All Life is Dancing

This geek was at the Firehouse Theater tonight because of Edward Albee.

That's right, the playwright of "Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolf?" and the man who once said,"What could be worse than getting to the end of your life and realizing you hadn't lived it?" (answer: nothing) was at the root of it.

Apparently back in 1999 at a Firehouse Theater fundraiser, he'd challenged them to hold playwriting contests to encourage new works.

They'd taken him up on it and the result was the annual Festival of New American Plays, which began tonight.

On the bill was "Nureyev's Eyes" by David Rush about the friendship that developed between painter Jamie Wyeth and dancer Rudolph Nureyev back in the '70s.

It wasn't an historical drama but an imagining of what might have happened during their many encounters.

After all, it wasn't like reality TV was around to document it back then.

The premise was deceptively simple; Wyeth wanted to paint Nureyev, who didn't think a dancer could be captured on canvas.

Over years of male bickering, vodka, apple pie and endless sketching, an eventual friendship developed.

The title comes from the artist's belief that "The truth of the man sits in the eyes."

As it does for the woman. Just look.

Because it was a staged reading, the two-actor play required a narrator tonight to provide locations and actions.

Matt Bloch played Nureyev with a believable Russian accent and the wariness of a man who'd defected and couldn't stop watching his back.

One of my favorite local actors, Dean Knight, played Wyeth with the understated persistence of a young artist who came from a family of very well-known artists and had a lot to prove.

Despite it being a reading and not a fully staged production, the interplay between the two worked beautifully

Salty language abounded ("Ballet for the mind is always better than ballet for the dick").

Artistic truths came out ("I don't do the painting. The painting does me").

So did laugh-out-loud humor ("It's not a sin to be straight. Only limiting").

It was even possible to learn about ballet ("All dance begins with the belly").

With a passion for both art and dance, I found it difficult to decide which character appealed to me more.

True, Nureyev was egotistical and guarded, but when asked when the happiest day of his life was, he answered, "Tomorrow."

That's a beautiful kind of optimism. And he could dance.

But I also  found Wyeth's character irresistible.

His frequent references to his beloved wife Phyllis made it clear that he saw her as the center of his life and the reason for not only his happiness, but everything he was.

That's a fascinating man, in my opinion.

At the talkback after the play, I was intrigued to learn that some people hadn't known who Wyeth or Nureyev were.

Not that we don't all have holes in our cultural history knowledge, but Nureyev had been considered "the Beatles of ballet," so I was a little surprised.

I'm sure I wasn't the only one eager to go home and look up the picture Wyeth eventually painted of Nureyev in 1977, who'd complained that the artist hadn't gotten the eyes right.

Because of course he had to complain about something. He was Russian.

The audience was pretty unanimous in thinking that this was a strong play (and it plays again Saturday night) which would make a worthy offering to produce at a future date.

And since past Festival of New American Plays winners have gone on to be produced in New York, Los Angeles and Chicago, I'd say Firehouse should jump on it before someone else does it first.

The way I see it, Nureyev said it best.

"What good is potential if it's never made concrete?"

Plaza Mexico and Baseball

Tonight was all about making up for what I missed out on because of the snow.

Saturday, after the great James River Dip spectacle, here, my friend had asked what I wanted for lunch and, without hesitation, I'd said I was in the mood for Mexican.

It probably had to do with the damp and the cold, but I wanted something cheesy and rich.

But so many restaurants were closed and given how many stuck vehicles we were seeing, we didn't want to drive around endlessly for the sake of nachos, so we settled for the Village.

My delayed gratification was rewarded tonight at Plaza Mexico where a friend and I enjoyed a better than average Mexican meal, although the ambiance of the place leaves a lot to be desired.

The TVs blaring Mexican programming were so incredibly loud we had to request that they be turned down so our heads didn't explode.

The extent of the transformation from Cirrus to Plaza Mexico seems to have consisted of adding tacky banners and beer ads, but I think that's what passes for atmosphere in a lot of Mexican places, so we noted and accepted it for what it was.

I got the guacamole salad and Chorizo quesadillas and he got the Sopes and Chile Rellenos.

I liked how thick with Chorizo my dish was and the guacamole had a plenty of heat.

I wasn't familiar with sopes, but was intrigued by the thick corn (ground maize?) base holding the chicken, green cabbage, cheese and sauce; the serving included three of these monsters and my manly friend could only finish one; they were big as well as thick.

He was pleased that there was no mystery meat in the chili rellenos as that's a pet peeve of his.

We split up after dinner (but not before he referred to me as both Mary Poppins and Pollyanna) and I headed to the Firehouse for the 8th Annual Festival of New American Plays.

Every year, they take months to review and ultimately choose two plays to do staged readings of and have the audience vote on their favorite.

Tonight's performance was originally scheduled for Saturday night, but, like everything else in RVA except for selected wining and dining, was cancelled that evening.

American Pastime by Mike Folie was the evening's offering and it was based on a lawsuit against Major League Baseball filed by black players trying to escape lifetime contracts and become free agents.

There were eight actors doing the reading, including local legends Ford Flannagan and Joe Inscoe, but the entire cast was strong. I know some people don't enjoy a staged reading because, well it's just that.

No scenery, sets or much movement, but with a solid cast, an enjoyable way to experience theater nonetheless.

And at only a $5 donation, affordable for the masses.

I'm no fan of baseball, or any sport for that matter, but the story of the treatment of players, and especially blacks, back in the '50s and '60s and the changes they ultimately brought about to benefit players of all ethnicities, was an interesting slice of cultural history.

It just hasn't been that long since it was such a different world.

And, of course, there was romance; the guy ultimately wins the girl at the end.

Ah, love.

Actually, according to the play the two things nearest and dearest to a man's heart are sex and baseball, but hopefully the sex comes with the love.

Because I hadn't seen the other play, The Jag by Gino DiIorio, I wasn't eligible to vote tonight for the best New American Play.

I can't complain, though; I enjoyed a compelling night of affordable theater on a Monday night.

It's just too bad more people weren't there to enjoy it with me.