Everyone's whining about Mercury in retrograde, but I can't say I've noticed any effects myself.
I've read people say that it's a period when communication goes haywire and weird things happen, but I had no problem meeting a charming polymath at the preview night performance of "The Lion in Winter" at VMFA.
Might as well go ahead and admit it, I'd seen neither the play nor the film, although I did look up Eleanor of Aquitaine beforehand so I'd have a little background.
It was easy finding a single seat in the fourth row near a well-dressed man who was also companion-less. The artistic director soon informed us, "You are our ambassadors so if you like what you see, please tell everyone you know. If you don't like it, let's keep it our little secret."
Then, appropriately before a play about a long-time married couple, she wished a couple - Vaughn and Nick - happy 33rd anniversary. Then it was on to a 12th century Christmas.
Through lies, deception, manipulation and posturing, we watched as Henry II's family played out its dysfunction in every relationship - parent/child, husband/wife, siblings - and interaction. Everyone was so busy scheming it was a miracle anyone had time to wage war, father illegitimate children or run the country and isn't that what British royalty did back then?
Much was made of Eleanor's age - 60- with comments such as, "I've heard she's aging badly," followed by her son's gleeful request, "Let's go look!" She directs them, "Take what memory you have of me and mark it out of date." That's what happens to a woman's looks when her husband, the king, imprisons her for ten years for helping her son plan a rebellion against him.
During intermission, I pulled out my Washington Post to read while the man next to me pulled out his book but before long he spoke to me and reading materials were set aside. Even readers can't resist the spoken word.
Turns out he was the theater critic for the Richmond Times Dispatch years ago and for at least the first six years after I moved to Richmond, meaning surely I'd read his work at one point. Interestingly enough, he'd also written critiques for the RTD of opera, ballet and art. I was amazed to hear that one year alone, he'd seen 200 plays (because of trips to NYC and London, lucky dog).
We really clicked when he told me that his only qualifications for the job had been all of his going out to events and a knack for writing. When I shared that I go out every night, he insisted that was proof that I was qualified to write about culture. Imagine his surprise when he heard what I do.
The 1966 play had a contemporary layer to it with humorous asides ("Of course we all have knives. It's 1183, we're still barbarians!") and a surprise plot twist involving a gay tryst ("Oh, no!" someone moaned from the back of the theater when it was revealed). Its twisted middle-aged romance ("I could listen to you lie for hours") was timeless and sometimes brutally honest ("Jealousy looks silly on us, Henry").
My new critic friend admitted afterwards that he'd found the acting a bit stiff but attributed it to the first night of the run. Perhaps the cast just needs a bit more time to get used to each other, sort of like with the early years of marriage or cohabitation.
Walking out of the museum, it was so bitterly cold and windy that I considered heading home but since my drive would take me right past Emilio's and music, that seemed like a foolish plan.
The temptation was twofold: Goldrush was playing, so I could expect friends, frivolous discussion and their familiar yet solid sound. Plus Adam and the Yew Banks were opening and I'd fallen hard for them at the Ghost of Pop show in December.
I scored on all counts. The handsome bass player not only regaled me with stories of hiding things from his mother-in-law's prying eyes, he also told a stranger that I'd given him and his wife a housewarming gift of velvet handcuffs (it should be noted that the gift also included two bottles of wine). Also covered were the folly of bourbon shots on Bourbon Street, moving doors and ego-less sax players
Standing near the front of the crowd where plenty of familiar faces gathered, the only downside was the frequency with which the door opened to admit new guests and allow smokers to escape to freeze their patooties off while feeding their addiction.
One smoker clad in a long, summery-looking skirt complained about her poor choice in attire on such a frigid night. "I shaved my legs, what the hell was I thinking?" she asked rhetorically while hiking up her skirt to show me a bare leg. "All I've got on under this is a thong." Yikes, honey.
Once again, Adam and the Yew Banks blew my mind with their well-executed set, a tantalizing combination of great voices, excellent songwriting and an overall sound both loose and polished that had many of us moving our hips to. A musician friend instructed me to pay close attention to how talented the drummer was, but it seemed to me that they all were.
Goldrush took the stage after a break that allowed for the essentials (drummer extraordinaire Willis to set up and Prabir to do a shot) and for more people to arrive to partake of their hook-laden chamber rock.
Although I've been going to Goldrush shows for years, who knows, some of tonight's crowd could have been experiencing the distinct pleasures of two classical musicians playing violin and upright bass in a pop context for the first time. I'd call them Goldrush virgins but I don't want to give Prabir any ideas.
Or maybe they just wandered in off the street because their thongs weren't keeping them very warm and it's so cold out there. So cold I almost bypassed music tonight.
Maybe that was Mercury in retrograde trying to mess me up. Wait, this is 2015, you call that science?
Bueller, Prabir, anyone?
Showing posts with label henley street theater. Show all posts
Showing posts with label henley street theater. Show all posts
Friday, February 6, 2015
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Garret Life
The state of tonight's unions were anything but smooth sailing.
An out of town friend called after she finished a work meeting, wanting to meet me for a drink. I had limited time because of plans to see a play, but we settled on Graffiato for a quickie.
Sitting there with a glass of Prosecco, the bartenders began to feel sorry for me after a while, unsure if my friend was going to show up or not. Finally, she walked in, only to inform me there was nowhere to park and would I come help her find a place, making for a delayed union.
A parking space was easily found but by that time, we had barely 45 minutes to chat. We might have had more, but we were too busy stuffing our faces with crack-like ciambellas - mozzarella-stuffed doughnut holes with pepperoni sauce- and a pizzette of broccolini, cherry tomatoes and Provolone to talk as much as we could have.
Promptly at 6:25, I said goodnight and went the three blocks home to meet another friend for the play. She wasn't there, there was no message from her and I was stumped. Should I stay or should I go?
I would up waiting until the last possible minute before heading down to Monumental Church for a reenactment of the plays that had been performed that night in 1811 when the theater caught fire and 72 people perished.
Bad as that tragedy was, just as great was that theater was not produced in Richmond for nearly ten years afterwards. Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare were putting on the two plays tonight in tribute to that evening and as part of their historical play reading series.
Despite (or perhaps because of) my last minute arrival, I snagged two seats in the second row pew, keeping an eye out for my friend. I was surprised to see that some attendees had arrived in period attire, looking very elegant, but also a sober reminder that 19th century female clothing would not have lent itself well to a fast getaway (perhaps the reason 54 women died and only 18 men).
The artistic director let us know that the room had challenging acoustics and difficult sight lines (and reminded us to keep the center pew doors shut), much as the original space had and encouraged people to move around if need be to hear better. The actors projected beautifully, but the domed space had a decided echo.
The first play, "The Father, or Family Feuds," was a melodrama full of dramatic pauses ("Confusion!") and over-wrought sentimentality dealing with class distinctions (poor people lived in 5th floor garrets) and how they have no regard when it comes to matters of the heart.
During the intermission, many attendees used the time to read signage about Monumental Church and photograph it, but since I'd gone on a tour of it a couple years ago, I stayed put until the play resumed, thinking it was a shame tonight's union with my play-loving friend had not come to be.
The second play, "Raymond and Agnes, or The Bleeding Nun" was the opposite of a melodrama, with the comedy very broad (bad guys played by girls using their fingers to simulate mustaches because, as we all know, bad guys always have them) but consistently hilarious.
When two male characters are heading off into the woods, they bob along, the hero galloping as if on his horse and his manservant making the appropriate clopping noises as he does so.
Favorite line: "Converse with the ladies does improve a man." You see, gentlemen, you've known that bit of wisdom since at least 1811.
Shortly after act two began, the actor playing the hero stops short and calls out, "The house is on fire!" and the play is over for tonight's audience at the same juncture it was the night of the disaster, except without the heartache and trauma.
I have to admit, as cool as it was to sit in the space where the plays originally took place (and over top of the crypt that holds many of those bodies), I couldn't quell a little, nagging worry that something bad might happen to the modern audience tonight.
Fortunately, it did not.
Leaving Monumental Church, the temperature had dropped and the wind had picked up as I crossed Broad Street to retrieve my car and make tracks for Balliceaux.
I admit, given the cold and wind, I briefly considered just going home instead, but then I'd have missed this new project by some of the best musicians in town.
Playing tonight was Plush Dagger, which meant nothing to me but the sextet's members' names were all familiar except one, so I at least knew there'd be a lot of talent onstage.
They'd just started when I walked in and the band included drums, upright bass, two trombones, sax and trumpet and they were already locked in a groove. The room was almost exclusively men, including several jazz musicians and a table that appeared to be VCU jazz studies students bobbing their heads and discussing the music earnestly in low voices.
Mixing it up with some original material by drummer Scott Clark ("Stitch," "Purple, Yellow, Green") along with new arrangements of songs such as Fred Henderson's "Little Fox Run," the band kept it tight with lots of extended soloing and seamless transitions back to full band.
"This is our response to the State of the Union," one trombonist said before they did a song called "Plush Dagger" but only after clarifying that it was also the band name. Playing, every one of them looked fully in the moment.
An out of town friend called after she finished a work meeting, wanting to meet me for a drink. I had limited time because of plans to see a play, but we settled on Graffiato for a quickie.
Sitting there with a glass of Prosecco, the bartenders began to feel sorry for me after a while, unsure if my friend was going to show up or not. Finally, she walked in, only to inform me there was nowhere to park and would I come help her find a place, making for a delayed union.
A parking space was easily found but by that time, we had barely 45 minutes to chat. We might have had more, but we were too busy stuffing our faces with crack-like ciambellas - mozzarella-stuffed doughnut holes with pepperoni sauce- and a pizzette of broccolini, cherry tomatoes and Provolone to talk as much as we could have.
Promptly at 6:25, I said goodnight and went the three blocks home to meet another friend for the play. She wasn't there, there was no message from her and I was stumped. Should I stay or should I go?
I would up waiting until the last possible minute before heading down to Monumental Church for a reenactment of the plays that had been performed that night in 1811 when the theater caught fire and 72 people perished.
Bad as that tragedy was, just as great was that theater was not produced in Richmond for nearly ten years afterwards. Henley Street/Richmond Shakespeare were putting on the two plays tonight in tribute to that evening and as part of their historical play reading series.
Despite (or perhaps because of) my last minute arrival, I snagged two seats in the second row pew, keeping an eye out for my friend. I was surprised to see that some attendees had arrived in period attire, looking very elegant, but also a sober reminder that 19th century female clothing would not have lent itself well to a fast getaway (perhaps the reason 54 women died and only 18 men).
The artistic director let us know that the room had challenging acoustics and difficult sight lines (and reminded us to keep the center pew doors shut), much as the original space had and encouraged people to move around if need be to hear better. The actors projected beautifully, but the domed space had a decided echo.
The first play, "The Father, or Family Feuds," was a melodrama full of dramatic pauses ("Confusion!") and over-wrought sentimentality dealing with class distinctions (poor people lived in 5th floor garrets) and how they have no regard when it comes to matters of the heart.
During the intermission, many attendees used the time to read signage about Monumental Church and photograph it, but since I'd gone on a tour of it a couple years ago, I stayed put until the play resumed, thinking it was a shame tonight's union with my play-loving friend had not come to be.
The second play, "Raymond and Agnes, or The Bleeding Nun" was the opposite of a melodrama, with the comedy very broad (bad guys played by girls using their fingers to simulate mustaches because, as we all know, bad guys always have them) but consistently hilarious.
When two male characters are heading off into the woods, they bob along, the hero galloping as if on his horse and his manservant making the appropriate clopping noises as he does so.
Favorite line: "Converse with the ladies does improve a man." You see, gentlemen, you've known that bit of wisdom since at least 1811.
Shortly after act two began, the actor playing the hero stops short and calls out, "The house is on fire!" and the play is over for tonight's audience at the same juncture it was the night of the disaster, except without the heartache and trauma.
I have to admit, as cool as it was to sit in the space where the plays originally took place (and over top of the crypt that holds many of those bodies), I couldn't quell a little, nagging worry that something bad might happen to the modern audience tonight.
Fortunately, it did not.
Leaving Monumental Church, the temperature had dropped and the wind had picked up as I crossed Broad Street to retrieve my car and make tracks for Balliceaux.
I admit, given the cold and wind, I briefly considered just going home instead, but then I'd have missed this new project by some of the best musicians in town.
Playing tonight was Plush Dagger, which meant nothing to me but the sextet's members' names were all familiar except one, so I at least knew there'd be a lot of talent onstage.
They'd just started when I walked in and the band included drums, upright bass, two trombones, sax and trumpet and they were already locked in a groove. The room was almost exclusively men, including several jazz musicians and a table that appeared to be VCU jazz studies students bobbing their heads and discussing the music earnestly in low voices.
Mixing it up with some original material by drummer Scott Clark ("Stitch," "Purple, Yellow, Green") along with new arrangements of songs such as Fred Henderson's "Little Fox Run," the band kept it tight with lots of extended soloing and seamless transitions back to full band.
"This is our response to the State of the Union," one trombonist said before they did a song called "Plush Dagger" but only after clarifying that it was also the band name. Playing, every one of them looked fully in the moment.
And isn't that how you want everyone in a union to be, fully engaged and committed to being there? Oh, wait, maybe that's just my idea of union bliss. Responses welcome.
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.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Stand Back, Eternal Feminine
Two things were certain tonight: death and taxes.
Actually, it was a tax relief party at Nacho Mama's Boulevard Bar and Grill, an offshoot of Nacho Mama's in Carytown.
Owner Raoul was hosting the party, meaning that bass-heavy dance music was pumping when Pru and I walked in and endless pictures were taken throughout the evening.
When I questioned having to smile for the phone yet again, Raoul lectured me about the importance of self-promotion. No doubt his, not mine.
The tequila menu was more limited than I would have expected for a Mexican place, but I cut my tequila teeth on 1800 and I'd take it over overpriced Patron any day, which I did. Twice.
A DJ was playing full-on 21st century disco, meaning club versions of songs as unlikely as Stevie Nicks' "Stand Back." Hysterical.
Just to prove he knew a little disco history, the DJ even played a thumping version of "MacArthur Park," although not Donna Summer's, but easily one of the sappiest and stupidest songs ever written.
Someone left the cake out in the rain? Who does that? Who writes that?
Despite the pouring rain and falling temperatures outside, people kept arriving (including several Carytown business owners), to celebrate and the bar got really loud while I took advantage of a tax relief deal on flautas.
While enjoying a nicely spiced chicken version Pru told me about a fabulous website she'd found for cute, inexpensive clothes, a company that unexpectedly, she found, also carried rubber lingerie.
This was relevant mainly because, oddly enough, a co-worker had e-mailed her today asking if she knew anything about buying a vinyl bustier. She knew enough to school him on the use of corn starch with vinyl clothing and directed him to her new favorite website.
I'm lucky to have such knowledgeable friends.
With the pool visible through the wall of bar windows, everyone was raving about what a terrific place that's going to be once summer arrives and the pool is open.
Margaritas and scantily clad people, an easy way to go from 0 to 60 in no time flat.
Eventually we had to leave the still-expanding party to make an 8:00 curtain at Richmond Triangle Players. I've been spending a whole lot of time in Scott's Addition lately.
Waiting for the play to begin, I learned a new term when Pru told me about the stash of books she'd scored at the recent main library sale (36 books, $35). I'd skipped the sale because I haven't finished reading the last stack I'd gotten at the library's book giveaway (13 books, $0).
She and a co-worker (not vinyl guy, though) have a long-standing tradition of taking the afternoon off to go to the book sale and then to lunch at Chez Foushee.
In fact, that was the last time I'd seen her, as I was leaving Foushee with a friend after lunch and they'd been arriving.
These two are such accounting nerds that they actually keep colored spreadsheets, with listings for TBR ("to be read," the term I learned), what they've read and what they're looking for in terms of books for others.
They're so hardcore they also don't hesitate to buy a hardcover version of a book they already own in paperback. Okay, I can understand that one.
It's the optimism of that term - to be read - that I was so taken with. If I ever started my own list of TBR, I fear it would consume me. And, honestly, in some cases, I don't even know something needs to be read until I stumble upon it. One of those thirteen books I'd picked up, "Last Train to Memphis," would never have been on my list and I wound up positively enthralled with it.
And while we're on the subject of readers, it's a good thing Pru and I fell into that category because Henley/Shakes' production of "Wittenberg" presumed a literate audience and tossed out erudite witticisms and insider jokes like nobody's business.
It all hinged on that old saw, reason versus faith. Yes, that.
The play revolved around Hamlet and his senior year at Wittenberg University (before his father dies and he ascends the throne), Dr. Faustus, a devilishly provocative teacher of philosophy and Martin Luther, a theology professor who's seriously questioning the church. The fourth character is called the "eternal feminine" and plays every female role.
How brilliant is that assemblage of characters?
There's a local dive called The Bunghole, where Faustus plays some "light lute" and sings "The Seeker" and entreats the crowd to "take care of your bar wenches."
Meanwhile, Martin Luther is aghast at the church's selling of indulgences as "get out of jail free" passes for sinners, using drink to self-medicate as he questions his faith. "Seventy three books in the bible! Know how many mention alcohol? 72!"
One of the most hilarious scene is a tennis match between Hamlet and the unseen Laertes, playing for Paris University. Wearing a white doublet tennis ensemble for the ages, Hamlet lobs the imaginary ball and jabs at his foe with physical grace and biting wit.
One scene began under low light with one character on his knees and the other sitting in a chair beside him, although the motion of his head was not immediately identifiable for what was happening. A few seconds in and someone in the last row said loudly, "Oh!" alerting everyone to the on-stage oral action.
Hello, we were at Richmond Triangle Players.
Laughs continued when Faustus nails up Martin Luther's doctrine, thereby starting the Protestant reformation and pissing off Luther who hadn't planned to share it. He adjusts.
Once Hamlet gets word that his father has died, he has to return to Denmark (and we know where that's going) and Faustus tells him to question everything. "I don't want to end up hearing about the tragedy of Hamlet," he warns. Oops.
Faustus is taking a sabbatical to go "underground" and Hamlet counters by telling him to think before acting so his life doesn't become a cautionary tale. As if.
Our night of intellectual theater ended back at the Bung Hole with Faustus singing "Que Sera, Sera" and the eternal feminine chiming in with "Let it Be."
The beauty of the play was that everybody in the room already knew how the three stories were going to end up right from the start. We knew because we're readers.
Which may or may not explain my favorite quote from the play. The world is a book. Those who do not travel read only a page.
Absolutely true. But the only thing harder to make than a TBR list would be a TBV list.
Besides, I've got no faith in my ability to make a spreadsheet and no reason to try. Que sera, sera, no?
Actually, it was a tax relief party at Nacho Mama's Boulevard Bar and Grill, an offshoot of Nacho Mama's in Carytown.
Owner Raoul was hosting the party, meaning that bass-heavy dance music was pumping when Pru and I walked in and endless pictures were taken throughout the evening.
When I questioned having to smile for the phone yet again, Raoul lectured me about the importance of self-promotion. No doubt his, not mine.
The tequila menu was more limited than I would have expected for a Mexican place, but I cut my tequila teeth on 1800 and I'd take it over overpriced Patron any day, which I did. Twice.
A DJ was playing full-on 21st century disco, meaning club versions of songs as unlikely as Stevie Nicks' "Stand Back." Hysterical.
Just to prove he knew a little disco history, the DJ even played a thumping version of "MacArthur Park," although not Donna Summer's, but easily one of the sappiest and stupidest songs ever written.
Someone left the cake out in the rain? Who does that? Who writes that?
Despite the pouring rain and falling temperatures outside, people kept arriving (including several Carytown business owners), to celebrate and the bar got really loud while I took advantage of a tax relief deal on flautas.
While enjoying a nicely spiced chicken version Pru told me about a fabulous website she'd found for cute, inexpensive clothes, a company that unexpectedly, she found, also carried rubber lingerie.
This was relevant mainly because, oddly enough, a co-worker had e-mailed her today asking if she knew anything about buying a vinyl bustier. She knew enough to school him on the use of corn starch with vinyl clothing and directed him to her new favorite website.
I'm lucky to have such knowledgeable friends.
With the pool visible through the wall of bar windows, everyone was raving about what a terrific place that's going to be once summer arrives and the pool is open.
Margaritas and scantily clad people, an easy way to go from 0 to 60 in no time flat.
Eventually we had to leave the still-expanding party to make an 8:00 curtain at Richmond Triangle Players. I've been spending a whole lot of time in Scott's Addition lately.
Waiting for the play to begin, I learned a new term when Pru told me about the stash of books she'd scored at the recent main library sale (36 books, $35). I'd skipped the sale because I haven't finished reading the last stack I'd gotten at the library's book giveaway (13 books, $0).
She and a co-worker (not vinyl guy, though) have a long-standing tradition of taking the afternoon off to go to the book sale and then to lunch at Chez Foushee.
In fact, that was the last time I'd seen her, as I was leaving Foushee with a friend after lunch and they'd been arriving.
These two are such accounting nerds that they actually keep colored spreadsheets, with listings for TBR ("to be read," the term I learned), what they've read and what they're looking for in terms of books for others.
They're so hardcore they also don't hesitate to buy a hardcover version of a book they already own in paperback. Okay, I can understand that one.
It's the optimism of that term - to be read - that I was so taken with. If I ever started my own list of TBR, I fear it would consume me. And, honestly, in some cases, I don't even know something needs to be read until I stumble upon it. One of those thirteen books I'd picked up, "Last Train to Memphis," would never have been on my list and I wound up positively enthralled with it.
And while we're on the subject of readers, it's a good thing Pru and I fell into that category because Henley/Shakes' production of "Wittenberg" presumed a literate audience and tossed out erudite witticisms and insider jokes like nobody's business.
It all hinged on that old saw, reason versus faith. Yes, that.
The play revolved around Hamlet and his senior year at Wittenberg University (before his father dies and he ascends the throne), Dr. Faustus, a devilishly provocative teacher of philosophy and Martin Luther, a theology professor who's seriously questioning the church. The fourth character is called the "eternal feminine" and plays every female role.
How brilliant is that assemblage of characters?
There's a local dive called The Bunghole, where Faustus plays some "light lute" and sings "The Seeker" and entreats the crowd to "take care of your bar wenches."
Meanwhile, Martin Luther is aghast at the church's selling of indulgences as "get out of jail free" passes for sinners, using drink to self-medicate as he questions his faith. "Seventy three books in the bible! Know how many mention alcohol? 72!"
One of the most hilarious scene is a tennis match between Hamlet and the unseen Laertes, playing for Paris University. Wearing a white doublet tennis ensemble for the ages, Hamlet lobs the imaginary ball and jabs at his foe with physical grace and biting wit.
One scene began under low light with one character on his knees and the other sitting in a chair beside him, although the motion of his head was not immediately identifiable for what was happening. A few seconds in and someone in the last row said loudly, "Oh!" alerting everyone to the on-stage oral action.
Hello, we were at Richmond Triangle Players.
Laughs continued when Faustus nails up Martin Luther's doctrine, thereby starting the Protestant reformation and pissing off Luther who hadn't planned to share it. He adjusts.
Once Hamlet gets word that his father has died, he has to return to Denmark (and we know where that's going) and Faustus tells him to question everything. "I don't want to end up hearing about the tragedy of Hamlet," he warns. Oops.
Faustus is taking a sabbatical to go "underground" and Hamlet counters by telling him to think before acting so his life doesn't become a cautionary tale. As if.
Our night of intellectual theater ended back at the Bung Hole with Faustus singing "Que Sera, Sera" and the eternal feminine chiming in with "Let it Be."
The beauty of the play was that everybody in the room already knew how the three stories were going to end up right from the start. We knew because we're readers.
Which may or may not explain my favorite quote from the play. The world is a book. Those who do not travel read only a page.
Absolutely true. But the only thing harder to make than a TBR list would be a TBV list.
Besides, I've got no faith in my ability to make a spreadsheet and no reason to try. Que sera, sera, no?
Friday, March 7, 2014
May the Bard Be with You
Last time, it was for brisket. Tonight, iambic pentameter.
Tonight the Weinstein JCC lured me in, not for food but because they were hosting HenShakes' one night production of "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Abridged. Revised."
Abridged so we weren't there until our butts fell off. Revised so they could insert topical humor and current references.
Meaning an evening for the intellectually flaccid of 37 plays in 97 minutes by three of Richmond's finest actors: John Mincks, Evan Nasteff and David Janosik, with a whole lot of fake vomiting, sexual references and dramatic dying going on.
Because, you know, all the world's a stage.
They began with a stripped down version of "Romeo and Juliet" that had Romeo saying, "I wanna kiss you, dude" and Juliet waxing poetic with, "That which we call a nose would still smell."
When Romeo begins to muse, saying, "Call me but love," Juliet interrupts with, "Did you call me Butt Love?" Naturally this becomes her new term of endearment, as in, "Parting is such sweet sorrow, Butt Love."
While the three energetic actors spent a whopping twelve minutes on "Romeo and Juliet," they went much briefer on the primitive revenge drama, "Titus Andronicus," which they managed to turn into a cooking show because after a long day of killing, severing and cannibalizing, who really feels like cooking?
Hilarious.
Moving on, the trio discussed whether they should do "Othello" in black face ("Do you want to piss off Tyler Perry?" pause "Kind of"), finally deciding to don sunglasses and rap it while throwing gang signs.
Seeing that time was ticking, they chose to condense all Shakespeare's comedies into one with hysterical results.
David, easily the largest of the three actors, took all the female roles throughout the evening, including the heroine for the mass comedy.
In a blond wig and skirt, he used his most lilting voice to say, "Oh, Father! I am so young and pubescent on this island," as he skipped around the stage.
But in Shakespeare's plays, girls always pretend to be boys and when he/she comes on to our hero, he responds to her as if she's a he. "I swingeth not that way, boy!" Poor thing, she never realizes she's bi-curious.
Macbeth required the trio to don plaid knickers and adopt thick Scottish accents (very well executed, too), funny enough but the dialog was even better.
I was from my mother's womb untimely ripped.
I support a woman's right to choose.
"Julius Cesar" lasted about 60 seconds before someone decreed, "On to my play," and "Antony and Cleopatra" got underway.
There was another onstage discussion, this time about the lost play "Two Mobile Kinsmen," except not really. That turned out to be "Two Noble Kinsman," one of the plays that is neither comedy, tragedy or history. An obscure play.
The only one of these the trio deemed worth doing was "Troilus and Cressida" because, as Evan said, "It's not crap at all."
He read a synopsis off his phone while David and John did an interpretive dance of the plot that involved wings and getting between Evan's legs.
"Richard II" and "Richard III" were done as a football game, with each taking a turn as the announcer, often sounding a lot like Howard Cosell, and saying things like, "Poisoned on the ten yard line."
There was a penalty for "fictional character on the field" when King Lear put in an appearance and he was disqualified.
They ended with a cheer, yelling, "Henry V, Richard the third, the whole royal family is fricking absurd. Go sports team!"
By now all three were looking pretty sweaty after countless costume changes, much running in and out of the audience and more sword fighting and death scenes than I could keep track of.
As if I was trying. It was enough just to keep up with the rapid fire dialog and shenanigans of the actors.
Then they realized that they still had "Hamlet" to do ("Oh, crap, Hamlet!") and John asks for a summary of it.
"A young prince struggles with his conscience after his uncle kills his Dad." Evan looks at him like he's crazy. "Dude, that's the "Lion King."
Wait a minute...
That's when intermission kicked in but afterwards only John returned. He tried to stall by showing us an index card with all 152 of Shakespeare's sonnets on it, saying Even had told him he couldn't cover them all.
He laid the card on the stage, and laid his hat over it. Covered, done.
The entire second act was given over to "Hamlet" with Horatio being called fellatio and "To sleep, perchance to dream" devolving into, "To sleep, perchance to nap, perchance to snooze, perchance to doze."
During Evan's important "to be or not to be" speech, he broke down about a dilemma on "Full House," a show her admits he's currently watching in reruns.
But it's when David does Hamlet's "Man delights me not" soliloquy that you could have heard a pin drop in the room, his voice and perfect diction feeding the soul of every Shakespeare lover in the room.
A volunteer was plucked from the audience (and called Bob despite her name being Julia) to do the screaming of Ophelia's id, but the audience was soon asked to join her in a group scream-a-thon.
Of course, David played Ophelia and to play her drowning scene, threw a cup of water in his face.
As you may already know, all did not end well there, either. That's why they call it a tragedy.
Just when the last of Shakespeare's plays had ended, the actors got even sillier.
First they did a two minute version of "Hamlet." Then a 30 second version.
Then, perhaps most brilliantly, a backwards version, with the classic line, "Be to not or be to?"
Moving backwards, undying and, yes, Ophelia spitting water out of her mouth to un-drown.
"You thank!" they yelled to the standing ovation the audience gave them.
Effort fine damn, gentlemen. Truly one for the books.
Abridged and revised. I definitely swingeth that way.
Tonight the Weinstein JCC lured me in, not for food but because they were hosting HenShakes' one night production of "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Abridged. Revised."
Abridged so we weren't there until our butts fell off. Revised so they could insert topical humor and current references.
Meaning an evening for the intellectually flaccid of 37 plays in 97 minutes by three of Richmond's finest actors: John Mincks, Evan Nasteff and David Janosik, with a whole lot of fake vomiting, sexual references and dramatic dying going on.
Because, you know, all the world's a stage.
They began with a stripped down version of "Romeo and Juliet" that had Romeo saying, "I wanna kiss you, dude" and Juliet waxing poetic with, "That which we call a nose would still smell."
When Romeo begins to muse, saying, "Call me but love," Juliet interrupts with, "Did you call me Butt Love?" Naturally this becomes her new term of endearment, as in, "Parting is such sweet sorrow, Butt Love."
While the three energetic actors spent a whopping twelve minutes on "Romeo and Juliet," they went much briefer on the primitive revenge drama, "Titus Andronicus," which they managed to turn into a cooking show because after a long day of killing, severing and cannibalizing, who really feels like cooking?
Hilarious.
Moving on, the trio discussed whether they should do "Othello" in black face ("Do you want to piss off Tyler Perry?" pause "Kind of"), finally deciding to don sunglasses and rap it while throwing gang signs.
Seeing that time was ticking, they chose to condense all Shakespeare's comedies into one with hysterical results.
David, easily the largest of the three actors, took all the female roles throughout the evening, including the heroine for the mass comedy.
In a blond wig and skirt, he used his most lilting voice to say, "Oh, Father! I am so young and pubescent on this island," as he skipped around the stage.
But in Shakespeare's plays, girls always pretend to be boys and when he/she comes on to our hero, he responds to her as if she's a he. "I swingeth not that way, boy!" Poor thing, she never realizes she's bi-curious.
Macbeth required the trio to don plaid knickers and adopt thick Scottish accents (very well executed, too), funny enough but the dialog was even better.
I was from my mother's womb untimely ripped.
I support a woman's right to choose.
"Julius Cesar" lasted about 60 seconds before someone decreed, "On to my play," and "Antony and Cleopatra" got underway.
There was another onstage discussion, this time about the lost play "Two Mobile Kinsmen," except not really. That turned out to be "Two Noble Kinsman," one of the plays that is neither comedy, tragedy or history. An obscure play.
The only one of these the trio deemed worth doing was "Troilus and Cressida" because, as Evan said, "It's not crap at all."
He read a synopsis off his phone while David and John did an interpretive dance of the plot that involved wings and getting between Evan's legs.
"Richard II" and "Richard III" were done as a football game, with each taking a turn as the announcer, often sounding a lot like Howard Cosell, and saying things like, "Poisoned on the ten yard line."
There was a penalty for "fictional character on the field" when King Lear put in an appearance and he was disqualified.
They ended with a cheer, yelling, "Henry V, Richard the third, the whole royal family is fricking absurd. Go sports team!"
By now all three were looking pretty sweaty after countless costume changes, much running in and out of the audience and more sword fighting and death scenes than I could keep track of.
As if I was trying. It was enough just to keep up with the rapid fire dialog and shenanigans of the actors.
Then they realized that they still had "Hamlet" to do ("Oh, crap, Hamlet!") and John asks for a summary of it.
"A young prince struggles with his conscience after his uncle kills his Dad." Evan looks at him like he's crazy. "Dude, that's the "Lion King."
Wait a minute...
That's when intermission kicked in but afterwards only John returned. He tried to stall by showing us an index card with all 152 of Shakespeare's sonnets on it, saying Even had told him he couldn't cover them all.
He laid the card on the stage, and laid his hat over it. Covered, done.
The entire second act was given over to "Hamlet" with Horatio being called fellatio and "To sleep, perchance to dream" devolving into, "To sleep, perchance to nap, perchance to snooze, perchance to doze."
During Evan's important "to be or not to be" speech, he broke down about a dilemma on "Full House," a show her admits he's currently watching in reruns.
But it's when David does Hamlet's "Man delights me not" soliloquy that you could have heard a pin drop in the room, his voice and perfect diction feeding the soul of every Shakespeare lover in the room.
A volunteer was plucked from the audience (and called Bob despite her name being Julia) to do the screaming of Ophelia's id, but the audience was soon asked to join her in a group scream-a-thon.
Of course, David played Ophelia and to play her drowning scene, threw a cup of water in his face.
As you may already know, all did not end well there, either. That's why they call it a tragedy.
Just when the last of Shakespeare's plays had ended, the actors got even sillier.
First they did a two minute version of "Hamlet." Then a 30 second version.
Then, perhaps most brilliantly, a backwards version, with the classic line, "Be to not or be to?"
Moving backwards, undying and, yes, Ophelia spitting water out of her mouth to un-drown.
"You thank!" they yelled to the standing ovation the audience gave them.
Effort fine damn, gentlemen. Truly one for the books.
Abridged and revised. I definitely swingeth that way.
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.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Love Wrought These Miracles
I have an ongoing theme this week.
Get lost going to a play in the hinterlands and then sit back and watch love unfold.
A small price to pay for such pleasures.
Instead of south like last night, tonight a friend and I headed west, an even more challenging direction for its homogeneity, both in architecture and street-naming conventions.
After multiple wrong turns and dead ends, at long last we arrived at Steward School's theater for Richmond Shakespeare/Henley Street's must-see production of "The Taming of the Shrew."
Yes, I know there are people who dismiss this play as sexist, male domination over female, blah, blah, but as director Jan Powell pointed out in her notes, it can also be seen as a "deft depiction of how hard it is to make love work in the real world."
Amen, sister.
In a clever staging, it was set in 1930s Hollywood, with ditzy starlets, gangster types and seamed stockings, as a movie cast attempts to shoot TToTS in two hours.
Chalkboards are clapped, lines are forgotten, sets malfunction, and the enormous camera onstage captured it all.
The show began with a film of "coming attractions" showing on the enormous screen behind the stage set to classic newsreel music.
For the feature presentation, of course, it said, "Screenplay by William Shakespeare."
As a bonus, during set changes between scenes, one of the actors would go to the '30s-style microphone and croon a standard.
Blue Moon, I Get a Kick Out of You, Stormy Weather and my personal favorite, The Way You Look Tonight.
Considering it was preview night, the cast was moving seamlessly between movie actors waiting on set and Shakespeare's characters.
I burn, I pine, I perish.
In an interesting bit of casting, Petruchio's servant Grumio was played by a woman, Stacie Reardon Hall, and while such a thing would never have been allowed in Shakespeare's time, it totally worked here.
I'll attend her here and woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Liz Blake White was all fire as Kate, the woman who finally realizes that Petruchio is that rarest of things, a genuine partner, and accepts him on his terms, to the surprise of those who thought her shrewish.
McLean Jesse was her adorable, docile sister, all squeaky voice and delightfully superficial attitude which just made all the men want her more.
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.
When Mark Hackman as Petruchio shows up for their wedding, he is brilliantly and inappropriately dressed in a blue feather boa, pink wings, sunglasses, a wife beater and boots that don't match. With a fake snake wrapped around his arm.
Every girl's dream groom.
During intermission, the couple next to us got up and he returned first but patiently waited in the aisle for her. Climbing back over our legs, he said he'd done that to save us the trouble of being climbed over twice. A very sweet gesture, we said.
"He is sweet. I think I'll keep him," his wife said. I asked how long she'd been keeping him.
43 years, she said. Now that's a man who's been wooing with spirit well.
I'll curb her mad and headstrong humor.
The second act had Petruchio withholding food and sleep to bend Kate to his will and as a woman who thrives on those two things, I can only imagine how well this tactic would work on me.
Kindness in woman, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love.
The part of the story that dealt with the Hollywood actors had its best moments when the leads, a former happy couple now estranged, can barely spit out their lines at each other civilly.
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich.
After clamorous kissing (a fabulous phrase for snogging) during the wedding, my favorite scene involves the three new husbands betting each other who has the most obedient wife.
Call me old school, but I find something very romantic abut how Kate shows her love by responding when her husband calls for her while the other wives put their husbands off.
Husband, let's follow to see the end of this ado
First kiss me, Kate and then we will
What, in the midst of the street?
You know what?
Yes, in the midst of the street or in the midst of a party or a restaurant or in the midst of anywhere he wants to kiss you.
Thereby hangs a tale...and a lesson in love.
It's enough to make you forget you're lost somewhere out in the bowels of the west end.
Get lost going to a play in the hinterlands and then sit back and watch love unfold.
A small price to pay for such pleasures.
Instead of south like last night, tonight a friend and I headed west, an even more challenging direction for its homogeneity, both in architecture and street-naming conventions.
After multiple wrong turns and dead ends, at long last we arrived at Steward School's theater for Richmond Shakespeare/Henley Street's must-see production of "The Taming of the Shrew."
Yes, I know there are people who dismiss this play as sexist, male domination over female, blah, blah, but as director Jan Powell pointed out in her notes, it can also be seen as a "deft depiction of how hard it is to make love work in the real world."
Amen, sister.
In a clever staging, it was set in 1930s Hollywood, with ditzy starlets, gangster types and seamed stockings, as a movie cast attempts to shoot TToTS in two hours.
Chalkboards are clapped, lines are forgotten, sets malfunction, and the enormous camera onstage captured it all.
The show began with a film of "coming attractions" showing on the enormous screen behind the stage set to classic newsreel music.
For the feature presentation, of course, it said, "Screenplay by William Shakespeare."
As a bonus, during set changes between scenes, one of the actors would go to the '30s-style microphone and croon a standard.
Blue Moon, I Get a Kick Out of You, Stormy Weather and my personal favorite, The Way You Look Tonight.
Considering it was preview night, the cast was moving seamlessly between movie actors waiting on set and Shakespeare's characters.
I burn, I pine, I perish.
In an interesting bit of casting, Petruchio's servant Grumio was played by a woman, Stacie Reardon Hall, and while such a thing would never have been allowed in Shakespeare's time, it totally worked here.
I'll attend her here and woo her with some spirit when she comes.
Liz Blake White was all fire as Kate, the woman who finally realizes that Petruchio is that rarest of things, a genuine partner, and accepts him on his terms, to the surprise of those who thought her shrewish.
McLean Jesse was her adorable, docile sister, all squeaky voice and delightfully superficial attitude which just made all the men want her more.
For I am rough and woo not like a babe.
When Mark Hackman as Petruchio shows up for their wedding, he is brilliantly and inappropriately dressed in a blue feather boa, pink wings, sunglasses, a wife beater and boots that don't match. With a fake snake wrapped around his arm.
Every girl's dream groom.
During intermission, the couple next to us got up and he returned first but patiently waited in the aisle for her. Climbing back over our legs, he said he'd done that to save us the trouble of being climbed over twice. A very sweet gesture, we said.
"He is sweet. I think I'll keep him," his wife said. I asked how long she'd been keeping him.
43 years, she said. Now that's a man who's been wooing with spirit well.
I'll curb her mad and headstrong humor.
The second act had Petruchio withholding food and sleep to bend Kate to his will and as a woman who thrives on those two things, I can only imagine how well this tactic would work on me.
Kindness in woman, not their beauteous looks, shall win my love.
The part of the story that dealt with the Hollywood actors had its best moments when the leads, a former happy couple now estranged, can barely spit out their lines at each other civilly.
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich.
After clamorous kissing (a fabulous phrase for snogging) during the wedding, my favorite scene involves the three new husbands betting each other who has the most obedient wife.
Call me old school, but I find something very romantic abut how Kate shows her love by responding when her husband calls for her while the other wives put their husbands off.
Husband, let's follow to see the end of this ado
First kiss me, Kate and then we will
What, in the midst of the street?
You know what?
Yes, in the midst of the street or in the midst of a party or a restaurant or in the midst of anywhere he wants to kiss you.
Thereby hangs a tale...and a lesson in love.
It's enough to make you forget you're lost somewhere out in the bowels of the west end.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Brutus, You Give Good Words
A trip to the theater requires a pre-show meal.
Now that we have several to choose from near CenterStage, I took my pleasure at Pasture, where the patio and bar were full, but the back bar invited all comers.
I barely got my butt in a stool when I heard my name called and saw a food punk sitting at the end of the bar, calling me over.
Company? I'll take it.
But with a curtain to make, I had to be mindful of the business at hand, so I ordered a glass of tonight's featured wine, Domaine d'Andezon, a smooth, mouth-filling red to go with my Frito pie.
Nothing prepares you for a night of Shakespeare like cheese-smothered vegetarian chili, onions and Fritos, especially when served in a red and white checked paper container (sort of like how fries came from the snack shack at the pool when I was a kid).
While I chowed down on an absolutely delightful pre-theater supper, she enjoyed a Lincoln cocktail which she tried unsuccessfully to describe to me.
Since words are what I do, I listened and then asked, "Leather chair?" and she ecstatically affirmed that, yes, a leather chair was exactly what it tasted like.
One sip and I knew I'd nailed it.
We talked about the documentary she's making on Sally Belle's Kitchen, the pleasures of a picnic at the Carillon and how easy it is to get into a rut and not try new restaurants.
Since, like me, she's a come-here, she shares my enthusiasm for Richmond, and the array of options available for anyone who cares to avail themselves of it all.
We almost got off on a discussion of negative-energy foodies, but decided to table that talk for an entire evening instead.
Julius Caesar, after all, was awaiting me.
I walked the two blocks down to CenterStage to pick up tickets and took a seat to wait for my date to arrive.
I was soon joined on my bench by a woman in a striking, long white and purple flowered dress, complete with purple belt and shoes.
She was waiting for her husband, she said, giving me a long stare.
"You have the cutest nose," she said in a very British accent. "It's really a very pretty profile you have."
I think she was saying I gave good nose, so I thanked her.
Soon the menfolk arrived and we headed upstairs for a great tragedy.
Henley Street's production had not only been getting rave reviews, but its artistic director, James Ricks, will soon leave Richmond for no doubt a bigger market, making this the last thing he'd direct for Henley Street.
It was closing night for the show, meaning everyone was superb in their roles, performing at 110% emotion.
He reads much, he is a great observer.
Ricks had set the play in early 20th century Europe, a plausible substitution for a republic headed toward dictatorship.
Who is so firm that can't be seduced?
Watching the action unfold, I couldn't help but be impressed with the level of acting I was seeing.
I grant, I am a woman
At the point that Brutus gets up to speak to the Romans after he and his accomplices have killed Caesar for the sake of the republic, an actor suddenly slipped into our row and sat down.
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
He became one of the Romans yelling questions and accusations at Brutus, bringing the drama within two seats.
With Caesar dead by intermission, I was eagerly awaiting and dreading the sadness of the second act.
A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Watching men go into battle, even knowing the outcome, I felt what I always feel about battles.
Why must men do this?
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
By the end of this grand and glorious "Julius Caesar," one with imposing music, an evocative set and a cast that would have impressed in markets far bigger than Richmond, I joined the audience in giving a standing ovation for such a fabulous theater experience.
Of course, that's just my opinion, but then, I read much and I am a great observer.
Now that we have several to choose from near CenterStage, I took my pleasure at Pasture, where the patio and bar were full, but the back bar invited all comers.
I barely got my butt in a stool when I heard my name called and saw a food punk sitting at the end of the bar, calling me over.
Company? I'll take it.
But with a curtain to make, I had to be mindful of the business at hand, so I ordered a glass of tonight's featured wine, Domaine d'Andezon, a smooth, mouth-filling red to go with my Frito pie.
Nothing prepares you for a night of Shakespeare like cheese-smothered vegetarian chili, onions and Fritos, especially when served in a red and white checked paper container (sort of like how fries came from the snack shack at the pool when I was a kid).
While I chowed down on an absolutely delightful pre-theater supper, she enjoyed a Lincoln cocktail which she tried unsuccessfully to describe to me.
Since words are what I do, I listened and then asked, "Leather chair?" and she ecstatically affirmed that, yes, a leather chair was exactly what it tasted like.
One sip and I knew I'd nailed it.
We talked about the documentary she's making on Sally Belle's Kitchen, the pleasures of a picnic at the Carillon and how easy it is to get into a rut and not try new restaurants.
Since, like me, she's a come-here, she shares my enthusiasm for Richmond, and the array of options available for anyone who cares to avail themselves of it all.
We almost got off on a discussion of negative-energy foodies, but decided to table that talk for an entire evening instead.
Julius Caesar, after all, was awaiting me.
I walked the two blocks down to CenterStage to pick up tickets and took a seat to wait for my date to arrive.
I was soon joined on my bench by a woman in a striking, long white and purple flowered dress, complete with purple belt and shoes.
She was waiting for her husband, she said, giving me a long stare.
"You have the cutest nose," she said in a very British accent. "It's really a very pretty profile you have."
I think she was saying I gave good nose, so I thanked her.
Soon the menfolk arrived and we headed upstairs for a great tragedy.
Henley Street's production had not only been getting rave reviews, but its artistic director, James Ricks, will soon leave Richmond for no doubt a bigger market, making this the last thing he'd direct for Henley Street.
It was closing night for the show, meaning everyone was superb in their roles, performing at 110% emotion.
He reads much, he is a great observer.
Ricks had set the play in early 20th century Europe, a plausible substitution for a republic headed toward dictatorship.
Who is so firm that can't be seduced?
Watching the action unfold, I couldn't help but be impressed with the level of acting I was seeing.
I grant, I am a woman
At the point that Brutus gets up to speak to the Romans after he and his accomplices have killed Caesar for the sake of the republic, an actor suddenly slipped into our row and sat down.
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence.
He became one of the Romans yelling questions and accusations at Brutus, bringing the drama within two seats.
With Caesar dead by intermission, I was eagerly awaiting and dreading the sadness of the second act.
A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Watching men go into battle, even knowing the outcome, I felt what I always feel about battles.
Why must men do this?
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.
By the end of this grand and glorious "Julius Caesar," one with imposing music, an evocative set and a cast that would have impressed in markets far bigger than Richmond, I joined the audience in giving a standing ovation for such a fabulous theater experience.
Of course, that's just my opinion, but then, I read much and I am a great observer.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Buy Less, See More, Eat Anything
All I'm shooting for is to be a better person. That's all.
But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.
So, yea, it was just another Friday night.
First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.
(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?
The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.
While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.
And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.
From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.
Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.
Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.
The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.
Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."
Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.
The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.
Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.
Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.
We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.
From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.
Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").
A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").
Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.
The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.
Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.
It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."
Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.
All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.
As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.
So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.
But here's the dilemma.
Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.
Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?
This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.
I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.
The wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.
Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.
The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."
What more could a person ask of a drink?
My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.
There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).
I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.
Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.
My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.
More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.
Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.
I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.
"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.
It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.
But I'm a lousy consumer, I've got no faith and I say yes to blood.
So, yea, it was just another Friday night.
First up was the opening of Brian Ulrich's shows, "Copia" and "Closeout" at the mobbed Anderson Gallery.
(sniff) Wasn't it just a few weeks ago when we were all reveling in unlimited parking and the absence of students when, wham, bam, thank you ma'am, they're back and looking earnest and trying to understand photographs from the mid-20th century?
The show was a fascinating look at our culture of consumerism, from surreptitious photos taken in big box stores to posed thrift stores shots to vintage photographs of people during the Great Prosperity.
While the photographs taken since 9/11 had an uneasy familiarity, not to mention over-saturated colors, the pre-1970 black and white photos had a dense sense of texture and tone that gave them a rich look no longer attainable with a digital camera.
And while the show raises all sorts of questions about how we buy and why, I can rest assured that my infrequent trips to the thrift store have little in common with the desire to own more of the latest and greatest.
From the VCU campus, it was but a short trip to exchange the artsy student crowd for the rabid theater crowd for the Acts of Faith Festival preview.
Walking into the November Theater, a concession stand host called out that the orchestra seating was full, so to head upstairs to the balcony.
Once comfortably ensconced in the front row of said balcony, a look down confirmed that there were still plenty of available seats downstairs.
The couple who sat down next to me mentioned the same thing.
Then he said, "I'm not sure I've been here since I saw John McCutcheon here 25 years ago."
Well, my dear sir, then you aren't getting out enough.
The Reverend Alex Evans began the evening by welcoming us to the 9th year of the Acts of Faith Festival and then doing a roll call of all the church groups represented tonight.
Each one clapped and hooted to show their presence, but since he didn't call out a category for "heathen," i had no opportunity to clap or hoot.
Let's not leave out the faithless, Reverend.
We have lack of faith and surely that's part of the festival, too.
From there, we were off and running with a preview of the 18 plays that will comprise the festival.
Some had casts to do a scene (Henley Street's "Faith Healer"), some had films or stills because the show was already in production tonight (Virginia Rep's Children Theater's "Magic Flute) and some had key people talking about the play-to-come concerning bright young things (Noel Coward's "Hay Fever").
A couple had full musical numbers (Hanover Tavern and "Breast in Show"), one taught us an Arabic greeting (For Our Children Productions), and one began with the reliably amusing Evan Nasteff dressed circa 1984 as an announcer (Cadence's "Sons of the Prophet").
Not surprisingly, the announcement and arrival of Carol Piersol (formerly of the beleaguered Firehouse Theater Company) got a standing ovation from the theater-savvy in the room.
The little company that could (TheaterLab) did a rousing scene from "Riding the Bull," with two Ghostlight Afterparty regulars, Deejay Gray and Maggie Boop.
Richmond Shakespeare performed an act of faith when they had an actor do a monologue from "The Tempest" when rehearsals don't even start until next week.
It was a pleasant surprise to learn that Friends of Dogwood Dell are now doing a winter season and the talented Todd Schall-Vass was part of the cast for "ECCE."
Richmond Triangle Players had one of the best lines ("The 1970s have a great deal to answer for") and the always-hilarious Chris Hester as a manchild in porcupine-land.
All in all, it was a satisfying look at the plays that will provide the community talkbacks about all kinds of issues of faith for the next couple of months.
As someone pointed out, national theater performance groups are looking at our model of how the faith and theater communities can work together annually to engage the community in meaningful conversation about important issues.
So, yea, we're pretty cool. Even the heathen part of the audience, I might add.
But here's the dilemma.
Say we've evolved to where Richmond has a vibrant scene, where on any given Friday night, a person can go to a compelling art opening followed by a theater preview and when she walks out at 10:15, she's yet to have dinner.
Where in this happening city can a person go have something more than bar food, something as interesting as the art and theater she's seen tonight?
This person decided on Belmont Food Shop, knowing that they have a late night cook's menu that offers no choices and impressive offerings.
I slid in next to a couple discussing music with a musician next to them and was immediately at home.
The wine list yielded up Negroamaro Corte Salice Salentino Riserva, which the barkeep promised would deliver "black and bitter," as fitting a match for whatever was going to come out on the cook's plate as I could hope for.
Meanwhile, the pleasantly chatty couple ("You look familiar," she said, leaning in. "Are you a singer?" Ha! It is to laugh) next to me were sharing desserts and ordering after-dinner drinks and coffee.
The bartender made up a drink to accompany her French silk pie and after one taste of the amaretto/elderflower/bubbly concoction, she noted, "Well, that'll make me a better person."
What more could a person ask of a drink?
My cook's plate arrived and it was magnificent: chicken leg confit with frisee, radishes with butter, sliced lamb heart with pickled okra and pickled onion and blood sausage cake with a fried quail egg atop it. Oh, yes, and wedges of bread.
There may be people who would turn up their nose at this array of offbeat and offal, but I was thrilled and dove in like I hadn't eaten since afternoon (I hadn't).
I think it's brilliant for Belmont to offer a safe menu for evening dining and to pull out the interesting stuff for late night adventurous types.
Hell, I don't even care what's on the plate because the kitchen is so adept at deciding what to offer.
My bar companions asked me where I liked to go for music, acting like they'd hit the jackpot when I began over-sharing my favorite haunts and why.
More black and bitter followed to accompany a chocolate truffle and some candied orange peel, the latest sweet offerings from a kitchen that always seems to be trying something new.
Sitting there finishing my Italian wine, listening to music from the '20s, with the bartender singing along to "Ain't Misbehaving," the server and I got in a discussion of the pleasures of green Chartreuse.
I told her of an impossibly hot, humid summer night on nearby Floyd Avenue with a a handful of overheated friends and a bottle of Chartreuse that was still memorable fifteen years later.
"Wow, yea, I'll have to try that," she said, clearly intrigued by my story of misbehaving, no ain't about it.
It should make her a better person. Or, at the very least, a heathen.
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."
Sunday, April 15, 2012
An Ode to Film Devotion
If I ever get challenged on being a cinephile, I will hold up today as proof that I am willing to suffer for film.
It is, after all, James River Film Fest time and there's too much much good film out there to miss.
On a beautiful sunny, Saturday afternoon, I was closeted in the Byrd Theater for a 2011 Danish film about a disaster of a wedding and the end of the world.
Did I mention that it came in at two hours and sixteen minutes?
Fortunately, there was highly buttered popcorn.
"Melancholia" describes both the name of the rogue planet that collides with Earth, destroying all life, and the depression that the lead character, played by Kirsten Dunst, suffers.
Probably because "Melancholia" never played RVA, there was a good-sized crowd in the world's most uncomfortable theater seats and many of them were no doubt fans of director Lars von Trier.
JRFF organizer James Parrish introduced the film as the kind of movie they would show when they are able to establish a storefront repertory theater in Richmond, something they are actively seeking to do.
The movie was many things: beautifully shot (each scene was arranged like a painting), disturbing (an unhappier bride would be hard to find and her mother toasted her by saying, "I hate marriages, especially when they involve my closest family members"), dark (suicide, a horse being beaten) and bombastic (it began with a Wagner prelude).
By the time I walked out, I had half an hour before meeting a friend to see another JRFF offering.
I could use a little common sense when planning future Saturdays.
Luckily, first we did dinner at Garnett's, knowing we'd be able to get a nice glass of wine and be out in time for an 8:00 screening.
When you're sitting in a theater for close to six hours in one day, it's important o have priorities.
Two Cobb salads were followed by two slices of chocolate cake in that way that girlfriends like to eat when they're together.
Arriving at the Grace Street Theater for tonight's program "Richmond Takes Sundance," we were not surprised to see a big crowd gathering.
How often do we have two Richmond ties to one Sundance Festival?
We found good seats in the center and noticed that many people around us had brought their own candy since the theater doesn't have concessions.
As Friend noted, we shouldn't have craved candy in theory, but we'd have eaten it if we'd brought it.
Shameless, I know.
Showing first was a short, "Henley," shot in Cumberland, Virginia about a kid who lives at a motel and collects road kill.
The actor, Hale Lytle, was chosen from a host of SPARC kids, most of whom possessed the kind of "jazz hands" acting that they director was trying to avoid.
For the record, Lytle couldn't be at the screening tonight because he's in NYC shooting a feature film.
They grow up so fast.
Actually, he causes road kill, which was the disturbing part of former local Clay McLeod Chapman's script from a chapter in his novel.
But since I'd seen Chapman's work performed before, I knew to expect a twist and he'd delivered.
There was an endless delay due to technical difficulties before we got to the main event.
It was former Richmonder (and Ipanema chef) Rick Alverson's "The Comedy," which was anything but.
A disturbing look at our country's sense of entitlement and general numbness, it conveyed an uncomfortable sort of voyeurism of people impossible to like.
Most surprising was how much laughter there was at the screening because I found almost nothing laugh-worthy about its bleak picture of a desensitized world.
Particularly annoying was the loud laugher sitting right in front of me who laughed at every reference to sex, a seizure scene and every other inappropriate moment he could.
After the film, director Alverson said that some people had walked out of it at Sundance and other screenings had produced not a single laugh.
In my opinion, it shouldn't have. A movie about cruelty is nothing to laugh at.
One fascinating tidbit he shared was that the hour and a half movie had been made from an eighteen-page script with no dialog.
Ergo, all that talking by the unpleasant characters was improvised.
So all those male characters saying uncomfortable things to get a reaction and the women characters doing their best not to respond was spontaneous.
I have to admire being able to work that way.
Likewise, I have to admire a filmmaker who addresses a world with the kind of numb people who inhabit the 21st century.
I didn't say I cared about them, but they do make for a compelling film premise.
That said, my backside and I were more than happy to abandon theater seating for greener pastures.
Even a cinephile's butt needs a break after a while.
Sorry, Eraserhead, I just can't do it tonight.
It is, after all, James River Film Fest time and there's too much much good film out there to miss.
On a beautiful sunny, Saturday afternoon, I was closeted in the Byrd Theater for a 2011 Danish film about a disaster of a wedding and the end of the world.
Did I mention that it came in at two hours and sixteen minutes?
Fortunately, there was highly buttered popcorn.
"Melancholia" describes both the name of the rogue planet that collides with Earth, destroying all life, and the depression that the lead character, played by Kirsten Dunst, suffers.
Probably because "Melancholia" never played RVA, there was a good-sized crowd in the world's most uncomfortable theater seats and many of them were no doubt fans of director Lars von Trier.
JRFF organizer James Parrish introduced the film as the kind of movie they would show when they are able to establish a storefront repertory theater in Richmond, something they are actively seeking to do.
The movie was many things: beautifully shot (each scene was arranged like a painting), disturbing (an unhappier bride would be hard to find and her mother toasted her by saying, "I hate marriages, especially when they involve my closest family members"), dark (suicide, a horse being beaten) and bombastic (it began with a Wagner prelude).
By the time I walked out, I had half an hour before meeting a friend to see another JRFF offering.
I could use a little common sense when planning future Saturdays.
Luckily, first we did dinner at Garnett's, knowing we'd be able to get a nice glass of wine and be out in time for an 8:00 screening.
When you're sitting in a theater for close to six hours in one day, it's important o have priorities.
Two Cobb salads were followed by two slices of chocolate cake in that way that girlfriends like to eat when they're together.
Arriving at the Grace Street Theater for tonight's program "Richmond Takes Sundance," we were not surprised to see a big crowd gathering.
How often do we have two Richmond ties to one Sundance Festival?
We found good seats in the center and noticed that many people around us had brought their own candy since the theater doesn't have concessions.
As Friend noted, we shouldn't have craved candy in theory, but we'd have eaten it if we'd brought it.
Shameless, I know.
Showing first was a short, "Henley," shot in Cumberland, Virginia about a kid who lives at a motel and collects road kill.
The actor, Hale Lytle, was chosen from a host of SPARC kids, most of whom possessed the kind of "jazz hands" acting that they director was trying to avoid.
For the record, Lytle couldn't be at the screening tonight because he's in NYC shooting a feature film.
They grow up so fast.
Actually, he causes road kill, which was the disturbing part of former local Clay McLeod Chapman's script from a chapter in his novel.
But since I'd seen Chapman's work performed before, I knew to expect a twist and he'd delivered.
There was an endless delay due to technical difficulties before we got to the main event.
It was former Richmonder (and Ipanema chef) Rick Alverson's "The Comedy," which was anything but.
A disturbing look at our country's sense of entitlement and general numbness, it conveyed an uncomfortable sort of voyeurism of people impossible to like.
Most surprising was how much laughter there was at the screening because I found almost nothing laugh-worthy about its bleak picture of a desensitized world.
Particularly annoying was the loud laugher sitting right in front of me who laughed at every reference to sex, a seizure scene and every other inappropriate moment he could.
After the film, director Alverson said that some people had walked out of it at Sundance and other screenings had produced not a single laugh.
In my opinion, it shouldn't have. A movie about cruelty is nothing to laugh at.
One fascinating tidbit he shared was that the hour and a half movie had been made from an eighteen-page script with no dialog.
Ergo, all that talking by the unpleasant characters was improvised.
So all those male characters saying uncomfortable things to get a reaction and the women characters doing their best not to respond was spontaneous.
I have to admire being able to work that way.
Likewise, I have to admire a filmmaker who addresses a world with the kind of numb people who inhabit the 21st century.
I didn't say I cared about them, but they do make for a compelling film premise.
That said, my backside and I were more than happy to abandon theater seating for greener pastures.
Even a cinephile's butt needs a break after a while.
Sorry, Eraserhead, I just can't do it tonight.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Faithfully Yours in Fantasy
Faith can mean so many things.
I used to consider it a supreme act of faith that my 90 plus year old neighbor planted bulbs every Fall, fully expecting that she'd see them bloom come Spring.
Once you've had your heart broken, certainly falling in love again is an act of faith and people do that all the time.
It's that range of definitions of faith that make up the fifteen productions in this year's Acts of Faith Festival, which previewed tonight at the Empire Theater, right here in lovely downtown J-Ward.
Some choices are obvious, like "God of Carnage" or "Jewtopia" while some require a closer look to figure out the faith connection.
"Always...Patsy Cline"? Er...? "Ain't Misbehaving"? Um...? Okay, "The Tragedy of Macbeth," sorta, kinda.
Tonight's preview offered brief snippets of all the plays, hopefully whetting the audience's appetite for seeing the full productions.
The brief scene from Henley Street's "Lord of the Flies" reminded me how unsettling that book had been back when I read it in school.
"Shakespeare and Galileo," which I actually saw when it was first produced at the Carpenter Science Theater, imagines that Shakespeare went to Italy and met the great scientist.
This one was obvious. Galileo's description of the moon was the perfect melding of art and science, aka a higher power.
There were plenty of humorous moments, too.
We were told by the director of the Seminary Shoestring Players from Baptist Theological Seminary that he'd started the group because, "I thought it was a good thing for students going into the ministry to learn how to act."
Major laughter greeted that remark.
Likewise there was tittering for Cadence Theater Company's scene from "August: Osage County" where the woman says, "Men always say crap like that, as if the past and future don't exist."
You guys know better, right?
Despite most people probably not even noticing, one moment that brought a smile to my face was during the Patsy Cline song, "Walking After Midnight."
Instead of a band, she had a pianist accompanying her tonight and for sheet music, he was using an iPad.
That's right, touching the screen periodically to go to the next page of music to play a song from the fifties.
He must have had faith that technology wouldn't fail him in the midst of the performance.
And while I'm a card-carrying heathen, one thing I appreciate about the Acts of Faith Festival is that they have talkbacks for every play, inviting audience members to share their take on the issues presented in the plays.
So it's safe to say that once the festival begins, I'll catch a few of the plays and maybe even share my opinion with a roomful of strangers.
I moved from faith to fantasy by going to Eric Schindler Gallery for the opening of Lily Lamberta's new show "Pageant Style Puppetry and Folk Art."
Lily is the brains and talent behind All the Saints Theater Company and the fantastical puppets and masks used in the Annual Halloween and May Day Parades, two events I love participating in.
Her fanciful mounted heads look down from walls oozing personality like no actual stuffed animal ever could.
"Grandma Forest" had lace eyebrows."Watchman of the Woods" had a burgundy velvet head wrap with tassel.
"Winter White Caribou," the piece I coveted, was extravagantly feminine, pink, lacy and with delicate twig antlers.
From the front brightly lit gallery room to the second room represented a colossal shift in mood.
In that space, Lily had crafted a luminous shrine to her parade works. This, I knew, was Lily's world.
Enormous puppets, heads, hands and skulls hung from the walls with fairy lights strewn around them.
Familiar faces from past parades looked down, including George Washington, whom I remembered from the Founding Fathers-themed parade.
It was here I found the artist herself, dressed in a short black taffeta prom dress and cowboy boots, looking like she was having the time of her life among the capacity crowd.
But she didn't seem in the least surprised about all the people raving about her work, snapping photos of it or that she'd already sold three pieces.
And why should she? As far as I can tell, being an artist is a full-time act of faith.
I used to consider it a supreme act of faith that my 90 plus year old neighbor planted bulbs every Fall, fully expecting that she'd see them bloom come Spring.
Once you've had your heart broken, certainly falling in love again is an act of faith and people do that all the time.
It's that range of definitions of faith that make up the fifteen productions in this year's Acts of Faith Festival, which previewed tonight at the Empire Theater, right here in lovely downtown J-Ward.
Some choices are obvious, like "God of Carnage" or "Jewtopia" while some require a closer look to figure out the faith connection.
"Always...Patsy Cline"? Er...? "Ain't Misbehaving"? Um...? Okay, "The Tragedy of Macbeth," sorta, kinda.
Tonight's preview offered brief snippets of all the plays, hopefully whetting the audience's appetite for seeing the full productions.
The brief scene from Henley Street's "Lord of the Flies" reminded me how unsettling that book had been back when I read it in school.
"Shakespeare and Galileo," which I actually saw when it was first produced at the Carpenter Science Theater, imagines that Shakespeare went to Italy and met the great scientist.
This one was obvious. Galileo's description of the moon was the perfect melding of art and science, aka a higher power.
There were plenty of humorous moments, too.
We were told by the director of the Seminary Shoestring Players from Baptist Theological Seminary that he'd started the group because, "I thought it was a good thing for students going into the ministry to learn how to act."
Major laughter greeted that remark.
Likewise there was tittering for Cadence Theater Company's scene from "August: Osage County" where the woman says, "Men always say crap like that, as if the past and future don't exist."
You guys know better, right?
Despite most people probably not even noticing, one moment that brought a smile to my face was during the Patsy Cline song, "Walking After Midnight."
Instead of a band, she had a pianist accompanying her tonight and for sheet music, he was using an iPad.
That's right, touching the screen periodically to go to the next page of music to play a song from the fifties.
He must have had faith that technology wouldn't fail him in the midst of the performance.
And while I'm a card-carrying heathen, one thing I appreciate about the Acts of Faith Festival is that they have talkbacks for every play, inviting audience members to share their take on the issues presented in the plays.
So it's safe to say that once the festival begins, I'll catch a few of the plays and maybe even share my opinion with a roomful of strangers.
I moved from faith to fantasy by going to Eric Schindler Gallery for the opening of Lily Lamberta's new show "Pageant Style Puppetry and Folk Art."
Lily is the brains and talent behind All the Saints Theater Company and the fantastical puppets and masks used in the Annual Halloween and May Day Parades, two events I love participating in.
Her fanciful mounted heads look down from walls oozing personality like no actual stuffed animal ever could.
"Grandma Forest" had lace eyebrows."Watchman of the Woods" had a burgundy velvet head wrap with tassel.
"Winter White Caribou," the piece I coveted, was extravagantly feminine, pink, lacy and with delicate twig antlers.
From the front brightly lit gallery room to the second room represented a colossal shift in mood.
In that space, Lily had crafted a luminous shrine to her parade works. This, I knew, was Lily's world.
Enormous puppets, heads, hands and skulls hung from the walls with fairy lights strewn around them.
Familiar faces from past parades looked down, including George Washington, whom I remembered from the Founding Fathers-themed parade.
It was here I found the artist herself, dressed in a short black taffeta prom dress and cowboy boots, looking like she was having the time of her life among the capacity crowd.
But she didn't seem in the least surprised about all the people raving about her work, snapping photos of it or that she'd already sold three pieces.
And why should she? As far as I can tell, being an artist is a full-time act of faith.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Beat It
It's not often I'm willing to wait in line for an hour and a quarter, but for Henley Street's Annual Bootleg Shakespeare, I do.
Happily and with my mouth running to my friend about the past few months of my life for entertainment, we stayed until we scored two fifth row seats before looking for a place to eat.
Given the limited time we had, we settled for a restaurant in the parking lot, Ledo's Pizza.
And there I had a bit of a cultural shock.
There were individual TVs at some of the tables. Not at the one we chose, you can be sure, but within view at a half dozen booths.
Please tell me this isn't the wave of the future.
Even the manager coming over to check on us and, seeing our glasses of red wine and white pizza with bacon, saying he was going to bring over the bottle of wine and get us drunk (we declined) couldn't compensate.
I'm sorry; a booth with a TV ensures no conversation and that's exactly what we saw. Silent people eating together without sharing a word.
Tragic.
Luckily, seeing "Troilus and Cressida" made up for it all.
The bootleg experience, with the actors bringing their own costumes and props and having no rehearsals except the day of the show, is one guaranteed to delight.
The actors experience things as the audience does and the results are always hilarious.
The evening always starts with a drawing and this year first prize was a basket with a plastic sword, a Cressida doll and a box of Trojans. Brilliant.
And this year, Henley had chosen a problem play, one I had never seen produced, so that was yet another exciting element.
It's a long play, too, but the energy of the actors kept things moving and there was enough comedy, bawdy and otherwise, around the tragedy and history to make the evening pass in a flash.
The story was mostly about the warring between the Trojans and Greeks but also about the doomed love affair of Troilus and Cressida.
To be wise and love
Exceeds man's might
Duh. So there's a truism as old as mankind.
Achilles, played by Joe Carlson, strutted around in his underwear and an open robe, lusting after men and powdering his privates.
Cynde Liffick played Agamemnon in a red shirt and black leather jacket, but it was her one sequined glove that made the costume.
She got a well-deserved round of applause for delivering the endless list of the the dead and wounded.
I always find that Adam Mincks, here as Aeneas, makes me laugh out loud and he did it many times tonight.
A scene where he handed a half-eaten apple to the old man Nestor and then kept checking on it with sly glances had the audience in stitches.
And the very old Nestor, played by Liz Blake-White, was the physical comedy of the play, moving slowly as if with great age and often being scooped up by another character to move her along.
Her line, "I'll hide my silver beard in a golden beaver," was met with outbursts of laughter from many.
Women are angels wooing.
As many times as I've seen Foster Solomon in a production, this was the first time I saw him play big and dumb.
It was, in fact, his big fight with Hector, played by Matt Hackman, that put the audience over the top.
Their staged fight segued into the dance moves for MJ's "Beat It" with the entire cast joining in. It was amazing just how well they pulled off the moves at a moment's notice, especially the big, dumb Ajax.
And his line about "The policy of those crafty, swearing rascals is not proved worth a blackberry...or maybe a Droid," showed his improvisational skills.
Being a punk version of Shakespeare, many actors wore T-shirts ("Survival Tonight Mandatory") and lip "piercings" that were removed for kissing scenes.
Cressida, played by Zoe Speas, was flawless in her belted body suit, ripped fishnets and spot-on delivery.
In a scene about her frustration over losing Troilus she ad-libbed about tearing out her "awesome" hair, a nod to her spiky and fashionable haircut.
It was little things like when Cressida left for Greece and Troilus came out in the next scene with an "X" over his heart.
A very sweet and touching statement.
Being a problem play, nothing was really resolved at the end. There were dead people, as usual, but no reunited lovers or unmasked characters.
Just like real life, I suppose.
Sigh.
We chose Fanhouse for a post-theater cocktail and walked into a mixologist extravaganza, not completely unusual there since Bobby Kruger runs the place, but even the guests were the talented sort tonight.
A high point of the night was when four of them combined resources to create one cocktail.
First one chose a gin, then Frangelico was added by another, then bitters by someone else and the final ingredients by the fourth.
They brainstormed on garnishes and toppings, but the final result was quite tasty, said the non-gin drinker (okay, me).
A group came in and order Jager bombs and as I saw Bobby making them, I asked if his soul was dying a little.
"Yea," he admitted, "But not as bad as if they'd asked for appletinis."
Everything is relative.
Or, as he pointed out, "We have competing demographics in here tonight."
Now that was some restaurant diplomacy.
A low point of the evening was when the volume on the sound system got turned up for R Kelly, making conversation impossible ("Everyone wants to hear R Kelly loud," Bobby insisted), until enough customers requested it be lowered.
But when the '80s arrived in the musical form of the Outfield's "Your Love," and the volume was again raised, there was much singing along and drumming on the bar.
I did neither, but to the observant type, my thoughts were all there.
They always are if you're paying attention.
There's language in her eye, her check, her lip
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirit looks out
At every joint and motive of her body.
Happily and with my mouth running to my friend about the past few months of my life for entertainment, we stayed until we scored two fifth row seats before looking for a place to eat.
Given the limited time we had, we settled for a restaurant in the parking lot, Ledo's Pizza.
And there I had a bit of a cultural shock.
There were individual TVs at some of the tables. Not at the one we chose, you can be sure, but within view at a half dozen booths.
Please tell me this isn't the wave of the future.
Even the manager coming over to check on us and, seeing our glasses of red wine and white pizza with bacon, saying he was going to bring over the bottle of wine and get us drunk (we declined) couldn't compensate.
I'm sorry; a booth with a TV ensures no conversation and that's exactly what we saw. Silent people eating together without sharing a word.
Tragic.
Luckily, seeing "Troilus and Cressida" made up for it all.
The bootleg experience, with the actors bringing their own costumes and props and having no rehearsals except the day of the show, is one guaranteed to delight.
The actors experience things as the audience does and the results are always hilarious.
The evening always starts with a drawing and this year first prize was a basket with a plastic sword, a Cressida doll and a box of Trojans. Brilliant.
And this year, Henley had chosen a problem play, one I had never seen produced, so that was yet another exciting element.
It's a long play, too, but the energy of the actors kept things moving and there was enough comedy, bawdy and otherwise, around the tragedy and history to make the evening pass in a flash.
The story was mostly about the warring between the Trojans and Greeks but also about the doomed love affair of Troilus and Cressida.
To be wise and love
Exceeds man's might
Duh. So there's a truism as old as mankind.
Achilles, played by Joe Carlson, strutted around in his underwear and an open robe, lusting after men and powdering his privates.
Cynde Liffick played Agamemnon in a red shirt and black leather jacket, but it was her one sequined glove that made the costume.
She got a well-deserved round of applause for delivering the endless list of the the dead and wounded.
I always find that Adam Mincks, here as Aeneas, makes me laugh out loud and he did it many times tonight.
A scene where he handed a half-eaten apple to the old man Nestor and then kept checking on it with sly glances had the audience in stitches.
And the very old Nestor, played by Liz Blake-White, was the physical comedy of the play, moving slowly as if with great age and often being scooped up by another character to move her along.
Her line, "I'll hide my silver beard in a golden beaver," was met with outbursts of laughter from many.
Women are angels wooing.
As many times as I've seen Foster Solomon in a production, this was the first time I saw him play big and dumb.
It was, in fact, his big fight with Hector, played by Matt Hackman, that put the audience over the top.
Their staged fight segued into the dance moves for MJ's "Beat It" with the entire cast joining in. It was amazing just how well they pulled off the moves at a moment's notice, especially the big, dumb Ajax.
And his line about "The policy of those crafty, swearing rascals is not proved worth a blackberry...or maybe a Droid," showed his improvisational skills.
Being a punk version of Shakespeare, many actors wore T-shirts ("Survival Tonight Mandatory") and lip "piercings" that were removed for kissing scenes.
Cressida, played by Zoe Speas, was flawless in her belted body suit, ripped fishnets and spot-on delivery.
In a scene about her frustration over losing Troilus she ad-libbed about tearing out her "awesome" hair, a nod to her spiky and fashionable haircut.
It was little things like when Cressida left for Greece and Troilus came out in the next scene with an "X" over his heart.
A very sweet and touching statement.
Being a problem play, nothing was really resolved at the end. There were dead people, as usual, but no reunited lovers or unmasked characters.
Just like real life, I suppose.
Sigh.
We chose Fanhouse for a post-theater cocktail and walked into a mixologist extravaganza, not completely unusual there since Bobby Kruger runs the place, but even the guests were the talented sort tonight.
A high point of the night was when four of them combined resources to create one cocktail.
First one chose a gin, then Frangelico was added by another, then bitters by someone else and the final ingredients by the fourth.
They brainstormed on garnishes and toppings, but the final result was quite tasty, said the non-gin drinker (okay, me).
A group came in and order Jager bombs and as I saw Bobby making them, I asked if his soul was dying a little.
"Yea," he admitted, "But not as bad as if they'd asked for appletinis."
Everything is relative.
Or, as he pointed out, "We have competing demographics in here tonight."
Now that was some restaurant diplomacy.
A low point of the evening was when the volume on the sound system got turned up for R Kelly, making conversation impossible ("Everyone wants to hear R Kelly loud," Bobby insisted), until enough customers requested it be lowered.
But when the '80s arrived in the musical form of the Outfield's "Your Love," and the volume was again raised, there was much singing along and drumming on the bar.
I did neither, but to the observant type, my thoughts were all there.
They always are if you're paying attention.
There's language in her eye, her check, her lip
Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirit looks out
At every joint and motive of her body.
Monday, October 17, 2011
And the Award Goes to...
I got to play dress-up tonight because no cute boys were available.
My friend the theater critic hadn't met anyone he wanted to invite to the Richmond Theater Critics Circle Awards so he settled for inviting me.
"It's formal," he wrote. "Do you have a nice evening dress?'
Conveniently, I do and I can cover up my legs when it's required.
Despite me not being of the sex of his dreams, my date was gallant enough to pick me up since driving in a full-length dress is a pain.
The evening began at Popkin's for a reception and the first person I saw was singer Desiree Roots in a dress with a train.
A train. In Popkin's. Think about that.
After schmoozing and glad-handing for an hour, we moved across the street to the Empire Theater for the awards.
I didn't see many open seats and the crowd was a lively and stylish one, so it felt more like a seated party than a stuffy awards banquet.
And because these were theater people, there were not one but two intermissions to allow people time to get their drink on.
The entire show had been scripted with loads of inside jokes and lots of theater humor, including critic roasting.
When two of the presenters talked about acting versus teaching, one said that the advantage of teaching was that you could send difficult students to the principal..
Or even suspend them.
"I know some critics I'd like to suspend," actress Susan Sanford cracked. "From a bridge. Or a tall building."
Singer Susan Greenbaum asked co-presenter UR basketball Coach Chris Mooney why he'd wanted to participate, given his non-arts occupation.
He answered, "I'm not really known in this part of town." The audience loved that.
One of the biggest laughs went to Anne Holton when she was asked about the high points of being First Lady.
She mentioned the Queen's visit in 2007 and the challenges of learning all the protocols required.
"Thank God there are no queens here tonight," she deadpanned.
Another good pairing was Culture Works' John Bryan with DJ Melissa Chase.
Talking about the contribution of costume design, Bryan said, "Without costumes, theater would just be a bunch of naked people sitting around."
Pause. "Like in radio," he said.
"Hey, we wear headphones," Chase corrected him.
But it wasn't just banter. A song from each of the nominated musicals was performed throughout the evening.
Favorite lyric: "I'd rather be nine people's favorite than a hundred people's ninth favorite."
I, too, aspire to be nine people's favorite. I just want some say in who the nine are.
Like any awards show, there were surprises.
The very first award winner wasn't present.
Another acknowledged how surprised she was with her win by saying, "I was so unprepared that I'm still chewing gum."
The very talented Alan Sader got my vote for most dapper evening attire for a male in his red plaid kilt and high socks.
He looked magnificent accepting his award for Best Actor in a Leading Role in a Play (for King Lear).
My money is on him winning next year for playing Big Daddy in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."
Best Musical was a tie between "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" and "Title of Show," prompting comments about RVA having room for the biggest musicals as well as the smallest (budget).
I had just turned to my (critic) seatmate and commented that Henley Street Theater hadn't won anything (she gave me a cryptic smile) when lo and behold, they won Best Play for "Last Days of Judas Iscariot."
When all was said and done, the crowd was well-lubricated, a bit hoarse after so much yelling for favorites and savoring the camaraderie of the Richmond Theater community.
What else could we do but go for munchies and rehash it all?
My handsome date who opened doors for me and introduced me all night long by saying, "This is my date. Isn't he pretty?" and I were joined by another couple at Third Street Diner.
Over diner food of nachos, cheeseburger, chicken fingers and fries (in our defense, they were out of lettuce), we watched a waitress clean the floor with the vacuum cleaner strapped to her back.
We talked about gay men with girlfriends for beards and which lecture topics attract lesbians.
And before we left, we ogled the contents of the vending machine at the front of the restaurant
Cigarettes, Advil, tampons; all the essentials of life were there.
Our server said the machine used to have candy and condoms, too but, alas, no longer.
Not that my date and I needed either. We were full and neither of us was getting that kind of lucky tonight.
Not that we hadn't looked fine enough to tempt a couple of (very different) guys.
We just didn't meet the right ones.
My friend the theater critic hadn't met anyone he wanted to invite to the Richmond Theater Critics Circle Awards so he settled for inviting me.
"It's formal," he wrote. "Do you have a nice evening dress?'
Conveniently, I do and I can cover up my legs when it's required.
Despite me not being of the sex of his dreams, my date was gallant enough to pick me up since driving in a full-length dress is a pain.
The evening began at Popkin's for a reception and the first person I saw was singer Desiree Roots in a dress with a train.
A train. In Popkin's. Think about that.
After schmoozing and glad-handing for an hour, we moved across the street to the Empire Theater for the awards.
I didn't see many open seats and the crowd was a lively and stylish one, so it felt more like a seated party than a stuffy awards banquet.
And because these were theater people, there were not one but two intermissions to allow people time to get their drink on.
The entire show had been scripted with loads of inside jokes and lots of theater humor, including critic roasting.
When two of the presenters talked about acting versus teaching, one said that the advantage of teaching was that you could send difficult students to the principal..
Or even suspend them.
"I know some critics I'd like to suspend," actress Susan Sanford cracked. "From a bridge. Or a tall building."
Singer Susan Greenbaum asked co-presenter UR basketball Coach Chris Mooney why he'd wanted to participate, given his non-arts occupation.
He answered, "I'm not really known in this part of town." The audience loved that.
One of the biggest laughs went to Anne Holton when she was asked about the high points of being First Lady.
She mentioned the Queen's visit in 2007 and the challenges of learning all the protocols required.
"Thank God there are no queens here tonight," she deadpanned.
Another good pairing was Culture Works' John Bryan with DJ Melissa Chase.
Talking about the contribution of costume design, Bryan said, "Without costumes, theater would just be a bunch of naked people sitting around."
Pause. "Like in radio," he said.
"Hey, we wear headphones," Chase corrected him.
But it wasn't just banter. A song from each of the nominated musicals was performed throughout the evening.
Favorite lyric: "I'd rather be nine people's favorite than a hundred people's ninth favorite."
I, too, aspire to be nine people's favorite. I just want some say in who the nine are.
Like any awards show, there were surprises.
The very first award winner wasn't present.
Another acknowledged how surprised she was with her win by saying, "I was so unprepared that I'm still chewing gum."
The very talented Alan Sader got my vote for most dapper evening attire for a male in his red plaid kilt and high socks.
He looked magnificent accepting his award for Best Actor in a Leading Role in a Play (for King Lear).
My money is on him winning next year for playing Big Daddy in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof."
Best Musical was a tie between "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels" and "Title of Show," prompting comments about RVA having room for the biggest musicals as well as the smallest (budget).
I had just turned to my (critic) seatmate and commented that Henley Street Theater hadn't won anything (she gave me a cryptic smile) when lo and behold, they won Best Play for "Last Days of Judas Iscariot."
When all was said and done, the crowd was well-lubricated, a bit hoarse after so much yelling for favorites and savoring the camaraderie of the Richmond Theater community.
What else could we do but go for munchies and rehash it all?
My handsome date who opened doors for me and introduced me all night long by saying, "This is my date. Isn't he pretty?" and I were joined by another couple at Third Street Diner.
Over diner food of nachos, cheeseburger, chicken fingers and fries (in our defense, they were out of lettuce), we watched a waitress clean the floor with the vacuum cleaner strapped to her back.
We talked about gay men with girlfriends for beards and which lecture topics attract lesbians.
And before we left, we ogled the contents of the vending machine at the front of the restaurant
Cigarettes, Advil, tampons; all the essentials of life were there.
Our server said the machine used to have candy and condoms, too but, alas, no longer.
Not that my date and I needed either. We were full and neither of us was getting that kind of lucky tonight.
Not that we hadn't looked fine enough to tempt a couple of (very different) guys.
We just didn't meet the right ones.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
The Joy of Blathering About Nothing
Yeah, yeah, I know you plan well in advance and it's not likely that you're available this evening but it never hurts to ask, right?
Friends wanted me to join them for a pre-theater supper in my neighborhood. They were going to see "Madama Butterfly" and, coincidentally, I was going to see "Waiting for Godot," so it couldn't have worked out better. We all had somewhere to be by 8:00.
We ended up at Black Sheep, four blocks from home for me and a place at which they'd brunched but never dined. That meant they needed some time with the menu, so I got Loimer Lois Gruner Veltliner while they went the white rioja route.
Given our tight schedule, we skipped appetizers but two of us couldn't resist soup. I had the Soup DJ, a white bean, collard and sausage combo in a clear broth and was not disappointed with its satisfying chunkiness. Her spicy Indian tomato soup with red lentils was just as good.
As a first-time diner, he went for the chicken and dumplings and she for the bacon-wrapped rainbow trout. The trout that pushed my buttons was the Spearfish: roasted asparagus spears under a salad of smoked trout, fennel and radish in a lemon-dill vinaigrette.
I know from experience that Black Sheep's chicken and dumplings are a comfort food staple and so popular they can't take them off the menu. I tasted the bacon-wrapped trout and it was excellent.
But the consensus was that I'd made the standout choice. As good as her fresh trout was, the smoked trout was to die for and the lemon dill vinaigrette made every green on that plate better. "I want to come back for that salad," she told her beloved.
Since it was their first dinner, we had to finish with the LaBrea tarpit, especially because these two are creme brulee experts and very discerning. They heartily approved of the Sheep's dark chocolate version, unlike any other in Richmond. That's two more tarpit converts I've made; I ought to get a commission.
Heading east to CenterStage, they dropped me on a street corner to collect my car so I could head to Pine Camp for Henley Street Theater's production of "Waiting for Godot," considered the most important English-language play of the 20th century.
For the uninitiated, "WFG" is the 1953 absurdist modern play about nothing. It was Seinfeld before there was Seinfeld. There are only four characters and mostly they talk. And talk some more. Which means the dialog is superb.
On another worthless day in the life: "What's the point of losing heart now?"
The better conversationalist to the less-skilled: "Come on, Gogo, return the ball, can't you, once in a while?"
Trying to recall the night before: "We spent last night blathering about nothing. We've been doing that for half a century."
On making plans for the day: "We always find something to give the impression we exist."
The four-man cast was spot-on. Bob Jones conveyed the hapless, more easily discouraged of the pair and Bob Nelson the more hopeful mover and talker. Foster Solomon was his usual larger-than-life character, playing both lordly and helpless equally well; former dancer Jerome Weiss conveyed volumes through posture and movement.
For a nearly sixty-year old play, the evening felt surprisingly fresh and relevant. What must have seemed enigmatic about the play in the fifties is just post-modern life now.
As one who likes to lob, my Godot-inspired question would be, are there more or fewer people who can return the conversational ball these days?
I'd be happy to talk that through with anyone who's interested. And then talk some more.
Friends wanted me to join them for a pre-theater supper in my neighborhood. They were going to see "Madama Butterfly" and, coincidentally, I was going to see "Waiting for Godot," so it couldn't have worked out better. We all had somewhere to be by 8:00.
We ended up at Black Sheep, four blocks from home for me and a place at which they'd brunched but never dined. That meant they needed some time with the menu, so I got Loimer Lois Gruner Veltliner while they went the white rioja route.
Given our tight schedule, we skipped appetizers but two of us couldn't resist soup. I had the Soup DJ, a white bean, collard and sausage combo in a clear broth and was not disappointed with its satisfying chunkiness. Her spicy Indian tomato soup with red lentils was just as good.
As a first-time diner, he went for the chicken and dumplings and she for the bacon-wrapped rainbow trout. The trout that pushed my buttons was the Spearfish: roasted asparagus spears under a salad of smoked trout, fennel and radish in a lemon-dill vinaigrette.
I know from experience that Black Sheep's chicken and dumplings are a comfort food staple and so popular they can't take them off the menu. I tasted the bacon-wrapped trout and it was excellent.
But the consensus was that I'd made the standout choice. As good as her fresh trout was, the smoked trout was to die for and the lemon dill vinaigrette made every green on that plate better. "I want to come back for that salad," she told her beloved.
Since it was their first dinner, we had to finish with the LaBrea tarpit, especially because these two are creme brulee experts and very discerning. They heartily approved of the Sheep's dark chocolate version, unlike any other in Richmond. That's two more tarpit converts I've made; I ought to get a commission.
Heading east to CenterStage, they dropped me on a street corner to collect my car so I could head to Pine Camp for Henley Street Theater's production of "Waiting for Godot," considered the most important English-language play of the 20th century.
For the uninitiated, "WFG" is the 1953 absurdist modern play about nothing. It was Seinfeld before there was Seinfeld. There are only four characters and mostly they talk. And talk some more. Which means the dialog is superb.
On another worthless day in the life: "What's the point of losing heart now?"
The better conversationalist to the less-skilled: "Come on, Gogo, return the ball, can't you, once in a while?"
Trying to recall the night before: "We spent last night blathering about nothing. We've been doing that for half a century."
On making plans for the day: "We always find something to give the impression we exist."
The four-man cast was spot-on. Bob Jones conveyed the hapless, more easily discouraged of the pair and Bob Nelson the more hopeful mover and talker. Foster Solomon was his usual larger-than-life character, playing both lordly and helpless equally well; former dancer Jerome Weiss conveyed volumes through posture and movement.
For a nearly sixty-year old play, the evening felt surprisingly fresh and relevant. What must have seemed enigmatic about the play in the fifties is just post-modern life now.
As one who likes to lob, my Godot-inspired question would be, are there more or fewer people who can return the conversational ball these days?
I'd be happy to talk that through with anyone who's interested. And then talk some more.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Bootleg Saturday Night
Denied last year, I was going to make damn sure it didn't happen again, even if it meant getting in line two and a half hours before show time. Which we did.
Henley Street Theater was doing their second annual Bootleg Shakespeare and this year's production was Titus Andronicus, that bloodiest of Shakespeare's plays, and one which I've never seen performed live (probably because it's rarely produced).
Last year a friend and I had arrived at Barksdale an hour and a half before curtain only to find all the tickets gone. This year my couple date and I arrived by 5:30 and stood in the fading sun of Willow Lawn to score tickets.
People were playing cards, eating everything from fresh kale salad to Five Guys burgers, playing guitar and singing, knitting and chatting amongst themselves to kill the time. Maybe they'd been denied last year, too.
Because we were near the front of the line, when the box office did open at 6:30, we had tickets in hand within five minutes. That left until 7:55 to eat and get back in our seats. The problem was our location; we were in that chain restaurant hell of Willow Lawn and I don't do chains.
So we hopped in the car and headed over to the Grill at Patterson and Libbie, sure we could get a quick bite and not feed the corporate machine. Since my last visit, they'd added umpteen screens so every game in the world can be on, but I just sat under the screen and never had to look at it.
Knowing that the Barksdale serves cake (tonight's were coconut and chocolate torte) during intermission, I ordered the excellent wedge salad (actually two wedges with loads of bleu cheese chunks and bacon, grape tomatoes, red onions and drizzled in balsamic) and finished most of it, feeling quite virtuous for a change.
Our early placement in line had yielded tickets in the center section of Barksdale, fifth row (also the last) so we were surrounded by the same people we'd shivered with outside. There's not a bad seat in the entire theater because it's so small, but a center vantage point gave us an excellent view of all the action.
Henley's creative director James Ricks explained the bootleg process of actors being given 30 days to learn their lines, told to bring their own costumes and props and show up at 8 a.m today for blocking. As he quipped, "So we hearsed, but not rehearsed."
And therein lies the charm of a bootleg performance; the actors are experiencing things as the audience is. Even the lighting guy told me he was winging it (and beautifully, I might add).
The play began with characters campaigning for emperor by spray-painting their names on hanging sheets, soon to be further tagged by another with words like "douche" for emphasis.
Because Titus Andronicus is such an incredibly bloody play, fake blood was a requirement and pink Silly String was the creative substitute found for it. When characters died, and they almost all did, their can of Silly String spurted and squirted as they gasped and shuddered to death.
During the first act, the cell phone of a woman sitting in the front row rang. Actor Foster Solomon (playing the evil Aaron), a pro whom I'd seen in countless Shakespeare productions previously (and he's always superb), handled it perfectly.
He glared at her, he tried to grab her purse and finally, he sat down on a nearby bench and waited for her to turn it off and put it away. The people around me said they were hoping he'd dump her purse out on stage and fully humiliate her, but he didn't.
The appeal of these productions is the brilliant asides that lighten the darkest scenes. After the off-stage rape and disfiguring of Lavinia, the perpetrators come back on stage, one shirtless and one in his underwear. After their uncouth crowing about what they'd just done, they head off stage, one saying to the other's back, "Put some pants on, dude!"
And, like any Shakespeare, there is the timelessness of the dialog.
She is a woman, therefore may be wooed,
She is a woman, therefore may be won.
Or should I have picked a line by Publius?
The two musicians (guitar and bass) providing the sporadic soundtrack leaned heavily (pun intended) on AC/DC and Ozzy Osborne (with one White Stripes nod; it was definitely my day to hear "Seven Nation Army") to convey the mood of the play. They also had to occasionally dodge a dying character.
Pumpkins substituted for heads, fists for severed hands and sex was simulated repeatedly. More than one actor had to call for "Line!" which was not surprising given the lack of rehearsal.
During the intermission the stage manager said that she doesn't get to enjoy seeing the production because of having to follow the script so closely just for that reason.
But the occasional forgotten cue didn't detract from the overall enjoyment of the experience. Toward the end, both actors and audience were getting a little punch-drunk with all the death and irony in the dialog and more than one "dead" body could be seen convulsing in laughter. Sometimes heads had to be turned away until smiles disappeared.
Luckily the audience didn't have to worry about masking our smiles. Considering that I had not been denied this year, I couldn't have wiped the smile off my face if I'd tried.
Then, too, wooing quotes always make me smile.
Henley Street Theater was doing their second annual Bootleg Shakespeare and this year's production was Titus Andronicus, that bloodiest of Shakespeare's plays, and one which I've never seen performed live (probably because it's rarely produced).
Last year a friend and I had arrived at Barksdale an hour and a half before curtain only to find all the tickets gone. This year my couple date and I arrived by 5:30 and stood in the fading sun of Willow Lawn to score tickets.
People were playing cards, eating everything from fresh kale salad to Five Guys burgers, playing guitar and singing, knitting and chatting amongst themselves to kill the time. Maybe they'd been denied last year, too.
Because we were near the front of the line, when the box office did open at 6:30, we had tickets in hand within five minutes. That left until 7:55 to eat and get back in our seats. The problem was our location; we were in that chain restaurant hell of Willow Lawn and I don't do chains.
So we hopped in the car and headed over to the Grill at Patterson and Libbie, sure we could get a quick bite and not feed the corporate machine. Since my last visit, they'd added umpteen screens so every game in the world can be on, but I just sat under the screen and never had to look at it.
Knowing that the Barksdale serves cake (tonight's were coconut and chocolate torte) during intermission, I ordered the excellent wedge salad (actually two wedges with loads of bleu cheese chunks and bacon, grape tomatoes, red onions and drizzled in balsamic) and finished most of it, feeling quite virtuous for a change.
Our early placement in line had yielded tickets in the center section of Barksdale, fifth row (also the last) so we were surrounded by the same people we'd shivered with outside. There's not a bad seat in the entire theater because it's so small, but a center vantage point gave us an excellent view of all the action.
Henley's creative director James Ricks explained the bootleg process of actors being given 30 days to learn their lines, told to bring their own costumes and props and show up at 8 a.m today for blocking. As he quipped, "So we hearsed, but not rehearsed."
And therein lies the charm of a bootleg performance; the actors are experiencing things as the audience is. Even the lighting guy told me he was winging it (and beautifully, I might add).
The play began with characters campaigning for emperor by spray-painting their names on hanging sheets, soon to be further tagged by another with words like "douche" for emphasis.
Because Titus Andronicus is such an incredibly bloody play, fake blood was a requirement and pink Silly String was the creative substitute found for it. When characters died, and they almost all did, their can of Silly String spurted and squirted as they gasped and shuddered to death.
During the first act, the cell phone of a woman sitting in the front row rang. Actor Foster Solomon (playing the evil Aaron), a pro whom I'd seen in countless Shakespeare productions previously (and he's always superb), handled it perfectly.
He glared at her, he tried to grab her purse and finally, he sat down on a nearby bench and waited for her to turn it off and put it away. The people around me said they were hoping he'd dump her purse out on stage and fully humiliate her, but he didn't.
The appeal of these productions is the brilliant asides that lighten the darkest scenes. After the off-stage rape and disfiguring of Lavinia, the perpetrators come back on stage, one shirtless and one in his underwear. After their uncouth crowing about what they'd just done, they head off stage, one saying to the other's back, "Put some pants on, dude!"
And, like any Shakespeare, there is the timelessness of the dialog.
She is a woman, therefore may be wooed,
She is a woman, therefore may be won.
Or should I have picked a line by Publius?
The two musicians (guitar and bass) providing the sporadic soundtrack leaned heavily (pun intended) on AC/DC and Ozzy Osborne (with one White Stripes nod; it was definitely my day to hear "Seven Nation Army") to convey the mood of the play. They also had to occasionally dodge a dying character.
Pumpkins substituted for heads, fists for severed hands and sex was simulated repeatedly. More than one actor had to call for "Line!" which was not surprising given the lack of rehearsal.
During the intermission the stage manager said that she doesn't get to enjoy seeing the production because of having to follow the script so closely just for that reason.
But the occasional forgotten cue didn't detract from the overall enjoyment of the experience. Toward the end, both actors and audience were getting a little punch-drunk with all the death and irony in the dialog and more than one "dead" body could be seen convulsing in laughter. Sometimes heads had to be turned away until smiles disappeared.
Luckily the audience didn't have to worry about masking our smiles. Considering that I had not been denied this year, I couldn't have wiped the smile off my face if I'd tried.
Then, too, wooing quotes always make me smile.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
This Usher Got Lucky
I don't want to brag or anything, but if you went to the matinee of A Doll's House at Henley Street Theater today, I was the one handing you your program.
That's right, I ushered for the first time in my life and I think I did a damn fine job, if I do say so myself. I'd received an e-mail soliciting ushers for the run of the play and since I wanted to see it anyway, I figured, why not do it for free?
A Doll's House is one of those plays I've read more than once yet never seen produced When I last reread it in the early aughts, I put it on my short list of plays I intended to see live. The funny thing is, a 70-something playgoer told me today that she's been waiting 50 years (since she was in college) to see it produced. A teacher had told her it was one play she must see and she'd never forgotten his words. So there were at least two of us in this afternoon's audience crossing something off our lifetime to-do list.
And it was so worth it.
The production was excellent, perfectly cast, nicely paced and with beautiful costumes and a set composed of antiques. I know it's been referred to as the first feminist play, and deservedly so, but the dialog was still striking in its chauvinism.
Nora: Correct me like you usually do.
Torvald: With pleasure.
In addition to a clutch of the Red Hat Society ladies, there was a group of students from the Appomattox Governor's School at the performance and the more egregious lines elicited titters from them.
Torvald: I wouldn't be a man if you being helpless didn't make you doubly attractive.
Gender cliches aside, I considered it a real treat to usher in exchange for a seat, but I got an even bigger surprise when mine was one of two names pulled from the bowl to win free tickets to next season's opener, Waiting for Godot.
And unlike Nora, who at the end tells Torvald that, "I no longer believe that something glorious can happen," I'm still of the opinion that it can. True, seeing such a well-done play for free and winning tickets might not qualify as glorious, but it made for an especially fine Sunday afternoon for someone like me.
Which tells me that the something glorious is still out there just waiting to happen to me. Bring it on.
That's right, I ushered for the first time in my life and I think I did a damn fine job, if I do say so myself. I'd received an e-mail soliciting ushers for the run of the play and since I wanted to see it anyway, I figured, why not do it for free?
A Doll's House is one of those plays I've read more than once yet never seen produced When I last reread it in the early aughts, I put it on my short list of plays I intended to see live. The funny thing is, a 70-something playgoer told me today that she's been waiting 50 years (since she was in college) to see it produced. A teacher had told her it was one play she must see and she'd never forgotten his words. So there were at least two of us in this afternoon's audience crossing something off our lifetime to-do list.
And it was so worth it.
The production was excellent, perfectly cast, nicely paced and with beautiful costumes and a set composed of antiques. I know it's been referred to as the first feminist play, and deservedly so, but the dialog was still striking in its chauvinism.
Nora: Correct me like you usually do.
Torvald: With pleasure.
In addition to a clutch of the Red Hat Society ladies, there was a group of students from the Appomattox Governor's School at the performance and the more egregious lines elicited titters from them.
Torvald: I wouldn't be a man if you being helpless didn't make you doubly attractive.
Gender cliches aside, I considered it a real treat to usher in exchange for a seat, but I got an even bigger surprise when mine was one of two names pulled from the bowl to win free tickets to next season's opener, Waiting for Godot.
And unlike Nora, who at the end tells Torvald that, "I no longer believe that something glorious can happen," I'm still of the opinion that it can. True, seeing such a well-done play for free and winning tickets might not qualify as glorious, but it made for an especially fine Sunday afternoon for someone like me.
Which tells me that the something glorious is still out there just waiting to happen to me. Bring it on.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Rx: Stronghill Dining Co.and Theater
When I was discharged from the hospital last night, it was with prescriptions for steroids, breathing treatments and antibiotics.
But what I really needed was a fattening dinner out and some culture to make up for missing that reading at VMFA last night.
Treating the physical is required, but treating the spirit is just as essential.
The evening began at Stronghill where I enjoyed the Wedge Salad with blue cheese and bacon, followed by coffee-braised short ribs over foccacia with apple-smoked Gouda sauce.
Particularly worthy of mention is that the foccacia was fried, so it was a thin, crispy crust around a soft almost potato-like interior about two inches thick.
While it was like no foccacia I've ever had (btw, one of my absolute favorite breads), it was divine.
During their 5:30-7:30 happy hour, all wines under $9 a glass are a flat $5, so I went Sicilian with the Villa Pozzi Nero d'Avola and later, the chocolate mousse.
I told the bartender I had theater plans and she presumed I meant the Bowtie Cinema, so I explained that I was on my way to Pine Camp to see Henley Street Theater Company do A Servant of Two Masters (and for preview night, so it was only ten bucks!), which led to discussion of how she loves theater and never makes the time for it.
Her best friend is a director and playwright; she had all kinds of theater friends who nag her about not attending and still she doesn't go. But she misses seeing live theater.
We talked about the upcoming run of Wicked, which I'd seen three years ago in Baltimore and she'd never seen, how she's never been to Agecroft for Richmond Shakespeare Company, how the last thing she saw was at Theater VCU, so at least there was that.
We discussed Tom Stoppard, for goodness' sake!
I might have given her a bit of crap about her laziness in not doing something she clearly loves, resulting in her finally saying, "When I get home I'm, going to call my girlfriend and insist we see a play soon. And then she's going to give me shit for listening to a convincing stranger and not her all these years."
A server interjected with, "Sometimes you need to hear it from the outside to actually pay attention."
But she did thank me for the theater pep talk.
I also got into an enthusiastic discussion of Honeybells with another server, but unless you've had one, there's no describing them, so we'll just end that there.
Let's just say we shared the same opinion.
A Servant of Two Masters was written in the eighteenth century by Italian Carlo Goldoni, but the themes of a character evolving, hunger for love (and food) and the differences in generations are timeless.
It's a commedia dell' arte, partly scripted and partly improvised and has lots of physical humor, including breaking wind, breast-ogling, spanking and good old slapstick.
Despite being 300+ years old, the play's language has been adapted and should not put off those uncomfortable with the likes of Shakespearean verse. It's nothing like that. Don't believe me?
Love is our sickness and men the only medicine.
The patient is ready to be given her medicine.
Love makes one do remarkable things.
Everyone else is getting a happy ending. (followed by the servant's saddest face).
Not too tough, huh?
So much of the dialogue is laugh-out-loud funny and the clearly defined characters in their magnificent costumes are each delightful in their own way.
The main character, the servant Truffaldino (played by Richard Koch), with his malleable face, quick quips and physical agility, is hard to take your eyes off of.
A night of hilarity was just what the doctor ordered, my internal doctor that is.
The theme of hunger for food and love didn't hurt its appeal any, either.
I'd have to say that it was ten dollars well spent, so, if like the bartender at Stronghill, you're overdue for some theater, you could do a lot worse and spend a lot more than this rollicking good time.
And it's so satisfying to see everyone end up with their true love.
But what I really needed was a fattening dinner out and some culture to make up for missing that reading at VMFA last night.
Treating the physical is required, but treating the spirit is just as essential.
The evening began at Stronghill where I enjoyed the Wedge Salad with blue cheese and bacon, followed by coffee-braised short ribs over foccacia with apple-smoked Gouda sauce.
Particularly worthy of mention is that the foccacia was fried, so it was a thin, crispy crust around a soft almost potato-like interior about two inches thick.
While it was like no foccacia I've ever had (btw, one of my absolute favorite breads), it was divine.
During their 5:30-7:30 happy hour, all wines under $9 a glass are a flat $5, so I went Sicilian with the Villa Pozzi Nero d'Avola and later, the chocolate mousse.
I told the bartender I had theater plans and she presumed I meant the Bowtie Cinema, so I explained that I was on my way to Pine Camp to see Henley Street Theater Company do A Servant of Two Masters (and for preview night, so it was only ten bucks!), which led to discussion of how she loves theater and never makes the time for it.
Her best friend is a director and playwright; she had all kinds of theater friends who nag her about not attending and still she doesn't go. But she misses seeing live theater.
We talked about the upcoming run of Wicked, which I'd seen three years ago in Baltimore and she'd never seen, how she's never been to Agecroft for Richmond Shakespeare Company, how the last thing she saw was at Theater VCU, so at least there was that.
We discussed Tom Stoppard, for goodness' sake!
I might have given her a bit of crap about her laziness in not doing something she clearly loves, resulting in her finally saying, "When I get home I'm, going to call my girlfriend and insist we see a play soon. And then she's going to give me shit for listening to a convincing stranger and not her all these years."
A server interjected with, "Sometimes you need to hear it from the outside to actually pay attention."
But she did thank me for the theater pep talk.
I also got into an enthusiastic discussion of Honeybells with another server, but unless you've had one, there's no describing them, so we'll just end that there.
Let's just say we shared the same opinion.
A Servant of Two Masters was written in the eighteenth century by Italian Carlo Goldoni, but the themes of a character evolving, hunger for love (and food) and the differences in generations are timeless.
It's a commedia dell' arte, partly scripted and partly improvised and has lots of physical humor, including breaking wind, breast-ogling, spanking and good old slapstick.
Despite being 300+ years old, the play's language has been adapted and should not put off those uncomfortable with the likes of Shakespearean verse. It's nothing like that. Don't believe me?
Love is our sickness and men the only medicine.
The patient is ready to be given her medicine.
Love makes one do remarkable things.
Everyone else is getting a happy ending. (followed by the servant's saddest face).
Not too tough, huh?
So much of the dialogue is laugh-out-loud funny and the clearly defined characters in their magnificent costumes are each delightful in their own way.
The main character, the servant Truffaldino (played by Richard Koch), with his malleable face, quick quips and physical agility, is hard to take your eyes off of.
A night of hilarity was just what the doctor ordered, my internal doctor that is.
The theme of hunger for food and love didn't hurt its appeal any, either.
I'd have to say that it was ten dollars well spent, so, if like the bartender at Stronghill, you're overdue for some theater, you could do a lot worse and spend a lot more than this rollicking good time.
And it's so satisfying to see everyone end up with their true love.
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