hears it.
And everyone knows she thinks a lot. Just not about dead cats in the wall.
After many rainy afternoon hours, the sky finally cleared a bit or at least enough to hope that Quill Theatre would be able to stage tonight's installment of the 20th Annual Richmond Shakespeare Festival so we could see "As You Like It" at Agecroft. If nothing else, we were guaranteed that the extensive gardens and grounds surrounding the old Tudor mansion would would have had a good soaking, making them completely inhospitable to dining al fresco.
Which is a shame because picnicking is always part of the festival's charm.
Cut to Plan B, which involved the same picnic goodies spread out on a blanket on my living room floor. Two benefits to the indoor picnic? Drinking our Rose out of glass instead of plastic and being able to cue up "Music for Dining" on the turntable. Because nothing says impromptu indoor supper quite like a 1954 record by British orchestra the Melachrino Strings.
Only once the album and meal were finished did we venture to Agecroft, hoping all the while that the show would go on. Shakespeare lovers were already heading into the courtyard while we claimed our programs at the box office and found seats in the second row in time for the audience selfie.
What care I for words? Yet words do well when he that speaks them pleases those who hear.
Unlike so many overly warm nights watching Shakespeare at Agecroft, the rain had left behind cool air and high hopes we could make it through the love antics of the Forest of Arden crew before Mother Nature returned to her wet ways.
But then we're optimists like that.
My affection has an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal
Did someone say Portugal? The first act passed in a flurry of love, cross-dressing and, yes, a wrestling match, as the Shakespeare fan next to me and I couldn't help but laugh out loud at the enthusiastic wooing and new relationship foibles on full display in front of us.
No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed; no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason; no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy.
The cast wasn't just strong, they were also embracing the spirit of the pastoral play with much scampering, confusion and poetry writing. The reliably brilliant Luke Schares had kicked the evening off by taking introduction duties, but followed that with his hilariously melancholy take on the exiled duke's buddy, Jaques. Rebecca Turner's Rosalind was particularly fetching as her male alter-ego Ganymede and truly, what woman wouldn't enjoy a turn coaching her beloved in how best to woo her?
Men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not for love.
It was my date's first time not only seeing "As You Like It," but also seeing the indefatigable John Mincks pull off his distinctive brand of comedic delivery (biting off his consonants and enthusiastically spitting out his retorts) and superb physicality in the role of the jester, while Nicole Morris-Anastasi nerdily nailed Phoebe's lovesick passion with the skill of a natural comedian.
Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak.
During intermission, the man sitting next to me came back from a bathroom break looking like he'd seen a ghost. What he'd actually seen was a mummified cat in one of the walls and it had so unnerved him that he was sharing the details with us so he didn't have to deal with it alone. And he didn't just tell us, he proceed to Google it so he could know there and then the cat's story, and regale us with more information than we ever needed to know about Britain's long history of dead cats in house walls.
When we finally started looking pained at his in-depth dead cat rantings, he then pulled up the audience selfie from earlier and pointed out how we'd at least made ourselves notable in the photo while he and his wife sat there like bumps on a log. All I know is, you can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family...or your seatmates.
Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?
As satisfying as the second act's shenanigans are, they were immeasurably aided and abetted by the fine rain that began falling not long after it began and kept up until the bows. Not anything heavy or obnoxious, but a delicate precipitation that left droplets on the people's hair in front of us and came down in front of the stage lights like a steady snow shower.
Because if you're going to enjoy "As You Like It" on a cool July evening - and especially if it's someone's first time seeing it performed live - there could be no more magical way to see it than in a soft, summer rain. Worm weather.
Take it from a woman who doesn't hesitate to speak what she thinks, all the more so when it pleases he who hears it.
And everyone knows she thinks a lot. Just not about dead cats in the wall.
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
I Defy You, Stars
Summer may not have officially begun, but its ways and means are well underway.
The bedspread is packed away (the cotton blanket soon to follow), heat naps have become the norm on unbearably sticky afternoons and the 20th annual Richmond Shakespeare Festival is in full swing at Agecroft Hall.
Now, I know that sitting outside in the courtyard of a 500-year old house on a summer night isn't everyone's cup of tea (Pru's complaints run from the humidity to the uncomfortable chairs to the bugs), but for decades, it's been mine.
Don't waste your love on somebody who doesn't value it.
Although my date wasn't technically an Agecroft virgin, it had been enough years since that one long-ago visit (for a party, not a play) to dim its full memory. Right there you know I just have to give him the full experience. Add in the production - "Romeo and Juliet" - and I'm in my element making sure we cover all the bases.
Intermission on the stone terrace, for example. A picnic dinner. The usual.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
We were the first to spread a blanket on the lawn behind the gardens for a picnic with a diminishing view of the James and the bridge. Despite being non-natives, we both extolled the good old days of less verdant trees allowing for wider vistas from the lawn, ending up sounding like old-school Richmonders always assuming the past was better than the present.
Maybe it's something in the humidity.
Did my heart love 'til now?
The costumed young players moved from blanket to blanket, offering up scenes to accompany the al fresco dining going on, and though we never got asked, we had great seats for two scenes from "Taming of the Shrew," a play I inevitably enjoy.
I know, I know, plenty of people take issue with its chauvinistic overtones, but I can overlook that because of Petruchio and Katerina's brilliant dialogue (just as good but without the machismo: Beatrice and Benedick's parrying in "Much Ado About Nothing"). Those two sure can talk.
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
When it came time to go to the courtyard to find seats, the location was left up to me, presumably the pro. Usually I'm a front row kind of a gal, but at Agecroft, that sometimes makes you part of the show.
I got pulled onstage once and told to scream on cue. I did it several times, but I'm no actress. Better we sit in the second row where we lucked out when no one sat in front of our view. More good first-timer vibes.
'Tis an ill cook that can not lick his own fingers.
I have no idea how many times I've seen "Romeo and Juliet," but a stellar production can still wow me every time. Quill's James Ricks had fashioned a teen-aged love story with equal parts sass and heart. And may I just say how utterly refreshing it is to see a Romeo still within reach of his teen-aged years? Tyler Stevens had the face and voice - not to mention all the young man bravado necessary to woo a major crush - to nail Romeo's youthful/testosterone-fueled exuberance.
Educated men are so impressive!
And don't get me started on Todd Patterson's scene-stealing depiction of the swaggering Mercutio. It was as if David Bowie and Mick Jagger had a love child and he channeled his parents to do Shakespeare (and then maybe bed a wench). Loyal, lascivious and oh-so fluid in his movements. a pity since he dies in the first act.
Seek happy nights to happy days.
Eventually the sun went down, the fireflies came out and both the lovers were dead. Everyone left was devastated. I don't know when I've had such a romantic evening.
Oh, wait, yes I do. Never mind me, that's just a fume of sighs...
The bedspread is packed away (the cotton blanket soon to follow), heat naps have become the norm on unbearably sticky afternoons and the 20th annual Richmond Shakespeare Festival is in full swing at Agecroft Hall.
Now, I know that sitting outside in the courtyard of a 500-year old house on a summer night isn't everyone's cup of tea (Pru's complaints run from the humidity to the uncomfortable chairs to the bugs), but for decades, it's been mine.
Don't waste your love on somebody who doesn't value it.
Although my date wasn't technically an Agecroft virgin, it had been enough years since that one long-ago visit (for a party, not a play) to dim its full memory. Right there you know I just have to give him the full experience. Add in the production - "Romeo and Juliet" - and I'm in my element making sure we cover all the bases.
Intermission on the stone terrace, for example. A picnic dinner. The usual.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
We were the first to spread a blanket on the lawn behind the gardens for a picnic with a diminishing view of the James and the bridge. Despite being non-natives, we both extolled the good old days of less verdant trees allowing for wider vistas from the lawn, ending up sounding like old-school Richmonders always assuming the past was better than the present.
Maybe it's something in the humidity.
Did my heart love 'til now?
The costumed young players moved from blanket to blanket, offering up scenes to accompany the al fresco dining going on, and though we never got asked, we had great seats for two scenes from "Taming of the Shrew," a play I inevitably enjoy.
I know, I know, plenty of people take issue with its chauvinistic overtones, but I can overlook that because of Petruchio and Katerina's brilliant dialogue (just as good but without the machismo: Beatrice and Benedick's parrying in "Much Ado About Nothing"). Those two sure can talk.
Under love's heavy burden do I sink.
When it came time to go to the courtyard to find seats, the location was left up to me, presumably the pro. Usually I'm a front row kind of a gal, but at Agecroft, that sometimes makes you part of the show.
I got pulled onstage once and told to scream on cue. I did it several times, but I'm no actress. Better we sit in the second row where we lucked out when no one sat in front of our view. More good first-timer vibes.
'Tis an ill cook that can not lick his own fingers.
I have no idea how many times I've seen "Romeo and Juliet," but a stellar production can still wow me every time. Quill's James Ricks had fashioned a teen-aged love story with equal parts sass and heart. And may I just say how utterly refreshing it is to see a Romeo still within reach of his teen-aged years? Tyler Stevens had the face and voice - not to mention all the young man bravado necessary to woo a major crush - to nail Romeo's youthful/testosterone-fueled exuberance.
Educated men are so impressive!
And don't get me started on Todd Patterson's scene-stealing depiction of the swaggering Mercutio. It was as if David Bowie and Mick Jagger had a love child and he channeled his parents to do Shakespeare (and then maybe bed a wench). Loyal, lascivious and oh-so fluid in his movements. a pity since he dies in the first act.
Seek happy nights to happy days.
Eventually the sun went down, the fireflies came out and both the lovers were dead. Everyone left was devastated. I don't know when I've had such a romantic evening.
Oh, wait, yes I do. Never mind me, that's just a fume of sighs...
Sunday, July 9, 2017
What's Done Can Not Be Undone
Just another summer evening that begins with a fool and ends with a severed head.
If I were going to get technical about it, the day got off to a fine start with a walk to the pipeline where we found a rock, took off our shoes and socks and proceeded to immerse body parts in the river to cool off.
It continued when we walked to Chapel Island along the Low Line, a first for my intrepid walking companion, taking advantage of shade anywhere we could find it. I was surprised to see that part of the island is now fenced off, maybe for the amphitheater construction, but not at all to my liking.
We came back through a completely deserted Capital Square, past the Convention Center, which reeked of cigar smoke, which always reminds me of my Dad's fondness for them when we were young.
Tonight kicked off at Acacia where the front door was open, the crowd was sparse and the wine was Paul Direder Gruner Veltliner. The barkeep informed me of his upcoming plans and the server and I discussed favorite routes for his runs and my walks.
Teasing our palates first with plum gazpacho under creme fraiche and chives was a lovely cool way to commence the meal. Although it made no difference because I knew I'd order it anyway, I inquired about the market fish and when the bartender said it was cobia, my date also jumped on board since he'd never had it.
I try not to judge.
We'd barely finished the soup when two cobias showed up, each sharing the plate with a wickedly good salad of mixed lettuces, the sweetest of heirloom cherry tomatoes, goat cheese and balsamic. Acacia never disappoints withfish anything on their menu.
As if I hadn't already broadened his horizons plenty with plum gazpacho and cobia, I couldn't resist putting a little icing on the cake with chocolate cremeux with, that's right, strawberry fool, that ambrosia-like combination of fruit and heavy cream that makes arteries harden and taste buds orgasm.
That we enjoyed it with glasses of Banyuls (aka fortified grenache and a liquid love letter to chocolate) only ensured the cremeux got the star treatment and that the supposed non-dessert eater matched me spoonful for spoonful.
If I'd wanted him eating out of the palm of my hand, he was there. But I didn't, I wanted spirited company for seeing "Macbeth" at Agecroft and he delivered that and more. I supplied the fans to keep us cool.
We managed front row seats to a sold out show, the better to see the actors spit and sweat and get a close look at the spurting blood. It didn't hit me, but it splattered the woman sitting next to me, a transplanted Texan with ties to the theater world.
And unlike traditional Shakespeare where men played all the roles, male and female, here women played some of the men's roles and vice versa, a refreshing change-up. Why shouldn't a large, bearded man with a bit of a lisp play one of the three witches in palazzo pants?
Since it was not only my date's first time experiencing Agecroft's Tudor majesty, but his first time seeing a play there (ditto the Texan and her husband who said he'd bought the tickets because he was the spontaneous one), so I was just glad that all the usual dazzling elements were in place: sunset, fireflies, small plane flying overhead, frogs croaking and an intermission walk through the gardens with a view of the silver-blue river.
And once Macbeth is finally killed, who wouldn't be impressed to see his severed head brought back onstage and put on a stake, causing blood to spurt for a yard in every direction.
I'd known it wasn't going to be easy topping strawberry fool, but a play that ends like a GWAR show does a pretty terrific job at it.
It only goes to show what can happen under a thunder moon. Or at least some of what happens.
If I were going to get technical about it, the day got off to a fine start with a walk to the pipeline where we found a rock, took off our shoes and socks and proceeded to immerse body parts in the river to cool off.
It continued when we walked to Chapel Island along the Low Line, a first for my intrepid walking companion, taking advantage of shade anywhere we could find it. I was surprised to see that part of the island is now fenced off, maybe for the amphitheater construction, but not at all to my liking.
We came back through a completely deserted Capital Square, past the Convention Center, which reeked of cigar smoke, which always reminds me of my Dad's fondness for them when we were young.
Tonight kicked off at Acacia where the front door was open, the crowd was sparse and the wine was Paul Direder Gruner Veltliner. The barkeep informed me of his upcoming plans and the server and I discussed favorite routes for his runs and my walks.
Teasing our palates first with plum gazpacho under creme fraiche and chives was a lovely cool way to commence the meal. Although it made no difference because I knew I'd order it anyway, I inquired about the market fish and when the bartender said it was cobia, my date also jumped on board since he'd never had it.
I try not to judge.
We'd barely finished the soup when two cobias showed up, each sharing the plate with a wickedly good salad of mixed lettuces, the sweetest of heirloom cherry tomatoes, goat cheese and balsamic. Acacia never disappoints with
As if I hadn't already broadened his horizons plenty with plum gazpacho and cobia, I couldn't resist putting a little icing on the cake with chocolate cremeux with, that's right, strawberry fool, that ambrosia-like combination of fruit and heavy cream that makes arteries harden and taste buds orgasm.
That we enjoyed it with glasses of Banyuls (aka fortified grenache and a liquid love letter to chocolate) only ensured the cremeux got the star treatment and that the supposed non-dessert eater matched me spoonful for spoonful.
If I'd wanted him eating out of the palm of my hand, he was there. But I didn't, I wanted spirited company for seeing "Macbeth" at Agecroft and he delivered that and more. I supplied the fans to keep us cool.
We managed front row seats to a sold out show, the better to see the actors spit and sweat and get a close look at the spurting blood. It didn't hit me, but it splattered the woman sitting next to me, a transplanted Texan with ties to the theater world.
And unlike traditional Shakespeare where men played all the roles, male and female, here women played some of the men's roles and vice versa, a refreshing change-up. Why shouldn't a large, bearded man with a bit of a lisp play one of the three witches in palazzo pants?
Since it was not only my date's first time experiencing Agecroft's Tudor majesty, but his first time seeing a play there (ditto the Texan and her husband who said he'd bought the tickets because he was the spontaneous one), so I was just glad that all the usual dazzling elements were in place: sunset, fireflies, small plane flying overhead, frogs croaking and an intermission walk through the gardens with a view of the silver-blue river.
And once Macbeth is finally killed, who wouldn't be impressed to see his severed head brought back onstage and put on a stake, causing blood to spurt for a yard in every direction.
I'd known it wasn't going to be easy topping strawberry fool, but a play that ends like a GWAR show does a pretty terrific job at it.
It only goes to show what can happen under a thunder moon. Or at least some of what happens.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Sweet Smoke of Rhetoric
All the couples wanted my company today.
The newlyweds invited me to join them for the RVA Clay Studio Tour, a drive-yourself opportunity to visit over 20 studios and houses to ogle more than 100 artists' handiwork.
The Beauty, herself a beginning clay artist, promised that we would not be out all day because her husband Beckham had already set parameters: "There are only so many clay pots you can look at in one day."
He can say that to her.
When I got in their car, she admitted that she was still amazed that Beckham had been willing to come along. "I only came because Karen was coming," he joked, but we both benefited from having company every time she got into discussions of glazes and kilns with another potter.
Our first stop was in Bon Air, in a house the owner said was one of many in the neighborhood designed by a Frank Lloyd Wright apprentice. "They were kit houses brought in on the railroad," he shared.
At a Forest Hill studio housed in a backyard outbuilding, I inquired about a row of wood circles, only to find they were her husband's collection of tree knots, culled from his work in the tree biz.
"You'd be amazed what people think they are," she whispered, raising her eyebrows. Her pots were eye-catching because of the unusual substances - Miracle Grow to make blue and baking soda to create a cloudy white effect - she'd incorporated into her glazes.
We made two more stops somewhere in the Westover/Stratford Hills area, providing glimpses into neighborhoods I didn't really know between admiring pottery and bantering about the shrubs he'd been making lately.
That is, when he's not making orange-iced rosemary cake or goat cheese cheesecake. Beauty found one of the truly great ones when she met Beckham (and vice versa).
The next stop was to be the Depot, but we slid into Assado (Beckham hadn't been there since it was the dark and claustrophobic Empire and he was amazed at what letting in all that light did to the place - he didn't recognize it until I told him what it had been) first for tacos - barbacoa, patas bravas, spicy ginger grilled shrimp, fried green tomato and bacon and finally, fish tacos - and non-clay conversation before they moved on to see more pots and I walked home.
Much as I enjoyed seeing the handiwork of so many talented artists, I also love being with this couple because they're young and in love and it's soul-nourishing to be around.
When I offered him a bite of my shrimp or fish tacos, he demurred, saying, "No, I want to to be able to kiss her later," a reference to her dislike of anything seafood related. Just as I was marveling at how considerate he was being, he relented and had a bite.
Maybe he planned to brush before going in for a kiss. When we parted company, they had more pottery to see and I had walking to do.
The couple who picked me up tonight, Pru and Beau, are at a slightly different relationship stage than the newlyweds, so they don't gush or look at each other with cow eyes. Plus Pru's Mom was along for the ride and who wants to make sex jokes in front of their parent?
Fortunately, we were going to see a play about love, but our first stop was L'Opossum for a dinner that outdid itself.
To get us started were ham and escargot biscuits, chilled vichysoisse with crabmeat and corn, the vegan orgy on Texas Beach (aka papadoms with five vegetable spreads) and French onion dip gratine taken over the top with currant rye bread.
With Shakespeare looming large ahead of us, dinner discussion revolved around language, at one point about how to pronounce "niche." Beau, ever the technology geek, couldn't stop himself from researching it mid-meal, only to learn that both pronunciations - neesh and nich - are acceptable.
Don't get me started on multiple pronunciations based on popular usage. Really, if enough people mispronounce a word, we're going to say the incorrect pronunciation is also valid? Please.
Most interesting thing learned? That niche can also be a verb, a fact that led to extended niche wordplay which Beau tried to shut down (unsuccessfully) multiple times.
More exceptional eats arrived in the form of melt-in-your-mouth grouper over wild rice and greens, crabcakes with so little filler they fell apart into lumps of crab meat, obscene seared Hudson Valley foie gras and - ta da - lobster mac and cheese described on the menu as in a "ridiculously rich white truffle mornay cream sauce."
Ridiculously may be a fine adverb but it does not begin to cover butter-poached lobster. We did a number on it anyway.
Needless to say, dessert was out of the question, but my sweet tooth was unexpectedly satisfied by a final course of salad with pickled leeks and two dressings, a Green Goddess under the mesclun and a tequila sorbet dressing on top. Perfection.
Tonight's entertainment was Quill Theater's "Love's Labour's Lost" (considered the most Shakespearean of Shakespeare's plays) at Agecroft and, for a change, the weather was so perfect, so breezy and un-humid, that we didn't need the fans we'd brought.
Hell, I'd brought my entire fan collection, all six of them, and never required a one.
The mind shall banquet, though the body pine.
The program had informed us that the play was a master class in the use and abuse of language, and if anyone enjoys language abuse and use, it's this crowd. Because it's less often produced, I hadn't seen it since 2002 at Dogwood Dell.
Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but love.
When the play began at 7:30, the half moon perched off to the side lingered over the trees in a soft blue sky and at dusk, frogs began to make their presence known. By the second act, that moon was hanging high over the James, with fireflies and moths looping around the courtyard.
Is she wedded, or no?
To her will, sir.
Just the other day I'd told a girlfriend I was coming to Agecroft for this tonight and proceeded to wax poetic of the sensory pleasures of seeing the actors use the 500-year old building as a set and a prop. "No one's ever explained it to me that ways," she'd marveled. "Now it sounds like something I'd love to do."
Young blood does not obey an old decree.
In one scene tonight, Berowne appears head and shoulders over the top of the stone wall that separates two English cottage gardens (a wall, by the way, that was directly behind our seats) and then slides out of sight. That's the magic of using Agecroft as a prop.
Oh, they have lived long on the alms basket of words.
At one point, the ubiquitous Richmond train whistle moving through the night from somewhere along the river competed with the actors' voices for our attention.
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love.
Dan Cimo killed it as Boyet, the companion to the Princess and her ladies, scheming and plotting to ensure that the womenfolk outwit the men, while Alex Johnson played Berowne as ably in diction as in humor. Not for even a nanosecond out of character as Don Armado, Luke Schares used a hilarious accent, killer timing and an affecting performance to make him my focus anytime he was on stage.
Maggie Bavolack's portrayal of the country wench Jaquenettta, all tight skirt and decolletage, was hilarious, one step removed from that girl in "West Side Story" who proclaims, "I and Velma ain't dumb."
Our wooing does not end like an old play.
I certainly wasn't being wooed tonight, but absent that, watching an old play in a courtyard under the stars after a spectacular meal was pretty wonderful.
And for the record, I remain wedded to my will but willing to bend it for the good of the cause. My goal: for the mind and body to banquet.
Goodness knows the stomach already did.
The newlyweds invited me to join them for the RVA Clay Studio Tour, a drive-yourself opportunity to visit over 20 studios and houses to ogle more than 100 artists' handiwork.
The Beauty, herself a beginning clay artist, promised that we would not be out all day because her husband Beckham had already set parameters: "There are only so many clay pots you can look at in one day."
He can say that to her.
When I got in their car, she admitted that she was still amazed that Beckham had been willing to come along. "I only came because Karen was coming," he joked, but we both benefited from having company every time she got into discussions of glazes and kilns with another potter.
Our first stop was in Bon Air, in a house the owner said was one of many in the neighborhood designed by a Frank Lloyd Wright apprentice. "They were kit houses brought in on the railroad," he shared.
At a Forest Hill studio housed in a backyard outbuilding, I inquired about a row of wood circles, only to find they were her husband's collection of tree knots, culled from his work in the tree biz.
"You'd be amazed what people think they are," she whispered, raising her eyebrows. Her pots were eye-catching because of the unusual substances - Miracle Grow to make blue and baking soda to create a cloudy white effect - she'd incorporated into her glazes.
We made two more stops somewhere in the Westover/Stratford Hills area, providing glimpses into neighborhoods I didn't really know between admiring pottery and bantering about the shrubs he'd been making lately.
That is, when he's not making orange-iced rosemary cake or goat cheese cheesecake. Beauty found one of the truly great ones when she met Beckham (and vice versa).
The next stop was to be the Depot, but we slid into Assado (Beckham hadn't been there since it was the dark and claustrophobic Empire and he was amazed at what letting in all that light did to the place - he didn't recognize it until I told him what it had been) first for tacos - barbacoa, patas bravas, spicy ginger grilled shrimp, fried green tomato and bacon and finally, fish tacos - and non-clay conversation before they moved on to see more pots and I walked home.
Much as I enjoyed seeing the handiwork of so many talented artists, I also love being with this couple because they're young and in love and it's soul-nourishing to be around.
When I offered him a bite of my shrimp or fish tacos, he demurred, saying, "No, I want to to be able to kiss her later," a reference to her dislike of anything seafood related. Just as I was marveling at how considerate he was being, he relented and had a bite.
Maybe he planned to brush before going in for a kiss. When we parted company, they had more pottery to see and I had walking to do.
The couple who picked me up tonight, Pru and Beau, are at a slightly different relationship stage than the newlyweds, so they don't gush or look at each other with cow eyes. Plus Pru's Mom was along for the ride and who wants to make sex jokes in front of their parent?
Fortunately, we were going to see a play about love, but our first stop was L'Opossum for a dinner that outdid itself.
To get us started were ham and escargot biscuits, chilled vichysoisse with crabmeat and corn, the vegan orgy on Texas Beach (aka papadoms with five vegetable spreads) and French onion dip gratine taken over the top with currant rye bread.
With Shakespeare looming large ahead of us, dinner discussion revolved around language, at one point about how to pronounce "niche." Beau, ever the technology geek, couldn't stop himself from researching it mid-meal, only to learn that both pronunciations - neesh and nich - are acceptable.
Don't get me started on multiple pronunciations based on popular usage. Really, if enough people mispronounce a word, we're going to say the incorrect pronunciation is also valid? Please.
Most interesting thing learned? That niche can also be a verb, a fact that led to extended niche wordplay which Beau tried to shut down (unsuccessfully) multiple times.
More exceptional eats arrived in the form of melt-in-your-mouth grouper over wild rice and greens, crabcakes with so little filler they fell apart into lumps of crab meat, obscene seared Hudson Valley foie gras and - ta da - lobster mac and cheese described on the menu as in a "ridiculously rich white truffle mornay cream sauce."
Ridiculously may be a fine adverb but it does not begin to cover butter-poached lobster. We did a number on it anyway.
Needless to say, dessert was out of the question, but my sweet tooth was unexpectedly satisfied by a final course of salad with pickled leeks and two dressings, a Green Goddess under the mesclun and a tequila sorbet dressing on top. Perfection.
Tonight's entertainment was Quill Theater's "Love's Labour's Lost" (considered the most Shakespearean of Shakespeare's plays) at Agecroft and, for a change, the weather was so perfect, so breezy and un-humid, that we didn't need the fans we'd brought.
Hell, I'd brought my entire fan collection, all six of them, and never required a one.
The mind shall banquet, though the body pine.
The program had informed us that the play was a master class in the use and abuse of language, and if anyone enjoys language abuse and use, it's this crowd. Because it's less often produced, I hadn't seen it since 2002 at Dogwood Dell.
Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but love.
When the play began at 7:30, the half moon perched off to the side lingered over the trees in a soft blue sky and at dusk, frogs began to make their presence known. By the second act, that moon was hanging high over the James, with fireflies and moths looping around the courtyard.
Is she wedded, or no?
To her will, sir.
Just the other day I'd told a girlfriend I was coming to Agecroft for this tonight and proceeded to wax poetic of the sensory pleasures of seeing the actors use the 500-year old building as a set and a prop. "No one's ever explained it to me that ways," she'd marveled. "Now it sounds like something I'd love to do."
Young blood does not obey an old decree.
In one scene tonight, Berowne appears head and shoulders over the top of the stone wall that separates two English cottage gardens (a wall, by the way, that was directly behind our seats) and then slides out of sight. That's the magic of using Agecroft as a prop.
Oh, they have lived long on the alms basket of words.
At one point, the ubiquitous Richmond train whistle moving through the night from somewhere along the river competed with the actors' voices for our attention.
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love.
Dan Cimo killed it as Boyet, the companion to the Princess and her ladies, scheming and plotting to ensure that the womenfolk outwit the men, while Alex Johnson played Berowne as ably in diction as in humor. Not for even a nanosecond out of character as Don Armado, Luke Schares used a hilarious accent, killer timing and an affecting performance to make him my focus anytime he was on stage.
Maggie Bavolack's portrayal of the country wench Jaquenettta, all tight skirt and decolletage, was hilarious, one step removed from that girl in "West Side Story" who proclaims, "I and Velma ain't dumb."
Our wooing does not end like an old play.
I certainly wasn't being wooed tonight, but absent that, watching an old play in a courtyard under the stars after a spectacular meal was pretty wonderful.
And for the record, I remain wedded to my will but willing to bend it for the good of the cause. My goal: for the mind and body to banquet.
Goodness knows the stomach already did.
Friday, July 29, 2016
All That Glitters is Not Gold, It's Heat
You know what the problem with tonight was? No eunuchs.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
It's not like dinner at Acacia wasn't fabulous because when isn't dinner at Acacia fabulous?
My chilled cucumber/avocado soup with creme fraiche tasted clean as a cuke and creamy as an avocado. I'd rank my tile fish collar (probably my favorite part of the fish) over summer succotash with curry sauce as the star of the table (and the epitome of the chef's mad skills with seafood), except each of my table mates would probably have made a case for their soft shells, their wahoo and their crab cake.
Sipping a refreshing beverage of Lindera farms strawberry vinegar, honey, mint and soda, I was comfortably cool, but one at our table was feeling a tad flushed (despite her Anton Bauer Zweigelt Rose), hardly an unusual occurrence.
What we needed, she thought, was someone to stand on either side of her at the table with palm frond fans. My suggestion was that they be shirtless, wear harem pants and include peacock feathers in the fans.
"That's what this restaurant is missing! Eunuchs!" she exclaimed, metaphorically smacking her forehead with the realization.
Consider that this was prior to an explanation by another friend of why I shouldn't go more than three days without showering and you have some idea of the scintillating dinner conversation we enjoyed.
Seems her research turned up the rather gruesome sequence of personal deterioration that would ensue sans bathing: the first day, sweat, the second, bacteria and the third, mold.
Growing on one's body, mind you.
I suppose the best news was that because we had theater tickets, we lacked the time for a proper linger over dessert and after-dinner drinks or god knows how much lower the conversation might have degenerated.
It was our take two for Quill Theater's "Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft after being sent home last weekend due to the arrival of thunderstorms. Fortunately, a look at the weather just before leaving home had assured me there was no chance of any rain or storm activity until 9:45.
With any luck, we were hoping the play, which began at 7:30, would be finished by then.
But fish not with this melancholy bait
Of all Shakespeare's plays, "Merchant" is surely one I've seen the least often and probably last as done by this same company when they were called Henley Street. The rarity of productions can undoubtedly be attributed to the play's problematic treatment of Jews, making for an easy analogy with treatment of other religious groups today.
Love is blind
From the opening scenes, the play was strong, in large part due to the uncompromising yet sympathetic portrayal of Shylock, the moneylender, by Matthew Radford Davies, a handsome Shakespeare professor at Mary Baldwin.
I think it's safe to say that his students must leave his tutelage well schooled in the mechanics of total character immersion. Simultaneously, he conveyed the years of persecution he'd endured and the effects of it in his now-merciless need for revenge.
We have friends who practice merriment
Completely compelling as the production was, the sweat factor - at intermission, the heat index still registered at 101 degrees - necessitated fans of the hand-held and battery-powered varieties and copious amounts of water in order to stay alive, forget about comfortable.
Once again, tragically, we were suffering from a lack of eunuchs.
Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
In fact, at intermission, I was questioned on my ability to exist in my un-air-conditioned apartment given the heat dome that's dominated Richmond the past week and a half.
"Does anyone check on you?" one friend inquired. "If you mummified up there, who would find you? Would anyone even know you were gone?" Negative.
Madame, you have bereft me of all words
Probably the most moving moment of the evening happened when Shylock gave his "I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" speech, which took place under a sky being lit up by lightening and which competed with the rumble of a train along the riverfront.
I never knew so young a body with so old a head
Now, here's the kicker.
We got through the trial scene, albeit uncomfortably watching Shylock ridiculed for and then stripped of his faith, money and dignity, before the house manager came out and insisted we go inside Agecroft to stay safe from the impending storm.
The time was, it should be noted, 9:48. Kudos, weather.com.
A straw vote settled the matter for our quartet and we headed directly to the car. Those not acclimated to heat (that would be everyone but me) had long been miserable and had no intention of waiting 15 minutes to determine if the play would be continued.
Besides, all we'd miss would be the so-called happy ending - reunited lovers, unexpected inheritances and ships coming in - and, if I'm honest, while I'd have loved to see the last bit, I was ready for some rain relief, too.
You know, in hopes I won't be mummified tonight. No eunuchs, sadly.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Folly of Word Nerds
Because being on a screened porch strung with fairy lights while a July rain falls just outside is a practically transcendent way to wile away an evening.
That the gentle night also involved mocking, condescension and outright compliments only attests to our unlikely activity: my first foray into the oh-so popular game that's swept the nation.
You read right, last night I was introduced to Cards Against Humanity.
That's right, I killed new age music. How, you ask?
...An ice pick lobotomy.
It wasn't the plan. That had been determined months ago and consisted of dinner and "The Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft. Given the play's talking points about Jewish-ness, I'd chosen Dinamo for its fusion of Jewish and Italian food.
He Who Shall Not Be named (aka Mr. Google Scheduler) had us there before the propeller even began spinning. Naturally, we were the first eager beavers in the place other than staff. Ouch.
Not that I cared once I was sharing octopus salami that looked like paper-thin slices of a jeweled window and tasted like a seaside meal or polishing off my own cold plate of marinated seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and octopus. Keeping it simple, I finished with a Nutella cookie and we left for Agecroft.
We were a well-oiled machine, seated, with new Shakespeare fans in hand when the entire audience was directed inside due to "pool rules." Thunder and lightening were fast approaching and they didn't want any of us good patrons to be electrified, as house manager Noah so quaintly put it.
A brief wait, a decision to go back outside and begin and then the cold, hard facts. The show was called.
So, you see, it wasn't like we didn't try to get some culture before descending into the gutter of sexually offensive and politically incorrect conversation.
It was my first time on the porch since it had been fully tricked out, meaning I couldn't help but admire all the little touches - Wellies by the door, cushioned chairs of various styles, tables with candles and lamps, flowering plants and antique window frames.
The sole male commented that the ledge covered in necessaries - various bug sprays for body and room, aloe if you did get a bite, sunscreens of myriad strengths - was the only jarring note in an otherwise lovely space, but I disagreed. Vehemently.
A screened porch is an outdoor room, but also a utilitarian one. Such a ledge was completely appropriate, in my opinion, because all the assorted sundries you could possibly require while enjoying the porch were readily available. You never had to leave the porch to stay comfortable.
Decorating roundtable finished, we got down to the serious business of cracking each other up.
As a CAH virgin, I immediately was curious about the fact that there were black and white cards. You mean like the races? Setting the tone for the evening, my hostess arched an eyebrow and announced without so much as a chortle, "All cards matter."
Not going to lie, we had all kinds of fun trying to figure out what combination would win the favor of the round's card czar (or, more accurately, czarina, since men were outnumbered 3 to 1), taking into account who leaned toward corny and who always opted for sick or intellectual humor.
A girl's best friend?
...David Bowie flying in on a tiger made of lightening
Brilliant, right? Okay, but so is this one:
A girl's best friend?
...Licking things to claim them as her own
Turns out this game's underlying purpose is encouraging players to inadvertently remember things or share personal history. Now I know I have a friend who's not ashamed to say she's a territorial licker.
Sorry, teacher, I couldn't finish my homework because of...sniffing glue.
"Oh, yea, I remember that," one of the participants says. I wouldn't have pegged her for the glue-sniffing type, but who am I to judge? That said, no one would admit to being "balls deep in a squealin' hog" when that came up as an answer, but the night was still young then.
I soon learned that some black cards came with two blanks, necessitating each of us to choose not one, but two phrases that best completed the sentence.
The Academy award for...flightless birds
Goes to...battlefield amputation
To have two such disparate cards in your hand, much less to combine them so cleverly, well, kudos to me.
Although we'd begun playing around 9:30, it was probably sometime around midnight (post-Pimm's pops, Pimm's cups and Miraval) when we got our first card with three blanks.
"Having to come up with three cards is gonna take forever," our hostess warned, specifically looking at a certain slow player. "We're slow with two! We're good with one, one card, that's it."
What's George Bush thinking about right now?
...Not reciprocating oral sex
...Fiery poops
...Third base
Plausible, all of them, right?
As the night wore on, we especially enjoyed questions that referred back to the person asking. So when I read, "What's my anti-drug?" the friend in the colorful dress exclaimed, "Yours?" and stares at me as if she can discern it from my countenance.
Ultimately, it led to a big discussion of what exactly constitutes an anti-drug. That's one we didn't fully resolve.
After a while, I knew my competitors well enough to tickle their fancies with my answer, as when the formerly soggy one delighted at my response to his card.
I got 99 problems but...Count Chocula...ain't one.
Oh, he laughed. Man, if you only knew how long I held onto the Count Chocula card before finding the ideal place to drop it. A far better player, though, was the Bermudian, who caused us to about lose it when she proffered this:
Daddy, why is Mommy crying?
...The patriarchy
When I read the card, "What is my secret power?" a friend looked askance. "That's the question? I was about to answer!" No, please, tell me my superpower. I'm curious.
Looking at the answers submitted, the Czar mused, "It's between inappropriate yodeling and Toni Morrison's vagina," a sentence I would stake my life on has never having been uttered before in the history of humankind.
One minute we were playing, laughing almost constantly and next thing we knew it was after 1 a.m., and this is not a crowd that stays up late. With that in mind, I got up to leave, a different person than when I'd arrived.
Of course I didn't win, but I didn't do too badly, either. There's already talk of procuring other versions since we practically went through an entire box of black and white cards in one marathon session. Cards Against Humanity may be five years old to the rest of the first world, but it was brand new fun for me tonight.
Let's put it this way: I understood the game well enough to find my seatmate's two-part answer absolutely hilarious.
Step one...folly of man
Step two...Cards Against Humanity
That the gentle night also involved mocking, condescension and outright compliments only attests to our unlikely activity: my first foray into the oh-so popular game that's swept the nation.
You read right, last night I was introduced to Cards Against Humanity.
That's right, I killed new age music. How, you ask?
...An ice pick lobotomy.
It wasn't the plan. That had been determined months ago and consisted of dinner and "The Merchant of Venice" at Agecroft. Given the play's talking points about Jewish-ness, I'd chosen Dinamo for its fusion of Jewish and Italian food.
He Who Shall Not Be named (aka Mr. Google Scheduler) had us there before the propeller even began spinning. Naturally, we were the first eager beavers in the place other than staff. Ouch.
Not that I cared once I was sharing octopus salami that looked like paper-thin slices of a jeweled window and tasted like a seaside meal or polishing off my own cold plate of marinated seafood salad of mussels, clams, shrimp and octopus. Keeping it simple, I finished with a Nutella cookie and we left for Agecroft.
We were a well-oiled machine, seated, with new Shakespeare fans in hand when the entire audience was directed inside due to "pool rules." Thunder and lightening were fast approaching and they didn't want any of us good patrons to be electrified, as house manager Noah so quaintly put it.
A brief wait, a decision to go back outside and begin and then the cold, hard facts. The show was called.
So, you see, it wasn't like we didn't try to get some culture before descending into the gutter of sexually offensive and politically incorrect conversation.
It was my first time on the porch since it had been fully tricked out, meaning I couldn't help but admire all the little touches - Wellies by the door, cushioned chairs of various styles, tables with candles and lamps, flowering plants and antique window frames.
The sole male commented that the ledge covered in necessaries - various bug sprays for body and room, aloe if you did get a bite, sunscreens of myriad strengths - was the only jarring note in an otherwise lovely space, but I disagreed. Vehemently.
A screened porch is an outdoor room, but also a utilitarian one. Such a ledge was completely appropriate, in my opinion, because all the assorted sundries you could possibly require while enjoying the porch were readily available. You never had to leave the porch to stay comfortable.
Decorating roundtable finished, we got down to the serious business of cracking each other up.
As a CAH virgin, I immediately was curious about the fact that there were black and white cards. You mean like the races? Setting the tone for the evening, my hostess arched an eyebrow and announced without so much as a chortle, "All cards matter."
Not going to lie, we had all kinds of fun trying to figure out what combination would win the favor of the round's card czar (or, more accurately, czarina, since men were outnumbered 3 to 1), taking into account who leaned toward corny and who always opted for sick or intellectual humor.
A girl's best friend?
...David Bowie flying in on a tiger made of lightening
Brilliant, right? Okay, but so is this one:
A girl's best friend?
...Licking things to claim them as her own
Turns out this game's underlying purpose is encouraging players to inadvertently remember things or share personal history. Now I know I have a friend who's not ashamed to say she's a territorial licker.
Sorry, teacher, I couldn't finish my homework because of...sniffing glue.
"Oh, yea, I remember that," one of the participants says. I wouldn't have pegged her for the glue-sniffing type, but who am I to judge? That said, no one would admit to being "balls deep in a squealin' hog" when that came up as an answer, but the night was still young then.
I soon learned that some black cards came with two blanks, necessitating each of us to choose not one, but two phrases that best completed the sentence.
The Academy award for...flightless birds
Goes to...battlefield amputation
To have two such disparate cards in your hand, much less to combine them so cleverly, well, kudos to me.
Although we'd begun playing around 9:30, it was probably sometime around midnight (post-Pimm's pops, Pimm's cups and Miraval) when we got our first card with three blanks.
"Having to come up with three cards is gonna take forever," our hostess warned, specifically looking at a certain slow player. "We're slow with two! We're good with one, one card, that's it."
What's George Bush thinking about right now?
...Not reciprocating oral sex
...Fiery poops
...Third base
Plausible, all of them, right?
As the night wore on, we especially enjoyed questions that referred back to the person asking. So when I read, "What's my anti-drug?" the friend in the colorful dress exclaimed, "Yours?" and stares at me as if she can discern it from my countenance.
Ultimately, it led to a big discussion of what exactly constitutes an anti-drug. That's one we didn't fully resolve.
After a while, I knew my competitors well enough to tickle their fancies with my answer, as when the formerly soggy one delighted at my response to his card.
I got 99 problems but...Count Chocula...ain't one.
Oh, he laughed. Man, if you only knew how long I held onto the Count Chocula card before finding the ideal place to drop it. A far better player, though, was the Bermudian, who caused us to about lose it when she proffered this:
Daddy, why is Mommy crying?
...The patriarchy
When I read the card, "What is my secret power?" a friend looked askance. "That's the question? I was about to answer!" No, please, tell me my superpower. I'm curious.
Looking at the answers submitted, the Czar mused, "It's between inappropriate yodeling and Toni Morrison's vagina," a sentence I would stake my life on has never having been uttered before in the history of humankind.
One minute we were playing, laughing almost constantly and next thing we knew it was after 1 a.m., and this is not a crowd that stays up late. With that in mind, I got up to leave, a different person than when I'd arrived.
Of course I didn't win, but I didn't do too badly, either. There's already talk of procuring other versions since we practically went through an entire box of black and white cards in one marathon session. Cards Against Humanity may be five years old to the rest of the first world, but it was brand new fun for me tonight.
Let's put it this way: I understood the game well enough to find my seatmate's two-part answer absolutely hilarious.
Step one...folly of man
Step two...Cards Against Humanity
Monday, July 20, 2015
Trippingly on the Tongue
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.
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.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
I Will Stop Your Mouth
Some evenings are spent in the service of love.
I am enraptured with my latest CD, I Love You, Honeybear by Father John Misty, partly because of his voice - clear, assured - but mostly because it's a young man's album about meeting and falling in love with a woman and he sings it with the passion of someone really falling for the first time.
People are boring
but you're something else completely
Damn, let's take our chances
I wanna take you in the kitchen
Lift up your wedding dress someone was probably murdered in
So bourgeoisie to keep waiting
Dating for 20 years just feels pretty civilian...
Pulling into Agecroft for the 17th annual Richmond Shakespeare Festival, I was instructed to park anywhere but on the grass (please, I wasn't raised by wolves). In line waiting for the house to open, the Young Players amused the crowd with scenes from various works. I watched as a scene from Troilus and Cressida played out, Troilus madly wooing Cressida (or was it the reverse?).
The amusing house manager finally let us in, but only after instructing us not to sit on anyone else (rude), nor in the aisle (or be trampled by actors) and, most importantly, not to sit on any chairs that had blue tape on them. "They have acid or something on them," he said nonchalantly.
Inside, I nabbed a non-acidic seat next to a Lynchburg couple who'd come to see their daughter perform. They were having the usual reaction a first-time visitor to Agecroft has: awe and reverence. What, Lynchburg doesn't have a late 15th century house that was removed from England and reassembled on the banks of the James? Pity.
Not sure about the later temperature, they'd toted in beach towels while I'd made sure to have a wrap and a scarf in case it got chilly. We talked about what they'd seen in Richmond so far. "There's a lot going on here!" the husband observed. You don't say?
The row of people behind me were amusing ("Hey, you had on that same shirt the last time I saw you") me as I heard one ask another if he read a certain graphic novel series. "Cause, you know, the main female character in that is named after Hero in this play." Hey, at least he knew the point of origin.
We were all there for Quill Theater's Much Ado About Nothing, surely one of the easiest and most enjoyable of Shakespeare's comedies.
Joshua Daniels as the constable, Dogberry, announced himself as a very funny man with an opening speech explaining with Dogberry's typical malapropisms what to expect tonight.
Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again?
As many times as I've seen this play, I never tire of its banter between Beatrice and Benedick as they work so hard at denying their attraction to each other.
To be merry best becomes you.
Strong performances by Donna Marie Miller and especially Dave White in the title roles helped draw those less familiar with the story in while allowing those of us who know it well to just sit back and enjoy the fireworks.
If they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.
This year, the festival is starting performances at 7:30 instead of 8, but as in past years (and I went to the first festival 17 years ago), once dusk begins its descent into night, fireflies swirl around the audience and tonight, frogs croaked loudly while Benedick gave a monologue.
She loves him with an enraged affection.
I watched as the couple next to me experienced for the first time the clever way the production used the courtyard space. When there was eavesdropping going on, characters hid behind the "bower," a trio of plastic topiaries that lent a green note to the stage.
Happy are they that can hear their detractions and put them to mending.
Because I know the story so well, it's easy to lose sight of the fact that some people have no idea where this play is going. At the end of the first act, an older man near me leaned forward, hands on knees and said to his wife, "I smell trouble brewing!"
I used intermission to buy M & Ms, share them with a stranger ("What about not taking candy from strangers?") and walk the gardens, admiring the delphiniums, foxglove, poppies and zinnias that made them look so charmingly English in design. I wandered as far as the rolling lawn so I could see the river at the bottom of the hill before it was completely dark.
The second act began with three characters - the watchmen of Messina - coming in, weapons in hand and falling asleep, snoring loudly on benches onstage. Their nap stretched out far longer than the crowd anticipated (nervous giggling after a while), giving the stragglers time to get back from the bathroom or snack cart in time for the real action.
Neighbors, you are tedious!
Call me a romantic, but I'm a big fan of the scenes where Beatrice and Benedick have been convinced that the other is in love and begin to let their guard down. "I do love nothing in the world so much as you," Benedick lets slip, only to follow it with a regretful "Ah!" when he realizes he's given himself away. So the man who said he'd never marry is having a change of heart.
No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Alright, so he's no Father John Misty, if you know what I'm saying, but White did a splendid job of showing the arc of a man who is convinced he can live without love and a woman, only to fall hard. Oldest story in the book, still one of the most appealing.
Note to locals and visitors alike: sitting under the stars laughing at 500 year old lines, watching an energetic cast wind their way around to a happy ending, has to be one of the finest pleasures of summer in Richmond.
Suffer Love! A good epithet. I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
And they got married ("To bind me or undo me, one of them") and danced and lived happily ever after. I'm guessing Benedick was also of the opinion that dating for 20 years just feels pretty civilian.
Leaving Agecroft, I had half a mind to finish the evening with some dancing of my own - No BS Brass band was playing the penultimate show at Balliceaux - but driving by, I saw a line that stretched down the block and doors didn't even open for a while. Maybe not.
Maybe it's enough to have seen a well-executed evening of begrudging yet enthusiastic wooing, a killer combination.
I haven't hated all the same things
as somebody else
since I can remember.
What's going on for?
What are you doing with your whole life?
How about forever?
I am enraptured with my latest CD, I Love You, Honeybear by Father John Misty, partly because of his voice - clear, assured - but mostly because it's a young man's album about meeting and falling in love with a woman and he sings it with the passion of someone really falling for the first time.
People are boring
but you're something else completely
Damn, let's take our chances
I wanna take you in the kitchen
Lift up your wedding dress someone was probably murdered in
So bourgeoisie to keep waiting
Dating for 20 years just feels pretty civilian...
Pulling into Agecroft for the 17th annual Richmond Shakespeare Festival, I was instructed to park anywhere but on the grass (please, I wasn't raised by wolves). In line waiting for the house to open, the Young Players amused the crowd with scenes from various works. I watched as a scene from Troilus and Cressida played out, Troilus madly wooing Cressida (or was it the reverse?).
The amusing house manager finally let us in, but only after instructing us not to sit on anyone else (rude), nor in the aisle (or be trampled by actors) and, most importantly, not to sit on any chairs that had blue tape on them. "They have acid or something on them," he said nonchalantly.
Inside, I nabbed a non-acidic seat next to a Lynchburg couple who'd come to see their daughter perform. They were having the usual reaction a first-time visitor to Agecroft has: awe and reverence. What, Lynchburg doesn't have a late 15th century house that was removed from England and reassembled on the banks of the James? Pity.
Not sure about the later temperature, they'd toted in beach towels while I'd made sure to have a wrap and a scarf in case it got chilly. We talked about what they'd seen in Richmond so far. "There's a lot going on here!" the husband observed. You don't say?
The row of people behind me were amusing ("Hey, you had on that same shirt the last time I saw you") me as I heard one ask another if he read a certain graphic novel series. "Cause, you know, the main female character in that is named after Hero in this play." Hey, at least he knew the point of origin.
We were all there for Quill Theater's Much Ado About Nothing, surely one of the easiest and most enjoyable of Shakespeare's comedies.
Joshua Daniels as the constable, Dogberry, announced himself as a very funny man with an opening speech explaining with Dogberry's typical malapropisms what to expect tonight.
Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again?
As many times as I've seen this play, I never tire of its banter between Beatrice and Benedick as they work so hard at denying their attraction to each other.
To be merry best becomes you.
Strong performances by Donna Marie Miller and especially Dave White in the title roles helped draw those less familiar with the story in while allowing those of us who know it well to just sit back and enjoy the fireworks.
If they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.
This year, the festival is starting performances at 7:30 instead of 8, but as in past years (and I went to the first festival 17 years ago), once dusk begins its descent into night, fireflies swirl around the audience and tonight, frogs croaked loudly while Benedick gave a monologue.
She loves him with an enraged affection.
I watched as the couple next to me experienced for the first time the clever way the production used the courtyard space. When there was eavesdropping going on, characters hid behind the "bower," a trio of plastic topiaries that lent a green note to the stage.
Happy are they that can hear their detractions and put them to mending.
Because I know the story so well, it's easy to lose sight of the fact that some people have no idea where this play is going. At the end of the first act, an older man near me leaned forward, hands on knees and said to his wife, "I smell trouble brewing!"
I used intermission to buy M & Ms, share them with a stranger ("What about not taking candy from strangers?") and walk the gardens, admiring the delphiniums, foxglove, poppies and zinnias that made them look so charmingly English in design. I wandered as far as the rolling lawn so I could see the river at the bottom of the hill before it was completely dark.
The second act began with three characters - the watchmen of Messina - coming in, weapons in hand and falling asleep, snoring loudly on benches onstage. Their nap stretched out far longer than the crowd anticipated (nervous giggling after a while), giving the stragglers time to get back from the bathroom or snack cart in time for the real action.
Neighbors, you are tedious!
Call me a romantic, but I'm a big fan of the scenes where Beatrice and Benedick have been convinced that the other is in love and begin to let their guard down. "I do love nothing in the world so much as you," Benedick lets slip, only to follow it with a regretful "Ah!" when he realizes he's given himself away. So the man who said he'd never marry is having a change of heart.
No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.
Alright, so he's no Father John Misty, if you know what I'm saying, but White did a splendid job of showing the arc of a man who is convinced he can live without love and a woman, only to fall hard. Oldest story in the book, still one of the most appealing.
Note to locals and visitors alike: sitting under the stars laughing at 500 year old lines, watching an energetic cast wind their way around to a happy ending, has to be one of the finest pleasures of summer in Richmond.
Suffer Love! A good epithet. I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
And they got married ("To bind me or undo me, one of them") and danced and lived happily ever after. I'm guessing Benedick was also of the opinion that dating for 20 years just feels pretty civilian.
Leaving Agecroft, I had half a mind to finish the evening with some dancing of my own - No BS Brass band was playing the penultimate show at Balliceaux - but driving by, I saw a line that stretched down the block and doors didn't even open for a while. Maybe not.
Maybe it's enough to have seen a well-executed evening of begrudging yet enthusiastic wooing, a killer combination.
I haven't hated all the same things
as somebody else
since I can remember.
What's going on for?
What are you doing with your whole life?
How about forever?
Monday, July 30, 2012
By Cock and Pie
"Wait till you see me in my doublet sweating my heiney off."
If that isn't an invitation to experience Shakespeare in the courtyard of Agecroft Hall, I don't know what is.
And it wasn't even said to me, merely overheard.
As if I needed more incentive, it was the closing night of "Merry Wives of Windsor," the weather was decidedly less July-like than usual and a friend had been called a standout in the cast.
We picnicked on the grass behind the grand house, with a view of the James and a series of trains chugging along the riverside.
Members of the company's young troupe, calling themselves Lord Moxley's Players, wandered from picnic to picnic, offering to do monologues.
When it was our turn, I chose Kate from "Taming of the Shrew" and heard Kate lament her fate as Petrucchio's soon-to-be wife.
Waiting in line to enter the courtyard, I spoke with some first-timers to Agecroft and Richmond Shakespeare.
When they asked me where the best place to sit was, I didn't hesitate.
The front row is my favorite because it allows me to see the actors spit, both literally and figuratively.
As proof, spit began flying during the first scene,
That's what I'm talking about.
I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation.
Personally, I would be flattered if a man spied entertainment in me.
The story of the large and boastful knight Falstaff wooing two middle-aged wives who in turn trick and degrade him is one of my favorites, mainly for the substance of the characters.
The appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning glass!
The role of Falstaff is key to this play and Todd Schall-Vess nailed it, doing buffoonery and humanity equally well.
It's so easy to overdo the role and leave the audience uncaring about Falstaff, but that wasn't the case.
After he is dumped into the river with the laundry and comes out sputtering and sneezing, a tiny fish comes out of his nose (mouth?) as he blusters about such indignities.
Brilliant.
Can I love her? I hope so.
The entire cast was assured, no doubt partly a function of this being the fourth week of production.
Evan Nasteff as the French Dr. Caius managed to be hysterical and dashing at the same time.
Use your art of wooing. Win her to consent to you.
That particular line was followed by a flock of geese flying over Agecroft, honking in the dark blue almost-night sky.
It was a sky that eventually changed over to a moonlit one which we enjoyed from the veranda during intermission.
I assure thee, setting the attractions of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.
Guitar and cello music came courtesy of Matt Treacy, whom I've seen at Richmond Shakespeare's staged readings.
He managed to imbue any kind of scene, comical or fighting, with just the right musical emphasis.
I must advance the colours of my love.
If ever a play focused on the art of wooing, it's this one.
Watching men, young and old, try to win the affection of the objects of their affection (or at least, lust) was probably the equivalent of a chick-flick.
And while I don't go see those, I'd happily watch Shakespeare's characters woo and charm any night of the week.
Sure, partly it's the language ("I rather will suspect the sun of cold than you of wantoness"), but also the humor ("I'll no pullet sperm in my brewage").
And all from the front row where twice actors gazed into my eyes to deliver their lines.
No rom-com at a multi-plex is capable of giving me that distinct pleasure.
Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one who makes fritters of English?
Have I lived to savor a talented cast who woo with language on a moonlit night?
I hope so. After all, there is entertainment to be spied in me.
If that isn't an invitation to experience Shakespeare in the courtyard of Agecroft Hall, I don't know what is.
And it wasn't even said to me, merely overheard.
As if I needed more incentive, it was the closing night of "Merry Wives of Windsor," the weather was decidedly less July-like than usual and a friend had been called a standout in the cast.
We picnicked on the grass behind the grand house, with a view of the James and a series of trains chugging along the riverside.
Members of the company's young troupe, calling themselves Lord Moxley's Players, wandered from picnic to picnic, offering to do monologues.
When it was our turn, I chose Kate from "Taming of the Shrew" and heard Kate lament her fate as Petrucchio's soon-to-be wife.
Waiting in line to enter the courtyard, I spoke with some first-timers to Agecroft and Richmond Shakespeare.
When they asked me where the best place to sit was, I didn't hesitate.
The front row is my favorite because it allows me to see the actors spit, both literally and figuratively.
As proof, spit began flying during the first scene,
That's what I'm talking about.
I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation.
Personally, I would be flattered if a man spied entertainment in me.
The story of the large and boastful knight Falstaff wooing two middle-aged wives who in turn trick and degrade him is one of my favorites, mainly for the substance of the characters.
The appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning glass!
The role of Falstaff is key to this play and Todd Schall-Vess nailed it, doing buffoonery and humanity equally well.
It's so easy to overdo the role and leave the audience uncaring about Falstaff, but that wasn't the case.
After he is dumped into the river with the laundry and comes out sputtering and sneezing, a tiny fish comes out of his nose (mouth?) as he blusters about such indignities.
Brilliant.
Can I love her? I hope so.
The entire cast was assured, no doubt partly a function of this being the fourth week of production.
Evan Nasteff as the French Dr. Caius managed to be hysterical and dashing at the same time.
Use your art of wooing. Win her to consent to you.
That particular line was followed by a flock of geese flying over Agecroft, honking in the dark blue almost-night sky.
It was a sky that eventually changed over to a moonlit one which we enjoyed from the veranda during intermission.
I assure thee, setting the attractions of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.
Guitar and cello music came courtesy of Matt Treacy, whom I've seen at Richmond Shakespeare's staged readings.
He managed to imbue any kind of scene, comical or fighting, with just the right musical emphasis.
I must advance the colours of my love.
If ever a play focused on the art of wooing, it's this one.
Watching men, young and old, try to win the affection of the objects of their affection (or at least, lust) was probably the equivalent of a chick-flick.
And while I don't go see those, I'd happily watch Shakespeare's characters woo and charm any night of the week.
Sure, partly it's the language ("I rather will suspect the sun of cold than you of wantoness"), but also the humor ("I'll no pullet sperm in my brewage").
And all from the front row where twice actors gazed into my eyes to deliver their lines.
No rom-com at a multi-plex is capable of giving me that distinct pleasure.
Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one who makes fritters of English?
Have I lived to savor a talented cast who woo with language on a moonlit night?
I hope so. After all, there is entertainment to be spied in me.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Hymn to Her: Fabulous and Beautiful
"It took a woman to show us the light." ~Teenage Mother
What sentiment could more perfectly sum up Mother's Day than that?
After a drive to the Northern Neck to pay homage to my own maternal ancestry (sign on insurance company: "Farmers, please report corn acres planted," and sign on gas station: "Happy Momz Day!"), it was time to let the Mother's Day festivities begin.
To ensure mixing with as diverse crowds as possible tonight, first there was a picnic at Agecroft with music by the Richmond Concert Band.
It unfolded under an enormous magnolia tree and with a straight-shot view of the conductor, a bottle of Chianti and way too much food.
This year's theme was "Virginia Connections" and featured the works of, yep, Virginians.
An outdoor concert sounds so different than an indoor one, with the sound having endless space to move around in.
Acoustically, I know it's inferior but that's balanced by the pleasures of a picnic with live symphonic music.
After the performance and a stroll of the grounds, it was on to Firehouse Theater for mockery.
Film Roasters was doing their monthly screening of a truly bad movie with Mystery Science Theatre-like commentary from a trio of wise asses.
The cinematic gem we saw was "Teenage Mother" from 1967 which featured the Young Set (complete with jerky go-go dancer, mocked by one of the improv guys as, "Some bronzer and a lampshade and she's good to go") and the star's wardrobe supplied by Betsy Johnson Paraphernalia.
I know my fashion history; Betsy Johnson was the mod designer in the sixties. Her clothes made guys say things like, "I want that chick. She's stacked."
The movie told the story of a sex education teacher from Sweden trying to enlighten an American high school to much resistance.
Translation: between the dated dialog and endless riffing on it, I was laughing pretty much non-stop.
"Health education being taught by a woman? That's something new!" In 1967, I'm sure it was.
As we laughed along to lines about a teenager's $10 allowance and going to a drive-in to see "Girl on a Chain Gang," we never saw it coming.
"It" was the sex ed teacher's last defense to save her job when the parents got mad at her unorthodox subject matter.
She shut them right up by showing a film of a baby being born using forceps.
That's right, in the middle of this corny 1967 movie with every cliche in the world about teenagers, smoking pot and pre-marital sex, we saw an actual clip of a baby being delivered.
With, I might add, a voice over explaining the placement of the forceps and the accompanying issues.
We saw the baby's head and shoulders come out. Um, happy Mother's Day?
Let's just say that the room got unspeakably quiet as the audience tried to process what was surely most people's first actual birth footage.
When the lights came up, we were instructed, "That's it, you can go home and think about that now."
I'm guessing most people did the opposite and tried to block it out for the rest of their evening.
I thought a better solution was to head over to Richmond Triangle Players for the Ghostlight Afterparty, essentially a piano bar where all the singers are actors.
Afterbirth, afterparty, I always say.
The five hour party was underway when we arrived and the first song we caught was a fine one, "My Funny Valentine" by Carla.
With my J-Ward neighbors a few rows behind, the 'hood was representing.
The superb accompanist Sandy, this time on a grand piano instead of last month's keyboard, did harmony for her daughter's rendition of Carole King's "Where You Lead" in honor of the holiday.
Host Matt kept the show rolling with jokes, tambourine playing and his excellent singing voice.
Walking across the stage at one point, he noticed a stool with a cocktail on it and cracked up.
"That's what I love about Ghostlight Afterparty," he said with no clear idea whose drink it was since no one was onstage then.
Jason did a stellar version of "If I Loved You" after talking about his talented musical mother and why he'd turned out the way he had.
Tonight's guest star was Lisa who set the tone by proclaiming that every time she mentioned her adored 11-year old son Jamie, everyone in the room was required to drink.
A deceptively simple rule and yet one with comic results as the night wore on.
She did a "Mad Lib" version of "A Spoonful of Sugar," singing off a Mad Libs sheet of nonsense words.
Because they're actors, the hamming never stops, like when one guy paused mid-song and said, "Dramatic cross" and moved from center stage to the piano for his big finale.
Of course I saw a couple of my favorite boys, in particular Princess Di (blue pants, pink shirt) and the theater critic (on a date), both pleased as punch to see a friend.
B.C. did a terrific version of "When You're Good to Mama," while Matt shook his booty against the tambourine and Maggie danced across the back of the stage.
Afterwards, Matt noted dryly, "B.C. sings songs in women's registers better than most women do."
And that is why we come to the Ghostlight Afterparty.
Around 11:30 the pizza arrived and the hungry audience took a break and descended on it.
Susan killed it with her rendition of "The Man That Got Away" and a duet of "Suddenly Seymour" had half the room singing along.
Pianist Sandy and Audra wowed the crowd with "Just a Housewife" before we got to the last song of the night.
According to the non-actor, non-singer who took the stage, she was a straight white girl rapping like a straight black man about, you know, having what you need.
It was at that point that Princess Di turned to me and sniffed, "There's fifteen men singing along to this in the back row."
Indeed they were and having a grand old time.
And wherever their mothers were, I'm sure they'd have been very proud of them.
Cause especially on Mother's Day, it takes a woman to, well, do it all.
See the light?
What sentiment could more perfectly sum up Mother's Day than that?
After a drive to the Northern Neck to pay homage to my own maternal ancestry (sign on insurance company: "Farmers, please report corn acres planted," and sign on gas station: "Happy Momz Day!"), it was time to let the Mother's Day festivities begin.
To ensure mixing with as diverse crowds as possible tonight, first there was a picnic at Agecroft with music by the Richmond Concert Band.
It unfolded under an enormous magnolia tree and with a straight-shot view of the conductor, a bottle of Chianti and way too much food.
This year's theme was "Virginia Connections" and featured the works of, yep, Virginians.
An outdoor concert sounds so different than an indoor one, with the sound having endless space to move around in.
Acoustically, I know it's inferior but that's balanced by the pleasures of a picnic with live symphonic music.
After the performance and a stroll of the grounds, it was on to Firehouse Theater for mockery.
Film Roasters was doing their monthly screening of a truly bad movie with Mystery Science Theatre-like commentary from a trio of wise asses.
The cinematic gem we saw was "Teenage Mother" from 1967 which featured the Young Set (complete with jerky go-go dancer, mocked by one of the improv guys as, "Some bronzer and a lampshade and she's good to go") and the star's wardrobe supplied by Betsy Johnson Paraphernalia.
I know my fashion history; Betsy Johnson was the mod designer in the sixties. Her clothes made guys say things like, "I want that chick. She's stacked."
The movie told the story of a sex education teacher from Sweden trying to enlighten an American high school to much resistance.
Translation: between the dated dialog and endless riffing on it, I was laughing pretty much non-stop.
"Health education being taught by a woman? That's something new!" In 1967, I'm sure it was.
As we laughed along to lines about a teenager's $10 allowance and going to a drive-in to see "Girl on a Chain Gang," we never saw it coming.
"It" was the sex ed teacher's last defense to save her job when the parents got mad at her unorthodox subject matter.
She shut them right up by showing a film of a baby being born using forceps.
That's right, in the middle of this corny 1967 movie with every cliche in the world about teenagers, smoking pot and pre-marital sex, we saw an actual clip of a baby being delivered.
With, I might add, a voice over explaining the placement of the forceps and the accompanying issues.
We saw the baby's head and shoulders come out. Um, happy Mother's Day?
Let's just say that the room got unspeakably quiet as the audience tried to process what was surely most people's first actual birth footage.
When the lights came up, we were instructed, "That's it, you can go home and think about that now."
I'm guessing most people did the opposite and tried to block it out for the rest of their evening.
I thought a better solution was to head over to Richmond Triangle Players for the Ghostlight Afterparty, essentially a piano bar where all the singers are actors.
Afterbirth, afterparty, I always say.
The five hour party was underway when we arrived and the first song we caught was a fine one, "My Funny Valentine" by Carla.
With my J-Ward neighbors a few rows behind, the 'hood was representing.
The superb accompanist Sandy, this time on a grand piano instead of last month's keyboard, did harmony for her daughter's rendition of Carole King's "Where You Lead" in honor of the holiday.
Host Matt kept the show rolling with jokes, tambourine playing and his excellent singing voice.
Walking across the stage at one point, he noticed a stool with a cocktail on it and cracked up.
"That's what I love about Ghostlight Afterparty," he said with no clear idea whose drink it was since no one was onstage then.
Jason did a stellar version of "If I Loved You" after talking about his talented musical mother and why he'd turned out the way he had.
Tonight's guest star was Lisa who set the tone by proclaiming that every time she mentioned her adored 11-year old son Jamie, everyone in the room was required to drink.
A deceptively simple rule and yet one with comic results as the night wore on.
She did a "Mad Lib" version of "A Spoonful of Sugar," singing off a Mad Libs sheet of nonsense words.
Because they're actors, the hamming never stops, like when one guy paused mid-song and said, "Dramatic cross" and moved from center stage to the piano for his big finale.
Of course I saw a couple of my favorite boys, in particular Princess Di (blue pants, pink shirt) and the theater critic (on a date), both pleased as punch to see a friend.
B.C. did a terrific version of "When You're Good to Mama," while Matt shook his booty against the tambourine and Maggie danced across the back of the stage.
Afterwards, Matt noted dryly, "B.C. sings songs in women's registers better than most women do."
And that is why we come to the Ghostlight Afterparty.
Around 11:30 the pizza arrived and the hungry audience took a break and descended on it.
Susan killed it with her rendition of "The Man That Got Away" and a duet of "Suddenly Seymour" had half the room singing along.
Pianist Sandy and Audra wowed the crowd with "Just a Housewife" before we got to the last song of the night.
According to the non-actor, non-singer who took the stage, she was a straight white girl rapping like a straight black man about, you know, having what you need.
It was at that point that Princess Di turned to me and sniffed, "There's fifteen men singing along to this in the back row."
Indeed they were and having a grand old time.
And wherever their mothers were, I'm sure they'd have been very proud of them.
Cause especially on Mother's Day, it takes a woman to, well, do it all.
See the light?
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saluting My Sex at the Copacabana
With summer fading fast, I am grabbing on to its last vestiges whenever possible.
I'm enjoying the last of the heirloom tomatoes, still wearing sundresses when the weather allows and tonight going to an outdoor concert (in a sundress).
The Richmond Concert band was giving their Fall performance on the lawn of Agecroft and, amazingly, the forecast was for no rain.
Unlike the other concerts I've been to there, this one was out front under a giant magnolia tree rather than behind the house facing the James.
I set up my chair facing a huge fork in the tree's branches which framed a particularly dramatic patch of sky.
Naturally I had to do a little crowd-watching and in doing so, I noticed that not everyone was there solely for the music.
As the music played, people were reading (newspapers and books), a woman was knitting, one guy had headphones on (a game, perhaps?) and one man made no bones about stretching out on a blanket, taking off his glasses and putting his baseball cap over his face to nap.
The program for the evening was "May I Have the Envelope, Please?" so we were treated to a selection of award-winning music once we got the patriotic stuff out of the way.
I thought it was surprising to see so many older people tapping their feet to "California Dreamin'/Monday, Monday" until we were reminded that those songs are 45 years old.
It was an eclectic program with music from the Tijuana Brass, Henry Mancini, "Titanic," and "O Brother, Where Art Thou?"
I'd be curious to know how often the theme from "Dirty Dancing" shows up on the same program as "The Stars and Stripes Forever."
A "Summer of '69 Woodstock" medley of CSNY, Ike and Tina Turner, the Who and the like got one of the biggest ovations of the night.
No doubt about it, though, the most audience toe-tapping came with Barry Manilow's "Copacabana."
The most moving part of the evening came during "Home of the Brave," a medley of all the armed forces' songs.
Vets of each branch were asked to stand when their song played and only the Coast Guard was not represented in tonight's crowd.
Ages ranged from what looked like a 30ish guy with a baby and a toddler to a much older looking gentleman who lifted himself out of his scooter with great effort.
Vets who were band members participated, too, continuing to play their instruments as they stood for their branch of the service.
But I was most struck by how many women stood up, many of them white-haired and clearly older.
As stirring as it had been to hear music from "West Side Story" and "Romeo and Juliet" outside under a dramatic gray, blue and pink sky, seeing those women stand and represent was every bit as beautiful.
It wasn't what I expected to take away from a little night music.
To quote my college boyfriend Curt whenever I said something enthusiastically pro-female, "Right on Sister Boogie Woman."
Or, in this case, Women.
I'm enjoying the last of the heirloom tomatoes, still wearing sundresses when the weather allows and tonight going to an outdoor concert (in a sundress).
The Richmond Concert band was giving their Fall performance on the lawn of Agecroft and, amazingly, the forecast was for no rain.
Unlike the other concerts I've been to there, this one was out front under a giant magnolia tree rather than behind the house facing the James.
I set up my chair facing a huge fork in the tree's branches which framed a particularly dramatic patch of sky.
Naturally I had to do a little crowd-watching and in doing so, I noticed that not everyone was there solely for the music.
As the music played, people were reading (newspapers and books), a woman was knitting, one guy had headphones on (a game, perhaps?) and one man made no bones about stretching out on a blanket, taking off his glasses and putting his baseball cap over his face to nap.
The program for the evening was "May I Have the Envelope, Please?" so we were treated to a selection of award-winning music once we got the patriotic stuff out of the way.
I thought it was surprising to see so many older people tapping their feet to "California Dreamin'/Monday, Monday" until we were reminded that those songs are 45 years old.
It was an eclectic program with music from the Tijuana Brass, Henry Mancini, "Titanic," and "O Brother, Where Art Thou?"
I'd be curious to know how often the theme from "Dirty Dancing" shows up on the same program as "The Stars and Stripes Forever."
A "Summer of '69 Woodstock" medley of CSNY, Ike and Tina Turner, the Who and the like got one of the biggest ovations of the night.
No doubt about it, though, the most audience toe-tapping came with Barry Manilow's "Copacabana."
The most moving part of the evening came during "Home of the Brave," a medley of all the armed forces' songs.
Vets of each branch were asked to stand when their song played and only the Coast Guard was not represented in tonight's crowd.
Ages ranged from what looked like a 30ish guy with a baby and a toddler to a much older looking gentleman who lifted himself out of his scooter with great effort.
Vets who were band members participated, too, continuing to play their instruments as they stood for their branch of the service.
But I was most struck by how many women stood up, many of them white-haired and clearly older.
As stirring as it had been to hear music from "West Side Story" and "Romeo and Juliet" outside under a dramatic gray, blue and pink sky, seeing those women stand and represent was every bit as beautiful.
It wasn't what I expected to take away from a little night music.
To quote my college boyfriend Curt whenever I said something enthusiastically pro-female, "Right on Sister Boogie Woman."
Or, in this case, Women.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Now I'm a Rare Noteworthy Object
Alas, how love can trifle with itself.
Nothing like a little outdoor Shakespeare to remind me of the many ways there are to love and the endless outcomes of doing so.
Arriving at Agecroft Hall early enough to spread a blanket under a shady tree, I admired the view of the river and the train bridge through the trees before settling in with my book.
There weren't many people on the lawn this evening, but I heard a champagne cork pop from somewhere in the bricked garden behind me. That's the way to pre-game at Agecroft.
A group of players came by and offered me one of four monologues; my choices were Much Ado about Nothing, The Tempest, As You Like It or The Taming of the Shrew, which I chose.
Petruchio's speech about how to kill a wife with kindness was delivered beautifully by a young man who afterwards doffed his hat and thanked me for listening.
I gathered up my things as they went over to another group to perform for them.
The house was not sold out tonight, so I easily got a front row center seat with little effort on my part. I'd be able to see the actors spit and sweat.
There were only five others who joined me in the entire front two rows while people sat ten rows back. I'll never understand that choice.
And by sitting in the front, I got acknowledged within the first minute of the play. Valentine wants his friend Proteus to leave town with him and Proteus wants to stay because of a girl.
When Proteus responds, "Will thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, think on thy Proteus, when thou happily seest some rare noteworthy object in thy travel," it was with a gesture toward me.
You don't get that kind of attention sitting in the back rows, no, sir.
Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes
The story about multiple men in love had only one character cross-dressing, but then it's one of Shakespeare's earliest. With time came more.
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle a fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words
The cast of a dozen was on point even as they sweated in suits and leather jackets despite a beautifully temperate night for an outdoor play.
That man hath a tongue, I say, is no man
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman
Like all good Agecroft productions, the 500-year old manor house was used to great advantage, with actors spitting in the flower beds, speaking through a window and running down the sides of the courtyard. Shakespeare would be proud.
The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns
But there are risks to the realism. In one scene Sylvia goes running down the aisle, only to return with a skinned knee in the next scene. Somewhere she took a fall, but the show must go on.
A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her
"Two Gentlemen" has a lot to do with the exuberance of love, but also the importance of forgiveness. When Proteus switches his heart from Julia to Sylvia and back again, he benefits by Julia's forgiveness and abiding love.
I have no reason but a woman's reason
I think him so because I think him so
He moves me
The production also benefited from a duo providing music before the show and during intermission, but also as musicians in the play and for the dancing that ended it all.
Oh, heaven! Were man but constant, he were perfect
And dancing was appropriate by that time because everyone was in love with the right person, mistakes had been forgiven and outlaws had been pardoned.
Hope is a lover's staff
Walk hence with that
And manage it against despairing thoughts
By that point, you could almost say all's well that ends well.
Oh, wait, he eventually did.
Nothing like a little outdoor Shakespeare to remind me of the many ways there are to love and the endless outcomes of doing so.
Arriving at Agecroft Hall early enough to spread a blanket under a shady tree, I admired the view of the river and the train bridge through the trees before settling in with my book.
There weren't many people on the lawn this evening, but I heard a champagne cork pop from somewhere in the bricked garden behind me. That's the way to pre-game at Agecroft.
A group of players came by and offered me one of four monologues; my choices were Much Ado about Nothing, The Tempest, As You Like It or The Taming of the Shrew, which I chose.
Petruchio's speech about how to kill a wife with kindness was delivered beautifully by a young man who afterwards doffed his hat and thanked me for listening.
I gathered up my things as they went over to another group to perform for them.
The house was not sold out tonight, so I easily got a front row center seat with little effort on my part. I'd be able to see the actors spit and sweat.
There were only five others who joined me in the entire front two rows while people sat ten rows back. I'll never understand that choice.
And by sitting in the front, I got acknowledged within the first minute of the play. Valentine wants his friend Proteus to leave town with him and Proteus wants to stay because of a girl.
When Proteus responds, "Will thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, think on thy Proteus, when thou happily seest some rare noteworthy object in thy travel," it was with a gesture toward me.
You don't get that kind of attention sitting in the back rows, no, sir.
Love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes
The story about multiple men in love had only one character cross-dressing, but then it's one of Shakespeare's earliest. With time came more.
Thou wouldst as soon go kindle a fire with snow
As seek to quench the fire of love with words
The cast of a dozen was on point even as they sweated in suits and leather jackets despite a beautifully temperate night for an outdoor play.
That man hath a tongue, I say, is no man
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman
Like all good Agecroft productions, the 500-year old manor house was used to great advantage, with actors spitting in the flower beds, speaking through a window and running down the sides of the courtyard. Shakespeare would be proud.
The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns
But there are risks to the realism. In one scene Sylvia goes running down the aisle, only to return with a skinned knee in the next scene. Somewhere she took a fall, but the show must go on.
A woman sometimes scorns what best contents her
"Two Gentlemen" has a lot to do with the exuberance of love, but also the importance of forgiveness. When Proteus switches his heart from Julia to Sylvia and back again, he benefits by Julia's forgiveness and abiding love.
I have no reason but a woman's reason
I think him so because I think him so
He moves me
The production also benefited from a duo providing music before the show and during intermission, but also as musicians in the play and for the dancing that ended it all.
Oh, heaven! Were man but constant, he were perfect
And dancing was appropriate by that time because everyone was in love with the right person, mistakes had been forgiven and outlaws had been pardoned.
Hope is a lover's staff
Walk hence with that
And manage it against despairing thoughts
By that point, you could almost say all's well that ends well.
Oh, wait, he eventually did.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Adam's Bottom Made Up for the Rain
The law of averages finally caught up with me.
I've been attending Richmond Shakespeare Company's summer performances at Agecroft for years.
Unlike my tall friend Thomas, who finds these evenings painful (citing the heat and those awful plastic chairs), I love the outdoor ambiance.
I think it's great the way the actors use the stone walls to climb over, when they spout dialogue from windows or gesture to the stars.
I especially like enjoying a play that begins in the light of a summer evening and ends in darkness and, when I'm lucky, moonlight.
Last night was the final, final performance for A Midsummer Night's Dream, a play whose run I had missed because it coincided with my fortnight at the beach.
And, yes, I'd seen them do this very play just a few months ago at Second Presbyterian, but Midsummer is a play that begs to be performed outside.
Which it was for about 35 minutes until the threatening sky finally opened up and canceled the rest of the show. I felt better that the actors seemed to be as bummed about it as the audience was.
Luckily, my front row seat had already afforded me a very cool moment before the rain came.
Adam Mincks' character Nick Bottom (who had just been assigned the role of Pyramus) was reveling in anticipation of the role when he grabbed my hand, looked into my eyes and delivered his lines to me.
So yea, I thought I was pretty special for a hot minute there...until an off-stage voice shouted, "Actors, halt!" and that ended that.
I'm not complaining in any way, though.
After years of outdoor productions, this was my first rain-out, so I was probably long overdue.
Up next: Hamlet...and I feel sure the gods won't rain on me again.
I've been attending Richmond Shakespeare Company's summer performances at Agecroft for years.
Unlike my tall friend Thomas, who finds these evenings painful (citing the heat and those awful plastic chairs), I love the outdoor ambiance.
I think it's great the way the actors use the stone walls to climb over, when they spout dialogue from windows or gesture to the stars.
I especially like enjoying a play that begins in the light of a summer evening and ends in darkness and, when I'm lucky, moonlight.
Last night was the final, final performance for A Midsummer Night's Dream, a play whose run I had missed because it coincided with my fortnight at the beach.
And, yes, I'd seen them do this very play just a few months ago at Second Presbyterian, but Midsummer is a play that begs to be performed outside.
Which it was for about 35 minutes until the threatening sky finally opened up and canceled the rest of the show. I felt better that the actors seemed to be as bummed about it as the audience was.
Luckily, my front row seat had already afforded me a very cool moment before the rain came.
Adam Mincks' character Nick Bottom (who had just been assigned the role of Pyramus) was reveling in anticipation of the role when he grabbed my hand, looked into my eyes and delivered his lines to me.
So yea, I thought I was pretty special for a hot minute there...until an off-stage voice shouted, "Actors, halt!" and that ended that.
I'm not complaining in any way, though.
After years of outdoor productions, this was my first rain-out, so I was probably long overdue.
Up next: Hamlet...and I feel sure the gods won't rain on me again.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wooing of the Highest Order
For those seeking a little romance on a summer night, you have only a few chances left to see "Henry V" presented by Richmond Shakespeare Company in Agecroft's courtyard. Yes, "Henry V" is one of the history plays, and yes, it deals largely with one of England's important battles with France, but the play ends with Henry's lovely and terribly romantic wooing of Katherine. Whether you're watching with a significant someone or nursing a broken heart, you really can't help but be moved by the sincerity of Henry as he tries to convince Kate of his love; it's clumsy wooing and it's absolutely beguiling. What woman wouldn't be won over?
"And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do always reason themselves out again."
If romance isn't enough of an incentive, there are several outstanding performances worth seeing. Phillip James Brown is back as Henry and as powerful as last year. Joseph Carlson as Pistol is a force of nature, at turns lustful, playful squeezing his wife, and then distraught when he learns that she is dead. But my favorite, again, was Brandon Crowder as Dauphin. Has a Richmond actor ever been so completely captivating to watch every second he is on stage? Even when others are speaking, his reactions, his gestures, his malleable face provide the most compelling kind of entertainment.
But take my word for it, the romance is what will stay with you. Or maybe that's just me.
"And while thou livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do always reason themselves out again."
If romance isn't enough of an incentive, there are several outstanding performances worth seeing. Phillip James Brown is back as Henry and as powerful as last year. Joseph Carlson as Pistol is a force of nature, at turns lustful, playful squeezing his wife, and then distraught when he learns that she is dead. But my favorite, again, was Brandon Crowder as Dauphin. Has a Richmond actor ever been so completely captivating to watch every second he is on stage? Even when others are speaking, his reactions, his gestures, his malleable face provide the most compelling kind of entertainment.
But take my word for it, the romance is what will stay with you. Or maybe that's just me.
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