I'm always thrilled with the cosmos when real life dovetails with what I'm reading.
For the past week or so, it's been Ralph Abernathy's autobiography, "And the Walls Came Tumbling Down," an absorbing memoir of the Civil Rights struggle told by one of the major players. Even his godliness (he was, after all, a man of the cloth), such a stark contrast to my raving heathenism, comes across as just part of who he had to be to accomplish what they did.
So imagine how thrilled I was when I saw that the Southern Film Festival's final offering of the weekend was the documentary, "We Shall Overcome" about the song that was the de facto anthem of the movement.
What I didn't know until I got to the Grace Street theater was that a Civil Rights activist would speak beforehand. Man, I get lucky sometimes.
Although I'd never heard of Joan Trumpauer Mullholland, I only had to hear that she'd been a frequent participant in sit-ins and a Freedom Rider to be completely intrigued by everything she had to say. In a testament to the time, because she had been white and southern, her sanity had been called into question for her activism.
Today she showed off her t-shirt commemorating the 50th anniversary of SNCC, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and spoke about her years working for the movement. Despite that I'd been reading about people just like her, I'd never expected to hear from one.
Narrated by Harry Belafonte, the 1989 documentary told the story of the iconic song and its place in the movement through interviews with everyone who mattered: Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Peter, Paul and Mary, to name a few, plus singer Guy Carawan, apparently a major figure whom I'd never even heard of.
While I'd known the song had originally been a black spiritual, I'd had no clue it had been adopted by the labor movement in the '40s, long before the Civil Rights movement picked it up and carried it forward. Since then, it's been used for movements all over the world, including the woman's movement, and in Ireland, Korea and South Africa. Desmond Tutu spoke in the film of its power in the anti-apartheid movement.
Someone said it was the glue that held movements together, a way for disparate groups to recognize their connectedness.
Best of all were the myriad versions we got to hear: Peter, Paul and Mary's, Pete Seeger's, the Freedom Singers performing it in the '80s, the finale of the 1963 Newport Folk Festival with an all-star cast, Taj Mahal, who said he'd learned the song from his mother as "I'll Be Alright Someday" and, as is only fitting, Joan Baez - the woman who'd sung it at the March on Washington.
Needless to say, this was all pretty wonderful and hugely compelling to me because of the book I'm reading. But, wait, it gets better.
After the film, we were treated to a performance by the VCU Black Awakening Choir, a group that probably numbered 60 or 70 black-clad college students plus a three-piece band.
They sang "O, Happy Day" and I'm not exaggerating to say that when they all lifted their voices to the rafters, I felt goosebumps. The sound produced by that many talented voices was soul-stirring even for a non-believer.
I don't think the Southern Film Festival could have ended on a higher note.
So where do I go from there? Straight to Hardywood, of course, for the sixth installment of the Cover to Cover series. In what I choose to see as yet another tenuously connected thread, they were covering Paul Simon's "Graceland," the album that exposed American pop culture to African music.
Such an ambitious album had not only been the original inspiration for the C2C series but necessarily required a bigger band than usual. Tonight's group of musicians included horns, accordion and an extra guitar player. They even had a gospel choir, albeit of 7 rather than the 70 I'd just heard.
"Who's a Paul Simon fan?" organizer and lead singer Matt asked the beer-drinking crowd and a roar went up in affirmation. "We are, too. Wish us luck!" Then they were off, and by they, I mean that crack band and choir with Matt and Maggie on vocals.
"These are the days..." Matt began singing and the room exploded with the energy of "The Boy in the Bubble." Around me, people sang along and those who didn't were dancing.
"Graceland" got the choir onstage for the first time, causing Matt to note, "The stage just got a lot more good-looking." They left when Maggie got singing (rapping?) rights for "Gumboots," saying afterwards, "I love Paul Simon. He just had to tell that story."
Behind the music, Cover to Cover version.
The choir was back for "Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes" and Maggie used the opportunity to sit down in front of the choir and give her soles a rest while they belted it out.
Directly in front of me, a girl sang every word, usually directly in her boyfriend's face and danced non-stop. During a pause between songs, she looked at him and sighed, "I'm gonna cry! This is so great!"
Cover to Cover tends to inspire fanaticism, I'm telling you.
During "You Can Call Me Al," I saw lots of people singing the familiar chorus to each other but everyone was amazed when choir member Anthony Smith pulled out a penny whistle for the distinctive solo. The audience went nuts for it; ditto the brief but muscular bass solo.
When the song finished, Matt gave three big snaps up and down. "Y'all weren't expecting a whistle were you? You thought, there won't be a whistle, but there was!"
He was right, it was pretty spectacular.
They pulled out the tambourine and accordion for, as Matt put it, a trip to New Orleans and "That Was Your Mother," taking me back to the Big Easy of this morning's "King Creole," except not in black and white.
By then, it was so hot in the brewery that if your arm or leg touched someone else's while dancing, you were likely to stick together. Matt and Maggie looked just this side of soaked in sweat by the time they finished the album.
After a ten-minute break, the band returned for some Paul Simon favorites such as "Cecelia" and "Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard," with Matt noting, "I'm really more of a Garfunckle based on my look," no doubt referring to the blond curly locks falling in his eyes as he danced and sang all night.
Saying they were going to slow things down and do Matt's favorite Paul Simon song, we got "The Only Living Boy in New York," which was enough to get the millennials motivated to pull out their cell phones in place of Bic lighters to hold up and sway. So post-modern.
Then because it's become an unwritten rule that they always repeat one song from the evening's album during the encore, we heard "You Can Call Me Al" again and the night was complete. And completely wonderful.
"For those of you who've never been to a Cover to Cover before, that's what it is," Matt said to close out the night. Say goodnight, Maggie.
I've been to all six and they continue to be as fabulously impressive as (geek alert) having the pages of the book you're reading cross over to real life. Oh, happy day...and night.
Showing posts with label vcu southern film festival. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vcu southern film festival. Show all posts
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Dixieland Rock for Breakfast
When it came to the bacon, I did my best Elvis imitation, a feeble attempt to make up for never having seen one of his movies before.
Don't get me wrong, I've got some Elvis under my belt. I read "Last Train to Memphis," Peter Gurainick's excellent biography of Elvis' early years, I saw the VMFA's "Elvis at 21" exhibit (twice, once for a talk) and I'd seen the documentary "Elvis, '56," Fascinating, all.
But actually watch one of his more than 30 films? Nope, never had. So pelt me with peanut butter and bananas.
Fortunately, VCU's Southern Film Festival kicked off today with a breakfast/movie combo, a wise move if you ask me because it also kicked off at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. and at, of all places, the bastion of hipsterdom, Sticky Rice.
But it was worth it to me, so I hoofed it over shortly after waking up and joined the throngs pitifully small crowd who'd come to see Elvis in "King Creole." Endless Lynyrd Skynyrd was playing overhead, so maybe that's what kept people from coming. Eventually, I did recognize three attendees from last night's movie.
I couldn't have been more surprised at the lack of a crowd. I've been to prior Saturday morning SFF breakfast events - "The Thrillbillies," "Thunder Road" - and they were packed. Where were the hungry Elvis fans?
Since I don't usually walk on an empty stomach, I was starving waiting for the breakfast buffet to be put out, but the others around me got right down to drinking. The King Creole cocktail created for today's soiree was especially popular (I heard something about coconut vodka and saw a lemon garnish), but I also saw beers and shots being served. Multiple rounds, even.
Viva Elvis in the morning.
Because we were about to see a movie set in New Orleans, a guy at the table next to me told a story of rolling into NOLA the day after Mardis Gras. "A bunch of us spilled out of the van about 10 a.m. and the full strength of the sun was just hitting all that leftover shit and baking it. God, the smell! It was like the bathroom at CBGB's, except not contained." His friends groaned.
It was visceral imagery for an empty stomach.
Finally, food was put out and I was first in line as we descended like vultures, loading up on bacon, eggs and pancakes. And this is where I matched The King strip for strip.
Of the many Richmond Elvis tales, none is more well-known than when he ate breakfast at the stately Jefferson Hotel here and mortified the restaurant manager by, gasp, eating his bacon with his fingers. Apparently in the '50s, there was another way. I'm here to say that in my entire lifetime, hand-held bacon is the only kind I ever knew.
Once everyone had a plate, a historian/musician got up to prime us for what we were about to see. It was only Elvis' third film, he'd been a tender 23 years old when he made it and the draft board had deferred his service for 60 days so he could finish it. Elvis always considered it his favorite role.
"He was at the height of his powers when he made this. Forget about the fat Elvis, the bloated Elvis dying on the toilet. This was the film that proved Elvis could act and he never had a script this good again," he told us.
Most surprising to me was that it was directed by Michael Curtiz, as in the director of "Casablanca." "Robin Hood" and "White Christmas." That alone speaks to Elvis' clout in 1958.
Since I was an Elvis movie virgin, I had nothing to compare it to, but as far as '50s film noirs go, it was spot on. Shot in black and white instead of color for a grittier feel, the movie was fascinating for its depiction of New Orleans during a simpler time.
I especially loved the roving vendors selling gumbo and seafood who roamed the streets singing and shouting to people to buy their wares. Even if NOLA was never really like that, it's charming to imagine it was. And, truly, the distinctive architecture, balconies and verandas, even Bourbon Street rang true. They'd actually shot on location on Lake Ponchatrain, which was very cool to see.
Satisfyingly, it had all the film noir requirements, too: rain-slicked streets, dark alleys, gangs, a "boss" who ran most of the businesses in town, fights, murders and molls. And hats, lots of men wearing hats, thus requiring hat check girls.
But mostly it was a typical late '50s cautionary tale about all the hot buttons of that era: juvenile delinquents, good girls and fallen women, the importance of finishing high school, finding a true profession (singing not being one) and, of course, the dangers of that new-fangled rock and roll music.
The smartest thing Elvis said was that he couldn't get involved with a girl because that would lead to marriage and kids and he needed to find out who he was first. Pretty revolutionary stuff for the Eisenhower era.
That, bacon and pancakes plus seeing Elvis sing and wiggle his hips to "Hard-Headed Woman" made getting up at the crack of 9 a.m. positively worth it.
Spoken like a true hard-headed woman.
Don't get me wrong, I've got some Elvis under my belt. I read "Last Train to Memphis," Peter Gurainick's excellent biography of Elvis' early years, I saw the VMFA's "Elvis at 21" exhibit (twice, once for a talk) and I'd seen the documentary "Elvis, '56," Fascinating, all.
But actually watch one of his more than 30 films? Nope, never had. So pelt me with peanut butter and bananas.
Fortunately, VCU's Southern Film Festival kicked off today with a breakfast/movie combo, a wise move if you ask me because it also kicked off at the ungodly hour of 10 a.m. and at, of all places, the bastion of hipsterdom, Sticky Rice.
But it was worth it to me, so I hoofed it over shortly after waking up and joined the
I couldn't have been more surprised at the lack of a crowd. I've been to prior Saturday morning SFF breakfast events - "The Thrillbillies," "Thunder Road" - and they were packed. Where were the hungry Elvis fans?
Since I don't usually walk on an empty stomach, I was starving waiting for the breakfast buffet to be put out, but the others around me got right down to drinking. The King Creole cocktail created for today's soiree was especially popular (I heard something about coconut vodka and saw a lemon garnish), but I also saw beers and shots being served. Multiple rounds, even.
Viva Elvis in the morning.
Because we were about to see a movie set in New Orleans, a guy at the table next to me told a story of rolling into NOLA the day after Mardis Gras. "A bunch of us spilled out of the van about 10 a.m. and the full strength of the sun was just hitting all that leftover shit and baking it. God, the smell! It was like the bathroom at CBGB's, except not contained." His friends groaned.
It was visceral imagery for an empty stomach.
Finally, food was put out and I was first in line as we descended like vultures, loading up on bacon, eggs and pancakes. And this is where I matched The King strip for strip.
Of the many Richmond Elvis tales, none is more well-known than when he ate breakfast at the stately Jefferson Hotel here and mortified the restaurant manager by, gasp, eating his bacon with his fingers. Apparently in the '50s, there was another way. I'm here to say that in my entire lifetime, hand-held bacon is the only kind I ever knew.
Once everyone had a plate, a historian/musician got up to prime us for what we were about to see. It was only Elvis' third film, he'd been a tender 23 years old when he made it and the draft board had deferred his service for 60 days so he could finish it. Elvis always considered it his favorite role.
"He was at the height of his powers when he made this. Forget about the fat Elvis, the bloated Elvis dying on the toilet. This was the film that proved Elvis could act and he never had a script this good again," he told us.
Most surprising to me was that it was directed by Michael Curtiz, as in the director of "Casablanca." "Robin Hood" and "White Christmas." That alone speaks to Elvis' clout in 1958.
Since I was an Elvis movie virgin, I had nothing to compare it to, but as far as '50s film noirs go, it was spot on. Shot in black and white instead of color for a grittier feel, the movie was fascinating for its depiction of New Orleans during a simpler time.
I especially loved the roving vendors selling gumbo and seafood who roamed the streets singing and shouting to people to buy their wares. Even if NOLA was never really like that, it's charming to imagine it was. And, truly, the distinctive architecture, balconies and verandas, even Bourbon Street rang true. They'd actually shot on location on Lake Ponchatrain, which was very cool to see.
Satisfyingly, it had all the film noir requirements, too: rain-slicked streets, dark alleys, gangs, a "boss" who ran most of the businesses in town, fights, murders and molls. And hats, lots of men wearing hats, thus requiring hat check girls.
But mostly it was a typical late '50s cautionary tale about all the hot buttons of that era: juvenile delinquents, good girls and fallen women, the importance of finishing high school, finding a true profession (singing not being one) and, of course, the dangers of that new-fangled rock and roll music.
The smartest thing Elvis said was that he couldn't get involved with a girl because that would lead to marriage and kids and he needed to find out who he was first. Pretty revolutionary stuff for the Eisenhower era.
That, bacon and pancakes plus seeing Elvis sing and wiggle his hips to "Hard-Headed Woman" made getting up at the crack of 9 a.m. positively worth it.
Spoken like a true hard-headed woman.
Going for Personality
Nobody tells you America's sweetheart was Canadian until you go to the VCU Southern Film Festival. O, Mary, I hardly knew ye.
This year's theme, "Screening Southern Music: Exploring Musical Traditions and Stereotypes in Popular Films" couldn't be any more up my alley. Music and film? I was so there.
"There" was the VMFA to see Mary Pickford in "Heart o' the Hills," a 1919 movie about a hell-raising mountain girl set to a live soundtrack created by the Hot Seats with banjo, fiddle, washboard and guitar.
As many times as the Hot Seats have impressed me, tonight took the cake.
Not long before the movie began, a guy sat down next to me, reeking so strongly of cigarettes I could hardly breathe. Luckily, the odor dissipated after a while, but then not half an hour in, he got up and left, never to return.
Mine was not to wonder why.
Of course a film made so long ago had plenty of dated tropes ("Mountain people were a primitive people"), although several people in the audience who'd grown up in Appalachia said they'd been pleasantly surprised that the film wasn't nearly as cliched or full of stereotypes as they'd expected.
They must have had very low expectations.
What took adjusting to were the scene cards telling the story because they were written in "Appalachian-speak," so it took a while to get used to all the misspellings (furriners for foreigners) and contractions. The phrasing - "It's so small in here ye cain't cuss a cat without getting hair in yer teeth" - was plenty colorful.
As one of the panel said after the movie, the Hot Seats really made tonight's experience. They'd worked out perfectly-timed music for every scene, using more traditional hillbilly music for the scenes in the mountains and southern music for the scenes set in the lowlands.
Naturally, "My Old Kentucky Home" showed up in the plantation scene with blacks serving cold beverages to the white folk. During what was described as a shindig, the played increasingly faster as the dancers at the gathering tried to out-dance each other.
One of the biggest laughs came in that scene when the old geezer stopped dancing to say, "Hold on, I lost my teeth!" Seemed a little corny to me, but I did laugh at the next story card that read, "After the jollification..."
The most uncomfortable scene for tonight's crowd was the one where people donned white robes and hoods (even for their horses) and set out as "night riders" to bring about some vigilante justice to the bad guys who'd bought up everybody's coal land. Too soon, still.
After the film there was a Q & A with history professors from VCU and UR, plus Josh from the Hot Seats, with many interesting questions asked and points made (including one by Josh's mother). Our VMFA host Trent said it was one of the best post-film discussions they'd ever had, probably because the crowd that stayed for it had lots to say about Pickford and the depiction of the people.
There was an afterparty at Grandstaff, but I passed on that to catch "What Was I Thinking?" at Richmond Comedy Coalition, a chance to hear real people read from their diaries before the improv troupe riffed on them.
Hysterical from the get-go.
Grace read from her 13-year old diary (complete with school photo inside), where she'd often made 3 or 4 entries in one day, talking about all the boys she liked. On one occasion, she'd made entries at 10:01, 10:08 and 10:21. That's a lot of teen-aged angst in 20 minutes.
Favorite entry: "I'm writing a soap opera called "Halls of Romance."
The comedy talent then skewered it all - the principal ("He was really good at running the school despite the allegations"), TV ("Next time on "Halls of Romance...") and 3-day relationships ("I don't feel like we connected on a connection-based level").
Next, Joey read from several pieces he'd written for the high school paper, despite not being on staff. One was about how girls were everywhere - and not just good girls - and another about beauty versus personality ("The brain wants good looks but knows it should look for personality").
Someone should have told 17-year old Joey that it wasn't the brain that was seeking good looks.
Favorite entry: "Also, I'm going to give atheism a try."
I give people like Grace and Joey major props because they lay their history out there and allow it to be the stuff of mock game shows (three punk rock bachelors competing for a punk rock bracelet), skits about a Britney Spears Halloween costume ("I'll just shave your head") and worshiping Barney ("And then he gave the world Baby Bop").
And that, I learned, is how you end a night with some serious jollification and no hair in your teeth.
This year's theme, "Screening Southern Music: Exploring Musical Traditions and Stereotypes in Popular Films" couldn't be any more up my alley. Music and film? I was so there.
"There" was the VMFA to see Mary Pickford in "Heart o' the Hills," a 1919 movie about a hell-raising mountain girl set to a live soundtrack created by the Hot Seats with banjo, fiddle, washboard and guitar.
As many times as the Hot Seats have impressed me, tonight took the cake.
Not long before the movie began, a guy sat down next to me, reeking so strongly of cigarettes I could hardly breathe. Luckily, the odor dissipated after a while, but then not half an hour in, he got up and left, never to return.
Mine was not to wonder why.
Of course a film made so long ago had plenty of dated tropes ("Mountain people were a primitive people"), although several people in the audience who'd grown up in Appalachia said they'd been pleasantly surprised that the film wasn't nearly as cliched or full of stereotypes as they'd expected.
They must have had very low expectations.
What took adjusting to were the scene cards telling the story because they were written in "Appalachian-speak," so it took a while to get used to all the misspellings (furriners for foreigners) and contractions. The phrasing - "It's so small in here ye cain't cuss a cat without getting hair in yer teeth" - was plenty colorful.
As one of the panel said after the movie, the Hot Seats really made tonight's experience. They'd worked out perfectly-timed music for every scene, using more traditional hillbilly music for the scenes in the mountains and southern music for the scenes set in the lowlands.
Naturally, "My Old Kentucky Home" showed up in the plantation scene with blacks serving cold beverages to the white folk. During what was described as a shindig, the played increasingly faster as the dancers at the gathering tried to out-dance each other.
One of the biggest laughs came in that scene when the old geezer stopped dancing to say, "Hold on, I lost my teeth!" Seemed a little corny to me, but I did laugh at the next story card that read, "After the jollification..."
The most uncomfortable scene for tonight's crowd was the one where people donned white robes and hoods (even for their horses) and set out as "night riders" to bring about some vigilante justice to the bad guys who'd bought up everybody's coal land. Too soon, still.
After the film there was a Q & A with history professors from VCU and UR, plus Josh from the Hot Seats, with many interesting questions asked and points made (including one by Josh's mother). Our VMFA host Trent said it was one of the best post-film discussions they'd ever had, probably because the crowd that stayed for it had lots to say about Pickford and the depiction of the people.
There was an afterparty at Grandstaff, but I passed on that to catch "What Was I Thinking?" at Richmond Comedy Coalition, a chance to hear real people read from their diaries before the improv troupe riffed on them.
Hysterical from the get-go.
Grace read from her 13-year old diary (complete with school photo inside), where she'd often made 3 or 4 entries in one day, talking about all the boys she liked. On one occasion, she'd made entries at 10:01, 10:08 and 10:21. That's a lot of teen-aged angst in 20 minutes.
Favorite entry: "I'm writing a soap opera called "Halls of Romance."
The comedy talent then skewered it all - the principal ("He was really good at running the school despite the allegations"), TV ("Next time on "Halls of Romance...") and 3-day relationships ("I don't feel like we connected on a connection-based level").
Next, Joey read from several pieces he'd written for the high school paper, despite not being on staff. One was about how girls were everywhere - and not just good girls - and another about beauty versus personality ("The brain wants good looks but knows it should look for personality").
Someone should have told 17-year old Joey that it wasn't the brain that was seeking good looks.
Favorite entry: "Also, I'm going to give atheism a try."
I give people like Grace and Joey major props because they lay their history out there and allow it to be the stuff of mock game shows (three punk rock bachelors competing for a punk rock bracelet), skits about a Britney Spears Halloween costume ("I'll just shave your head") and worshiping Barney ("And then he gave the world Baby Bop").
And that, I learned, is how you end a night with some serious jollification and no hair in your teeth.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
The Speed of a Lush Life
This I learned on my walk today: everywhere has a center.
In Virginia, the center is under the Harry Byrd memorial, a monument I noticed for the first time today strolling through Capital Square toward the Arts Commission.
It's apparently ground zero and the point from which all distances in the commonwealth are measured. Now who the hell knew that?
After adding to my mile marker knowledge and making a deadline this afternoon, it was time for some NASCAR.
VCU's Southern Film Fest kind of lost me this year with a sports theme, but the double allure of Richard Pryor and Pam Grier was enough to get me to the Grace Street theater to see 1977's "Greased Lightening."
I asked the woman next to me why she was there and she said her husband was chairman of the history department, the ones presenting the film fest, so she thought my reason for coming far superior.
The true story of Wendell Scott, a Virginian and the first black stock car racing champion, was being introduced by Scott's son and grandson who told us the film had premiered in Danville, Wendell's hometown.
He also advised us to take note of the way racial issues were portrayed, unnecessary because it would have been hard to miss ("Don't let him knock you up, young lady. You know how you people are").
Although this was not a comedy role for Pryor, he's so innately funny that a hapless look on his face and a side step became hilarious.
Wendell developed his speedy driving habits while running moonshine on the back roads of Franklin county, which he knew like the back of his hand. When he finally gets caught and jailed, a racetrack owner works a deal to get him out if he'll come race at his track.
He knows Wendell will draw blacks to the track (in the "colored only" section, of course), meaning more business for him, and that the white drivers will try to annihilate him, making for an exciting race. A sign outside the track that day read, "See the one and only negro race car driver."
Beau Bridges' character, a former driver who quits and befriends Wendell to become one of his mechanics, about stole the movie in a scene where he defends the two steak dinners he and Wendell are trying to eat in a whites-only restaurant by holding the rowdy customers at bay with a nearby Confederate flag.
Wendell's life made a great story, overcoming odds to become a champion, a near-fatal crash, a comeback and victory and all set in southern racetracks with the stands filled with people in mostly '70s clothes, a glaring mistake since no one, and I repeat, no one was wearing mini-dresses in 1947.
But at least I now know what the checkered flag means.
I left the '70s and images of Pam Grier's bodacious body for Joe's Inn and a travelogue about Nicaragua over drinks, BLTs and mozzarella sticks.
The returning traveler had scads of photographs of rain forests, low-hanging clouds, living rooves, strangler trees and adorable big-eyed children in colorful clothes.
Joe's was an early evening mob scene with strollers, tables of guys talking about "the" game and a line waiting for a table.
I wasn't sorry to get out of there.
By the time I got to CenterStage, the symphony was already warming up.
Tonight's program, "An Evening of Jazz with Rex Richardson" had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006.
Richardson had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass and that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for Rex's trumpet playing. I might have even gone up to him afterwards and gushed a bit.
Fast forward and now he's fronting an evening with the Richmond Symphony and you can be certain I'd gotten my $10, next-to-the-last-row ticket two weeks ago.
Waiting for the music to begin, I listened to the discussion behind me of the altitude of the seats, the fact that people were sneaking drinks in ("This is my first time, so I followed the rules. I did throw back a martini across the street first, but next time I'll know better," one woman said), and what was on the program, with one woman singing a snippet of "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing). Badly.
I saw a higher than usual percentage of faces from VCU in addition to the usual mothball-scented crowd like the gent next to me who exuded eau de camphor every time he applauded.
With guest drummer Nate Smith and symphony pianist Russel Wilson front and center, they launched into the first piece called "Ellington Portrait," swinging the room through everything from "Sophisticated Lady" to "Prelude to a Kiss."
Then Rex came out to take us through "Rextreme," a piece composed especially for him by James Stephenson to highlight Rex's ability to jump around between wildly separate notes and blow incredibly long note sequences.
Watching and listening to him, it was hard to conceive of how he could hold enough air to make possible the sounds he was producing.
When the three-movement piece ended, the guy behind me wailed, "Yea!" not what you tend to hear at the symphony.
As intermission began, the center front of the stage began to slowly drop below main stage level, taking away the drums and piano for the start of the second half.
That began with Gershwin's overture to "Of Thee I Sing," which the conductor told us was the only musical to win the Pulitzer prize. What the what?
The things I was learning today!
Then the stage rose back up and Rex (his suit history and now wearing an untucked blue shirt), his three horns and friends - musicians playing drums, sax, upright bass and piano- played through more Gershwin and Ellington, including a very different version of "Caravan" than the one the symphony had done in the first half.
For me, one of the best parts of "Caravan" was watching pianist Russell Wilson's masterfully improvised solos because a few years back, I took a jazz appreciation class from Russell and that man has forgotten more about jazz than most of us will ever know, so hearing him play is always a treat.
VCU's Doug Richards, whom Rex called "one of the best arrangers in the world...and he lives right here," had done a beautifully inventive take on Billy Strayhorn's classic "Lush Life," which came next.
Before the last piece, Rex warned us not to be afraid even though it had been arranged by James Stephenson, he who'd done "Rextreme."
From the start of "A Tribute to Louis Armstrong," the crowd's pleasure in the joyous melodies everyone knows was palpable.
"Hello Dolly" about caused apoplexy and "What a Wonderful Life" got everyone sentimental.
But they couldn't leave us like that, so they finished with "When the Saints Come Marching In," a surefire way to get everyone in the cheap seats clapping along.
And while those of us up there hadn't paid $76 to hear a night of jazz, I'm willing to bet we enjoyed it just as much as those who did.
Mile markers and mozzarella, racers and Rex, what a wonderful life indeed.
Besides, you know how we people are.
In Virginia, the center is under the Harry Byrd memorial, a monument I noticed for the first time today strolling through Capital Square toward the Arts Commission.
It's apparently ground zero and the point from which all distances in the commonwealth are measured. Now who the hell knew that?
After adding to my mile marker knowledge and making a deadline this afternoon, it was time for some NASCAR.
VCU's Southern Film Fest kind of lost me this year with a sports theme, but the double allure of Richard Pryor and Pam Grier was enough to get me to the Grace Street theater to see 1977's "Greased Lightening."
I asked the woman next to me why she was there and she said her husband was chairman of the history department, the ones presenting the film fest, so she thought my reason for coming far superior.
The true story of Wendell Scott, a Virginian and the first black stock car racing champion, was being introduced by Scott's son and grandson who told us the film had premiered in Danville, Wendell's hometown.
He also advised us to take note of the way racial issues were portrayed, unnecessary because it would have been hard to miss ("Don't let him knock you up, young lady. You know how you people are").
Although this was not a comedy role for Pryor, he's so innately funny that a hapless look on his face and a side step became hilarious.
Wendell developed his speedy driving habits while running moonshine on the back roads of Franklin county, which he knew like the back of his hand. When he finally gets caught and jailed, a racetrack owner works a deal to get him out if he'll come race at his track.
He knows Wendell will draw blacks to the track (in the "colored only" section, of course), meaning more business for him, and that the white drivers will try to annihilate him, making for an exciting race. A sign outside the track that day read, "See the one and only negro race car driver."
Beau Bridges' character, a former driver who quits and befriends Wendell to become one of his mechanics, about stole the movie in a scene where he defends the two steak dinners he and Wendell are trying to eat in a whites-only restaurant by holding the rowdy customers at bay with a nearby Confederate flag.
Wendell's life made a great story, overcoming odds to become a champion, a near-fatal crash, a comeback and victory and all set in southern racetracks with the stands filled with people in mostly '70s clothes, a glaring mistake since no one, and I repeat, no one was wearing mini-dresses in 1947.
But at least I now know what the checkered flag means.
I left the '70s and images of Pam Grier's bodacious body for Joe's Inn and a travelogue about Nicaragua over drinks, BLTs and mozzarella sticks.
The returning traveler had scads of photographs of rain forests, low-hanging clouds, living rooves, strangler trees and adorable big-eyed children in colorful clothes.
Joe's was an early evening mob scene with strollers, tables of guys talking about "the" game and a line waiting for a table.
I wasn't sorry to get out of there.
By the time I got to CenterStage, the symphony was already warming up.
Tonight's program, "An Evening of Jazz with Rex Richardson" had its seeds in a show I'd gone to at the Singleton Center back in 2006.
Richardson had been playing in a group called Rhythm and Brass and that night's program had ranged from the Beatles to Radiohead with bits of everything in between.
That was the night I'd fallen for Rex's trumpet playing. I might have even gone up to him afterwards and gushed a bit.
Fast forward and now he's fronting an evening with the Richmond Symphony and you can be certain I'd gotten my $10, next-to-the-last-row ticket two weeks ago.
Waiting for the music to begin, I listened to the discussion behind me of the altitude of the seats, the fact that people were sneaking drinks in ("This is my first time, so I followed the rules. I did throw back a martini across the street first, but next time I'll know better," one woman said), and what was on the program, with one woman singing a snippet of "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing). Badly.
I saw a higher than usual percentage of faces from VCU in addition to the usual mothball-scented crowd like the gent next to me who exuded eau de camphor every time he applauded.
With guest drummer Nate Smith and symphony pianist Russel Wilson front and center, they launched into the first piece called "Ellington Portrait," swinging the room through everything from "Sophisticated Lady" to "Prelude to a Kiss."
Then Rex came out to take us through "Rextreme," a piece composed especially for him by James Stephenson to highlight Rex's ability to jump around between wildly separate notes and blow incredibly long note sequences.
Watching and listening to him, it was hard to conceive of how he could hold enough air to make possible the sounds he was producing.
When the three-movement piece ended, the guy behind me wailed, "Yea!" not what you tend to hear at the symphony.
As intermission began, the center front of the stage began to slowly drop below main stage level, taking away the drums and piano for the start of the second half.
That began with Gershwin's overture to "Of Thee I Sing," which the conductor told us was the only musical to win the Pulitzer prize. What the what?
The things I was learning today!
Then the stage rose back up and Rex (his suit history and now wearing an untucked blue shirt), his three horns and friends - musicians playing drums, sax, upright bass and piano- played through more Gershwin and Ellington, including a very different version of "Caravan" than the one the symphony had done in the first half.
For me, one of the best parts of "Caravan" was watching pianist Russell Wilson's masterfully improvised solos because a few years back, I took a jazz appreciation class from Russell and that man has forgotten more about jazz than most of us will ever know, so hearing him play is always a treat.
VCU's Doug Richards, whom Rex called "one of the best arrangers in the world...and he lives right here," had done a beautifully inventive take on Billy Strayhorn's classic "Lush Life," which came next.
Before the last piece, Rex warned us not to be afraid even though it had been arranged by James Stephenson, he who'd done "Rextreme."
From the start of "A Tribute to Louis Armstrong," the crowd's pleasure in the joyous melodies everyone knows was palpable.
"Hello Dolly" about caused apoplexy and "What a Wonderful Life" got everyone sentimental.
But they couldn't leave us like that, so they finished with "When the Saints Come Marching In," a surefire way to get everyone in the cheap seats clapping along.
And while those of us up there hadn't paid $76 to hear a night of jazz, I'm willing to bet we enjoyed it just as much as those who did.
Mile markers and mozzarella, racers and Rex, what a wonderful life indeed.
Besides, you know how we people are.
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Music Lesson
After two movies today, the only way to get me out for a third was with music.
"Stormy Weather" had plenty - 20 musical numbers - plus some major jazz figures I'd never seen perform before.
When I arrived at the Grace Street Theater, the usher offered me a program and I declined, saying it was my fourth festival film so they didn't need to waste a program on me.
"Good for you!" she said. At least she didn't pat me on the head.
Inside, I found a much more diverse audience than for the first three offerings of the Southern Film Festival, no doubt because of the all-black cast of the movie.
And such a cast! Fats Waller, Cab Calloway, Lena Horne, Richmond's own Bill Bojangles Robinson.
Based loosely on Robinson's life, Hollywood added in Lena Horne as a love interest he hadn't had.
I believe they call that "creative license."
When he meets (and falls for) Lena, she's surprised that he isn't a dancer, given his mad dance skills, asking him if he isn't ambitious.
"I've never been ambitious except to get three square meals a day."
Men can be such simple creatures.
When he starts dancing for some minstrels, one exclaims, "Boy, he's got educated feet!"
The minstrels advise him to get a job on Beale Street and he does, at Ada's Cafe, where the sign outside reads, "Here every night! Fats Waller."
And sure enough, inside Fats played a mean piano to accompany Ada, making humorous asides as she sang.
He went on to sing the classic, "Ain't Misbehavin'," after donning a dapper jacket for some important guests.
Later, Cab Calloway showed up, resplendent in a zoot suit and scat singing like nobody's business.
Between his jive talking, smooth moves and sheer musicality, he was a delight to watch, especially since I'd never seen him perform.
The gaping holes in my cultural literacy are appalling, I know.
As I sat there watching a movie full of non-stop music, incredible dancing, scores of big bands and pages from the great American songbook, I heard others in the audience reacting out loud what I was only thinking.
We were all knocked out by the sheer talent in this 1943 film.
In one big band scene, the trumpet players were using their hats for mutes and then replacing them on their heads.
A big part of what I loved about this movie was the Nicholas Brothers, whom, sadly, I'd never seen before either.
The scene where they dance on tabletops in a club and across the band's piano included a series of splits and jumps that boggled the mind.
So much so that the crowd around broke into spontaneous applause after their number.
For the big finale, "Jumpin' Jive," the brothers did a series of splits down a massive pair of stairs, coming up out of them without using their hands to do the next one.
Then there was Lena Horne, looking beautiful and sounding exquisite, with her rendition of the title song sung by a window.
Through the window was a killer dance sequence by the Katherine Dunham troupe, a fluid precursor to modern dance that must have been a wonder in 1943.
When the film ended, the applause was long and hard, making me wonder if maybe I hadn't been the only one seeing it for the first time.
Daphne Maxwell Reid led the discussion afterwards, immediately noting of the Nicholas Brothers, "Usher owes them!"
Hell, Michael and Janet Jackson owe them more.
A girl near me raised her hand to say how surprised she'd been at how many of the songs were familiar, although she hadn't known they'd been in "Stormy Weather."
Songs like "I Can't Give You Anything But Love."
Maxwell Reid said that the performers in the movie had played on the chittlin' circuit and I happen to know that the Hippodrome, right here in beautiful downtown Jackson Ward, was on that circuit.
Which put a nice period at the end of the Southern Film Festival and my madcap four-movies-in-26-hour bender.
I thoroughly enjoyed it, but it played havoc with my three square meals.
"Stormy Weather" had plenty - 20 musical numbers - plus some major jazz figures I'd never seen perform before.
When I arrived at the Grace Street Theater, the usher offered me a program and I declined, saying it was my fourth festival film so they didn't need to waste a program on me.
"Good for you!" she said. At least she didn't pat me on the head.
Inside, I found a much more diverse audience than for the first three offerings of the Southern Film Festival, no doubt because of the all-black cast of the movie.
And such a cast! Fats Waller, Cab Calloway, Lena Horne, Richmond's own Bill Bojangles Robinson.
Based loosely on Robinson's life, Hollywood added in Lena Horne as a love interest he hadn't had.
I believe they call that "creative license."
When he meets (and falls for) Lena, she's surprised that he isn't a dancer, given his mad dance skills, asking him if he isn't ambitious.
"I've never been ambitious except to get three square meals a day."
Men can be such simple creatures.
When he starts dancing for some minstrels, one exclaims, "Boy, he's got educated feet!"
The minstrels advise him to get a job on Beale Street and he does, at Ada's Cafe, where the sign outside reads, "Here every night! Fats Waller."
And sure enough, inside Fats played a mean piano to accompany Ada, making humorous asides as she sang.
He went on to sing the classic, "Ain't Misbehavin'," after donning a dapper jacket for some important guests.
Later, Cab Calloway showed up, resplendent in a zoot suit and scat singing like nobody's business.
Between his jive talking, smooth moves and sheer musicality, he was a delight to watch, especially since I'd never seen him perform.
The gaping holes in my cultural literacy are appalling, I know.
As I sat there watching a movie full of non-stop music, incredible dancing, scores of big bands and pages from the great American songbook, I heard others in the audience reacting out loud what I was only thinking.
We were all knocked out by the sheer talent in this 1943 film.
In one big band scene, the trumpet players were using their hats for mutes and then replacing them on their heads.
A big part of what I loved about this movie was the Nicholas Brothers, whom, sadly, I'd never seen before either.
The scene where they dance on tabletops in a club and across the band's piano included a series of splits and jumps that boggled the mind.
So much so that the crowd around broke into spontaneous applause after their number.
For the big finale, "Jumpin' Jive," the brothers did a series of splits down a massive pair of stairs, coming up out of them without using their hands to do the next one.
Then there was Lena Horne, looking beautiful and sounding exquisite, with her rendition of the title song sung by a window.
Through the window was a killer dance sequence by the Katherine Dunham troupe, a fluid precursor to modern dance that must have been a wonder in 1943.
When the film ended, the applause was long and hard, making me wonder if maybe I hadn't been the only one seeing it for the first time.
Daphne Maxwell Reid led the discussion afterwards, immediately noting of the Nicholas Brothers, "Usher owes them!"
Hell, Michael and Janet Jackson owe them more.
A girl near me raised her hand to say how surprised she'd been at how many of the songs were familiar, although she hadn't known they'd been in "Stormy Weather."
Songs like "I Can't Give You Anything But Love."
Maxwell Reid said that the performers in the movie had played on the chittlin' circuit and I happen to know that the Hippodrome, right here in beautiful downtown Jackson Ward, was on that circuit.
Which put a nice period at the end of the Southern Film Festival and my madcap four-movies-in-26-hour bender.
I thoroughly enjoyed it, but it played havoc with my three square meals.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Natural Men and Facial Hair
It takes bedroom eyes to get me out of bed at 9:15 in the morning.
In this case, they belonged to Robert Mitchum, whose 1958 film, "Thunder Road," was playing at Cous Cous as part of the Southern Film Festival.
I walked over in the cold morning air, glad at least that breakfast was part of the price of admission.
They were even offering a "thrillbilly" cocktail, for those brave enough.
As I went to get water at the bar, I noticed a woman holding up her beer so her companion could photograph it.
Beer, it's what's for breakfast, I said to her.
"I never drink before 10 a.m.," she admitted. "So it's kind of a point of pride."
Right on, sister.
I ran into a guy I see out a lot and since he'd arrived late, I offered him the other side of my two-top so he'd have a seat for the film.
Breakfast was eggs, pancakes and bacon and I wisely got mine before many people in the room even noticed that breakfast was being served.
Before the film started, we were told, "You can be as rowdy as you like. Feel free to get more food and mill about during the movie."
And we did.
Moderator Jim Stramel referred to the moonshine movie we were about to see as "The Gone with the Wind" of moonshine movies," so expectations were high.
Okay, not high, but highly anticipatory.
He got a laugh when he paused, saying, "Sorry, I was researching the movie last night (hiccup) and I might have over-researched some."
We were told that this film was meant to be seen at a drive -in and several attendees said they'd done just that.
Stramel copped to being envious of them before showing his Southern Film Fest moonshine trailer reel, which included a commercial for Smithfield barbecue, "Available at the concession stand."
Now, there's the beauty of drive-ins, 'cue to tide you over.
The story of a veteran home from Korea who takes up the family moonshining business had some interesting casting.
Mitchum's son James played his brother. Gene Barry (aka Bat Masterson) played the federal agent.
And since these were Tennessee folks, they said things like, :He's still got the misery in his leg" and drank PBR out of bottles.
Another world, in other words.
And Keely Smith played Mitchum's love interest, meaning we got to hear her sing multiple songs.
It was one of the coolest parts of the movie, but probably only to me because I'm not a big fan of car chases and explosions.
When he goes to see her singing in a club, an obnoxious customer laughs and talks loudly while she performs.
Mitchum makes short work of him, grabbing him by the throat and growling, "She's trying to make a living. If you want to bray, go find yourself a barnyard."
Later she tells him, "You're the only natural man I ever knew," totally selling the line.
The black and white film was shown on a big screen with the room's curtains drawn, but it suffered from the light coming in the clerestory windows, so there were times when the screen was a blur of graytones.
And I can say that because I didn't have a thrillbilly cocktail.
So far, that's my only complaint with the SFF, but one easily cured with paper taped on the windows next year.
After the movie, we heard from a woman whose family was in the moonshining business (and how they found her, I have no idea), but her memories were a throwback to another time.
"We'll never speak of this again," her grandmother told her as they poured 'shine down the bathtub drain.
It was considerably nicer out when I walked home to get my car to go to the Virginia Historical Society for installment number three of the Southern Film Fest.
It was the screening of "The Making of Lincoln," which I knew would draw a much bigger crowd than moonshiners or bedroom eyes.
The VHS was also collecting "Lincoln" memorabilia and had already made several good scores from people involved in the production.
I took a seat in my favorite row (the one with all the leg room) and promptly met a guy eager to talk.
Seems he does a lot of research downtown, so he'd walked by the set many times to see what he could see.
He bragged about knowing the guy who made the most unique contribution to the movie.
A bookbinder, he'd been hired to create the ledger that Lincoln carries throughout the movie.
Wow. I didn't even know bookbinders existed in Richmond.
My new friend had also been to see "Jamestown" last night so we rehashed 1607 through the lens of 1923 and chuckled over the desperate Chihuly masses taking over the VMFA this week.
Before the movie, we heard about the 55-day shooting schedule, the 1200 actors (predominantly from the New York theater) and extras (about 20 of whom stood up when asked to) and the 380-person crew.
Next came the 25-minute making of film with the actors interviewed and shots of them turning the Capital into a stand-in for the White House.
Daniel Day-Lewis talked about "how insanely accessible" Lincoln had been, inconceivable to us now.
Spielberg explained how the original screenplay had been a 500-page behemoth, eventually trimmed to 70 pages to focus on the last four months of Lincoln's life.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt spoke of how surreal it had been when DDL started texting him about the role.
Sally Field said her costumes to play Mary Lincoln were exact replicas from period images of the First lady.
The lighting guy explained that he kept it real by using light sources they would have had then, things like windows and lamps.
The make-up woman explained that they didn't try to create a look-alike Lincoln with DDL, but a "feel-alike."
When I heard that 60% of the extras had facial hair, I was actually surprised that the number wasn't higher.
Spielberg explained how he didn't rush scenes, preferring to allow time for actors to look each other in the eye. "I wanted scenes to unfold in real time."
Ah, real time, that antiquated concept.
He wanted the audience to lean forward and pay attention, another novel goal circa 2013.
And I say novel because I saw at least four people with their phones in their laps, heads down, during "Thunder Road."
John Williams talked about scoring the film and using the Chicago Symphony to record it.
I was immediately struck by the coincidence of the Lincoln/Illinois connection, but what I learned was that Illinois was the first state to ratify the 13th amendment, a far more profound connection.
After that film, we saw the brief "A Historic Tapestry," about Richmond's role in the filming, opening with a panoramic shot of the James River and moving on to everything recognizable about Richmond.
The voice-over told us that Governor McDonnell made it easy to shoot here by giving the crew the key to the city.
The cast felt like the city welcomed them as very few cities had welcomed them.
There's something to be said for southern hospitality.
Perhaps the most poignant comment was the one about how significant it was that the city had embraced a movie about Abraham Lincoln, a gesture unthinkable for a very long time.
Afterwards, there was a panel discussion with two extras ("Or background artists, as we like to be called," Nick joked) from the movie, a local make-up artist who'd been part of the crew and a production team member.
From them we heard anecdotes about filming.
Like when John got grabbed to stand in for Tommy Lee Jones at the last second and was put in a chair.
He asked a nearby actor what he should do and was advised, "Look bigger than you are."
Or when Shelly told us that she spent the month pre-production cataloging 3,000 pieces of fake facial hair.
Or when Nick said that, "Focusing on being dead is a hard thing to do."
He should know since he played dead until he heard "cut" before opening his eyes, taking a swig from his canteen and re-dying because DDL had stopped right in front of him.
Rita's story was all facts and figures. $68 million impact on Virginia. $32 million spent on labor, goods and services.
And Balliceaux's business spiked mightily after Joseph Gordon-Levitt danced there one night.
What more could a city ask from a production?
I thought Nick said it best.
During a scene where he played a ragged and dirty Confederate soldier, he and 15 others were to climb a hill to the crest.
When they got there, he looked down to see "what looked like 1,00 Union soldiers in clean blue uniforms" at the bottom of the hill, spread out everywhere.
"It was the first time I empathized with the Confederate cause."
Thanks for sharing, Southern Film Festival.
In this case, they belonged to Robert Mitchum, whose 1958 film, "Thunder Road," was playing at Cous Cous as part of the Southern Film Festival.
I walked over in the cold morning air, glad at least that breakfast was part of the price of admission.
They were even offering a "thrillbilly" cocktail, for those brave enough.
As I went to get water at the bar, I noticed a woman holding up her beer so her companion could photograph it.
Beer, it's what's for breakfast, I said to her.
"I never drink before 10 a.m.," she admitted. "So it's kind of a point of pride."
Right on, sister.
I ran into a guy I see out a lot and since he'd arrived late, I offered him the other side of my two-top so he'd have a seat for the film.
Breakfast was eggs, pancakes and bacon and I wisely got mine before many people in the room even noticed that breakfast was being served.
Before the film started, we were told, "You can be as rowdy as you like. Feel free to get more food and mill about during the movie."
And we did.
Moderator Jim Stramel referred to the moonshine movie we were about to see as "The Gone with the Wind" of moonshine movies," so expectations were high.
Okay, not high, but highly anticipatory.
He got a laugh when he paused, saying, "Sorry, I was researching the movie last night (hiccup) and I might have over-researched some."
We were told that this film was meant to be seen at a drive -in and several attendees said they'd done just that.
Stramel copped to being envious of them before showing his Southern Film Fest moonshine trailer reel, which included a commercial for Smithfield barbecue, "Available at the concession stand."
Now, there's the beauty of drive-ins, 'cue to tide you over.
The story of a veteran home from Korea who takes up the family moonshining business had some interesting casting.
Mitchum's son James played his brother. Gene Barry (aka Bat Masterson) played the federal agent.
And since these were Tennessee folks, they said things like, :He's still got the misery in his leg" and drank PBR out of bottles.
Another world, in other words.
And Keely Smith played Mitchum's love interest, meaning we got to hear her sing multiple songs.
It was one of the coolest parts of the movie, but probably only to me because I'm not a big fan of car chases and explosions.
When he goes to see her singing in a club, an obnoxious customer laughs and talks loudly while she performs.
Mitchum makes short work of him, grabbing him by the throat and growling, "She's trying to make a living. If you want to bray, go find yourself a barnyard."
Later she tells him, "You're the only natural man I ever knew," totally selling the line.
The black and white film was shown on a big screen with the room's curtains drawn, but it suffered from the light coming in the clerestory windows, so there were times when the screen was a blur of graytones.
And I can say that because I didn't have a thrillbilly cocktail.
So far, that's my only complaint with the SFF, but one easily cured with paper taped on the windows next year.
After the movie, we heard from a woman whose family was in the moonshining business (and how they found her, I have no idea), but her memories were a throwback to another time.
"We'll never speak of this again," her grandmother told her as they poured 'shine down the bathtub drain.
It was considerably nicer out when I walked home to get my car to go to the Virginia Historical Society for installment number three of the Southern Film Fest.
It was the screening of "The Making of Lincoln," which I knew would draw a much bigger crowd than moonshiners or bedroom eyes.
The VHS was also collecting "Lincoln" memorabilia and had already made several good scores from people involved in the production.
I took a seat in my favorite row (the one with all the leg room) and promptly met a guy eager to talk.
Seems he does a lot of research downtown, so he'd walked by the set many times to see what he could see.
He bragged about knowing the guy who made the most unique contribution to the movie.
A bookbinder, he'd been hired to create the ledger that Lincoln carries throughout the movie.
Wow. I didn't even know bookbinders existed in Richmond.
My new friend had also been to see "Jamestown" last night so we rehashed 1607 through the lens of 1923 and chuckled over the desperate Chihuly masses taking over the VMFA this week.
Before the movie, we heard about the 55-day shooting schedule, the 1200 actors (predominantly from the New York theater) and extras (about 20 of whom stood up when asked to) and the 380-person crew.
Next came the 25-minute making of film with the actors interviewed and shots of them turning the Capital into a stand-in for the White House.
Daniel Day-Lewis talked about "how insanely accessible" Lincoln had been, inconceivable to us now.
Spielberg explained how the original screenplay had been a 500-page behemoth, eventually trimmed to 70 pages to focus on the last four months of Lincoln's life.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt spoke of how surreal it had been when DDL started texting him about the role.
Sally Field said her costumes to play Mary Lincoln were exact replicas from period images of the First lady.
The lighting guy explained that he kept it real by using light sources they would have had then, things like windows and lamps.
The make-up woman explained that they didn't try to create a look-alike Lincoln with DDL, but a "feel-alike."
When I heard that 60% of the extras had facial hair, I was actually surprised that the number wasn't higher.
Spielberg explained how he didn't rush scenes, preferring to allow time for actors to look each other in the eye. "I wanted scenes to unfold in real time."
Ah, real time, that antiquated concept.
He wanted the audience to lean forward and pay attention, another novel goal circa 2013.
And I say novel because I saw at least four people with their phones in their laps, heads down, during "Thunder Road."
John Williams talked about scoring the film and using the Chicago Symphony to record it.
I was immediately struck by the coincidence of the Lincoln/Illinois connection, but what I learned was that Illinois was the first state to ratify the 13th amendment, a far more profound connection.
After that film, we saw the brief "A Historic Tapestry," about Richmond's role in the filming, opening with a panoramic shot of the James River and moving on to everything recognizable about Richmond.
The voice-over told us that Governor McDonnell made it easy to shoot here by giving the crew the key to the city.
The cast felt like the city welcomed them as very few cities had welcomed them.
There's something to be said for southern hospitality.
Perhaps the most poignant comment was the one about how significant it was that the city had embraced a movie about Abraham Lincoln, a gesture unthinkable for a very long time.
Afterwards, there was a panel discussion with two extras ("Or background artists, as we like to be called," Nick joked) from the movie, a local make-up artist who'd been part of the crew and a production team member.
From them we heard anecdotes about filming.
Like when John got grabbed to stand in for Tommy Lee Jones at the last second and was put in a chair.
He asked a nearby actor what he should do and was advised, "Look bigger than you are."
Or when Shelly told us that she spent the month pre-production cataloging 3,000 pieces of fake facial hair.
Or when Nick said that, "Focusing on being dead is a hard thing to do."
He should know since he played dead until he heard "cut" before opening his eyes, taking a swig from his canteen and re-dying because DDL had stopped right in front of him.
Rita's story was all facts and figures. $68 million impact on Virginia. $32 million spent on labor, goods and services.
And Balliceaux's business spiked mightily after Joseph Gordon-Levitt danced there one night.
What more could a city ask from a production?
I thought Nick said it best.
During a scene where he played a ragged and dirty Confederate soldier, he and 15 others were to climb a hill to the crest.
When they got there, he looked down to see "what looked like 1,00 Union soldiers in clean blue uniforms" at the bottom of the hill, spread out everywhere.
"It was the first time I empathized with the Confederate cause."
Thanks for sharing, Southern Film Festival.
Indian Weed and Buttered Radishes
Bring on the fried chicken gizzards, the Southern Film Festival has begun.
For opening night, the VMFA was screening "Jamestown," a 1923 silent movie with the St. Charles String Quartet providing the score.
The theme for this years festival is "Screening Southern Freedom," ostensibly because it's the sesquicentennial of the Emancipation Proclamation.
But when is freedom ever an inappropriate theme?
To put the film in context, we heard from Channel 8 film critic Morgan Dean, who gave us prices for items in 1923 (a car was $285, a house $7,500) and tidbits like that 1923 was the year that the Attorney General ruled that it was okay for women to wear trousers anywhere.
And while I appreciate the effort, I'd still rather wear a dress or skirt any day.
"Jamestown" was part of a series on America done by Yale University to educate the public.
For this festival, they got a copy of this rarely-seen film from the Library of Congress, meaning we are among the few who have seen it.
So now I've got bragging rights, although finding someone to brag to may be the challenge.
The film was directed by Edwin Hollywood, a fact notable in and of itself.
It was also a very '20s movie, with Pocahontas looking like every "it" girl of the time, with dramatically lined eyes and a Cupid's bow mouth.
So much for historical accuracy.
The film completely eschewed Captain John Smith to focus on John Rolfe, who, we learned, was "interested in the Indian weed called tobacco."
Yea, him and the queen of England.
Naturally, the film looked at 1607 Jamestown through the lens of the 1920s, so it played loose with details.
Mercifully, the native Americans were not shown living in teepees, but the houses of the settlers had far too many finished elements to seem real.
Did the colonists really have such elaborate windows, such smooth-hewn wood plank floors and such delicate furniture?
Maybe they did and maybe it just seemed unlikely to me.
At one point, a colonist is seen scaling a pointed stockade fence and someone behind me said, "Ow!" in empathy.
For some reason, the film showed the marriage between Pocahontas and John Rolfe as one arranged to secure peace with the natives, causing Rolfe to revolt.
"I refuse to be rushed into an unconsidered marriage," he whines, all but stamping his foot.
Ye gods, get over yourself and do it for posterity, man.
The film was nominally based on a 1918 book by Mary Johnston called, "Pioneers of the Old South," so I have to assume the director chose to portray the marriage like that since we were told the book made no mention of him fighting it.
As we learned at the panel discussion afterwards, it was a 250-page book and only about ten pages of it were used.
Then again, it was only a 40-minute movie.
While VCU had gotten the film from the Library of Congress, they'd had no score or information about the score, but maybe that's because only 16% of movies from 1923 survive.
Fortunately, the St. Charles string quartet did a fine job using Mozart string quartet pieces to soundtrack the film.
Several on the panel said the movie had been far less compelling when viewed silently, hardly a surprise since it was never meant to be seen without music.
Because, really, what is life without music?
But I digress.
Food was the next order of business, or maybe I should say the ongoing order of business, so I made the three-block trek to Belmont Food Shop.
I try to time it so I arrive right around the time they start offering their cook's plate because I am obsessed with it.
Tonight, I arrived to a full dining room, necessitating enjoying a glass of Negroamaro 2009 Cantele Salice Salentino to keep me occupied until things died down enough to feel justified in ordering what I wanted.
The couple next to me was waiting for French silk pie to come out and when it did, they handed the bartender their credit card, pounced on it and the pie was gone in about 90 seconds.
My kind of dessert enthusiasts.
Luckily the servers were gregarious, so with one I continued our discussion of Green Chartreuse from my last visit and with the other, discussed bourbon sampling and days closed.
As in, Belmont is now closed on Wednesdays, a perfect day, if you ask me, because it means they're open on Sunday and Monday, the most difficult days to find places open in this town.
We agreed that the best days off are the ones spent eating and drinking.
Gradually, tables began to pay and clear out, so I put my order in and waited patiently, watching people walk down Belmont and peer in the big front window.
When the piece of slate arrived, it was all but groaning with the feast on it.
A slice of cucumber with citrus-cured smoked salmon atop it.
Two freshly cooked chicken gizzards.
A warm arancini.
Two slices of head cheese, which my barkeep tried to tell me were "fromage de tete" until I stopped him and insisted we call a spade a spade.
Buttered radishes.
A square of pork belly.
Two brandade balls, each with a house-made potato chip.
Pork rilletes with grilled bread.
Pickled Brussels sprouts hearts. When I was told what they were, I exclaimed that I didn't know sprouts had hearts.
"They do and we rip 'em out," he said enthusiastically. "And pickle 'em."
So, basically, it was a heart attack on a plate and I did my best to eat every bite.
Several nicely dressed couples came in as I was chowing down and the one who chose the bar immediately asked for two of what I was eating.
Moments later, the kitchen sent out warm cheese puffs for them and me.
Personally, I think we were being rewarded for having the sense to order what we did.
I know some people might be put off by things like gizzards and head parts (last time it was blood sausage and lamb hearts), but for those of us who aren't, it's hard to find a more reliable place to get them six nights a week.
You only have to be willing to come in just as most people are leaving.
Of course, that also makes it easier to hear the vintage '20s music that goes unheard when it's busy.
Because, really, what are chicken gizzards without music?
Unacceptable in the dirty South, that's what.
For opening night, the VMFA was screening "Jamestown," a 1923 silent movie with the St. Charles String Quartet providing the score.
The theme for this years festival is "Screening Southern Freedom," ostensibly because it's the sesquicentennial of the Emancipation Proclamation.
But when is freedom ever an inappropriate theme?
To put the film in context, we heard from Channel 8 film critic Morgan Dean, who gave us prices for items in 1923 (a car was $285, a house $7,500) and tidbits like that 1923 was the year that the Attorney General ruled that it was okay for women to wear trousers anywhere.
And while I appreciate the effort, I'd still rather wear a dress or skirt any day.
"Jamestown" was part of a series on America done by Yale University to educate the public.
For this festival, they got a copy of this rarely-seen film from the Library of Congress, meaning we are among the few who have seen it.
So now I've got bragging rights, although finding someone to brag to may be the challenge.
The film was directed by Edwin Hollywood, a fact notable in and of itself.
It was also a very '20s movie, with Pocahontas looking like every "it" girl of the time, with dramatically lined eyes and a Cupid's bow mouth.
So much for historical accuracy.
The film completely eschewed Captain John Smith to focus on John Rolfe, who, we learned, was "interested in the Indian weed called tobacco."
Yea, him and the queen of England.
Naturally, the film looked at 1607 Jamestown through the lens of the 1920s, so it played loose with details.
Mercifully, the native Americans were not shown living in teepees, but the houses of the settlers had far too many finished elements to seem real.
Did the colonists really have such elaborate windows, such smooth-hewn wood plank floors and such delicate furniture?
Maybe they did and maybe it just seemed unlikely to me.
At one point, a colonist is seen scaling a pointed stockade fence and someone behind me said, "Ow!" in empathy.
For some reason, the film showed the marriage between Pocahontas and John Rolfe as one arranged to secure peace with the natives, causing Rolfe to revolt.
"I refuse to be rushed into an unconsidered marriage," he whines, all but stamping his foot.
Ye gods, get over yourself and do it for posterity, man.
The film was nominally based on a 1918 book by Mary Johnston called, "Pioneers of the Old South," so I have to assume the director chose to portray the marriage like that since we were told the book made no mention of him fighting it.
As we learned at the panel discussion afterwards, it was a 250-page book and only about ten pages of it were used.
Then again, it was only a 40-minute movie.
While VCU had gotten the film from the Library of Congress, they'd had no score or information about the score, but maybe that's because only 16% of movies from 1923 survive.
Fortunately, the St. Charles string quartet did a fine job using Mozart string quartet pieces to soundtrack the film.
Several on the panel said the movie had been far less compelling when viewed silently, hardly a surprise since it was never meant to be seen without music.
Because, really, what is life without music?
But I digress.
Food was the next order of business, or maybe I should say the ongoing order of business, so I made the three-block trek to Belmont Food Shop.
I try to time it so I arrive right around the time they start offering their cook's plate because I am obsessed with it.
Tonight, I arrived to a full dining room, necessitating enjoying a glass of Negroamaro 2009 Cantele Salice Salentino to keep me occupied until things died down enough to feel justified in ordering what I wanted.
The couple next to me was waiting for French silk pie to come out and when it did, they handed the bartender their credit card, pounced on it and the pie was gone in about 90 seconds.
My kind of dessert enthusiasts.
Luckily the servers were gregarious, so with one I continued our discussion of Green Chartreuse from my last visit and with the other, discussed bourbon sampling and days closed.
As in, Belmont is now closed on Wednesdays, a perfect day, if you ask me, because it means they're open on Sunday and Monday, the most difficult days to find places open in this town.
We agreed that the best days off are the ones spent eating and drinking.
Gradually, tables began to pay and clear out, so I put my order in and waited patiently, watching people walk down Belmont and peer in the big front window.
When the piece of slate arrived, it was all but groaning with the feast on it.
A slice of cucumber with citrus-cured smoked salmon atop it.
Two freshly cooked chicken gizzards.
A warm arancini.
Two slices of head cheese, which my barkeep tried to tell me were "fromage de tete" until I stopped him and insisted we call a spade a spade.
Buttered radishes.
A square of pork belly.
Two brandade balls, each with a house-made potato chip.
Pork rilletes with grilled bread.
Pickled Brussels sprouts hearts. When I was told what they were, I exclaimed that I didn't know sprouts had hearts.
"They do and we rip 'em out," he said enthusiastically. "And pickle 'em."
So, basically, it was a heart attack on a plate and I did my best to eat every bite.
Several nicely dressed couples came in as I was chowing down and the one who chose the bar immediately asked for two of what I was eating.
Moments later, the kitchen sent out warm cheese puffs for them and me.
Personally, I think we were being rewarded for having the sense to order what we did.
I know some people might be put off by things like gizzards and head parts (last time it was blood sausage and lamb hearts), but for those of us who aren't, it's hard to find a more reliable place to get them six nights a week.
You only have to be willing to come in just as most people are leaving.
Of course, that also makes it easier to hear the vintage '20s music that goes unheard when it's busy.
Because, really, what are chicken gizzards without music?
Unacceptable in the dirty South, that's what.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Rebel, Rebel
It was an evening that headed south from the very start.
Arriving in Carytown just as the rain did, River City Cellars' weekly wine tasting beckoned with a focus on southern Italian wines.
And on a February day when it was 82 degrees, thoughts of southern Italy are awfully appealing.
Moving through a crisp yet rich Fratelli Urcluolo 2010 Fiiano di Avellino through a full-bodied Villa Mottura 2008 Primitivo di Manduria, we chatted with the group about why some women don't drink white wine (there was one there like that) and how Primitivo grows so well in southern Italy that they let it grow like bushes.
There was an older couple there who had been to every region in which the grapes we tasted had grown. They were talking about their next trip and buying lots of wine.
That's the kind of old people I want to be when I get there.
With wine and chocolate (my must-have burnt caramel and sea salt dark chocolate) purchased, the next stop was the VMFA for the opening night of the Southern Film Fest.
This year's theme is "Screening Southern Rebellion" and, frankly, my dear, I couldn't have been more interested.
Film critic and author Molly Haskell was the keynote speaker and, as a former Richmonder, she began by talking about all the familiar places she saw today since it had been years since she'd been here.
Referring to the topic of tonight's documentary, she quipped, "What the South lost in fact, it made up for in fiction" about Margaret Mitchell's epic "Gone With the Wind."
She spoke of what a pioneering feminist and rebel Mitchell was, wearing pants, dropping out of Smith and finding her own way in life.
Even better, being one of the "rebel debutantes." Dancing a provocative Apache tango that ended with a kiss in public. And when she did marry, marrying a bootlegger.
Wisely, she eventually replaced him with a fellow writer.
When she did finally start accepting her age and settling down, Mitchell saw her more sedate lifestyle for what it was.
"Respectability is the punishment of the wild."
Both Haskell and the documentary, "Margaret Mitchell: American Rebel" made it clear that the author drew Scarlett O'Hara from her own strong-willed history.
It was all about the gumption.
After the film, it was an easy trip up to Amuse where I walked in to find my two former gadabout and now reclusive friends enjoying a cocktail and eager to catch up.
Boxwood Rose was followed by mussels and Surry sausage, fried oysters served over tonnato sauce with pickled veggies, and finally sardines (a last minute replacement for Alisis anchovies) with poquillo peppers, olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
If you're going in a southern Italian direction already, shouldn't there be food from the water?
And Amuse continues to deliver a stellar meal every time.
After talking to a server friend who was headed out to do the rounds, as she put it, we made the acquaintance of a woman at the end of the bar who joined us in finishing up our meal with an absinthe.
Surely you knew where that was going.
She was raving about CineBistro and I didn't have the heart to tell her I don't go to Stony Point.
The question was raised about why so many men are complacent until they meet a certain woman. I ventured an opinion.
The bartender missed my take on this burning issue, only to return some time later seeking to hear what he had missed.
You have to appreciate a guy smart enough to want to learn the answers.
Whether he's southern or southern Italian. Rebel or respectable.
As long as he's trying.
Arriving in Carytown just as the rain did, River City Cellars' weekly wine tasting beckoned with a focus on southern Italian wines.
And on a February day when it was 82 degrees, thoughts of southern Italy are awfully appealing.
Moving through a crisp yet rich Fratelli Urcluolo 2010 Fiiano di Avellino through a full-bodied Villa Mottura 2008 Primitivo di Manduria, we chatted with the group about why some women don't drink white wine (there was one there like that) and how Primitivo grows so well in southern Italy that they let it grow like bushes.
There was an older couple there who had been to every region in which the grapes we tasted had grown. They were talking about their next trip and buying lots of wine.
That's the kind of old people I want to be when I get there.
With wine and chocolate (my must-have burnt caramel and sea salt dark chocolate) purchased, the next stop was the VMFA for the opening night of the Southern Film Fest.
This year's theme is "Screening Southern Rebellion" and, frankly, my dear, I couldn't have been more interested.
Film critic and author Molly Haskell was the keynote speaker and, as a former Richmonder, she began by talking about all the familiar places she saw today since it had been years since she'd been here.
Referring to the topic of tonight's documentary, she quipped, "What the South lost in fact, it made up for in fiction" about Margaret Mitchell's epic "Gone With the Wind."
She spoke of what a pioneering feminist and rebel Mitchell was, wearing pants, dropping out of Smith and finding her own way in life.
Even better, being one of the "rebel debutantes." Dancing a provocative Apache tango that ended with a kiss in public. And when she did marry, marrying a bootlegger.
Wisely, she eventually replaced him with a fellow writer.
When she did finally start accepting her age and settling down, Mitchell saw her more sedate lifestyle for what it was.
"Respectability is the punishment of the wild."
Both Haskell and the documentary, "Margaret Mitchell: American Rebel" made it clear that the author drew Scarlett O'Hara from her own strong-willed history.
It was all about the gumption.
After the film, it was an easy trip up to Amuse where I walked in to find my two former gadabout and now reclusive friends enjoying a cocktail and eager to catch up.
Boxwood Rose was followed by mussels and Surry sausage, fried oysters served over tonnato sauce with pickled veggies, and finally sardines (a last minute replacement for Alisis anchovies) with poquillo peppers, olive oil and balsamic vinegar.
If you're going in a southern Italian direction already, shouldn't there be food from the water?
And Amuse continues to deliver a stellar meal every time.
After talking to a server friend who was headed out to do the rounds, as she put it, we made the acquaintance of a woman at the end of the bar who joined us in finishing up our meal with an absinthe.
Surely you knew where that was going.
She was raving about CineBistro and I didn't have the heart to tell her I don't go to Stony Point.
The question was raised about why so many men are complacent until they meet a certain woman. I ventured an opinion.
The bartender missed my take on this burning issue, only to return some time later seeking to hear what he had missed.
You have to appreciate a guy smart enough to want to learn the answers.
Whether he's southern or southern Italian. Rebel or respectable.
As long as he's trying.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
The Scoop is in Her Lingerie
As any righteous Southerner could have explained, the way to go would have been to have had biscuits at this morning's first screening of the VCU Southern Film Festival.
Instead there were donuts and pastries for those willing to be at the Grace Street Theater by 10 a.m. The woman next to me expressed surprise that more people weren't there and I suggested that 10 is a tad early for many people on a Saturday morning. Somehow she was surprised to hear that.
Showing was an adaptation of William Faulkner's novel "Sanctuary," called "The Story of Temple Drake." We were told that we were seeing one of the very few copies of the film left floating around.
The story of a hedonistic Southern girl who lets boys go only so far was also the story of a strong female character who adapted to circumstance as she needed to.
When one of her suitors pressed her about marriage, he said, "Will you be honest with me, honey? Man to man?" and it didn't seem the least bit out of line to refer to her that way, nor did she question it.
Her troubles began when her drunken date crashed his car because he was going (gasp!) 60 mph on a dark road and they were forced by bootleggers to their nearby hideaway. Frightened by the roughness of the men and the potential for personal danger, Temple wants to escape
Naturally there's a raging thunderstorm going on and it's so tough to escape through the woods when you're wearing a bias-cut satin evening dress and matching evening coat. And running in sequined shoes is all but impossible.
So she stays and ends up witnessing a murder and being raped; it was the rape that made this film so controversial when it was released in 1933. For all I know, even the scene of her in her underthings was problematic, although it was a treat to see the beautiful lingerie of that era.
On a related note, her family's servant (very much a Mammy-like character) had noted while ironing a slip that if her guardian grandfather wanted to know what was going on with Temple, he should take a look at the condition of her torn lingerie. Scandalous stuff no doubt.
There were the usual period-specific references, as when her father's death in "the World War" was mentioned. No numbers necessary as there'd only been one.
And women were the still thought of as the weaker sex, evidenced when her admirer, the lawyer Benbow reminded her, "You're a woman...but you're still a Drake." The phrasing made it clear that her girl parts were a serious handicap and that only familial duty could be her salvation.
And it was and she redeemed herself in the end, telling all, but at great personal cost. She fainted, tumbling to the floor, right in front of the entire courtroom. The End.
My guess? She was probably weak from not having had a biscuit or two for breakfast.
Instead there were donuts and pastries for those willing to be at the Grace Street Theater by 10 a.m. The woman next to me expressed surprise that more people weren't there and I suggested that 10 is a tad early for many people on a Saturday morning. Somehow she was surprised to hear that.
Showing was an adaptation of William Faulkner's novel "Sanctuary," called "The Story of Temple Drake." We were told that we were seeing one of the very few copies of the film left floating around.
The story of a hedonistic Southern girl who lets boys go only so far was also the story of a strong female character who adapted to circumstance as she needed to.
When one of her suitors pressed her about marriage, he said, "Will you be honest with me, honey? Man to man?" and it didn't seem the least bit out of line to refer to her that way, nor did she question it.
Her troubles began when her drunken date crashed his car because he was going (gasp!) 60 mph on a dark road and they were forced by bootleggers to their nearby hideaway. Frightened by the roughness of the men and the potential for personal danger, Temple wants to escape
Naturally there's a raging thunderstorm going on and it's so tough to escape through the woods when you're wearing a bias-cut satin evening dress and matching evening coat. And running in sequined shoes is all but impossible.
So she stays and ends up witnessing a murder and being raped; it was the rape that made this film so controversial when it was released in 1933. For all I know, even the scene of her in her underthings was problematic, although it was a treat to see the beautiful lingerie of that era.
On a related note, her family's servant (very much a Mammy-like character) had noted while ironing a slip that if her guardian grandfather wanted to know what was going on with Temple, he should take a look at the condition of her torn lingerie. Scandalous stuff no doubt.
There were the usual period-specific references, as when her father's death in "the World War" was mentioned. No numbers necessary as there'd only been one.
And women were the still thought of as the weaker sex, evidenced when her admirer, the lawyer Benbow reminded her, "You're a woman...but you're still a Drake." The phrasing made it clear that her girl parts were a serious handicap and that only familial duty could be her salvation.
And it was and she redeemed herself in the end, telling all, but at great personal cost. She fainted, tumbling to the floor, right in front of the entire courtroom. The End.
My guess? She was probably weak from not having had a biscuit or two for breakfast.
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