When you see as many plays as I do, it's rare to be bowled over by a production.
I'm not saying I don't often see incredibly well-executed productions, plays that move me or have me doubled over in laughter, but, generally speaking, I'd already heard raves about the play ahead of time. Or seen a glowing review.
But go away for a couple of weeks and I find myself so out of the loop that I have no clue what I'm in for, or even that the multi-faceted Acts of Faith Festival has apparently begun. For regular playgoers, this is the season when we're seeing multiple plays a week just to stay current. And, just to be claar, the "faith" part is not about religion.
So when I headed out to the Gottwald Playhouse to see Quill's production of "Red Velvet," I had no clue what I was in for.
Turns out what I got was an incredibly well-acted play with a fascinating story based on actual events, along with a healthy dose of "Othello" dialog thrown in. No doubt about it, that's a major score.
My back feels twice my age.
The story was based on the life of black actor Ira Aldridge, considered one of the greatest Shakespearean stage actors in 19th century Europe, who necessarily emigrated to Europe to escape discrimination in the U.S. in the 1820s. When he was hired to play Othello as a replacement for the famous British actor Edmund Kean, who was dying, trouble erupted.
I remember 22. Fearless and stupid.
Although some of the cast members could accept a black in a black man's role, most of them were mired in their long-held prejudices. Even when audiences made clear their appreciation for Aldridge's stellar acting skills with standing ovations, the theater's board of directors feared reprisal and fired him. He found a way to carry on acting, albeit in an unsatisfying manner.
We like new, based on the old.
Listening to the characters read reviews of the 1833 production actually made some audience members gasp and murmur out loud, they were that racially offensive. The N-word was used, remarks were made about a savage touching a white woman and one reviewer wrote that African lips were not fit to speak the English language, much less the hallowed words of Shakespeare.
It's a drink, not a contractual obligation.
Fascinating as the story was, it was the cast that made it shine. Jamar Jones was completely assured playing Ira with confidence and a voice that lifted to the rafters. In the scenes where he was old, you could hear the weariness of fighting a racially divisive world in his voice and see the weight of the battle in his stooped shoulders.
Marvelous, isn't it, that at my age there can still be firsts?
The entire cast was uniformly good, from the youthful, entitled smugness of Cole Metz as Kean's son to Frances Sexton as Ellen, the actress who played Desdemona to Aldridge's Othello with a willingness to try a more naturalistic acting method suggested by Aldridge. As always, Stevie Rice played his character Henry to great comedic effect, but it was his remarks about the unfairness of how blacks were then being treated that made his character so likable.
Before the show, I'd run into a woman I knew a lifetime ago, the only woman I've ever seen walk into a room and be swept up unexpectedly into dancing the polka and doing a magnificent job of it. Although I've always envied her for that, I didn't bring it up last night.
Then at intermission - which, as I learned from this play was apparently called interval in the 19th century - I happened on the former theater critic in the lobby. Like me, he was as completely taken by the story of a seminal theater figure neither of us had so much as heard of as by the top-notch acting.
Marvelous, isn't it, that my first Acts of Faith Festival production this season could be not only engrossing, but so utterly relevant?
Once again proving that even a heathen knows exceptional theater when she sees it. No faith required.
Showing posts with label gottwald playhouse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gottwald playhouse. Show all posts
Friday, February 1, 2019
Monday, October 29, 2018
Mixing Metaphors
Bagels, backers, tequila and tacos. Oh, right, and Hell. Just another typical Sunday.
It was a glorious morning to walk to Nate's Bagels, overcast and brooding on the way there and blue skies and sunny coming back. Kind of like life. The only problem was that after last week's glowing review of the place, the line was even longer than usual.
Not that we were in a hurry.
But some people walked in, eyeballed the line and made an immediate U-turn. Sorry, but once my mouth is set for Nate's, I don't care how long I have to wait to be satisfied. Some people looked like they'd just rolled out of bed - I spotted a woman in slippers and several people in pajama pants - and were using their line time to wake up. Not a bad system.
When we finally got to the counter to order, Nate himself came over to say hello. When we mentioned the review, he shrugged. "It was no Karen, but it was good." Hilarious.
Given that we'd already had breakfast, the purpose of the bagels was to tide us over during the matinee we were attending, which took place only after we'd spent quality time with the Washington Post on the couch. Yet again, it was a depressing day to be reading the news, but better to be informed.
After outfitting ourselves for the theater, we drove to the Gottwald Playhouse where we ran into a trio of women, two visiting from New York, navigating the parking lot payment machine. It took me no time to find out how the local had been entertaining her guests, chief among which was Richmond's ridiculously low prices for parking. They laughed out loud at an $8 fee to park for the rest of the day. Richmond's cute, right, for its simplicity, I asked them. "It's adorable!" one said in her thick New York-ese accent. "We thought it was $25 and that didn't seem bad!"
They'd done a trolley tour the day before and now were off for a tour of Mr. Jefferson's Capital, but only after regaling me with the splendor of the brunch they'd had at the Stables at Belmont. They were as impressed with the cost of food as they were with the quality of what they'd gotten.
After wishing them a good time, we headed to the same building we'd been in the night before for the gala to meet up with Pru, Beau and Queen B. Inside the theater, a row of tables had been set up in front of the risers of seats and we found them ensconced at the last available table.
The premise of "Gutenberg! The Musical" was that the two men onstage - the hilarious and multi-talented Chris Hester and Paul Major - were presenting the musical they'd poured their blood, sweat and tears into to an audience of of potential backers. Because they needed a producer (aka money), it was just the two of them playing all the roles, a task assisted by the many baseball caps labeled with character names: Drunk #1, Young Monk, Drunk #2, Anti-Semite, Daughter. You get the idea.
As for why they'd chosen Gutenberg for the subject of their play, well, who needs historical accuracy to come up with a good musical? Not these guys. Instead, after Googling the inventor of the printing press and discovering scant personal information, they'd set out to make up a Broadway-worthy story with enough inside theater humor to keep our table in stitches all afternoon.
They spoke about the need for a "charm song," a "big end of Act 1 rock 'n roll number" and even explained what a metaphor is: "When you say one thing and mean something else, but you're not lying." That these two uber-talented men were able to play less-than-talented actors, singers and dancers only made it all the funnier.
Like when Chris Hester as Doug performed the Elvis Presley-like strains of "Glimmer in Schlimmer" complete with windmilling guitar arm nad sobbing voice. Or watching Bud, played by Paul Major, as Gutenberg's fictitious love interest, Helvetica, stomping grapes in a cardboard box labeled "barrel" and flipping her blond pig-tails.
And, yes, she was named after the font, making for some seriously nerdy graphic design humor.
As the duo went through all the scenes in their would-be play, Doug would set the scene, invariably mentioning a dirty, thatched roof and getting a bigger laugh every time he did it. Add in the brisk pacing and we were pretty much treated to a non-stop sense of amusement.
By using the character hats laid out on a table, sometimes stacked four or five deep atop their heads, the two played every character, including Dead Baby. In one case, hats were strung on a line for a crowd scene and Beau was chosen as one of two audience members asked to hold up one end while Bud and Doug moved underneath, fitting their heads into various hats to play different characters.
I think it's safe to say that I haven't laughed so much at a play in ages, but the beauty of it was the array of humor, which included everything from bad puns to dry asides to clever wordplay. And for Beau, a touch of corny. No matter what your cup of humorous tea was, these boys had you covered. It didn't hurt that they'd also step out of character to share a thought or observation.
Mel Brooks would have been proud.
And it wasn't just me, because my tablemates were cracking up right along with me. When, at the end, a backer stepped forward to offer them a contract, I stopped laughing for the first time in two hours.
The posse trooped over to Maya afterward, immediately running into a familiar server who hugged me first and welcomed us in. Seated at a large table with a view of the Carpenter Center, we spent the next few hours sipping (mine was Espolon), eating fiery mahi mahi tacos (Mr. Wright) and tamer shrimp tacos (me) while discussing Beau's upcoming trip to Seattle, hearing about Pru's manse repairs and enjoying Queen B's memories of the Plaka.
Improbably, Beau casually mentioned that time that he'd played a robot in a fashion show and we all laughed as hard as we had at Bud and Doug's exploits, which is really saying something.
Although I was seduced by neither flan nor tres leches cake for dessert, both arrived at the table along with a Belle Tango cocktail of Belle Isle Moonshine, tangerine concentrate and habanero syrup, a sweet/spicy sipper with appeal, but not as much as tequila on ice, if I'm honest.
I may be a complicated woman, but my needs are simple.
The Church Hill gang headed home, but Mr. Wright and I weren't finished yet. Our final stop was Gallery 5 for the Halloween edition of the Silent Music Revival with Kenneka Cook providing the improvised score. We had front row seats for the 1911 Italian film, "L'Inferno," considered the first full-length film (at one hour) and also the first blockbuster because it made $2 million in the U.S., which, as producer Jameson so eloquently put it, "was a whole lotta money back then."
Frankly, I still think two million is a whole lot of money, but that's just me.
I'd chatted with Jameson when we'd sat down and as we talked about how I'd been coming practically since the beginning of the Silent Music revival, the guy in front of me turned around, impressed. "You saw Mermaid Skeletons play that show?" he asked with awe in his voice. Yes, I did, son.
Meanwhile, Jameson grinned like a proud father, which is he is when it comes to introducing me (and Richmond) to the cult of silent films with live accompaniment.
He went on to tell us all kinds of interesting tidbits about the film we were about to see, some of which he mentioned when he took the stage to introduce it. In typical Silent Music Revival style - he has, after all been doing this for over 11 years now - he'd edited it some, taking out the most egregious examples of Catholic guilt as well as some political figures that would have been meaningless to 21st century audiences.
"Oh, and I sped it up ten percent," he said with a knowing smile. You don't need to tell me about today's audiences' shrinking attention spans.
Watching Virgil lead Dante through the circles of Hell meant watching early 20th century special effects, some of which were far more sophisticated than I would have thought for the time. That said, I also wondered during a scene with scattered fires and an actor in a nearby hole what kind of safety precautions were used in 1911. My guess? Not much.
Kenneka Cook's overlaid vocal looping was a strong accompaniment to the story, sometimes almost disturbing as her dulcet tones sang over scenes of human misery and bad bird costumes.
But let's get on to the real appeal of this film: major nudity. Clearly film censorship came about after "L'Inferno," because I've never seen so many naked and near naked men onscreen before. For fans of male buns, we're talking a veritable smorgasbord of good-looking Italian butts.
And who knows, maybe some of them went on to play robots in fashion shows. When you're part of the very first blockbuster movie, I bet you can write your own ticket.
It was a glorious morning to walk to Nate's Bagels, overcast and brooding on the way there and blue skies and sunny coming back. Kind of like life. The only problem was that after last week's glowing review of the place, the line was even longer than usual.
Not that we were in a hurry.
But some people walked in, eyeballed the line and made an immediate U-turn. Sorry, but once my mouth is set for Nate's, I don't care how long I have to wait to be satisfied. Some people looked like they'd just rolled out of bed - I spotted a woman in slippers and several people in pajama pants - and were using their line time to wake up. Not a bad system.
When we finally got to the counter to order, Nate himself came over to say hello. When we mentioned the review, he shrugged. "It was no Karen, but it was good." Hilarious.
Given that we'd already had breakfast, the purpose of the bagels was to tide us over during the matinee we were attending, which took place only after we'd spent quality time with the Washington Post on the couch. Yet again, it was a depressing day to be reading the news, but better to be informed.
After outfitting ourselves for the theater, we drove to the Gottwald Playhouse where we ran into a trio of women, two visiting from New York, navigating the parking lot payment machine. It took me no time to find out how the local had been entertaining her guests, chief among which was Richmond's ridiculously low prices for parking. They laughed out loud at an $8 fee to park for the rest of the day. Richmond's cute, right, for its simplicity, I asked them. "It's adorable!" one said in her thick New York-ese accent. "We thought it was $25 and that didn't seem bad!"
They'd done a trolley tour the day before and now were off for a tour of Mr. Jefferson's Capital, but only after regaling me with the splendor of the brunch they'd had at the Stables at Belmont. They were as impressed with the cost of food as they were with the quality of what they'd gotten.
After wishing them a good time, we headed to the same building we'd been in the night before for the gala to meet up with Pru, Beau and Queen B. Inside the theater, a row of tables had been set up in front of the risers of seats and we found them ensconced at the last available table.
The premise of "Gutenberg! The Musical" was that the two men onstage - the hilarious and multi-talented Chris Hester and Paul Major - were presenting the musical they'd poured their blood, sweat and tears into to an audience of of potential backers. Because they needed a producer (aka money), it was just the two of them playing all the roles, a task assisted by the many baseball caps labeled with character names: Drunk #1, Young Monk, Drunk #2, Anti-Semite, Daughter. You get the idea.
As for why they'd chosen Gutenberg for the subject of their play, well, who needs historical accuracy to come up with a good musical? Not these guys. Instead, after Googling the inventor of the printing press and discovering scant personal information, they'd set out to make up a Broadway-worthy story with enough inside theater humor to keep our table in stitches all afternoon.
They spoke about the need for a "charm song," a "big end of Act 1 rock 'n roll number" and even explained what a metaphor is: "When you say one thing and mean something else, but you're not lying." That these two uber-talented men were able to play less-than-talented actors, singers and dancers only made it all the funnier.
Like when Chris Hester as Doug performed the Elvis Presley-like strains of "Glimmer in Schlimmer" complete with windmilling guitar arm nad sobbing voice. Or watching Bud, played by Paul Major, as Gutenberg's fictitious love interest, Helvetica, stomping grapes in a cardboard box labeled "barrel" and flipping her blond pig-tails.
And, yes, she was named after the font, making for some seriously nerdy graphic design humor.
As the duo went through all the scenes in their would-be play, Doug would set the scene, invariably mentioning a dirty, thatched roof and getting a bigger laugh every time he did it. Add in the brisk pacing and we were pretty much treated to a non-stop sense of amusement.
By using the character hats laid out on a table, sometimes stacked four or five deep atop their heads, the two played every character, including Dead Baby. In one case, hats were strung on a line for a crowd scene and Beau was chosen as one of two audience members asked to hold up one end while Bud and Doug moved underneath, fitting their heads into various hats to play different characters.
I think it's safe to say that I haven't laughed so much at a play in ages, but the beauty of it was the array of humor, which included everything from bad puns to dry asides to clever wordplay. And for Beau, a touch of corny. No matter what your cup of humorous tea was, these boys had you covered. It didn't hurt that they'd also step out of character to share a thought or observation.
Mel Brooks would have been proud.
And it wasn't just me, because my tablemates were cracking up right along with me. When, at the end, a backer stepped forward to offer them a contract, I stopped laughing for the first time in two hours.
The posse trooped over to Maya afterward, immediately running into a familiar server who hugged me first and welcomed us in. Seated at a large table with a view of the Carpenter Center, we spent the next few hours sipping (mine was Espolon), eating fiery mahi mahi tacos (Mr. Wright) and tamer shrimp tacos (me) while discussing Beau's upcoming trip to Seattle, hearing about Pru's manse repairs and enjoying Queen B's memories of the Plaka.
Improbably, Beau casually mentioned that time that he'd played a robot in a fashion show and we all laughed as hard as we had at Bud and Doug's exploits, which is really saying something.
Although I was seduced by neither flan nor tres leches cake for dessert, both arrived at the table along with a Belle Tango cocktail of Belle Isle Moonshine, tangerine concentrate and habanero syrup, a sweet/spicy sipper with appeal, but not as much as tequila on ice, if I'm honest.
I may be a complicated woman, but my needs are simple.
The Church Hill gang headed home, but Mr. Wright and I weren't finished yet. Our final stop was Gallery 5 for the Halloween edition of the Silent Music Revival with Kenneka Cook providing the improvised score. We had front row seats for the 1911 Italian film, "L'Inferno," considered the first full-length film (at one hour) and also the first blockbuster because it made $2 million in the U.S., which, as producer Jameson so eloquently put it, "was a whole lotta money back then."
Frankly, I still think two million is a whole lot of money, but that's just me.
I'd chatted with Jameson when we'd sat down and as we talked about how I'd been coming practically since the beginning of the Silent Music revival, the guy in front of me turned around, impressed. "You saw Mermaid Skeletons play that show?" he asked with awe in his voice. Yes, I did, son.
Meanwhile, Jameson grinned like a proud father, which is he is when it comes to introducing me (and Richmond) to the cult of silent films with live accompaniment.
He went on to tell us all kinds of interesting tidbits about the film we were about to see, some of which he mentioned when he took the stage to introduce it. In typical Silent Music Revival style - he has, after all been doing this for over 11 years now - he'd edited it some, taking out the most egregious examples of Catholic guilt as well as some political figures that would have been meaningless to 21st century audiences.
"Oh, and I sped it up ten percent," he said with a knowing smile. You don't need to tell me about today's audiences' shrinking attention spans.
Watching Virgil lead Dante through the circles of Hell meant watching early 20th century special effects, some of which were far more sophisticated than I would have thought for the time. That said, I also wondered during a scene with scattered fires and an actor in a nearby hole what kind of safety precautions were used in 1911. My guess? Not much.
Kenneka Cook's overlaid vocal looping was a strong accompaniment to the story, sometimes almost disturbing as her dulcet tones sang over scenes of human misery and bad bird costumes.
But let's get on to the real appeal of this film: major nudity. Clearly film censorship came about after "L'Inferno," because I've never seen so many naked and near naked men onscreen before. For fans of male buns, we're talking a veritable smorgasbord of good-looking Italian butts.
And who knows, maybe some of them went on to play robots in fashion shows. When you're part of the very first blockbuster movie, I bet you can write your own ticket.
Saturday, October 8, 2016
Purple Haze
If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result, then the definition of stupidity is doing something in the most time-consuming and arduous kind of way. Repeatedly.
Welcome to Foto Boy and I trying to go to the theater tonight.
When he comes to pick me up, I point out the obvious: we should be walking. At 3/4 of a mile, and knowing that there are two events at CenterStage tonight, it only makes sense.
Still, we drive.
And drive. And slow down looking for parking spaces and go down streets clogged with other motorists. Drive down the same streets repeatedly with the same result (see above): no spaces. A couple of times, we got close to Main Street, a major mistake considering this is opening night for Folk Fest.
Yes, he's my friend, but he's also got a "Y" chromosome, so when I tried to gently suggest we head away from CenterStage and away from the Folk Fest (ergo, north or west), he got crotchety and insisted I let him find parking.
Only problem was he was so flustered he wasn't even thinking by this point, say, roughly 20 minutes into the endeavor. We could have walked over from my apartment and started back in that much time.
Finally, he agreed to cross Broad and we found a space on the first block. Time elapsed: 25 minutes.
Only problem was, we were still five blocks from the Gottwald Playhouse and this is not a man who can keep up with my walking pace, much less my pace when it's curtain time and we're blocks away.
Bless his heart, he tried, though, huffing and puffing all the way up until an usher on the sidewalk asked, "Comedy or Dracula?" and I answered for him. At Will Call, the woman said they'd held the curtain for five minutes, so the play was just now beginning.
Our only saving grace was the other three people who were as late as we were.
We were told to stand on the sides until we got the nod to sit, but we were so near the stage that I, at least, was immediately swallowed up in the action onstage, where force meat was being mentioned. When the usher came to fetch us and lead us to seats, it took a second for me to make the transition back to reality.
But made it I did, so I could be fully present to accept, as we walked up steps to reach our seats, that we were those annoying, oblivious people - who had somehow not allowed enough time to park on a Friday night when half of Richmond would be downtown - who were now obstructing their view getting seated.
Sigh. I believe the proper term for us is "rubes."
One reason I'd been eager not to miss so much as a minute of Quill Theatre's production of "Dracula" is that (for shame) I really don't know much about the story because I'd definitely never read Bram Stoker's novel.
And this was a 1996 adaptation by Steven Dietz, so I'm still not entirely certain if the story I got is the same as the original 1897 version. Thankfully, a lot of the language had the more formal feel of the 19th century, so it may have been original.
It was far sexier than I expected and much funnier, like when Dracula says, "The Huns were despicable but they did make good wine!" but also groovier (signs read: "Haze will be used") and more poignant ("What of the great un-beautiful multitudes?").
And the biggest surprise? How limited Count Dracula's role was. Oh, sure, he was talked about plenty, but onstage infrequently, albeit imposingly in his all-black Goth ensembles.
My logical side objected when suitors would provide the necessary blood transfusions to their weakened beloveds with no concern for blood type and my inner art historian was annoyed when Leonardo was referred to as "da Vinci," his hometown and not his name at all.
And why did all the women have on period tops yet pants rather than skirts, on the bottom?
But theater, as we know, is about suspension of belief after all, so I suspended in order to appreciate the multi-level set, the moody lighting and the way the cast completely inhabited their roles.
I'm a tad better informed on the legend of Dracula as a result.
Walking back to the car, Foto Boy was busy explaining how tired he was, so he couldn't possibly accompany me to the Carnival of 5 Fires at Gallery 5 to watch the fire performers before driving home.
Which is exactly why, after spotting a free parking space across from GWAR Bar, I didn't hesitate to tell him to pull into it and accompany me for a short while. After 7 years of friendship with this guy, I knew he'd be glad to have gone once we got there.
"You think you know me so well, don't you?" he said in his smarmiest voice as we got out of the car, but the truth is, I do know him pretty well and, at the very least, way better than his girlfriend of less than a year does.
So my answer was yes.
Only problem was, we got up to the closed street just as the ringmaster was closing down the show and sending people to the afterparty at Strange Matter.
"It's time to get out of the street, get on to the sidewalk and pick up your trash!" he exhorted the great beautiful and un-beautiful multitudes, many of whom wore gypsy-like threads. "Our street permit just ended!"
Ah, but that wasn't all.
"And don't forget to vote! It's an important election this year! Don't forget to drink water...you know, our bodies are mostly made of water! And be nice to people because it's the right thing to do!"
So while we didn't get to see any fire performers, we at least saw the burning torches resting by the stage as he outlined the ABCs of life to remind those who needed them.
The only one he left out was, "Don't bother driving when walking is faster and easier!"
Needless to say, I walked home. Whether Foto Boy made it home or is still looking for a parking space, I really can't say.
Welcome to Foto Boy and I trying to go to the theater tonight.
When he comes to pick me up, I point out the obvious: we should be walking. At 3/4 of a mile, and knowing that there are two events at CenterStage tonight, it only makes sense.
Still, we drive.
And drive. And slow down looking for parking spaces and go down streets clogged with other motorists. Drive down the same streets repeatedly with the same result (see above): no spaces. A couple of times, we got close to Main Street, a major mistake considering this is opening night for Folk Fest.
Yes, he's my friend, but he's also got a "Y" chromosome, so when I tried to gently suggest we head away from CenterStage and away from the Folk Fest (ergo, north or west), he got crotchety and insisted I let him find parking.
Only problem was he was so flustered he wasn't even thinking by this point, say, roughly 20 minutes into the endeavor. We could have walked over from my apartment and started back in that much time.
Finally, he agreed to cross Broad and we found a space on the first block. Time elapsed: 25 minutes.
Only problem was, we were still five blocks from the Gottwald Playhouse and this is not a man who can keep up with my walking pace, much less my pace when it's curtain time and we're blocks away.
Bless his heart, he tried, though, huffing and puffing all the way up until an usher on the sidewalk asked, "Comedy or Dracula?" and I answered for him. At Will Call, the woman said they'd held the curtain for five minutes, so the play was just now beginning.
Our only saving grace was the other three people who were as late as we were.
We were told to stand on the sides until we got the nod to sit, but we were so near the stage that I, at least, was immediately swallowed up in the action onstage, where force meat was being mentioned. When the usher came to fetch us and lead us to seats, it took a second for me to make the transition back to reality.
But made it I did, so I could be fully present to accept, as we walked up steps to reach our seats, that we were those annoying, oblivious people - who had somehow not allowed enough time to park on a Friday night when half of Richmond would be downtown - who were now obstructing their view getting seated.
Sigh. I believe the proper term for us is "rubes."
One reason I'd been eager not to miss so much as a minute of Quill Theatre's production of "Dracula" is that (for shame) I really don't know much about the story because I'd definitely never read Bram Stoker's novel.
And this was a 1996 adaptation by Steven Dietz, so I'm still not entirely certain if the story I got is the same as the original 1897 version. Thankfully, a lot of the language had the more formal feel of the 19th century, so it may have been original.
It was far sexier than I expected and much funnier, like when Dracula says, "The Huns were despicable but they did make good wine!" but also groovier (signs read: "Haze will be used") and more poignant ("What of the great un-beautiful multitudes?").
And the biggest surprise? How limited Count Dracula's role was. Oh, sure, he was talked about plenty, but onstage infrequently, albeit imposingly in his all-black Goth ensembles.
My logical side objected when suitors would provide the necessary blood transfusions to their weakened beloveds with no concern for blood type and my inner art historian was annoyed when Leonardo was referred to as "da Vinci," his hometown and not his name at all.
And why did all the women have on period tops yet pants rather than skirts, on the bottom?
But theater, as we know, is about suspension of belief after all, so I suspended in order to appreciate the multi-level set, the moody lighting and the way the cast completely inhabited their roles.
I'm a tad better informed on the legend of Dracula as a result.
Walking back to the car, Foto Boy was busy explaining how tired he was, so he couldn't possibly accompany me to the Carnival of 5 Fires at Gallery 5 to watch the fire performers before driving home.
Which is exactly why, after spotting a free parking space across from GWAR Bar, I didn't hesitate to tell him to pull into it and accompany me for a short while. After 7 years of friendship with this guy, I knew he'd be glad to have gone once we got there.
"You think you know me so well, don't you?" he said in his smarmiest voice as we got out of the car, but the truth is, I do know him pretty well and, at the very least, way better than his girlfriend of less than a year does.
So my answer was yes.
Only problem was, we got up to the closed street just as the ringmaster was closing down the show and sending people to the afterparty at Strange Matter.
"It's time to get out of the street, get on to the sidewalk and pick up your trash!" he exhorted the great beautiful and un-beautiful multitudes, many of whom wore gypsy-like threads. "Our street permit just ended!"
Ah, but that wasn't all.
"And don't forget to vote! It's an important election this year! Don't forget to drink water...you know, our bodies are mostly made of water! And be nice to people because it's the right thing to do!"
So while we didn't get to see any fire performers, we at least saw the burning torches resting by the stage as he outlined the ABCs of life to remind those who needed them.
The only one he left out was, "Don't bother driving when walking is faster and easier!"
Needless to say, I walked home. Whether Foto Boy made it home or is still looking for a parking space, I really can't say.
Friday, September 12, 2014
Peculiar Sorts and Lutzes
Mind first, booty second.
Tonight was the first in Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare's new historical play reading series dedicated to works descended from Shakespeare's use of language.
Hardly surprisingly, I had a ticket to join a favorite couple for it.
They found me in the second row with enough time to tell me about their trip this weekend to Newport and their recent entry into the world of cooking before the lights went down.
"Omnium Gatherum," a 2003 play (and one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Prize) about a group of New Yorkers at a dinner party was fascinating, thought-provoking, groan-inducing and topical.
I drink to make other people interesting.
Although the dinner conversation between the seven - and eventually eight - guests ("a collection of peculiar sorts") centered around September 11th and its aftereffects, there wasn't a topic covered that wasn't still relevant today, sadly, eleven years later.
Lively and contentious debate is the heart of every good dinner party.
In addition to all kinds of political discourse, the hostess described in minute detail every dish she was serving her guests, no doubt an early nod to the burgeoning foodie movement.
When a guest asks for ranch dressing for the salad, the hostess, recoils in horror. "Ranch??"
Although it was just a reading, the cast was outstanding, featuring actors I recognized - the always excellent Dean Knight (this time with a British accent) and the Artsie-nominated Katrinah Carol Lewis who sang an off-key version of "The Greatest Love" despite her having a fabulous voice- and some I didn't.
I've never been a fan of frisee. Too wild on the plate.
As was the prevailing sentiment at the time, it was mentioned that "print is dead" (fortunately, still not entirely true) and the New York Times was skewered as "a paper of record or a pacifier of bourgeoisie."
No dinner party is any good unless someone is drinking too fast.
So many "isms" were represented - feminism, capitalism, consumerism, terrorism, heroism - and all were discussed and debated to varying degrees of success.
We're evolving but the power system isn't.
Serious as some of the subject matter was, the play also had many laughs, never more so than when the hostess attempts to smooth things over with a change in topic.
A guest acknowledges it by calling it "a veritable triple lutz of a conversational leap," the line I nominate as indicative of the quality of language in the play.
Afterwards, there was a talkback with a three-person panel, a class from UR and all the attendees resulting in a lot of commentary about the pre-and post-9/11 world.
My friends and I had to laugh when one of the UR freshmen mentioned his grasp of the old world order because he'd been alive when the terrorist attacks occurred.
Of course, he'd been in kindergarten, but he wanted to be counted among those who "knew" the world before the attacks. I don't think so, youngster.
The talkback went on longer than planned because so many people had thoughts to share, questions to ask and points to make about the play.
My friends and I stood outside on the sidewalk for fifteen minutes discussing it ourselves, unable to stop our discourse on all the intriguing points raised.
My mind had been thoroughly goosed.
Then it was on to Balliceaux where I ran into a favorite trumpet player loitering outside Kuba, Kuba as I walked from my car.
Squeezing through the crowd around the front door, I headed to the back for a double bill where garage rock band Cherry Pits was hitting it hard when I walked in.
The Americana songbird spotted me at once ("We need to plan our date!"), the DJ was showing off her pretty toenail polish and the guitarist/foodie questioned my whereabouts ("Where were you this weekend at Fall Line Fest?") only to learn we had just barely missed each other Saturday at two different venues.
When I asked how proto-punk band Death had been, he shook his head and uttered what may the epitaph of the evening.
"You can't re-inflate a souffle," he explained glumly but with a masterful metaphor.
Cherry Pits' thrash-filled set ended with the best possible song: "My Baby's a Bitch," which had the crowd in a frenzy by the end.
While Hot Dolphin set up, I chatted with a friend about when the Valentine will re-open (late October if the contractors keep showing up), why a 40-year old should get carded at the door and why dresses beat pants every time.
Then it was time for main event, a show I was overdue for, not having seen the local rockers since last summer.
The band - drummer, guitarist and bassist - set up on the stage but front woman Lindsey - adorably dressed in a polka dot shirt with peplum, black mini and silver head band - had her mic stand on the floor so she'd have plenty of room to move.
"Thanks to Balliceaux for hosting a rock show!" she said to get things started on a Thursday night.
When I'd first seen Hot Dolphin, I'd been amazed at how she never stopped dancing. Ever.
She still hasn't and that's a very good thing because it ensures that the crowd understands that this is music to shake your tail feathers to.
Like sheep to the slaughter, she totally owns the crowd and they follow along l thrilled to have her leading them.
To give you an idea, her sound check was a scream, then she entreated us to come closer (the better to stick the mic in fans' faces to sing along) and surround her.
A photographer friend planted himself in the front row, the better to capture the energy happening a few feet from his lens.
Simply put, girls want to be her and men want to have her. Everyone was into her and the energetic music.
When she snarled, "Put your hands together," you'd better believe people did.
Each song was a three-minute sensory assault and not since Stevie Nicks has there been such a whirling dervish of a singer dancing, twirling and playing tambourine to a rapt audience.
After their last song, she understandably had quite the sheen and took a swig of her beer, announcing, "We're done! We're Hot Dolphin. We have t-shirts and that's it."
I'd gotten plenty of dancing of my own in, a fitting finish to an evening that had begun with my body still and my mind fully engaged.
Walking down Lombardy to my car after the show, two girls behind me chattered away about what they'd just seen.
"I wish I could be as sexy as her," one said enviously. "If I could wear my hair like that, I so would," said the other.
I considered turning around and telling them that that wasn't the point, that it was the energy, passion and obvious enjoyment she brought to the music that was worth emulating.
A quick glimpse back and I knew there was no point.
They looked like they'd probably been in kindergarten on 9/11. A triple lutz of a conversational leap would fly right over their heads.
New world order.
Tonight was the first in Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare's new historical play reading series dedicated to works descended from Shakespeare's use of language.
Hardly surprisingly, I had a ticket to join a favorite couple for it.
They found me in the second row with enough time to tell me about their trip this weekend to Newport and their recent entry into the world of cooking before the lights went down.
"Omnium Gatherum," a 2003 play (and one of three finalists for the Pulitzer Prize) about a group of New Yorkers at a dinner party was fascinating, thought-provoking, groan-inducing and topical.
I drink to make other people interesting.
Although the dinner conversation between the seven - and eventually eight - guests ("a collection of peculiar sorts") centered around September 11th and its aftereffects, there wasn't a topic covered that wasn't still relevant today, sadly, eleven years later.
Lively and contentious debate is the heart of every good dinner party.
In addition to all kinds of political discourse, the hostess described in minute detail every dish she was serving her guests, no doubt an early nod to the burgeoning foodie movement.
When a guest asks for ranch dressing for the salad, the hostess, recoils in horror. "Ranch??"
Although it was just a reading, the cast was outstanding, featuring actors I recognized - the always excellent Dean Knight (this time with a British accent) and the Artsie-nominated Katrinah Carol Lewis who sang an off-key version of "The Greatest Love" despite her having a fabulous voice- and some I didn't.
I've never been a fan of frisee. Too wild on the plate.
As was the prevailing sentiment at the time, it was mentioned that "print is dead" (fortunately, still not entirely true) and the New York Times was skewered as "a paper of record or a pacifier of bourgeoisie."
No dinner party is any good unless someone is drinking too fast.
So many "isms" were represented - feminism, capitalism, consumerism, terrorism, heroism - and all were discussed and debated to varying degrees of success.
We're evolving but the power system isn't.
Serious as some of the subject matter was, the play also had many laughs, never more so than when the hostess attempts to smooth things over with a change in topic.
A guest acknowledges it by calling it "a veritable triple lutz of a conversational leap," the line I nominate as indicative of the quality of language in the play.
Afterwards, there was a talkback with a three-person panel, a class from UR and all the attendees resulting in a lot of commentary about the pre-and post-9/11 world.
My friends and I had to laugh when one of the UR freshmen mentioned his grasp of the old world order because he'd been alive when the terrorist attacks occurred.
Of course, he'd been in kindergarten, but he wanted to be counted among those who "knew" the world before the attacks. I don't think so, youngster.
The talkback went on longer than planned because so many people had thoughts to share, questions to ask and points to make about the play.
My friends and I stood outside on the sidewalk for fifteen minutes discussing it ourselves, unable to stop our discourse on all the intriguing points raised.
My mind had been thoroughly goosed.
Then it was on to Balliceaux where I ran into a favorite trumpet player loitering outside Kuba, Kuba as I walked from my car.
Squeezing through the crowd around the front door, I headed to the back for a double bill where garage rock band Cherry Pits was hitting it hard when I walked in.
The Americana songbird spotted me at once ("We need to plan our date!"), the DJ was showing off her pretty toenail polish and the guitarist/foodie questioned my whereabouts ("Where were you this weekend at Fall Line Fest?") only to learn we had just barely missed each other Saturday at two different venues.
When I asked how proto-punk band Death had been, he shook his head and uttered what may the epitaph of the evening.
"You can't re-inflate a souffle," he explained glumly but with a masterful metaphor.
Cherry Pits' thrash-filled set ended with the best possible song: "My Baby's a Bitch," which had the crowd in a frenzy by the end.
While Hot Dolphin set up, I chatted with a friend about when the Valentine will re-open (late October if the contractors keep showing up), why a 40-year old should get carded at the door and why dresses beat pants every time.
Then it was time for main event, a show I was overdue for, not having seen the local rockers since last summer.
The band - drummer, guitarist and bassist - set up on the stage but front woman Lindsey - adorably dressed in a polka dot shirt with peplum, black mini and silver head band - had her mic stand on the floor so she'd have plenty of room to move.
"Thanks to Balliceaux for hosting a rock show!" she said to get things started on a Thursday night.
When I'd first seen Hot Dolphin, I'd been amazed at how she never stopped dancing. Ever.
She still hasn't and that's a very good thing because it ensures that the crowd understands that this is music to shake your tail feathers to.
Like sheep to the slaughter, she totally owns the crowd and they follow along l thrilled to have her leading them.
To give you an idea, her sound check was a scream, then she entreated us to come closer (the better to stick the mic in fans' faces to sing along) and surround her.
A photographer friend planted himself in the front row, the better to capture the energy happening a few feet from his lens.
Simply put, girls want to be her and men want to have her. Everyone was into her and the energetic music.
When she snarled, "Put your hands together," you'd better believe people did.
Each song was a three-minute sensory assault and not since Stevie Nicks has there been such a whirling dervish of a singer dancing, twirling and playing tambourine to a rapt audience.
After their last song, she understandably had quite the sheen and took a swig of her beer, announcing, "We're done! We're Hot Dolphin. We have t-shirts and that's it."
I'd gotten plenty of dancing of my own in, a fitting finish to an evening that had begun with my body still and my mind fully engaged.
Walking down Lombardy to my car after the show, two girls behind me chattered away about what they'd just seen.
"I wish I could be as sexy as her," one said enviously. "If I could wear my hair like that, I so would," said the other.
I considered turning around and telling them that that wasn't the point, that it was the energy, passion and obvious enjoyment she brought to the music that was worth emulating.
A quick glimpse back and I knew there was no point.
They looked like they'd probably been in kindergarten on 9/11. A triple lutz of a conversational leap would fly right over their heads.
New world order.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Much to Chew On
You have to appreciate a man who requests your company for a meal that goes down easy and a play that doesn't.
We met at Rappahannock where the bar was full of suits, the tables full of diners and I was greeted by a guy I'd met at Patrick Henry's several summers ago.
Funny the people who remember you with full body hugs.
Seated at a table next to a rambunctious eight-top, we were greeted by our server who squints and remembers me from a recent lunch where my date had been an hour-plus late and he'd suggested I retaliate by ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon (ignoring his advice, I'd chosen Domaine Rolet cremant de Juca rose instead).
Tonight, I repeat myself by ordering a dozen Olde Salts but reconsider when he says, "You want all the same?" and split my order into half Stingrays and half Olde Salts, even though he is not the boss of me.
Without asking if my companion wants an appetizer, he leaves. When I'm finally able to get his attention so my date can order, he apologizes, saying he assumed we were sharing the oysters.
Do I look like I can't down a dozen by myself?
My companion goes with a special of scallop ceviche, finding it unexpectedly spicy near the center, while sharing the restaurant gossip he's heard.
For a person who works in the corporate world, he is amazingly adept at knowing what's going on behind kitchen doors.
With the clock ticking down toward curtain time, we order entrees which arrive surprisingly quickly.
He's more than happy with his pan-seared mahi, but I think my bowl of Olde Salt clams with merguez sausage-stuffed squid, braised shell beans and grilled Tuscan kale in an amontillado sherry and smoked tomato sugo kicks his mahi's butt.
But then, I'm a sausage and beans kind of gal.
Dinner conversations runs the gamut from how the temperature affects my walking/his running, recent movies we've seen and Valentine's day plans.
By the time we finish, we have barely enough time for dessert but we order chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake anyway.
If we have to stuff it in our mouths as we put our coats on, we need some sweet to put the period at the end of our savory.
Which we get before scurrying the two blocks to CenterStage to see Henley Street Theater and Richmond Shakespeare's production of "Death and the Maiden," for which we have front row seats for tonight's preview performance.
Arriving at the very last minute, the usher teases us, saying, "There you are!" The shaming is justified and funny.
For a change, having heard what a powerful play this is, I have purposely done no research so that it can unfold for me with no foreknowledge.
Even so, reading the program prepares me for a story about the aftermath of unspeakable acts committed on an innocent woman. It seems likely that the play will be short given the intensity of the topic.
The award-winning, three-actor play has dramatic set design, with blood-stained work clothes making up the enormous back wall and bodybag-looking black plastic curtains on the side.
Set in Chile during Pinochet's brutal 1973 takeover, a story unfolds wherein a woman enlists her husband's assistance to get revenge on one of the men responsible for the tortures inflicted on her.
By the end of the brief first act, her captor is bound and gagged with a black hood on his head and there he stays during the entire intermission.
It's a plot device that has all of us feeling uncomfortable as the lights come up and he is still confined onstage.
In the ladies' room, I discuss the first act with several strangers, all of whom are experiencing knotted stomachs, tension and discomfort with the woman's plight and the depiction of it.
It's unanimous that being made to feel this way is not only superb theater but a unique opportunity to feel something so unlike what theater usually gives us.
The second act is, if possible, even stronger as acts too horrible to be forgiven are attempted to be put in the past.
Katrinah Carol Lewis all but spits out her lines and anguish as the one-time victim in a role that almost has to outshine the two men no matter how well-played theirs are.
Any way you look at it, the play was difficult, challenging, uncomfortable and mesmerizing.
Walking out, I asked my friend what he thought.
"I'm going to come back and see it again," he said, clearly having already made up his mind on that.
Right on. You want your meals easy to digest, but sometimes you need your theater to be just the opposite.
We met at Rappahannock where the bar was full of suits, the tables full of diners and I was greeted by a guy I'd met at Patrick Henry's several summers ago.
Funny the people who remember you with full body hugs.
Seated at a table next to a rambunctious eight-top, we were greeted by our server who squints and remembers me from a recent lunch where my date had been an hour-plus late and he'd suggested I retaliate by ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon (ignoring his advice, I'd chosen Domaine Rolet cremant de Juca rose instead).
Tonight, I repeat myself by ordering a dozen Olde Salts but reconsider when he says, "You want all the same?" and split my order into half Stingrays and half Olde Salts, even though he is not the boss of me.
Without asking if my companion wants an appetizer, he leaves. When I'm finally able to get his attention so my date can order, he apologizes, saying he assumed we were sharing the oysters.
Do I look like I can't down a dozen by myself?
My companion goes with a special of scallop ceviche, finding it unexpectedly spicy near the center, while sharing the restaurant gossip he's heard.
For a person who works in the corporate world, he is amazingly adept at knowing what's going on behind kitchen doors.
With the clock ticking down toward curtain time, we order entrees which arrive surprisingly quickly.
He's more than happy with his pan-seared mahi, but I think my bowl of Olde Salt clams with merguez sausage-stuffed squid, braised shell beans and grilled Tuscan kale in an amontillado sherry and smoked tomato sugo kicks his mahi's butt.
But then, I'm a sausage and beans kind of gal.
Dinner conversations runs the gamut from how the temperature affects my walking/his running, recent movies we've seen and Valentine's day plans.
By the time we finish, we have barely enough time for dessert but we order chocolate ganache buckwheat crepe cake anyway.
If we have to stuff it in our mouths as we put our coats on, we need some sweet to put the period at the end of our savory.
Which we get before scurrying the two blocks to CenterStage to see Henley Street Theater and Richmond Shakespeare's production of "Death and the Maiden," for which we have front row seats for tonight's preview performance.
Arriving at the very last minute, the usher teases us, saying, "There you are!" The shaming is justified and funny.
For a change, having heard what a powerful play this is, I have purposely done no research so that it can unfold for me with no foreknowledge.
Even so, reading the program prepares me for a story about the aftermath of unspeakable acts committed on an innocent woman. It seems likely that the play will be short given the intensity of the topic.
The award-winning, three-actor play has dramatic set design, with blood-stained work clothes making up the enormous back wall and bodybag-looking black plastic curtains on the side.
Set in Chile during Pinochet's brutal 1973 takeover, a story unfolds wherein a woman enlists her husband's assistance to get revenge on one of the men responsible for the tortures inflicted on her.
By the end of the brief first act, her captor is bound and gagged with a black hood on his head and there he stays during the entire intermission.
It's a plot device that has all of us feeling uncomfortable as the lights come up and he is still confined onstage.
In the ladies' room, I discuss the first act with several strangers, all of whom are experiencing knotted stomachs, tension and discomfort with the woman's plight and the depiction of it.
It's unanimous that being made to feel this way is not only superb theater but a unique opportunity to feel something so unlike what theater usually gives us.
The second act is, if possible, even stronger as acts too horrible to be forgiven are attempted to be put in the past.
Katrinah Carol Lewis all but spits out her lines and anguish as the one-time victim in a role that almost has to outshine the two men no matter how well-played theirs are.
Any way you look at it, the play was difficult, challenging, uncomfortable and mesmerizing.
Walking out, I asked my friend what he thought.
"I'm going to come back and see it again," he said, clearly having already made up his mind on that.
Right on. You want your meals easy to digest, but sometimes you need your theater to be just the opposite.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Shall We Smote?
All the world's a lie and all the men and women merely liars.
Which I suppose included me and my theater-loving companion and definitely refered to Henley Street Theater's production of "The Liar."
Seated in the second row at the Gottwald Playhouse at CenterStage, we had a ringside view for a French farce from the 17th century.
You know the kind: breasts falling out of dresses, elaborate sexual innuendo and non-stop laughter (like the 70-something next to us who lasciviously laughed at every dirty innuendo).
"The story's so piquant!"
The Artistic Director thanked us for coming and did a quick pep talk after noting the rainy day audience.
"You're a small but potent crowd, I feel sure," Ricks said.
And all of us ready for some cosmic fiction.
The play had been both translated and adapted for modern audiences, making for a satisfying combination of rhyming wordplay and modern references.
"What charm is your memory cursed with?"
There was also a breakdown of the fourth wall with characters speaking directly to us.
When the liar of the title gives his first speech, his friend points to him, saying dryly, "The exposition."
As if we hadn't noticed.
"Is it not a man's job to flatter?"
Actually, I think that it is.
The play benefited from a strong cast who almost never tripped over the iambic pentameter that dominated the dialog.
Only when the liar is forced to admit his love for Lucrece does he resort to prose.
"One who loves asks no leave; they just adore."
I laughed out loud repeatedly...at the interior rhymes, the double meanings and the brilliant uses of mis-pronunciation for the sake of maintaining a rhyme scheme.
"Did I say the girl was deep? She's an ocean!"
Like the Shakespeare it was no doubt partially inspired by (including a few direct rip-offs), there were twins, unknown siblings, mistaken identities and a tidy ending.
And, being a farce, groan-worthy lines.
"You may be a bi-valve, but you're my valve."
Does it get any more romantic than that?
Not on a pouring down rainy day, so after the pleasure of two hours of verse and love (and even a talkback with the actors), we were starving.
And, like last Sunday late afternoon, we ended up at Burger Bach after finding Cellar Door closed.
Unlike last Sunday at BB, we eschewed bivalves at the four-screen bar for (basic and lamb) burgers at a corner booth with a view of a silvery sky.
Okay, with a few oysters to start.
My favorite thing about their wine list is the South African choices so it was a bit of a buzz kill to hear that they were out of the Warwick Pinotage.
We left Stellenbosch behind and moved to the Western Cape, sharing the Boekenhoutskloof Wolf Trap 2011, an earthy Syrah, Mourvedre, Viognier blend perfect for a damp, cool April evening.
When the bottle and burgers were gone we knew the absence of desserts would send us down the street to Secco.
Already enjoying the rainy evening there was a Blood Brother and his crew up front and over at the bar, the teacher out late on a school night.
She clarified why that sometimes happens despite her usual habit of early bedtimes.
"It's always because of a dude, Karen" she explained to me like she was talking to an idiot.
There we also found olive oil and rosemary gelato with sea salt (exquisite taste and texture) and hot, freshly fried zeppoles to accompany our digestifs.
Our last stop was Commercial Taphouse for Labragenda, a four piece doing progressive jazz to far too few people.
I recognized three of the four: the band's namesake Larry Branch, the guitar player from the RVA Big Band and the bassist from Marionette.
They did some originals, a terrific piece called "Fiction" by Glows in the Dark's Scott Burton and closed the first set with an extended "Tailgating."
For their second set, they played some Journey, Milli Vanilli and a little Nickelback.
Kidding.
Haven't you heard? "Liars aren't born, they're fabricated."
Which I suppose included me and my theater-loving companion and definitely refered to Henley Street Theater's production of "The Liar."
Seated in the second row at the Gottwald Playhouse at CenterStage, we had a ringside view for a French farce from the 17th century.
You know the kind: breasts falling out of dresses, elaborate sexual innuendo and non-stop laughter (like the 70-something next to us who lasciviously laughed at every dirty innuendo).
"The story's so piquant!"
The Artistic Director thanked us for coming and did a quick pep talk after noting the rainy day audience.
"You're a small but potent crowd, I feel sure," Ricks said.
And all of us ready for some cosmic fiction.
The play had been both translated and adapted for modern audiences, making for a satisfying combination of rhyming wordplay and modern references.
"What charm is your memory cursed with?"
There was also a breakdown of the fourth wall with characters speaking directly to us.
When the liar of the title gives his first speech, his friend points to him, saying dryly, "The exposition."
As if we hadn't noticed.
"Is it not a man's job to flatter?"
Actually, I think that it is.
The play benefited from a strong cast who almost never tripped over the iambic pentameter that dominated the dialog.
Only when the liar is forced to admit his love for Lucrece does he resort to prose.
"One who loves asks no leave; they just adore."
I laughed out loud repeatedly...at the interior rhymes, the double meanings and the brilliant uses of mis-pronunciation for the sake of maintaining a rhyme scheme.
"Did I say the girl was deep? She's an ocean!"
Like the Shakespeare it was no doubt partially inspired by (including a few direct rip-offs), there were twins, unknown siblings, mistaken identities and a tidy ending.
And, being a farce, groan-worthy lines.
"You may be a bi-valve, but you're my valve."
Does it get any more romantic than that?
Not on a pouring down rainy day, so after the pleasure of two hours of verse and love (and even a talkback with the actors), we were starving.
And, like last Sunday late afternoon, we ended up at Burger Bach after finding Cellar Door closed.
Unlike last Sunday at BB, we eschewed bivalves at the four-screen bar for (basic and lamb) burgers at a corner booth with a view of a silvery sky.
Okay, with a few oysters to start.
My favorite thing about their wine list is the South African choices so it was a bit of a buzz kill to hear that they were out of the Warwick Pinotage.
We left Stellenbosch behind and moved to the Western Cape, sharing the Boekenhoutskloof Wolf Trap 2011, an earthy Syrah, Mourvedre, Viognier blend perfect for a damp, cool April evening.
When the bottle and burgers were gone we knew the absence of desserts would send us down the street to Secco.
Already enjoying the rainy evening there was a Blood Brother and his crew up front and over at the bar, the teacher out late on a school night.
She clarified why that sometimes happens despite her usual habit of early bedtimes.
"It's always because of a dude, Karen" she explained to me like she was talking to an idiot.
There we also found olive oil and rosemary gelato with sea salt (exquisite taste and texture) and hot, freshly fried zeppoles to accompany our digestifs.
Our last stop was Commercial Taphouse for Labragenda, a four piece doing progressive jazz to far too few people.
I recognized three of the four: the band's namesake Larry Branch, the guitar player from the RVA Big Band and the bassist from Marionette.
They did some originals, a terrific piece called "Fiction" by Glows in the Dark's Scott Burton and closed the first set with an extended "Tailgating."
For their second set, they played some Journey, Milli Vanilli and a little Nickelback.
Kidding.
Haven't you heard? "Liars aren't born, they're fabricated."
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
As I Like It
"Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak."
If I were looking for a statement of life philosophy, that might be it, although I'd have to give Shakespeare credit for the wording, if not the sentiment.
So with lots on my mind and the resulting lots to speak, I met a friend at Six Burner after she messaged me, "You have a lot to share!"
You talking to me?
And while we weren't exactly outside on this gorgeous day, all the front windows in the restaurant were wide open, allowing balmy, spring-like air to waft through the restaurant.
The only thing lacking by not being outside was the exhaust fumes of Main Street traffic.
"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?"
Despite my friend's penchant for chewy red wine, even she had to acknowledge that today was not a day for it.
Instead, we went the sparkling route with Fita Azul Passion Rose because who couldn't use a little more passion in their life?
"I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine."
Over talk of men with beards that need trimming, terribly attentive dates and homecomings, we slurped up a bowl of P.E.I. mussels with bacon, bleu cheese, white wine and garlic broth.
The creamy broth was so good we got extra bread for sopping. My friend wanted to drink it with a straw but thought better of it.
We ran into someone she knows who's doing a piano bar here Brooklyn-style that sounds like something I need to check out.
After all, it's important not to wait too long to do what you need to do.
It's not like anyone is getting any younger.
"Sell when you can, You are not for all markets."
Just when we were trying to make plans for another get-together, I noticed the time and had to beat feet.
Richmond Shakespeare waits for no man (or woman).
This month's staged reading was "As You Like It," or another play about true love (and masked identities).
My favorite kind.
Tonight's twist was that nine of their Young Company were doing the reading, meaning lots of skinny jeans and promising talent.
"That flattering tongue of yours won me."
Nathan Johnson was especially strong as the romantic lead Orlando, but also as the fool Touchstone in a madras blazer.
Could one infer that only fools would wear such a thing?
When Orlando wants to proclaim his love for Rosalind by posting poetry all over the Forest of Arden, the actor stuck pink Post-it notes to the front row's foreheads to simulate what he was doing.
Despite being in the front row, I wasn't one of the few, the proud, the stuck.
"And faster than his tongue did make offense, his eye did heal it up."
Even with a young cast occasionally tripping over the heady language of love, it was hard not to enjoy the story of a man who's willing to woo what he thinks is a guy but is really the object of his affection.
Because doesn't a smart man woo his object any way he can?
"Answer me in one word."
If I were looking for a statement of life philosophy, that might be it, although I'd have to give Shakespeare credit for the wording, if not the sentiment.
So with lots on my mind and the resulting lots to speak, I met a friend at Six Burner after she messaged me, "You have a lot to share!"
You talking to me?
And while we weren't exactly outside on this gorgeous day, all the front windows in the restaurant were wide open, allowing balmy, spring-like air to waft through the restaurant.
The only thing lacking by not being outside was the exhaust fumes of Main Street traffic.
"Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing?"
Despite my friend's penchant for chewy red wine, even she had to acknowledge that today was not a day for it.
Instead, we went the sparkling route with Fita Azul Passion Rose because who couldn't use a little more passion in their life?
"I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine."
Over talk of men with beards that need trimming, terribly attentive dates and homecomings, we slurped up a bowl of P.E.I. mussels with bacon, bleu cheese, white wine and garlic broth.
The creamy broth was so good we got extra bread for sopping. My friend wanted to drink it with a straw but thought better of it.
We ran into someone she knows who's doing a piano bar here Brooklyn-style that sounds like something I need to check out.
After all, it's important not to wait too long to do what you need to do.
It's not like anyone is getting any younger.
"Sell when you can, You are not for all markets."
Just when we were trying to make plans for another get-together, I noticed the time and had to beat feet.
Richmond Shakespeare waits for no man (or woman).
This month's staged reading was "As You Like It," or another play about true love (and masked identities).
My favorite kind.
Tonight's twist was that nine of their Young Company were doing the reading, meaning lots of skinny jeans and promising talent.
"That flattering tongue of yours won me."
Nathan Johnson was especially strong as the romantic lead Orlando, but also as the fool Touchstone in a madras blazer.
Could one infer that only fools would wear such a thing?
When Orlando wants to proclaim his love for Rosalind by posting poetry all over the Forest of Arden, the actor stuck pink Post-it notes to the front row's foreheads to simulate what he was doing.
Despite being in the front row, I wasn't one of the few, the proud, the stuck.
"And faster than his tongue did make offense, his eye did heal it up."
Even with a young cast occasionally tripping over the heady language of love, it was hard not to enjoy the story of a man who's willing to woo what he thinks is a guy but is really the object of his affection.
Because doesn't a smart man woo his object any way he can?
"Answer me in one word."
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I Get to Decide
You don't get to decide what someone else's theme song is.
So when an old friend told me out of the blue what he thought mine was, it led to major discussion of why. A presumption on his part led to a challenge on mine.
That's how we ended up making plans to go to Richmond Shakespeare's staged reading of "Holiday Stories," whatever that meant.
Along the way he offered to make dinner first and we forgot all about my theme song, probably because we were laughing so much.
So why does food always taste better when someone else makes it? Did it have something to do with his stellar music mixes?
Afterwards, we adjourned to the Gottwald Playhouse for a little seasonal theater.
Unlike past readings, this one was three storytellers, each reading a holiday story from a wing chair onstage.
Shadow actors behind a screen acted out "Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins" as Jacqueline Jones read the story of goblins trying to prevent the menorah from used.
Don't worry, by the end all the Hanukkah candles were lit.
Shanea Taylor did a spirited reading of "Santa's Kwanzaa," making the audience laugh with its wordplay.
My favorite was "Gift of the Magi" because of the language (Della uses her powder rag to powder her nose) and historical details (their apartment was $8 a week).
The talented Stephen Ryan read it in his red pajama pants and blue robe and again we had shadow acting to go along with the story of gift giving gone sad.
As far as I'm concerned, "Gift" is one holiday classic that's right there in the canon with "It's a Wonderful Life" and "White Christmas."
You know, sentimental, but with a lesson.
That's what my theme songs needs to convey.
So when an old friend told me out of the blue what he thought mine was, it led to major discussion of why. A presumption on his part led to a challenge on mine.
That's how we ended up making plans to go to Richmond Shakespeare's staged reading of "Holiday Stories," whatever that meant.
Along the way he offered to make dinner first and we forgot all about my theme song, probably because we were laughing so much.
So why does food always taste better when someone else makes it? Did it have something to do with his stellar music mixes?
Afterwards, we adjourned to the Gottwald Playhouse for a little seasonal theater.
Unlike past readings, this one was three storytellers, each reading a holiday story from a wing chair onstage.
Shadow actors behind a screen acted out "Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins" as Jacqueline Jones read the story of goblins trying to prevent the menorah from used.
Don't worry, by the end all the Hanukkah candles were lit.
Shanea Taylor did a spirited reading of "Santa's Kwanzaa," making the audience laugh with its wordplay.
My favorite was "Gift of the Magi" because of the language (Della uses her powder rag to powder her nose) and historical details (their apartment was $8 a week).
The talented Stephen Ryan read it in his red pajama pants and blue robe and again we had shadow acting to go along with the story of gift giving gone sad.
As far as I'm concerned, "Gift" is one holiday classic that's right there in the canon with "It's a Wonderful Life" and "White Christmas."
You know, sentimental, but with a lesson.
That's what my theme songs needs to convey.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Making Fritters of English
"Thinkest thou I'll endanger my soul gratis?"
Thinkest thou I could go to the theater without a little something to eat first?
Perish the thought!
Short on time after my fragrant road trip, I stopped at Bistro 27 for the Bistro salad (baby lettuces, candied walnut, sliced Bosc pears, red onions, Gorgonzola and tomatoes in a honey vinaigrette) paired with a movie buff who wanted to hear all about my recent James River Film Fest forays (let's just say I'm responsible for him putting "Mixup ou Meli- Melo" on his Netflix queue) and my evening was off to a running start.
"Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English?"
Richmond Shakespeare was doing their monthly staged reading, this time of "The Merry Wives of Windsor," a play I last saw at Agecroft when they performed it as "The Merry Wives of Windsor Farms" to great hilarity with rich white people spoofing.
Tonight, they were joined by the On the Air Radio Players, a group I'd recently seen and loved, here.
So this was my first staged reading with sound effects and commercials (for RSC's Agecroft season, for the Virginia Wine Expo, for donating to RSC), not to mention a trio of 40s-style girl singers harmonizing to everything.
But mainly, it was a good laugh.
The play, about marriage, revenge and jealousy, was sarcastic, ironic and full of sexual innuendo, the latter three all being things I appreciate.
"Setting the attractions of my good parts aside, I have no other charms."
Sir John Falstaff kissed his own hand when kissing sounds were needed.
When his dialog required him to wait for the stroke of twelve, he impatiently looked at the sound effects guy, who sped up his chimes inappropriately.
"The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on..." he said, casting a withering look at the bell ringer, who would not return his glance.
It was all great fun.
After intermission, our announcer returned us to the play with the words, "And now back to the real housewives of Windsor County."
I get it, reality TV humor.
"Let him woo for himself."
Including the announcer, it was a cast of twenty, easily the largest staged reading I'd seen by this group.
The actors took the play as lightly as Shakespeare had in writing it, employing all kinds of accents (Welsh, Southern and the hysterical Adam Mincks' over-the-top Frenchman, with his perpetually-raised imaginary dueling pistol) to great comic effect.
It was a play that brought merriment throughout and too often the audience found itself laughing through the next line; I'm only sorry that the next reading isn't until October.
Thank goodness for summer and the Agecroft season so I can get my couplet fix.
Despite the free glass of wine that comes with the price of admission, Secco beckoned afterwards and I settled in with Valentines Cote de Provence Rose (white pepper and floral) and the stinkiest cheese not on the menu, the Hooligan (raw cow's milk washed rind and stinking of Connecticut barnyard) for a little bit of post-theater heaven.
My businessmen seatmates were too soon replaced by a couple displaying their tongues and each other's tonsils with alarming regularity.
Fortunately, cheese whiz Sarah requested that I move to the other end of the bar for more wine, a catch-up session and to avoid witnessing the groping.
Not that I have anything against groping, mind you.
Perish the thought!
Thinkest thou I could go to the theater without a little something to eat first?
Perish the thought!
Short on time after my fragrant road trip, I stopped at Bistro 27 for the Bistro salad (baby lettuces, candied walnut, sliced Bosc pears, red onions, Gorgonzola and tomatoes in a honey vinaigrette) paired with a movie buff who wanted to hear all about my recent James River Film Fest forays (let's just say I'm responsible for him putting "Mixup ou Meli- Melo" on his Netflix queue) and my evening was off to a running start.
"Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English?"
Richmond Shakespeare was doing their monthly staged reading, this time of "The Merry Wives of Windsor," a play I last saw at Agecroft when they performed it as "The Merry Wives of Windsor Farms" to great hilarity with rich white people spoofing.
Tonight, they were joined by the On the Air Radio Players, a group I'd recently seen and loved, here.
So this was my first staged reading with sound effects and commercials (for RSC's Agecroft season, for the Virginia Wine Expo, for donating to RSC), not to mention a trio of 40s-style girl singers harmonizing to everything.
But mainly, it was a good laugh.
The play, about marriage, revenge and jealousy, was sarcastic, ironic and full of sexual innuendo, the latter three all being things I appreciate.
"Setting the attractions of my good parts aside, I have no other charms."
Sir John Falstaff kissed his own hand when kissing sounds were needed.
When his dialog required him to wait for the stroke of twelve, he impatiently looked at the sound effects guy, who sped up his chimes inappropriately.
"The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on..." he said, casting a withering look at the bell ringer, who would not return his glance.
It was all great fun.
After intermission, our announcer returned us to the play with the words, "And now back to the real housewives of Windsor County."
I get it, reality TV humor.
"Let him woo for himself."
Including the announcer, it was a cast of twenty, easily the largest staged reading I'd seen by this group.
The actors took the play as lightly as Shakespeare had in writing it, employing all kinds of accents (Welsh, Southern and the hysterical Adam Mincks' over-the-top Frenchman, with his perpetually-raised imaginary dueling pistol) to great comic effect.
It was a play that brought merriment throughout and too often the audience found itself laughing through the next line; I'm only sorry that the next reading isn't until October.
Thank goodness for summer and the Agecroft season so I can get my couplet fix.
Despite the free glass of wine that comes with the price of admission, Secco beckoned afterwards and I settled in with Valentines Cote de Provence Rose (white pepper and floral) and the stinkiest cheese not on the menu, the Hooligan (raw cow's milk washed rind and stinking of Connecticut barnyard) for a little bit of post-theater heaven.
My businessmen seatmates were too soon replaced by a couple displaying their tongues and each other's tonsils with alarming regularity.
Fortunately, cheese whiz Sarah requested that I move to the other end of the bar for more wine, a catch-up session and to avoid witnessing the groping.
Not that I have anything against groping, mind you.
Perish the thought!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
This Wooing is Too Urgent
You don't want to be late for a three-century old play long regarded as a hoax and just last year authenticated as based on a Shakespeare original. Or at least nerds like me don't.
Which presented a problem since I got home from gallivanting late and didn't walk out the door until almost 6:30; curtain time at CenterStage was 7:30. What to do?
To the rescue was my nearest neighborhood joint, the Belvidere. Two short blocks and I was in my usual stool (the one from which I've met and talked to so many people), explaining my predicament. No problem, I was assured.
Tonight's soup was their spectacular vegetarian French onion, although I scoffed when told, "We can make it vegan if you want." No cheese on French onion soup? No, thanks. Full cheese, please.
It's such a well-made soup with a surprising depth of flavor for being animal-free. I suspect that they wave a hunk o' beef over the pot while they're making it, much the way my friend waves a bottle of vermouth around the room when he's making a martini.
Following the soup were roasted red and golden beets with Maytag bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens, always a filling and satisfying dish. Because my mother never gave me beets growing up, I continue to seek them out as an adult to compensate for that gross childhood omission.
I was fed, paid and climbing into my car by 7:10, a remarkable feat considering I'd enjoyed a fair amount of conversation with owner Dave before leaving.
Aside from an always excellent evening of comedy or drama, there are two delights of Richmond Shakespeare's' staged readings. The price of admission includes a glass of wine (I chose the Cab) and there's a dessert bar (I had the chocolate eclair). Not that I need enticements to see Shakespeare, but it's icing on the (chocolate) cake, so to speak.
Tonight's staged reading of "Double Falsehood or the Distrest Lovers" marks the first production in this country; Richmond slipped in under the wire as it's about to be produced in NYC and was done in London in January. First Picasso and now "Double Falsehood." This city's coolness meter just burst its bulb.
Who is it that woos at this late hour?
The play, written in the early 18th century is an adaptation of a lost play called "Cardenio," written by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. It included many of Shakespeare's usual devices, girls dressed as boys, lovers kept apart, as well as the distinctive meter and vocabulary.
Passion in women is short in waking and strong in effort.
What was particularly noticeable were the 18th century updates intended to appeal to a different audience than Shakespeare's, like the rape of the humble, but virtuous country girl. And unlike the master's plays, there were bad people in the bucolic country.
Love is contagious and it hurts my brain.
Because it was a reading and not a full production, the actors were working with scripts and even stands for the scripts, the first time I'd seen that. They used them to good effect, though, raising and lowering the stands as suited what they were doing as they spoke or if they were trying to be hidden.
I can't get this false man's memory out of my head.
A staged reading means limited props and interaction, but there's always enough to captivate. During the shepherd scene, the actors wore shearling caps with ear flaps and the head shepherd, (who salaciously licked the young shepherd's hand to demonstrate his lust), had a fake shearling piece over his shoulder.
Let them alone. They're almost starved for kisses.
Music was courtesy of the actor who could simulate a beat box and speeches from windows and balconies above were delivered by actors standing on their chairs.
Will you be ruled by me? Kill yourself!
How could the authenticity of the origins of this play ever have been doubted? By the end, the good and noble brother brings everyone together: the distraught fathers who thought they'd lost their children and the two sets of lovers who could now be joined in nuptials. All's well that ends well.
Being a hopeless romantic, I admit to getting great satisfaction from seeing distrest love resolved. Not so the epilogue, which opined, "Heaven defend us from these moral plays."
Heavenly defense not necessary.
Which presented a problem since I got home from gallivanting late and didn't walk out the door until almost 6:30; curtain time at CenterStage was 7:30. What to do?
To the rescue was my nearest neighborhood joint, the Belvidere. Two short blocks and I was in my usual stool (the one from which I've met and talked to so many people), explaining my predicament. No problem, I was assured.
Tonight's soup was their spectacular vegetarian French onion, although I scoffed when told, "We can make it vegan if you want." No cheese on French onion soup? No, thanks. Full cheese, please.
It's such a well-made soup with a surprising depth of flavor for being animal-free. I suspect that they wave a hunk o' beef over the pot while they're making it, much the way my friend waves a bottle of vermouth around the room when he's making a martini.
Following the soup were roasted red and golden beets with Maytag bleu cheese, toasted pine nuts and micro-greens, always a filling and satisfying dish. Because my mother never gave me beets growing up, I continue to seek them out as an adult to compensate for that gross childhood omission.
I was fed, paid and climbing into my car by 7:10, a remarkable feat considering I'd enjoyed a fair amount of conversation with owner Dave before leaving.
Aside from an always excellent evening of comedy or drama, there are two delights of Richmond Shakespeare's' staged readings. The price of admission includes a glass of wine (I chose the Cab) and there's a dessert bar (I had the chocolate eclair). Not that I need enticements to see Shakespeare, but it's icing on the (chocolate) cake, so to speak.
Tonight's staged reading of "Double Falsehood or the Distrest Lovers" marks the first production in this country; Richmond slipped in under the wire as it's about to be produced in NYC and was done in London in January. First Picasso and now "Double Falsehood." This city's coolness meter just burst its bulb.
Who is it that woos at this late hour?
The play, written in the early 18th century is an adaptation of a lost play called "Cardenio," written by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. It included many of Shakespeare's usual devices, girls dressed as boys, lovers kept apart, as well as the distinctive meter and vocabulary.
Passion in women is short in waking and strong in effort.
What was particularly noticeable were the 18th century updates intended to appeal to a different audience than Shakespeare's, like the rape of the humble, but virtuous country girl. And unlike the master's plays, there were bad people in the bucolic country.
Love is contagious and it hurts my brain.
Because it was a reading and not a full production, the actors were working with scripts and even stands for the scripts, the first time I'd seen that. They used them to good effect, though, raising and lowering the stands as suited what they were doing as they spoke or if they were trying to be hidden.
I can't get this false man's memory out of my head.
A staged reading means limited props and interaction, but there's always enough to captivate. During the shepherd scene, the actors wore shearling caps with ear flaps and the head shepherd, (who salaciously licked the young shepherd's hand to demonstrate his lust), had a fake shearling piece over his shoulder.
Let them alone. They're almost starved for kisses.
Music was courtesy of the actor who could simulate a beat box and speeches from windows and balconies above were delivered by actors standing on their chairs.
Will you be ruled by me? Kill yourself!
How could the authenticity of the origins of this play ever have been doubted? By the end, the good and noble brother brings everyone together: the distraught fathers who thought they'd lost their children and the two sets of lovers who could now be joined in nuptials. All's well that ends well.
Being a hopeless romantic, I admit to getting great satisfaction from seeing distrest love resolved. Not so the epilogue, which opined, "Heaven defend us from these moral plays."
Heavenly defense not necessary.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Woo Me with Words
Tragedy is the stuff Saturday nights are made of.
In this particular case, I'd been given two free tickets by a friend for tonight's performance of Othello at Center Stage and couldn't find anyone who could or would go with me.
While not a tragedy, it was certainly a shame, not that it stopped me from going to take in a play that begins as a great love story but really centers on bigotry, obsession and revenge.
It was my first time in the Gottwald Playhouse of Center Stage, although far from my first time seeing Richmond Shakespeare perform.
I'd been one of those in attendance at their Linden Row performance of Much Ado About Nothing back in the '90s. I have long been a regular at their shows.
Tonight I was lucky enough to have been given second row center seats, so I was close enough to see the actors spit, which I find satisfying for some reason.
I also knew two of the actors in the play which always adds to my enjoyment.
And despite having seen many of Shakespeare's plays done repeatedly, I'd never seen Othello preformed live before.
This production is a collaboration of Richmond Shakespeare and the African American Repertory Theater and is part of the Acts of Faith Festival RVA does every year.
Early on, Othello is accused of having used tricks or witchcraft to win the love of Desdemona and marry her.
He's forced to defend himself and explain how his wooing won her over on its own merits.
He had me completely convinced with one simple line of his self-defense, "She'd come again and with a greedy ear devour up my discourse."
That's absolutely true. When we keep coming back to hear more of what you have to say, we're definitely interested, no coercion necessary.
But as we all know, Othello is a great tragedy, so there was much sinister plotting and revenge schemes and far too many people ended up dead or maimed by the play's end.
The beauty of theater over film or television is that I don't have to see the blood and squeamish types like me appreciate that.
The crowd was diverse and included several of the former students who participated in the '60s sit-in at the Thalhimer's lunch counter and they were given a round of sincere applause.
Much to my surprise, there were some Shakespeare virgins sitting right in front of me.
I know because the man boasted to his date that he was going to go right home and update his profile so everybody would know he'd been to see a Shakespeare play.
I'm just making a wild guess here, but I'm thinking he's probably not the type who has female greedy ears coming back to devour his discourse.
In this particular case, I'd been given two free tickets by a friend for tonight's performance of Othello at Center Stage and couldn't find anyone who could or would go with me.
While not a tragedy, it was certainly a shame, not that it stopped me from going to take in a play that begins as a great love story but really centers on bigotry, obsession and revenge.
It was my first time in the Gottwald Playhouse of Center Stage, although far from my first time seeing Richmond Shakespeare perform.
I'd been one of those in attendance at their Linden Row performance of Much Ado About Nothing back in the '90s. I have long been a regular at their shows.
Tonight I was lucky enough to have been given second row center seats, so I was close enough to see the actors spit, which I find satisfying for some reason.
I also knew two of the actors in the play which always adds to my enjoyment.
And despite having seen many of Shakespeare's plays done repeatedly, I'd never seen Othello preformed live before.
This production is a collaboration of Richmond Shakespeare and the African American Repertory Theater and is part of the Acts of Faith Festival RVA does every year.
Early on, Othello is accused of having used tricks or witchcraft to win the love of Desdemona and marry her.
He's forced to defend himself and explain how his wooing won her over on its own merits.
He had me completely convinced with one simple line of his self-defense, "She'd come again and with a greedy ear devour up my discourse."
That's absolutely true. When we keep coming back to hear more of what you have to say, we're definitely interested, no coercion necessary.
But as we all know, Othello is a great tragedy, so there was much sinister plotting and revenge schemes and far too many people ended up dead or maimed by the play's end.
The beauty of theater over film or television is that I don't have to see the blood and squeamish types like me appreciate that.
The crowd was diverse and included several of the former students who participated in the '60s sit-in at the Thalhimer's lunch counter and they were given a round of sincere applause.
Much to my surprise, there were some Shakespeare virgins sitting right in front of me.
I know because the man boasted to his date that he was going to go right home and update his profile so everybody would know he'd been to see a Shakespeare play.
I'm just making a wild guess here, but I'm thinking he's probably not the type who has female greedy ears coming back to devour his discourse.
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