Photos from the Ford Theatre website
An important LA venue is waiting in the wings. If it's built, it could become the most important new theater/dance-specific venue in LA since the construction of LATC three decades ago.
It's a 299-seat theater that would be part of a building that would replace the current south parking lot at the John Anson Ford Amphitheatre, overlooking the Cahuenga Pass in Hollywood.
Its most exciting feature is that it wouldn't be designed as the home of one particular company. It would be designed to serve as a steppingstone for a variety of smaller LA companies - theater and dance -- as they try to produce more ambitious, attention-getting shows, with more compensation for the artists.
This isn't a mere gleam in the eye of Laura Zucker, the executive director of the LA County Arts Commission, which operates the Ford. It's part of a proposed comprehensive upgrade of the Ford that already is the subject of an environmental impact statement, which is open to public scrutiny. But most of the money for the upgrade hasn't been approved.
I spent some time reading parts of that environmental impact statement, which makes a strong case that the project would respect the public park where it would be located. It would add a hiking trail behind the amphitheatre, but its new buildings (including increased parking) would arise only on already developed land. The statement analyzes concerns about earthquakes, traffic, noise, gnatcatchers and other subjects related to the area's physical environment in exhausting detail. It concludes that the impact of the project in these areas would be "less than significant" - in other words, it would be safe and green by most people's standards.
But the EIR doesn't address the impact that this project might have on LA's theatrical ecology. There, it could be "a game changer," Zucker says.
For decades, too much of LA County theater has been barely noticed because it's mired in the stratum of sub-100-seat theaters, where the size of the audience is inherently small and most of the talent receives only paltry fees. Zucker and her husband, actor Allan Miller, used to run one such theater, the Back Alley in Van Nuys.
Meanwhile, a handful of larger companies (Center Theatre Group, Geffen Playhouse, Pasadena Playhouse, La Mirada Theatre, Musical Theatre West) and a few midsize groups (Shakespeare Center, Theatricum Botanicum, Falcon) receive much of the available institutional support from public and private sources.
In the last three decades, several once-smaller companies (LATC, Colony, East West, International City, A Noise Within, Independent Shakespeare) climbed out of the 99-seat arena into midsize venues with more appropriate compensation levels. But upon successfully completing that time-consuming and difficult process, most of their leaders haven't been eager to share their hard-won spaces with smaller companies on any regular basis, nor have they often shopped in LA's smaller theaters for productions that might move up the ladder.
According to Zucker, the 299-seater at the Ford would be intended specifically to move some of the city's better smaller productions to a position of greater prominence and endowment. Yet it would accomplish this goal without seriously reducing the intimacy that audiences usually expect in a sub-100-seat space.
The process of picking the spotlighted productions would generally follow in the footsteps of the process that previously allowed selected smaller companies - usually without any permanent homes of their own - to use the 87-seat [Inside] the Ford venue, which is located under the main Ford Amphitheatre. But that program - while appreciated by the recipients - didn't give those productions even half the attention they might have received at the 299-seat level.
Under the proposed upgrade of the complex, the current [Inside] the Ford would be converted into a self-service market for picnickers on the adjacent Edison Plaza (plus, perhaps, a small rehearsal facility), while its functions as a sub-100-seat venue would move to a new black-box space that would be included within a building that would arise on the north side of the Ford.
Back on the south side of the property, the new building that includes the 299-seat space would also feature a restaurant, several levels of parking and a park-like plaza on top.
Are you licking your chops yet, theater fans?
Of course there is that nagging question of how to pay for it. Zucker estimates that the entire upgrade could cost $130 million, of which $27.5 million has already been authorized by the county for ongoing improvements in the Ford amphitheater itself.
"We're not planning to go to the board for the whole enchilada," Zucker says. "We're planning to break it up into pieces over time." And surely no one would object to a private offer to pay for parts of the project. There's a reason why we remember the names Taper and Ahmanson so readily - they were donors whose names are now planted on other county-owned theaters.
The 299-seat theater should be considered an essential piece of this package, not a frill that could be delayed interminably. Unlike, say, the new restaurant or the parking garages or the hiking trail, it would fill a need that isn't currently being met anywhere else in the county.
It's important that theater lovers throughout the county make clear how important this project would be to the health of LA theater. Right now, it's especially essential to make sure that Sheila Kuehl and Bobby Shriver, the two candidates for the job of county supervisor in the district in which the Ford is located, are well aware of what's going on.
Kuehl apparently is already a believer in the proposal. On her website, she explicitly promises to "propose a funding program to implement the completion of the master plan for the Ford Amphitheatre, including new parking garages, a 299 seat theater, a restaurant and hiking trail. Funding must also include ongoing maintenance."
But Shriver doesn't specifically mention the Ford in a long statement about "the arts" on his website. He notes, however, that "the Supervisor for the Third District has traditionally led in building and maintaining our cultural infrastructure; I will continue that tradition." I'd feel a little more confident about that pledge if it were followed by a sentence that included the words "Ford" and "299-seat." Care to step up to the plate, Mr. Shriver?
The Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens has expanded its American galleries yet again. With this summer's unveiling of five rooms displaying nearly 120 works -- all from the 20th century -- the home of "The Blue Boy" and other older British gems has affirmed its commitment to presenting pieces (including modern ones) from this side of the Atlantic.
For Jessica Todd Smith, chief curator of American art, more space means the chance not only to show more stuff but also to show it in ways that "fill in gaps," "broaden conversations," and spotlight "resonances," i.e., aesthetic and thematic connections. One example: "A Shreve silver vase that incorporates California flora has, depending on where you stand, a lovely backdrop of paintings representing the California landscape."
In our conversations, Smith offered some other thoughts about what you should know and see while visiting the new sections of the Virginia Steele Scott Galleries of American Art.
She explains that the nearly century-old Huntington had some American works but didn't have a gallery dedicated to American art until 30 years ago. A gift in memory of philanthropist Scott included about 50 paintings and funds for a building, which opened in 1984. The San Marino institution's U.S. holdings now number more than 12,000 pieces. Over the years, the Scott complex has roughly tripled in size; the latest addition (converted from storage space) has increased the display area to about 21,000 square feet.
Above: Arthur Dove's "Lattice and Awning" (1941) / The Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens
A 1937 redwood pipe-organ screen by Sargent Claude Johnson dominates one wall of a room filled with what Smith calls "monumental and muscular" art from the '30s and beyond. The Huntington purchased the huge carved piece -- its first major artwork by an African American -- in 2011. Among its "resonant" companions, says Smith, are two paintings (one a loan) by African American artist Charles White and Reginald Marsh's "The Locomotive" (1935), which, like Johnson's screen, resulted from a government commission.
Above: Tony Smith's sculpture "For W.A." (1969) and Frederick Hammersley's painting "See Saw" (1966) / Photo: Tim Street-Porter
Karen Wada is an L.A.-based writer and a former editor at the Los Angeles Times and Los Angeles magazine. This is her first piece for LA Observed.
So who's on the opera conductor pantheon -- which includes the likes of Carlos Kleiber, Leonard Bernstein, James Levine? Now it's time to add Gustavo Dudamel. Even though this news, for a podium personality who has already achieved rock-star status, may not be enough to stop the presses.
But hold on. Before an audience of 10,300-plus at Hollywood Bowl our resident maestro and his LA Philharmonic once again took up the lyric muse -- previously they did the same at Disney Hall with the Mozart-DaPonte trilogy and in other summers other operas at Cahuenga Pass. This season it was the double bill, commonly known as "Cav-Pag," those verismo potboilers that give over-ripe melodrama a whole new name.
Holy Moly! Did he and the band ever give their composers, Mascagni ("Cavalleria Rusticana") and Leoncavallo ("Pagliacci") a workout. Not only that, he urged the singers to ever-more passionate engagement. And while the event was not staged -- the cast stood before music stands reading from scores and wore concert dress -- its impact was next to earth-shaking.
Sometimes, given over-amplification, too earth-shaking. With voices not yet warmed up for "Cavalleria," Nancy Maultsby let out some painfully wide wobbles as Mama Lucia and poor Christopher Maltman, at the end of Alfio's whip-snapping entry aria, even elicited a loud, perfectly-timed double boo from someone sitting fairly close. Michelle de Young, as the wronged Santuzza, belted her anguish with an open-throat and Stuart Neill, in a white jacket that emphasized his mountainous look, used his stentorian tenor to effect as the vengeful Turiddu.
Only Tamara Mumford, as a silvery-toned Lola who slinked seductively onstage in a red gown, gave an inkling of physical characterization.
No early infelicities seemed to faze Dudamel, who coaxed the cast to stabilize as things went on. Despite a mis-adjustment here or there he led the singers to galvanizing climaxes, irrefutable attacks and, of course, drew out the orchestra to luxuriate in those long, lush, sweeping themes that a guy like Mantovani could only dream of.
"Pagliacci" drew a sharp contrast to the opening one-act opera. For one thing Leoncavallo's score has far greater compositional interest, not to mention its "La Strada"-like drama of a poor little commedia dell'arte troupe traveling from one small Italian town to another, run by the jealous chief clown who is married to the prettiest girl around.
Julianna di Giacomo gave us that girl, Nedda, in a shining personification -- she needed nothing more than her dramatic vocal expression, through rhythmically inflected phrasing and sweet purity of tone, to catch the moment's ardor, which flowed unhaltingly from her. A Dudamel find.
And thank goodness for Lucas Meachem, whose refined singing made for a thinking man's Silvio, her lover. The others doubled with the "Cav" cast, but Neill as Canio had the biggest cry at the end or, shall we say, laugh. His line,"commedia è finita" was a howling closer.
A week earlier Dudamel reunited with the Philharmonic for a Beethoven program -- which I heard in its second performance, when the sound engineers veered off the mark. For the Triple Concerto, with the Capucon brothers playing violin (Renaud) and cello (Gautier) and Jean-Yves Thibaudet at the piano, the dial was so badly adjusted that poor Thibaudet's playing at the bass end turned to mud.
Otherwise, this was happily buoyant chamber music, the irrepressibly melodic lines sweetly merging, the themes bouncing back and forth, the orchestral backup adding thrust and heft.
Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, which followed intermission and saw Dudamel changed from tie and jacket to his looser black shirt and pants, on that sweltering night, had all the thrilling momentousness of its original inspiration. Nothing ever seems too familiar, as this piece is, to dim his connection to the mobilizing musical force.
Whenever the jumbotron cameras fixed on him -- and often they wrongly landed on the two French horn players, whose parts could not be heard (singled out) from the high-decibel tuttis -- he clearly showed a cutback in his physicality, say 70% from those early, all-out podium kinetics that bespoke the very music to audience and players alike.
It was inevitable, then, this restraint against body wear-and-tear. No one can keep up such physical extravagance over a long career without harming himself. To be sure, the hair is also shorter and it flies around less picturesquely these days.
But that does not mean he holds back when it comes to being an inveterate mime with an audience, to wit: telegraphing for the cameras how hot he was -- flicking his shirt-front back and forth like a fan to show folks why he changed from the up-to-the-neck uniform to a blousy garment.
And there were other observations to make when Joshua Bell opened the Bowl season with a pops-leaning program. Namely, HD screens that put enhancing light on subjects -- who included the violinist's friends: Glenn Close, who sang a few songs gamely, and virtuosic musicians who travel other non-classical paths; and an improved sound system that kept good acoustic balance.
Man-for-all-summer-seasons Bramwell Tovey led the Philharmonic bookending the program with Stravinsky's cantankerously sparkling "Fireworks" and "Firebird" Suite No. 2. But Bell, who arguably performs more and in a wider spectrum than any other violinist today, gave us his "Eleanor Rigby" fantasy -- an elegiac and deeply soulful excavation of the Beatles tune that was nothing short of a wonder.
National Ballet of Canada
But if the National Ballet of Canada -- which put in an appearance at the Music Center Pavilion with Alexei Ratmansky's "Romeo and Juliet" -- turned out to be less than a wonder, it could be blamed on the high-water marks set by several previous versions and performances.
I can say that in this outing Shakespeare's star-cross'd lovers danced with élan, though. Guillaume Coté was a Romeo who curved gloriously into the arc and sweep of Prokofiev's sublime music, thanks to choreographer Ratmansky. And Elena Lobsanova made aptly quicksilver stuff of Juliet.
Best of all, and this might be a small point, it was a relief to see her at the tragic end with feet gone limp, not arched, as all other dead ballerinas tend to make them. And the rest of their naturalistic last meeting was also deeply moving.
But the choreographer missed the ecstasy that Kenneth MacMillan's version created in the couple's balcony scene -- who could forget Alessandra Ferri's beyond-extravagant backbends, with arms flung low in her partner's arms as he lifted and swirled her in their passionate duet.
Ratmansky also missed Prokofiev's plangent cues for regal grandeur in the ballroom drama and more. Sometimes trying to outdo what's already marvelous becomes a fool's errand.
And the Shakespeare is outside.
Swords are jumpin'
And the concepts are high.
Oh, the language is rich
And the trees are good-lookin'.
So hush, LA audiences,
Don't you cry.
-- apologies to DuBose Heyward and Ira Gershwin
Midsummer in LA brings with it a remarkable profusion of professional Shakespeare productions in the great outdoors: Shakespeare Center at the VA's Japanese Garden, Independent Shakespeare Company in Griffith Park, the Theatricum Botanicum in Topanga. Farther out, you can find Shakespeare Orange County in Garden Grove and the Kingsmen Shakespeare Festival in Thousand Oaks.
Taken together (which hardly anyone ever does, because of the distances between the venues), these companies constitute one of America's largest Shakespearean hotspots. All of them qualify for the "professional" distinction by using by using at least some Actors' Equity members on contracts.
The breaking news this summer in this arena is, well, the arena itself that Shakespeare Center of Los Angeles is using for its "Romeo and Juliet" at the VA's Japanese Garden in Brentwood. In all my summers watching alfresco Shakespeare in LA, I can't recall seeing another in-the-round production.
Jack Mikesell (Romeo) and Christina Elmore (Juliet) at the VA. Photo: Michael Lamont
With the audience distributed in properly raked seating on all four sides of a square, everyone feels close to the action. This is the great benefit of in-the-round configurations. And director Kenn Sabberton magnifies that effect in his "R & J" by sending the actors into just about every section of the space at some point during the play - occasionally using audience members as silent props. This production is continually on the move - in stark contrast to the excessively languorous pacing of Sabberton's staging of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" last year.
Set and lighting designer Trevor Norton has furnished a balcony for the play's most famous scene in one corner of the square, overlooking the main audience entrance. Seated on an aisle, I was able to turn completely to the right in order to watch the scenes that took place there, but I noticed that the man across the aisle hardly ever turned to look at the balcony. Maybe he preferred just to listen.
So be prepared to be somewhat flexible if you truly want to see the entire play. Or almost all of it, that is -- the disadvantage of arena staging is that occasionally nearly every spectator experiences at least one blocked sight line. I noticed one such moment, when the Friar's back blocked my view of Romeo's face, but of course these moments vary depending on where you're sitting.
The advantages of this configuration outweigh these brief frustrations. The immersive quality provides a new perspective - or many new perspectives - on well-worn material. Also, the intimacy enhances our ability to parse Shakespeare's more ornate passages, especially when the lines are as well-spoken as they are by most of this cast.
This is that rare "R & J" in which Romeo seems a bit younger than Juliet - thanks to the puppy-dog scampering of Jack Mikesell's Romeo and the more mature command of Christina Elmore's Juliet -- who is supposedly 13, according to the text. Yet here we can read in the program that Elmore has already received an MFA degree. I wonder - couldn't most productions cut the reference to Juliet's age? It's difficult to find an actress who can handle the intricate language while also appearing to be just 13.
Early on, this is one of the funniest "R & J"s that I've ever seen - especially that balcony scene. But the ending is even grimmer than most - we don't see the usual final image of the two families finding commonality in their sorrow over the bodies of the lovers.
Most of the actors are just about ideal, and they're dressed in eye-catching 1920s finery designed by Holly Poe Durbin. Susan Goldberg's choreography draws on flapper-era steps, and Brian Joseph's score uses wailing, jazzy riffs in the haunting aural climaxes of each act.
The production was promoted as transforming Mr. Montague (Gregg Daniel) and Mr. Capulet (Elijah Alexander) into competing publishing magnates in '20s LA. Facsimiles of '20s Los Angeles newspapers are used as props, and the rowdy street gangs apparently are employed by rival rags. But there is no explicit mention of the families' holdings - the text is almost entirely the Bard's.
This production plays only through Saturday, and it should be high on the list of any summer Shakespeare aficionado.
Independent Shakespeare's and Kingsmen Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night"s also ventured into the early years of the 20th century in their concepts. There is still time to catch ISC's version. Staged by Melissa Chalsma, it's briefly vacating the Old Zoo stage in Griffith Park in favor of "The Taming of the Shrew," but it will return for six performances in August, and it's a lively renewal of this oft-revived comedy.
Danny Campbell, Andre Martin, David Melville and Julia Aks in Twelfth Night at Griffith Park. Photo: Grettel Cortes.
Its most unorthodox feature is that it casts Julia Aks as Fabian, a role that is usually cast with a man. In most productions, Fabian is a distant runner-up in the play's comedy sweepstakes, at least when compared to his fellow conspirators Toby, Maria and Feste. But here the gender change, Fabian's maid uniform, and her role not only as a music-hall partner for David Melville's Feste but also as his lover gives this Fabian extra dimensions. Speaking of the comic characters, Luis Galindo -- the actor who riveted audiences last year in the Scottish play and will open soon as Petruchio in "Shrew" -- does a 180-degree turn to play the distinctly less dashing Malvolio almost as memorably as he played Macbeth.
Those who have never experienced ISC should be aware that because of its free admission (but please donate) policy as well as its quality, it attracts crowds that can be much larger than those at any of LA's other classical companies - on weekends, as large as those at the Ahmanson or the Pantages. If you want a reasonably close spot on the lawn, Thursdays are probably your best bet.
Theatricum Botanicum has the longest season of any of these companies, from early June through early October, so getting good seats usually isn't a problem in rural Topanga. Currently running are four plays in repertory: "Lear," "Much Ado About Nothing," "All's Well That Ends Well" and yet another variation on Theatricum's annual "Midsummer Night's Dream."
Note that this "Lear" is not "King Lear," because this monarch is a queen, played by Theatricum artistic director Ellen Geer. Her three offspring are sons, not daughters, and Gloucester's scions are daughters, not sons. Geer co-directs with Melora Marshall, who plays the Fool. Geer's queen not only rages with the requisite fire, but she creates quite a spectacle as she nimbly climbs over not just one roof but two - the roof of the primary building on the open mainstage and another on the little structure at the back of the Theatricum. No other venue in LA is as capable as the Theatricum at suggesting the vast reaches of the wilderness through which Lear wanders.
All of these companies should be encouraged to program occasional doses of the lesser-known Shakespearean plays, so I salute Geer's decision to stage the seldom-seen "All's Well" (with co-director Christopher W. Jones). But this vigorous production doesn't quite manage to make us believe that all is well about the play itself.
However, "Much Ado," with co-direction by Geer and her daughter Willow Geer (who also plays Helena in "All's Well" and Gloucester's good daughter in "Lear") lives up to its own catch-phrase, thanks to vital performances by Susan Angelo's Beatrice and Robertson Dean's Benedick. It's great to see Dean joining his A Noise Within colleagues Alan Blumenfeld, Abby Craden and William Dennis Hunt in the Theatricum company.
Meanwhile, Theatricum veteran Angelo - who is also a resident artist at A Noise Within -- began her summer by staging "A Midsummer Night's Dream" for Shakespeare Orange County. Under the group's new artistic director John Walcutt, the OC company is making an effort to reflect its neighborhood's changing demographics by incorporating Hitia O Te Ra, an extremely animated Polynesian dance troupe based in Garden Grove, into a bracingly distinctive "Midsummer" that's set in the 1700s in the South Seas. Two performances remain, on July 31 and August 1.
Speaking of Shakespeare Orange County, fans of the Troubadour Theater Company - usually based at Burbank's Falcon Theatre - should note that the Troubies are venturing to Garden Grove under SOC auspices this weekend (Thursday-Saturday) for a rendition of their ever-popular "A Midsummer's Saturday Night Fever Dream," a mashup of the Bard and disco. Then the Troubies will trek to La Mirada Theatre the following weekend (August 1-3) for another round of "Abbamemnon," their hilarious but occasionally sobering blend of Abba and "Agamemnon," which closed in Burbank on July 13.
Both of these venues are much larger than the Falcon, and some of the comic intensity might not extend to the back rows. But considering how hard it can be to snag Troubies tickets in Burbank, those who failed to do so should consider making a trip (or trips) to Greater LA's southeastern precincts.
SUMMER FARE AT THE BIG INDOOR HOUSES: Center Theatre Group is going in the opposite direction from the classics this summer, diving into the shallow end of the pool. At the Ahmanson is the Queen spectacle "We Will Rock You" -- a decade after its US premiere in Las Vegas. At the Taper is the comIc monologue "Buyer & Cellar."
I enjoyed occasional moments in the first act of "We Will Rock You," which uses high technology to poke fun at a future society's obsession with high technology, before it degenerates in the second act into a more basic form of Queen idolatry.
Jonathan Tolins' "Buyer & Cellar" has a few good (albeit snide) laughs in its fictional account of a struggling LA actor (Michael Urie) who's hired by Barbra Streisand to operate a "shopping mall" in her Malibu home's basement. But it's truly depressing to think that this is CTG's current idea of what passes for an LA-set play - just as "I'll Eat You Last", the Geffen's solo show with Bette Midler as Sue Mengers last fall, was Geffen Playhouse's rare nod toward local content.
By the way, the fictional actor in "Buyer & Cellar" was fired from a job at Disneyland, but he consoles himself with the thought he'll have more time "to do LA theater - which is exactly as tragic as it sounds. I dreamed of working at the Taper or the Geffen, but that's like a totally closed whatever."
I'm not sure what Tolins meant by "as tragic as it sounds" - it could be interpreted as a cheap and uninformed gag about the quality and quantity of LA theater or as a more pointed remark about the financial compensation received by most LA theater actors. But if that follow-up line meant that the Taper and the Geffen don't take nearly enough advantage of the vast LA talent pool and LA subject matter, then that's one of the boldest, truest lines spoken at the Taper in years.
By the way, while the Ahmanson is presenting the flashy "We Will Rock You," the very un-flashy but Tony-winning musical "Once" is making its debut at the Pantages - and after seeing it from Row U, I can hardly think of a less appropriate venue for it.
"Once" is a small-scale musical that belongs in a much more intimate theater. I couldn't see facial features, and sometimes I couldn't tell who was speaking. Throughout most of its unnecessarily prolonged length, the entire top half of the view of the Pantages stage is occupied by a brick wall, which is inhabited by people only, well, once -- and even then the two actors who briefly move into that part of our visual field barely move a muscle. The lethargy of this experience made me yearn for a dose of the technological overkill on display in "We Will Rock You" or the Pantages' recent "Ghost."
"Once" is not enough, but seeing it at the Pantages made me hope to eventually see it in one of LA theater's fine midsize or small venues. The tragedy of winning a Tony and consequently having to adapt to inappropriately large houses, in an attempt to maximize profits, strikes again.
Kimono photos all from Museum Associates/LACMA
Kimono for a Modern Age at LACMA presents more than 30 of the traditional Japanese garments, on display for the first time in the museum's Pavilion for Japanese Art. The kimono are from the first half of the 20th century and are displayed in tokonomo, described as "traditional viewing spaces as trios that relate in terms of motifs, themes, or approach to the graphic layout of patterns."
Curator Sharon S. Takeda shared some observations with LA Observed in the gallery.
"These are all daily leisure wear, not ceremonial. The majority of them were made in the Kanto region around Tokyo, made after the great Kanto earthquake of 1923. Most are made of machine real silk and machine loomed silk and most were pre-dyed before they were woven."
"They were fashionable- affordable by working class women. Because they were so fashionable it's thought that wealthy women also purchased them."
"I was interested in how they're still the traditional kimono but also that they're modernized. A lot of these are probably thought of as common rather than really high class. It's really more about the machine age and technology."
"Even today there are different levels of kimono. They can be made in silk, cotton, polyester, rayon, any number of things. If you walk into the department store today you would have different qualities to choose from-machine printed, hand printed, hand dyed, and ikat dyed. So there's a whole hierarchy and price range."
"A lot of these were for a mass market which had it's height during the first half of the 20th century and then it kind of died out or started to dwindle particularly as Western fashion took a stronger hold post-World War 2."
"A lot of this was never handed down with the finely made things because it was considered 'fly-by-night' fashion or everyday wear rather than something precious."
"Kimono for a Modern Age" is on exhibit until October 19.
We're in the middle of the Hollywood Fringe season, although not the Hollywood Fringe Festival itself -- which officially ended Sunday.
Post-festival runs have been announced for more than 50 of the Fringe productions - out of a total of 290 shows. At least a few of these extended shows probably would have been running this month even if the Fringe hadn't existed.
During this year's festival, as I tried to devise a filter to help me decide which shows to see, I was drawn primarily to multi-character shows (as opposed to solos) that were produced by established LA companies, especially those that operate here during the rest of the year. I was hoping that emphasizing such shows would maximize my chances of seeing something worthwhile in the completely non-curated Fringe crapshoot.
After all, an ongoing LA company has to think about its long-term audience, as opposed to out-of-town producers who arrive only for two-week stands or even home-grown one-shot showcase producers. And, because it's logistically easier for an established LA company to extend a Fringe show, these companies produce many of the shows with extensions.
In fact, after five years of the Hollywood Fringe, I don't care how many newcomers it attracts to LA each year. Ambitious theater-related talent arrives in LA every day of the year, with or without the Fringe, and every weekend it seems as if at least a handful of newcomers' shows manage to find theaters to showcase their talents - many of them in the Hollywood district.
No, the Fringe is useful because it provides a structure in which established LA artists can develop their work. Or they can revive successful shows they've already done (as Theatre of NOTE did this year with "Disassembly") -- but for audiences that (theoretically) extend beyond their usual supporters into the ranks of those who are attracted with the assistance of Fringe marketing.
The Fringe is also stimulating because its concentrated geographical area and its concentrated time frame - which creates the ability to see a Tuesday matinee, if you so choose -- help convey an impression of heightened creative ferment, even if most of the Fringe shows don't approach the average quality of the productions that arise from our more far-flung outposts throughout the rest of the year. (By the way, the Fringe itself was more far-flung this year. Its 29 venues - nine more than last year -- included two that are on the east side of Western Avenue. One of these was also south of Melrose, on turf that usually isn't considered part of Hollywood.)
OK, I understand why most of the established LA companies - especially those with their own homes — avoid the Fringe. Why get lost in the crowd? However, unless they have built-in subscription audiences, perhaps they should also avoid producing their own shows elsewhere in LA during the Fringe period, because those shows run the risk of getting lost in the crowd, too. I recently noticed an offer of free tickets to a production at an established venue far from the Fringe activity.
Bitter Lemons, the website that provides handy links to reviews of LA shows, more or less ignored most of the non-Fringe theater scene during the past few weeks. As I write this on July 2, Bitter Lemons has yet to run links to reviews of the Geffen's "The Country House" and the Ahmanson's "The Last Confession," although both shows opened three weeks ago. The site's editor Colin Mitchell was busy participating in the Fringe this year, with his solo show "Linden Arden Stole the Highlights," so the absence of such links is understandable. Still, it's important for the site's Lemon Meter to include links to independent reviews of the larger shows. Larger companies have a lot more money to spend on one-sided advertising than do the producers of smaller shows - and consequently there's probably more public curiosity about whether the larger shows measure up to the hype. (For the record, I've already written about how much I liked "The Country House," but I didn't get much redemption out of "The Last Confession.")
Still, if many of LA's most mature companies justifiably avoid the Fringe, newer LA companies and especially homeless LA companies might well benefit from Fringe participation.
Let's look at some of those shows from LA companies that produced in the Fringe and are now continuing after the Fringe.
I've been remiss in not previously seeing anything from the Visceral Company, but I'm glad I saw its "Zombies From the Beyond" as part of the Fringe, at the Lex. James Valcq's goofy musical, in its West Coast premiere, is a full-length take-off on cheesy '50s sci-fi films -- with occasional subversive dashes of 21st-century feminism thrown into the mix. It's one of the rare examples of this genre that doesn't wear out its welcome before the final curtain. Dan Spurgeon's staging is powered by the extraordinary vocal stylings of Alison England as Zombina, the chief alien (right). Preposterously attired, she delivers a performance that could make this show a late-night cult favorite for years - if her voice holds up.
"Dorian's Descent," a musical from Doma Theatre, is less likely to ascend. Chris Raymond's score has a few good moments, amid the excess. But this umpteenth adaptation of "The Picture of Dorian Gray" is way too long (please, drop the entire character of the Demon who makes Dorian do it.) And it contains some rather awkward moments - for example, decades after Dorian's spurned lover commits suicide, her revenge-seeking brother is temporarily misled by the fact that Dorian hasn't aged along with his portrait. Yet the brother himself is played by the same young actor who played him earlier - and this actor, too, doesn't look as if he has aged at all. If Dorian isn't the only character whose appearance resists the passing years, isn't the point of the story blurred?
On to non-musicals.
I didn't see an earlier LA production of Gregory Crafts' "Friends Like These," but it's worth more attention. His company, Theatre Unleashed, unleashed an excellent revival for the Fringe and beyond, staged by Wendy Gough Soroka. At the beginning, Crafts quickly signals that a school shooting is going to happen -- but as he flashes backward to recent events that illustrate the social turmoil in the lives of several students, we're not sure who's going to start shooting. That the teenagers are involved in extra-curricular fantasy role-playing events intensifies the suspense. Crafts' focus is rigorously disciplined - he's not writing about parents or teachers, and we don't learn how the shooter got a gun.
Brandon Baruch's "No Homo - A Bromantic Tragedy" won the Fringe First award as the best premiere. It's headed not only toward an LA extension at Theatre Asylum but toward the curated New York International Fringe Festival. Set in LA (extra points for this choice), the play is a wry look at two young men who are best friends, roommates, and supposedly straight - but their friends assume that they're really lovers. Jessica Hanna of Bootleg Theater fame directs a skilled cast (it won the Fringe ensemble award.) Baruch introduces more psychological knots instead of tying up the existing ones, which is refreshing, although it seems odd that no one mentions the word "bisexual," especially regarding the one guy who's actively pursuing a girlfriend. Wouldn't someone naturally bring up the "B" in "LGBT"?
"Things Being What They Are," a Moving Arts production that will continue a run at the Complex, is also about male bonding, although in this case the two men are middle-aged neighbors -- one divorced and one in a troubled marriage -- who have just met as the play begins. Wendy MacLeod's play is a little too committed to predictable tropes about men with very different personalities who find a common bond amid their crises. It feels especially wan in comparison to her "The Water Children," about the abortion controversy - I wonder if that 1998 play would still hold up? Darin Anthony directed.
Lower photo from "No Homo" by Clarke Surrey
In the short span of four months, recently retired New York City Ballet principal dancer Janie Taylor has gone from an emotional farewell onstage at Lincoln Center to cruising the streets of Los Angeles in her rental car, poised to build a life as a newly-minted Angeleno. Ballet dancers careers are finite, and Taylor, 33, and her husband, fellow NYCB principal Sébastien Marcovici, felt the time had come to move on from the company where each had spent half their lives performing. "We both had gotten to the place of 'OK, what's the next thing? We were ready to take that step," she said the other day during a downtown conversation at Il Caffe on Broadway. Their final performance was March 1.The couple have a years-long relationship with choreographer Benjamin Millepied (formed during their time together in NYCB), founder of the Los Angeles Dance Project. Millepied's need for a new ballet master presented an opportunity for the pair to start fresh in a new place — with Marcovici at LADP and Taylor free to concentrate on a different creative path.
They officially arrived in Los Angeles in mid-June. Although Taylor is still transitioning from dancing (she's not ready to say 'never, ever again') and definitely plans to guest teach, she wants to build on what has been up until now a side vocation: costume and dancewear design.
Originally from Houston, Taylor started taking ballet seriously at the age of 4. After studying at the School of American Ballet (NYCB's training school), she joined the company's corps de ballet in 1998. She learned to sew at the age of 14, just before moving to New York. The endless need for something comfortable to wear to class and rehearsals motivated her to start making her own leotards. "If that's all you wore all day, every day, you'd do it too!" she said laughing. Taylor also made leotards for some of the girls in the company. "I've always had an interest in fashion, always very experimentally made clothes for myself, and I'm kind of self-taught. I would cut stuff up and figure out how to construct things."
Taylor in 2013 talking about and performing Stravinsky Violin Concerto, one of George Balanchine's leotard ballets.
She recalls being influenced as a young girl by Alicia Silverstone's costumes in Clueless and later on by the look of the dancers in the classic 1948 film, The Red Shoes. Her taste and style influences are eclectic. "I tend to navigate toward graphic things," she says. "I like mixing patterns — especially plaids and stripes. People are always making fun of all the stripes I wear." She's drawn to the silhouette of 1950s women's fashion and loves to search for vintage brooches at flea markets. Hours spent being fitted in the NYCB costume shop were a learning experience. "I guess I was totally annoying — looking at every costume that wasn't for me, and asking questions."
She admires the work of Barbara Karinska, the Russian designer hired by George Balanchine to create many of the iconic costumes for NYCB. "All of her pieces were so beautiful and detailed," Taylor says. "I loved wearing them and analyzing every little thing." Taylor received her first big post-dance commission shortly before leaving New York. NYCB soloist and choreographer Justin Peck asked her to design the costumes for his new ballet, Everywhere We Go, which premiered at the company's spring gala. She had created costumes for a few smaller pieces before, but this was a new challenge. Peck liked one of the leotards she designed for class (striped of course) and wanted looks based on that. "Everywhere We Go" features 25 dancers, both men and women. Taylor had to conceive costumes that complemented Peck's choreography and also stood up to tough performance standards. "There's another mind that has to feel what you're making will express their art," Taylor says, alluding to Peck. "It was fun being on the other side but still involved. It's great to make a little world on-stage."
Still settling into her Los Feliz home, Taylor is already busy with new projects. She's been asked to design fabric and wallpaper. Costumes for L.A. Dance Project are a definite possibility. She's also still finding her way around the city, learning neighborhoods and adapting to all the driving she now has to do (Marcovici doesn't drive.) Although she got her license as a teenager, Taylor never drove in NYC. She only used a car once a year when the company would travel upstate to Saratoga during the summer. Mostly she seems to be enjoying her freedom.
"I've done one thing since I was 2 years old so it feels good to do a bunch of different things," she says. "It's not like I felt suffocated while I was dancing, but it controls a lot of other things in your life. You're always thinking — well, I have a performance tomorrow, or something's hurting and I should rest tonight. Everything you do is about that. It is liberating not to have that stress."
Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's a pageant. Angelin Preljocaj has given us one more outlandish extravaganza and this time the French choreographer-turned-corporate calls his show at the Music Center "Les Nuits," after "One Thousand and one Nights."
It's yet another would-be fairy tale, the last one being "Blanche Neige" (Snow White). This time the frame story concerns Scheherazade escaping the Sultan's death blade by distracting/seducing him with exotic narratives, one after another. But Preljocaj, deep into his mode of dark, existential undercurrents, wields a wand that suggests depraved humanity -- not just abuse of the so-called weaker sex and certainly not its supposed triumph.
There's a scene with male couples, for instance -- feigned beheadings/throat-cuttings in unison; another one, dimly lit, with marauding mujahidin in all-black and head masks, who interrupt the opening montage: a drawn-out, slo-mo orgy with half naked, turbaned women, lounging about amid plumes of smoke, their arms moving in a snake-like tangle to an Arabic-pop-beat sound track. (At least no Mahler to defile this time.)
Sex (simulated, of course) sells. Always has. But nudity has become sort of commonplace. Trust Preljocaj to rely heavily on both. And to assert his glee with perversity too. (Where else but in his company would you see a stage-wide lineup with tall, well-proportioned women wearing long gowns and those with very bowed legs sporting above-the knee dresses?)
So what we have is a leisurely, sprawling rollout of disparate stage pictures taking up about 90 minutes -- with each season Preljocaj produces a more elaborate but less interesting series of superficial vignettes that settle on acrobatics (not dance), that show off bodies and focus on fetishes fit for Vegas. You can just imagine his self-satisfaction in spotlighting a seated woman, her naked back to the audience, undulating so that every ligament, tendon and muscle provide an anatomy lesson.
Does he "incorporate" haute couturiers and commercial composers for this latest offering? You bet. Does he preside at home base over a large, multi-faceted organization built just for him by big-name sponsors and luxuriously housed in Aix-en-Provence -- from which he tours the world in ever-more prestigious venues? For certain.
But then there's his opposite, the Barak Ballet, a local start-up that's just dance, original dance, real dance. At it's essence, we're talking about the heroic venture of Melissa Barak, who for nine years performed with the New York City Ballet, choreographed work for it, and now heads her own company, which depends on the financial kindness of strangers.
So what distinguishes it, besides having all the artistic and administrative attributes rolled up into a single person?
Well, Barak happens to be a very talented dance-maker herself. She also has an eye for tracking down other choreographers' works that rely on substance, not shtick. She smartly recruits superb dancers during their home company's off-seasons. Her choices of music and costume design and her smoothly run performances that click along like clockwork are exemplary.
At the company's recent Broad Stage performance of various ensemble pieces and duets everything was based on advanced ballet technique, showing off dance at its highest level of beauty while exploring contemporary movement motifs and connecting keenly to respective musical sources. Sounds like a Balanchine model, yes?
Among the works was Frank Chaves' "Sentir em Nos," a couple's fierce interpersonal struggle likened, but subtly, to a bull-fighter and his foe; Barak's "For Two," a lovely lyrical duet that actually pauses to take breaths between ultra-sensitive encounters and Darrell Grand Moultrie's dramatic "Voices of Six," with its inserts of small but powerful expressionist gestures.
As for the well-established wing of local dance enterprise, Los Angeles Ballet reprised Balanchine's beloved "Serenade," which, no matter how often it's seen, reveals new facets -- so ingeniously made and sealed together with Tchaikovsky's innocently beseeching score is it. This time, though, when the girl falls in the third movement the lighting stayed too bright, lessening its emotional depth and impact.
Also returned to the bill was that 19th century hallmark of Romanticism, Bournonville's "La Sylphide," which the company again danced to perfection. I saw the cast with Allynne Noelle, so cheery and outgoing as to remove the sylph's sense of elusive spirit, but so committed to the role's detail otherwise that she overcame that flaw. Ulrik Birkkjaer, as the smitten James, flew about with apt passion and managed the devilish entrechats, those jumps-in-place with crossed-feet pointing down like arrows, with urgent precision.
Out of town to our north, at the 68th annual Ojai Music Festival, man-of- the-hour Jeremy Denk put together a marathon weekend of propositions -- all of them predictably probing. From the works he chose, to the musicians he enlisted, there was a sense of adventure that festivals ideally have, this one being devoted to new music about old music or new music "classics" or even an actual premiere, such as Denk's brainchild, an opera based on, of all things, Charles Rosen's "The Classical Style," a scholarly tome so acclaimed it's been translated into many languages.
Denk, inspired to lavish his wit and powers of conjecture on it, wrote the libretto and, together with composer Steven Stucky, came up with "The Classical Style, An Opera (Sort of)," which garnered world-wide attention -- both for the novelty of the idea and the fact that it's the MacArthur "Genius" Award-winning pianist-writer putting it down on paper.
Jeremy Denk at Ojai
Sad to report, though, the performance remained unseen by many at Ojai because the re-vamped Libbey Bowl has poor to negligible sightlines for anyone under 6'2." So there was virtually nothing I could see on the stage. Only in the LA Times, days later, were there photos of what appeared there.
But hearing was not a problem, however limiting that sole prospect may be for a quasi-buffa opera like this. And the unraveling plot was comic -- what with Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven the main protagonists, all caught up in arguments over the declared death of classical music with additional characters personified by the Tonic, Dominant and Sub-Dominant chords. Yes, there were lots of insider jokes and quotes from other composers' works. And Stucky did a capital job of putting it all together.
What turned out to be pure transporting poetry, though, was Denk's piano recital linking works by Schubert and Janacek. First, he explained how the two composers represented cultures crashing in on each other. And then, like an excavator of small, precious relics he played them, revealing degrees of whimsy all the way to oblique shadows of sorrow. His touch, the control, the sensitivity spoke volumes.
At the other end of this spectrum were his Ligeti preludes, those dense, ridiculously complex pieces that Denk also played masterfully weeks earlier when he performed with the LA Chamber Orchestra at Royce Hall.
Many events followed -- from 8 a.m. to midnight all weekend long. One standout was the Uri Caine Ensemble with its "Mahler Re-Imagined," a traversal of the composer's well-known themes, from the Adagietto, to "Frere Jacques" to "Ging heut Morgen" brought to their echt origins and sounding like cool jazz or Jewish wedding music or Klezmer rambunctiousness. While it did go a bit too long, who doesn't love the stuff of a festival?
Sarah Steele, Eric Lange and Blythe Danner in "The Country House." Photo: Michael Lamont.
Geffen Playhouse is producing two premieres simultaneously. One of them, Donald Margulies' "The Country House," is wonderful. The other, Steven Drukman's "Death of the Author," isn't.
Although the plays are brand-new, their depicted situations aren't exactly fresh. The characters in them don't stray from the two professions that are so familiar to the Geffen's core audience - academia (the Geffen building is owned by UCLA, which is just across the street) and entertainment (the Geffen was created by the late Hollywood producer/director/schmoozer Gil Cates.)
Neither play employs cutting-edge techniques. Although the characters in "Death of an Author" discuss advanced literary notions, those ideas aren't successfully reflected in the play itself. As for "The Country House," Margulies apparently decided it was his turn to write a contemporary American play inspired by Chekhov.
But don't yawn just yet — even if you saw "Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike," Christopher Durang's overhyped and similarly Chekhovian-inspired effort at the Mark Taper Forum earlier this year. Durang wrote a largely uninspired satire; Margulies is much more affectionate toward his equally flawed characters. He avoids the excessive lampooning that drained the life out of Durang's opus.
At the Geffen, the titular house is located in Williamstown, Massachusetts - home of the real-life Williamstown Theatre Festival. The great Anna Patterson (the great Blythe Danner) has called for a family reunion at the family's summer home, where she is preparing for a run in "Mrs. Warren's Profession." It marks her return to acting a year after the cancer-caused death of her 41-year-old daughter, an equally luminous actress, in this very house.
The blood relatives who show up are Anna's bedraggled and never-married son Elliot (Eric Lange) and her recently Yale-graduated granddaughter Susie (Sarah Steele), whose mourning for her mother is perhaps a tad more intense than that of Susie's father, the Hollywood director Walter (David Rasche.)'
Walter, who's nearly as old as Anna, has decided to introduce his new, younger girlfriend Nell (Emily Swallow), also an actress, to the clan. Also joining the group is Michael (Scott Foley), a 40ish friend who once played Marchbanks to Anna's Candida at Williamstown. Although Michael is now a wealthy Hollywood-based TV star and an advocate for building schools in the Congo, he's doing his summertime stage-acting stint in "The Guardsman" at Williamstown.
Emily Swallow and Scott Foley. Photo: Michael Lamont.
Except for Walter and Nell, the relationships here stir up almost entirely unrequited feelings. Margulies and director Daniel Sullivan confidently orchestrate and navigate the turmoil. The pre-intermission finale is a stunningly funny surprise, and the play ends on a note of lyrical poignance that is, yes, convincingly Chekhovian.
To encapsulate the difference between this play and Durang's, note that the younger trophy fiancé (Spike) in "Vanya..." was a buffoon; the younger trophy fiancée in "Country House" (Nell), is treated much more respectfully. True, Nell does refer scornfully to "LA and all the crap that goes with it" — my advice to Nell, if she wants a non-crappy experience in LA, is to go see "The Country House" at the Geffen. But Hollywood big-shot Walter is also allowed to defend selling out to Hollywood so articulately that you almost might think that Margulies believes him.
By the way, considering that Center Theatre Group's Michael Ritchie ran the Williamstown festival before he arrived in LA (and he grew up not far from it), I began wondering whether he ever entertained the notion of trying to snag Margulies' play for the Taper. He certainly could have brought an insider's perspective to it. Perhaps, however, he thought a play set in Williamstown might look too insular, as if he wanted to show us a slice of his own past. Also, the Tony that Durang won for "Vanya..." may have helped convince Ritchie to do it at the Taper, after which he wouldn't have wanted to do yet another consciously-Chekhov-inspired production so soon — regardless of its quality. In this case, however, the Geffen got the better end of the deal.
Not so with "Death of the Author," next door to "The Country House" in the Geffen's smaller space, staged by Bart DeLorenzo. The only reason to seek it out is to admire Orson Bean's irresistible performance as a swashbuckling English department chair on the verge of retirement.
Drukman's play is a mess. You may have heard that it's about a case of plagiarism, pitting a professor against a student who's about to graduate from a prestigious college. The student tries to deflect this charge by arguing that the unattributed quotes that make up his paper reflect the nature of the genre about which he was writing. Without any presence on the stage of the plagiarized authors themselves, and without any literal visualization of the student's paper for the audience to see, the issue of plagiarism gradually recedes, and it's easy to dismiss it as a serious concern.
Next, the play appears to be about the malleable nature of readers' prejudices and perceptions - or perhaps it's about the class distinctions between the professor, who's from a blue-collar family, and the blue-blooded student.
Then again, the play's title is reflected in a very specific incident from the student's past - which we learn from his ex-girlfriend - or is she back together with him? The role of this only woman in the cast looks like a threadbare plot device instead of an actual character. Meanwhile, a more pivotal character - the dean who makes the final ruling on the case - isn't on the stage any more than the plagiarized authors. And why the oddly upbeat ending, almost as if we've been watching an earnestly uplifting sitcom?
If he plans to rewrite, Drukman needs to think more deeply about what his aim is and how best to accomplish it.
'STONEFACE' AND 'BLISS POINT'
Here's a shout-out to Pasadena Playhouse for picking up the Sacred Fools Theater production of Vanessa Claire Stewart's "Stoneface" from the 99-seat world and bringing it to one of LA's most prestigious stages.
And kudos to Sacred Fools, too, which seems to be remarkably adept at inducing such transfers, compared to the rest of its 99-seat siblings. On the same weekend that "Stoneface" opened in Pasadena, the Sacred Fools production of "Absolutely Filthy" - one of my favorite shows of 2013 - ran for a weekend at South Coast Repertory's smallest space (now let's see it advance to a longer run at a bigger theater.) Sacred Fools also originated "Louis & Keely Live at the Sahara," which moved to the Geffen in 2009. And Center Theatre Group will co-present the premiere of the CTG-commissioned "The Behavior of Broadus," from the Burglars of Hamm, in September at Sacred Fools. While this last tidbit isn't exactly another example of the same smaller-to-larger-theater phenomenon, might it eventually lead to a CTG production at a larger space?
Interactions between the smaller and larger spheres of LA theater should be much more common, and they also should involve the midsize theaters that provide an ideal compromise between the 99-seaters and the larger theaters such as Pasadena Playhouse.
Having said all that, "Stoneface" isn't quite as exciting in Pasadena as it was at Sacred Fools. Some of that is attributable simply to the fact that I had already seen the visual effects. I wasn't anticipating them when I saw them at Sacred Fools, and in Pasadena I was waiting for them. But Pasadena's problem isn't only that Sacred Fools had the honor of unveiling them for the first time but also that we routinely expect larger effects in a larger theater - and they don't seem all that larger.
I was, however, surprised by one thing at Pasadena - that there weren't more changes in the structure of the script. The play has a scrambled chronology that seems unnecessarily arbitrary. Perhaps because I wasn't quite as bedazzled by the effects and by French Stewart's still-remarkable performance as Buster Keaton as I had been when I first saw them, I became impatient with the frequent time shifts.
Of course, most of these objections probably aren't relevant to those who didn't see the original production. And I'm glad that the talent is finally being remunerated (or so I assume) on a level that's usually impossible in the 99-seat world.
"Stoneface" makes it clear that Keaton's alcoholism wasn't good for his art, but it's more about his art than it is about his alcoholism, and it maintains a softly sunny disposition about his life.
Another play with structural problems, Shishir Kurup's "Bliss Point," concentrates more on addicts and addictions - and the portrait is much darker. Directed by Juliette Carrillo, "Bliss Point" is part of Cornerstone Theater's Hunger Cycle. But unlike most Cornerstone productions, it's mounted in a 99-seat theater, the Odyssey, instead of a more site-specific venue that is related to the subject and the community under discussion. As a result, it doesn't convey the usual feeling that Cornerstone is serving a community through art - even if the art is a little rough around the edges.
Actually, I have no problem with the performances and production elements of "Bliss Point." The play's structure is the obstacle. In a series of vignettes, we meet several apparently unrelated groups of characters from two eras and two cities who are struggling with addiction issues, finally discovering how they're related only at the end of the play.
The shifts between times and places in "Bliss Point" are much more jagged - and baffling - than those in "Stoneface." And they inhibit our engagement with the characters. The play becomes an intellectual puzzle more than the searing examination of addictions that might have resulted from a reshaping of the script.
Screen grab from video of last week's Los Angeles show.
How appropriate - the taping of a show titled "A Prairie Home Companion" was interrupted by the howling of coyotes.
It happened Friday evening - but not on the prairie. No, the accompanying coyotes live in Griffith Park, in the middle of Los Angeles.
Garrison Keillor's public-radio landmark was in the home stretch of taping its annual alfresco LA production, at Greek Theatre in the park. Keillor had finished his weekly report and rumination on the latest events in Lake Wobegon, and the band had played a wistful ragtime-inspired musical interlude, which was intended to provide a smooth entry into a gospel number from singer Jearlyn Steele. The evening was winding down.
But the coyotes had other ideas. Somewhere higher up the hill, they began yelping wildly.
The human spectators, who filled most of the venue's 5,800 seats, buzzed and laughed. On the stage, Keillor momentarily seemed uncomprehending of the source of the clamor, but members of the audience quickly shouted that the noise was from coyotes..
Earlier in the evening, Keillor had mentioned coyotes within a reference to the non-human inhabitants of what he called "the largest city park and urban wilderness in the country" (he also mentioned the recently famous mountain lion, who - Keillor joked -- had "moved to Brentwood.") But he probably didn't expect a contingent of coyotes to interrupt his show.
However, he quickly regained control as the howling died down. He said the coyotes had apparently been "moved" by the performances so far. "What they're saying, if I understand Coyote well, is they're saying 'Bring that woman up and sing a gospel tune for the coyotes...Jearlyn Steele."
A few minutes later, however, as audience members exited, I overheard another, more literal motivation ascribed to the coyotes by several people - that the creatures had probably discovered another animal that would be their supper.
After the gospel song, Keillor briefly returned to the subject of coyotes by asking sound effects wizard Fred Newman to converse with the coyotes, prompting a series of coyote calls from Newman, "expressing the coyote that is within each one of us," Keillor remarked. The real coyotes didn't respond. Keillor then asked for some Newman loon calls. When Newman protested that LA had no lakes, Keillor rattled off evidence to the contrary - Toluca Lake, Silver Lake, Veronica Lake and the Lakers - so Newman went through his loon repertoire.
You may have heard the radio version of all this over the weekend. I usually listen to "A Prairie Home Companion" on KPCC, as I drive to and from weekend performances in theaters throughout LA. As an advocate of theater that uses local settings and talent, I've admired how Keillor and company go to great lengths to use local references, wherever they may be - the previous week, the company had broadcast from Flagstaff, Arizona, and Keillor interviewed one of the Slide Rock firefighters.
But when I drive, my attention is sometimes distracted by, uh, driving. This year, I decided to concentrate exclusively on "A Prairie Home Companion" for two hours by attending it in person.
This particular episode didn't use as much LA-based talent as some of Keillor's other LA shows, but many of the script's songs and comedy sketches were indeed dotted with LA references. If a national radio program can find dramatic material within LA, why can't more of LA's own theater companies?
But the most remarkable difference between seeing the show in person and listening to it on the radio had nothing to do with the local markers in the script. Instead, it was watching what Keillor does before the taping and during the intermission.
At several live tapings of TV shows that I've attended in LA, a stand-up comic warmed up the audience to make sure we were all in in a laughing mood. Taking no chances, the TV producers also furnished applause signs giving us cues on when to applaud.
Here, instead, is how Keillor warmed us up for his show Friday. With a microphone in hand, he walked from the stage into the audience and slowly hiked up one of the long aisles to the back of the Greek Theatre and then back to the stage, leading us all in a sing-along of "America the Beautiful" - including the obscure later verses. Then, at intermission, instead of taking a break from his virtually non-stop appearances on stage, he repeated his sing-along in the aisles, this time leading us in "America," yes, but also "I Saw Her Standing There," by the Beatles.
Garrison Keillor doesn't need to provide cues for us to laugh or applaud. These reactions naturally emerge as we watch or listen. It's something that a lot of theater artists should emulate.
By the way, on the other side of Griffith Park last Friday, from 8 pm to 8 am, the Old Zoo area had been taken over by tents and modern cages for a for-profit, 12-hour fright show, "The Great Horror Camp-Out," designed to simulate campers' nightmares for the minimum price of $159 per person. Activists within the Sierra Club had questioned whether an event designed to scare people into associating Griffith Park with confinement, torture and other horror tropes was an appropriate use for this great public space. Let's not forget that two real-life assaults occurred in Griffith Park earlier this spring.
I'm glad I chose "A Prairie Home Companion" over "The Great Horror Camp-Out." Keillor's message isn't all sweetness and light -- in his remarks Friday, he explicitly addressed the encroaching mortality of his baby-boomer fans, and of course those real-life coyotes briefly but vividly provided intimations of the more violent side of nature. But Keillor also reminded us of life's redeeming delights - which go far beyond the gratitude that must have been felt from those who finally escaped from "The Great Horror Camp-Out" at 8 am on Saturday morning.
Returning briefly to the subject of plays that have LA settings, I should report that not every company is as derelict in this department as Center Theatre Group, which I discussed in my last column. Last night I saw the reincarnation of the Hollywood-set "Stoneface" at Pasadena Playhouse (more on that in a later column), and in recent weeks, at smaller theaters, I've seen a number of plays set in greater LA.
Two of them were quite good -- Emilie Beck's poignant Pasadena-set "Sovereign Body" (now closed) at the Road Theatre in NoHo and Kres Mersky's "Flag Day" at Theatre West. The latter is a domestic comedy with several far-fetched screwball elements, but it generates a respectable number of securely-landing laughs, under the direction of Paul Gersten, through June 22.
Both of those plays could easily have been set in other cities, with only a few cosmetic changes; their setting in LA didn't seem to be part of their essence. Not so with two plays I saw recently at Los Angeles Theatre Center - Alice Tuan's "Hit" and Company of Angels' "L.A. Views - Traffic Jam," a collection of short plays. "Hit" made a point of venturing into discussions of LA's character - or its many characters - and "Traffic Jam" peered intermittently into LA's past. Unfortunately, I couldn't recommend either of them as satisfying theatrical experiences. Both are now closed.
In my last column I also chided the current incarnation of Center Theatre Group for failing to find and develop ambitious projects - whether set in LA or not -- on the scale of CTG's big and acclaimed productions from two decades ago. I've recently seen two projects on that level that have won acclaim for companies outside California - Arena Stage and Oregon Shakespeare Festival.
So I figured I should check out "Beijing Spring," which East West Players revived to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the Tiananmen Square crackdown. It's a 1999 musical that had been inspired by the young Chinese protesters from a decade earlier. On paper, this sounded like an example of the kind of big-deal project drawn from recent history that I was seeking from CTG.
But inside the theater, it's not such a big deal. The original 1999 production was in two acts and lasted a little more than two hours. This new version has been crammed into the now-popular no-intermission, shorter-than-two hours format, which isn't big enough.
"Beijing Spring" is hardly sketch comedy or an intimate solo show. Considering the continuing importance of its real-life subject, this is one shallow "Spring."
No one is credited with writing a book for this musical - essentially, it's a staged song cycle by lyricist Tim Dang and composer Joel Iwataki. But the songs offer little depth or originality. The characters remain stubbornly stillborn. In terms of the history, the show assumes that the audience knows who Hu Yaobang was (do you?), and it also provides no details about the previous political activism that the fictional leading character's father and grandfather survived - which supposedly inspired their heir to join the same cause.
Much of "Beijing Spring" looks and sounds as if it were inspired less by what happened in Beijing in 1989 than by what happened in European musical theater in the decade leading up to 1989 - specifically, by "Evita" and "Les Miserables." But those shows had much richer characters and demonstrated much savvier storytelling skills than we get from the generic "Beijing Spring" (which closes next Sunday.)
You don't have to take my word for it - you can also see the first home-grown production of "Les Miz" at La Mirada Theatre through June 22. Indeed, any "Les Miz" newcomers who were alienated from the epic Schonberg/Boublil/Kretzmer musical by the recent botched movie version might want to check out Brian Kite's staging at La Mirada in order to see why the stage version became such an enormous hit.
James Barbour and Randall Dodge are as triumphant as Valjean and Javert, respectively, as anyone who has ever played these roles. As the rascally Thenardier, Jeff Skowron not only offers the requisite comic relief but officially becomes LA theater's hardest-working and most versatile stage actor of the past year - he won an Ovation for "Parade," then appeared in "Sunset Boulevard," "The Producers," "Silence!" and just a few weeks ago, "Into the Woods."
Still, it's a shame that we are more engaged in a musical set in 19th-century France than we are in a musical about a momentous event only 25 years ago in the world's most populous country -- which is still governed by a regime that is so frightened of free expression that it has tried to erase this event from its history.
What do women want, Freud once asked. More important, maybe, is why are men afraid of them? Opera composers, with their librettists, have always poked around for answers. And the spotlight stays on that mystery as the downtown music season ends.
Just consider "Così fan tutte," the last work of the Mozart/Da Ponte trilogy that Gustavo Dudamel and the LA Philharmonic signed on to at Disney Hall -- it's translatable as "women are like that," in other words, they're fickle, unfaithful and can thus destroy men's esteem.
Well, the production ride this time focused sharply on that eternal question -- women as betrayers (but men as their enablers.) Also, as in "Don Giovanni" and "Figaro," the company stayed true to its goal: proving that opera stagings need not take place within a traditional proscenium and that they can also reach the ultimate hauteur in design/direction.
Oh, it can be tricky. But the Phil has done it again -- mounted a compelling "Così" that changes the atmospherics from rococo farce to today's social currency. For that, thank director Christopher Alden, who always drills down to the various characters' core, in moment-to-moment manner and comportment, just so we can relate to them. Do they slouch? Do they amble? Do they plaster themselves to the floor puzzling over a decision or awaiting an outcome?
And Zaha Hadid's molded white plastic set, a multi-level free-form affair where they do all this, sends them on their chic way, costumed in Hussein Chalayan's hip streetwear that keeps converting before our eyes. The result is no-holds-barred sophistication, carried out by a young, savvy cast that looks as good as it sounds.
Disney Hall certainly affords singers the most flattering acoustic. And Dudamel, with his orchestra only inches from them, kept the music stirring like the tenderest gentle breeze or ripping with a thunderclap but always breathing in sync with the voices. He even sang a line in perfect Italian in his beautiful baritone, with the surprised audience erupting into wild laughter and applause.
Rod Gilfry, as the schemer-in-chief Don Alfonso, stood out, with the able complement of Philippe Sly (Guglielmo), Benjamin Bliss (Ferrando), Miah Persson (Fiordiligi), Roxana Constantinescu (Dorabella) and Rosemary Joshua (Despina).
On to women as immoral: Of all Massenet's operas, "Thais" is the one most loaded with the French composer's deep-down conflict: a war between lust and God, between ways of the flesh and devotion to holiness -- as carried out by the title character and her reformer.
But we can be glad that when LA Opera went searching for a production of it for the company's mainstay star Plácido Domingo, now relegated to baritone roles after depleting his tenorial gold, it found the one from Gothenburg -- a far cry from what San Francisco put on back in 1976 for then-reigning diva Beverly Sills.
That one was a hoot. The courtesan splendor surrounding her spared no detail. A gigantic circular bed stood as her ungapatchked headquarters, with an enormous mirror suspended overhead. She pranced about in gilt belly-dancer garb. And nowhere could we find a trace of high-minded Anatole France in this perfumed hash.
But ah, LA Opera to the rescue -- that is, with the spiffy couture that designer Johan Engels made of fourth-century decadence in the city of Alexandria. The women paraded like pre-cursors of Ziegfield Girls, à la Cleopatra -- but with everything up-to-the-neck, no décolletage -- and the monk corps wore black shiny top hats, even while the sets seemed a poor fit for the Chandler Pavilion stage.
Nino Machaidze (remember her hilarious "Turk in Italy"?) carried off the title role splendidly -- polishing the high notes with pizzazz, if not getting into the teeth of French vocal intimacy -- and Domingo, as Athanaël, gave us a mad monk whose zeal was a mere cover for his fatal attraction to Thaïs, almost forging a growl in his passionate, near-grasp of her. Valentin Anikin's fine basso lent Palemon a persuasive note of caution to the unhappy hero, while Paul Groves was a less compelling Nicias.
But director Nicola Raab's flashpoint came at the end, after the obsessed holy man has dragged across the desert with his repentant party girl to deliver her to a convent. She re-appears there on a platform, totally committed now to a pious life -- it's a surreal scene surrounding her, with sand-dusted monks in their sand-dusted top hats and reclining sand-covered theater seats. As Athanaël looks up at her -- God's radiant bride standing in a gorgeous white gown with designer tiara (eat your heart out Vera Wang), wafting a gossamer scarf overhead and singing her ecstatic high notes to the heavens -- he rails lustfully from below. The two do not hear each other. Author France finally achieves his irony. This scene, a must-see.
Patrick Fournillier maximized Massenet's score coaxing passionate outpourings and even Wagnerian breadth from the orchestra.
But there's more. LA Opera brought us a special end-of-season bonus with "A Streetcar Named Desire," -- yes, Tennessee Williams' magnetic play, here scored by Andre Previn, libretto Philip Littell, and written for Renée Fleming.
On to women as crazy: Everything you loved about the original work (and later the movie starring Brando, Vivien Leigh, Karl Malden and Kim Hunter) is here. It's tantalizingly intimate -- in the way that so many contemporary operas are not. Previn is a musical couturier; his instrumentation can be eerily harrowing, suggest mad reverie and cut right to the alternating emotional undercurrent, while his vocal line is remarkable for staying true to every dramatic nuance of the text.
Fleming luxuriates in it. Her voice, with its impeccable colorations and its rounded tones high and pure, curves around the notes like a smile trying to hide pain. As Blanche Dubois, though, she is less fey than those who have portrayed the heroine desperately seeking to escape her shameful past, one who "depends on the kindness of strangers." Troubled, yes, but also cunning and glamorous, she comes across strongly. So, too, does Brad Dalton's staging make clear the atmospherics of this southern household drama.
A terrific cast included Ryan McKinny, shirt-less to show off his washboard abs and otherwise a convincing tough-guy as Stanley; Stacey Tappan, whose Stella is a natural as the hopeful sister and who sang with expressive depth and vocal beauty: Anthony Dean Griffey as Mitch, eager to be the gentleman for Blanche and even movingly sympathetic at her tragic end. Evan Rogister smartly led a small orchestra upstage behind the singers.
So too can musicians who don't sing make an operatic entrance. Take this one, for instance: A gifted pianist who arrives on the scene from a tiny Chinese province. He becomes an instant celebrity -- a paragon of the New China (after Mao Tse Tung), a magazine cover boy, a 60 Minutes feature -- what with his heroic story of rising from poverty to iconhood via a showmanship that exploits his powerful virtuosity.
Ten years later Lang Lang no longer exaggerates for the world-wide audience, no longer swoons at the keyboard like a silent screen star. Finally the tall, lean pianist has grown into his fabled talent.
And when he appeared with Gustavo Dudamel leading the LA Philharmonic in Prokofiev's Third Concerto everything coalesced. In a slim black suit with open-necked white shirt, a stylish but not extreme haircut, a long graceful body whose home is at the piano, and an ownership of both the instrument and music, he made it all come together like a miraculous whole.
Especially at the final cadence, when he and Dudamel struck thunder in a single electric flash, a depth charge of crackling intensity.
But that wasn't all. Our resident maestro proved once again he's the dancing-est fellow around -- squeezing his orchestra for the last juice of languor in Ravel's "La Valse" and "Valse nobles et sentimentales" and letting the three-quarter rhythms sweep into full plangency, all this inside the brilliant brass shatterings and assorted musical graphics. Ditto Paul Desenne's engaging "Sinfonia Burocratica," which got an irresistibly insistent dance treatment around and about its little sardonic asides.
Throughout their careers, designers Clare Vivier, Anita Ko, and George Esquivel have been inspired by museum and gallery visits. So when LACMA invited them to participate in the spring 2014 Wear LACMA collection, there was little hesitation to jump in. Created by fashion advisor (and wife of LACMA director Michael Govan) Katherine Ross in 2012, Wear LACMA gives local fashion designers the opportunity to tour the museum's permanent collection and choose an artwork to use as a point of departure for their own creations. The collaboration is a fundraiser for the museum, and the resulting pieces are sold at the LACMA store and on NET-a-PORTER.com. While mostly priced out of reach for the average customer (the least expensive items, t-shirts by Vivier for $85, quickly sold out) the "Wear LACMA" collection does shine a light on a growing group of clothing and accessory designers who have chosen to live and work in Los Angeles. All three approached the project from a personal perspective.
"I'm drawn to French things, to graphic pieces with text in them," says Vivier, who is primarily known for her handbags. "I'm inspired by people I see on the street...kind of from afar. I'll see someone when I'm driving or walking and I can't really make out what they're wearing--I'll turn it into something that's inspiring--it's almost like an illustration."
Vivier learned to sew while growing up in Minnesota. After college in San Francisco she moved to Paris, worked at various jobs and met her husband, Thierry, a journalist for French television. She began to design when, after returning to the U.S., the desire arose for a more stylish bag for her laptop. Business took off in 2006. Today there are namesake stores in Silver Lake and Manhattan, with one opening soon in Santa Monica.
A French embroidered man's vest from the LACMA costume collection (circa 1789-94) sparked the idea for Vivier's graphically printed clutches, tote bags, and t-shirts. "That was the piece that stayed in my mind. A lot of R&D work went into how we could print on leather and canvas. We tried a lot of different colors," she explained.
"When I came around the corner I said, 'that's it!'" says Esquivel, recalling when he first saw Felipe Santiago Gutierrez's 1876 "Portrait of a Woman with a Marigold." The shoe designer had already decided to use something Latin American from LACMA's collection, "to speak to my heritage," and considered Diego Rivera. In the end he opted for something "less expected." The women's sandal and summer desert boot are his interpretation of the painting's colors and mood.
Born and raised in Orange County, Esquivel lives in Cypress with his wife and three kids and produces his handmade line of men's and women's oxfords, loafers, and boots out of a 3500-square foot workshop in Buena Park. "Half of my business is direct to customer and we also sell at stores like Barney's," he says. He is also the creative director for Tumi Luggage.
Esquivel's turbulent upbringing (a father in and out of jail and living in motels with his mother and four siblings) makes him an unlikely success story, but he has made it all work in his favor. "I gravitate towards beautiful things because I didn't have them as a kid," he says. After discovering shoe-making on a trip to Baja in the early 90's, he worked as an apprentice, began to attract clients and got his first retail account in 2002. "Growing up the way I did you don't know how to dream. But, here I am...Never did I know you could be paid for ideas."
Ko, a jewelry designer, "went in with an open heart and mind." But when she got to the Korean collection during her museum tour, it resonated with her due to her family roots in Korea. A reading table from the Joseon dynasty (1392-1910) and a 19th century porcelain bottle, both with bat-like motifs (a symbol of good fortune), gave her the starting point she needed to design ear cuffs, a ring, and earrings. Ko grew up in the Palisades and "started designing when I was 8. I was that kid who always made her own necklaces." After a few years at NYU she returned to Los Angeles and launched her business. "I was very lucky to have parents who were supportive. It's like anything. I learned through trial and error."
The first piece she designed was a simple circle diamond necklace. Small boutiques began to carry her pieces and celebrities started to wear them. "I love walking around LA--seeing all the cool girls and all the cool boys. I'm inspired by their aesthetic. I try to design organically when it comes to me, rather than be pressured into a season," she says. "Jewelry lovers come from every walk of life--every socioeconomic class. I love seeing how people express themselves."
Richard Thomas as Jimmy Carter and Ron Rifkin as Menachem Begin in "Camp David."
On a recent trip to the other coast, I saw two plays -- within 24 hours -- about southern Democrats who were elected to the American presidency during my lifetime. No, not Bill Clinton.
Robert Schenkkan's "All the Way" is primarily about Lyndon Johnson's successful shepherding of civil rights legislation in 1964, and Lawrence Wright's "Camp David" dramatizes Jimmy Carter's mediation of the talks between Menachem Begin and Anwar Sadat that resulted in an agreement between Israel and Egypt. In both of these situations, the presidents served as bridges between antagonistic parties -- the kind of presidential role that today seems much more difficult, despite the obvious need.
These two presidential plays were the products of ambitious commissioning programs at leading American theaters -- Oregon Shakespeare Festival, which presented the premiere of "All the Way" before it went to Broadway and which will open the "All the Way" sequel "The Great Society" in July, and Washington D.C.'s Arena Stage, which developed and presented the premiere of "Camp David."
As an LA observer, I left these experiences with an LA-related question. Why isn't our most comparable theater company, Center Theatre Group, turning out comparably substantive and powerful dramatizations of American history that demonstrate how the past informs and affects present-day America?
The last time Center Theatre Group consistently helped forge dramatic works in this sphere was in the Gordon Davidson era of the early 1990s, when CTG played a critical role in the creation of "The Kentucky Cycle," "Angels in America" and "Twilight: Los Angeles 1992."
Schenkkan, who wrote "The Kentucky Cycle" as well as "All the Way," lived and worked in LA in the early '90s. So did the director of "All the Way," Bill Rauch, who was then a recent arrival as artistic director of Cornerstone Theater but since then was snatched out of our territory by that mighty contender to the north -- Ashland, Oregon, where Rauch runs Oregon Shakespeare. For that matter, Bryan Cranston -- the brilliant star of Broadway's "All the Way" (and, of course, "Breaking Bad") -- was an LA boy who attended Valley College and still lives primarily in LA.
I hope that I can safely assume that CTG is trying to obtain the rights to present "All the Way" in LA, preferably with Cranston working on his home turf -- although Cranston's understudy, Steve Vinovich, also has an LBJ-worthy face that's already familiar to LA theater audiences. "All the Way" could be a terrific cornerstone of the Taper's election-year season next year (but perhaps the Geffen Playhouse, which produced a lesser Schenkkan play and also hosted Cranston's last LA stage gig, might also have a chance?) CTG probably also should be trying to snag a production of "Camp David," preferably with its DC star Richard Thomas -- yes, the former John-Boy on TV's "The Waltons" is a very convincing Carter.
But wouldn't it have been great if CTG were developing plays like these and introducing them to the world?
To its credit, CTG last year produced the award-winning premiere of LA playwright Jennifer Haley's "The Nether," which raised topical cultural issues that resonated beyond its particular story. But its scale was small, compared to those of "Kentucky Cycle" and "Angels in America," and it was at the Kirk Douglas Theatre in Culver City, not at CTG's larger flagship, the Mark Taper Forum. "Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo," Rajiv Joseph's imaginative take on the Iraq war, also opened first at the Douglas but then received the rare honor of re-opening at the Taper in 2010 -- the most adventurous sign of support for this kind of material that I've witnessed during the Michael Ritchie era at CTG.
But most of CTG's recent nods in the direction of historical or political relevance have been plays that previously opened elsewhere ("American Night", for example.) What did the Taper offer politicos during the 2012 election season? David Mamet's stale White House farce, "November," from the previous election-year cycle four years earlier.
Right now, at the Douglas, CTG is producing the premiere of Kimber Lee's "different words for the same thing". It's an engrossing play about its particular situation, but the lower-case and hard-to-remember title indicates the limited scale of its ambitions. Structured almost entirely in brief cinematic-style scenes, separated by a lot of furniture-moving by the actors, it's about people in a small town in Idaho.
When I first heard where it's set, I felt a twinge of jealousy -- thanks to the Samuel D. Hunter plays that have recently been seen at South Coast Repertory ("The Whale," "Rest") and Rogue Machine ("A Bright New Boise") and now Lee's "different words," contemporary Idaho seems to be getting more attention on the stages of greater LA than, well, greater LA.
That's a subject somewhat distinct from my earlier consideration of the overall ambition of the plays and their themes, but it's an important subject -- and it's an issue that I've regularly monitored over the last few years. Frankly, if I had to choose between more smaller-scale plays set in LA and a few larger-scale plays with clear-cut national or international resonance, I'd go with the former.
In an ideal world, however, CTG would be able to combine the two. It would introduce at least a few big plays with big themes that are set in the big city where CTG is located.
Perhaps that seems like an easier task for Arena Stage, as its home town is also the national capital -- "Camp David" deftly combines specifically local references with international themes. But LA is not exactly a shrinking bird-of-paradise on the world stage.
It's astonishing that CTG, which continues to bill itself as "L.A.'s Theatre Company," can't find more interesting stories in the immensely diverse communities that surround the Music Center in all directions. In recent years, CTG has commissioned some potentially big plays with LA themes, but they haven't emerged from their developmental chambers. Still, every year I hope against hope that "L.A.'s Theatre Company" will avoid that generic-resident-theater feeling by finally paying greater attention to LA, with more involvement of LA talent as well as more LA settings.
The upcoming Douglas and Taper seasons are expected to be announced in the next few months. Does CTG have the will --- and the money -- to go big? And even if it lacks the money, perhaps it might still do something about the LA present or LA history. Is anyone out there writing a play about the groundbreaking LA mayoral showdown between Tom Bradley and Sam Yorty?
LA deserves an honored place at the CTG table -- and on a scale that might also mean something to the rest of America.
GHOSTS ON STAGE: In "different words for the same thing" at the Douglas, a young woman who died a few years ago appears as a realistic-looking apparition who communicates with some of the living. Of course ghosts have a long tradition in the theater -- think "Hamlet" and Macbeth" -- but those old-timey creations were more authentically scary. Now (and perhaps since the days of ""Blithe Spirit" and "Our Town") most of the dead who hang around in plays aren't scary. Instead, their usual role leans toward the therapeutic -- for themselves as well as for the survivors.
In the case of "different words," the ghost finally learns, as part of the climax, exactly how she died. Unfortunately, this is the weakest moment of an otherwise fine-grained play, because the explanation introduces a complicated subplot -- briefly sketched only in words, not in action -- that doesn't seem to have much relevance to anything else that's going on in "different words".
I saw two other plays over the weekend in which the dead remain literally alive for the audience, as representations of the survivors' thoughts. In Bekah Brunstetter's "Be a Good Little Widow" at NoHo Arts Center, a young husband's death in an airplane crash doesn't prevent him from returning to the stage. In Carey Crim's "Wake" at South Pasadena's Fremont Centre Theatre, a somewhat older husband returns from beyond the grave to visitations with his wife, an agoraphobic who runs a mortuary within her own home.
The prevalence of this device on our stages devalues its effectiveness. It has become a cliche that playwrights apparently find difficult to resist.
But the ghost in "Wake" feels less cliched than the ghost in "Be a Good Little Widow," because the themes of "Wake" are bigger than those of "Widow." The title, "Wake", has more than one meaning, unlike the too-explicit title of "Widow." "Wake" depicts three generations of women, not the two represented in "Widow." The husband's death in "Wake" occurred three years before the play begins, so the play has a longer-term perspective on the aftermath of death, while much of the shorter "Widow" is about the first awful moments after a fatal accident.
Although Crim's tone is realistic, not satirical, her "Wake" contains a couple of wild plot twists that sound as if they might have been conceived by the younger Christopher Durang or the younger David Lindsay-Abaire. These developments aren't completely credible within the play's realistic surfaces, but they at least add welcome dashes of originality
Both of these plays are scheduled to close this weekend. If you'd like to see one -- but only one -- of LA theater's stories about the process of surviving a loved one's death, I recommend the livelier "Wake," which is produced by SeaGlass Theatre and directed by Matt Kirkwood. By the way, based on one particular line in the script, we can even count "Wake" as an LA-set script -- for those of us who care.
Bottom: "Wake" photo by Melissa McCormack.
Emily Blunt and Rupert Friend as Victoria and Albert. Courtesy of the Getty.
For a brief time last Sunday, the real life Queen Victoria and the 2009 movie version played by actress Emily Blunt crossed paths at the Getty Center in Brentwood. Born in 1819 and crowned in 1838, Victoria reigned until her death in 1901. The film, The Young Victoria, examines the monarch's early life and marriage. An exhibit at the Getty Museum, A Royal Passion, Queen Victoria and Photography, provided the backdrop for a conversation between three-time Oscar-winning costume designer Sandy Powell and Deborah Nadoolman Landis, director of the David C. Copley Center for the Study of Costume Design at UCLA. Powell designed the costumes for the film for which she won her third gold statue in 2010. She also won for "The Aviator" (2005) and "Shakespeare in Love" (1999). In front of a packed auditorium, Powell and Nadoolman Landis chatted about the challenges and rewards of designing period clothing while on-set stills of "The Young Victoria" cast flashed on the screen behind them. The audience included design students, fans of the film, and "A Royal Passion" attendees.
British-born Powell, 52, has become one of the go-to costume designers for period film. "There's more to do in terms of research — you learn something every time," she said when explaining why she prefers the genre. "It's really difficult doing a contemporary film — actually harder than period — because everybody has an opinion about what a contemporary person looks like — whereas in a period film you kind of have the upper hand."
Powell gave some insight into her creative process and revealed some tricks of the trade. She was attracted to Victoria's story because the script "was about a young vibrant woman who was thrown into the deep end." If she agrees to take on a project after reading the script, meeting with the director is the crucial next step. "Generally if we get on as people it works out," she said with a smile. In "The Young Victoria," Powell's challenge was to show the difference between the pre-coronation, sheltered, youthful girl, and the woman Victoria grew into after becoming queen. For the costume designer, that meant going from girly to "a stronger line, less fussy." In addition to looking at photographs and paintings from the period, Powell was able to do research at Kensington Palace in London, Victoria's childhood home and where her surviving clothing is now stored. She studied what she could for accuracy but, except for well-documented pieces (such as Victoria's wedding dress), Powell primarily made up her own versions "based on the look of the period — the kind of thing she would wear."
Powell often hand paints pieces to look embroidered, and sometimes uses fake fur in place of real. When asked if she's excited by seeing the costumes come together, Powell said, "Of course, the organic process is the most exciting part, watching it develop. The real design moment is not the sketch at the beginning - design is when the costume is halfway there at the first fitting and you say, what does it need? Less here or a bit more there. That's the designing."
Previously on LA Observed:
LA Observed goes to LACMA with costume designer Marlene Stewart (video)
Frederica von Stade
So what do starry eminences decide when the time comes to hang it up? Leave the stage? Not Flicka. Not Misha.
For these two, Frederica von Stade and Mikhail Baryshnikov, we must understand just how ingrained the love of performance is -- she, the lyric mezzo with the tender tear in her voice, the Cherubino who trembled with pubescent fervor and tickled us as the tipsy Périchole or melted our hearts with her "Pretty Little Horses"; he, the dancer who leaped in the air with laughing ease, defied gravity, devoured space, aped Jimmy Cagney moves with jaw-dropping accuracy and put his bravura technique to the service of powerful grief as Albrecht.
There's a reason the world calls them by their nicknames: And it's not because she was America's sweetheart soprano or because he acted in "Sex and the City" cameos.
They don't want to give up the stage and we don't want to let them go.
Take von Stade, for instance. At the Beverly Hills Wallis, which couldn't be a more inviting space for her in the Ricky Ian Gordon/Leonard Foglia one-act opera "Coffin in Egypt," the still-alluring star exuded the same genuineness she's known for. True, the white-haired-matron role adds too many years to an appearance that is otherwise much younger. And her jaunty spirit has been compromised by the requirements of this character -- an old lady looking back on her life with recriminations, regrets and grievances galore.
As such she also had to embrace the vintage vanity of upper-class southern whites, with typically racist references abounding as well as pre-feminist notions of women as second-class citizens -- none of which is too appetizing.
But if only the material had not been so hackneyed. And if Gordon had found some better musical means for the character to express the great dissatisfaction with her life at 90, waiting to die in a miserable Texas town named Egypt. And if Foglia had not resorted to so much repetition in his text, taken from a Horton Foote play.
Luckily, there was some respite from the ungrateful vocal writing -- high and shrieky -- with moments when von Stade could seize on a melodic wisp remindful of "Oklahoma" ("Oh, What a Beautiful Morning") or when she could wax softly nostalgic or be vocally resplendent in red. Losing the amplification installed at the Houston premiere, and here, would have helped considerably, also with the gospel chorus. Others in the cast had well-enacted speaking parts only and conductor Kathleen Kelly led the nine-member chamber ensemble ably.
But the pickings were better for Baryshnikov, what with two of Chekhov's stories within grasp. And although "Man in a Case," his third outing at the Broad Stage, was another instance of the star's cart before the horse -- the producers made a hash out of the Russian writer's first tale, "Case" -- Misha finally gained the upper hand in the second and shorter one, "About Love."
Here he was at his affecting best: a man in love with a married woman as she suffers a severe depression because of their prohibited union. When he describes kissing her face and arms and hands that are wet with the taste of tears, his voice is deep and burnished, his Latvian-tinged speech earthy. It is Misha, the actor he could ideally be, never better revealed than at this moment.
But "Case's" depiction bore all the signs of unresolved trial and error -- despite the big-name team he surrounded himself with, one that gladly produced this pastiche for the still-luminous luminary. (After all, would there be a draw with a lesser name?)
The set was plain and simple, especially compared to his previous artfully sophisticated ventures at the Broad. As the lead character, Belikov, at first he seemed like a displaced person with a thick Russian accent trying to tell an ol' boy story in the American vernacular to macho jokesters. It definitely misfires -- no matter the add-ons of projections and screens, or the Ukrainian folk dancers and musicians/singers as part of the story, or his signature fillip of a few r&b steps.
As the incoherent format changes, our hero appears in a long black coat, dramatic and stylish, again as he was "In Paris" -- the outsider, the stoic loner beset with proprietary concerns. But the patched-together show did not jell. Too much false construction.
For an object lesson in artistry we had only to see Peter Brook's touring production of "The Suit" at UCLA. Unburdened with having to make a star vehicle, the 89-year-old theatrical wizard put together a marvelous realization of a South African story that reached poetic heights -- in speech, symbolism, music, stagecraft -- all of which had integral meaning, carried along by superb actor/musicians in tidbits from meticulously chosen Miriam Makeba to Schubert to Billie Holiday. Count yourself unlucky if you missed it.
But if you chugged downtown to a weekend of the Paul Taylor Dance Company there was predictable excellence. And the choreographer's signal motifs found their way to such golden oldies as "Airs," his Baroque ode to Handel, with its piety and joy intact, followed by two newer pieces.
In all three we could see his single, slyly humorous i.d. tag -- you know, the "shazam" arms, those sudden angular bolts of lightning in vintage comic books that are akin to the Nina letters in Al Hirschfeld cartoons. They last only nanoseconds and are unmistakably a Taylor emblem.
Otherwise, he gave us "Banquet of Vultures," a brilliantly organized complex of society's vanquishment by a dictator set to dark Morton Feldman music and its delightfully frivolous antidote, "Gossamer Gallants," which makes the inescapable point that sexual politics animates even winged creatures: females flirt and seduce, males gape and grasp, only to be ensnared and browbeaten.
Also downtown, at Disney Hall, and everywhere around the city, we had the Minimalist Jukebox celebration, a humongous event. One heart-wrenching entry was David Lang's Pulitzer Prize-winning "The Little Match Girl Passion," performed by the LA Master Chorale under Grant Gershon.
There's a reason this music is universally beloved. It deals in barest simplicity, but the Hans Christian Andersen parable of a child's suffering -- as a beggar hungering in the frigid outdoors, to hallucinating of sumptuous suppers and longed-for grandmothers, to death -- is shot through with stark emotion.
Lang's "Passion," with Gershon and singers as his champion, emerged with a plaintive gorgeousness, its pathos rising from fugal lines sung in clipped phrases that spoke of icy deprivation -- only at the end of which came relief.
Quite a month it was.
Scene from "Premeditation," photo by Ed Krieger.
Couples counseling is in session in two rousing productions at Los Angeles Theatre Center -- and in some other theaters around greater LA.
In Evelina Fernandez's "Premeditation," two middle-aged heterosexual couples in contemporary LA are in the throes of marital discord. But this is no earnestly realistic psychodrama.
It's a delirious farce. The narrative proceeds from the premise that one of the wives, Esmeralda (Fernandez), has met Mauricio (Sal Lopez) -- the husband in the other couple -- only when she hires him to kill her own husband, Fernando (Geoffrey Rivas).
And what dastardly deed has Fernando, a UCLA professor, done to merit such a fate? When Mauricio asks this burning question, Esmeralda begins by describing Fernando's habit of leaving his underwear on the floor... and Mauricio immediately begins sympathizing with his would-be mark.
Complications ensue, especially after Mauricio's own long-suffering wife Lydia (Lucy Rodriguez) gets wind of what she supposes to be a romantic tryst between Mauricio and Esmeralda.
"Premeditation" -- as with several other plays developed by Fernandez and her director and husband Jose Luis Valenzuela (who happens to be a UCLA professor) -- achieves a genuine comic brio, on the edge of satire, as it delves into the state of middle-aged marriage. The tone is established at the beginning, as the actors move in choreographed conjunction with mobile set pieces and lively music. Comedy also arises from the juxtaposition of '40s noir imagery -- in costumes, lighting and projections -- with the often-mundane squabbling of these 21st-century couples, who are chained to their personal phones, even as they try to appear aloof and mysterious. But the light-hearted style doesn't guarantee a happy-ever-after ending.
Let's move upstairs from LATC's Theatre 3 to the much smaller Theatre 4, where the endings are even less happy-ever-after in Robey Theatre's production of Charles Smith's "Knock Me a Kiss."
In 1928, the biggest social event of the season for "the talented tenth" of African Americans in New York was the wedding of the rising young Harlem Renaissance poet Countee Cullen (Jason Mimms) to the daughter of the scene's leading intellectual light, sociologist/writer/editor/activist W.E.B. DuBois (Ben Guillory).
A year later, the marriage was kaput. Young Yolande DuBois (Toyin Moses) concluded that her husband preferred the company of his best male friend and that she -- perhaps too late -- preferred the company of the randy jazz musician Jimmie Lunceford (Keir Thirus), who had previously wooed her.
"Knock Me a Kiss" is not only about the younger couples but also about the somewhat strained relationship between the great DuBois and his wife Nina (Rosie Lee Hooks), who is depicted as holding a grudge against her husband for his previous choice, long ago, to work in segregated Atlanta. The discriminatory medical care there, she contends, led to the death of their young son.
But this grim undercurrent within the play is somewhat countered by the raucous interactions among the younger generation -- including Lenora, a wise-cracking best friend (Ashlee Olivia) of Yolande. Lenora picks up the remnants of Yolande's romance with the virile Jimmy.
It's a fascinating tale, told without a trace of rote reverence toward the historical characters, even as it acknowledges DuBois' status. Kudos to Robey and Smith for telling us a story that most of us hadn't heard. Of course, judging from Smith's "Free Man of Color" -- seen at the Colony Theatre in 2010 -- that appears to be Smith's specialty
Dwain A. Perry's staging is especially refreshing as it arrives courtesy of a company named after Paul Robeson but tells a much more entertaining story than the two solo shows about Robeson that recently opened in LA.
Ebony Repertory Theatre just closed its revival of the longer but lesser Paul Robeson monodrama, "Paul Robeson," and Center Theatre Group just opened the better Robeson solo, "The Tallest Tree in the Forest," at the Mark Taper Forum. "The Tallest Tree," starring Daniel Beaty, is considerably less devoted to hagiography than the reverential "Paul Robeson," but neither of them is nearly as full-bodied a play as "Knock me a Kiss," with its juicy roles for six actors instead of just one.
"The Tallest Tree" is actually a couples play, too -- in which Beaty plays both Robeson and his wife Essie, the former more convincingly than the latter. But at least Beaty allows Essie the opportunity to object vociferously to Robeson's affairs with white actresses -- a topic that was almost entirely avoided in "Paul Robeson."
Before we leave the DuBois/Robeson era, I also should note that "Porgy and Bess" -- yet another show about a troubled African-American couple during roughly the same period -- is currently at CTG's Ahmanson Theatre. Of course, it's set in provincial Charleston, not sophisticated New York. This controversial but Tony-winning version of the Gershwin masterpiece, directed by Diane Paulus from Suzan-Lori Parks' adaptation of the original Gershwin/Heyward libretto, is entrancing. And it's such a big show, by the standards of musical theater if not those of opera, that perhaps I should cut CTG some slack for simultaneously presenting an only-one-actor production, next door at the Taper.
A Noise Within in Pasadena is also reviving an American couples play, William Inge's "Come Back, Little Sheba" -- which has a psychological trajectory that is somewhat similar to that of "Knock Me a Kiss." In both plays, a father figure strongly disapproves of a young woman's choice of a lusty young suitor, and she decides to go with someone who's considered more suitably marrigeable.
But Inge was less concerned with the play's twentysomethings than with its middle-aged adults -- Doc (Geoff Elliott) and Lola (Deborah Strang), a childless couple who feel empty and jealous as they observe the affairs of their young boarder Marie (Lili Fuller), her jock boyfriend Turk (Miles Gaston Villanueva and her fiance (Paul Culos).
Another major difference between the two plays is that "Come Back" is set a few decades later, in what here appears to be a very white Midwestern college town. But it ain't necessarily so -- Center Theatre Group altered that equation in its 2007 production at Kirk Douglas Theatre. S. Epatha Merkerson played Lola alongside Alan Rosenberg as Doc -- an interracial couple, although no one said anything about it.
Of course, Lola and Doc don't need the extra societal disapproval of crossing racial lines in order to break our hearts, as convincingly confirmed by the performances of Elliott and Strang. That these two are equally successful as the primary antagonists in Moliere's "Tartuffe" right now, also within the spring repertory at A Noise Within, should convince just about anyone that they're among LA's most protean actors. "Come Back, Little Sheba" is directed by Elliott and Julia Rodriguez-Elliott with an assurance that muffles any questions that might be raised by Inge's Freudian obviousness.
Finally, let's look at two more couples -- one apparently dissolving, one possibly beginning -- who inhabit the premiere of Rachel Bonds' "Five Mile Lake" at South Coast Repertory in Costa Mesa. These present-day couples aren't nearly as old as those in "Premeditation" or "Come Back, Little Sheba," but they're already feeling some of the anxieties and doubt that beset their elders.
The play takes place in a small Pennsylvania town. To Mary (Rebecca Mozo), the fact that she has never left this town is a curse. But the locale suits Jamie (Nate Mooney), her would-be crush who works alongside her at a bakery counter. When Jamie's Ph.D-trapped brother Rufus (Corey Brill) returns home from New York with his English girlfriend (Nicole Saunders), the city/country divide becomes more intense. No one is really satisfied with his or her place in life.
Many writers try to re-create that Chekhovian feeling in contemporary settings; Bonds comes closer than most -- especially if you compare her play to the explicitly Chekhovian "Man in a Case," currently featuring Mikhail Baryshnikov in a tedious, half-baked experiment at Broad Stage.
Daniella Topol's direction of "Five Mile Lake" allows the subtleties of Bonds' characters to emerge in a style that's a far cry from the urban pace of the people in "Premeditation" or even the stark anguish of the couple in "Come Back, Little Sheba." But the unknown futures of the "Five Mile" folks are tantalizing, too.
Lower photo from "Knock Me A Kiss," photo by Tomoko Matsushita.
Like most of my colleagues who comment on theater, I'm usually wary about revealing spoilers, especially when they're in new scripts.
As a result, occasionally I sidestep information about what happens in a production (as do those who write about other narrative forms such as movies, TV series or books), although in retrospect that information might seem, well, critical to the character of the production.
I'm beginning to think that those of us who write about theater -- especially those of us who write apart from the early-deadline pressure and relatively larger readership of, say, the LA Times --probably shouldn't be quite as cautious about the use of well-flagged spoilers as those who write for what was once considered "the newspaper of record" in LA, or those who write about the other narrative art forms.
Theater is ephemeral. In LA, most productions are available for only a few weeks or months -- compared to the relative permanence of movies, TV series and books. Of course, theatrical scripts remain ready for possible revivals after a first production, but usually no subsequent productions are guaranteed at the moment when a potential theatergoer is deciding whether to buy a ticket to the premiere production.
Even if subsequent productions are likely to take place, what are the chances that they will be as accessible as the current production? The first revival might occur in another continent, for all we usually know.
Tickets to labor-intensive, one-of-a-kind theater events usually cost more than the fees charged for mass-produced movies, TV series and books (which can even be legally borrowed from libraries for no fee at all). Attending theater also usually requires more logistical planning than watching screen imagery or reading books.
For all of these reasons, potential theatergoers deserve to know a little more information in advance than would-be consumers of films, TV or books. And sometimes that information includes so-called "spoilers." After all, one reader's spoiler might be another person's reason to buy a ticket -- or not to buy a ticket.
Many people associate spoilers only with such obvious no-nos as revealing whodunit in a review of an old-fashioned mystery. But spoilers can go far beyond disclosing that the butler did it. Some readers might not want to know in advance about a particularly controversial topic -- or even a particularly distinctive moment of physical comedy -- but avoiding any mention of these components of the production can result in a very superficial critique.
Writers can always issue warnings about spoilers that are approaching soon in an article -- giving those readers who choose to avoid all potential spoilers a chance to stop reading in time to dodge the revelation or the description of something they would rather not know, while providing this additional information to readers who would appreciate a more thorough awareness of what's in store for them. And so:
SPOILERS AHEAD: I'm about to discuss two examples of what some readers might consider "spoilers," so if you really hate the idea of knowing "too much" in advance about the puppetized production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Broad Stage or "Rest" at South Coast Repertory, you should stop reading here.
I'll start with "A Midsummer Night's Dream" at Broad Stage. It might seem inconceivable that anyone would come up with something surprising, on the "spoiler" level, for a production of one of the world's most frequently seen plays (perhaps the most frequently seen?), yet this Bristol Old Vic/Handspring Theatre production has accomplished the unthinkable.
In fact, it's precisely because many theatergoers might be deterred from seeing still one more "Midsummer" that t'm going to discuss this particular aspect of the current production a little more explicitly than most of my colleagues have.
It involves the you're-so-vain character of Bottom -- the preening would-be star of the mechanicals' amateur theatrics. This Bottom's the top -- the funniest Bottom I've ever seen.
And it's not only because of the talents of actor Miltos Yerolemou in the role. It's because when this Bottom is transformed into the ass who enchants Titania, the actor is splayed over the top of a little cart that transforms into the rough shape of an ass, with his bare buttocks facing up. It's an ingenious and hilarious way to play on the character's name -- and, in retrospect -- it's amazing that we veterans of many "Midsummer"s have never seen it.
All by itself, this bottoms-up Bottom creates a reason to see this one more "Midsummer." And I doubt that my bare-bones, inadequate description of it in the above paragraph will weaken the comic charge it provides in the theater.
By the way, for some unknown reason I was assigned an unusual seat -- in one of the Broad boxes overlooking the audience as well as the stage. Bottom's bottom didn't register nearly as strongly with a friend who sat near the rear of the orchestra. You might want to take that in mind if you have a choice of seats.
Of course, with the Broad run closing on April 19, you might not get much of a choice, I can't recommend the entire production -- it's a little too long -- but most of the other design elements are also much more creative than those of most garden-variety "Midsummer"s. So anyone who would like a new perspective on this familiar and beloved play should take a look.
The element within Samuel Hunter's "Rest" that I'm about to reveal could hardly be more different from the rowdy "Midsummer" display of Bottom. Most of the reviews will tell you that the play is about the three remaining residents and the harried staff of a convalescent center in the middle of an Idaho winter -- and how everyone reacts when the most demented of the three residents is reported to have wandered off into the snow.
Without telling you every detail, let me add that the play is also about the possibility of mercy killing. Mentioning this element might prevent some people from seeing the play, but it could attract others who have some professional or personal interest in the agonizing decision-making that's often faced by those who care for the sick or the elderly.
This sounds grim, and "Rest" certainly is no "Midsummer Night's Dream." But Hunter, who has already made waves in the LA area with "A Bright New Boise" and The Whale," leavens the tone with some comic relief from the institution's hapless boss (Antaeus Company co-artistic director Rob Nagle), and he amplifies the subject of indecision over the end of life with a parallel subplot about indecision over the beginning of life.
Directed by South Coast's co-founder Martin Benson, the production also features three South Coast veterans in the roles of the residents -- Lynn Milgrim, Richard Doyle and Hal Landon. Milgrim is sharply nuanced in the pivotal role, and those who have spent several decades watching Doyle and Landon mature into older roles at SCR won't want to miss this latest chapter -- although let's hope that it's far from the last chapter of their SCR saga.
Photo from "Rest" by Debora Robinson/SCR
In introducing the Mike Kelley show in downtown Los Angeles, new MOCA director Philippe Vergne and curator Ann Goldstein both talked about when Kelley's show opened in Amsterdam at the Stedelijk Museum on the weekend of the Sandy Hook massacre. Vergne said that Kelley's work is so timely, dealing with the difficulties of growing up, alienation, violence, religion and the complexities of society. "Looking at his work is so unsettling, and it shows how Kelly had his finger on the pulse of many important question," Vergne said. MOCA curator Bennett Simpson presented the show, which was organized by the Stedelijk and takes over the entire Geffen Contemporary and some exhibit space at MOCA on Grand Avenue. "The show will surround you," said Goldstein, the Stedelijk's former director. "It is total artwork. It comes at you from all sides: aesthetic, formal, magical, political."
Vergne and Simpson at the media preview.
Mark Whitten as Floyd Collins, photo by Michael Lamont.
One of the best midsize venues for professional theater in LA County has a somewhat unusual location - its 199 seats are on located on the stage of La Mirada Theatre,
adjacent to the actors.
Normally, La Mirada tries to fill its proscenium-style theater's 1,251 seats in the conventional way -- with the audience facing the stage -- but to get to the current "Floyd Collins," the audience bypasses the regular auditorium. The ushers direct the spectators to chairs placed temporarily on the stage itself -- in a raked, three-sided thrust around the action.
La Mirada introduced this much more intimate seating configuration into its programming last year with a intense production of "Spring Awakening," and now it has followed up that success with a second triumph - Richard Israel's revival of another very dark musical, "Floyd Collins."
The plot follows the plight of a young man who's trapped in a cave in 1925 Kentucky, based on the true story of Floyd Collins, which ballooned into one of the first major mass-media events in the age of radio. "Skeets" Miller, a young reporter who won a Pulitzer Prize for covering the story for the Louisville Courier-Journal and later worked for NBC, is depicted by name in Tina Landau's script.
Israel also directed a 2005 production of "Floyd Collins" at what was then the home of the now-largely-dormant West Coast Ensemble - a much smaller venue on La Brea. Now, on La Mirada's large stage, he and designers Rich Rose (scenic) and Lisa D. Katz (lighting) have a lot more room to suggest the expanses of the cave. Yet with the audience only a few feet away from the actors, they also have the ability to preserve the sense of claustrophobia of the scenes set inside the cave.
Still, much of the musical is set outside the cave, as family and media and rescue crews mingle. And occasionally scenes take us into dream territory, where the entrapped Floyd is free to come and go despite his actual predicament.
Adam Guettel's score is the show's ultimate star -- a quicksilver mix of joyful noises alongside the more expected melancholic and mournful strains, of bluegrass mixed with art song. It's performed to perfection by the cast and by David O's band, located in the venue's regular orchestra pit just behind the main bank of spectators. Designer Josh Bessom fills the arena with immersive sound.
The cast excavates the characters with masterful precision. Mark Whitten plays the ambitious but caught caver. Josey Montana McCoy portrays "Skeets," whose diminutive stature helps him reach a position in the cave within touching distance of Floyd. Kim Huber and Jonah Platt as Floyd's siblings and Larry Lederman (who also was in Israel's 2005 version) and Victoria Strong as his parents all offer distinctive perspectives on Floyd's sad saga. A men's trio provides a vaudevillian dash of media satire.
With this production drawing on Israel's initial work at the West Coast Ensemble, it's an example of a phenomenon that LA theater should encourage - using the sub-100-seat theaters as developmental arenas for midsize productions that furnish more remuneration for the talent and better design resources, while preserving the audience's up-close perspective. LA audiences should support such efforts for reasons that go beyond the merits of this particular show.
Still, the merits of this "Floyd Collins" are many - and they're well worth the drive to the southeast reaches of the county. Take the Rosecrans exit east off the 5 freeway to La Mirada Boulevard (go to lamiradatheatre.com for tickets and further guidance.)
Lower photo: Mark Whitten and Kim Huber in "Floyd Collins." Michael Lamont
Melissa Barak is the founder and artistic director of The Barak Ballet in Los Angeles. She danced with the New York City Ballet for nine years.
When I was a young dancer, ballet dancers appeared to be these mythical creatures. I used to think Gelsey Kirkland and Mikhail Baryshnikov had always just been divine beings, certainly not regular people doing everyday things like I was. As a very young girl who happened to study ballet and loved it, I was quite unaware that pursuing a career as a ballerina was actually even possible.
As I got older and began discovering that I had just as much of a shot as any to become a professional dancer, no company appealed to me more than the New York City Ballet. It was where dance legends seemed to be made. It had a history so rich, it drew me in. Like other young, hopeful ballerinas I watched videos about NYCB all the time and was smitten. I was determined to dance there.
In 1998, I found myself signing a contract with NYCB and I couldn't believe it. I had arrived, but it was overwhelming. I suffered a minor injury in rehearsal just before the gala performance that celebrated the company's 50th anniversary. Instead of getting to perform on stage that night, I watched the performance from the front. I don't remember quite where in the theater I was, but that was when I saw Tanaquil Le Clercq roll right by me in her wheelchair. Tanaquil was one of New York City Ballet's major stars during the company's inception in the late 40's. Her lyrical, sinuous style gave founding choreographers George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins inspiration for many of their early works. It was her feminine quality and physical ability that allowed these two significant choreographers to find their voice as makers of dance, thus changing the ballerina ideal forever.
She was being honored that night. Her story was true, this legendary woman I had always heard about and known of but not for all the usual reasons dancers hope for in their careers. She appeared ghost-like to me as she went by, fair skinned with silvery white hair and sharp yet delicate facial features. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Many dancers' careers are cut short due to injuries, but her fate was due to an illness that affected her life forever, and right at the height of her career. In the middle of a tour through Europe, the New York City Ballet was performing in Copenhagen when Le Clercq found herself unable to move one day. She was struck with polio, at age 27, and lost all use of her legs. Anybody who loves to dance can only imagine the utter horror.
In the new documentary, Afternoon of a Faun by Nancy Buirski, I learned more about Le Clercq's childhood, her illustrious career with NYCB, and her tumultuous relationships with two of ballets most influential figures, Balanchine and Robbins. Yet what I appreciated most from the film was her display of true heroism — her ability to laugh and be silly with friends during her life when dance was no longer an option. I didn't just learn about a special dancer, I learned about what she was made of as a human being. In the film you see how this courageous young woman must start her difficult journey in what's called an "iron lung" (which was horribly anxiety producing) to acclimating to an entirely new existence altogether. Most often with great ballerinas, you only learn of them as they always were - on stage seeming so far from real. Yet with Tanny, you get to know a rather quirky, cool person who is left with nothing but her very own humanness.
The dancer dies, but the person inside lives on. All of us dancers have to face that reality at some point. As a dancer ages, so does the body. The legs don't go up as high, the joints begin to ache, the years of pushing the body to the limit begin to take their toll. Tanny's life is a story about resilience. It's a lesson every dancer must take in — that you simply can't do it forever and that finding balance and other interests is crucial in order to move forward and find renewed purpose in life.
"Afternoon of a Faun" opens in Los Angeles on April 11. A trailer for the film:
Promise them anything but give 'em "Lucia." No one, after all, can resist the Bride of Lammermoor, loony Lucey, who goes mad after being obliged to marry -- not the one she loves, but a noble who can save her brother's Scottish castle -- and stabs that husband to death in their wedding bed.
So when the opening night crowd cheered, whistled and hollered for LA Opera's new production of the Donizetti favorite, based on Sir Walter Scott's novel, it came as no surprise. All those delectable tunes and a savvy soprano, Albina Shagimuratova, who could luxuriate in them -- what else could anyone ask for?
Well, a few things. Better coaching for the lead tenor, Saimir Pirgu, for starters. Then this Edgardo might have entered the stage without comic exaggeration of anger, his arms flying awkwardly in false force and barking his music instead of singing it. (What is it with so many tenors who come here in hard-sell mode and have either forgotten or never learned that bel canto means beautiful singing, albeit somewhat agitated at times?)
He did tone it down as the night progressed and went on to deliver his final farewell fervently, if less than heart-crushingly (as Neil Shicoff did here some years ago).
And couldn't director Elkhanah Pulitzer help James Creswell manage a bit more than the standard stolid priest figure as Raimondo -- so that his mellifluous basso could have a real live character inside it? And what about those stage lapses between narrative and music where the drama nearly falls apart?
Luckily, the big moments came across well enough, even though the orchestra, under James Conlon, occasionally disconnected from the singers. Designs by Carolina Angulo and Christine Crook set an aptly dark atmosphere to what looks like modern gothic.
But Shagimuratova, a Lucia who knows her way around the stage, could cower like a gullible girl manipulated by a tricky brother and give a well-choreographed version of her big scene: the bride turned bloody. Most important, she has the coloratura chops -- agile and bouncy with a wonderful pulse to those rapid notes. What's more, she's not one of those chirpy canaries, but very Russian, up to being a little metallic on top.
All others in the cast did well, especially Vladimir Dmitruk, an extremely fine tenor.
But it's hard to forget the then-slim and gorgeous Anna Netrebko, who sang Lucia here a decade ago -- how she twirled and swooned and danced while pouring out bell tones and all manner of intricate, nuanced coloratura.
So much for the 19th century. Onto to the present. And hardly any enterprise speaks to that tectonic shift better than the Kronos Quartet. Because four decades after violinist David Harrington founded this iconic string ensemble there is arguably no other that has ventured so far into the realm of theater while pushing the cross-cutural/political boundaries of esoteric new music even beyond the recognized avant-garde.
Just imagine, for instance, its 40th anniversary celebration at UCLA's Royce Hall: in one piece the four musicians performed under strobe lights to suggest the work's title, "Spectre" by John Oswald; in Penderecki's "Quartetto per archi" they stood with their backs to the audience, while reading/playing a huge projection of that composition; elsewhere they intermittently put aside the instruments they play so pristinely to crush and crumple paper on cue.
So I guess you could say that if the music on this bill didn't make a great impact in itself, then at least its dramatization posed a curiosity. But Philip Glass's "Orion," which featured the sensuous lyricism of pipa player Wu Man, certainly needed no physical enactments, nor did Alter Karniol's souful "Sim Sholom," with the cantorial solo played exquisitely by cellist Sunny Yang, a new Kronos member. And to hear Wagner's "Tristan und Isolde" prelude reduced from its grand orchestral plushness and slivered into four string instruments was revelatory, like strolling among harmonic skeletons.
Above all, there was the spirit of Harrington permeating the hall, his warmth and deep appreciation of fellow musicians and all the composers he's brought to his platform over the years, the passion with which he embraces them, not to mention a certain gemütlichkeit you will find anywhere Kronos performs.
A similar spirit spread through the largely subscription audience at Royce Hall for LA Chamber Orchestra concerts. Last week the birthday announcement of its long-standing principal oboist drew cheers and whistles from the massed crowd. So did the whole evening's performances merit the same. The music-making, under the rising young guest conductor James Feddeck, was impressive throughout -- at every turn he coaxed expressive pliancy from the players and found shape and form to all the works.
Little wonder, with the added impetus of another rising star, Jennifer Koh, and her eminent mentor Jaime Laredo -- violinists who netted big roles in the program.
First they played as a duo in Anna Clyne's "Prince of Clouds," a wondrous new piece for string ensemble. It hinted of Britten with its far-off wistfulness sounding in long lines -- only to churn with agitation later and contrast with the orchestra's splintering harmonies, before turning meditative.
Second they played Bach's D-minor Concerto for two violins -- she with the richer, fatter, duskier tone and he the lighter and more agile. Their vigor and intensity in the outer movements, their sheer tenderness in the slow one, their vital interchanging of roles, created pure magic.
Last, Feddeck and the orchestra took up Schubert's early Symphony No. 3, its touching innocence and blithe spirit intact. All told, it was one of those perfect nights.
Not so LA Ballet's mixed bill at Royce, which, in one serious miscalculation, showed a lapse in taste and judgment that I've never seen before from directors Thor Christensen and Colleen Neary. More on that later.
What was marvelous was the staging of Jiri Kylian's "Return to a Strange Land" (1975), an homage to Stuttgart Ballet's John Cranko who had suddenly died back then. It not only sets a matchless choreographic standard but proved that the company can carry out the artistic high level required by a work so sensitive to tone and expressive subtlety.
There were images of singular beauty and strikingly ethereal hints of sorrow carried on the strains of Janacek's music, with an exquisitely timed release here, a sense of ecstatic quietude there.
And even Christopher Stowell's "Cipher" shows the choreographer's astute attention to Balanchine study, along with Noah Agruss's piquant score that suggests a knowledge of Stravinsky. Alynne Noel defined the pert and picturesque signature movements with great charm.
But don't even ask about Sonya Tayeh's "Beneath One's Dignity," which can't decide whether to reveal Victoria's Secret Fantasies or hi-jack some misbegotten modernisms of doom and gloom. Dignity, above or beneath, was never in supply here.
Middle: Albina Shagimuratova as Lucia. by Robert Millard; Bottom, LA Ballet Photocomposition by Reed Hutchinson and Catherine Kanner.
Sharon Lawrence and Bruce Davison in "A Song at Twilight," photo by Michael Lamont.
They look as different as day and night - "A Song at Twilight" at Pasadena Playhouse and "Reunion" at South Coast Repertory in Costa Mesa. The former is set in a posh Swiss hotel suite, literally during the day as well as back in the day (the '60s). The latter is set in a cheap room in a contemporary Massachusetts motel, long after dark.
Yet both of them (spoiler alerts?) are about the psychological costs of men's repression of homosexual activity from their pasts.
In "A Song at Twilight," Noel Coward wrote about a character much like himself - a clever and somewhat closeted man of the theater. Then, in the premiere in 1966, he took the then-audacious step of playing the character, whose long-ago devotion to a now-dead male lover is revealed as part of the first-act climax.
The play's other two characters are women - the Coward character's understanding wife, and another woman with whom he once had a rather chaste affair. This former beard has obtained possession of his love letters to the recently deceased male lover.
Gregory S. Moss' "Reunion" takes longer to get to its somewhat similar revelation. It also has three characters -- men who meet in the motel room following their 25th high school class reunion. The three of them had also met in the same room following their graduation in the '80s. We learn late in the play (here's a more explicit spoiler alert) that two of these men had a sexual encounter with each other that distant night, in this room. But none of the three men is openly gay, 25 years later.
Considering how candor about homosexuality has become so much more common since the '60s, it's amazing that Coward's play and its characters were more open about the subject in 1966 than are the characters in Moss' brand-new play, set in the present day in Massachusetts.
Perhaps we should allow for the fact that Coward's characters are veterans of the theater, an arena where homosexuals could come out sooner than they did in the general culture. By contrast, the men in "Reunion" clearly grew up in a world where a premium was placed on being conventionally masculine, even macho -- long before Massachusetts pioneered legal same-sex marriage.
Still, while watching "A Song at Twilight," we shouldn't credit only its theatrical milieu for its frank tone. Let's not forget that when it opened in 1966, England was still a year away from decriminalizing homosexual acts - a point that director Art Manke makes in a program note and that Pasadena Playhouse artistic director Sheldon Epps makes in a press release. Give Coward himself some of the credit for being such an uncowardly lion.
The remarkably advanced treatment of homosexuality in "A Song at Twilight" is in stark contrast to its dramatic style, which is rather old-fashioned, not only now but even in 1966. But Manke and his team - including actors Bruce Davison, Sharon Lawrence and Roxanne Hart - find a lot of life in the old-fashioned tropes, especially in the second act. (By the way, those who saw a revival of "A Song at Twilight" four years ago at the Odyssey Theatre will probably be somewhat less startled by the play's audacity than those who are seeing it for the first time.)
"Reunion," on the other hand, seems old-fashioned in both its dramatic structure (is it just me, or have we all seen a few too many plays set at reunions of old friends?) and in its rather reticent approach to homosexuality.
This is reflected in the marketing of the production, which doesn't begin to suggest a hint of gay content, as well as in the text. Presumably the marketers (and perhaps the playwright?) wanted audiences to be sufficiently surprised by the revelation of a previous man-on-man moment when it's finally recalled in the theater. But it isn't all that difficult to guess in advance, despite the hush-hush approach.
Michael Gladis and Kevin Berntson in "Reunion," photo by Debora Robinson/SCR.
Meanwhile, this treatment of homosexuality as an issue-that-still-hardly-dares-to-speak-its name seems a little outdated and slightly condescending to audiences. Simply in 2014 marketing terms, I'm wondering if explicitly mentioning a gay angle in pre-show marketing might actually attract more theatergoers than it would deter.
At any rate, despite its relatively discreet approach to homosexuality in comparison to Coward's play from nearly five decades ago, "Reunion" is hardly discreet in its approach to middle-aged men getting together and behaving again like rowdy teenagers. Director Adrienne Campbell-Holt marshals her cast (Tim Cummings, Michael Gladis, Kevin Berntsen) into impressive displays of man-boy anxiety and anger, fueled by alcohol and '80s rock.
"Reunion" closes Sunday, but "A Song at Twilight" plays through April 13.
"Harmony" at the CTG/Ahmanson Theatre. Below, Shayne Kennon and Leigh Ann Larkin. Photos by Craig Schwartz.
Center Theatre Group has been obsessed with young guys' bands in recent years. Just since 2013 began, CTG offered the forgettable new musicals "Backbeat" (about the early Beatles) and "The Black Suits" (about a Long Island garage band.) The 2011-12 season at CTG's Ahmanson Theatre included post-Broadway runs of the dramatically threadbare "American Idiot" (with a Green Day score) and "Fela!" (about the Afro-pop star.)
Finally, however, "Harmony" is redeeming CTG's stubborn faith in this subject matter. "Harmony" is by far the best of the lot.
It's about the rise and fall of the Comedian Harmonists, a popular German sextet that rose during the Depression and fell to the Third Reich.
Part of the tremendous power of this show is attributable to its remarkable real-life story about young men whose lives and careers were wrecked by the 20th century's most famous villains. Also, as many critics have acknowledged, Barry Manilow has created a wonderful original score, sung to perfection at the Ahmanson (move over, "Jersey Boys"), where the heavenly harmonies are in stark contrast to the brutal narrative.
Where some of the critics are drawing an unnecessary and hyper-critical line is all over Bruce Sussman's book.
Yes, it's a challenge to write in-depth roles for so many characters -- six men and two of the women in their lives. But Sussman's script provides focus by framing the story around the reminiscences of the Harmonist who survived the longest -- "Rabbi" Josef Roman Cykowski, whose last job was as a cantor in Palm Springs, not far from where Manilow lived when he became interested in Cykowski's story.
Shayne Kennon delivers a potentially star-making performance as "Rabbi." He not only delivers the goods during the heart-on-sleeve highlights that Manilow has written for Rabbi as a vital young man, but he also captures an acute sense of survivor's guilt in Rabbi's later glances backward, including scenes in which he expresses his regrets in otherworldly cantorial (but English-language) recitatives.
The other Harmonists aren't written with the same depth, but they are written with vivid individuality. Indeed, one of the themes of the story is that these men create glimmering harmony despite a variety of backgrounds that go beyond Jewish and gentile and despite a variety of vocal registers and body types. Their many variations are part of the reason we're fascinated to watch them in action, and JoAnn M. Hunter's choreography makes sure we notice the diversity among the moves.
Also, in case potential women theatergoers are tired of CTG's obsession with men's groups, be aware that the two wives (Hannah Corneau, Leigh Ann Larkin) here are hardly doormats; they too have moments of musical magic - and dramatically different fates in the narrative.
Tony Speciale directs here, as he did at the Alliance Theatre in Atlanta last fall. I don't know the next stop for this production, but I know that LA is lucky to have it with us through April 13.
TWICE MORE UNTO THE BREACH
Seldom do LA audiences have their choice of two concurrent versions of the same Shakespearean history play, but that's our option right now, with "Henry V" up at Pacific Resident Theatre in Venice and also in a Porters of Hellsgate production at the Whitmore in NoHo.
I saw both of them last weekend, separated by about 43 hours. They're strikingly similar in their first images. As audiences enter tiny black-box theaters, we see the casts in contemporary casual dress, mingling and socializing on the stage and also backstage, as if they're about to begin a reading of the play. We even get occasional glimpses out the back doors of both black boxes.
The idea behind this set-up is to acknowledge, as the opening speech by the one-man Chorus notes, that we are indeed in a tiny theater - Shakespeare described it as a "cockpit" - but that we are to imagine that we're in "the vasty fields of France." The main difference between the two pre-shows is that some of the actors sit behind a table in Venice, while some of those in NoHo sit in a semi-circular arrangement facing the audience.
But when the play itself begins, more substantial differences begin to emerge. The NoHo cast is larger than the Venice cast - 17 to 11. The more plentiful NoHo actors usually linger on the stage even when they're not participating in the action, while the Venice actors usually exit from our view when they're not in a scene. So the NoHo stage looks more crowded and retains more of a rehearsal ambience, as opposed to the more immersive look of the Venice.production.
Also, in the programs you'll learn that the 11 actors in Venice play a total of 22 characters, while the 17 in NoHo play a total of 34. The running time in NoHo is slightly longer. By the way, both directors are also on stage as actors. The Porters director in NoHo, Charles Pasternak, also plays the title role. In the Pacific production in Venice, director Guillermo Cienfuegos - using his actor's name Alex Fernandez - plays the Chorus.
The texts, although based on the same "Henry V," are quite different. No adapter is listed in the program of the NoHo production. In Venice, however, director Cienfuegos and Joe McGovern, who plays the title role, get an adaptation credit. They have incorporated a few excerpts from other history plays in order to better establish the previous relationship between the father-and-son Henrys and to bring Falstaff (Dennis Madden) on stage. Cienfuegos also uses lighting and scenic design (Norman Scott ) and fight choreography (Jonathan Rider) in a way that emphasizes the brutally sculptural, non-verbal aspects of combat in a graphic way that's barely suggested in NoHo.
Purists who want a relatively uncut "Henry V" may prefer the Porters version, in NoHo. But it's less sharply focused. I left the Porters production thinking that the company performed admirably in an overly episodic, perhaps overrated play. I left the Pacific production in Venice with the feeling that I had just seen a rich and complex tale unfold before my eyes.
AS THE 17TH CENTURY TURNS
Move forward a few years from when "Henry V" was written and you find "Macbeth," about a different war. The Scottish play is impossible to overrate, for it is indeed one of the best plays ever written.
A Noise Within's new version, directed by Larry Carpenter in Pasadena, is almost as male-oriented as "Henry V." Men (Amin El-Gamal, Thom Rivera and Jeremy Rabb) play the witches, assisted by picturesque puppets designed by Sean T. Cawelti; the same three men also play a number of smaller roles. Only two women are in the cast - Jules Willcox as Lady Macbeth and Katie Pelensky as Lady Macduff and Donalbain.
The costumes, designed by Jenny Foldenauer, feature a distracting detail that I've never seen in "Macbeth." The men are frequently bare-chested (although they usually wear other garments over their shoulders), and their torsos are especially exposed when they're in combat -- when you would expect them to be especially cautious about wearing ample protection. It's not as if this is supposed to be occurring in some warmer country than Scotland -- a large map of which sometimes appears as a backdrop. So why the romance-novel-model look? I couldn't figure it out.
Elijah Alexander as Macbeth and Willcox do suggest a lot of sexual passion in their early scenes, but at least at the performance I saw, Alexander's vocal delivery sounded lighter than expected, almost as if he were undecided about how far to pursue Macbeth's indecision. Carpenter visually emphasizes that the Macbeths apparently lost their one and only child, which was also a focal point of Jessica Kubzansky's staging for Antaeus Company two years ago.
Still, the recent LA "Macbeth" that most clearly stands out in my mind is Independent Shakespeare's and David Melville's ultra-visceral version with Luis Galindo, presented last summer in Griffith Park.
Written a few years after "Macbeth," but set in a considerably warmer setting - Spain - Lope de Vega's "La Dama Boba" is receiving a rare revival from the Bilingual Foundation of the Arts in Lincoln Heights, spoken in Spanish with English titles. Lope wrote 1,800 plays, and this one usually isn't listed among his best - it's a formulaic comedy about two marriageable sisters of starkly different personalities, and their suitors. But the BFA's wide stage is handsomely deployed in Margarita Galban's staging.
Bottom photo: Lady Macbeth encourages Macbeth. Craig Schwartz
It's not easy to find someone whose right brain and left brain are each working overtime. But photographer Abelardo Morell is more than a creative spirit. In a recent talk at the Annenberg Space Skylight Studio, in conjunction with the current show, Morell called himself a "closet scientist" who has invented a new way of seeing and recording images, or rather re-invented a very old way of seeing using new technology. His recent photography has turned rooms into cameras by employing the technique of camera obscura (literally "dark room") and figured out how to take it on the road. The resulting images of the US National Parks, currently part of a sweeping exhibit honoring 125 years of National Geographic photography at the Annenberg Space for Photography, are stunning and totally fresh. In this digital age, where we are bombarded nonstop with images, that is saying something. These photographs will make you stop and look again.
Morell's technique is to create a pinhole camera you can walk into by creating a tent of lightproof plastic. The image reflected through a pinhole is exposed onto the ground of the park (or sometimes in a hotel room or bedroom wall) and becomes a layered image incorporating the reflected image and the surface it is reflected on. His series on the national parks is seen in the film created for the Geographic exhibit, and like each of the Arclight productions that accompany the Annenberg shows, the film alone is worth the trip.
Morell, whose work was recently on exhibit at the Getty Center and at the Rose Gallery in Bergamot Station, has been a photographer and photography teacher for over 30 years. In his talk at the Annenberg Space, he explained how his photography went from doing simple documentary work of his family, into exploring "the simplicity and mystery of photography itself" by turning common household objects, like lamps and glasses, into tools for actually making images. "In the late 80's I turned my classroom into a camera by taping dark plastic over the windows and making a small opening in the plastic to produce an image projected inside the room," he said.
Morell said people had been inside camera obscura before, but no one had ever made a photograph using the process itself. Once he realized that, he was off and running. He turned his living room into a camera, then a hotel room in Times Square, and a bedroom across from the Brooklyn Bridge. He spent a whole summer trying to figure out the correct exposure. "The early ones were 8 hours long...but then I converted to a digital back," he said. For someone who described himself as "anti-technology" in his early days, Morell says "it was like Dylan going electric. Instead of 5-6 hour exposures, now they are 5-6 minutes."
His decision to take this technology on the road led him to the national arks project. "It's fascinating to be inside a tent and see nature," he said. The project has many meanings for him. "It's about the meaning of where we live, the nature of time, the nature of things, the nature of what we see." And, ultimately, who we are.
The Abelardo Morell national parks project can be seen as part of the exhibit, "The Power of Photography: National Geographic 125 Years." The show closes April 27, 2014.
From his seat in the audience at REDCAT on Saturday, Randy Reinholz booed. He was registering his response at the end of the first act of the Wooster Group's "Cry, Trojans!"
Reinholz, the founding artistic director of Native Voices, the Native American theater company based at the Autry, is also an enrolled member of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma. He found "Cry, Trojans!" - in which white actors from New York pose as Native Americans in an adaptation of Shakespeare's "Troilus and Cressida" - "offensive and racist," in his words.
A few audience members approached him as intermission began, after he booed. The first group was initially hostile. But his subsequent conversation with other audience members who approached him was "very calm." Someone asked him if he might be a plant from within the production -- in other words, part of the show.
Hardly. This production didn't need to stimulate any additional controversy by using scripted hecklers. Its depiction of Native Americana was already generating angry responses, especially on social media in its LA run - in contrast to the response to a recent workshop run in New York.
As it happens, Reinholz's own company, Native Voices, is currently offering the premiere of "Stand-Off at Hwy #37," a traditionally realistic play that in some ways parallels the situation in "Cry, Trojans!" but in other ways delivers a sharp riposte to the muddled artifice of "Cry, Trojans!"
In Vickie Ramirez's "Stand-Off," set in the present in upstate New York, a small group of Haudenosaunee (aka Iroquois) take a stand against a proposed new road that they contend will cut across tribal land without their permission. The eldest of the group (LaVonne Rae Andrews) smiles as she resists by straddling her chair across the soon-to-be-bulldozed border.
Three representatives of the National Guard arrive to help maintain order, and one of them (Eagle Young) is a member of the Haudenosaunee. He vows to obey his orders from his Guard officer (Matt Kirkwood) without letting his background influence him, but when push comes to shove...
Playwright Vickie Ramirez is herself from the Tuscarora tribe of the Haudenosaunee, with whom she obviously sympathizes, but she isn't deaf to the other side's arguments, especially those of the young black woman (Tinasha LaRayé) who's in the National Guard contingent. Ramirez also depicts the two younger Native activists (Kalani Queypo, DeLanna Studi) as having personal regrets that shadow their motivations. Meanwhile, a New York Times reporter (Fran de Leon) is on the scene, increasingly confident that she has a compelling story.
In other words, Ramirez seems to appreciate the importance of examining the situation without blinders as much as possible, even while registering her own point of view about the dispute. She maintains admirable clarity of vision - until near the end, when the plotting momentarily raises a few questions, after one particular character suddenly reverses course offstage without sufficient explanation.
Still, "Stand-Off" is considerably more lucid than "Cry, Trojans!," which closed Sunday. "Trojans" began as a collaboration with the Royal Shakespeare Company for a 2012 production of the enormously challenging "Troilus and Cressida" in the UK. Shakespeare's play is set during the Trojan War. In that 2012 effort, the Americans played the Trojans as generic early American Indians, while the Brits played the invading Greeks (and, judging from photos, dressed in present-day military fatigues). Apparently the production attempted to comment on American imperialism through the centuries.
Returning to America after a disappointing reaction to the London production, the Wooster Group's director Elizabeth LeCompte decided to revive the material by assigning her actors to play all the parts on both sides, with the title "Cry, Trojans!," but also with the assistance of a tape of the British voices from the London production.
And so, at the play's official premiere at REDCAT, both the Trojans and the Greeks wore Indian clothes, while a tipi dominated the background. Almost any direct parallel to American imperialism faded - the conflict looked more like an inter-tribal Native war.
The Greeks were distinguished from the Trojans mostly by wearing little black masks atop their Indian outfits, which still exposed enough of the men's skin that the costumes (inadvertently? or ironically?) emphasized how white these actors are. They seemed to be white guys playing "Indians and Indians," as opposed to "cowboys and Indians."
With most of the actors in multiple roles and with Wooster's signature assortment of sometimes opaque design choices, confusion reigned during far too much of this production.
Indeed, even Reinholz, in a written statement after seeing "Cry, Trojans!," allowed that the lack of conceptual clarity prevented him from assuming that the goal of Wooster's "offensive stereotypes" was to provoke -- "It was unclear if the company's intention was to offend by these images and narratives. It is unclear what social change the piece was advocating for by enraging Native people. It is clear - they were racist."
In a talkback after the Friday performance, LeCompte cited a number of secondary sources she used in her research - books, movies, tapes, some of which were created by Native Americans. But there was scant evidence that she had talked to any Native Americans. According to Reinholz, "there are thousands of Native American theater artists, scholars, and community leaders easily available for art makers to call upon. We are not hiding in the margins."
During the talkback, LeCompte said a close friend - a playwright - had told her, "I wouldn't do a play like this without making sure I had a Native American in it." But, LeCompte added, "that is not where I live. I wouldn't do that. I couldn't do that." Then, though her language was vague, she appeared to indicate that she thought that adding Native Americans to the company would be seen as "who's at the party?" tokenism - "and that's horrible to me....Plus it's not about that. It's about everything bigger...We love the piece, we love the stories, we love the films, we love the people...We wanted to tell the story in this way and make it so big that this [lack of direct Native American input] wouldn't be a problem."
New York, we have a problem.
For the record, let it be noted that Wooster has also presented Kate Valk, the white actress who plays Cressida here, in blackface in the title role of "The Emperor Jones." I didn't see that production, but it sounds as it would have resulted in a much more biting satire of racial stereotypes than what we get in "Cry, Trojans!," in which the intent too often remains clouded.
Asked for a comment, REDCAT executive director Mark Murphy emailed to say that "I appreciate that it is a complicated play and a complicated issue. I know that the artists had no intention to offend anyone."
He said the Wooster Group is "a remarkable and influential company and I deeply value our years of collaboration with them. I look eagerly forward to their next projects."
Meanwhile, Native Voices has offered to accept any used or unused tickets to "Cry, Trojans!" for admission to "Stand-Off at Hwy #37," which plays at the Autry in Griffith Park through next Sunday.
Top: Andrew Schneider and Ari Fliakos in "Cry, Trojans! (Troilus & Cressida)." Photo by James Allister Sprang. Bottom: Eagle Young as Private Thomas Lee Doxdater, Kalani Queypo as Darrin. Photo by Craig Schwartz.
Misty Copeland performing with ABT. Photo: Gene Schiavone.
Misty Copeland has just returned from two weeks performing in Japan, and though severely jet-lagged, the American Ballet Theater soloist is eager to chat. Her excitement about the publication this month of her memoir, Life in Motion: An Unlikely Ballerina, is palpable, even in a phone call from her home in New York City. "I've known from the time I started dancing that I would be telling my story at some point," she said. "I definitely didn't think it would be this soon!" There is a lot about Copeland's story that has been well documented in the press. In the book (written with Charisse Jones, the former Los Angeles Times staff writer), Copeland herself speaks out for the first time about her emotionally turbulent and often financially precarious upbringing in San Pedro, the court battle between her mother, Sylvia DeLaCerna, and her ballet teacher, Cynthia Bradley, and her ascension in the world of classical ballet starting with her win at the 1997 Los Angeles Music Center Spotlight Awards. The story continues with Copeland's opportunities outside of ABT, including performing with Prince, and her quest to become the first black female principal dancer in an elite ballet company.
Copeland, 31, discovered ballet at the San Pedro Boys and Girls Club, where she would spend after-school hours. Bradley, a former dancer, was teaching a class there and quickly realized that she had a dance prodigy on her hands. Copeland was 13 -- generally considered old for girls to start ballet training, but she demonstrated grace, flexibility and the capacity to quickly learn the fundamentals of ballet. She began studying more seriously at Bradley's school. To ease the commute between school and the Gardena motel where the family was living, DeLaCerna allowed her daughter to move in with Bradley and her family.
Copeland switched to home schooling and flourished in her new living arrangement. But after the success of the Spotlight Award, and a subsequent summer intensive course at San Francisco Ballet, she sensed that all was not well between her mother and Bradley. Resentment boiled over and DeLaCerna decided that Copeland, at the time 15, should move back to the motel. Plans were made for her to attend a new ballet school and enroll at San Pedro High School. At Bradley's suggestion, Copeland sued for emancipation. Gloria Allred was brought in to represent DeLaCerna and eventually the emancipation request was dropped. The unsavory episode had ended but Copeland describes in the book how she was traumatized and crushed. (Copeland writes of their relationship today, "I love my mother but I've never really understood her.")
In time, she managed to recover and continue her training in Torrance. The following year she was accepted into ABT's summer intensive program in New York City. She joined ABT's studio company in 2000, became a corp de ballet member in 2001, and was appointed an American Ballet Theater soloist (the first black female ABT soloist in 20 years) in 2007.
"It was really nice to feel comfortable enough and mature enough to be able to look back on all of those experiences that made me the dancer and woman I am," Copeland says of the memoir. "It's amazing to be sharing my story while I'm still in the midst of my career." Copeland has spoken out often about the difficulties connected with being a black ballerina in a world that is mostly white. She fully embraces the fact that she is a role model for young dancers of color, recently becoming the public face of ABT's diversity initiative Project Plié, which offers scholarships to minority dancers around the country. "I'm constantly out there, hands on with kids and mentoring them. They seem to feel I'm like them and I'm real. They're not intimidated. I think for the most part they want to hug me, which is so nice. They see themselves in me. I didn't have that when I first became a professional. It's a very powerful thing."
Copeland speaks to children.
Copeland's reverence for the tradition and history of ballet has both consoled and sustained her since she began dancing. "I think that coming from my background, I never really felt like I was part of a lineage or anything I could really put my hands on," she says. "Entering the ballet world, there was something that was so comforting about knowing there was such a rich history....It was like, wow, I'm a part of this thing that's so much bigger than me.
"In ballet there is a technique that was built and we still follow that technique. There was just something about the tradition that really drew me in. I think ballet in general was this safe haven that I had never experienced before in my childhood -- feeling like I had this beautiful and fun escape from my everyday life. I still think of it that way. It's a very sacred place -- the stage and the studio -- where you can kind of escape what's happening in the world."
In addition to her book tour, Copeland is busy preparing for ABT's spring season at the Metropolitan Opera House. The company is traveling to Abu Dhabi this month for the touring production of "Coppelia;" Copeland will be debuting in the principal role of Swanhilda, a first for her. Here in Southern California, Orange County ballet audiences can see her dance with ABT next March in the company's new production of "The Sleeping Beauty" at Segerstrom Hall in Costa Mesa. The ballet will premiere here before becoming part of the spring season at Lincoln Center. That means Copeland's family and friends get to see it before New York audiences.
Returning to Southern California to perform is a positive experience for her. "The first time I was on a big stage was at the Music Center," she says nostalgically. "I feel like this is home. It's so cool that I get to come back here and perform for my community."
Misty Copeland will speak at Live Talks Los Angeles on Thursday, March 13, at the William Turner Gallery in Bergamot Station Arts Center in Santa Monica.
Misty Copeland discussed her desire to become the first African American principal dancer in a major company at a TEDx Talk in Washington, D.C. in 2012.
Copeland solo at Gala de Ballet "Despertares" in 2012 in Mexico City.
Previously on LA Observed:
Ballet dancer Misty Copeland comes home to San Pedro
Misty Copeland takes NYC
Scott Shepherd and Kate Valk as lovers Troilus and Cressida. Photos by Iris Schneider.
The Wooster Group, the avant garde theater company known for deconstructing and mashing up classic theater in a totally inventive way, is back at Redcat with "Cry, Trojans," their multi-media production of Shakespeare's obscure Troilus and Cressida. I was at Redcat to see the invigorating and elegiac production of "Gatz" produced by Elevator Repair Service, and many of the actors in "Gatz," including the narrator Scott Shepherd, are onstage currently in this production. This time around, my reaction is a lot more subdued maybe because, unlike "The Great Gatsby," Shakespeare's language is dense and harder to easily comprehend.
Wooster Group definitely has its fans and followers and many were in the audience--at least until intermission. The theme of young love was echoed in video screens above the stage that ran scenes of Warren Beatty and Natalie Wood from "Splendor in the Grass" which directly mimicked the actions of Troilus and Cressida onstage. Such staging added another layer to an already layered production which, while sometimes difficult to unravel, was never boring.
The production began with a previous collaboration between Wooster Group and the Royal Shakespeare Company in which each company worked separately until close to production time, embellishing on the theme of conflict between the Greeks played by the RSC and the Trojans played by Wooster Group. In the current independent production, the Trojans became a fictional tribe of early Americans. One element, which included masks and vests worn on the backs of the soldiers and looking suspiciously Roman, added a physical and visual dimension to the action onstage. The costumes were designed by visual artist Folkert de Young and they gave the feeling that each character carried more weight, whether real or imaginary, as they walked onstage to do battle encumbered or emboldened by their comrades on their backs.
While I don't feel that the production was a total success, I salute the creative process that Wooster Group embodies, always pushing the audience to think and imagine in new ways.
The show continues through March 9.
Gustavo Dudamel does Tchaikovsky.
A soul-crushing dilemma that leads to actual suspense -- thought by thought, moment by moment, note by note, measure by measure. Would this be the stuff occupying an opera stage?
Bet on it. Because our local importers of Benjamin Britten works have brought back the composer's full-scale, grand opus, "Billy Budd" in this last, extraordinary centennial gesture to the composer. And rejoice that you can still rush downtown to LA Opera's acclaimed production by Francesca Zambello, borrowed again from Covent Garden (through March 16.)
We all know the easy pathos of Puccini, the soaring song of Verdi -- to name a few bread-and-butter box office faves. But Britten's adaptation of the Herman Melville novella stands as a monument to interior battles of a psycho-social kind, wrapped around anti-war, anti-class rhetoric. And not incidentally it marks the revolution we see today: from the Brits' branding of gays as criminal until 1967, to open declaration of sexual identity -- whatever it may be -- in much of the civilized world. (Hallelujah!)
What's more, the team in charge this time at the Music Center handles it all -- the miraculous score, the full-stage complement with chorus and visuals, the direction of each character's enactment, the orchestra and its various soloists -- superbly.
No composer better than Britten evokes the sense of mortal aloneness at sea. And here, as in the deadly, grim waters of "Peter Grimes," we get two characters experiencing it -- Billy, the innocent whose goodness doesn't allow him to feel the evil around him; and the Captain, who sees but can't change destiny. Throughout we hear masterly poetic strains in murmuring strings, a plaintive saxophone, a soft rustling of tympani.
And the singers, each an expert in delivering melismatic filigree, ride above all this. The slave-like sailors are actual characters, a thrilling chorus, and at the taking down of Billy they huddle low and grunt out a menacing fugue that can't help but scare an audience.
Alison Chitty's simple yet striking set features a raked platform as ship's deck -- it rises up to reveal the huddled crew below. Atop is a cross-mast suggesting the martyr's "crucifixion" to come. The stage picture, with critical dimension lent by Alan Burrett's lighting, is an integrated whole, ever-changing to reflect the musical mood.
The main triad in this all-male cast carves out the dramatic poles, without any need for female voices. There's Richard Croft, a compelling Captain Vere whose silvery tenor masters that helpless cry of remorse arching smoothly upward in the musical line, and Liam Bonner a brave, tall-standing Billy with a sturdy baritone whose stutter, and background as a foundling, do not hinder the inherent goodness in him. The third is Greer Grimsley, the villainous Claggart, whose animated basso highlights his homophobic hysteria over Billy, whom he is intolerably drawn to and calls "beauty" and, in the end, must see killed -- which he does, unwittingly.
James Conlon, presides passionately over the orchestra and stage, lending all the nuances Britten scores so ingeniously.
The other major music event right now is across the street at Disney Hall: it's Gustavo Dudamel, back in town charging up the soundwaves via an ambitious take-your-breath-away Tchaikovsky Festival -- and not just with his LA Philharmonic, but also his fellow-Venezuelans, the mighty Simon Bolivar Symphony Orchestra as well.
It took only the two names, Dudamel and Tchaikovsky, to sell the Philharmonic to the walls at 11a.m last Friday. Yes, 11 in the morning on a week day! True, that audience looked a bit like the cane-and-conveyance brigade. But never mind, there was everything to warrant a mob scene, especially in the way the band and its leader went at the composer's final symphony, his 6th, the famous "Pathetique," where yes, as Britten often did metaphorically, Tchaikovsky laid bare his anguish over his sexuality in the last movement.
As with some of this score's great readings Dudamel drew out those wrenching strings, which swept all into the vortex of lament with shuddering intensity. Each solo -- with flute and horns in seamless balance -- and each motif became a vital animation of character, all of it pretty damned gorgeous. Even the march exploded into a unison frenzy the likes of which could match what Ken Russell himself would conjure.
At the conclusion Dudamel took 34 seconds to bring down his hand and allow applause, as the musicians sat at absolute attention. He's right, of course, to let the last tones dissipate before any sound intrusion -- even if there's a question about how long that may take...
No one seemed to be looking for signals though at downtown's brand new Ace Hotel, in days of old the United Artists Theatre at Broadway and 9th. At least not from French-born Benjamin Millepied's L.A. Dance Project which staged its first event there in this petite Pantages, an ornately gaudy relic of 1927 now refurbished to a shine, with dribble-castle-like stalactites hanging from the enormous domed ceiling.
Instead the chi-chi crowd seemed intent on enjoying a big mingle, which pushed the curtain to 40 minutes beyond starting time, but allowed all the beautiful trend-makers and followers to be amply seen.
And considering Millepied's career trajectory that milieu makes sense. After all, he went from dancing with the New York City Ballet, graduated to choreographer, then to cast member of Darren Aronofsky's Oscar-winning film "Black Swan," to marrying its lead Natalie Portman to being named LA Dance Project director and, quickly following that, to the Paris Opera Ballet directorship. All the stars are in alignment. Each day seems to bring him a new title all over the world. Minutes ago he was named artistic advisor of the just-formed Colburn School Dance Academy diagonally across from Disney Hall. Now you can call him a Sponsor Magnet, the name that brings donors from Hollywood, and yes, from everywhere. Watch them roll in.
If he stops long enough in any one place chances are we'll see something worthwhile -- remember he did bring us William Forsythe's unforgettable "Quintett" last year and the year before a whole program of his own choreography. But the Ace show -- despite a commission by Van Cleef & Arpels, a piano score by Pulitzer Prize winner David Lang, played by the eminent Gloria Cheng, and even some clever electronic hi-jinks -- registered weakly if at all.
Not so the sold-out run of "Love, Noël" at Beverly Hills' Wallis studio theater, which got converted to table-and-chair seating for this cabaret event. It's gone now but L.A. needs to bring it back and soon -- because once New Yorkers get a whiff, say at the Carlyle Hotel café, they won't let it go. Noël Coward's songs and letters in the hands of John Glover and Judy Kuhn, with master pianist David O accompanying them, are deliciously enticing. "Mad About the Boy," for instance, is but one of the literary wit-composer-playwright's brilliant ballads, delivered powerfully by Kuhn.
Tartuffe (Freddy Douglas) romances Elmire (Carolyn Ratteray.) Photo: Craig Schwartz
Con artistry requires the ability to get the victims to suspend disbelief - the same quality that theatrical artistry usually requires of audiences.
So it isn't surprising that stories of brazen con artists often inspire dramatizations ("American Hustle," anyone?) Sometimes these stories even take place in the world of the actual arts. On Sunday, "60 Minutes" presented a segment called "The Con Artist," about an infamous art forger. It's no stretch to imagine that this criminal's story might easily become a Hollywood movie or a Broadway musical.
But I didn't see "60 Minutes" on Sunday. I was busy watching the bogus band director Harold Hill's gentle swindling of River City in Musical Theatre West's revival of "The Music Man."
Also, earlier in the day, I took in the more savagely funny tale of Tartuffe - a con artist who uses a faux-religious façade to take in his victims - at A Noise Within. Molière's "Tartuffe," which dates back to 1664, is not only a sire of all later satires about conniving hypocrites but also the best of the genre - or at least it seems that way in Julia Rodriguez-Elliott's splendid staging in Pasadena.
Part of the strength of "Tartuffe" is that it's about the title character's deluded mark - the wealthy Orgon (Geoff Elliott, whose mellifluous voice is in risible counterpoint to the goony glasses he's wearing) - even more than it's about the scoundrel Tartuffe himself (Freddy Douglas.)
Orgon has invited the supposedly indigent and ostentatiously devout Tartuffe into his home, perhaps impressed in part by the newcomer's appearance - he looks like Brad Pitt preparing for an upcoming role as Jesus Christ. His rustic rags are in striking contrast to the frippery worn by Orgon's family, which is on display in an elaborate party scene before the dialogue even begins. This wordless scene clearly establishes the general tone of indolence that pervades the household.
Still, everyone except Orgon and his mother (Jane Macfie) is on to Tartuffe - and they are soon roused to join forces against him. The skeptics includes Orgon's wife (Carolyn Ratteray), his brother (Stephen Rockwell), his young-adult children (Alison Elliott, Mark Jacobson), his daughter's intended (Rafael Goldstein) and above all, the chief servant (Deborah Strang.)
The family's anti-Tartuffian strategy sessions yield nothing at first, simply driving Orgon to raise the stakes by threatening to marry off his daughter to the intruder. He doesn't even blink when Tartuffe kisses him on the lips late in act 1. But then act 2 arrives - with one of the funniest revelation scenes ever written.
Rodriguez-Elliott uses the witty rhymed couplets of Richard Wilbur's translation. And she enhances the artifice with a lavish scenic design (Frederica Nascimento) and costumes (Angela Balogh Calin.) Billowing white fabrics create comic confusion as they spoof 17th-century style, and a giant portrait of Tartuffe evokes gravitas when the time is right. Near the end, a king's officer (William Dennis Hunt) who arrives with a handy deus ex machina is converted into an amusing mashup of disco deejay and Ziegfeld Follies emcee.
Molière's play completely lacks the sentimentality that courses through Meredith Willson's portrait of a con artist in "The Music Man." However, in MTW's production of the musical, which closes Sunday at the Carpenter Center on the campus of Cal Stage Long Beach, Davis Gaines maintains a shrewd slickness in his portrayal of Harold Hill, reminding us that he is a traveling salesman, not a boys' band director. Gaines has one arm in a sling as the result of a real-life accident, but the sling actually feeds into the idea that Harold injured himself in a previous encounter with the outraged victims of one of his previous jobs.
Gaines and Gail Bennett, as Marian the Librarian, sound great, and it's fun to see Troubadour Theater's artistic director Matt Walker as Harold's sidekick. Director Jeff Maynard has no brainstorms that add anything to our previous notions of "The Music Man," but I couldn't stop wondering if Walker is even now using his role to develop ideas that he'll incorporate into a later Troubie production. How about a combination of the songs from "The Music Man" and the story of "Death of a Salesman"?
o o o
AS PASSOVER APPROACHES, three Jewish-themed plays are playing in small theaters. Compared to the Christmas fare that dominates LA's stages in December, these productions are less plentiful but more provocative.
The play that's the most pointedly and powerfully Passover-related of this group is Matthew Lopez's "The Whipping Man," produced by West Coast Jewish Theatre at Pico Playhouse. It takes us to the shell of a once-grand house in Richmond in April 1865. The wounded scion Caleb (Shawn Savage) of the (presumably Sephardic) DeLeon family has returned to his family home from service in the defeated Confederate Army, only to find that the rest of his white family has scattered. The house is occupied solely by two of the family's now-freed slaves, Simon (Ricco Ross) and John (Kirk Kelleykahn) - who, after living in this house for years, also consider themselves Jewish.
The three of them have different reasons for continuing to stay in the house, and past wounds emerge into plain view as they hunker down with each other. Still, when Passover arrives, they hold a makeshift seder, with its stories of the previous Jews' escape from slavery. It's a remarkably charged scene. But this family that prays together won't necessarily stay together.
Howard Teichman directed this gripping production, which is scheduled to run through April 13 - the day before seders resume as part of this year's Passover.
Meanwhile, at the Fountain Theatre in east Hollywood, "My Name Is Asher Lev" explores another form of Jewish liberation -- only here the escape isn't from slave masters but from the family-enforced strictures of a Chasidic brand of orthodox Judaism itself. Based on a novel by Chaim Potok, Aaron Posner's script traces the gradual emergence of a free-thinking painter (Jason Karasev) from a culture that discourages free artistic expression.
Stephen Sachs directs a cast of three, with Anna Khaja playing roles ranging from Asher's mother to his nude model to his wealthy gallery owner, and Joel Polis playing Asher's father, the rabbi his father works for, an encouraging uncle and a secular Jewish painter who becomes Asher's mentor.
The play isn't an undiluted screed on behalf of unfettered art; it depicts the pain Asher's parents undergo when they become the unwitting subjects of his masterpiece - and the conflicts this causes within the still-mostly-observant Asher. At times Asher feels like the irreverent child who's mentioned in the seder.
By the way, your eyes are drawn to the actors' faces here, not to any facsimiles of Asher's art - a wise decision. In another play about an artist that's currently running in NoHo, the paintings on display simply can't live up to the extremely lavish words of praise with which they're heralded in the script.
Finally, a few words about Israel Horovitz's "Lebensraum." This fascinating play from the late '90s depicts a what-if scenario, in which a German chancellor actively invites Jews to move to Germany with full benefits of citizenship, as a form of penitence for the Holocaust. Some unemployed Germans are not thrilled by the prospect of millions of new competitors for jobs, but other contemporary Germans are quite welcoming.
As with the previous two Jewish-themed plays above, this one has only three actors, but here they play dozens of characters, covering several individual stories in a remarkably brief running time, with no intermission.
I somehow missed Fountain's production of "Lebensraum" more than a decade ago, so I'm grateful to director Don K. Williams, his skilled cast and the Harold Clurman Laboratory Theater Company for introducing me to this brain-tickling adventure, which holds out hope for the kind of rebirth that's celebrated in the seder. Too bad it's playing only two more weekends at Art of Acting Studio in Hollywood.
William Reinbold and Stephanie Zimbalist star in the Colony Theatre Company's production of "Sex and Education." Photo: Michael Lamont
Sex, basketball and cheerleaders. Two productions that opened over the weekend at two of Greater LA's midsize theaters share these popular topics. Let no one say that the stage focuses only on the more esoteric concerns of the elite.
At Burbank's Colony Theatre, the title is "Sex and Education." But basketball, cheerleaders and selling houses are also on the agenda in Lissa Levin's probing comedy set in a high school classroom. The school's hoops star Joe (William Reinbold) and his English teacher Miss Edwards (Stephanie Zimbalist) are both on the verge of graduation - he to college and then (he hopes) the NBA, and she to a new career in real estate.
But Miss Edwards catches Joe passing a note to his cheerleader girlfriend Hannah (Allison Lindsey) during the final exam. So the veteran instructor requires the campus BMOC to stay after class in order to dissect and then re-write his profanity-laden note, which was an effort to get the answer to one of the test questions - and, more important, to arrange a hook-up.
As she analyzes Joe's writing, the two of them tangle not only over issues of grammar and persuasiveness, but also the meaning and value of an education. Meanwhile, Hannah appears on the sidelines in order to deliver little cheers comically emphasizing Miss Edwards' points. Hannah also has a few scenes with Joe that depict events before and after his encounter with Miss Edwards.
Levin's play, which had its Burbank (and area) premiere in 2011 at the smaller Victory Theatre, looks and sounds even sharper at the Colony, under the direction of Andrew Barnicle. It brings potentially fusty arguments to life in a match that has some of the hallmarks of a competitive and fiercely fought basketball game.
Meanwhile, I'll continue the basketball analogies, as I note that the Colony is doing very well on the boards right now, with great rebounding stats to prove it. The company announced last week that its most recent fund-raising efforts raised more than $260,000, enabling it to describe itself as "once-struggling" in a reference to a near-death experience in 2012.
That's great news for LA theater in general. The Colony is one of the most important teams in the midsize theater leagues that offer LA artists and audiences a happy medium between the intimacy of the smaller stages and the better-paying contracts of the larger stages.
Chance Theater, in Anaheim, intends to be one of the newest players in this same league, and it took a big step toward that goal over the weekend, as it opened its new, larger facilities with the West Coast premiere of "Lysistrata Jones," a musical that also offers the lures of basketball, cheerleaders and sex.
The company's new theater, just down the block from its former digs, has been converted into a miniature basketball court. A little more than a hundred fans are seated on one side of the court, while the band occupies a platform on the other side.
Douglas Carter Beane's book and Lewis Flinn's score re-set the story of Lysistrata - the legendary Greek feminist who led the campaign to deny soldiers sex until they stopped fighting -- in contemporary America. The location is "Athens University," where the incongruous name of the athletic teams -- "the Spartans" -- indicates the level of haplessness on campus and the level of comedy in the show.
A particularly determined cheerleader vows to lead the basketball squad to victory via a campaign to withhold sexual favors from the team members until they win. A few too many plot machinations follow. The goal of her campaign eventually expands beyond winning a basketball game.
Despite some narrative clutter that makes "Lysistrata Jones" a little too long-winded, the energy level of director Kari Hayter's cast remains high. A few of the lines weren't quite audible in the new space, but enough of the one-liners land to sustain the high-spirited whimsy.
Taking one step at a time, the Chance hasn't yet graduated to using Actors' Equity members in its larger quarters, but it intends to pursue that goal, say the company's leaders. Chance created a considerable name for itself even without Equity contracts, and the talent of its young non-Equity casts is undeniable. But if those actors are to mature into pursuing long-lasting theater-devoted careers, Equity is the next essential step.
NYET: Christopher Durang's "Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike" comes with the heavy baggage of high expectations at the Mark Taper Forum.
If you're aware that it won the Tony Award for best play last year, you might assume that it was, well, the best new play -- at least among the shallow pool of new plays that appear on Broadway. Also, many theatergoers - include me in this group - might look forward to Durang's latest because of fond memories of some of his earlier work and the plays of Chekhov, which Durang is gently spoofing here.
But high expectations often lead to disappointment. Durang's recent Tony winner isn't as funny or as edgy as many of his previous plays - remember "Why Torture is Wrong, and the People Who Love Them" (which Hollywood's Blank Theatre produced in 2009)? And "Vanya..." isn't as heartbreakingly funny as almost any of Chekhov's plays.
Durang gathers contemporary American versions of Chekhovian characters into the sun room of a Pennsylvania exurban house, which looks just a little too comfortable at the Taper. The glamorous middle-aged actress Masha (Christine Ebersole) owns the place and passes through it for the period of this play, accompanied by her latest young stud Spike (David Hull) - might he be her next, sixth husband?
The house isn't Masha's primary home, but it serves as the permanent abode of her seemingly never-employed brother, 57-year-old Vanya (Mark Blum), and their equally unengaged 52-year-old sister Sonia (Kristine Nielsen) - who was adopted into the family.
The play's only characters not mentioned in the title are the young, aspiring actress Nina (Liesel Allen Yeager), who lives nearby, and the voodoo-practicing housekeeper (Shalita Grant). This last character predicts poetic doom in the style of, yes, the ancient Greek prophet who shares her name - Cassandra.
Cassandra serves primarily as one long, tedious joke. But she is merely the worst example of the problem with the entire play - it's an over-extended comedy sketch, in which a few bulls-eye laugh lines are accompanied by many that miss the mark, which then undercut any serious sentiments that might be evoked.
In the evening's worst examples of sloppy writing, Sonia has a long solo telephone conversation in which she clumsily has to repeat what the other person is saying so we can understand her answers, and Vanya has an even longer rant about cultural artifacts he misses from his youth (including his very youngest years - he mentions the '50s more than once, although he apparently was born in 1957.)
This long slog of a speech is apparently supposed to be the play's climax; actually, it's the clearest indication that Durang didn't know how to edit his own work. And David Hyde Pierce, who appeared as Durang's Vanya on Broadway but directs here, surely felt no incentive to suggest any edits on a script that, after all, won a Tony. The play might have become better if it had remained Tony-less.
Middle photo: J.D. Driskill and Devon Hadsell in "Lysistrata Jones," photo by Thamer Bajjali, True Image Studio. Lower: David Hull and Shalita Grant in "Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike," photo by Craig Schwartz.
Ry Cooder at The Echo. Photos by Iris Schneider.
Ry Cooder was at The Echo last night, backing for Juliette Commagere (his daughter-in-law) on the slide guitar. The show was a free event, part of a month-long Tuesday residency with Belle Brigade, the sister and brother band of Ethan and Barbara Gruska.
Top two photos from 'Above the Fold' by Jim Cox
Quick -- without checking Wikipedia, do you remember the much-publicized 2006 case in which three Duke University lacrosse players, all of them white, were accused of raping an African-American stripper who had entertained at their party?
If so, do you remember how that case was resolved? I confess -- I didn't remember, and I would guess I'm not alone.
That's one of many points that Bernard Weinraub makes in his blistering new "Above the Fold," at Pasadena Playhouse -- that we often remember the initial headlines about high-profile criminal cases but not the conclusions.
Although he was inspired by the 2006 case, Weinraub has carefully fictionalized it. The play is set in North Carolina, but Duke and lacrosse aren't mentioned. And he has updated his tale to the Twitter-infused present day. Because it's fictional, no one can say that he's distorting the real story as egregiously as an unnamed "New York newspaper" does in his script.
But it's that newspaper's reaction that Weinraub is most interested in dissecting. He's an alumnus of the New York Times reporting ranks, and his wonderfully dimensional protagonist -- Jane (the splendid Taraji P. Henson) -- is an African-American reporter who's covering the case for the New York Ti--... er, newspaper.
Jane breaks the story in the national media with the eager cooperation of the prosecutor (Mark Hildreth), who is also running for Congress as a white man in a predominantly black district. She says her initial attempts to reach the accused are unsuccessful -- first, because they haven't been identified and then because "their lawyers are freezing me out" (it might be helpful if we saw this actually taking place on the stage.)
Oops. When she finally speaks to the alleged rapists, she begins to regret the tone of her earlier articles. Yet it's too late to suddenly change her tone, says her editor (Arye Gross), who had earlier raised some precautionary questions.
Jane's ambitious. She has an eye on a coveted foreign post for the newspaper. It turns out that the purported victim Monique (Kristy Johnson) has ambitions of her own. But the play never resorts to the cheesy level that some producers might find irresistible -- there is no romance between Jane and the prosecutor, for example.
Weinraub has taken big steps as a playwright since his "The Accomplices" opened at the Fountain Theatre in 2008. And director Stephen Robman whips the ingredients into a compelling journalistic thriller. An intricate projection design by Jason H. Thompson helps convey the currency of the situation, although part of the imagery unfortunately developed a tic on opening night Wednesday, so a slice of the visual field went dark for most of the second act.
Although no one mentions it in the program, "Above the Fold" is a fascinating follow-up to the revival of "Twelve Angry Men" that the playhouse's artistic director Sheldon Epps directed last fall. That production was unnecessarily schematic. Six black jurors gradually were convinced to save the day for the unseen defendant (who was also apparently of color), against the rush to judgment of six white jurors. There were no Latino or Asian-American or female jurors.
Weinraub's examination of the journalistic system, as opposed to "Twelve Angry Men"s treatment of the justice system, is much more nuanced -- less black and white, metaphorically as well as literally. I can't remember a play with a more detailed demonstration of how easy it can be for the media to make mistakes that matter.
Kate Fodor's "Rx"is a sprightly satire focused on the clinical test of a new prescription drug designed to combat "workplace depression." One of the test participants (Mina Badie), who edits a pork industry newsletter, and her medical monitor (Jonathan Pessin) -- who's as depressed by his own job as she is by hers -- begin an unlikely and perilous romance. News flash -- complications ensue. John Pleshette directs a nimble ensemble at Lost Studio (130 S. La Brea Avenue.)
Illegal drugs launch the very different "Se Llama Cristina," by Octavio Solis, at Boston Court (70 N. Mentor Ave., Pasadena.) It hinges on the not-entirely-plausible premise that a couple awakens from an illegal drug binge with almost total amnesia. The man (Justin Huen) and woman (Paula Christensen) then gradually prod each other into re-creating their shared past from their returning memories, which include the suspicion that they're apparently neglectful parents. Director Robert Castro emphasizes the script's inherently dreamy quality to explore the turbulent feelings produced by severely flawed parenting, but the ending is surprisingly upbeat. "Se Llama Cristina" is as close to performance art as it is to being a play. Fortunately these performers know how to sustain interest.
Musicals to the Southeast
Since the death of Reprise, the city of LA lacks a fully professional company devoted primarily to producing (as opposed to presenting) musicals. LA fans of musicals now spend a lot of time in their cars on the way to Musical Theatre West in Long Beach and 3-D Theatricals shows in Fullerton (Plummer Auditorium) and Redondo Beach (at the city's performing arts center.)
Last Sunday I combined a matinee of 3-D's revival of Mel Brooks' "The Producers" with an evening performance of one of South Coast Repertory's rare musicals in Costa Mesa -- the Adam Guettel/Craig Lucas/Elizabeth Spencer romance "The Light in the Piazza."
"Piazza" follows a North Carolina mother (Patti Cohenour) and her not-quite adult daughter (Erin Mackey) on their vacation in Florence in the '50s. Much to her mother's chagrin, the young woman falls for a brash Italian not-quite adult man (David Burnham) and vice versa, despite linguistic barriers. Then the mother begins to consider her own conventional but threadbare marriage, and tables start turning. Kent Nicholson's crystalline staging is smaller and more intimate than the one that played the Ahmanson in 2006, but the nuances are perhaps clearer and the ending just as moving.
As for "The Producers," I'm guessing no synopsis is necessary, but I'll just say that the leads -- Jay Brian Winnick as Max and Jeff Skowron as Leo -- are as accomplished as their Broadway predecessors but lack the hype that might have raised some expectations too high. Would you believe that Skowron recently won the Ovation Award for best actor in a musical for 3-D's revival of the musical about the lynching of Leo Frank, "Parade" -- which has virtually nothing in common with "The Producers" other than a Jewish connection and the fact that both titles start with "P"?
These are Don Shirley's first reviews for LA Observed. Don was the LA STAGE Watch columnist and copy editor of LA STAGE Times, a website (now on hiatus) published by the LA STAGE Alliance. He was the primary theater reporter for the Los Angeles Times for two decades, writing many reviews as well as news, feature articles, and larger commentaries. He also has been the theater critic of LA CityBeat, a (now defunct) alternative newspaper, and KCRW, a public radio station. Early in his career, he was on the staff of the Washington Post and wrote extensively about DC theater. He is a graduate of USC and also studied at NYU and at the National Critics Institute of the Eugene O'Neill Theater Center in Connecticut.
If only "Giselle" had just one act, the second act. Because in that case the Royal New Zealand Ballet's calling card -- here at the Music Center in its U.S. debut -- would leave an extravagantly moving impression.
There it was, this moonlit scene with the Wilis: jilted be-veiled brides in their white nether world, sweet sorrow in the air, gossamer skirts floating as they stepped in hushed, nun-like unison. And there was the queen of their spiritual kingdom, Myrtha, danced with magical definition by Abigail Boyle, imperiously resolute in her condemnation of all the past faltering swains.
Not only that, but Gillian Murphy staked her most credible effort as Giselle here in Wilidom, where her famously steely technique took the doomed innocent beyond human, but also showed the character as a powerful supplicant, begging Myrtha for the life of her lover Albrecht, danced by the high-skilled though self-conscious Qi Huan.
And here, bringing equal impact to the performance, was the extraordinarily artful conducting of Nigel Gaynor, who charged his sizeable orchestra with hitting the dramatic heights in Adolphe Adam's beloved score.
But it's the first act, in the land of the living, where class breakdown between peasants and royalty must pass the bright-lit test of characterization. For all her carefully grafted-on vulnerabilities, though, Murphy remains a pragmatist in her body's manner, not the charmingly fey, terminally naïve thing that is Giselle. Her mad scene lacked the delusional fever pitch of such a creature. And the Kobborg/Stiefel choreographic changes did not help here or elsewhere.
Surely no one could blame Murphy for wanting to inhabit this role, which stands as the Hamlet of the ballet. Also, the well-known ABT dancer now doubles as principal guest artist with the New Zealanders, since her husband Ethan Stiefel took on the post of company director.
Overall this a perfectly decent regional troupe made of well-trained Pacific Rimmers. But not quite at the level of the Los Angeles Ballet.
From another mentality altogether, a contemporary British one, came Wayne McGregor Random Dance to UCLA's Royce Hall. His work, "FAR," is the very model of high-tech and extended boundaries, its idea taken from Ray Porter's "Flesh in the Age of Reason," a treatise on the mechanisms of thought and emotion.
Now you can forget all this and just know that the eminent choreographer has created a feast full of explicated mystery, spoken in an unknowable language. What materializes onstage is a mapping out of the myriad ways bodies can twist and undulate and juxtapose their limbs, torsos, necks and shoulders.
So at first we're watching not humans in their usual expressive modes, but other forms of animated life sparked by dancers who are superb specimens. They move in non-continuous spasms dictated by an electronic score (fade-ins-fade-outs, amplified piano with vocals, mingled sounds) and set against a backboard of blinking lights.The totality is entirely engrossing, a spectacular piece of theater.
Also contemporary: Jacaranda. And not for the first time at this outpost of modernism, was there a packed house (or should I say church?) at Santa Monica's First Presbyterian -- even though no vestige of mainstream music showed up on the program, only what could be identified as outlier soundscapes.
No matter. It was the big names from the past -- composers Stockhausen and Xenakis, those original avant-gardists of the '60s -- who drew the hordes: oldsters with backpacks, elegant arty types, college students and even some unlikely middlebrow greyheads.
Call it a gathering of the enlightened, an enclave of enthusiasts -- all of them game for whatever challenges that artistic director Patrick Scott might dream up in his passion for new music.
To start off the "old" new music there was Timothy Loo, who showed us the extreme difficulty Xenakis imposed on any cellist attempting his solo "Nomos Alpha" -- an arduous series of alternating mystical whispers, purrings, agitatos, tappings and slurs. His brow glistened with sweat. His string-fingering hand wore a white glove to protect it. He also imbued these various sounds with an immediate, human presence-- along with beyond-the-call virtuosity.
And then there was Stockhausen's "Stimmung," which brought VOXNOVA, the amplified vocal sextet from its native Italy for a U.S. debut. Sitting in a darkened circle, with only the green reflection of their music stands for light, the singers induced the audience's familiar head-bobbing during especially hypnotic passages, their voices blending like elastic bands and issuing an occasional auctioneer yell, along with recited lines of poetry.
No such experimental diversions materialized, though, when the St. Lawrence String Quartet dropped by at Beverly Hills' Wallis Theater for an evening of Haydn, Beethoven and multi-faceted Korngold -- the latter well-known in Hollywood for his many film scores, as first violinist Geoff Nuttall entertainingly pointed out, but a composer unfairly consigned to movie music.
It was good to hear chamber music in this acoustically attractive hall, especially given the St. Lawrence's invigorated, alert readings. But violist Lesley Robertson looked like a somewhat inert exile on the wide stage, positioned at what seemed like a far distance from the others. And somehow the push-pull, close interactions we hear in other quartets were hard to find here, one factor being that Nuttall's physical playing -- with his knee bouncing in the air along with a whole range of energetically expressive body movements, contrasted strongly with the other three musicians.
So too did the Ballets Jazz Montréal showcase wide contrasts a few nights earlier at the Wallis. This versatile company featured a lovely, if adynamic, duet choreographed by Benjamin Millepied (remember him, late of New York City Ballet and the film "Black Swan"? He just took the chief post at Paris Ballet after the big to-do of heading the brand new L.A. Dance Project downtown). In total contrast was Barak Marshall's "Harry," narrative musings on war, death and love -- all those pictorial things he illustrates so passionately with his dancers.
Bruce Springsteen live at the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival in 2006.
It was 30 years ago at the Universal Amphitheatre when I saw Pete Seeger for my first and only time, but despite valiant support from Arlo Guthrie, Holly Near and his old Weavers bandmate Ronnie Gilbert, the years by then were taking their toll. His hands were trembling and his voice unsteady, but Seeger, who died this week at the age of 94, was still a powerful musical presence on that stage - a living link between the Old Left of the Popular Front and New Deal that battled the Depression in the 1930s and fascism in the 1940s, and the New Left of the anti-war, human rights and environmental crusades of the 1960s and beyond.
For us, the music that night was secondary: we were paying tribute to a cultural monument, and the air was thick with emotion. But some 20 years later and nearly two thousand miles away, I witnessed the greatest Pete Seeger concert he never gave, and out of the
hundreds of shows that I've seen through the decades, that's the one I'll never forget.
This story begins the previous summer. On August 29, 2005, as I celebrated my 50th birthday with a houseful of close friends in Los Angeles, Hurricane Katrina made landfall outside New Orleans. By mid-day, the situation was spinning out of control into unimaginable catastrophe, but the worst was yet to come. The levees breached in more than 50 locations, the water from the storm surge continued to pour into the drowning city. Two days later, Katrina had dissipated, but by then roughly 85% of New Orleans was under water. The vast majority of residents had been successfully evacuated beforehand, but many had ignored the evacuation orders. While at least 15,000 people were subsequently rescued, nearly 1,500 lost their lives in what is considered the worst engineering disaster in American history.
And so it was that eight months later, when I had the opportunity to join my wife for a legal convention in New Orleans, I strongly resisted. The city couldn't possibly be ready for convention business yet, I argued. It would be disaster porn - out-of-towners gaping voyeuristically at the ruined homes and debris-strewn streets, a decidedly un-magical misery tour of human suffering. I thought the convention planners, union-side labor lawyers, epitomized political correctness run amok - determined to express their solidarity with the Crescent City victims in the most vulgar and misguided way possible.
As it turned out, I was entirely wrong on every count. Tourism is the lifeblood of the city, and conventions like ours represented a desperately needed transfusion. The residents were only too eager to show and tell what they'd experienced. Their relief and gratitude that somebody still cared enough to visit - during a time when some were writing off the city altogether - was genuinely touching. The hotels and restaurants went overboard to share their hospitality and prove they could keep up their standards. I felt humbled, and deeply ashamed of myself.
The convention business concluded, we still had the weekend - and so on April 30, 2006, we found ourselves at the New Orleans Race Track for that year's Jazzfest, a massive annual musical bacchanal that few thought possible to mount successfully so soon after the disaster. But the show must go on, and once again, we had underestimated the city's grit and determination to pick itself up and forge ahead.
After several days spent sampling the wide variety of indigenous talent and local Cajun, zydeco, gospel and blues groups, the grand finale that Sunday afternoon was Bruce Springsteen, who'd been announced as previewing his upcoming album for the first time before the general public (after a small out-of-town tryout a month before in his own Asbury Park, New Jersey.)
Never a big Springsteen fan, I found myself intrigued by this project: "The Seeger Sessions" was Springsteen's wildly anti-commercial effort to mount a rock 'n' roll hootenanny built around traditional American folk songs and spirituals popularized by Pete Seeger. Springsteen had assembled a band of nearly two dozen musicians - guitar, bass and drums, yes, but also horns, fiddles, accordion and keyboards - held a couple of rehearsals, and gathered everyone over the course of a few days to just bang it out live in the studio, old-school. And there they were, filling the stage like excited kids auditioning for a talent show.
The set blasted off with Springsteen's rousing version of "Mary, Don't You Weep," a full-throated treatment of an old Civil War-era Negro spiritual first recorded in 1915 and widely popularized by Seeger during the civil-rights era. The next few songs, "John Henry" and "Old Dan Tucker" sent me hurtling back to my elementary school singsongs. Then things turned solemn with the purposeful gospel ballad, "Eyes on the Prize" - "Freedom's name is mighty sweet/And soon we're gonna meet/keep your eyes on the prize/hold on."
At the time of its release, some criticized the album for eschewing politics, a "missed opportunity" for pointed criticism targeting the Bush presidency, growing economic inequity and misguided military adventures abroad. But the critics, not surprisingly, got it all wrong. The collection is arguably Springsteen's most political album - and a fitting tribute to Seeger's skill for weaving sharp social commentary into accessible, non-threatening and easily singable folk songs.
"My Oklahoma Home," a superficially jokey tune written by two of Seeger's fellow Almanac Singers in the 1940s (a group that also included Woody Guthrie), tells the tale of a man whose Oklahoma farm is destroyed by drought and tornados, which also carried away his wife - "Mister, as I bent down to kiss her, she was picked up by a twister" - and concludes sadly, "Yeah, it's up there in the sky, in that dust cloud over 'n' by, my Oklahoma home is in the sky." Things turn even darker with "Mrs. McGrath," a mournful ballad about a poor Irish widow talked into sending her son off to join the British fleet, from which he eventually returns, maimed, his legs torn off by a cannonball. The anguished woman cries, "All foreign wars, I do proclaim, live on blood and a mother's pain, and I'd rather have my son as he used to be, than the King of America and his whole Navy."
The set continued with "How Can a Poor Man Stand Such Times and Live" (including another pointed Bush reference), another spiritual, "Jacob's Ladder," Seeger's civil-rights anthem "We Shall Overcome," then a song that Seeger first performed with The Weavers, "Pay Me My Money Down," and more. But by then, I had been seized by a kind of emotional delirium that I've never experienced in any concert before or since: I can only compare it to the kind of ecstatic religious fervor of a revival meeting.
As I said, Pete Seeger - by then, 86 years old - never performed at that concert. But he was surely there, channeled through the music and clarity of moral purpose and determination to stand up and sing out against injustice. That afternoon, beside the wreck of the city, we felt Pete's power of song lifting us up. He lifts us still.
Photo of Seeger and Springsteen at Barack Obama inauguration concert in Washington, January 2009.
Carol Vernon at LACMA. Photo by Iris Schneider.
On a recent morning, Carol Vernon strides into LACMA's Resnick Pavilion looking as comfortable as if she were in her own living room.
The photography exhibit we are soon standing in, "See the Light-Photography, Perception, and Cognition," explores parallels between photography and the science of vision. If Vernon feels at home it's because the images we are surrounded by were, for many years, part of her family's everyday life.
Drawn from the Marjorie and Leonard Vernon Collection, the exhibit gives museum-goers the chance to view 220 of the 3500 images collected by her late parents between 1976 and 2007. Acquired by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art in 2008, the collection essentially tells the history of 19th and 20th century photography. It includes masterworks by Edward Weston, Ansel Adams, Julia Margaret Cameron, Edward Steichen, Berenice Abbott, Margaret Bourke-White, Man Ray, Harry Callahan, Aaron Siskind, Paul Strand and Manuel Alvarez Bravo. One of the finest private collections of photography assembled in the United States, it is notable for its variety and depth. "The scope of this collection is unparalleled," says LACMA photography curator Britt Salvesen. "The range of styles and balance of American and European photographers is incredibly interesting. Today you could never put together a collection like this."
For Carol Vernon, to walk through the exhibit is clearly bittersweet. She was in her mid-20s and working with her dad, an industrial developer and builder, when her parents began to collect. "It's always nice to come and see these familiar images," she says. "For many years my office was in their house so I was surrounded by a lot of this. A lot of the collecting happened where I was able to go with them, so it was fun." The initial spark was a chance encounter between Leonard Vernon and Maggie Weston, Edward Weston's daughter-in-law, in her Carmel gallery on New Year's Eve in 1976. One thing led to another, and three months later Carol Vernon and her parents found themselves in a Westwood hotel room.
"There were images on the bed, on the floor, just kind of propped up. They were just gorgeous and we had a field day," Vernon recalls. Her parents bought 17 photographs, mostly dating from the 19th century. Their collection had its beginning. "This was not a studied thing..It really was very organic," Vernon says. "The more they looked at, the more they wanted to know. This was a time when there were only two photography galleries in Los Angeles [the LACMA photography department wasn't officially created until 1984] and there was a lot of learning going on."
The Vernons became well known to curators, dealers, scholars, and artists — struggling and established. "In those years, anybody who was a fine art photographer trying to sell their work would eventually hear somebody say, 'you need to go see the Vernon's'," Carol says. "My parents loved sharing what they had. Nothing would make my father happier than when someone would ask, for example, 'do you have any Weston, or Adams', or whatever it was, and he would pull out boxes and boxes for them to go through. They loved seeing what artists and dealers were bringing them, and learning about what was about to go up for auction. It was a very small community then and they loved having them all in the house."
The couple formed relationships with many of the photographers they collected. "Max Yavno was one of the closest," Carol remembers. "He lived in town so we got to know him very well. Great photographer, total ladies man!" Ansel Adams was a frequent dinner guest. "It was really a treat to be sitting at the table with this master. The conversation was wide ranging. It was about photography, what he was doing, what was going on in the world, where he'd been traveling. They were very low-key family dinners."
When asked why her parents took so passionately to collecting photography, especially at a time when the art world was still debating whether photography could be considered art, Vernon is only able to speculate.
"My father had wanted to be a fashion photographer in his youth, though it was probably more about the women," she says. Later on he became an avid amateur, often using his camera while traveling and for family snapshots. The couple was well known among dealers for their ability to communicate without words what they wanted to purchase. "They were just so in tune that they just knew, and it was 'OK, we'll take these and that one over there, and that one's not part of the group," Vernon says.
As in all families, things changed. Marjorie Vernon died in 1998, Leonard in 2007. When Carol starts to talk about the experience of moving the collection from her parents' Bel Air home, she sounds like any child who has had to deal with losing her parents. "The day they came and started packing everything up and it was all going into these boxes, and the walls were getting empty...it was a horrible day," she says. "It was the realization my parents were gone. This was the proof that this life was over." Vernon dealt with her grief by reminding herself that she was carrying out her parents' wish. They wanted the photo collection to stay together, preferably in Los Angeles.
The Vernon Collection at one point was in danger of going up for auction. A gift from Wallis Annenberg and the Annenberg Foundation made it possible for LACMA to purchase the collection, according to Vernon and museum sources.
Carol Vernon has inherited her parents' love of collecting. She and her husband, Robert Turbin, adhere to her parents' philosophy of acquiring what you like, and what speaks to you. Their own collection includes paintings, drawings and ceramics, as well as photography. The difference, however, is that while her parents could agree on what to buy without speaking to each other, Vernon and Turbin readily acknowledge that "we actually have to talk about it."
See the Light--Photography, Perception, Cognition: The Marjorie and Leonard Vernon Collection is on exhibit at LACMA until March 23, 2014.
LACMA photos: The Marjorie and Leonard Vernon Collection, gift of The Annenberg Foundation, and acquired from Carol Vernon and Robert Turbin. Except for Julia Margaret Cameron: The Marjorie and Leonard Vernon Collection, gift of The Annenberg Foundation and Carol Vernon and Robert Turbin.
Pamina (Janai Brugger) bonds with Papageno (Rodion Pogossov) over their shared desire to find a true love. Photo: Robert Millard
Humor, needed now more than ever, comes to our downtown stages in two shows brimming with imagination: a "Magic Flute" that breaks the antique Mozartian mold and Matthew Bourne's hip "Sleeping Beauty" powered by a testosteronic high. And to think they both used to be sex-less little fairy tales, set to extraordinary music.
Think of Mozart in his feverishly sick last months, penning his 1791 score of Die Zauberflöte, that sweetly child-like coming-of-age fable with Singspiel characters straight from a classic story book. And then think the 1920s, silent film, the earliest Mickey Mouse animations, Louise Brooks, Buster Keaton, Nosferatu and just how big a leap this LA Opera premiere made from one to the other.
Truth is, I never saw anything quite like it. For sheer ingenuity and stage/film savvy this one goes beyond mere stylized cleverness.
And it came to LA replacing the well-loved Peter Hall/Maurice Sendak fantasia because company mavens were onto something: a chance to lean forward and give this entertainment/movie capital a dazzlingly innovative, re-thought, all-of-a-piece "Magic Flute" never before seen outside of Berlin's Komische Oper, one devised by Suzanne Andrade and Paul Barritt with co-director Barrie Kosky of the retro-garde 1927, a London theater company.
So hold on to your hats. This staging is a sophisticate's delight. Its constantly sly wit and overall tech management come stream-lined with ever-changing yet logical stagecraft and imagery. Instead of the spiel or dialogue, it uses old-timey screen titles between scenes (1927, get it?) just like in silent films. Accompanying them are Mozart's well-known C-minor and F-minor keyboard fantasies played on an amplified forte piano, the sound a bit tinny like in those old movie houses. Esther Bialas's costumes are body-hugging flapper coats and cloches. The cast comes in white face (an irony is that the romantic leads are both black.)
Everyone appears on a separate, little platform attached high up to a big board -- remember "Laugh-In"? Well, it's sort of like that but the door flaps that open with each set of occupants are full-body size instead of just for heads. And whiz-bang animation supplies the background, complete with a cat cameo and assorted other animals.
It works. And it's impossible not to gasp at how thought-through a piece it is. If, that is, you can do without the heart-melting moments embedded in arias like ""Ach, ich fuhl's" -- which Pamina sings when Tamino has seemingly shut her out (because he's really under a challenge to be silent or to lose her altogether.)
But this is where we want to suspend disbelief and join the fairy tale, where we need to feel what the characters feel, not keep emotional distance from them. The music would pull us into her pool of pain, yet the conceptual catch-all leaves us out because there's no connecting vibration between the two lovers onstage. So I came home and -- for relief -- watched several excerpts of this scene on YouTube...
Still, the cast onstage could not be faulted. Rodion Pogossov, as the guileless fool Papageno and here a Buster Keaton type, had the best shot at exercising human physicality; in his earthy gold suit and flattened, slouchy hat to match, hands often in pockets, he ambled about, his voice a most pleasing, warm baritone.
The others -- Lawrence Brownlee (Tamino), Janai Brugger (Pamina), Erika Miklosa (Queen of the Night), Rodell Rosel (Monostatos), Amanda Woodbury (Papagena) and Evan Boyer, (a Sarastro who omitted his lowest notes) -- were more locked into their stations, thus sounding somewhat distant but terrific anyway Conductor James Conlon kept things moving along briskly. Still, he gave the laments their lyrical due and led a thrillingly unified chorus.
But no such musical treats lay across the plaza at the Ahmanson. Typically these days for touring dance companies, this Tchaikovsky ballet score was canned, over-amplified and scratchy.
Aside from that deficit, though, do you really think Matthew Bourne would stage "The Sleeping Beauty" and let its heroine be the precious, dainty, delicate innocent girl set upon by a wicked fairy who puts her in a 100-year doze?
Not a chance. His idea of Princess Aurora is a cantankerous scamp. She flings herself into any and all waiting arms and races gracelessly like a wound-up tomboy, barefoot, while all the others dancers wear ballet slippers.
And who would be her formidable nemesis, as well as a main character in this production? Not the bent-over, grizzled crone called Carabosse but the menacing male version of her, and later as the villain's son, Caradoc, erect, imperious and vampire-ish. No one will mistake the evil he does or his command of events or the fearsomeness of his presence. Just as Bourne has typically done before, notably in his "Swan Lake," he brings real threat of harm through a male character -- that powerful high chest, neck held as though by steel girders, arms and shoulders sweeping all before him to subservience. Choice.
As Aurora's savior there's Leo the Gamekeeper (elsewhere known as Prince Charming), and he's remindful of any easy-to-like romantic lead in a musical comedy.
All three are cast to strength: most compellingly Adam Maskell in the dual villain role Carabosse/Caradoc; Hannah Vassallo as Aurora and Dominic North as the sweet suitor Leo. The group dances abound in big, juicy movements with expanded chests and extended arms. The most gratifying among them, and the only one with real choreographic artistry and clever design, was the garden party.
On a far smaller scale there was the debut performance of Barak Ballet, a local chamber company founded by Melissa Barak, late of New York City Ballet and a native daughter here. She's artistically savvy, quite ambitious and her opening event at the Broad Stage featured one dazzling work -- a real find -- by New York choreographer Pascal Rioult: "Wien," set to Ravel's "La Valse."
Don't even ask how or why this piece escaped us in the past. New Yorkers saw it in 1995 and it has been performed elsewhere, but no other company has brought it here. Thank you, Ms. Barak.
"Wien" is the name Ravel originally gave to this popular concert piece. And here the French dance-maker illustrated a design of social disintegration that he saw in it.
To the score's swirling, plangent waves of unrest we saw a gaggle of people in street clothes internally pulled and yanked as though caught in a vortex, drawn in one direction or another, sometimes with hunched shoulders, necks bent down, jaws jutting -- remindful of an Expressionist painting. And in the way the group moved around the stage it seemed like birds in changing formations, impelled by some unseen force.
The performance itself was matchless. The credit goes to Barak for recruiting this small contingent of virtuosic dancers, so sensitive to the work's core voices.
"It all started as a kid when my grandparents gave me a rolltop desk with all the little drawers and spaces," Clare Graham said in describing his path to becoming an artist. "I was a kid who collected bones of my dead pets, leaves, rocks and I could fill up all those spaces. Now, my studio is 7,000 square feet and it's basically an enlarged version of that rolltop desk."
Perhaps that's how it began, but it's what Clare has done with those collections that makes him unique. Using recycled objects like buttons, tin cans, wire, yardsticks, pencils, soda can pop tops, teddy bear eyes and rosaries, the artist has created an environment that is a jaw-dropping homage to creativity, imagination and perseverance. This weekend his studio was one of many open to the public as part of the Arroyo Arts Collective tour. I was awed by the sheer creativity and imagination on artful display in every nook and cranny of Graham's breathtaking space.
"Sometimes the objects tell you what you need to do. Rosaries are a good example. I had been collecting them for years, but I needed to mass them and get all that prayer power together," Graham said, referring to a totem of 3,500 rosaries towering behind him, reaching up toward the ceiling. As he describes his process, more intuitive than artful, the objects become more than the sum of their parts as pop tops are woven tightly together--he estimates that 250,000 went into a large ball that he can sit on--buttons are stacked and hung, yardsticks are laid side by side to create his version of a Stickley bench. Tin can bottoms are riveted together to make tabletops and cabinets. Dominoes, scrabble tiles, puzzle pieces are rescued from the trash and turned into art. It makes it hard to think of ever throwing anything away. Graham often opens part of his studio, known as MorYork Gallery, to other artists, and hosts monthly music nights in what has become his role as patron of the artists of Highland Park and the Northeast Arts district.
He is currently preparing for his first show at the Craft and Folk Art Museum next year, and has begun showing his work at galleries around town. Word has spread gradually about his artistry. "It's totally word of mouth," he said. "I don't use any of the mechanisms to spread the word about my work. There are tons of images now on Instagram and from cellphone cameras taken by people who have toured the studio. It's interesting to see what they see in the place, their take on what the mother ship is." Indeed, step over the threshold and you are definitely in another world.
The studio was open this weekend with a Tygh Valley Traders Trunk show to benefit the Fowler Textile Council at UCLA, and on Sunday as part of the Arroyo Arts Collective.
Barbara Morgan photo of Martha Graham.Used with permission.
An illustrious opening of a Beverly Hills performing arts complex, the Annenberg Wallis. A nod to cultural icon Martha Graham. Also to Giuseppe Verdi, with his delectable last opera, "Falstaff." What else could we say but huzzahs all around?
As the Wallis's first offering, there was the Graham company -- which has not toured L.A. since 2000. Too long. After all, it was marvelous Martha who put modern dance on the map, starting in the 1930s and defining it as the most exhilaratingly theatrical art form to probe the human psyche.
And surely there could be no better welcome back to this city than a bid to inaugurate the Wallis -- a 500-seat theater set in a landmark: the restored, lavishly marbled Beverly Hills post office, a rendition of Italian Renaissance. She would have loved it. Especially the spacious stage with ample wing space and terrific sight lines afforded by the raked rows of seating.
But with Graham long gone -- she died in '91, running her company and even appearing onstage right up to the end at 96! -- it's good to see that the current dancers are equal to the same stunningly high level as those in today's top troupes.
What's more, the bill of fare just seen on the Wallis stage gave its audience a deliciously full spectrum of Graham's historical importance -- from the Denishawn days of exotica and floating gossamer, on to that period when modern dance wrapped itself around political-moral issues.
The program -- planned and narrated by company stalwart, director Janet Eilber, formerly one of Graham's major dancers -- made its mark throughout.
Once again we could think of Käthe Kollwitz's expressionist woodcuts when Katherine Crockett performed "Lamentation," Graham's famous 1936 solo -- sitting on a bench and shrouded in silk jersey, her arms and legs twisting and stretching that garment into angled folds of grief, her hollowed out facial features gripped with feeling, speaking the unspeakable.
Similar angst characterized "Chronicle," an outcry against war, with group dances that were riveting in their sense of defiance and their uniquely austere formations.
But it was "Maple Leaf Rag" -- a cleverly jokey poke at Graham herself, via emblematic quotes from her own movement vocabulary -- that sent the crowd home happy. For some others, though, the grandiloquent and overly glitzy "Ritual to the Sun," set to Carl Nielsen's "Helios" Overture, looked like someone's misbegotten gloss on the choreographer's signature.
Originality returned the next night, though, with LA Opera's new production of "Falstaff," the Verdian romp that exults in briskly buoyant, multi-part vocal lines and prismatic orchestration so full of fine glitter it fairly lifts off to the sky.
A connoisseur piece by any measure, it serves to celebrate the composer's 200th birthday. What's more, it turns the tables on those who regard Verdi -- exclusively -- as the emperor of Italian opera's deep-felt tragedies like "Traviata" and "Rigoletto."
This one is a comedy. Verdi and his librettist Boito created their Boccaccian delight as an odd little treatise on pre-Renaissance morality (courtesy of the Bard's "Merry Wives of Windsor" and "Henry IV"). It's built around a fallen aristocrat with delusions of importance but with philosophical/psychological underpinnings.
We think back to 1982 when the great god-like maestro Carlo Maria Giulini led the LA Philharmonic in a wholly high-value production with an all-star cast and how, whenever LA Opera revives it, thoughts turn to those performances.
Happily, there were no disappointments or even oddities or directorial revisions this time. And while conductor James Conlon may not have lingered over the lyric heavenliness of its short-lived melodic strains he certainly let them soar and gave great propulsive vitality to the bustling activity captured in the score.
Adrian Linford's traditional designs made for easy access. And director Lee Blakely kept the stage action lively, possibly losing some of the lesser roles' character definition.
But the main order of business comes down to Sir John Falstaff, and in his portrayal of the fat knight Roberto Frontali made a superb case. First off, his baritone has a full range of tone and expressive color, and you hear the singing line in all of his musical phrases. He even gave off hints of an Italian Renaissance Zero Mostel as an adorable dumpling dressed to the nines for his courting caper -- although not issuing utmost cranky wisdom in the "honor" monologue.
The other standout was Ronnita Nicole Miller as Mistress Quickly, the schemer who leads him to his comic disaster: a dump in the River Thames. Ekaterina Sadovnikova sang prettily as Nanetta, but without making us forget the alluring voice of Barbara Hendricks (who could?), while Juan Francisco Gatell was a quite wiry-sounding Fenton.
Performances through Dec. 1 at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.
LA Observed file photo
The goal for Walt Disney Concert Hall was to shake the dust off classical music and architecture and engage the contemporary world and popular culture, according to architect Frank Gehry and L. A. Philharmonic conductor laureate Esa-Pekka Salonen. The two men spoke recently at the Hammer Museum in a conversation moderated by architecture critic Nicolai Ouroussoff, who said the hall was "one of the most positive stories" he has covered. The conversation, on stage at the Hammer's Billy Wilder Theater, was part of the commemoration of Disney Hall's tenth anniversary.
"We did care about the legacy of classical music," Salonen said.. "What we wanted was something like a museum with a dynamic contemporary wing." If someone didn't update the tradition, he was afraid classical music would "come to an end like classic cars. What makes the L.A. Phil unique is that it doesn't impose an old model. The new hall changed the narrative so that the orchestra and the hall became one. That never happened at [the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion]. Disney Hall is a fine-tuned instrument for one purpose - high-quality orchestral playing from whatever century."
Gehry said he felt that the old buildings downtown reflected L.A.'s "insecurity" because they were modeled after structures in other cities such as Lincoln Center in New York City. He wanted to break that mold. "That was so strange for L.A. where everything is freer. With Disney Hall I was trying to break down the scale into smaller pieces. There was nothing in the neighborhood to emulate."
Both Gehry and Salonen gave credit to the late Ernest Fleischmann, who was executive director of the L.A. Philharmonic, for his vision for the hall. "He wanted it to be an infinitely democratic room where everybody would be equal," Gehry said. "There would be no bad seats. We wanted intimacy despite the volume, with the orchestra in the same space as the audience," rather than separated by a proscenium.
"The audience is no longer an anonymous mass," Salonen said. "It feels like we're playing to individuals and we can perceive that they feel something. There's a feedback loop because we're in close proximity. It changed the way the musicians approach things like what kind of socks to wear." The orchestra plays better in Disney Hall, he said, because the audience knows the music is for them and not "some kind of generalized activity. You feel the intimacy and that affects the way we perform. In no other hall have I experienced this. Music should be an overwhelming emotional and physical experience."
Gehry developed one model for the hall with white plaster interior walls that "looked kind of like sails." That would have been fine acoustically, he said, "but we wanted the warmth of wood, to make you "feel closer to the violin and the cello.
He described the day when a musician came in to play as a test while the hall was still under construction. "We sat up in the highest seat," and when the music began, "I was holding Esa-Pekka's hand. From the first second, it was just plain beautiful. We knew then it was going to be a success."
Months later, when the orchestra first rehearsed in the new hall, there were "many tears." One older musician said, "I've wasted four decades of my life and now it sounds like this." On that day, Salonen said to Gehry, "Frank, we'll keep it."
Union Station was buzzing with activity. Those attending the Hard Day of the Dead rave at LA's Historic Park, dressed for the event, or should I say barely dressed for it, were rushing through the terminal to catch a train to the park in skimpy Halloween costumes that barely covered their butts. There was the guy in the diaper, rushing by next to the young lady wearing knee high mukluks and a thong. But the most common costume in the station had to be the Sennheiser headphones worn by those lucky enough to line up for 160 free tickets to "Invisible Cities" the opera being staged throughout the historic station by The Industry. Yuval Sharon, the force behind the production company that is pushing the boundaries of opera to find new audiences, announced another free show this coming Sunday, on the heels of the resounding success of the opera's run. Last Sunday's free performance was underwritten by generous donors and Sharon has worked hard to fundraise, including with a Kickstarter campaign, to make the program affordable. He said the response has been astounding, and shows have been added throughout the run to accommodate the clamor for tickets.
"Invisible Cities" is an elegaic look at Italo Calvino's book about Marco Polo and Kubla Khan, and his retelling of the stories Polo told Khan about his travels, real or imaginary. With libretto and music composed by Christopher Cerrone, the setting in the station added an adventurous element to the performance as listeners were encouraged to roam freely and encounter the performers — singers and a group of dancers from the LA Dance project choreographed by Danielle Agami. In Sharon's introductory remarks before the live orchestra began in the old Fred Harvey restaurant, listeners were encouraged to "take off their headsets and enjoy the silence, and share their headsets with bystanders" and I noticed quite a lot of sharing going on as travelers stood transfixed trying to figure out what dream they had walked into while waiting for their bus or train. The piece ended in the old ticket area with dancers barefoot and undulating through the booths where tickets to very real trips once were sold. It was an impressive finale to an exhilarating evening's entertainment. It was hard to decide whether the performers or the location should get top billing. In the end, the whole was so much more than the sum of its parts.
Photos by Iris Schneider.
The deluge is on — so whether it's the landmark "Einstein on the Beach" or Frank Zappa's finally-mounted "200 Motels" or the mind-stretching Nederlands Danse Theater or the multi-cultural Body Traffic or the Bach marathoner András Schiff, you're bound to get gobsmacked in a performing arts orgy.
And to think that it took 37 years before the Robert Wilson/Philip Glass "Einstein" could land its full-complement staging — right here, not in New York — thanks to LA Opera and UCLA. What's more, after this production's worldwide, year-long tour ends in Paris, these original creators of the piece will hang it up.
So what was the intermission-less, four-hour-plus extravaganza like? A dream. One that you walk into and sit immersed in scene after scene, while the cast's sleep-walking characters utter here-and-now aphoristic texts and sing superbly nuanced syllables — all framed by stage pictures that are marvelously spare art works in themselves to music that whispers and roars and lulls and assaults.
If you were lucky enough to be among those in the audience who crouched and side-stepped their way out through the darkened rows (humans with human needs), and then back again, you became part of a unique theater experience that integrated stage and spectators.
And about the title? Ah, yes, the violin virtuosa Jennifer Koh, wearing a white frizzy wig that suggests the fabled physicist, sits at the side playing her amplified fiddle. And, in a favorite vignette, a woman repeats "I was in a pre-maturely air-conditioned supermarket...and saw bathing caps there" while morphing into a Patty Hearst-with-machine-gun persona. In another stunner a Bela Lugosi-like man stands with his black bride in open view on an antique train's end car, the music swells, the stage darkens, the slight movement is glacial — until it ends as the bride suddenly grins and pulls a gun on him.
Back to Einstein: He loved the seaside and trains. His theories spawned world-destruction capabilities, also covertly referenced in the piece. No need to look for further allusions. But be glad, after all these years of hearing about it, that at last we had the complete production done with spectacular artistry...
The other vintage work that you'll probably never see again is Zappa's, "200 Motels" harking back to its infamous 1970 concert performance at Pauley Pavilion, when Zubin Mehta and the LA Phil collaborated with the then 29-year-old cross-over composer. It finally had a stage premiere at Disney Hall, the orchestra augmented by a rock band and led by an imperturbable and dedicated Esa-Pekka Salonen.
Those motels represent the touring icons of Zappa's band, Mothers of Invention. And this piece, a pseudo-satire of the establishment — one that's big on shock value — revels in obscenities and puts on feigned in-your-face sex acts. Angry young man? Seems that way. He was in his 20s. As staged here by James Darrow, "Motels" came across as tiresomely adolescent in its obsessive, ridiculously deployed props of penises that were marched around.
But the good-natured Master Chorale and LA Phil musicians gave the prescribed antics their all (jumping up and down, hollering on cue, etc.), and delivered the scintillatingly angular symphonic parts of the score with full vigor. Hila Plittman, an extraordinary soprano charged with aleatoric high ascents, looked as gorgeous as she sounded and basso Morris Robinson made a booming presence.
Across the street at the Music Center Pavilion, though, Nederlands Danse Theater marked a strictly adult presence — in the sense of advanced development, not sexual fetish. And for the 30-plus years the company has been stopping here it still epitomizes that chasm between European and American sensibility. Think Kafka and Kundera, less the Beats.
And nowhere on the program was there a greater sense of it than in Sol Léon's/Paul Lightfoot's "Same Difference," the grabbiest piece of dance theater I've seen in a long time — all of it integrated within sophisticated, inventive stagecraft. In fact, it never let go, starting with the audio. Taped, variegated groans, in superb fidelity and amplified to be heard a block away, accompanied the several characters obliquely making their way onstage and mouthing those groans. Was this parody? Should we laugh? Some did, initially.
Whatever the subject matter, it needed no explanation. An eastern bloc soldier appears, Jorge Nozal, emblematic in his various states and finally fastening us in his gaze as he walks on a plank extending past the stage. So are the various others engaging in neo-Expressionist entanglements with each other. Everyone wants/needs something. The Philip Glass collage score further carried the emotional tone.
Also in the roof-raiser category was the exuberant Body Traffic at the Broad Stage, which made me wonder: How rare is it for a choreographer to compose stories and hitch his dances to their implications? I mean stories that tell of a culture's accepted biases? And then twist them into strands of irony?
Let's just say very rare. Which is what Barak Marshall has managed to do with "And at midnight the green bride floated through the village square," his evocation of an old world that traces back to a brusque, hard-core gender inequality with raucous, gleeful vivacity in an utterly absorbing array of characterizations on stage.
The work is both a playlet, made of related scenes, and a powerful parable. It makes its acute declaration by way of Margolit Oved, former Inbal star and the choreographer's mother, who appears onstage to archly quantify what goes into the bearing and nursing of children. All that is made light of, sardonically, as she repeats her quiet, acerbic summary: "but the husband is the provider."
Everything else that goes on around Oved's narration is an acting-out of her observation. Dancers, in vigorous unison drills, shrug and gesture their shtetl attitudes, evoking every Klezmer mannerism with robust outwardness.
In one vignette a man on a bench, reading his newspaper, shoos away one damsel after another sidling up to him. Best, and most comic of all, a husband and wife stand facing each other maybe an inch apart. He tells her how to cook fish, then lamb, then pigeon — with concise instructions. She argues, with devastating persuasiveness, that killing them is wrong.
But most clever of all is the unique tapestry Marshall weaves, which he animates with a lively collage score — including Barry Sisters songs, Gypsy tangos ("Dark Eyes"), Yiddish and Arabic roof-raisers. At the end couples swirl onstage simultaneously, each dancing a different routine, reminding me of tango show finales.
This sizzling local company — 10 members with a zest for characterization, enormous versatility and high-level technique — not only etched Marshall's work with fine point, they just as easily lavished idiomatic American pop/jazz finesse on Richard Siegal's "O2Joy."
The sheer star value of Andrew Wojtal in his lip-syncing/hi-jinks dance to Ella Fitgerald's "All of Me" had the audience gasping in hysterical delight. But sad to say, Kyle Abraham's "Kollide," is one of those body-adoration, by-the-yard dances just as amorphously molasses-like as its new age-y score. All atmospherics...
On to real matter: Bach at Disney, the Baroque master's "Goldberg Variations," played by the master pianist András Schiff. Arguably, not since Glen Gould's early recordings of the rarely-played, esoteric work hit the two million mark in sales, has there been so much buzz for it. And here the current Bach specialist's opening notes of the Aria fell heaven-sent, like soft, luminous, perfect petals on the keys, conjuring a thought: that if there is a god this music and this performance gave closest evidence of it — no matter that over the long stretch, 75 minutes with all the repeats, there was some loss of focus.
Big doings in the photography world around Los Angeles this week. The Annenberg Space for Photography opens its latest exhibition, a showcase of the work of National Geographic photographers this Saturday. But last night at the Leica Gallery the red carpet and velvet ropes were in place and flashes popped as photography royalty bumped up against young Hollywood and its art wannabes. The museum, a posh space hidden behind some hedges on Beverly Boulevard near Robertson, not only exhibits the work of Leica shooters but, I was told by a photojournalist friend of mine covering the event, "sells the cameras and the Leica lifestyle." The Magnum veteran photographer Elliott Erwitt made a rare appearance to herald the publishing of another book, "Elliott Erwitt's Great Scottish Adventure." This one, a tie-in with The Macallan (their fourth in a collaboration with photographers), marks the end of a months-long project documenting Scotland, funded by one of its high end distilleries: The Macallan Scotch Whiskey.
Erwitt, looking much younger than his 85 years, had just flown in from New York for the tony book launch, and was leaving this morning on a months-long book tour that first takes him back to Scotland and then on to other cities. The party was a true collision of art and commerce, an odd mix of art-lovers and those who can sniff out an open bar and manage to get their name on the list. "These shots of whiskey go for at least $20 at bars around town," a friend told me as she swirled the caramel colored liquor in her heavy glass. Indeed, bottles of The Macallan can sell for thousands of dollars.
Among the young crowd of beautiful people were some who did not even know who Elliot Erwitt was, or that they were in the presence of one of the greatest photographers who ever lifted a Leica. "I'm here for the ladies," one gentleman said when Erwitt's name drew a blank. "And I'm not disappointed." When Matthew McConaughey, a scotch enthusiast, walked in the door, the paparazzi could relax. They knew they had their money shot for the night. As the event swirled around him, Erwitt chatted with some guests, leaning on the cane he uses with a Harpo Marx horn attached to the handle. Erwitt acknowledged that the Leica around his neck was not just an ornament for the night. He couldn't resist shooting a few pictures just for himself. From the waiters working as human easels to the women in sky-high heels, the evening was a perfect canvas for Erwitt's sardonic eye. Can't wait to see what he made of it.
Photos by Iris Schneider
Veteran war photographer Don McCullin started a controversy last month when he declared, after receiving the lifetime achievement award at Perpignan's Visa Pour l'Image Photo Festival, "We haven't changed a thing. Once the Syrian war is over you can bet your life there will be another tragedy in my lifetime. We will not see the end of war and suffering." McCullin has spent decades documenting war and cruelty, from Vietnam to Biafra. But rather than feeling satisfied that his images raised awareness of the tragedy of starvation, or the cruelties of war, he feels disillusioned and inadequate. On a panel discussing the merits of war photography with David Douglas Duncan, 97, famed photo editor John Morris, 96, and several younger photographers, there was much disagreement. Certainly, the images brought home from Vietnam shaped public opinion, turning many against our involvement in that war. But McCullin seemed deeply troubled by his time spent documenting unspeakable horrors he did not try to halt, but only document. "You have to suffer the shame of memory and then you have to somehow live with it, sleep with it, understand it without trying to become insane," he said.
The pull of war is strong. Whether it's the search to expose evil and human suffering, find the adrenalin rush or make a name for yourself, there are many young and old photographers still traveling the globe to document the battlefields and disasters that the world never seems to run out of. McCullin himself headed to Syria last year. But in looking back, he realized he was just too old to run for his life wearing his equipment and a flak jacket. He deemed the mission a mistake. Several photo editors on last month's panel said the risks are just too great, and they no longer will take freelance photos from Syria, not wanting to encourage anyone to risk their lives in search of a great photograph. Most major agencies and newspapers do not have staffers in Syria now, citing its danger.
Iceberg between the Paulet Island and the South Shetland Islands, Antarctica. 2005 © Sebastião Salgado / Amazonas Images. Courtesy Peter Fetterman Gallery. Below: Nenet Nomads (Windstorm). Siberia, Russia 2011. © Sebastião Salgado / Amazonas Images
Courtesy Peter Fetterman Gallery.
Sebastiao Salgado is another photographer of conscience who has spent much of his adult lifetime documenting the world's conflicts and mayhem. He recently decided, for very different reasons, to change course. In a recent TED talk, the renowned and respected photographer, whose luminous black and white images--of drought in the Sahel, gold miners harvesting gold by hand snaking up a mountaintop in Brazil, looking more like ants than people, or oilfield workers, faces stained black with oil, dealing with the gushers running rampant after the Persian Gulf War--almost belie their tragic overtones. He revealed that his doctor told him he must stop shooting disasters and tragedy as his own health was suffering along with that of his subjects. It forced him to reevaluate his life and work, and put the brakes on a career that spanned several decades. "I had lost all faith in humanity," he says in the introduction to "Genesis," his impressive new book.
Salgado, 69, retreated with his wife to his family's farm in Brazil to ponder his future. The two decided to issue their visual wake-up call to the world by spending several years documenting the pristine landscapes and cultures that are at risk unless we change our ways and begin addressing the environmental issues that threaten the earth.
The resulting images, as one would expect from Salgado, are exhilarating, compelling, breath-taking. He spanned the globe on an eight-year odyssey that he calls his "homage to the grandeur of nature," seeking out tribes and landscapes untouched by the modern world. You can feel the cold of Northern Siberia as you gaze upon the Nenets tribespeople walking through a snowstorm or feeding their sled dogs. The book is filled with one natural wonder or remote tribe after another, captured in a way that makes you feel you are right there next to Salgado. These majestic landscapes are so remote it's easy to imagine the sound of the shutter piercing the silence as Salgado worked.
The resulting photographs are available two ways: as a coffee table book published by Taschen, affordable at $65, and as a limited edition two-volume book, each one almost three-feet long, with a wooden stand of its own designed by architect Tadao Ando. In a pre-publication ad in many major newspapers, Taschen offered the two volumes for $3,000. If they didn't need a room of their own to view them properly, I would have made the purchase. Having them nearby to gaze at seems to restore your faith, if not in humanity, then at least in Mother Nature. This is photojournalism at its purest. No ego involved, just conscience and artistry perfectly combined. Two rooms of large prints are currently on exhibit at the Fetterman Gallery in Bergamot Station.
Two other large photo books offer photo collections from masters of the craft. The first accompanies a small show also at Fetterman Gallery by National Geographic and Magnum photographer Steve McCurry. The show marks the publication of his book "Untold: The Stories Behind the Photographs." McCurry, 63, has spent most of his career as a Magnum photographer working on assignment for many publications, including National Geographic. He has traveled the world, to India, Tibet, Cambodia, Kashmir, the oil fields of Kuwait after the Gulf War and Afghanistan. It was there in 1984 that he made the most iconic photo of his career: a green-eyed Afghan girl whose face graced the cover of National Geographic in 1985 and riveted its readers. He returned to Afghanistan 17 years later and miraculously found her again, and told that story for Geographic. This large book presents fourteen of his photo essays with text that tells how he got the photos. The chapters present rich color images from his travels around the world and clearly, McCurry is extremely gifted. His images, often bathed in ethereal light, provide a travelogue of diverse locales and faces, showing daily life as well as monsoons, war and hardship.
Unfortunately, though, rather than letting his work speak for itself--and the photographs do, eloquently and powerfully--he decided to package the photography with newly commissioned essays and ephemera collected over the 30+ years of his career. The first photo in the book is a full page picture of McCurry armpit deep in water in India, camera hoisted above his head. The book travels down the path of "how he got the picture" with essays written by someone, not McCurry, reverently describing in detail how these stories came to be and relating how, as a young boy looking at a Brian Brake photo essay in National Geographic, "he could not have imagined that he would one day inherit Brake's mantle as the master of the photo essay..." Of the many qualities that made McCurry a good photojournalist, humility was not one of them.
The book also has pages of beautifully photographed letters, journals, visas, press passes, passports, foreign currency, well-worn shoes, perfectly preserved tearsheets from every magazine and newspaper that ran McCurry's photos, every journal and note he scribbled to himself and seemingly every receipt for every purchase McCurry made over the decades of his career. While it's interesting to see the paper trail that his assignments created, in the end I found it distracting. I kept wondering, where did he keep all this stuff and how did he keep it in such pristine condition while wading through waist-deep water or running with rebels in Karachi? Perhaps that's part of what his Geographic assistants were for.
For me, there is too much McCurry here. Each chapter includes photos of McCurry, often posed with his subjects who oddly seem like props. These add a sour note to an otherwise beautiful book. To my mind, a photojournalist is a fly on the wall, unseen, unheard. The most egregious of these "I was there" mementoes is a series of photos taken by McCurry's assistant on September 11. Sad for all the wrong reasons, his assistant photographed him photographing the twin towers going up in flames. Why were they included? Why were they shot, for that matter? Didn't his assistant have more important photos to take that day? It's quite obvious that McCurry was there, given the hauntingly beautiful images in the book. I wish McCurry had let the photography speak for itself and saved the ego-trip for a presentation to a photojournalism class.
Elliott Erwitt, 85, has also published a scale-tipping new book called "Kolor." Erwitt's sense of humor and sardonic eye has kept me a fan for years, and after a long career, he is at the point where he probably has rooms full of unpublished images. Erwitt has said in interviews that photos take on special significance when they are put together and published in a book, which he does periodically--there are 8 titles on the backflap from his latest book. He felt it was time for another one, and so he went through his stockpile of unpublished Kodachrome slides, edited them and published "Kolor," which he calls his homage to George Eastman, founder of Kodak. The book presents a huge collection of never-seen color work made over the years, including outtakes of his Hollywood film work shot on the set of "The Misfits" and many images taken while shooting commercial work in Los Angeles and elsewhere. Erwitt always kept a second camera at his side on commercial jobs and found time to shoot personal pictures. Many of those are published here, offering a glimpse beyond the black and white photography he made his name with on assignment for Life and other magazines, while working in the editorial and advertising worlds as a member of the prestigious photo agency Magnum.
His humor shines through, even if not every image published here makes it onto the top rung of his impressive body of work. Even Erwitt's rejects are worth seeing, and they are paired across the spreads in a way that takes advantage of his off-kilter sense of timing and humor. It's fun to wade through. After decades of producing stellar images, it's impressive to see the result of his longtime passion of documenting life and its simple moments. As a side note, Erwitt, who has always been somewhat reclusive, has recently appeared in a video for a Cole-Haan marketing campaign that featured four still-vibrant artists born in 1928. All beautiful seniors and creative souls in their unique way, they are people whose commitment to their craft keeps them going into their 80's. In Erwitt's case, we appreciate the many laughs he brought us as he held up a mirror to our society while exposing our humanity along the way.
Defying all odds, Disney Hall celebrated its 10th anniversary without so much as one official standing on stage to bestow thanks to long lists of benefactors or indulge in blandishments and platitudes.
Yes, Gustavo Dudamel fronted his LA Philharmonic and welcomed the capacity crowd to Disney. "A miracle," he called it, that single word summing up the concert venue's brilliant acoustic and architectural wonder.
But this was no ordinary birthday gala. It was wholly a tribute event to Frank Gehry, the man who patiently took his lumps over the years, yet managed -- through controversy, dispute and economic sputtering -- to create the citadel atop the hill at First and Grand that visitors from around the world flock to see.
The surprise factor turned out to be the architect's persona in the hall -- via his voice heard on audio. What a homey and folksy voice it was, uttering the private words, almost comic and sometimes self-mocking à la Jules Feiffer, explaining how his designs came into being, how they doodled onto a page, only to get crossed out and tossed, over and over again before reaching a final draft.
And at evening's end Gehry was brought onstage, in suit and tie, no fancy-dan tux -- even then without a trace of starchy pomp or self-importance, only a few humble, half-embarrassed bows but mostly gestures to the players and their maestro, amid a mylar confetti drop.
The main revelry, though, came with the music, a smartly programmed hour that showed off the orchestra in sterling form. True, there were intrusive screens everywhere, a Hollywood Bowl leftover. (Even before entering the hall Gehry's more philosophic quotes were projected onto walls of corridors and lobbies, portending something scarily ex-cathedra-like.)
But if you were lucky enough to sit in a side section -- for this time only -- it was possible to look directly onto the stage and avoid seeing the screens. That way you could hear the music without the sensory distraction of unrelated visuals (a montage of other occasions, other conductors). And when that music is so compelling do you really want a non sequitur smack in your face?
No such disturbance entered the scene when Yo-Yo Ma, everyone's favorite guest-star cellist these days, was on hand -- granting Tchaikovsky's Variations on a Rococo Theme his utter refinement, elegance and poise in gorgeous balance with the band, expertly managed by its chief.
In fact, the orchestra played everything superbly, back again in its rightful residence. And that included Adès's "These Premises Are Alarmed," a gloriously wild thing that lives up to its title and generated the players' bracing, clarion excitement.
Dudamel also took a bracing tack with the Rondo Burleske from Mahler's 9th Symphony -- which he powered in with ultra-fast fury. His way with the organ movement of Saint-Saëns's 3rd Symphony required some ear-stuffing, for those protecting their hearing, but he and his cohorts ended on a sentimental note, with a tenderly lush, glittering "When You Wish Upon a Star," honoring the Hollywood icon and the hall's namesake, pictured onscreen.
Across the street at the Music Center Pavilion honors also came to LA Opera, by way of Bizet's "Carmen" -- with the same production it borrowed from Madrid and mounted here twice before. But this time, thanks to Trevore Ross directing a wholly alive cast, every moment on stage counted. And with Plácido Domingo's masterly guidance of the pit orchestra, issuing the score's delicious sweetness and ardor, all kinds of narrative business also became illuminated.
Carmen, for instance, left alone in the smuggler's camp to brood over her distressful love triangle, brought the third act to a climactic close, angrily flicking her cigarette in a cadential flourish with the last bold chord.
Otherwise, Irish mezzo soprano Patricia Bardon -- vocally sound if not lustrous -- made only a somewhat convincing Gypsy hellion in the title role and was more of a tough cookie than a sensual dynamo.
But Brandon Jovanovich, with a gradual warm-up to the naïve soldier's ultimately obsessional, manic despair, gave a performance worthy of an Oscar. It was his and the defiant Carmen's own human bull fight -- she, testing the limits of life and love; he, determined to possess her -- that took place outside the arena. With each rigid, tense step he stalked her as in a dance of death. His murderous finale was more gripping than that of any Don José I've ever seen -- a rarity in opera because singing, by itself, takes utmost focus. And his darkly resonant tenor did not disappoint.
Other cast members kept up the high standard. Ildebrando D'Arcangelo was a wonderfully animated and agile Escamillo, not the stolid mannequin usually trotted out to sing the "Toreador Song." (Both he and Jovanovich sang for the company before in productions that had, seemingly, absentee directors. Redemption at last, on a grand scale...)
First timers in this "Carmen" were South African soprano Pretty Yende, a Micaëla of silvery tone and gratifyingly natural demeanor as the Madonna interest, and Valentin Anikin, a corrupt Zuniga whose basso sounded as though it got swallowed in a cavern.
But the whole enterprise was absorbing. Set designer Gerardo Trotti's sun-drenched first act boasted a lovely, long perspective of a palm-tree-lined Seville street, and men in Jesús del Pozo's summery pastels wearing borsalinos and berets.
Granted, there was no gritty realism here, no graffiti-scrawlings on walls as depicted in Jean-Pierre Ponnelle's landmark production, nor any attempt at a Peter Brooks deconstruction. But Bizet in his own Opéra Comique style, carried out with this degree of attention, is irrefutably captivating.
Top photos: LA Philharmonic. Carmen photo: LA Opera
Iris Schneider attended Station to Station, the cross-country traveling public art project that stopped at Union Station on Thursday night. There was a procession featuring cracking bullwhips from track 13 into the courtyard of the station, art-inspired yurts and performances by No Age (above) and Beck. "The evening...was something of a who's who of the L.A. art world," said Deborah Vankin in the LA Times. — Kevin Roderick
A yurt by Urs Fischer.
This October, ballet dancer turned choreographer Melissa Barak will formally launch her Los Angeles based company, Barak Ballet, with a performance at The Broad Stage in Santa Monica. A former member of New York City Ballet and Los Angeles Ballet, Barak tested the waters with a smaller presentation last March at the more intimate Ann and Jerry Moss Theater. "That first show created a lot of excitement and buzz for us," says Barak. Confident that her audience and support base is growing, she's eager to showcase her dancers in a larger venue. The Broad is "more conventional" as a theater than the Moss, she says, and will give her more freedom to stage ballets and include live music. The October program will include two pieces choreographed by Barak and a work by contemporary choreographer Pascal Rioult. Also included is a six-minute solo by Barak that was choreographed by Israeli choreographer (and recent Los Angeles transplant) Danielle Agami. The solo marks Barak's first time onstage since 2011. "When I was putting this performance together a lot of people were asking, when are you going to dance again?" she says.
In choosing Agami, a former member of Israel's renowned Batsheva Dance Company, to choreograph for her, Barak opted to step way outside of her comfort zone. Barak has a traditional ballet resume while Agami, 28, comes from a completely different place, literally and creatively. Batsheva, founded in 1964 as a modern repertory company, was initially shaped by Martha Graham, who served as artistic advisor. Today it is directed by innovative choreographer Ohad Naharin, who developed a unique movement language for his dancers called "gaga." During gaga class, unlike in ballet class, mirrors are forbidden. Naharin has said that gaga "is about clarity of form that doesn't come from looking at yourself but from really sensing where you are in space. It's about delicacy, small gestures, and thinking about movement as something that can heal...It's about giving the dancers the sense that they can go beyond familiar limits on a daily basis. It's about listening to something that is beyond the athletic side of the dancer." It is this movement language that Agami now utilizes in her own Los Angeles based company Ate9.
Barak first saw Agami and her company perform their production of Sally Meets Stu last February at the Los Angeles Theater Center. She had no idea what she was in for, knowing nothing about Agami or her history with Batsheva. "Two minutes in they really had my attention," Barak said. I loved what Danielle brought out of her dancers. I knew this was special and whoever created this was incredibly talented. So I reached out to her."
Before she would agree to work with Barak, Agami requested that she take her gaga class. "It felt overwhelming and awkward," says Barak. "It's the opposite of ballet..you have so much freedom that you don't know what to do with. I've always looked at myself from the outside, the lines, etc. I'm about the pointe shoes and the music. With her work it's so much more about internalizing, reacting to feelings and emotions from a more human, primitive place. I knew I would grow as an artist working with Danielle...opening up my mind and my approach to what it is to be a human body on a stage."
Says Agami, "It was interesting for me to work with a ballerina. It's not about what her body can or cannot do-it's about breaking her mind. I need to make her change her mind...how she thinks and approaches things. It's almost like therapy. We became friends because it's really about letting go."
In addition to collaborating, the two women have bonded over the challenges of starting a dance company in Los Angeles. "We shared some difficulties in being that 'one-woman show'...where you have to do everything and how we're waiting for the day we will be more about the art and the creation." said Agami. For the time being, Barak, 34, is excited about the inclusion of Agami's point of view in the upcoming performance. "I want my company to be not just my choreography, but about what's new, what other choreographic voices are interesting and what challenges they are trying to present."
The Barak Ballet will perform "LA Moves" on Thursday, October 24th at 8pm at the Broad Stage in Santa Monica.
Eli Broad and his wife Edythe, along with Mayor Eric Garcetti and a gaggle of media and museum officials, got together today to tour the new contemporary art venue on Grand Avenue in downtown Los Angeles, the Broad. But wait, you might be asking — isn't there already a contemporary art venue on Grand Avenue in downtown Los Angeles? Yes, MOCA will be directly across the street. Broad, the real estate mogul, philanthropist and art collector, was also instrumental in the creation of that museum (he was its founding chairman when the Museum of Contemporary Art was conceived in 1980, and donated $1 million of seed money to get it started.) But recently he felt compelled to add his own building — along with art collected over 40 years — into the mix of architectural landmarks on the Grand Avenue corridor. The building, a triangular soaring honeycomb designed by Diller Scofidio + Renfro, is intended to be unique but mindful of its whimsical neighbor Disney Hall. The design is fascinating but certainly not understated and will probably get its share of visitors just to see the building and its state of the art features and design. Eli Broad also announced today that he wanted his collection to be "shared with the broadest possible audience," and so admission will be free.
MOCAphiles should not worry, however, as the Broad will encourage its visitors to cross the street by constructing a walkway across Grand Avenue, making it easy and convenient to see what's on exhibit at the neighbor's place.
"Isn't this museum going to eat MOCA's lunch?" one of the gaggle was heard to wonder, engaging Joanne Heyler, founding director of the Broad in a question many have asked themselves. Do we really need two contemporary art museums showing relatively the same stuff right across the street from each other? Heyler confirmed the Broad's commitment to working with all the cultural institutions on the Grand Avenue corridor and intimated that Eli Broad will still support MOCA financially. They feel there is enough audience to go around. And given Mr. Broad's finances, the Broad won't have to turn a profit anytime soon.
The city's leaders are trying hard to make Grand Avenue into the town square of Los Angeles. The Broad will be the latest star in their constellation. It remains to be seen how those efforts to draw Angelenos and tourists will pan out, but if it isn't successful it won't be for lack of trying. Ticking off the names of the major architects involved in or near Grand Avenue, Broad listed an impressive lot: Frank Gehry's Disney Hall, Arata Isozaki's MOCA, Coop Himmelb(l)au's High School for the Arts on Sunset, Thom Mayne's Caltrans building down the hill on 1st Street and Jose Rafael Moneo's Cathedral Our Lady of the Angels at Temple and Grand. Judging from the tourists who flock to Disney Hall for souvenir photos of their trips to LA, and the Angelenos who want the building in their wedding photos, the architectural draw is strong. Once the newness wears off, we'll see if the Broad becomes a real destination or a honeycombed ego trip.
Broad and his wife, well-known philanthropists whose name can be spotted around town on various buildings and interiors, were sporting hardhats emblazoned with "The Broad." When asked if this was the first time their name was not on a building but on a hardhat, Edythe laughed. "Oh no," she said, "we have a whole collection of these at home."
Are they ready for their close-ups? Decidedly, yes -- if we're talking about certain LA Philharmonic conductors at Hollywood Bowl and their soloists. Big, bright screens deliver them to us in a dimension not possible in the concert hall. We get to see the music as well as hear it.
That happened with podium guest James Gaffigan, pianist Hélène Grimaud and violinist Jennifer Koh.
Not so easily, though, when the subject is Jacques Heim's Diavolo, the thinking man's Cirque du Soleil that ventured its latest, much-ballyhooed epic, "Fluid Infinities" underwritten by the Philharmonic, at the outdoor showplace.
Planted stage-front on the curving surfaces of a giant dome construction, human figures meandered, slithered, crawled and groped their random way. The whole thing was darkly lit and murky -- sabotaging what would, perhaps, be effective in an indoor theater. And it worked at opposite ends of what the Bowl's camera meisters had perfected for concertizing musicians.
So what might have been an eerie speculation on outer-planetary life-struggles ended up looking small and insignificant. That's too bad in a host of ways, chiefly because the Paris-born, locally-based Heim had proved himself 20 years ago to be an original thinker, an artist with a sensibility that goes far beyond the mere mapping out of movement links and their acrobatic properties.
I have always called him the master of metaphor, the one who could over-ride deadly mechanistic formalism to suggest whimsy, humor, simpatico, along with the darker undercurrents of human behavior. What else, from an artist who could and did absorb Jacques Tati, Pina Bausch and Robert Longo?
After all, his brilliant "Tête en l'Air" showed us how someone with his "head in the clouds" could be having an unstoppable dream -- as characters in hat and coat, carrying suitcases, tumble inexorably down a central staircase, smoke and light spilling mysteriously from the top. The milieu is surreal, while the state of transit becomes synonymous with teeming life as we know it. Was he Samuel Beckett in motion?
That was then. In the intervening years Heim has become a model of success in the corporate world, with commissions from supporting institutions and philanthropists like Glorya Kaufman bankrolling his company. The irony is that he came upon this Procrustean bed, the Philharmonic, and now must lie in it. Or, to put it differently, the tail can sometimes wag the grateful dog.
Left to his spontaneous, creative impulses -- choosing a theme, a venue, along with other theatrical/musical complements -- he likely would not have signed on to any portion of the Philip Glass 3rd Symphony. But with our resident band as a partner he needed to opt for something orchestral to merit this prized sponsorship.
Many choreographers, notably Twyla Tharp ("In the Upper Room") make a feast of Glass's music, but just when the score's impulse here was exploding with rhythmic drive -- thanks to the players, under Bramwell Tovey's leadership -- Heim's movement scheme was sluggishly exploratory. Yikes.
Not to worry, though. The visuals returned to excellence on previous nights in fascinating, wholly engaging encounters. The trick for getting a close-up advantage that aids hearing the music? Watch the screen, but only for conductor and soloist. Avert eyes from it for shots of the long row of French horns, for instance.
And the video crew knew what to do in the case of conductor Gaffigan: let the cameras linger on him. Urging the orchestra on in Beethoven's "Coriolan" Overture, the American maestro truly "showed" us the music -- to this and Strauss's "Don Juan" he brought a visceral connectedness that was thrilling. Ditto the camera's focus on Grimaud's long, slender hands with upper palms arching and arms shuddering for her masterly Brahms D-minor Piano Concerto.
In the case of Leon Botstein's outing with Russian composers under Stalin -- wherein the conductor spoke eloquently on their struggles during the Soviet era -- we heard first-rate music making. Such orchestral refinement and nuance in the Shostakovich 10th Symphony and the same values, backing up Koh's riveting account of Prokofiev's 2nd Violin Concerto, made it hard to believe there was but a single rehearsal.
Not all recent music of worth happened under the stars, though. A special event at Sinai Temple found conductor Nick Strimple presiding astutely over a combined choir and assorted other musicians in a sterling program of two honored composers, fugitives from Nazi Germany, who graced this city with their presence: Arnold Schoenberg and Eric Zeisl.
The excerpts from Schoenberg's "Moses und Aron" were deeply moving in their multi-branched soundings and Zeisl's Requiem Ebraico soared with passionate lyricism. Here was a find -- rarely heard music of great import.
Diavolo photos: Mara Zaslove. Grimaud photo: Mat Hennek.
Big is the word to describe the city's summer scene — with the LA Philharmonic decamping to Hollywood Bowl and the whole humongous American Ballet Theatre occupying downtown's Music Center recently.
Just think, Mahler's Second Symphony, stretching nearly to the two-hour mark (with no intermission for promenade-strolling or dessert-partaking) opened the classical music festivities at the Bowl in Cahuenga Pass. Make no mistake, that's a departure from the usual glam headliners playing some warhorse or other to serenade the picnickers.
Add to that the return of native son Michael Tilson Thomas leading his old band (formerly as principal guest conductor) and you have an exceptional event in the making — one reason being that MTT, among others, has made Mahler a specialty of his, another being that the crowd (only 6,000-plus) was raptly attentive.
The playing, detailed and flexible and expressive, deserved as much, along with gorgeous outpourings from singers Kiera Duffy and Sasha Cooke. Especially so with the new sound system. And under this most probing of conductors there was no limit to the work's range, from quiet gulfs of reflection to lyric tenderness to glorious grandiosity. What audience would not know it's in the presence of Mahler's stupendous ambition, this young composer's unharnessed search for god?
But the wide-open, sprawling spaces of the Bowl may not be the place to contain this wide-open, sprawling "Resurrection" Symphony. And the big screen's presence surely does cut into even the most pristine listener's perceptions — I defy anyone to look away and just listen undistracted to the music in order to get a purer perception of it.
Downtown, on the other hand, and within the Music Center Pavilion's walls, Ballet Theatre put on a show that threatened to burst through the partitions. At its opening night mixed bill before a sold-out house, the company knew how, at the end, to send 'em home happy: stage the Balanchine/Bizet "Symphony in C," a razzle-dazzle, whiz-bang of a ballet that, in its last act, explodes in a combustion of exuberance.
Seeing the full forces onstage — rotating in dizzying waves of phalanxes measure-by-speedy-measure, and so palpably in-sync with Ormsby Wilkins' brilliantly led orchestra — I thought the whole thing was going to rock right out of the house.
Before that came the still-startling, ever-captivating relic from Balanchine's Diaghilev days, "Apollo," to Stravinsky's divine score, played wonderfully under Charles Barker . What a fabulous guide it was to the choreographer forging his then-contemporary path. And what a feast for the eye and ear.
Of course, it takes supreme dancers and musicians to realize its beauties. No dispute on that score here. But Marcelo Gomes, cast against type, was all beefcake and no sunlight in the title role, making it hard to dispel images of the fair, boyishly aristocratic Apollonians before him, like Peter Boal and David Hallberg, going back even to Baryshnikov and Peter Martins. His reliance on aggressive muscle-flexing canceled the character's whimsical tone.
Still, it was a treat. And the program showcased a new Ratmansky ballet, "Chamber Symphony," one of a trilogy set to Shostakovich works. That it was dark goes with the musical turf and contrasts with the esteemed choreographer's "Bright Stream," which we saw two years ago.
But what immediately distinguished it was the look and feel of that post-war European meme: disillusionment, anomie, gloom — totally in keeping with the composer's milieu. The central character, for instance, a man in loose black suit, open jacket, bare chest, flails about. His signature move, directly from Jiri Kylian or Antony Tudor, for that matter, is a rigid-body fall sideways into a line-up group with waiting arms to catch him. His mood is downcast. His many attempts to join the community fail in the end. But the work's obvious intent and ever-intricate, watchable choreography come across strongly.
The same could be said of LA Ballet's Balachine Festival, part 2, named "Red," after "Rubies." The Royce Hall performance I caught (repeated at Grand Park), as high-polished as any at New York City Ballet itself, proved that the best of Balanchine — with this degree of talent and guidance — will never lose its lustre, its appeal, and across-the-footlights magnetism.
The same could not be said, though, for the new conglomerate Hubbard Street Dance/Alonzo King Lines Ballet.
First off, the Hubbard Chicagoans, marvelous keepers of the Twyla Tharp flame among other dance wonders, never pretended to be a ballet company. And the King San Franciscans, which specialize in dancercizes or eye-catching, full-body undulations and boneless extensions for their own sake, do what I can only call a corruption of ballet. All this was a shameless waste of superb dancers.
The program's saving grace came in the only non-King piece, Alejandro Cerrudo's "Little Mortal Jump," which brought vast relief in its reward to the mind, as needed as air to the lungs. Thank you, Mr. Cerrudo for bringing back a sense of theater and imagination to the stage. And thank you Hubbard director Glenn Edgerton for injecting this one element of brain vitality into the show.
Middle photo of Marcelo Gomes in "Apollo" © The George Balanchine Trust. Photo by Rosalie O'Connor
Eastside artist J. Michael Walker posts on Facebook:
So, last Monday, in the warmest possible hour of a crazy-hot afternoon, two over-packed cars pulled up in front of my house, and out spilled a cornucopia of sweetness and beauty: the seven women who comprise the music and dance troupe of Adunni Nefretiti, who came, on their final day in LA, and on their "day off" for me to make portraits of them, before they jet off, back home via Dubai, to Lagos, Nigeria. And so, in my tiniest-possible crowded studio, as we drank ice water, gobbled grapes, laughed and joked, we made many gorgeous images.... Axé.
Walker was the author-illustrator of "All the Saints of the City of the Angels: Seeking the Soul of L.A. on Its Streets" (Heyday 2008), and co-editor of "Waiting for Foreign: LA Writers on (and in) Guadalajara."
The women in Helmut Newton's photos are often nude, but rarely vulnerable. Rather, they are powerful and strong, proud and unabashedly naked. Not to mention drop dead gorgeous. Perhaps it's because of Newton's obvious love for women and utter lack of pretense, but the models, actresses and heiresses who shed their outer garments seem quite comfortable with the photographer and his requests, which often pushed the boundaries of taste, decorum and expectation. Given the fact that many of these images appeared in the early 1960's in the pages of French and British Vogue, they were certainly shocking for their time. Now, many imitators later, we are not as shocked. In fact, the floodgates have been opened. In ads from Calvin Klein to Prada to Abercrombie, there are beautiful young people in provocative poses, in and out of expensive garments, making you feel like a voyeur for leafing through a magazine. Good taste be damned, anything goes. Whether you thank Newton, or curse him, he is probably responsible.
With its current Helmut Newton show, the Annenberg Space for Photography finally manages to solve one of the problems I have had with their photography exhibits: too many images. With big nudes and big women come big prints, and finally, here is a show you can absorb easily, without straining your neck to see the images high up on the walls near the ceiling, or leaving exhausted with the feeling that you have not seen everything because there was just too much to take in. Absorbing it is, mainly because the images are striking, beautifully composed and speak of another era and another world--one of wealth, privilege, and secrets. When Newton first made these images in the 60's and 70's, no one was doing this kind of work.
He made no apologies for exploring the dark and provocatively erotic side of glamour, sado-masochism, domination and dalliance, images that were inside his head, but, he insists, came straight from reality. In a fascinating and revealing film made by his wife June, playing on a continuous loop in the back auditorium, he says "Every picture is based on reality. It's all real, and happens every day...amongst the rich." He loved visiting Los Angeles and took up residence part of the year at the tony Chateau Marmont. He loved our sunny afternoons, and sought out rich and often famous women to be his subjects, willing partners in telling naughty stories with his camera.
According to one of his assistants, Mark Arbeit, one of three young Art Center photography students who accosted Newton during a trip he made to LA in the late 70's, and eventually began working with the master photographer, the usual rules of photography — avoid high noon, wait for early morning or late afternoon light — did not apply. Newton loved shooting in all kinds of light and when he did it wasn't with an entourage. No Annie Leibovitz army of assistants for him — it was just him and one assistant, one camera and very simple lighting. Locations were critical in his shoots, and could have been in a mansion, or a construction site. While he made his living as a photographer (and quite a good one, getting $10,000 for his commercial photo shoots), Newton was a storyteller, bon vivant, lover of women and life. He was high fashion's favorite bad boy but never lost sight of his mission: sell the clothes.
One of his models, whom he first approached on the street, was asked to work with him and told she would most likely end up nude. Partly due to the period, when women's lib was beginning, he found models who totally bought into his visual fantasies. His photography was a true collaboration between model, photographer and often, the photographer's wife June, whom he married in 1948. A self-portrait, with Newton amongst some nudes as his wife looks on (top), is one of my favorite photos, showing him shooting in what could be mistaken for a dirty old man's raincoat. In this exhibit, we all get to be willing partners in the not-so-secret and scandalous life of Helmut Newton and friends.
Helmut Newton: White Women • Sleepless Nights • Big Nudes at the Annenberg Space for Photography in Century City until Sept. 8.
Photographs © Estate of Helmut Newton
Helmut Newton, the self-proclaimed "bad boy of photography" best known for his provocative, edgy, and highly sexual fashion images, had a decades-long relationship with Los Angeles. Newton, the subject of a new exhibit at the Annenberg Space for Photography, started coming here from his home in Europe for work in the mid 1970's. By the early 1980's, with wife and collaborator June, Newton was routinely spending every winter in residence at the Chateau Marmont. He continued until his death in a car crash at the hotel in 2004, at the age of 83. A regular contributor to Vogue in Europe and the U.S., and to Vanity Fair, and a prolific maker of advertising images, he found that Los Angeles, and the culture of Hollywood in particular, suited his creative sensibilities.
Newton was drawn to "fantasy, films, and narratives. He was very controlling, like a movie director," said David Fahey, co-owner of the Fahey/Klein Gallery on La Brea and a longtime Newton friend. Newton had close friends in the entertainment world, including producer Bob Evans and director Billy Wilder. In his 2003 autobiography, Newton revealed his fan-like enthusiasm about photographing one of his movie crushes during some downtime in Los Angeles in 1972. "Ever since I saw Jane Russell in Howard Hughes's 'The Outlaw' I have been madly in love with her," he wrote. "I heard she was living nearby so I suggested to my editor that we set up a phony sitting with her, pretend it's for the magazine, a small white lie. The editor complies and everything is set up. In my excitement I got the date wrong but Miss Russell comes down the stairs and very graciously announces that, no matter, she will pose for me today."
Newton writes that, of course, he chose to photograph Russell in her bedroom. "It's boiling hot, my t-shirt is stuck to my body, the sweat is running between my glasses and my eyes. From time to time she looks at me in a funny way. She's found out that she has a madman in her bedroom."
Newton was initially drawn to the Chateau Marmont because it was the "coolest, hippest place...he loved the ambience," said Fahey. In an essay in the March, 2013 Vogue, British actor Rupert Everett describes a 1985 Christmas-time encounter with Newton and his entourage. Everett was still a struggling newcomer, lonely and stranded in Los Angeles for the holidays and staying at the Chateau.
"One afternoon just before the new year, Helmut Newton and his wife June surged into the hotel surrounded by luggage. I attached myself to the group and pretty soon I had slipped into their easy routine. The men set off for work each day each day while I sat around with the girls-June, Tina Chow, and sometimes Wendy Stark. Most nights our group met in the hotel foyer and clattered down to the hotel basement parking lot where we bundled into Helmut's car to go out for dinner. I sat in the back while Helmut-shrieking at the wheel-negotiated the blind corner from the car park onto the street."
The hotel ultimately became a second home for Newton. "I love my winters in the Chateau Marmont in Hollywood," he wrote. "I have this fascination for familiar surroundings. My favorite photos are often those which evoke a strong feeling of 'I have been here before' "
Working in Los Angeles gave Newton endless possibilities for locations, especially outdoors. Photographers Mark Arbeit and George Holz assisted Newton in the early 1980's, when they were students at Art Center. "We drove him around in my old Dodge Dart," Holz said in an interview. "We took him around to places we knew but it was his eye that said yes, this place works, or doesn't work." Holz and Arbeit remember shooting at a Frank Lloyd Wright house, in the hills of Mt. Olympus, and in Manhattan Beach. "He really loved those blond surfers," said Holz.
The Hollywood sign makes an appearance in one image and the gymnastic rings at Santa Monica beach are a key element in photographs of actress Daryl Hannah from 1984. A 1981 image shows actress Raquel Welch fending off a menacing dog and surrounded by agaves in her Beverly Hills backyard.
He learned to navigate the minefield that is photographing movie stars, but he grew annoyed at the presence of publicists. "For a long time during my annual sojourn in Hollywood I photographed a lot of actresses for Vanity Fair," Newton wrote. "They were invariably accompanied by their press agents, who became more and more demanding and obnoxious, standing behind me, looking over my shoulder saying, 'Not from this angle, make her head turn to the right, you are showing too much skin, cover your shoulders.' " Eventually he banned all publicists from his sittings.
Newton, who was born in Berlin in 1920, moved to Paris after a short period in Australia. He loved what he called the "free-spirited" quality of life in the U.S. (even though he often expressed frustration with American art directors and the restrictions placed on his erotic images that didn't exist in Europe.) "He loved Americana...country music and diners," said Holz. He also loved Nudie's, the North Hollywood shop where tailor Nudie Cohn made custom outfits for movie stars and musicians.
Newton was attracted to Los Angeles for another simpler reason. "I think it was exciting for him," said Arbeit.."He was used to older, much darker European cities and he really loved the light here." June Newton, now 90 and a resident of Monaco, has continued the couple's tradition of wintering in Los Angeles. According to Fahey, she typically arrives at the Chateau Marmont on Christmas Eve and usually departs sometime in March.
Top photo: Daryl Hannah in Santa Monica by Helmut Newton for Vanity Fair in 1984. Lower photos: Helmut and June Newton at the Chateau Marmont, © David Fahey from the exhibit film "Provocateur."
I was eager to see "The Scottsboro Boys," the Broadway musical onstage at the Ahmanson Theater. The show is based on a true story from 1931 about nine African American teenage boys falsely accused of raping two white girls--one of whom admitted the charge was not true--on a train. The boys were seized in Scottsboro, Alabama and, despite repeated attempts, unable to get a fair trial. It's heartbreaking how much they wanted to believe the truth would set them free. But it was not to be.
The stage production frames the story as a bawdy traveling minstrel show, a carnival spectacle. I couldn't imagine how that could work with such a dark subject and, for me, it mostly didn't. I understand that the show's creators wanted to make the audience uncomfortable, but, to me, the story is simply too tragic for buffoonery.
I'm especially sensitive about this because I lived in Scottsboro for two years and started school there. This was almost three decades after the events depicted onstage, but the town's character was still much the same; change came very slowly.
Scottsboro, in Northeast Alabama, is nestled against the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, where thousands of white people lived in abject poverty (and, no doubt, still do.) As a first grader, my heart ached to see kids come to school barefoot in all but the coldest months. They smelled of the wood fires that heated their houses and cooked their food. Most of their parents were illiterate--couldn't even sign their names. Truancy was a big problem--a county employee trudged up and down the hills every day, trying to get kids to school. Worst of all, those of us in stylish clothes with professional haircuts sometimes got classroom privileges not extended to the others. I hated that.
As racist and behind-the-times as the rest of the South may have been, issues surrounding justice and equality were compounded in Scottsboro by nothing more complex than rampant ignorance. And yes, many of the law enforcement officers, all white of course, were like Rod Steiger's character in "In the Heat of the Night" - uneducated, bigoted men who made snap judgments, asked no questions and took no counsel. That wasn't merely a stereotype. When we lived in Scottsboro, the police chief was known simply as "Bean Belly."
Today, my older brothers and I don't remember ever seeing more than a handful of black people in town, so cloistered were they in their own drab neighborhood with their own churches, substandard schools and meager little grocery stores. They didn't figure into the life of the town except for the few white people who could afford maids or needed manual laborers. We did sometimes see black chain gangs working on the railroad when we ventured out of town.
It's easy to see how the Scottsboro nine could have been falsely accused and held for so long, despite their innocence. White people's words trumped anything black people might be permitted to say. Truth didn't matter. The boys' fate is unspeakable and yet, in that time and place, it's likely no one was surprised.
It's a tragic tale and all the more because it's true. It needs to be told to every generation to remind us of where we've been and could easily go again. But it needs to be told in a way that communicates its gravity. Cruel injustice is not a laughing matter.
Some critics have hailed the show's "lampooning style" as a metaphor for a justice system that was itself a sham. They say the satire puts the travesty in high relief and makes it into art. I can't seem to get to that point of view. Maybe because in Scottsboro, where I learned the Pledge of Allegiance, I also discovered that "liberty and justice for all" was just an aspiration, and not one that everyone shared. At six years old, I found that terribly disturbing. All these years later, I still don't feel like making fun of it.
"The Scottsboro Boys" at the Ahmanson Theater continues through June 30.
Production photo by Craig Schwartz from Center Theater Group
The velvety, black night serves as both inspiration and backdrop for Los Angeles photo artist Darren Pearson, aka Darius Twin. Since 2007 he has refined his technique in light painting and established a keen following amongst a small but elite community of light artists around the world. His subjects are mostly an array of mythical creatures but his work with skeletons and dinosaurs has drawn the attention of the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles, which has invited him to stage a live dinosaur "light art" presentation in conjunction with the museum's June 9 centennial birthday bash.
Light painting is both art and science. Using a digital camera with the capacity for long exposures, a tripod and a light source, Darren etches his visions onto the infinite canvas of space. His current camera is a Cannon 7DSLR with a Zeiss 28 lens, which he operates in bulb mode with a remote to open and close the lens when starting and completing his drawings. A simple flashlight on a key chain serves as his light source,but smaller LED lights, fire, Glo-sticks and even steel wool sparklers all can be used to create different photographic effects. For a better understanding he has recorded a great visual demonstration on his website.
A Southern Californian native, Darren moved to Los Angeles to pursue a career in graphic design after attending UC Santa Cruz. As many in Hollywood have discovered, LA provides plenty of diversity for the aspiring artist and Darren's endless quest for unique backdrops has produced a spectacular series of photographs capturing Los Angeles by night. After sunset he scouts around LA's hidden underbelly to compile a list of potential locations. To avoid the cities excessive ambient light, he focuses on abandoned locations, many discovered simply by browsing blog sites or from Google satellite images: the sunken city in San Pedro, parts of the LA River, the Old Bank District, bridges and deserted railway tracks have all been catalogued in his photographs. Once he's pin-pointed his location he returns after dark or early in the morning to draw and shoot. Typically he's alone save for the homeless and the odd graffiti artist and so far has attracted little attention but he's alert about his surroundings, "follows his gut and carries a big tripod"!
"Los Angeles," he says "is just a fantastic pace to shoot because of it's versatility." There's plenty of steel and concrete but a lot of natural beauty in Silver Lake, Angeles Forest, Joshua Tree and of course along the Pacific Ocean.
Up until now the focus of his creativity has been, appropriately for Los Angeles, an unparalleled collection of dinosaurs and angels along with a large group of skeletons in various forms of motion. He starts with a sketch, which he saves to his cell phone and later decides what subject would best fit in which locations. Working in the dark, he uses his own body as a point of reference and the skeletal frame of his subjects facilitates his ability to get the proportions balanced. The skeleton, he says "is easy to relate to. There is no gender or skin color, we all have them." His fascination with dinosaurs started as a young boy when he drew them as cartoons and he's never outgrown his love for these prehistoric creatures. As a student he looked for ways to illustrate them within a photograph, but it was the photography of Pablo Picasso's "light" drawings of centaurs and bulls done in 1949 that finally shone the light on the medium he had been searching for. Before each painting Darren researches his dinosaur and practices at least a couple of times to get them to look right. He follows a strict routine; lens, lights, angles. Each swipe of light in space is a small piece of a very intricate puzzle, all of which must be captured in one single long exposure shot. From the first try to a successful painting there is plenty of trial and error.
The Centennial Celebration of the Natural History Museum provides an exciting opportunity for Darren to demonstrate his art. His goal is to have his work exhibited in museums and although he has done commercial work he feels strongly that light painting be viewed as art. One of the key misconceptions, he says, "is that people don't understand the process" and "think my work is conjured through trickery or computer manipulation." Technology is advancing and he keeps working on new techniques but don't be fooled; there are no short cuts to Darren's photographs. Painting in space requires incredibly swift hands, technical know how and a spectacular imagination.
Darren Pearson will be performing Sunday June 9th from 6-6:30 pm on the second floor of the Natural History Museum.
Artwork: Darius Twin
Previously on LA Observed:
Dinosaurs over Eagle Rock, not in neon
First, there was none (back when the sniffy cognoscenti called Los Angeles a cultural wasteland). Then the LA Opera finally took root, fed by the celebrity mega-seed of Plácido Domingo. And now Disney Hall, courtesy of Gustavo Dudamel and his LA Philharmonic, has jumped into the operatic garden.
But wait, in a single weekend we just saw three — count 'em, three — rings of action: LA Opera's "Tosca" at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, "Dulce Rosa," a world premiere by Lee Holdridge, inaugurating the company's Off Grand wing at Santa Monica's Broad Stage, and, most stunningly sophisticated of all, Christopher Alden's staging of "Le nozze di Figaro" with Dudamel helming his Mozart-sized band in a makeshift semi-pit at Disney.
Talk about brilliant. This time — in a second outing as purveyor of opera — the Phil found just the right way to incorporate its wonderful self into the milieu of the lyric muse. After all, Disney has no proscenium arch, no wings, no way to hang scenery or place side lights. It's designed to showcase a symphony orchestra.
I suspect it took a whole creative team to figure out the balance between "stage" and "pit." The solution, certainly with Pritzker Prize architect Jean Nouvel's input, along with his prop-based designs, boasted a wrap-around effect.
Sometimes Figaro or the Count or Cherubino would stroll to the front of the orchestra, and maybe even jokingly (when appropriate) jump onto the podium with the maestro. And yes, although music stand lights were low and the instrumentalists wore black shirts and trousers, we could see them — as background. But the big bonus came in seeing a very discreet but eminently follow-able Dudamel — his every small but emphatic gesture and cue and phrase-embrace, as it flowed through his dancerly body to his fingertips, to the band ("see the music"), and to the singers.
And, given that Alden kept the action on his raked stage limited we had equal value music-making and theatrics, with young, astute singing actors who could both understand and mean what they did onstage. Away with the stock operatic lurch-and-lunge stances or the mock exaggerations of comedy. As with his "Don Giovanni" last year and now this "Marriage of Figaro" — it pre-dates "Downton Abbey" by several centuries and is all about large incestuous households filled with nobles and servants — the innovative director strips things down to their essentials.
Forget the routiniers and their shenanigans. Not here.
Figaro, the darkly rich baritone Edwin Crossley-Mercer, makes his words sardonic, bordering on angry, when his scene with fiancée Susanna opens — it's all about a bed here, and not an ample one, but the spartan thing that denotes servanthood. We didn't know Mozart-DaPonte could be read as down-in the-mouth but now we do.
And then there are simple touches that signal everything. The Countess, for instance, sung by the splendid Dorothea Röschmann, spins out her "Porgi amor" while fingering Susanna's bridal veil — left on the bed in Figaro's room — as a sad reminder of her faithless husband's designs on the servant girl.
Others in the excellent cast included Rachel Frenkel, who made an un-silly but still intense adolescent in love with love and even lavished some nice flourishes on "Voi che sapete"; Christopher Maltman, a suave and lively and hip Count Almaviva; Malin Christensson, a soberly shrewd Susanna.
Haute-couturier Azzedine Alaïa, who flew the cast to his Paris atelier for fittings, costumed the singers in casual chic for their everyday doings and glorious runway numbers for their fancy occasion. The whole thing had to cost a bundle, but in the realm of corporate arts, and a special event like this, who's counting?
Back in the real world, though, where next day's dinner must be accounted for, LA Opera came up with a "Tosca" production that might better have been left off the table. John Caird's staging, borrowed from Houston, does everything to afflict an opera company that is charged with offering ever-new takes on bread-and-butter repertory. And although this director boasts a long list of notable credits his tack here is to deal with external add-ons, simply frame the piece in an idea that doesn't fit and ignore the essentials of motivated, interpersonal drama — or, at least, not help his cast do much that is convincing.
So we saw Puccini's musically keyed drama blunted, step by step. Floria Tosca, who is supposed to be Rome's celebrated diva, enters a dark, bombed out church, dressed like a peasant girl and acting like one. Where's the grand flourish to match the composer's notated description? Where's the bright daylight that accompanies her sunny appearance?
Worst of all, when the music tells us that she's running with triumphant news to her lover's jail, the director instead has her gawking at corpses hanging down from the prison ceiling. Not to mention the cartoonish blood-letting scenes where Tosca stabs her nemesis so effortlessly and so often she seems to be plunging her knife through jello and, for good measure, slits the guy's throat, his up-raised hand jabbing the air.
But there is one exceptional treasure in this "Tosca." Sondra Radvanovsky. Just to hear her voice blooming throughout — with its plummy tone, rich dimension, ease at the top, fullness everywhere on the scale — is a boon. And, of course, her "Vissi d'arte" brought the wildest stamping and hollering heard in a long while. Too bad the director couldn't help her find the role's meaty drama.
Nor did the two opposing forces in this Tosca's life fare better. Both Marco Berti as Cavaradossi and Lado Ataneli as Scarpia could easily be mistaken for bank tellers rather than deadly foes, notwithstanding decent vocal strengths. Especially unhelpful were Bunny Christie's designs: Baron Scarpia, the elegantly fearsome Roman chief of police, was gotten up as a low-level criminal ordering his slovenly thugs about in what looked like a garage full of art booty, not the luxe quarters befitting his stature.
Luckily, there was Domingo conducting — a powerhouse when he used to sing Cavaradossi, and one who now could guide the work with needed sensitivity. But that wasn't all. In something of a marathon he also presided over rehearsals and performances of "Dulce Rosa," racing back and forth between downtown and Santa Monica.
That work, based on a story by Isabel Allende concerning civil war in a generic South American country with all the expected martyrs and heroes, good guys and bad guys, devotion and treachery. It finally builds to a rousing climax via a love triangle.
Holdridge is a facile composer who can score anything called for in the book, be it conflict or romantic tenderness. By the second act he found his stride. The narrative had an urgent musical flow, with Domingo eliciting dark power from the orchestra, although prior to that "Dulce Rosa" had seemed like a Hallmark card of an opera -- especially so Richard Sparks' libretto.
The cast was strong. In the title role soprano Maria Antunez transformed herself from innocent, devoted daughter to heroic champion of her father's cause. Others, also excellent, included Greg Fedderly, Benjamin Bliss and Alfredo Daza.
Of all that went into the physical production it was Jenny Okun's projection designs that dominated and lent atmosphere.
But if you don't want to miss the most intense experience, get to Philippe Beziat's film, "Becoming Traviata," now at the Royal. The brilliant Natalie Dessay, with her director and conductor, take you behind the scenes through the real agonies and ecstasies of creating her character. It's like no other.
Tosca and Dulce Rosa photos: Robert Millard
Nearly all of my contributions to LA Observed tend to be about sports. But, I do sometimes care about matters other than Don Mattingly's penchant for bunting or other such minutiae. For example, my wife and I are members of LACMA. And on Sunday, we ventured out to see the new James Turrell exhibition, being touted as THE thing to see this summer.
Turrell is a light and space artist, which is not an easy medium to display. For starters, a museum needs to set up some fairly sophisticated lighting equipment. And there needs to be space because the light and the space work together.
But, from our first experience with the exhibition, albeit on its second day of display, the space part may require visitors to LACMA to arrive with a great deal of patience to take all of the exhibit in. LACMA is recommending 90 minutes, but it may take even longer judging from our experience on Sunday night.
Artist J. Michael Walker wrote this for LA Observed after an experience in Downtown last weekend. The artwork is his too.
Driving into Downtown, I float down Los Angeles Street, and now - early Sunday evening, the shops shuttered, an occasional street person the only pedestrian - I have the whole block north of Fifth to myself. Car parked and locked, I stroll up Fifth a couple of blocks and, detouring into the Last Bookstore and snagging a pair of arcane art books (Wenceslaus Hollar: "Delineator of His Time," and "Gothic Panel Painting in Hungary)", I pay with plastic and pop into my destination next door - CB1 Gallery - for the opening of André Goeritz's monumental woodworks and Kiki Seror's ying-yang porn-art photos and videos.
As happens at art openings, you see one friend: you see them all. Conversation with one acquaintance leads to hugs and news with another. Between the bonding, the attention to the art, and the wine, two and a half hours pass and it's time to go home.
As I set back out down Fifth, smokers ring the gallery door; and a small dark woman dressed in red, whom I'd earlier noticed perusing Kiki's adult-website-based photographs with a knowing, sly smile, harangues some long-gone male with a preacher's wrath.
Rounding the corner at Los Angeles, I spy my car, all alone on the trash-strewn street. Setting my art books on the car roof, I reach into my pocket- and fail to find my car key. The more pockets I check (and re-check), the less I find my car key. It's not in the ignition, and of course it's not lying on the asphalt. I could call AAA to dispatch a truck and jimmy my door, but then I would just have an open car and no key; so I retrace my steps to CB1, silently calling out, "Okay, Exú," - Exú, Lord of the Crossroads, the orisha of opening pathways - "Figure this one out for me."
The gallery's now closed: the artists, the faithful, and the owners hover out front, deciding on drinks, dinner or home. I approach Clyde, the director, and ask if someone happened to find a car key: "No one turned anything in," he responds.
I check in at The Last Bookstore next door: "Not that I know of," the first clerk, who had rung up my purchase, answers, "What kind of car was it?"
"Gail," he calls out to the tall woman in a cool blouse, who had bagged and handed me my purchase, "Anybody turn in a key for a Nissan Versa?"
"Yessss!" comes her cheery reply and Gail hands me my lucky car key. I kiss her hand and ask, "So, where was it, do you know?"
"Right here," and she peers over the counter, to the floor where I had stood.
As I leave the bookstore she adds, "One of our regulars turned it in; a character called Little Bit."
I'm elated: the scenario for getting home by bus on a Sunday night to retrieve the spare key, returning to Los Angeles Street, and purchasing a replacement key for $130, had not looked pleasant.
Stepping outside, the homeless woman dressed in red, now humming contentedly to herself, catches my eye: "Have a blessed evening," I say, full of gratitude and generosity of spirit for this turn of events.
"Excuse me, sir?" she calls after me, and I expect a request for spare change, deciding in a split second, as I turn to meet her gaze, that I will happily offer whatever she asks.
"Do you like Old School Jazz?" comes the unexpected question, "Because I'm going to perform here on June 15th."
Dazed, I reply, "Sure, I'd love to come. Of course," and I notice her twinkling eyes, her widening smile against teak skin. "What's your name?"
Little Bit. Of course.
I raise my car key between us. She acknowledges it without the slightest indication of surprise. Then her smile widens, her eyebrow arches, and she leans in low.
"They say," She whispers, "I play guitar just like Eric Clapton."
"Goin' Down to the Crossroads," I think as I walk to my car: Exú.
I know it's a stretch, but tonight, as the key unlocks my door, I'm inclined to believe her....
Okay. So the pure of heart may have missed it. But when the LA Philharmonic programmed two stellar women as headliners -- conductor Susanna Mälkki together with violin virtuosa Leila Josefowicz -- I said to myself: no male domination here, not for now!
And that, folks, is a rarity, a rebuff of tradition. Especially when we're talking about leadership roles. Especially when 2008 almost brought about the first woman as U.S president -- watch out for 2016 -- and when 2013 may see the same as Los Angeles mayor.
Oh, yes, we've had female baton-wavers at the Phil before, starting in the '70s with Antonia Brico, who, with skirts swaying, took the podium at Hollywood Bowl after spending a lifetime by then waiting in the wings (perhaps deservedly!)....and some recent others, including Marin Alsop and Joana Carneiro.
But Finnish-born Mälkki came with elite credentials -- a notable nod from Pierre Boulez to stand as director of the Ensemble InterContemporain in Paris. And she's being hailed as a conductor of today's most heady music, invited even to Milan's La Scala, that most hide-bound, male bastion where catcalls are commonplace and where she became the first woman to occupy the pit.
Mälkki's manner, like Boulez's, is to keep the scores at hand (even overly familiar ones, like Brahms' Fourth Symphony) and leave the baton at home. Ram-rod erect, tall and thin, she's something of a spectacle in a long, close-fitting tail coat.
Her calling card here was the U.S. premiere of the German composer Enno Poppe's "Markt," a thing of astringent beauty and startling clarity of lines, which the orchestra delivered in its full glory, along with powerful exclamations.
Bully for them all. And bully for that other star, Josefowicz, who opened new vistas with her account of Stravinsky's Violin Concerto. How often we've heard this alluring work on which Balanchine set his remarkable ballet (and thus do we "see the music"), yet never so alive or searingly intimate in its slippery asides as this fiddler made it. Mälkki backed up that interpretive stance, emphasizing the composer's devilish little dialogues, alternating the jaunty with the swoony.
In other circles, there were long careers to note. Namely those downtown New York avant-gardists, starting in the 1970s, who took on the same devotion to collaborative spirit as did Diaghilev in early 1900s Paris. Think Merce Cunningham, John Cage, Laurie Anderson, Robert Rauschenberg, Trisha Brown, et al.
Well, UCLA became the open arms of a major Trisha Brown Dance Company retrospective, the choreographer's last hurrah capping her career. There were site-specific offerings, films and theatrical events all over Westwood for several weeks. Its own kind of minimalism, the Brown aesthetic deals with repetitive movement, a softly shifting kaleidoscope of loose limbs swinging and hips undulating back and forth within an endlessly geometric network of patterns.
Guess The Ending became my own game while watching Brown's "Foret Foray" -- because the program note listed the Hamilton High School Marching Band as part of the piece. To be sure, distant sounds could be heard and they got closer and closer. But I was right: the marching musicians would not actually enter Royce Hall on whose stage the piece took place, they would not break into the sanctum sanctorum of this shrine-like, ever-closed-off opus...
At its end, though, Megan Madorin, who could have been Isadora herself -- such floated finger curls and foot falls as even that famous one had not the virtuosity to flaunt -- left us in staggering disbelief of her phantom image.
Brown's most current and, actually, her final piece, "I'm going to toss my arms - if you catch them they're yours" (a farewell title if ever there was one), shows her transition from that long-established uniform of floppy trousers and shirts to sleek swimsuits, a reflection of today's bare-it-all ethos, wherever you look. Who says nothing changes?
Probably not Bebe Miller, who qualifies as nearly vintage, celebrating her company's 27th year. She showcased Angie Hauser and the incomparable Darrell Jones in "A History," downtown at REDCAT. Throughout the piece, Miller seemed to be asking: What do we hold in our consciousness? Over and over, the duo showed us an answer: the creative process -- a whole variety of body linkages that are awkward and difficult. Through spoken word, sometimes by way of softly singing to herself (recorded), Miller also tells us they are dream fragments and that memory is possessed by the physical images of other dances.
But for the Trey McIntyre Project -- based in Boise and seen here at the Broad Stage -- there is no long history, just a wide net in which this gifted, young dance-maker catches fodder for his creative sensibilities. And what fodder that is. Songs of Richard Strauss, for instance (a recording with soprano Jessye Norman) form the basis of "Pass, Away," a mélange of lyrical movement that verges at times on acrobatic but strictly as an expression of intensity, not physicality for its own sake. The tone harkens back to German modern dance innovator Mary Wigman and even German cabaret, but the mode is rapturous, as in Strauss's sweeping music.
Altogether different was McIntyre's other extraordinary work, "Arrantza," a docu-dance of Basque immigrants in America, their recorded narratives heard above tambourines and recorders, their personas a thing of berets and kerchiefs, sneakers and jeans, their gathering place a village plaza filled with seemingly spontaneous but deceptively complex dances. Less known than the Ratmanskys and Wheeldons of the world, McIntyre is a genuine treasure.
And so, of course, is Angela Gheorghiu, who appeared in recital at that same Santa Monica oasis, the Broad.
"Brava, mi diva," shouted a fan from the audience, as the Romanian-born soprano headed out on stage, beaming broadly, taking a queenly stride. She knows she's beloved. And why. It's that magical voice, a liquid column of sound that can seduce with its sheer quality, its smoothness up and down the scale, its lustrous top and that signature Gheorghiu legato. Remember how she even captivated President Obama at the 2009 Kennedy Center Honors when she sang "Vissi d'arte?"
On this night, accompanied ably by pianist Jeff Cohen, Gheorghiu proved to be that same shrewd artist. Oddly, she kept a music stand throughout and used it almost like a prop, swinging it from here to there, making it a point of direction as she sang well-known ditties ("Plaisir d'amour") and other recital-appropriate songs in unrecognizable French before continuing to a whole range of lovely Romanian songs. All of it was gorgeous.
So was the singing at LA Opera's "La Cenerentola," or as it's lately called, "Cinderella." But as one wag put it, much of this Rossini work is repetitive, so that a good edit could ease its three hours to two -- nothwithstanding the lively treatment by James Conlon and orchestra, and the virtuosic performances of Kate Lindsey, Stacey Tappan, Ronnita Miller, Nicola Ulivieri, Alessandro Corbelli, René Barbera and Vito Priante.
Top photo: Susanna Mälkki. Bottom photos: Angela Gheorghiu
Paris Photo is the annual photography fair held in France — transported to the U.S. this weekend for the first time. On the lot at Paramount Studios are gallery spaces, booksellers such as Taschen and Aperture and live artist conversations and film screenings. Matthew Weiner, the creator of "Mad Men," is one of the featured speakers. At the preview on Thursday, City Hall's culture maven Olga Garay-English welcomed the organizers to LA and Councilman Tom LaBonge presented a proclamation and a calendar.
Photos by Iris Schneider. Top, looking onto the New York backlot at Paramount Studios from a facade occupied for the weekend by Zucker Art Books. Below, display space inside facades on the studio's New York street.
New York based artist Shinique Smith is known for taking everyday, unwanted objects and transforming them into complex, colorful sculptures. Some hang from the ceiling in rope-bound bundles, others sit on the floor in bale formations. All are products of the artist's passion for discovering and collecting materials wherever she finds herself in the world. Fabric, discarded wrappers, cast-off toys, old clothing, and second-hand furniture are just some of the items that have found their way into her pieces. Also known for her large-scale paintings and installations, Smith, 42, brings a concern for finding common threads between people to her work. She was first inspired to incorporate used clothing into her sculpture after reading a New York Times Magazine story that followed a t-shirt donated to a thrift shop in Manhattan and eventually became part of a bale of used clothing that was shipped to Africa. Growing up with her fashion editor mother in Baltimore, Smith had a wide range of experiences with travel, art, clothing design, and spirituality, all of which inform her work today.
Another of Smith's passions is working with children — she earned a degree in arts education at Tufts University before going on to an MFA from Maryland Institute College of Art. This made her a natural choice for LACMA On-site's current project at Charles White Elementary School in the Westlake district near Downtown. LACMA On-site is a partnership with LAUSD that provides art programs and materials to schools, libraries, and community organizations.
"We selected Shinique because we thought her background and artistic practice would resonate with the students. She has natural instincts as a teacher. Her work is fundamentally about transforming everyday objects into something one-of-a-kind, special....and emboldened the students to see their environment through new eyes," says LACMA educator Sarah Jesse. The museum operates a gallery in the school, opened in the former Otis Art Institute on Wilshire Boulevard, and Shinique Smith: Firsthand is the fifth exhibition mounted there. The show has served as a catalyst for artist, museum, and community to interact. It consists of three parts; work by Smith, objects chosen by her from LACMA's Costume and Textile collection, and art by students at Charles White. A new piece made by Smith specifically for the show was inspired by her exploration of MacArthur Park and the downtown fabric district.
Smith was first introduced to the students at assemblies last September. She showed images of her art, talked about what inspires her, and posed questions to the students about finding beauty in their everyday lives. The children were asked to collect their own ideas and inspirations in sketchbooks which they later worked from to create paintings and collages that became part of the show. Smith later returned to the school and in partnership with Jesse, conducted workshops with the kids where they made small sculptures out of socks, ribbon, yarn, and tape. All of the students' creations will be assembled by Smith into one giant sculpture, and will remain at the school permanently. Smith gathered unused socks from a New York store that was going out of business, and also during outings in Downtown Los Angeles and Koreatown. During one recent workshop, she gently urged a group of fourth graders to think about the materials they were about to utilize. "Why do you think I use socks? Are you the only people who use socks? People all over the world wear them, so that's something that connects us," she said.
Smith said that working with the LACMA Costume collection was a joy. "This was a first for me, the first time I've used part of a museum's collection (as part of a show), and a great opportunity. I wanted everything!," she said. "I chose objects for aesthetic and formal reasons, things that related to my work. But I also thought about the designers that I knew of when I was growing up. That's why Bill Blass is in the show." Also included, and juxtaposed against Smith's and the students work, are pieces by Geoffrey Beene, Rei Kawakubo, and Yves St. Laurent.
Reflecting on exactly when it was she discovered that she wanted to work with kids, Smith says, "Maybe it was about thinking back to when I was a kid, and about the things that worked out for me." She came to the realization, very early on, that she did not want to teach in an everyday situation. "I want to work with kids when they choose to be there, not when they have to be there," she said.
"It's been amazing to have her here," said school principal Irene Worrell. "The students have responded so well to Shinique. They show me their art and I love seeing their eyes light up. It's esteem building. Everyone is successful." The school's primarily Hispanic students are not strangers to art instruction. Charles White is one of the few LAUSD elementary schools to offer art, music, and dance. But getting to the museum can be another matter. Says Worrell, "It's funny, LACMA is only ten minutes away, but for a lot of these kids, it's a world away."
Top and bottom two photos for LA Observed by Iris Schneider. Photo of This Year's Girl, 2009 by Stephen Brayne
At last, a "Flying Dutchman" without irrelevant whimsy or silly symbolism or egotistical re-writing. And not even one tomato thrown (yes, an audience member threw a tomato — at previous director Julie Taymor — for her staging of Wagner's mythic work, mounted nearly 20 years ago by LA Opera.)
This time the company let Wagner be Wagner. It borrowed Nikolaus Lehnhoff's darkly ominous production from Chicago. And through it we could see the composer's roiling conflicts so wildly illustrated in his score, a thing of irresistibly stormy outbursts.
What can I say? But that it's wonderful — even with a last-minute indisposition of the central soprano and her replacement by Julie Makerov, who met the challenge handsomely, despite a few patches of vocal grief, but many more of glory, thanks to her stentorian high notes and thrilling ascents.
Between conductor James Conlon's all-in approach to heroic orchestral calls like this one and the spectral visions defining the protagonist, you really are swept into the drama and not distracted from it. Here is an ideal mix of stylization and theatrical impact, by the eminent German team of Lehnhoff, Raimund Bauer and Andrea Schmidt-Futterer. It conjures up an ornate Bauhaus ship emerging out of smoky sea depths, with a Wotan-like Dutchman, all in black, hat brim pulled down, framed in an angle of light. The images are striking.
As the title character, that accursed, storm-weary ghost of a captain, Tómas Tómasson gives off the morbid aura of his endless journey and sings in a commandingly dark voice. Makerov, as Senta, the woman who can bring him salvation through her purity of purpose, made a believable heroine. James Creswell, in his best role yet with LA Opera, was her mercenary father, Daland, his rolling black basso used with nuance. And tenor Matthew Plenk, as the Steersman, also sang with idiomatic refinement.
Not least in this Wagnerian cosmos of doom to redemption was the marvelous roaring chorus.
But then there's the current world beckoning. And if you're Gustavo Dudamel leading the Los Angeles Philharmonic, you answer the invitation.
After all, the New York Times has just declared our resident band and its starry maestro pre-eminent among orchestras — for commissioning a vast number of new works. Even to the point of tacitly down-grading its own New York Phil. And so lustily does that paper herald LAPO's upcoming tour to Lincoln Center and also Europe, that we're getting to feel like a try-out stop.
Before it played that touring bill-of-fare (Debussy, Stravinsky, Adams), though, we trotted down to Disney Hall to hear Dudamel rouse his confreres to ground-rumbling, deliberative depths in "Siegfried's Death and Funeral Music" from Wagner's Götterdämmerung — a short tease of things to come, we hope.
But in a curious juxtaposition to the Wagner, Gil Shaham was on hand for Brahms' Violin Concerto — such as I've never heard it played. Imagine. If Giacometti were a composer he might turn out the piece this way: remarkably deconstructed, with minimal vibrato, lacking any big, juicy flourishes, played with the slenderest, most refined tone including a cadenza that was nothing if not lean, linear and veering to modern.
And while achieving it all, the tall, thin violinist lurched about on the stage like a Giacometti come rhythmically to life — taking small, staccato steps right up to the conductor's podium, back-stepping to the concert-master's stand. Never in doubt was his intense physical connection to fellow players.
What a contrast beside him, though, when Dudamel & Co. finally had their chance to revel in the concerto's gutsy Hungarian finale, so full of stretched chords and plangent heavings.
More contrast came with guest conductor Charles Dutoit, who asserted uncommon control over the orchestra's outpourings, with an added notch up in refinement. The 76-year-old Swiss is a pro — there's something to be said for age, wedded to talent. Here, in the Mozart 29th Symphony, we could hear him allow plenty of leeway between the margins but always return to that over-arching net that holds the whole thing together. It's called integrity. It's not so readily found.
Then, for heroic imagery, Dutoit and the Phil turned to Strauss's "Don Quixote" — where we heard cellist Gautier Capucon "impersonate" the knightly character as gruffly tormented at the start, daringly soft and soulful at the end, along with violist Carrie Dennis as a Sancho Panza who seemed to dance around the hall in gorgeously robust animation.
But if you're in search of salon splendor — as opposed to downtown's Disney — look no further than Jacaranda, the new-music enterprise in Santa Monica that incorporates the bold and the beautiful — with informed taste, imagination and a polish now brought to a peak of excellence, after a gestation of nine years.
The source of all this wonderment is Patrick Scott — you may remember him from his erstwhile identity: Patrick Marca Registrada (yes, that jokey moniker), the founder of Eyes Wide Open, a performance art group back in the '80s. Together with conductor Mark Alan Hilt he sees to every detail of their small, smart operation here. It's located in one of the premier spots for acoustics and ambience, believe it or not, the First Presbyterian Church on Second St. And it has a following these days of Westside intelligentsia/older hippy types that sells to the walls.
Newly designed, it's spare but warm and light, with a pleasing balance of scale and suggesting a kind of architectural humanity. The only sign of churchiness is in the stark simple, modern cross above the stage, draped with a maroon sash.
Jacaranda's recent concert, a thoroughly designed and thought-out affair, was "Thresholds: The Scandals of 1912-1913," that era in new music where audiences took noisy umbrage at the experimentalism of Schoenberg, Webern and Berg who comprised the Second Viennese School.
So naturally Scott found plenty to theatricalize. For Schoenberg's "Pierrot Lunaire," ably led by Hilt, he had the men in white tie/tuxes and flute/piccolo player Pamela Vliek Martchev in a chic cocktail dress and hat of the period. They all turned in stellar performances, even if Julia Migenes, no longer in good singing form, resorted to shtick instead of capturing the eerie fantasy of the character, a mocking specter who both scorns and feels menaced by the world.
The small pieces by Webern and Berg were striking in their distilled expression and played with scintillating purity. The evening was capped by duo pianists Danny Holt and Steven Vanhauwaerts, whose "Sacre du Printemps" yielded that same overwhelming pagan force as Stravinsky's full orchestration.
Photos from "Flying Dutchman" by Robert Millard/LA Opera
Choreographer/dancer Melissa Barak might just be one of those rare people — a deeply committed artist who is equally passionate about business. If this is the case, then she will need all the business savvy she can muster because Barak has big plans. The Los Angeles native spent nine years with the New York City Ballet, four with Los Angeles Ballet, and is now hoping to establish a ballet company in her hometown that will provide it's dancers with "the environment I always wished I had been part of. I want to create my own dance heaven."
We spoke recently at Westside School of Ballet, where she is in the middle of rehearsals for her company's debut. "I've always admired innovation, and building something from the ground up intrigues me," says Barak. It's clear that, for the time being at least, she wants to keep things scaled down. "I'm not shy or embarrassed to say we're going to start small and work our way up. Right now I'm working with several dancers locally and bringing in guests from other companies. Ideally, I'd like to hire fifteen dancers." The company's repertoire will focus on contemporary pieces. "This is going to be all about the 'new'...new voices in choreography,"says Barak.
She acknowledges that Barak Ballet, still in its infancy, is currently a labor of love. She started with a few fund raisers to gather seed money, and proudly says that enough was raised to produce the fledgling company's first official performance on March 31. "This performance is going to be my 'big ask' to the community to help me make this a reality," she says. The program will feature ballets by noted choreographers Christopher Wheeldon, Darrell Grand Moultrie and Frank Chaves, and a new piece by Barak. She is getting a leg up from participating in the Pasadena Arts Council's "Emerge" program, which supports new arts organizations and enables them to have non-profit status. The focus now is on building some private donors. After that, she hopes to apply for grants while continuing to build on other forms of funding.
It's no surprise that Barak, 33, has arrived at this point in her dance career. "Growing up in Los Angeles, I was always choreographing in my head, always loved listening to music, especially classical, in the car." She began to take ballet seriously at the age of 6 and studied at Westside until 16, when she went to the School of American Ballet in New York (the official school of New York City Ballet.) While at SAB she participated in a student choreography workshop and got the attention of NYCB artistic director Peter Martins. She entered the company at 18 and embarked on a kind of split existence, divided between dance and choreography. Her 2001 piece, "Telemann Overture Suite," first created for a SAB workshop, was added to City Ballet's repertoire and earned Barak her first critical success as a choreographer. "That was one of my struggles because I had just started my career and I felt like right off the bat I was seen by my director as more of a choreographer than a dancer. But, I really loved to dance, and that was where I wanted to shine."
Although she spent her entire career at City Ballet in the corps, Barak didn't lack for opportunity. "Even as a corps member, you could really stand out in that company. You're given lots of chances. Toward the second half of my time there I was doing very nice roles. I was very happy with what I was getting to do." Martins continued to support her choreography, and in 2002 the company performed her piece, "If By Chance," featuring a young dancer named Benjamin Millepied, who more recently has become known for choreographing the movie "Black Swan" and founding the LA Dance Project.
In 2007 Barak took stock and decided it was time to move on. "I was happy by the time I left, which was on a positive note. I felt good about my career there and about what I had learned and gone through." She returned to California and joined the newly formed Los Angeles Ballet. "I had done the big company thing for so long. This was a small company and I felt like I'd stand out and be able to give what I'd always wanted to give as a performer. It was also nice to be back home in a city I love with a lot of people I know." Barak continued to choreograph and perform, as well as spending part of 2009 dancing with Christopher Wheeldon's company, Morphoses. The relationship with Los Angeles Ballet ended in 2011 and Barak found herself at a crossroads. "I thought to myself, now what? Do I go into another company, go up the ladder and deal with all the politics? Do I want to do all that over again at 31? Or do I want to do my own thing and start something different. I even thought, do I want to continue dancing, or should I go into something completely different? But I love business and I love working with people. Building this company felt like the right thing. I'll still have ballet in my life, I'll be able to choreograph, and who knows -- maybe I'll dance!"
Barak's timing may prove to be fortuitous. With Millepied departing for the Paris Opera Ballet next year, there will be a new opening in the L.A. dance landscape. The two were colleagues throughout her career at NYCB, says Barak."I think Benjamin, with the success of "Black Swan" and appearing throughout the mainstream media, was able to cast a real spotlight on dance in this city...which is a wonderful thing. I've always admired his tenacity and ability to make things happen."
For now, though, Barak is taking it one step at a time. "This first performance is like, what's going to be the response? After this, we'll assess where to go next, " she said. And then, as is her way, Barak's practical side inevitably re-emerges. "A ballet company is no different from any other business. You start small and grow organically. You take your time building a solid foundation with a network of supporters who believe in your vision and you grow as big as the company is meant to grow. You really can't force these things."
Barak Ballet, Sunday, March 31 at 7 p.m. Ann & Jerry Moss Theater, Santa Monica. Limited number of tickets available
Photos of Melissa Barak by Judy Graeme/LA Observed
Robert Joffrey worshipped deeply, from afar.
So genuine was his devotion to the legendary past - say the Paris of Diaghilev's Ballets Russes, with its wildly rich collection of visual artists, designers, composers and choreographers -- that he bid his company to painstakingly recover some masterpieces from that 20th century peak of creative collaboration.
And lucky Los Angeles was the first city, back in 1987, to gaze upon the Joffrey Ballet's most famous reconstruction of them all: "Rite of Spring," or "Le Sacre du Printemps," as it's known around the rest of the world (also referred to by musicians and dancers simply as "Sacre.")
So, naturally, there it was on the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion stage, celebrating its 100th birthday -- yes, the infamous Stravinsky/Nijinsky ballet that caused a Parisian audience to riot at its 1913 premiere ("ballet brought to barbarism" and "music gone mad" wrote critics.)
Nijinsky's stylized choreography - dancers moving in profile at times, as in bas relief, like figures on a Greek vase; the sacrificial virgin, standing in the now-iconic pose as Nijinsky was often depicted, with head tilted sideways, eyes vacant, knees slightly bent, toes turned in - wholly rejected the classical ballet idiom.
And Stravinsky's cataclysmic score - with its skewed meters and pounding rhythms -- would haunt the halls of concert music from then to now.
Yet, a century later, our vision has broadened, our ears have stretched.
Now that doesn't mean we no longer admire immensely the meticulous Hodson/Archer recreation of the original "Sacre," with its attention to historical detail.
It's still startling, for instance, to see the tightly circling Maidens, facing outwards and lit overhead, along with other intricate interweavings, rock against the score's rhythms of foreboding.
But, pardon me, the whole of it seems puny today. Because the music has eaten the ballet! The visual events onstage are dwarfed by the score.
We're now used to hearing augmented orchestras turn "Sacre" - by itself - into an unequaled feast, more vast and overwhelming than any theater could contain. Our own Philharmonic powers through the score, courtesy of Salonen, Dudamel, et al - even though the pit band here, despite a wayward trumpet entry, did a creditable job, led by Joffrey music director Scott Speck.
Still, the adoring crowds seemed to get what they came for.
Speck also made the most of excerpts from Philip Glass's Symphony No. 3, the basis for Edwaard Liang's "Age of Innocence," which showed off the company's superb dancers - though he could lose the Jane Austen title borrowing.
But William Forsythe's constant-composer-companion Thom Willems surely offers too much of a crashing thing for the choreographer's "In the Middle, Somewhat Elevated," another engrossing exercise in his break-apart-put-together ballets of inordinate intrigue.
Meanwhile other events beckoned. And raised a question...
What, for instance, do Midori, Meredith Monk and Helmuth Rilling have in common? They are all musical brands, that's what.
The still-girlish violinist, known by her single name since blazing into the spotlight as a wunderkind more than three decades ago, recently played with the LA Philharmonic, led by a surprisingly uncommanding Pablo Heras-Casado, and put a virtuosa's shine on Peter Eötvös's 2nd Violin Concerto, cutely titled "DoReMi," and heard in its world premiere.
Intermedia maven Monk, now 71, has been collecting cult fans for four decades. Her brand of vocalizing, unique in the sound kingdom, her clear but complex compositions and theatrical esoterica, drew the usual suspects to UCLA's Freud Playhouse for "On Behalf of Nature."
At the same campus, and in that rarest of occasions - a completely sold out Royce Hall - music lovers showed up on a wet, blustery, cold night to hear acclaimed German maestro Rilling lead the LA Chamber Orchestra in Mozart's 39th Symphony and D-minor Requiem.
Talk about a diverse collection, it would be these three performing artists.
For the greater part of her career Midori enchanted audiences --- a mere slip of a thing, head bent over her instrument with an inward-curling intensity yet exhibiting powerhouse technique - playing the standard violin warhorses: Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Brahms, Sibelius. But now she has taken on thorny, new music and the Hungarian composer's work at hand proved no exception to the model.
As expected, here was Midori lavishing pinpoint perfection on the Hungarian composer's very graphic composition. She limned its glistening twitterings, lovely as a starry night, then turned to dangerous piercings high on the string before dropping down to earth, snarled and snared in cavernous terrors - the orchestral accents robust, sizzling and full of Magyar markings.
Monk, on the other hand, was always at the cutting edge - or better put, an original. She's another diminutive figure, recognized by her multitude of skinny signature braids (she once called herself "Inca Jewish," having been born in Lima), and alerted us years ago to a voice that ranged over several octaves, did astonishing stunts with dynamics, colorations, glottal clicks and warblings and could plunge the listener backwards to a pre-linguistic state of consciousness. I think of it as primeval. Add to that her astute fellow musicians, the entire stage pictures they paint and you have a unique universe.
But voices don't last. So the denizens at Freud could not sample Monk at her most compelling.
Conductors do last, though. And when Maestro Rilling raised his baton and leaned into the orchestra to draw out the portent from that first long majestic chord in Mozart No. 39, K. 543, we knew immediately this would not be a musical hologram of well-worn music but something created on the spot. This and the Requiem bore such rewards, courtesy of the LACO, guest soloists and USC Chamber Singers. There's something about these serious German conductors (Christian Thielemann, who led the LA Phil some years ago in a rare appearance, is another.) They go to the crux of things.
Photo of Midori by K. Miura
It's been hard to ignore the baggage that comes with aging. As the medicare cards and applications crowd my mailbox, and funerals of friends--not their parents--pop up in my emails, the signs are all around me. I guess I have to accept that I really am that old. Of course, as my mom told me, age is only a number and from someone who'll turn 99 on her birthday in April, she should know. Of course, she's also said "Getting old is not for sissies," and as I struggle with the ups and downs of memory lapses and other annoying changes, I concur. Fortunately I still have a kid in high school--if you want to do the math, I was just shy of 48 when she was born--so I'm hanging on for dear life to my membership in the child-rearing set. I guess in my neighborhood the thing that dates me the most is not my graying hair but the fact that I don't have a single tattoo to show the world how cool I am.
So it was with some trepidation that I sat down to watch "The Snake Can," Kathryn Graf's play about "middle age" at the Odyssey Theater through February 24. "Proceed with caution," the tagline warns, and duly warned, I was worried about seeing another treatise on the travails of navigating the aging process. But the piece was really more about the friendships, loyalties, yearnings and fears that accompany us on our life's journey, and it moved me to tears. Of course, as my children can attest, I cry during commercials, movie trailers and "Story Corps" on NPR. In fact, unless I can find something to cry about in a movie, I deem it a non-starter. So I am an easy target.
But I found the characters in "Snake Can" real and honest, and once the second act unfolded, I genuinely cared about their lives and their struggles.
The play, directed by Steven Robman, centers on three women (Graf has written in the notes that they actually each represent a part of herself): Nina (Diane Cary), an artist who has been living in the shadow of her famous actor husband; Meg (Sharon Sharth), a successful and outwardly upbeat career woman still looking for love after two failed and childless marriages and Harriet (Jane Kaczmarek), a widow with two children who's finally decided after seven years alone that it's time to get out there and date again. These days that means signing up on a dating website that eliminates the drudgery and uncertainty of actually going out, and soon we meet a sampling of what's available for women of a certain age. Of course, we don't need to be reminded of the narrow playing field, but Graf and her women navigate with humor and a good bit of wisdom.
Each of the women has their personal crisis, fostered by the men in, or in and out of, their lives, but what resonated for me was the love and loyalty that defined the long friendships these women have forged over years and years, and the strength and solace those friendships provide.
Their stories are familiar and we can relate, and they are seasoned with a good bit of candor. Afterwards I found myself thinking and talking with my husband about my own journey, and our struggles, triumphs and disappointments. If a good play engenders a good discussion, "Snake Can" more than passes the test. And anything that can make you laugh at getting older is a worthwhile way to spend some time.
Either choreographer Benjamin Millepied was ready to move on or he got an offer he couldn't refuse. Millepied, the former principal dancer with the New York City Ballet and founder of the one-year-old LA Dance Project, was introduced today as the new director of dance at the Paris Opera Ballet, starting in September 2014. Millepied caused a sensation in the LA arts community when he moved here with his future wife, actress Natalie Portman, after retiring from the New York ballet in 2011.
In interviews at the time, Millepied was often quoted expressing his sense of liberation in leaving the New York dance scene and talking about the possibilities of creative freedom in Los Angeles. LA Dance Project, a small and experimental company, and primarily funded by local dance philanthropist Glorya Kaufman, had it's premiere September 22, 2012 at the Disney Hall. Created as an art collective, Millepied's plan for LA Dance Project was to collaborate with artists in multiple mediums and perform not only in traditional venues, but also in alternatives spaces, such as museums.
LA Dance Project has a guaranteed budget for the next three years, the New York Times says, and Millepied is expected to continue to run it until he moves to Paris. Today's news was broken by the New York Times, which also carries an interview with the choreographer.
Photo of Millepied dancing at MOCA in 2012 by Iris Schneider
"It started with a cold call from someone representing a collector," said Sharon Takeda, senior curator and head of LACMA's Costumes and Textiles department. "Would we be interested in a 20th century couture collection? It was all very anonymous." She and fellow curator Kaye Spilker were recalling the long and involved process of acquiring their latest find, a group of 158 examples of couture designs dating from 1880 to 2008. Nearly fifty important fashion designers are represented, including Coco Chanel, Madame Grès, Madeline Vionnet, Jean Dessès, Jeanne Lanvin, and Alexander McQueen.
The mystery soon began to lift and the two curators discovered that the collector in question was Dominique Sirop, a French haute couturier who in addition to running his own atelier in Paris has also published books on fashion history. "When we learned that the pieces were collected by a haute couture designer we felt that meant the selection would be good. The list of names were a 'who's who' of fashion." said Takeda. When the two curators arrived at Sirop's studio in Paris they were pleasantly surprised. "It was all in a database system with photographs, which isn't always the case with collectors. They (Sirop and his collections manager) had done quite a lot by the time we got there."
The curators were also mostly pleased with the condition of the pieces, which took nearly four days to examine. "Couture isn't always pristine," said Takeda. "Sometimes things have been altered by different owners. Can this or that be reversible? Is the integrity of the initial design there?" Sirop, who had not dealt like this with a major museum, paid close attention to how the curators worked. "I had to kind of educate him" said Takeda. Spilker added, "the people selling the objects don't always think about the museum's costs. There are also multiple steps (once the powers-that-be at the museum approve the purchase) including cataloging, labeling, tagging, and shipping."
Not only were the curators negotiating with a relatively inexperienced seller, they also had to raise the money to buy the collection. Enter philanthropist Ellen Michelson, a member of the LACMA Costume Council who has helped with the purchase of two previous collections, including the one which contributed to LACMA's major 2010 exhibit, Fashioning Fashion: European Dress in Detail, 1700-1915. Michelson began her relationship with the department about six years ago during a tour in France with Takeda. A collector of vintage clothing and children's books, Michelson elicits high praise from the two curators. "She is absolutely the best donor one could hope for because she's so generous, and it's no strings attached," said Spilker. "She respects the professional staff and doesn't try to influence us. She likes our scholarship and the time we take with it."
"I think she enjoys learning from us," said Takeda. "She will come down for the day (Michelson lives in Atherton) to visit. We want her to understand what we do. I recently overheard her telling someone that 'getting involved with LACMA and these collections has changed my life.'"
After nearly two years from that initial phone call, the collection finally arrived at LACMA four months ago. Before being introduced into the museum's storage areas the objects were put through a freezing process that ensured the elimination of any unwanted critters (Takeda's term), which might include moths, silverfish and their eggs. The items have since been cataloged and photographed. Luckily for the department's conservation team, the pieces are considered mostly exhibit ready. "These pieces will form the impetus for a show on twentieth century couture," said Takeda.
As excited as Takeda and Spilker are for the public to see the new collection, that will have to wait. The curators are currently focused on their next exhibit , "Reigning Men: From the Macaroni to the Metrosexual," opening in January 2016. It could be a few years before the couture show opens. As they told me, "stay tuned."
Lower photos: Madame Grès evening gown (1987), middle, and Alexander McQueen evening dress (2007.) Click images to enlarge. Courtesy of LACMA.
Last Sunday, the Santa Monica Conservancy celebrated the birthday of Marion Davies at the Annenberg Community Beach House, which is appropriate since the center occupies the spot where William Randolph Hearst and Ms. Davies once shared an opulent Old Hollywood mansion and now shares the site with the remaining pool and a guest house designed by Julia Morgan in 1928.
Given my passion for other properties in the famous couple's real estate portfolio, I really appreciated the guided tours of the Guest House. Conservancy docents, dressed in vintage, assumed the role of a Davies' contemporary in order to share tidbits about the residence and its owners.
We had a swell time in the dining room listening to Joan Crawford discuss Marion's parties.
And Hedda Hopper dished about that infamous cruise with the couple while we stood in the foyer.
Later, there was vintage dancing, toasts and cake. Notables in attendance included Old Hollywood historian Marc Wanamaker and author Ernest Marquez. I even learned that Charles Hood is the 2013 artist in residence at the Davies Guest House. You can read his beach house blog here.
It was a beautiful day to be by the sea. More pics below and on Flickr.
I only have a few minutes left before 2012 turns into 2013. I'm observing the folk tradition that you should envision the best moment of the last year in hopes that it will manifest again in the new one.
My best moment of 2012 was visiting with Hutton Wilkinson at his home in Beverly Hills in April. Interior designer, jewelry guru, businessman, socialite, native Angeleno, author, raconteur, and Old Hollywood maven, Hutton Wilkinson is the perfect embodiment of Los Angeles past, present and future.
I'd been aware of him through his role as protégé and business partner of the late artist and interior designer, Tony Duquette, but had never had the opportunity to meet him until a journalist friend invited me along on a visit to Mr. Wilkinson's compound in Beverly Hills, which includes, Dawnridge, Duquette's magnificent house, for an interview about his latest jewelry collection and its accompanying book, Tony Duquette Hutton Wilkinson Jewelry.
Charming, funny, erudite, gracious and kind, Mr. Wilkinson is one of those people who make you feel smart and witty just being in his presence. Wearing a fantastic silk robe from Duquette's personal collection of Asian textiles, he welcomed us as we stepped into Dawnridge's mirrored foyer.
"Ask me more questions, " he commanded as we sipped ice tea in the beyond-baroque living room.
"What kind of jewelry looks best on the jolie laide?" I said.
"Pearls! No, you have to have attitude to wear my jewelry. You need lots of self-confidence. Like Elsie De Wolf, you have to make people see beyond [the plainness of your face]."
Last July I visited with Tiler Peck, a principal dancer with the New York City Ballet, while she was guest teaching at her old ballet school in Santa Monica. She was emphatic then about her desire to return to her home state whenever possible. This past weekend, she came back to California to dance as the Sugar Plum Fairy in the Pacific Festival Ballet production of The Nutcracker in Thousand Oaks. It's her third year helping out with the local production.
Many ballet stars hit the road during Nutcracker season to perform with local companies. Benefits include extra income and stage time, as well as the knowledge that they are inspiring and motivating the younger dancers in the production, many of them still students. "I look forward to this gig every year," Peck told me. "It's fun to share the stage with so many children. Also, my family and friends come and they don't normally get to see me dance in person." This year she performed alongside Joan Boada, a principal with the San Francisco Ballet who danced the Cavalier.
"One of the things that makes Tiler so endearing is that she always makes time for the kids, always finds time to sign their pointe shoes," said Kim Maselli, the company's artistic director. Young starstruck fans knocked steadily on Peck's dressing room door for a treasured autograph. "One kid wanted me to sign her face in permanent marker!" she said. It was the one request that went ungranted. An hour before the Sunday matinee performance, three eleven-year-old girls, dancers in the show, hovered close by, giggling and gawking at Peck while she prepared her pointe shoes. They declared her their favorite ballerina, and when asked if they had ever seen her perform before this, they said in unison, "only on YouTube!". (Here's a sample.)
The pre-show mood in Peck and Boada's shared dressing room was relaxed and chatty. Since the two didn't have to appear on stage until the second act, there was plenty of time for makeup, hair and gossip. Topics of conversation included Hurricane Sandy, movies, basketball, fashion, and choreography — good and bad. Chocolate was consumed. Boada, who grew up in Cuba, compared notes on Havana with Peck, who recently performed at the Havana International Ballet Festival.
Peck casually transformed herself into the Sugar Plum Fairy while sharing iPhone photos and holiday plans. Her glittering tutu, made for her by the New York City Ballet costume shop, lay safely on the floor waiting to be put on. "That's the one thing I don't check through luggage," she said.
Peck talked about what she considers to be the highlight of her year: dancing at the Kennedy Center Honors earlier this month. Chosen to dance for prima ballerina Natalia Makarova, one of the honorees, Peck performed "Other Dances," a Jerome Robbins piece originally choreographed for Makarova and Mikhail Baryshnikov. Peck admitted to having major nerves, finding it all "crazy" but thrilling at the same time. She had starstruck moments of her own, meeting Glenn Close, Morgan Freeman, David Letterman, Rahm Emanuel (a ballet dancer in his youth), Bill Clinton and celebrities-in-chief the Obamas.
In the wings between scenes.
Finally, with warmup clothes over their costumes, Peck and Boada made their way to the wings. Now all business, they became part of the huge machine that is any production of "The Nutcracker," with dancers of varying ages whizzing on and offstage in all manner of exotic costumes. When not on stage, Peck and Boada kept to themselves in the area reserved for them, equipped with folding chairs and box of rosin, which dancers dip the toes of their shoes in to prevent slippage. This weekend was their first time dancing together, so they exchanged tips and checked each other's costumes. Boada at one point smoothed Peck's hair. After the performance, Peck's parents, sister, and grandmother came backstage. Like anyone who doesn't get to see their family as often as she'd like, Peck looked really happy to have them there.
The Thousand Oaks stop is the midway point for Peck on her Nutcracker circuit. She performed earlier in the NYCB production (dancing both Sugar Plum Fairy and Dewdrop) and she next heads to Vancouver for a week of performances with the Goh Ballet. Though Peck is a world traveler, Vancouver is a new city for her and she plans to squeeze in as much sight-seeing as possible, along with some last-minute holiday shopping. After that it's back to New York by Christmas Eve. Her family will be spending the holiday with her in New York, giving Peck an ideal ending to what has been, for her, a pretty spectacular year.
The Kennedy Center Honors gala air on CBS on December 26, at 9 p.m.
Photographs by Iris Schneider
Previously on LA Observed:
Ballet star Tiler Peck is a devoted California girl
The Downton Abbey roadshow came to town Friday night in the form of an event promoting season three of the wildly popular British program that depicts the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants. The show resumes in the U.S. Jan. 6 on PBS. More than 300 fans (there were thousands of requests for tickets) came to ooh and ahh over cast members Hugh Bonneville, Joanne Froggatt, Rob James-Collier and Lesley Nichol at the Silver Screen Theater in the Pacific Design Center. The audience watched the first twenty minutes of episode one, then Hollywood Reporter chief television critic Tim Goodman moderated a panel with the actors, executive producer Gareth Neame and Masterpiece executive producer Rebecca Eaton. I sensed that by now, in terms of press tours, these actors are a well-oiled machine and could probably do these things in their sleep. However, they did seem to enjoy speculating (as they have been doing ad nauseum for the past two years) why Downton is such a hit with American audiences, and updating their characters' story lines.
Series three has already aired in the UK, and many in the United States have illegally watched the episodes online or in bootlegged files passed by email. (As Eaton acknowledged to me.) But if these people already have seen the shows, they didn't give anything away. Nor did anyone inquire about rampant rumors that certain cast members, Dan Stevens in particular, might not be returning for the just-commissioned season four. This was a polite and respectful crowd, with no hardball questions for actors or producers.
Fans came in all shapes and sizes and and from many parts of Southern California. Sheri Earls, a manicurist from Orange County, told me she had only discovered Downton a month ago and has rapidly caught up on seasons one and two via Amazon. Waiting on a very long line at the "meet and greet" for James-Collier, who plays gay footman Thomas Barrow, Earls made it clear that she is addicted. "Anna (the ladies maid played by Froggatt) is my favorite. Her spirit is so sweet...and Hugh Bonneville (Lord Grantham) would have to be my heartthrob." At the other end of the fan spectrum were Jennifer Ramone and Jim Dover, from North Hills. The couple, who have watched from the beginning, love the historical aspect of the show. Jennifer, a marketing consultant for Paramount, wasn't interested in meeting any of the cast members: "I've learned to stay away from the talent. I don't want to spoil the illusion." A few fans dressed in costume from the 1920's, the show's current period. All waited patiently to meet each of the actors, who appeared to be having a genuinely good time. At one point Bonneville yelled good-naturedly at a shy fan, "Hey! Take a picture! Whaddya here for?" Froggatt seemed to spend more time hugging than conversing, and James-Collier spent extra time chatting with an elderly woman in a wheelchair who is from Manchester,England, near where the actor was born.
Next stop for the group is New York City, where there will be more events like this one, and lots more press to do, as well as a season three premiere party hosted by Vanity Fair and Ralph Lauren at MOMA on Monday night. CBS Sunday Morning aired a behind-the-scenes feature on the coming season this weekend. Bonneville also was on NPR's Wait, wait...don't tell me on Saturday in a show taped last week at the Nokia Theatre in Los Angeles.
Photos: Sean Roderick/LA Observed
One of the great perks of being a kid is that people read to you. I still miss it. That may be part of why I was so enchanted by "Gatz," currently playing 9 performances at the Redcat at Disney Hall. The theater production, put together by the New York-based avant-garde troupe called Elevator Repair Service, brilliantly performs F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" by reading the entire novel onstage, incorporating every written word into the production. In doing so, it becomes so much more than the novel is, or than a play could be--I guess that's why the word transformative was invented.
I admit I was nervous before the show. But it was a nervous anticipation. Could I last seven hours (eight including a dinner break) in a not-that-comfortable chair listening to a whole novel? Within minutes I was swept away. If you're going to read a novel in one sitting, better make it a good one and in choosing "The Great Gatsby," ERS chose well.
I was awed by the beauty of the words, the way they sounded strung together, the images they painted. The staging was quirky and minimal. It allowed my imagination enough room to fill in the blanks, making the event participatory and thrilling. Like good theater should be, it was a very social experience: the intimate Redcat is a perfect venue — everyone knew from the start that we were all in it together and you could sense that excitement as we took our seats.
Set in a dingy office, the play begins with the narrator, Nick, played by Scott Shepherd, finding a copy of "The Great Gatsby" in a Rolodex on his desk. While waiting for an interminable reboot of his aging computer, he picks it up and starts reading. His bored colleagues gradually drift in and out of their workaday doldrums playing the characters so elegantly drawn by Fitzgerald. The seminal novel about the dreams and delusions of the young strivers of New York's upper and wannabe-upper class took flight onstage. The drab office was a perfect contrast to the life, both lofty and artificial, depicted in the book.
There are many surprises. First, it's funny — something unexpected from one of the great tragedies in American literature. But it's undeniable when hearing and seeing it onstage. Of course ERS has helped entertain with its inventive staging and visual touches. You feel you are witnessing something fresh and new. Great art often makes you see something familiar in a totally new way. Director John Collins said recently, "We knew we might fail, but it would be a worthwhile failure."
As Shepherd reads and the action takes place around him, the novel he holds becomes the most important character on the stage. In fact, when he leaves the book after Gatsby's murder and starts reciting the words by heart, it's somehow shocking to see him go on without the novel in hand.
It was exhilarating, exciting, hypnotic, poignant, heartfelt, intelligent and utterly charming theater. It lasted from afternoon 'til evening and it didn't make me tired. I laughed, I cried and felt everything in between.
When it was over, I was weirdly energized. I confess that somehow I had gone all these years without actually ever reading the novel, having started it a few days before I saw the show. After it was over, I couldn't wait to go home and finish it, relishing the thought of being immersed in the writing all over again.
Elevator Repair Service has been trying since 1999 to do a staging of "The Great Gatsby." Initially, it was not their intention to read the whole book onstage. But in trying to structure a play from the book, Collins and Shepherd said that every time they tried to extract something meaningful from the novel, it always seemed to diminish the work.
After years of wrestling with the book they decided the only way to do this was to read the novel it in its entirety. It took years to get permission from the estate to play in New York and Los Angeles, although it has been performed abroad intermittently since its Brussels premiere in 2006. Redcat finally succeeded in bringing it to its stage. It will run for 9 performances through December 9.
After seeing this production, I watched a trailer for the upcoming film of "The Great Gatsby" by Baz Luhrman, starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Tobey McGuire, Carey Mulligan and a cast of thousands. Multitudes of elaborately costumed extras leap off the screen, carousing in opulent locations featuring Gatsby's extravagant mansion lit up like a house on fire. It was a cacophony of excess. Nothing was left to the imagination and I'm sure no expense was spared. The clip only lasted two minutes, but I afterwards I thought "Now THAT was exhausting."
It was so much more satisfying to settle in for 7 hours of inventive storytelling, seated in a roomful of perfect strangers who had gathered together to share something unforgettable.
Photos of the production and of Scott Shepherd by Iris Schneider
It wasn't the usual ladies room chatter the other night during intermission of "Anything Goes" at the Ahmanson Theater. "Damn, why didn't I take tap?" one woman said. Others murmured in agreement . I myself was still in a daze, recovering from the blast of energy we had all just witnessed. "People love the finale of act one" said Sean McKnight, dance captain for the national touring company of the 2011 revival of the Cole Porter musical. "They love a huge tap number. It's like coffee. It's energizing and puts people in a good mood."
I couldn't find the Los Angeles cast on video, but here is the first act finale performed by Sutton Foster and the Broadway cast, from the 2011 Tony Awards broadcast.
"Anything Goes," originally produced on Broadway in 1934, takes place aboard an ocean liner traveling from New York to London. It's pure escapist fare with iconic songs one after another, so the Ahmanson audience was already in a happy place when the theater filled with the pounding of tap shoes on floor boards. The cast here stars Rachel York as Reno Sweeney.
It's clear that dancers (and sometimes critics too, it seems) keep a special place in their hearts for tap. Robert Fairchild, a principal dancer with the New York City Ballet, told me he studied tap as a child, long before he started his ballet training. "It's great for a kid. You get to make noise with your feet." Fairchild, whose dance idol is Gene Kelly, got the attention of New York Times dance critic Alastair Macaulay during a gala performance last September of "Not My Girl", a Peter Martins choreographed pas-de-deux inspired by music composed by Fred Astaire. "'Not My Girl' began with a tap solo for Mr. Fairchild...that was the evenings freshest dance moment," Macaulay's review noted.
Says Fairchild, "it's a real treat for me to tap with the company. Some people think it's not new age or cutting edge, but tap has evolved and it's such a huge tool to have." Explaining the appeal to audiences, he says "they are watching AND listening. People enjoy the sound of tapping. It just adds another aspect to the dance experience."
Rogelio Douglas Jr., a triple threat performer (singer, dancer, actor) who has appeared in LA in "In the Heights" and on Broadway in "The Little Mermaid" and "Riverdance," started his tap training at age 8. "My mom was a big fan of Sammy Davis Jr. and I loved Gregory Hines. What makes tap different [from other forms of dance] is that you have to be a musician. You are creating music, different rhythms and patterns...Tap is a hybrid art form."
"A lot of singers I know do tap," says McKnight, the dance captain for "Anything Goes. "For them it's part of musicality, and the form of dance they are most drawn to." McKnight frequently teaches dance to children and at the college level. "I always tell kids..do tap, you'll find yourself smiling. Tap dancers are a different breed, they're always happy to tap. The minute you put on the shoes you want to make sound."
Audience response at the Ahmanson confirmed tap's enduring allure. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a sudden rise in L.A. tap class enrollment.
Anything Goes runs at the Ahmanson Theater through Jan.6, 2013
Bonus video: Fayard Nicholas and Harold Nicholas from "Stormy Weather," in what some consider the best tap dancing scene ever filmed. It was shot at 20th Century Fox, per IMDb. Fayard Nicholas died in Burbank in 2006.
Photo of touring company of "Anything Goes," by Joan Marcus
We've had the whole range — from traditional to poetic to deconstructed, the last one a stunning abstraction by Robert Wilson. But now, in its umpteenth production of "Madama Butterfly," LA Opera has gone back to basics. After all, Puccini's cross-cultural tragedy is a box office shoo-in, so no matter what form it takes, there's an audience beating down the doors.
This edition — by the Ron Daniels-Michael Yeargan team — hails from San Francisco and rolls out across the full horizontal stretch of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion's stage — no clutter, simplicity itself, with an almost utilitarian sense of japonaiserie. (Don't look for a cozy love nest here!) But all the central pieces are in place: an innocent geisha from Nagasaki, an American lieutenant who caddishly engineers his way through a fake marriage to her, an honor-bound suicide that becomes the only way out, a small child left in its wake.
And so does the cast solidly support the above game plan, albeit with little directorial dimension. Oksana Dyka may look a tad matronly for a 15-year-old Cio-Cio-San who is described as "a flower of a girl" (no thanks to her overly-padded traditional wedding gown), but she boasts a sturdy soprano that can cut through heavy orchestral fabric for her big outpourings. Brandon Jovanovich also trumpets a bright tenor that resounds strongly, as the single-minded Pinkerton who maneuvers his temporary way to her bed, though without anything resembling ardor.
Milena Kitic, a Suzuki full of empathy for the jilted bride, sings with deep expressiveness. Rodel Rosel is an animated, fleet-footed marriage-broker, Goro. Not least, Eric Owens endows the American consul Sharpless with subdued understanding for the sorrowful situation. And Grant Gershon coordinates stage and orchestra ably, with emphasis on the score's soaring melodies. However, the question of whether a tiny child — Garret Chang, as Trouble — could sit quietly onstage for at least a half hour proved a distraction from the high drama going on around him.
But, ah, our memories of past "Butterfly's" do not evaporate. Could anyone forget Maria Ewing in the title role — that porcelain figurine of a geisha, a picture of stillness and gravity (no pattering feet or metaphoric wing-fluttering) — even though she lacked vocal heft? Or Tom Allen as the horror-struck, husky-voiced Sharpless, shadowing the tragedy to come? Or Plácido Domingo's dashing lieutenant, enveloping his bride in tender eroticism? Or the dark, Debussyean currents Kent Nagano unearthed in Puccini's score?
Sometimes, though, memories get reinforced. Take the performances of Barbara Cook, for example.
Yes, she can still make you cry. Such is the pinpoint pathos that the cabaret singer extraordinaire unfailingly evokes — at 85 — -together with all the other magical facets of her artistry.
She walks onstage now with a cane, to roaring ovation, and (reluctantly) sits in a chair huddled against the piano's crook (remember Mabel Mercer?), where, even seated, she can glitter and be gay. That's what Cook did at Disney Hall — backed up by the LA Philharmonic, led to loving effect by the savvy Rob Berman and surrounded by her own superb, hand-picked instrumental quartet.
So what is it about her, you're wondering. Why is she a Kennedy Center honoree, a master of the master-class, one who draws gifted musicians and composers to her side and other famous singers to her feet?
Well, if you have a discerning ear you'll know: it's the same as for any purveyor of art songs — and I say this because she raises American show tunes to the level of Lieder.
You can hear it in her phrasing, which purifies to poetry and emerges as natural utterance, not words mashed into music. It's in the voice itself which spans to an architectural overview so that every line makes sense. It's in the coloration within a single note — all at the service of expression and word pointing. It's in the manner of delivery, with a legato that's like a leaf floating on a breeze as it turns this way and that.
Never mind that her pitch strayed a bit at the start or even that she ever so mildly resorted to parlando at times. Just try, if you can, to not come to tears listening to her sing Sondheim — in this case, "No one is alone," from "Into the Woods." I wish I could tell you more about this emotional mystery, how she touches the innermost heart. It happens regularly: a few years ago at a Cerritos concert with "Anyone Can Whistle" and, until she retired it, with "Send in the Clowns." Something about Cook and Sondheim...
As for her forays into those foot-tapping bar-room ditties, she loses me. It's the sophisticated intimacies that Cook unveils that are hers alone — in songs that capitalize on sophisticated intimacies.
But the always-questing singer digs deep into the lore; she lavishes great regard on composers and librettists by name. I especially love how she explains why Cole Porter, for all his cleverness, escaped her — how she never could fantasize "flying too high in the sky with a guy" — until the day she sang "I've Got You under My Skin" as a slow, serious confession. And what a coup that was at Disney with her quartet's masterly arrangement. The same goes for "Bye Bye Blackbird," deciphered (and sung) as an antidote to "House of the Rising Sun" (a capella), about the enslaved girls' misery at a brothel.
And, again, dramatic misery engulfed Disney Hall when Esa-Pekka Salonen returned to the podium, with his Philharmonia Orchestra for Alban Berg's "Wozzeck" - forever destroying the myth that it takes a fully-staged performance to bring powerful immediacy to a work like this.
What a night it was. The house lights completely up, no props, the mostly male cast in black suits fronting the band. And yet, all vestiges of their semi-staging in London a few years ago, with costumes and video, had rubbed into the portrayals — they were vivid, riveting. As the haunted proletariat Wozzeck Johan Reuter was believably delusional, made so by his antagonists: Peter Hoare, an aptly hectoring Captain; Kevin Burdette, the equally cruel Doctor; Hubert Francis a preening Drum Major; and Angela Denoke, his common-law-wife who showed him no regard but provoked him to murder.
Salonen wrung from the orchestra a lean, clarified sound that could explode with the score's roiling anguish or taper into palpable hopelessness or exquisite yearning - momentous from beginning to end.
Also with house lights up, and deliberately so, is the jaunty, almost ironic "Hamlet," courtesy of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre and playing through Nov. 25 at the Broad Stage. Touches of late-night humor here and there prove that nothing is beyond reach anymore.
LA Opera photos: Robert Millard
1960s television had its moments. Bo Diddley and Norma-Jean Wofford on ABC's "Shindig!," originally aired August 18, 1965.
Diddley died on June 2, 2008 at home in Archer, Florida. Diddley gave Wofford, who followed Peggy Jones as his guitarist, her stage name The Duchess. She left the band in 1966 and died in Fontana, Calif. on April 30, 2005.
The National Ballet of Canada's hugely ambitious production of "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" (in Los Angeles for a brief three day run at the Music Center) has much to offer. A world-class choreographer in Christopher Wheeldon, an original score by Joby Talbot, superb dancing, romance, and a surprise ending. There's even a tap-dancing, if slightly twisted, Gene Kelly-esque Mad Hatter. But for me, the real stars are the sets and costumes (by Bob Crowley) and the special effects.
Alice's journey must be a theatrical designer's dream and in this case the creative team didn't hold back. Our heroine's wild descent down the rabbit hole and inevitable shrinking and growing are experienced through video projection (used frequently throughout the show and designed by Jon Driscoll and Gemma Carrington) which employs a mix of animation and stills. The "Mad Tea Party" blazes with wacky color, the Caterpillar and his magic mushroom have been given an exotic Oriental twist, and the Queen of Heart's garden and courtroom are a geometric revelation. The costumes are sumptuous, and humorous when they need to be. A clear audience favorite is the super-sized Cheshire Cat who, through the use of puppetry, moves his independent body parts at will to surprise and confound Alice.
It's always a pleasure to experience a story and characters you think you know in a new way. The ballet is long, running a little over two and a half hours, but the anticipation of each scene and how the designers might wow us helped it to move along quickly. This interpretation of the much loved children's classic is a collaboration between the Canadian company and London's Royal Ballet and first premiered in 2011. It's only here through Sunday, Oct. 21 so those who want to see it should take a cue from the White Rabbit and move quickly.
Video tour of the costumes and sets back home in Canada:
Photos: Cylla von Tiedemann
"Surely he hath borne our Griefs, and carried our Sorrows/Yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of GOD, and afflicted." - Isaiah LIII, 4
LONDON — I heard the sad news about George McGovern, the former senator and Democratic presidential candidate — age 90, in hospice, said to be "unresponsive" — as I was on my way to the Tate Britain to visit its stunning exhibit on the Pre-Raphaelites, whose unsparing naturalism and often tragic subject matter suddenly suited my newly melancholy mood.
Wandering through the galleries as I glumly reflected on that dainty euphemism, "unresponsive," i.e. comatose — and his daughter Ann's more blunt assessment, that her father was "nearing the end" — I looked up from my reverie and found myself gazing at "The Scapegoat," the extraordinary 1851 work by William Holman Hunt. The biblical quotation above adorns the top of the frame, while below the inscription reads, "And the Goat shall bear upon him all their iniquities unto a Land not inhabited." (Leviticus XVI, 22)
I was utterly transfixed by the power of this painting, whose grim composition offered an almost mystical relevance to my ruminations. Inspired by Hunt's first visit to the Holy Land and his research into Biblical legends, it depicts the hapless goat ritually cast out into the wilderness by the ancient Hebrews, bearing a scarlet cloth on its horns representing the collective sins of the community.
As portrayed by Hunt, a bleaker scene could hardly be imagined. The luckless beast stands in the foreground, mouth agape as it gasps for breath, its doleful eyes rolled heavenward in futile supplication as it totters on faltering legs. Around it, a barren landscape of perfect desolation: the salty flats of the Dead Sea, littered with the skeletal remains of other doomed creatures who perished before.
I'm always wary of resting too heavily on metaphors — as the British humorist Spike Milligan said of cliches, they're like handrails for a crippled mind — but this one was inescapable, and it sent me hurtling back into time 40 years before, when I worked in McGovern's presidential campaign.
As it was for many of us, it was my first foray into politics. Although 18-year-olds had been granted the vote a year before, I was still too young to cast my own ballot. So, fired up by youthful idealism and undisturbed by any intrusion of political reality, I plunged into fevered volunteer work on the McGovern campaign, my 15-year-old brother in tow beside me.
The Vietnam War raged on, despite Nixon's promised "secret plan" to end it, and the draft was still in effect. Rejecting the moderate findings of an obscenity commission originally charted by President Johnson, Nixon threatened a new crackdown on smut, not exactly a top policy priority for a teenage boy with raging hormones. And his "Operation Intercept" program aimed at interdicting cheap Mexican marijuana flowing over the border - well, let's just say any adolescent of that era with a measurable pulse had compelling reasons to prefer McGovern.
That said, I had learned at my father's knee that Tricky Dick represented everything loathsome in postwar American politics. He launched his career in 1946 by Red-baiting FDR liberal Rep. Jerry Voorhees out of his long-held congressional seat, then followed that up by cross-filing in the Democratic primary two years later and obscuring his Republican affiliation so effectively that he defeated the Democratic opponent in his own party primary. Two years later, in 1950, capitalizing on his exploits as an anti-Communist crusader in pursuit of alleged Soviet spy Alger Hiss, he defeated incumbent Sen. Helen Gahagan Douglas by attacking her as "pink right down to her underwear." By 1952, Eisenhower plucked him out of the Senate to join the ticket as vice-president. But not everyone who liked Ike also liked Nixon, and explosive revelations of a hidden slush fund from political supporters soon prompted his legendary "Checkers" speech, a desperate but successful effort to save his career. After a failed presidential run in 1960 and in quick succession, the California gubernatorial defeat in 1962 - capped by his embittered blast at the press, "You won't have Dick Nixon to kick around anymore" - the political establishment pronounced him dead and buried.
Until, that is, a reanimated Nixon rose from the grave in 1968 with what became known as a "Southern strategy" of thinly-veiled racial messaging coupled with pandering to fears of urban unrest and vows to restore law and order. By 1972, the Nixon campaign - "Four More Years," "Now More Than Ever" - was rolling in lobbyist cash, run by a sinister cabal of lackeys heading up a campaign operation called The Committee to Re-Elect the President (aptly known as CREEP), while in the background lurked a mysterious unsolved burglary hinting at even darker misdeeds yet to be revealed.
In short, Nixon to us was The Fiend Incarnate. And imbued with youthful idealism and base adolescent self-interest, we eagerly enlisted in what cynics mockingly dismissed as McGovern's "children's crusade."
We did it all, from cold-calling potential donors to writing them personal thank-you notes. We set up for events, greeted walk-ins, canvassed precincts, handed out door-hangers, put up lawn signs. We stuffed envelopes and leafleted factory gates. We met visiting pols who'd agreed to host local fundraisers, including then-state Sen. George Moscone, later to be elected - and murdered - as mayor of San Francisco. Once, we even crashed a Nixon homecoming rally at the Ontario Airport, talking our way in and getting as close as we could to the candidate's podium before proudly stripping off our jackets to flaunt our McGovern for President T-shirts. How we avoided getting pummeled by the crowd or roughed-up by security I'll never know.
Heading into the final stretch, we dialed names off mimeographed lists to get out the vote, and even drove people to the polls on Election Day (for a kid with a license less than a year, the liability today would be unimaginable.) Oblivious to the polls, we knew that somehow good would triumph.
And so, on election night, we were stunned - and crushed - when McGovern was buried by a 49-state landslide in which he lost even his own state of South Dakota.
He broke our hearts, and as the song says, the first cut is the deepest. But where some turned away in disgust and disillusionment, I found a new sense of engagement and empowerment. Yes, we lost. But we did something that mattered: We believed. We participated. We acted.
And not long after, when the Watergate scandal exploded and the foulness of Nixon's "White House horrors" was finally revealed to the world, we felt we had finally been vindicated.
McGovern, however, never recovered. His campaign was — is — viewed by party regulars as the low-point in modern Democratic politics, emblematic of everything wrong with the nomination and vetting process, a casualty of naive amateurs and interlopers, the very apotheosis of far-left, unelectable self-destructive kookery.
Forty years down the road, there's a lot I wish he would have done differently. His foreign policy isolationism looks more like modern Republicanism than the FDR global engagement I prefer. His cavalier and irresponsible VP selection of Sen. Thomas Eagleton rivals that of Sarah Palin. He made it almost a point of pride to alienate the core constituencies any Democrat needs to win. And ultimately, he just had no clue what he was up against, which raises real questions about what might have followed as President.
As I said, metaphors can be over-extended. But George McGovern never deserved to become the lonely scapegoat for the entire Democratic Party's failure of imagination, of principle, of nerve, and ultimately of competence.
He was an honorable, decent, idealistic and conscientious politician. Now he is dying, abandoned and alone in the political wilderness. With his passing, it's long past time for Democrats to lift the burden of all the sin and iniquity they have inflicted on his reputation and show him the respect and affection he surely has earned.
Editor's update: McGovern died early Sunday morning, Oct. 21, under hospice care in South Dakota. He was 90 years old.
When Arnon Goldfinger's 98-year-old grandmother Gerda passed away, the Israeli filmmaker and teacher set out to make a short film about her flat in Tel Aviv. He remembered it from his childhood as a place where Germany was very present. Although they had emigrated from Germany to Israel in the 30's before World War II was fully raging, his grandmother and grandfather never assimilated into Israeli culture. Their books, spoken language, furniture and clothing remained as it was in Germany, simply transported to another city. In order to process her passing and say goodbye to her, Goldfinger set out to see what he could learn about her from the things she left behind. He thought about what he had always told his students: In your work, you must do something that is meaningful to your life. And the most meaningful work is that which you really do just for yourself. But he hoped that perhaps what was meaningful to him would also be meaningful to others.
So, he brought his camera crew to his grandmother's flat and filmed everything as he and his family unearthed her treasures, her ephemera, and eventually, her secrets.
Although his grandparent's story is a very individual one it brings up issues that we all deal with in our lives, from the mundane--what do we save and what do we throw away—to the very emotional--what do we share with our family, what do we talk about and what do we hide?
"The film is talking about very basic things," Goldfinger said recently as he passed through Los Angeles to discuss it. "Friendship, longing for the motherland and our connection to our past." He talked about how the second generation of Holocaust era survivors rarely asked questions, for fear of bringing up painful memories. It was easier for the third generation, a bit removed, to ask the tough questions about a painful past. But in talking to audiences at his screenings, he discovered that many children of all backgrounds know little of their family's history.
Goldfinger's film is really about two families, his grandparents and a family in Germany to whom they remained connected during and after the war. In a probing, yet sensitive way, Goldfinger peeled back the layers of their history and discovered some troubling surprises. He knew he could never have asked his grandmother the questions he tried to answer after her death.
But in making this journey to unravel a tangled web of secrets, "I feel much closer to them now," he says of his grandparents. "They became much more human. I felt compassion and sometimes anger. I feel I know them better but that knowing is connected to emotions. When I learned what she was hiding, I was astonished. But people are very complicated. Not everything is in your control."
For many of the German Jews who emigrated to Israel, their connection to their past and to their adopted country was fraught with many conflicting feelings. "When the State of Israel was started, the pioneers and leaders wanted to make a new nation--fresh, brave, strong, with no connections to the Diaspora, to weakness. Of course, it was an illusion," he said. "No one can live without the past."
"The Flat," Goldfinger's exploration of his family's complicated and very unique history, is haunting, thought-provoking and universally human. It opens at the Landmark Theatres on October 24.
Photo of Goldfinger: Iris Schneider. Photo of Gerda and Kurt Tuchler © Goldfinger / Tuchler Family Archive.
Disney Hall is not just alive with music these days -- it's throbbing with dance. For their kick-off gala, Gustavo Dudamel and the LA Philharmonic enlisted nothing less than American Ballet Theatre stars and stage-worthy others as the featured attraction.
And that's a relatively new activity for the house that Frank Gehry built to show off the city's musical jewel.
So here was the question: what space did our celebrated conductor and his band occupy -- while dancers trod a cleverly arranged mid-level ad hoc stage? The answer: one just below the jerry-rigged platform that cleaved out seats from the hull-shaped hall. Conclusion: the orchestra did not play in an actual pit, but occupied an approximate one, just below the fleet-footed collaborators. The verdict: it all worked surprisingly well, the logistics, that is.
The best meeting of minds between "pit" and stage came in Barak Marshall's choreography for "The Chairman Dances" from John Adams' "Nixon in China." It's a distinctly rousing pièce d' occasion -- one that catches the ethnic flavor with red flags flying, white fans flaring and regimental corps enlivened by the dance-maker's signature semaphores. What's more, the 10-member Body Traffic brought terrific energy to the task, as a grateful complement to Adams' rip-roaring rhythmic engine. And not least, the piece fit its frame to a T.
So did Josh Rhodes' episode from Bernstein's "On the Town" work out well, with wit to boot - although the familiar piece had four sailors here instead of three.
Those were the easy parts. But when it came to ballet repertory icons and the absolutely critical heartbeat collaboration needed between soloist and conductor things became iffy.
So no matter the sculptural perfection of Roberto Bolle's "Apollo" variation, with his young god's commanding insouciance, Dudamel and Co. could not muster Balanchine's and Stravinsky's accents, critically-timed here to the dancers. Ditto the "Swan Lake" excerpts for him and Veronika Part. Yes, the two performed with that sense of ingrained virtuosity and depth of expression. But, like watching people talk on screen with audio out-of-sync, the power of their dancing was short-changed. Also there were no wings to fly into, so steps had to artificially halt so as not to hit a wall at full momentum.
Apparently, none of the musical misalliances escaped Dudamel's notice.
"It takes a great specialist to accompany dancers," he said at an interval, implying his apology for not being one!
Still, there were wonderful moments: as when Part, the Black Swan Odile, surreptitiously turns her head back to see if her trickery has worked on the duped Siegfried, Bolle; and there was Martin Chalifour's accompanying violin solo to their pas de deux -- with its fine, old Slavic vibrato - which brought out the narrative's romantic darkness.
No matter what, these are two gorgeous dancers; the glitzy gala audience roared with appreciation and Dudamel and the Phil gave full-out performances, concluding with the finale of Stravinsky's "Firebird," music that defies anyone not to love it.
The next night, with not a trace of dance feathers floating down, the musicians alone took center stage, but continued on the Stravinsky path -- this time with that other storied ballet score, "Rite of Spring," or "Sacre du Printemps" as the 1913 Parisians who rioted in its cause called it.
And you can be sure that Dudamel ripped into the pagan ritual, a model of modernity, with cataclysmic force. But there was less of the razor's edge here that some others find and more emphasis on earthiness - all those deep, rich, lower-string glissandos - without ever slighting the lyric wisps left hanging seductively in the air. If there's sensuality to be had, the Phil and its director will latch onto it.
The same goes for fullness of sound elsewhere. Which means that their outing with an all-Beethoven program boasted robust, big-breadth playing that blazed and soared in the "Eroica" Symphony. They luxuriated in it. And how the band loves to be given its head!
Somehow, though, the smaller-scaled vision of pianist Leif Ove Andsnes in the C-Major Concerto No. 1 did not conflict with Dudamel's zestful approach -- they got along quite nicely. The tall, slender no-nonsense Norwegian did strike his own kind of blow - with pristine pianism that found the living breath of Beethoven. It came in his phrasing, built on the impetus for these sentences, their beginnings and endings that were of a complete, single impulse. Great musicians - be they singers or instrumentalists or dancers all have this gift. He's one.
One week before Carmageddon II the whole city seemed to converge downtown - luckily, the Music Center opened its various doors to the new season before freeways posted their Closed signs.
There was dance at Disney, opera at the Pavilion, premieres of everything, much hullaballoo all around.
But some of it stood out indelibly.
Take Plácido Domingo, for instance, our all-time music magnate who directs companies, sponsors competitions, conducts and oh, yes, has been singing to world acclaim for nearly half a century over a span of 140 roles.
Well, note this: He gave his first absolute powerhouse performance as a baritone. I say - first - having heard him sing these lower-voiced roles before. But never with the vocal fullness and expressive impact that he managed here, in LA Opera's premiere of Verdi's "I Due Foscari," an undeservedly ignored and splendid early work .
At 71, the celebrated tenor has arguably begun a new career.
And instead of finding him again as a dreary old Doge (Simon Boccanegra was the last such role he took on for the company), as another white-bearded paterfamilias type in long robes, we saw and heard the viscerally anguished father whose only living son was falsely convicted of murder by a wicked political rival. Oh, did our Plácido sing the role -- with that same brightly burning tone of his erstwhile tenor peak, only darker and deeper. And oh, did he act it, with the same immediate ferocity of his golden days.
Nor was he alone in this relatively compact and altogether stage-worthy opera based on a Lord Byron play.
Marina Poplavskaya, a strong presence as Foscari's daughter-in-law Lucrezia, matched him as more than an aggrieved wife but also a determined foe of her husband's torturers and corrupt judges. Their scenes together were electric, and shades of Sutherland could be heard in her lustrous, ample soprano with its all-encompassing bloom. Tenor Francesco Meli sang Jacopo, the younger Foscari, to good effect, although he blew his big opening aria - while descending picturesquely onto the stage in a prisoner's cage - by yelling full blast instead of detailing its bel canto shadings.
But Thaddeus Strassberger's aptly formalized staging, with its phalanxes of 15th-century Venetian councils parading in geometric patterns and adorned in the usual red-black-white scheme, hit the mark. Even the final scene, a carnival with a colorful angel hovering in space and dispensing confetti, showed a savvy artistic hand at work. Conductor James Conlon ably commandeered the whole thing from the pit.
Not so enterprising was the burned-out looking, much-traveled, now-crude "Don Giovanni" production originally directed by the innovative German dramaturg Peter Stein, but here entrusted to the American rookie who gave us a connect-the-dots "Bohème" revival last season. Whatever special insights the staging may have had, none remained.
Instead we had a perfectly pleasant generic model of Mozart's masterpiece. That meant traffic-cop direction, with singers depending mainly on whatever various devices they could dredge up. And it left Ildebrando D'Arcangelo to float about as a mousy little man with long payes (sidelocks), hardly the notorious womanizer of lore. No matter his velvety burnished basso, this Don was not grand or sly or elegant or charismatic - he did not command or maneuver or outsmart or even hint at having any powers, much less seductive ones.
The others went through their little routines less calamitously and sang well - David Bizic made a blustery, comic sidekick as Leporello, Juliana di Giacomo a sturdily accurate Donna Anna (except for a grievous ending to "Non mi dir"), Soile Isokoski a mock-vamp as Donna Elvira, Andrej Dunaev a supplicating Don Ottavio, Roxana Constantinescu a playful Zerlina and Joshua Bloom an easily pacified Masetto. Conlon led all with authority.
But what a sad decline from the work's previous standards here - LA Opera stagings that boasted distinct directorial points of view and casts that included, several times, the dynamic Erwin Schrott and the inspired Thomas Allen. And we won't even mention the LA Philharmonic's deconstructed "Don Giovanni" - across the street at Disney just months ago - with its high-end creative team including Rodarte costume design. I guess we know where the money is.
Sure enough. The brand new, highly endowed, Glorya Kaufman-blessed LA Dance Project is headed by leading light Benjamin Millepied - you remember him, the emerging choreographer/dancer from New York City Ballet, who played Natalie Portman's partner in "Black Swan," then married her in real life and continued his career as a bold face name.
Well, he staged his first full LADP event at Disney and, indeed, his own new piece, "Moving Parts," also listed celeb costumer Rodarte, the well-known painter Christopher Wool's tri-panel installation that did some moving around and composer Nico Muhly's attractive commissioned score. Big budget all around. Little to remember.
But curiously (or not so curiously), it wasn't the Millepied work that marked the moment. Nor was it a revisitation of Merce Cunningham's 1964 "Winterbranch," seen a few decades back at Royce Hall (at Disney it was an unbearably painful earful neither worth the endurance nor the potential hearing loss.)
No, it was the 1993 "Quintett" by William Forsythe, the brilliant American expat lured away years ago by the Frankfurt Opera Ballet. If Millepied does nothing else but bring us a rare extraordinary work like this - the kind that makes us think that most other choreographers might as well hang it up - he'll have earned his investment dollars.
And this is not said lightly. When all the other decorative choreography-by-the-yard filling our stages pales by comparison and goes to instantly forgettable, it's a wake-up call.
So here's what I saw in "Quintett": a dynamic of life, reposeful to frenzied, internally and organically motivated movement, the dancerly whole of it pristine and spare and sumptuous, a fractional ballet breakdown, a puncturing of space by singles, duos, etc. with each dancer motored by an inner centrifuge that results in a swirl, a twist, a connection - all of it reactive to some ongoing stimulus.
I think that stimulus was Gavin Bryars' famous archival song-find of the worn and weary vagrant's voice lifted up by its innocence, softly rasping "Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me Yet," and the composer's string complement slowly building around it.
The whole serene thing aches in a sublime way. You sit there riveted. This is dancer definition that's thrilling. (Forsythe sent three ballet masters from Frankfurt to set the piece on LADP's marvelous contingent of six, the same ones who were anonymous in "Moving Parts.") A special wonder was Frances Chiaverini, who showed how a long-limbed figure in a gauzy tunic with a long sheet of hair that flies loose can reveal the movement's power and her own power within it.
We hear that Millepied is bringing Forsythe to Los Angeles. There's reason to cheer.
Just look at Yuja Wang, the whizbang pianist currently wowing 'em on concert stages, particularly at the Hollywood Bowl where this gorgeous 25-year-old recently played.
You need to know that she's the hottest example of what our screen-crazed world has produced. And the mammoth amphitheater could not be a more perfect place to advertise her extra-musical charms.
Now, by mentioning this up front I do not minimize her virtuosity - prodigious and stunning by any standard — but that subject is not the news. Screens, screens everywhere is. They're numerous on most restaurant walls, sky high in open-air malls, hand-held by a majority of passers-by. So it's no surprise that some performers at the Bowl, with its mega screens now, are taking huge publicity advantage of our picto-tronic world where everything is a giant-sized close-up.
Remember what happened last year, when Wang played not only the Steinway but for the Jumbotron at the 18,000-seat outdoor showplace? In her mini bandage dress, an orangey-red thing not much bigger than a swim suit and her stiletto-heeled sandals, she sent an image that carried to newspapers and also went viral on the internet.
As a mere starlet or model, Wang would hardly stand out from the crowd. But as a prototype of this generation's burning technicians - those keyboard wizards who can take on the literature's blockbusters and play faster, louder, softer than the norm; who can grab up the dense-est, knottiest passages with what seems like 20 fingers, pound out the octaves with thrilling weight and excitement - her physical appearance is, to put it mildly, unexpected.
Maybe it's proof that women can have it all, including a multi-faceted feminine identity (thank you, at last, Helen Gurley Brown.) And that a serious virtuosa like Wang can compete in the sex-doll sweepstakes no matter how dissonant that chic vamp image might have seemed in the realm of classical music.
In any case, she has mapped out an m. o. by now. And for this second Bowl date she looked as ready for her close-up as before - bare arms and shoulders above a purple gown, with a slit to the high thigh that angled to the audience. Last year, also playing with the LA Philharmonic led by Gustavo Dudamel, she championed Rachmaninoff's murderously hard Third Piano Concerto, aka "Rach Three." This time it was Tchaikovsky's First. (Incidental intelligence: Van Cliburn played both, back-to-back on a single Bowl program some years ago.)
On both of Wang's outings there was that soupcon of disbelief: a kitten at the keyboard -- so petite, but commanding it, conquering it. She could make the sound of a cat's paws skipping over the ivories but a ferocious tiger, too. She knew where the work waxed and waned, how to set up for the big, cadential flourishes and had full grasp of its overall structure as well as the ability to let loose for free-floating lyricism. To boot, there were unstoppable driving furies and an elastic snap to vehement passages.
No matter that there was also a share of dropped notes. Indoor listening, though, would tell if Wang could deliver the inner poetry of this and other music, as well.
Dudamel and the orchestra seemed to be in sync with her most of the time, although theirs was not an ideal collaboration - at least not here.
The Bowl, with its amplification infidelities and sundry environmental disturbances, hardly provides a testing ground. And that strangeness also beset what came next: the Tchaikovsky Fourth Symphony. What I heard, courtesy of Dudamel & Co., was a kind of reductionism, notwithstanding the lovely second movement tune — as though the work was a collection of etudes, each performed with great care (except for horn bobbles), but almost tediously. It can be this way at our musical oasis under the stars, even though sheltered by those surrounding Aleppo Pines (yes, trees from the besieged Syrian city.)
Black and white photos by Marissa Roth; portrait by Iris Schneider.
Common wisdom advises that life is a journey. For photojournalist Marissa Roth, life and art conspired, taking her on a worldwide odyssey that rambled over 28 years. The work she produced will be on exhibit at the Museum of Tolerance beginning August 16. "One Person Crying: Women and War" began for Roth when she was working on a book project in the Philippines. A colleague advised her that there would be a coup the next morning, just the day she was supposed to leave the country. At 3 a.m. she jumped on the back of his motorscooter and headed out, on assignment for the Los Angeles Times, to cover it. But she realized as the mayhem unfolded, "it wasn't my thing. I was more interested in the other side, what was happening in the homes while this was going on."
This became a recurring theme of interest in her work, eventually taking her to Cambodia and Vietnam, Kosovo, Bosnia Herzegovina, Pakistan, Hiroshima, Afghanistan, Northern Ireland, Novi Sad in Eastern Europe where her grandparents lost their lives in World War II, and the United States.
Women are the real collateral damage when wars are waged. Though they are not the fighters, their struggles are far more personal, as they are left behind to keep the home functioning, the children fed and clothed, the cities and villages alive. These women are the survivors who soldier on in war's aftermath. Roth traveled around the world, bearing witness as she let them tell their stories. "I can't explain it. I couldn't get away from it. It's like I was following my path and my passion. I just had to surrender to it." Her photographs, while steeped in the physical and emotional wreckage of war, show no guns, no blood, no combat.
I've known Marissa for decades. We met while I was working as a photographer at the Los Angeles Times and she was freelancing for the paper. She was always flying off somewhere to shoot something on her project and I always wondered how she was able to fund all that travel. Through a combination of some savings, some inheritance and a lot of hustling she was able to make intermittent trips. "I've probably spent close to $200,000 on the project. I could have given myself a masters and a doctorate! But I thought 'I just have to do this, no matter what it costs.' It's been a great lesson in trust, I suppose, trusting the unknown. Not letting fear be my copilot. I had to learn to just trust the process." And she never let go of her vision.
Now that the exhibit is close enough to be real, she has turned to Kickstarter to help raise $15,000 to pay for some of the costs of exhibiting the work here and elsewhere and give voice to women all over the world who have been affected by war.
Although she has published several books, Roth was unsuccessful in finding a publisher for this project. She changed her game plan and looked instead for an exhibition space. With the help of Howard Spector, a curator and mentor, she created a Powerpoint presentation for a lecture, and last October she showed it to Liebe Geft, director of the Museum of Tolerance. Geft committed to doing a show at the museum. But that commitment was for the exhibit space only.
"She basically said that a show like this would cost $50,000-60,000 to produce and an additional $40,000 for travel costs," Roth said, and those were costs which Roth would have to pay. "I wanted it to be beautiful. I knew it would be expensive but after all the work I'd done, I wasn't going to scrimp on prints, mats, frames." She forged ahead finishing the work. Her brother passed away and left her some money and that gave her the impetus and the means to make the final push.
With a recent trip to Vietnam, her travels came to a close. "I thought that once I found my grandparent's home and memorial in Novi Sad in 2009 that I was done." But she realized that she needed to go to Vietnam after talking with Spector, who was working to create a cohesive exhibit from all her years of work and images. "I was tired, but knew I needed to go."
"Vietnam was my coming of age war and I realized it was a huge influence on me. I didn't fully appreciate how it shaped me in terms of my desires as a peace activist, and to become a photojournalist. I still have vivid memories of sitting on my bed as a kid and looking at Life, Look and National Geographic. I was conscious of those pictures early on."
Often the trips would take a year of planning, so she could hit the ground running and maximize her time in the country. Once she returned from Vietnam, and with Geft's commitment to a show, she hired a designer and set about creating the exhibition. "Because I deal with so much history and address so many wars and conflicts, I felt I had to also give history lessons in the exhibit. We determined we would create freestanding text panels that give background to the wars I've covered."
Some private donors and foundations have come forward with grants. She is represented by Creative Visions Foundation, a non-profit foundation started by Kathy Eldon to fund visual projects and honor her son, photographer Dan Eldon, a Reuters photographer who was killed at 22 while on assignment in Somalia. To help pay for the remaining exhibition costs, Roth turned to Kickstarter.
Now that the traveling and photography are done, and the show is coming together, "I find myself weeping a lot," she said. "In a funny way, now I find myself feeling all the pain of these women. I don't have to keep myself cinched up in order to keep going." She has already moved on to another project, a book of images she made in Tibet. "I don't want to do too much more war stuff. I've hit my pain threshold," she says. "I'm not sure where the road will take me. I had to do this documentary project, but my roots are in art. The Tibet project is very different, almost like a photographic meditation," she said. She paused and took a breath. "I want the lights turned on in my life."
The exhibition at the Museum of Tolerance will run from August 16 to October 25. Visit Kickstarter to support this project.
Neil Diamond gets his star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, accompanied by Los Angeles City Council members Tom LaBonge (clutching a loaf of pumpkin bread), Eric Garcetti and Joe Buscaino. Diamond noted it has been 40 years since his first concerts at the Greek Theater, and that his his first Los Angeles concert was in 1966 at the Hullabaloo, the Sunset Boulevard club of KRLA disk jockey Dave Hull that was located where the Nickelodeon theater is now. His performance was panned by the Los Angeles Times, he said.
Photo by Gary Leonard
Joel Bellman, formerly an award-winning radio reporter and editorial writer for the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, is a longtime journalism instructor for UCLA Extension and the communications deputy for county Supervisor Zev Yaroslavsky. He submitted this piece as an individual.
"The past is never dead," William Faulkner wrote, "It's not even past."
I beg to differ. A significant part of my past is dead, buried, never to be exhumed and resuscitated. Missed, mourned, lost, lamented, certainly not forgotten. But gone, baby, gone.
I read recently that a young filmmaker has gone public to plead for funding to complete his documentary "Rhino Resurrected," an earnest and reverential attempt to evoke and recapture the spirit that animated the celebrated Westwood record store. I saw the rough cut he screened at a local art house last summer, and it wasn't bad. His fundraising window has only a couple of days left to run, and I wish him luck. I hope he finds his audience. But really telling that tale will be harder than capturing lightning in a bottle.
Let me offer a personal chapter you won't be seeing in that film: my three-year stint working at the Rhino Records sister store out in Claremont, about 60 miles east of the uber-hip Westwood location. Not exactly a canny career move for an aspiring journalist marking time between college and grad school, I grant you. But in some ways it wasn't that different than what I trained to do, and what I've done in every job I've had for the last 30-plus years. Spreading knowledge. Hipping people to what's happening. Trading information. Learning new things. Championing the underdog. Arguing endlessly with genuine passion.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
"Happy to be a part of the industry of human happiness," Andrew Oldham's Immediate Records label used to boast. Well, I certainly was. Back in the day - especially in a college town like Claremont, where I grew up - the record store in The Village downtown seemed like the coolest place around. With seven private universities within walking distance, we rarely lacked for customers. They were smart, eclectic, and as besotted with music as we were.
What a gig! Sit around in a rock t-shirt and jeans all day playing whatever records we wanted, hanging out, spewing opinions, and getting paid for it! I still can't believe it.
But like I said: Dead. Past. Gone.
I don't remember when I first discovered the place; it opened in 1974 or 1975, a year or two after its more famous Westwood counterpart. The original location on Second Street (directly next door to the police station!) was barely larger than my living room today. Tiny two-person counter, manned by a taciturn young guy and his wife. Cash box. Little carbon note pads to write up the orders. Credit cards? Forget it. Checks? Each one had to be called in to a credit service individually, the bank routing number read aloud, and cleared. Modern retailing, it wasn't.
Inventory, maybe a couple thousand LPs. But what albums they were! British and European imports. Out-of-print and overstock cut-outs. Deep catalogue stuff, not just the latest releases. Obscure jazz and blues reissues of uncertain provenance. Used and promo copies (price tags plastered, hilariously, on top of the "Promotional Copy - Not for Sale" sticker). This wasn't your parents' Wallich's Music City.
Did I mention the bootlegs? Live concert recordings, outtakes, unreleased studio sessions, out-of-print B-sides - many featuring superb covers by William Stout, today a recognized master of commercial and fine art - they were a record geek's delight. For pop music acolytes, the place was a holy shrine. And about as anti-corporate as it was possible to be while still turning a decent profit.
So when Rhino finally outgrew its space and decided to relocate to larger quarters a block away on Yale Ave., I was astounded when the taciturn manager offhandedly offered me a part-time job. Summer of '77, I'd just graduated college with a degree in communications, desperate to become a radio journalist, and no job in sight.
I took it.
The pay was modest - the first day, my wages included a second-hand copy of Neil Young's "American Stars 'n' Bars" - but I would gladly have paid them for the privilege. If there was ever a dream job, that was it.
If you remember the film "High Fidelity," that was us. Yes, we, too used to run people out if we didn't like their music, like the poor fellow who came in one day looking for a Village People album. "We don't carry that kind of stuff," I sneered. "Why don't you try The Wherehouse." And if they ever argued with us about our trade-in appraisal - they were dead. We almost bodily threw one grumbler out of the store - to the lusty cheers of the other patrons.
Now if, on the other hand, you came in looking for Kevin Coyne, or Kraftwerk, or Holly Near, or virtually any pub-rock, punk, New Wave, progressive rock, minimalist jazz or '50s and '60s reissue compilations - you were our kind of customer. It really was like a family. And Amazon algorithms that today cheerily inform us, "People who bought this also bought these" really can't compete with the human factor when it comes to sussing out the needs and wants of the discriminating record buyer.
There was the dapper little guy who dropped by every few months and collected only soundtrack albums - we'd always stash the rare trade-ins for him, which he'd delightedly snap up. One day he showed up, and handed me a mint copy of an impossibly rare import pressing of Pino Donaggio's score for "Don't Look Now," which he remembered I'd been looking for. "That's just to say thanks," he said. Another regular customer - a bluegrass and folk fan - appeared one Saturday and handed me a paper bag. Inside were mint copies of two out-of-print John Fahey albums I'd once mentioned to him. "For you," he said simply. And I still fondly remember the older guy with the duck's ass haircut whose face lit up when I handed him a copy I'd found for him of a rare Coasters anthology with "Idol With the Golden Head" that he'd been searching for since his high school days back in the '50s.
One Saturday morning, I'd just opened and the store was still empty when a kid wandered in with an old Beatle album he wanted to trade in: "Yesterday and Today" - the first pressing, with the notorious pasted over "butcher cover" I'd only heard about but never before seen. Another Saturday morning, the singer Iggy Pop unexpectedly walked through the door, joined by one of his former bandmates in the Stooges who'd become a friend of one of my co-workers. Among our other customers, a young Ben Harper, whose grandfather founded the legendary Folk Music Center across the street that today Ben owns.
I worked at Rhino part-time and then full-time for two years, and when the manager who'd hired me left to take a job with a record company, I took over. But by then, I already knew that my record store days were numbered. I'd enrolled in graduate school, had ramped up my writing, and soon landed the radio internship I'd long been seeking. When it turned into a paying gig in another radio news department in Los Angeles, I quit the store for good and moved west to be closer to school and the job.
Rhino grew from a couple of stores into an independent record label, and eventually into a major-label division that set a global standard for high-quality archival reissues. But the big wheel keeps on turning, and eventually the label's founders were bought out, the division downsized, and the business increasingly migrated into little more than digital downloads. The old business model has almost entirely collapsed, and the retail music store is today virtually obsolete.
I never again worked in any aspect of the music industry, or ever wanted to. But my passion for music - and my vinyl addiction - have never abated. My voluminous record collection has survived intact one divorce and half a dozen moves. Those long, lazy days I shared with my fellow employees - Mark and Linda, Jeff, Karen, Eva - are among my most cherished.
There was a time when it took me more than 30 years to hunt down another copy of the obscure British 45 I once briefly encountered in a dusty little record shop on a back street off Caledonian Road in North London on my first trip to the UK. Another time, it took several miles of walking through some pretty dicey New Orleans residential neighborhoods far from the tourist-friendly French Quarter for me to finally locate a rare original local-label version of a minor R&B favorite of mine by Big Sambo and the Housewreckers. I may be nuts, but I've got at least a dozen stories like that.
In today's world, when virtually any song anyone's ever heard of can be streamed and downloaded within seconds, legally or otherwise, most music fans would surely find such behavior unfathomable, if not psychotic. How can a little scrap of plastic with a hole in the middle in a paper sleeve or cardboard jacket possibly mean that much to anyone?
But once upon a time, there was magic in those grooves. And for those of a certain age, they cast a spell that still enchants - and always will.
One of my favorite things about "Downton Abbey" (besides the addictive story lines and actor Dan Stevens' blue eyes) are the costumes. They've attracted attention for their opulence and historical accuracy since the "upstairs/downstairs" drama about an aristocratic family in early 20th Century England premiered there in 2010. Designer Susannah Buxton won an Emmy for her work on the show in 2011 and is nominated again this year. Starting Tuesday, Los Angeles fans of the show and its costumes can see some of them up close, as well as sartorial creations from other Emmy-nominated shows such as "Boardwalk Empire," "Game of Thrones" and "Once Upon a Time." They are featured in FIDM's new museum show, Outstanding Art of Television Costume Design.
Not nominated this year, but included in the show, are costumes from "Pan Am," "Smash," "New Girl," and "Magic City." Devotees of "Mad Men," however, will be disappointed. Not only was the show's designer Janie Bryant not nominated for an Emmy this year, the producers decided not to participate in the FIDM show this time around. Oh well, there's always next year.
The 2012 Emmy winners for outstanding costumes will be announced at the Primetime Creative Arts Emmy Awards on Sept. 15, 2012.
"The Outstanding Art of Television Costume Design" runs through Oct. 20, 2012 at the Fashion Institute of Design & Merchandising in the South Park area of downtown.
All photos by Judy Graeme. Click any picture to view larger
If the question is "Who Shot Rock and Roll," the answer according to the new show at the Annenberg Space for Photography would have to be everybody.
The show is a rambling exhibition of 166 images, some iconic and many obscure, documenting rock and roll and and along with it a slice of cultural history. Most photographers have only a single image displayed, including Annie Liebovitz — whose early unrehearsed black and white images for Rolling Stone are so different than the posed portraits she is more well-known for — and some such as LA's own Ann Summa, who documented the early punk rockers, are ignored. The show marks the first time that the Annenberg Space for Photography has collaborated with a museum, taking a show curated by Gail Buckland that began at the Brooklyn Museum and adapting its space to fit the show.
With so many photographs plastering the walls, the exhibit is as overstimulating as a concert whose speakers are turned up to 11. But a very fine film made to accompany the show features 8 photographers — Bob Gruen, Norman Seeff, Lynn Goldsmith, Henry Diltz, Guy Webster, Mark Seliger, Jill Furmanovsky and Edward Colver — and helps to distill the experience down to something manageable, enjoyable and educational.
I have found some of the shows at the Annenberg too overwhelming, with images hanging up and down the walls, impossible to physically see unless you are Kobe Bryant, and difficult to process because there are just too many images competing for your attention. But for me, the films always come to the rescue, allowing you to sit and take in the experience from a different perspective, then attack the images again.
In this exhibit's film, created by Arclight Productions, photographers whose iconic images are seared into our memories — Norman Seeff's vibrant and sexy Tina Turner, the innocence of Joni Mitchell captured by Henry Diltz, Bob Gruen's John Lennon touting New York City, Colver's raw punk energy — reminisce and tell stories out of school. I learned that Guy Webster's famous Mama's and Papa's album cover photograph of all four of the bandmembers in a bathtub happened because everyone, including the photographer, was too stoned to leave the house. Often the photographers developed friendships with their subjects first, and photography came afterwards. Some, like Diltz with the Lovin' Spoonful, were invited to hop on the bus and tour with the band as their first professional gig.
"So many people say, 'Oh, this was my life,'" Diltz said at the show's opening. As the only official photographer at Woodstock, Diltz's images provide a history of rock that marked milestones for a generation, most of whom remember not only the songs but where they were when they heard them, and what they went through to hear them live. Diltz lived in Laurel Canyon during that golden time when Joni Mitchell, Mama Cass and so many other folk icons hung out together in their backyards, making music and mayhem, and then rolled down the hill to play the Troubador or watch their friends perform on Sunset Strip.
Diltz had been a musician, singing harmonies in a folk group that toured the college circuit. He picked up an old camera on a whim at a flea market while on tour and was blown away when he did his first slideshow for his friends. Totally self-taught ("I learned by reading the directions on the yellow box of Kodak film") he got special access because he was a friend first, photographer second. "It was all by accident," he said.
Indeed, many of the photographers represented in the show started out by touring with a band, gaining the access that made those special and unique images possible simply by being there, camera in hand. It was a much more innocent time. The bands were new themselves, not worried about controlling their image like they are today. There were no restrictions or rules. No limits on what could and could not be shot. They were too involved with having a good time to worry about being in control.
Diltz said that many times he would sit for hours and not shoot a thing. "I learned an important skill as a musician on tour myself. The art of just hanging out."
As these photographs and stories have shown, it paid off.
The show has proven to be extremely popular, and the Annenberg has extended its hours to accommodate the crowds. Indeed, I stopped by on a Saturday night close to the 9 pm closing time and the place was packed. Besides those milling around looking at photos, about 50 people were seated in the area usually reserved for film watchers, totally mesmerized by slides of album covers flashing on huge screens because it was too late to begin a screening of the film.
People connect with these images not only because of what they are, but because of what they mean to them, what memories they trigger, what part they played in the history of their own lives. Music accompanied us along our path in life, whether it was the music we danced to in the 60's or rebelled with in the 80's. For whatever the show lacks in focus, it does provide an opportunity to appreciate some great photography on a communal head trip into our past.
The Annenberg always schedules a series of lectures during their exhibits which are usually sold out immediately and this time they have also added three live, free concerts hosted by KCRW. Despite my reservations about the overkill of imagery, I have to acknowledge the Annenberg Space for its efforts to make photography hip, and accessible to new audiences.
Who Shot Rock and Roll: A Photographic History, 1955 to the Present is at the Annenberg Space for Photography in Century City through Oct. 7. Info
Color photo by Iris Schneider
On a recent Wednesday morning, Tiler Peck, one of the most brilliant young stars in the world of ballet, strolled through the 3rd St. Promenade in Santa Monica completely unnoticed. The New York City Ballet principal dancer and California native was on hiatus from the company and quite happy to be back on home turf.
Dressed like any other girl out for a day of cruising the beach-side mall in shorts and sandals, Peck blends right in. The only clue to her dance pedigree is her slender frame and graceful carriage. Unlike in NYC, where ballet is a major part of the cultural scene, Southern California is a haven of anonymity for Peck. The exception is when she walks into a class at the Westside School of Ballet, where she studied as a child. She's a guest teacher at the Santa Monica school for a week, and couldn't be more cheerful and welcoming. The 12 to 16-year-old advanced students, however, look at her with silent awe. Most of the girls are too shy to approach her, but they are clearly eager to soak up any wisdom she has to offer. She has made it to where they dream of being.
Peck, 23, first studied dance at her mom's ballet studio in Bakersfield, where her family still lives. At 7 she began commuting to Los Angeles to take private lessons with former Bolshoi ballerina Alla Khaniashvili, and later enrolled at Westside. While taking ballet classes, she also was focused on jazz dancing, acting, and singing. She had small parts in movies and in TV commercials. She also had a refreshingly normal childhood. "I was brought up with dogs, and we had the back yard and pool parties...lots of fun," she said. At 11 she auditioned for, and got, the part of Gracie Shinn, the mayor's daughter in the Broadway revival of "The Music Man." She and her grandmother moved to New York and lived in a tiny apartment for the one-year run of the show. Daytime classes at the School of American Ballet (NYCB's official school) made her realize that ballet was her passion. Subsequent summer courses led to an apprenticeship at NYCB and ultimately, in 2005, to a place in the company's corps. Peck was promoted to soloist in 2006, and became a principal in 2009.
Audiences at Lincoln Center are as likely to see her dance in a traditional story ballet such as "The Sleeping Beauty" as in something like "Two Hearts," a contemporary piece showcasing Peck by recently retired NYCB dancer and choreographer (now Los Angeles resident) Benjamin Millepied. She has performed roles in ballets by George Balanchine, Jerome Robbins, Susan Stroman, Christopher Wheeldon, and company director Peter Martins.
Peck in excerpt from "Two Hearts."
Peck is always on the lookout for a reason to jump on a plane headed for her home state. In 2010 she came back to guest-perform on ABC's "Dancing With the Stars." This past April she and fellow NYCB dancer Joaquin De Luz brought the house down at the Laguna Dance Festival. When she is here, if she isn't performing or visiting her family in Bakersfield (where she often teaches at her mom's school), there's a good chance she can be found relaxing in Santa Monica. Her favorite store is Fred Segal, and she loves to hunt for clothes in surf shops. On this visit, she was joined by her boyfriend, Robert Fairchild, also a principal dancer with the company. Peck delighted in showing him her favorite spots. "The first day we played Foosball and air hockey on the pier and then just sat on the beach for two hours," she said. The couple checked out the Santa Monica Farmers Market and scored a table on the patio at Gjelina in Venice. She always tries to get to a favorite outdoor café in Sunset Plaza and has a soft spot for Ventura Boulevard near Universal Studios, where she spent time as a child performer. "I love to come here, have my own car to drive around in and not worry about hailing a cab. I love the sun, the beach, and the weather."
It's hard not to wonder about a possible collaboration in Los Angeles with Millepied, who recently founded the L.A. Dance Project and with whom Peck has a long professional relationship. When asked about this her face lights up. "I think it's amazing Benjamin is trying to start something really unique here and I think he'll do it," she says. "I just hope there will be the audience for it which you always worry about in Los Angeles because there are so many other mainstream things like sports. I do think he's very smart and he knows the way to reach out to all kinds of different crowds and bring in the audience. I feel that we work really well together. If he were to ask me, I would definitely come out to guest in a heartbeat.".
Peck is currently in the middle of a typically busy year. In addition to her work with the New York City Ballet and trips home, she has performed in Germany and China. This summer she will dance in Vail, Jackson Hole, Santa Fe, and Nantucket, and then it's back to New York by August 28 to begin rehearsals for the fall season. Speculating on her future, as dancers inevitably must, Peck says: "After I can't dance anymore I would love to do Broadway, or go back into film and TV. I still study and keep up my acting and singing in case I have to transition.
"I've also thought, maybe at the end of my career, of maybe opening a studio. I've been around teaching for so long and I love it. Even if you don't want to teach that day, somehow if you get into class and you see the faces, the excitement, it's hard not to want to give what you know.".
While her life and career are, for the time being, very much based in New York, Peck admits "it doesn't feel like home to me. I see New York as a place for when you're young to live temporarily, and I see California as a place to settle down and have a house and a back yard....When people ask me where I'm from, I say California. It's where I feel at home."
All photographs by Iris Schneider
The Costume Council saluted 100 years of service to Hollywood films by the Western Costume Co. on Wednesday night at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Moses (Ned Albright) chatted with Miwa Kosuga in the museum's atrium after the program. Photo by Iris Schneider.
Vincent Floderer's gorgeous construction Boom! assails the retina like a burst of intergalactic activity frozen in time, not the work of a contemporary origami artist. Instead of folding, the French artist's technique involves the application of watercolors and Indian ink to Wenzhou calligraphy paper, which he dampens, stretches and crumples to form jagged three-dimensional corals, sponges and other organic and abstract creations.
Boom! is among the many highlights of The Japanese American National Museum's Folding Paper: The Infinite Possibilities of Origami, the first major exhibition to look at origami as a contemporary art form. Featuring 150 works by 40 international artists from 16 countries, it is also a survey of the explosion in global origami art over the past fifty years.
Some of the show's exquisitely beautiful origami forms are the works of artists with backgrounds in sculpture, architecture or design; others trained as physicists, mathematicians and engineers. Many have turned their childhood passion for origami into complex explorations of tessellation (the creation of repeating abstract and textured patterns), modular origami and sculptural animal, insect and flower shapes. The work of the scientifically based artists has given rise to "origami math," "computational origami," and algorithms that map the way for artists to fold increasingly intricate shapes from a single sheet of paper. The exhibit also includes examples of origami's infiltration into the worlds of fashion, design, architecture, medical research, astronomy and manufacturing.
"Folding Paper" will be on view in Los Angeles through August 26, then travel to museums in Sacramento, CA; Portland, OR; Keene, NH; Peoria, IL, and Wasau, WI through August 2014. Organized by independent curator, author and educator Meher McArthur for the traveling exhibit service of the non-profit organization International Art & Artists, the show, which opened on March 10, has been the hit of the season for JANM.
McArthur, who specializes in Asian art, compares origami in Japan to woodblock prints in the late 19th century, when Japanese treated them so casually they would pack pieces of porcelain in them to send to Europe. Or to Japanese bamboo baskets, which only recently gained the status of an art form in Japan. "There was never a distinction between art and craft," she explains, although today the Japanese have adopted the Western distinction.
One artist represented in the exhibit, physicist and full-time origami artist and educator Robert Lang, has designed and catalogued over 500 original origami patterns, created origami algorithms, and invented a revolutionary new technique that allows for the addition of multiple appendages using a single sheet of paper. Lang has also applied origami techniques in his designs for a folding glass lens for a giant space telescope at Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory and an automobile air bag. The algorithms, he says, involve the principles of both algebra and geometry, and "a lot of manipulating squares and rectangles, like packing shapes in a box."
Yet Lang notes that the "growth and interest in origami preceded the heavy involvement of math," with the real renaissance occurring in the mid-20th century. Pioneer Akira Yoshizawa was responsible for turning what had been considered a children's pastime in Japan into a form of sculptural art. On March 14 of this year, Yoshizawa's birthday, Google asked Lang to design (after signing a non-disclosure agreement) the origami shapes that became this logo on Google's Web site.
The architectural portions of the exhibit include this short documentary on an origami-inspired temporary chapel, St. Loup, in the foothills of the Jura in Switzerland, and a reference to another origami-based building, the Klein Bottle House in Melbourne, Australia. Origami fashion is represented by Linda Tomoko Mihara and L.A. fashion designer Monica Leigh, and the exhibit's one installation is a menacing swarm of origami locusts made from sheets of U.S one dollar bills, by Swiss-South African artist Sipho Mabona.
Nancy Matsumoto is a New York City-based freelance writer who writes frequently on Japanese American issues and culture.
What? An opera sweepstakes going on in the city formerly known as opera-poor?
Well, try this: at Disney Hall a posse of arts-elite collaborators led by Gustavo Dudamel and the LA Philharmonic put on a new, fanciful, hyper-stylized production of "Don Giovanni," while across the street the LA Opera trotted out its old Herb Ross staging of "La Bohème," both houses doing bang-up box office at the same time.
Not bad at all.
But now we get to the interesting parts. Frank Gehry's deservedly famous Disney is a favorite tourist attraction. It was built, to acoustic perfection, as a concert hall, the one that would showcase the Philharmonic in all its splendor and provide the proper venue for sending out its glorious sound.
Aspirations do grow, though. And along the way Dudamel et al hatched the idea to "stage" opera: the Mozart-DaPonte trilogy in three successive seasons, for starters, beginning with "Don Giovanni." Nothing standard, of course, because the hull-shaped hall has no proscenium - it cannot accommodate the trappings of scenery, etc. Nor, importantly, is there an orchestra pit.
So they opted for a contemporary realization with creators who are adept at experimental ventures, director Christopher Alden chief among them. And there could hardly be a better choice -- we knew him from his revelatory work years ago at Long Beach Opera, a master at deconstructing a set piece like this, but not one to go in for the usual hijinks.
Even without Rodarte, whose sumptuous-to-sleek costumes are a Baroque eyeful in themselves, and even without Gehry's "installations," crumpled paper icebergs and giant cubes that provide platforms for the singers to cavort on and climb around, Alden brilliantly makes the case for the characters' inner drama - their floating urges, their undersea lusts. These nobles and peasants are no longer cardboard cutouts.
Now we know that Donna Anna openly acknowledges her guilty pleasure with the Don, why she kisses and caresses him while her fiancé - three's a crowd - stands breath-close to them. She's acting out what she feels and will not suppress, rather than just playing a wronged woman vengeful over her father's murder. And, earlier, after their night together, the Don slithers elegantly along a cube's side wall as Anna languishes on top of it, still in her erotic throes. So we actually see him as a louche lingerer. And Alden, defying the moralistic "crime does not pay" meme, even brings him back at the end -- triumphantly alive.
Over and over they all reveal themselves, in elongated episodes. When Zerlina sings "Batti, batti" to her bridegroom Masetto, she reverses her plea for punishment and beats him instead, frustrated with his non-assertive manner. And Leporello, while "cataloging" his master's many conquests, goes up on his toes and down on twisted knees, to show how hard a task it is to follow the philanderer. Everything Alden maps out telegraphs a value; there are no typical operatic stances here. And that's the beauty of this show.
But then there's the rest - beginning and ending with an irony: the world-class Philharmonic, with its inspired maestro, Dudamel, are consigned to the rear, out of good-hearing range, and nearly covered by the ersatz set. Not surprisingly, the sound has little presence. This, in a hall storied for its vibrant sound.
What's even worse, the singers and conductor have no chance at all for the electric connection, phrase by phrase, that sparks the best opera performances - the swoop and sweep of single-breath music-making that depends crucially on eye-to-eye proximity between stage and orchestra leader.
There's got to be a better way.
But the cast did not disappoint - even while we knew how many notches higher its performances would go under normal circumstances. The men were strikingly lean and virile in their space-suit whites, with hair fashionably slicked back. Mariusz Kwiecien, in the title role, epitomized those features, sometimes brutally, and sang with dark luster to match the persona of history's most obsessive womanizer.
So did the others come through. Kevin Burdette's basso power served up Leporello as both a cowering servant and willing conspirator. Tenor Pavol Breslik, as the good guy Ottavio, did take too many liberties in "Dalla sua pace" (and nearly came to grief, as a result), but recovered in "Il mio tesoro," while Ryan Kuster's Masetto was a tad complacent as cuckolds go.
The women looked delectable in their costumes - all ruffled, be-feathered whimsy. But Carmela Remigio's soprano was not quite up to Donna Anna's outpourings - Aga Mikolaj clearly had the edge here, not to mention the coloratura chops, as Elvira. So did Anna Prohaska excel -- injecting a pert, even defiantly off-center portrayal of Zerlina underlined by her radiant voice.
What we're left wondering is whether the LA Phil has, perhaps inadvertently, set up a strange rivalry with its neighbor the LA Opera - given future plans that indicate more of the same. At any rate, the traffic does get heavier, the more the merrier and all that. Come September, watch for a proscenium-style "Don Giovanni" across the street, bearing the exalted directorial name of Peter Stein. But don't count on that hand to be much in evidence . A relative rookie will direct traffic.
Baseball: The All-American Game, an exhibition of pieces owned by Los Angeles memorabilia collector Gary Cypres, opens Sunday at the Craft and Folk Art Museum on Wilshire Boulevard in the Miracle Mile district. The exhibit "explores the influence of baseball on American folk art made between the late-1800s to present day. For the first time in Los Angeles, the public will have access to the largest exhibition of baseball-related traditional folk art since the American Folk Art Museum's historic "Perfect Game: America Looks at Baseball: in 2003, says CAFAM.
There's a public opening reception at the museum tonight from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m.
The photo above shows an arcade display of a batter and catcher with moving arms, produced by Strike-em out Baseball Co. in Boston about 1929.
LA Observed photo: Judy Graeme
Now we call him Sir Simon. But back in the day — before his curly top turned white — Simon Rattle was an enormously gifted principal guest conductor of the LA Philharmonic.
He'd joined forces with Carlo Maria Giulini. Remember him? The old-world maestro who led our resident band on excursions of poetic transport? Who looked every part the willowy patrician and got the orchestra to play like heaven's tribunes?
Of course you do.
Okay, that was an earlier golden era — well before this one headed by the spirited, infectious Gustavo Dudamel, who belies its administration's corporate style.
We cannot forget any of those from the '80s -- not Rattle, the young Liverpudlian, nor native Angeleno Michael Tilson Thomas, co-principal guest conductor. Together they stood next to Giulini, breathing in his aura, forever to be held to the Italian podium meister's standards.
So here's what happened in the wake of the Sainted One's 1984 departure from this country.
LA Phil director Ernest Fleischmann passed over MTT for the chief post, allegedly because the candidate had a same-sex partner and in those pre-historic times of full-bloom homophobia, such preferences were a no-no.
And Sir Simon — now ennobled by the Brits — reportedly turned down the offer, preferring to be back across the pond with his orchestra in Birmingham. Finally, he was tapped by the Berlin Philharmonic to head that Rolls Royce of orchestras, where perfection does not go wanting.
In 2003 he and the Berliners joined Disney Hall's glitzy inaugural revelries — with an unforgettable sonic blast that still reverberates. And now, at last, the beloved Brit returned to his old chums here who still remain in the LA Phil and the newer hires.
In a word their concert together was fabulous. Rattle gave us modernist Ligeti's long-lined floating essences, "Atmosphères," devolving into Wagner's similarly long-lined "Lohengrin" (first act prelude) - both works cosmic to the core. An inspired stroke to present them as a unit.
The solo spot fell to his wife, the dazzling Czech mezzo and European star Magdalena Kozená, for Mahler's "Rückert Lieder." And while we could hear her voice in the drifts of velvet gorgeousness that wended their way to our side seats at Disney (hardly an ideal location), her sense of the poems — wistful, innocent, profound — was always evident, as was Rattle's and the players' collaboration in same.
Next came Bruckner's massive 9th Symphony, which he conducted from memory. There were extraordinary stop-on-a-dime moments that dropped from big striding basses to sudden, suspended quiet and delicate playing. What treachery lurks in this work, as performance goes, and what a physical workout for any ensemble.
What's more, we could see/hear in his ministrations where much of Dudamel's influences came from. For instance, Rattle sometimes stands stock still, in a groove with the players as they go at it, conducting with his eyebrows! And there's the trick of passing his baton from hand to hand as needed, as though a it's a mere extension. He even joins his musicians at curtain calls, shoulder to shoulder with them on the stage floor, not on the podium.
Another hero in our midst, Mona Golabek, has taken her talents to the Geffen stage in "The Pianist of Willesden Lane" (through June 24) as actor/musician (have you heard her reading Chopin's letters to George Sand on air, courtesy of K-Mozart, 1260 AM?) So powerfully moving is Golabek's chronicle of her mother, Holocaust orphan Lisa Jura — an aspiring pianist who boarded Vienna's Kindertransport to London at age 12, never to see her parents again — that the one-woman bio-show is an epic not to miss. Hershey Felder, the creator of this genre, helped bring the memoir to script form.
So much for performing artists. And now a little something about a woman who presents them, Dale Franzen. The former opera singer surely qualifies as LA's leading impresaria — she even undertook the project of building a concert hall, Santa Monica's Broad Stage, bankrolled by, of course...
Franzen's last event of the season there was the recital of big-time tenor Piotr Beczala. The Polish singer, seen recently in a Met simulcast of "Manon," with Anna Netrebko, drew a sellout crowd of voice fanciers to the Broad. But although he boasts a stellar, ringing voice, Beczala hasn't adjusted down to the scale of an intimate 500-seat theater that is already resonant to the nth degree. Nor did he bother much with the recital mode: nuanced singing, subtlety of characterization, word pointing. And because he used the same big projection technique needed for a 4,000-seat house, some of us — and I'm not exaggerating — required ear-stuffers.
Rattle photo courtesy of LA Phil; Mona Golabek by Michael Lamont.
Exhibition extended, see below
Carol Wells loves learning. As a researcher and UCLA graduate, she has spent most of her life learning about history through the art of politics. Political posters to be precise. And since she first began collecting, on a trip to Nicaragua in 1981 in the middle of the Sandinista revolution, she has amassed an impressive collection of posters that chronicle labor, and political movements filtered through the prism of art and activism.
After a few years, she had to move her collection out from under her bed and the Center for the Study of Political Graphics was born. Nestled among bakeries and design boutiques along the tony stretch of Third Street between Fairfax and La Cienega, in a building dedicated to peace and justice and shared — through the beneficence of a sympathetic landlord — with other like-minded organizations, the center occupies several rooms filled with flat files and vertical shelving brimming with art that is a call to action. Over the years, through persistence, dedication and some luck, Wells has amassed an impressive collection of 80,000 posters. "There are ten dissertations here, waiting to happen," she says. What started simply as an appreciation has become a calling that has helped Wells do what she most loves to do: teach.
"Posters are a very efficient and powerful way of teaching history that you don't learn in school." She talks about children of color seeing people who look like them portrayed as heroes, something that can be in short supply in school textbooks and on television. She worries that kids aren't reading anymore and much of history will be lost to them.
On her school visits, she will sometimes show the iconic and powerful image familiar to anyone who lived through the 60's, the victims of the My Lai massacre, lifeless bodies of women and children strewn on the road. "Children will ask me how they put those babies into the photograph," she said. "Teachers are getting younger and younger and didn't experience these events firsthand. Digital manipulation means that we can no longer believe what we see, and that terrifies me."
Her knowledge of the backstory of events depicted in these posters has enabled her to connect the dots of events worldwide, showing how they have reverberated through history. She pulls out a folder of Cuban art done by an artists collective called OSPAAAL ( Organization in Solidarity with the People of Asia and Latin America), protesting the Vietnam War. She credits the Cubans with the revitalization of postermaking in the late 60's, many of which were folded and and inserted into magazines of the day. They document solidarity with the people of Vietnam, Latin America and Africa. Another group of posters was done by a Mexican art collective, Taller de Grafica Popular (Popular Graphic Arts Workshop), started in the 1930's and joined by some blacklisted American artists who left the U.S. to escape political persecution.
Wearing white gloves to protect the sometimes disintegrating paper works, Wells pulls out a group of posters printed by Peace Press, an organization of artists protesting the Vietnam War. "Peace Press was founded by artists who could not get their work printed by mainstream printers. Unions at the time were very conservative and supported the war. So the artists did it themselves." The posters were printed on anything they could get their hands on, some silkscreened onto castoff computer printouts with mundane office business printed on the back, having been culled from the floor or trashbins next to the printers.
CSPG is reclaiming the power of art to educate and inspire people to action. "If it doesn't make you angry or make you laugh, we haven't done a good job,"
Wells says. "And you learn that one person can make a difference." She herself still walks the talk. She remembers the first demonstration she participated in, an anti-war rally at Century City in 1967 that changed her life. "Lyndon Johnson was doing a fundraiser and mid-rally our demonstration permit was rescinded by the LAPD," she says. It was the largest anti-war rally ever up to that time in Los Angeles and she remembers motorcycle officers riding into the crowd with their batons swinging. "That rally changed me from a naïve liberal into an activist."
She and her husband Ted had their first date at an anti-war demonstration and she still believes in marching in solidarity for causes she supports.
In its efforts to encourage education, the center also organizes forums for discussion and debate. This past November it co-hosted a conversation between Angela Davis and Reverend James Lawson at Temple Emanuel. On Saturday an event at the West Hollywood Library discussed how art and activism relate in Ray Bradbury's work "Fahrenheit 451."
There is still time to see CSPG's current exhibit. "Decade of Dissent: Democracy in Action 1965-1975," at the newly redesigned West Hollywood branch of the Los Angeles County library,
ends April 28 [extended to May 7.] It is a collection of posters printed around the turmoil of the 60's: the American involvement in Vietnam, the Free Speech Movement on college campuses nationwide, the injustices that sparked the Civil Rights movement, the fight for equality by women and minorities. As Wells wrote in the exhibit notes, and firmly believes: "Dissent is patriotic." The posters on display prove the point powerfully, passionately and eloquently.
While on the topic of dissent, the organizers of an exhibit right across the street, at MOCA at the Pacific Design Center, argue that Rudi Gernreich, he of the one piece topless bathing suit that shocked the world in the 60's, was not crafting a design but rather making a statement on women and their right to freedom. An interesting addition to an afternoon studying dissent would include a visit to the exhibit currently on display there through May 20. Through costumes, film and still images by the brilliant photographer William Claxton in conjunction with his wife, and Gernreich muse Peggy Moffitt, the exuberance of the 60's are celebrated. Well worth a visit.
Bottom photo: Peggy Moffitt models a Rudi Gernreich design, photographed in 1968 by her husband William Claxton.
Searching the vinyl bins for bargains at Amoeba Music Hollywood on Record Store Day.
Music fans began lining up before dawn on Saturday. The line stretched down Ivar Avenue in Hollywood.
Early arrivals had plenty of room to spread out and look for today's new releases.
LA Observed photos by Sean Roderick
Yes, it's Misha. There's no mistaking him: the ever-chic haircut, the stern expression peering out from a face that now has added lines and deep crevices, the allure of an icon.
And 18 years past the prime of his career - we're talking about the one-time heartthrob who could toss off balletic pyrotechnics with laughing ease, defy gravity, devour space and dazzle us with the purity and power of his dancing -- he's basking in a new vehicle, once more at the hospitable Broad Stage.
It's called "In Paris." And the producers identify it as a play. But don't be fooled. Just remember that Mikhail Baryshnikov is a moth to the flame, a performing artist to the stage. Whether he finds heat burning bright, or a dim though artful hangout for his persona, is iffy.
You can't blame him for not habitually trying: he did speaking parts in Hollywood feature films, Kafka-esque experiments on Broadway, TV guest-star episodes, and pseudo-modern-dance forays that gave him no more than the movement equivalent of butlers' lines -- with the spotlight shining all the while.
The single stellar event we've seen since the end of those high-flying days came on his visit three years ago to this same Santa Monica venue. Actually, it was a marvel. Why? Because he put himself in the hands of choreographers who knew how to bring out the best of Baryshnikov - to find the vital dancing actor that is his core, the artist who can extract a deeply human element in characterizations of elegant, ironic humor or burning ardor.
Those three dance-makers -- Mats Eks, Alexei Ratmansky and Benjamin Millepied - got it. And so Misha, the master mime magician, re-materialized as the snazzy Jimmy Cagney vaudevillian, and as the proper Chaplin-esque suitor, and as the ardent Siegfried of romantic fatalism. All of it allowing the unregenerate star, no longer so springy or well-oiled, not to be over-taxed.
This time, though, he put himself in less knowing -- albeit illustrious and theatrically elite -- hands: Moscow's Dmitry Krymov Laboratory. And again we saw Baryshnikov reaching for High Art Experimentalism. But this time, with his fellow Russians as production collaborators, he became just one more object amid a stage of poster cutouts that went in search of a play.
Oh, it was artful, this 80-minute rollout. And distant. And remote. At no time did director Krymov, who adapted Nobel-winner Ivan Bunin's short story about two White Russian fugitives thrust together while living lonely lives in Paris, let up on his compositionally perfect and ever-changing stage pictures - what with English translations of the French and Russian texts crawling up a black screen in huge letters that became part of those pictures; and the black-and-white '30s aura of Baryshnikov in a general's long coat; the cardboard poster look throughout, grouped singers taking up the slack; and at several points a mezzo wailing Mozart and Bizet arias designed to sound as though sung underwater.
There were stagecraft visuals to mildly engage us. But, apart from the momentary fun of listening to him recite the texts in low-voiced French and then in stilted Russian, there was little for the show's star to do that was worthy of him.
What? That old vaudeville shtick of hanging a coat and hat on a wall hook only to have them fall off just as he walks away? (then repeat.) Or the ultimate tedium of watching him apply shaving cream, then comtemplate the razor's edge? Or of unbuttoning a shirt, taking it off, then putting it back on and re-buttoning it? (Total: 10 long minutes.) Do we spy the emperor's new clothes? Or what about the finale's 15-second matador sequence, where he whips a red cape around? Does it seem like an ad-copy reminder that, yes, Misha was a dancer?
We must hope the quest is not over.
Onto the new: Benjamin Millepied, he of last year's hit film, "Black Swan," and, notably, the choreographer of a cameo danced by Baryshnikov (referenced above), just left us his calling card at the Music Center via Geneva Ballet, formally called Grand Théâtre de Genève Ballet.
Since he will head L.A. Dance Project downtown, this little sampler of his work is telling.
First off, we should know from it that men are the stars. In their black suits and white open-neck shirts they are exultantly air-borne, they convey the definitive, sharp direction of what his dances are about - and lots of that substance is witty.
As a spoof on Romantic-era classics, he brought us two Fokine ballets and thrust them into the 21st century. For "Le Spectre de la Rose" there is no open window behind the seated girl, who is dreaming that a hero comes dashing through it. In its place, against an intriguing and colorful Russian modernist set, three semi-comic gallants in those hip black suits and black masks leap through an opening. She stays asleep mostly and they carry her around in cleverly, sporting manner. The whole thing is marvelously entertaining and imaginative.
The same choreographic held for "Les Sylphides," except that here Millepied ran into trouble with the Chopin score: whenever the waltzes and mazurkas went limpid and long-lined he kept his dancers - women in bright-hued, full-skirted dresses, men in black suits again - hopping around furiously, often suggesting some confrontational behavior between the sexes. Mainly, though, we had massive musical contradiction, a common failing with dance-makers. At times like these we long for the originals.
Otherwise, Millepied showed off his game with "Amoveo," set to excerpts from Philip Glass's "Einstein on the Beach." An abstract piece, it abounded in the stuff a fine dancer appreciates: something lyric, flowing and natural that is composed of turns and extensions, fast and slow, long and short - all of it within a given heartbeat.
No doubt we'll have more reasons now to drive downtown, thanks to the Glorya Kaufman Foundation, celebrating its 10th year as an underwriter of Dance at the Music Center.
Now that I've read April Dammann's book, The Exhibitionist: Earl Stendahl, Art Dealer as Impresario, I'm discovering more and more that art dealer Earl Stendahl still influences our city's artistic evolution.
There's a Stendahl connection to LACMA's exhibition "Children of the Plumed Serpent: the Legacy of Quetzalcoatl in Ancient Mexico," which opened April 1st. Stendahl, the first U.S. dealer in Pre-Columbian art has a piece in the show, a large capstone from Teotihuacan, Mexico, which the late Dr. Virginia (Ginny) Fields acquired for the museum before her untimely passing. In addition, Stendahl Galleries loaned Earl Stendahl's letters from Diego Rivera, promoting Emmy Lou Packard, a young American artist who worked with Diego and Frida Kahlo in Mexico, to the current LACMA show "In Wonderland: The Surrealist Adventures of Women Artists in Mexico and the United States." Earl Stendahl became Packard's dealer and sold her work at rates equal to his male artists at a time when many dealers did not.
Upcoming are two rare occasions to tour Earl Stendahl's home/gallery in Hollywood. Author April Dammann will be discussing her book and Earl Stendahl's work at an open house with the Los Angeles Visionaries Association on Sunday, April 22nd at 1 PM. Make your reservations here.
Stendahl Galleries will host a new show that is only open for one weekend. From Friday, April 27 through Sunday, April 29, the work of Maynard Hale Lyndon will be on view in an exhibit called "Looking Boxes: Playful Ways of Seeing the World." "Meet the Artist" receptions are planned for Friday, April 27, 6 - 9 pm and Sat, April 28, 4 - 7 pm. RSVP. Contact email@example.com for details and reservations.
Be sure to check out the Pre-Columbian art in the garden as pictured in this post. If you like what you see, here's the book's video.
Walking through the J. Paul Getty Museum's new exhibition, Herb Ritts: L.A. Style, I kept thinking back 20 years to when I wrote a profile of Ritts for the Los Angeles Times. I was writing about the photography market for the paper, and there were few bigger players locally than Ritts.
Djimon with octopus, Hollywood. 1989. © Herb Ritts Foundation
Familiar photos of such people as Madonna and Richard Gere are among the show's highlights, but the beautifully printed photographs feature unfamiliar as well as familiar figures, celebrities as well as people made celebrities by Ritts' photos. Perhaps more important, the exhibition demonstrates a very creative mind at work, maximizing his models, light and settings.
Not that I was surprised. The day of our visit, Ritts eagerly gathered up his magazine layouts and books, proudly turning pages for me to see one photograph after another. As he did so, I sensed that the tentative smile and ingenuousness charming me must surely have gone a long way in similarly charming his photography subjects. This show proves me right with its oiled bodies, strangely turned limbs, unexpected celebrity poses and even a model crowned by a dead octopus.
Ritts' Hollywood Hills home was a showplace for photography, including print after print by photographers he admired. I recall he'd built ledges along the walls for photographs, rather than framing them, so he could move them around. The day I was there, his library's prime spot was held by one of Berenice Abbott's glorious photos of New York at night, and around the house were recognizable masterpieces by other legendary photographers.
He considered himself a photography collector, he told me, and on display were great photos by Man Ray and Edward Weston, Henri Cartier-Bresson and Paul Outerbridge. He said he had just purchased others by Joel Peter Witkin and Robert Mapplethorpe, and when we later discussed the photo market, we talked as much about his buying more of their work as about others buying his work.
The Getty's companion show, "Portraits of Renown: Photography and the Cult of Celebrity," places Ritts' work adjacent to walls of iconic photographs by everyone from Nadar and Edward Steichen to Diane Arbus and Andy Warhol. Ritts died in 2002, but remembering the way he spoke of his photographic influences--including Weston for his simplicity, Helmut Newton for his risk-taking, and Irving Penn for nearly everything else--I imagine the juxtaposition would have made him a happy man indeed.
Stephanie Seymour, Cindy Crawford, Christy Turlington, Tatjana Patitz and Naomi Cambell pose for Herb Ritts in Hollywood in 1989. © Herb Ritts Foundation
Tatjana, veiled head, Joshua Tree 1988. © Herb Ritts Foundation
"Herb Ritts: L.A. Style" is at the Getty Center through August 26.
Barbara Isenberg is a Los Angeles-based arts writer. Her most recent book is the Los Angeles Times bestseller "Conversations with Frank Gehry."
Something rare is afoot in Los Angeles. To put it simply, "Swan Lake." Yes, that icon of classical exactitude and style is popping up on stages all over. And the producer turns out to be not some long-standing, well-endowed enterprise on tour here, but the LA Ballet, which is a mere six years old.
Why? Why would brand-name husband/wife directors Thordal Christensen and Colleen Neary be confident enough to mount this behemoth of a ballet? This vast spectacle designed for the likes of kingly companies with multi-millions -- the Bolshoi, American Ballet Theatre, Royal Covent Garden, Royal Danish?
Answer: They have the chops now, that is, the dancers, together with their deep, artistic savvy. And they know it.
All I did was tip-toe into Royce Hall - the first stop in a city-wide tour of major Southland venues that continues through March 31 - only to discover a production of the Petipa-Ivanov-Tchaikovsky ballet that approximated world-class standards.
The capstone of all this cheering came in the second act - you know, the famed lakeside scene, that moonlit mirage with the snowy white swan corps floating about and Prince Siegfried sensing the imminent appearance of his fateful inamorata Odette, aka the Swan Queen, turned from maiden into an avian creature by an evil sorcerer.
And when she alit onstage, in the person of Allynne Noelle, the effect was dazzling -- as that first sighting was meant to be. Tall, with perfect proportions and gorgeously tapering long limbs, this Swan Queen had both bird-like spark and human pathos, her hand articulation spelling out regal elegance. She danced with alacrity and definition and fluid musicality. It was as though she'd been in training at Vaganova since adolescence - not a girl from Huntington Beach - although she'd done stints at redoubtable dance oases (National Ballet of Canada, Villella's Miami City Ballet and not least, Vicky Koenig's Inland Pacific Ballet).
So...with Noelle and a host of others now just in their second season with LAB, Christensen and Neary knew this was their moment. In fact, the bench is deep enough to alternate the lead role, as well as others.
But that's not all. These high-pedigree directors (he a Royal Dane, she a Balanchine Trustee), who have both formerly danced the "Swan Lake" lead roles for years, boast wide contacts for bringing resources to the company -- the dancers, for instance -- and this production, originally designed for Pacific Northwest Ballet.
Besides Noelle, who joined LAB only 18 months ago, is Alyssa Bross, the alternate lead. I glimpsed her rehearsing Odile (the Black Swan), and saw richly expressive qualities - she used every enticement to undermine the Prince's oath to Odette and was a dewy seductress, not the hard, haughty type who would laugh at her easy conquest. And when she danced Odette, it was with aching vulnerability - which belies her photograph on the program book cover, a misleadingly placid look.
No wonder Christensen went forward with "Swan Lake." He knew he'd recruited the talent - many had trained at prestigious schools and had danced with top companies. As Noelle's and Bross's partners, both Kenta Shimizu and Christopher Revels acquitted themselves nobly, if not exactly at the danseur level. Guest artist Akimitsu Yahata did his thrilling bravura stuff as the Jester.
But down to the last coryphée, the coaching was scrupulous. Everyone had clear focus and a sense of unanimity, even the mimed gestures were natural. What's more, the muted, old-world sets and costumes looked lovely on the Royce Hall stage, as if made for it.
Considering that taped music allows for no moment-to-moment variation, the company coped well.
Photos above: Reed Hutchinson
Previously on LA Observed:
Photo slide show: Inside the Los Angeles Ballet studio on the Westside, meeting the dancers and seeing them rehearse.
LA Observed photo of dancers Katie Tomer and Drew Grant: Judy Graeme
How is it that until about a week ago I'd never heard of the photographer Francesca Woodman? She has been hovering about in my universe for years, but I'm embarrassed that I completely missed her. It took a look through LACMA's newly opened In Wonderland: Surrealist Adventures of Women Artists to be enlightened. Fate intervened and our paths finally crossed.
Woodman is one of the nearly 50 artists included in this "first exhibition devoted to the female surrealist artists who worked in Mexico and the U.S," as the press materials read. Born in 1958, she is the youngest and one of the lesser known artists in the show that includes superstars of the movement Frida Kahlo, Louise Bourgeois and Louise Nevelson.
Woodman's black and white images, made primarily with a square format camera and printed small, demand that the viewer come in close. Reading the wall label next to the first photograph, "Self Portrait talking to Vince" (top photo here), told me that her life was shockingly brief (1958-1981) and that she photographed in Providence, R.I. My first thought was that perhaps she had been a student at the Rhode Island School of Design, where I graduated. Later in the day a Google search confirmed it. Woodman was a photography student at RISD from 1975 to 1978, around the time I was there, and in the same department, although she was 2 years behind me. It's entirely possible that we may have passed in the hallway or on the street. Other images in the LACMA show were made in Rome where Woodman spent her junior year as part of RISD's European Honors Program.
Like the mystery of her abbreviated life, Woodman's images are haunting and provocative. The level of her work is highly sophisticated for someone so young and still in school. Woodman often photographed herself, sometimes nude, sometimes clothed. She used props, blurring, and dilapidated interiors (not hard to find in Providence.) She experimented with cut paper, reflections and alternative processes. She used her sexuality, her relationships and her environment to develop themes in her work. The disturbing spookiness in some of them hit me hard. Sadly, an ominous feeling about her proved true. I learned that Woodman committed suicide in 1981 at the age of 22, not long after graduation and a move to New York City.
In the 2010 documentary The Woodmans, a revealing and sometimes unsettling look at the photographer's family that I watched after seeing the show at LACMA, her close RISD friend Sloan Rankin acknowledges that Woodman was far more artistically evolved than the other students. But also chronically needy. "She was a fragile person. It caused her to make beautiful pictures," Rankin says. As I watched the film, clues about her emotionally complex life emerged. Maybe also clues into her imagemaking. I felt little sympathy for her parents, both accomplished artists in their own right. They are clearly still wrestling with not only their daughter's suicide, but with the fact that her artistic success has far eclipsed their own. "As Francesca has become more and more famous, we've become the famous artists family," her mother Betty says in one scene.
While Woodman is part of a large group at LACMA, she is currently the star of her own show up north at SFMOMA. Francesca Woodman is the most comprehensive exhibition of her work ever mounted. Her RISD work is well represented, as well as her experiments with the diazotype process (think architects' blueprints) and her fashion photographs. The show fully explores Woodman's body of work, which impressed me as hugely accomplished for someone barely entering adulthood. She had hoped to pursue fashion photography in New York, but struggled with finding opportunities.
Even a drop of the attention her work is now receiving might have been a huge gift to Woodman following her graduation from RISD. She battled to survive professionally in New York, and according to her father was "discouraged and demoralized in her personal life." There was intense therapy, medication and a failed first attempt at suicide. Making photographs became a rarer and rarer occurrence.
Then again, perhaps no amount of validation or success would have been enough to save the life of a young woman so deeply in pain. Her apparently overwhelming inner demons broke her spirit before she could find a way to harness them. Surely trouble was brewing long before she arrived in Providence. However, her images have survived and taken on a brilliant life of their own. Although I'm late to the game, I'm glad that at last I've found them.
Trailer from the documentary on Woodman's life:
"In Wonderland: Surrealist Adventures of Women Artists" runs at LACMA's Resnick Pavilion through May 6.
"Francesca Woodman" runs at SF MOMA though Feb. 20 and will travel to the Guggenheim Museum in New York in spring 2012.
Photographs by Francesca Woodman courtesy of the Marian Goodman Gallery, New York
When avant-garde choreographer Pina Bausch died suddenly in 2009, filmmaker Wim Wenders not only mourned his close friend. He felt he could no longer make the film they would have begun shooting two days later. His hope of finally bringing her emotional and ground-breaking work to a larger audience ended abruptly after almost twenty years of collaboration.
"My interest was to see and film Pina's eyes at work. We cancelled the film and pulled the plug," he said. "Only when the dancers made me understand a month or two months later that we could make a different film, not of Pina but for Pina, did I think I could do it."
What Wenders and the Pina Bausch company have created with their documentary, "Pina," which opens in Los Angeles January 13, is an elegy, a meditation, an emotional roller coaster ride through life and all its emotions depicted almost soundlessly through movement.
Recently, Wenders sat down for interviews to talk about the experience of making his latest film. Dressed in a natty but rumpled three-piece suit, and in a blue mood with royal blue glasses framing his eyes, a blue shirt and a blue wristwatch on his arm, Wenders talked passionately about the challenges of making this film. He had pondered for years just how to capture and communicate the power, emotion and simplicity that characterized Bausch's work.
Finally, in 2008, he started playing with 3D technology. "I was convinced that 3D was the perfect language for dance, the answer to 20 years of hesitation, and stalling and ruining my brain wondering how to make an appropriate film of Pina's work. Dance and 3D could bring out the best in each other...But this was before 'Avatar,' and 3D was really in its infancy."
There were many physical challenges working with unwieldy cameras unable to capture the fluidity and elegance of Bausch's movements. "My assistant became a four-armed Indian goddess" trying to move and shoot in 3-D with the bulky cameras available at the time. Wenders also sensed a huge opportunity and he dove in, modifying the cameras and adapting them as he went along. In the end, Wenders was able to stand back and allow the dancers to pay their very personal tribute to Bausch, in the visual language that Bausch taught them to use. "In the best possible sense of the word," he said, "technology was at the service of these emotions."
"I cried my heart out the first time I saw a piece by Pina, not really knowing what hit me," Wenders explained. "Her dance is so physical, it involved the bodies of her dancers so much...Pina's work was not just an aesthetic experience, it is an existential experience. It is about life. She said it best herself. 'I am not interested in how my dancers move, I'm interested in what moves them.'"
The film was shot in and around Wupperthal, Germany, where the company is based. "Wupperthal has an incredibly rich history, industrial landscapes, a richness of possibilities. It was great to be outdoors in the sunlight, have the horizon, the hanging train, the city and industrial landscape," Wenders said. Indeed, seeing the dancers move along mountaintops, on streetcorners, with railways speeding above them or onstage in the pouring rain is shocking, and exhilarating, and gives the film a very unique visual framework. Wenders, who has been a photographer since his teens, used his sharp eye to great advantage.
Moving on without Pina by his side was difficult. "I had to face the question every day: What would Pina think? She was looking over my shoulder with each and every shot. Does Pina like it? Is this good enough? She was very present, for the dancers and myself. Her spirit is there and amazing...Only when I edited the film and first showed it to the dancers and they felt that Pina's universe was well-preserved in the film did I feel that Pina would approve."
Working with Pina's troupe was also a very different directing experience for Wenders, whose films include "Wings of Desire," "The State of Things," "Paris, Texas," and "The Buena Vista Social Club."
"She had assembled a strange utopian humanity around her," he said. "So different than the typical directing experience, where you work with actors for a few months. Pina's relationship with her dancers went on for decades...
"I don't know how I will continue working with actors after this experience. Over the course of one year I did not have one complaint, not one single scene of jealousy. None of that stuff you are used to on every movie crew. I was privileged to work with them."
And ultimately, Wenders was satisfied by the technological accomplishment of "Pina."
"The challenge was big, working with such a new language. We tried to imitate what two eyes are doing, and what the brain does with what two eyes do. To really be in awe of what our two eyes do every day," he said.
He must have done something right. After a brief opening to qualify for Oscar consideration, "Pina" is currently on the shortlist for an Oscar nomination in the documentary category.
Chris Burden's Metropolis II installation opens to the public on Saturday. It was previewed for the media yesterday. Read more
Photos: Judy Graeme
Here's a riddle from the art world: Who was part huckster, part experimental trailblazer and part social commentator, lampooning society's adoration of celebrity, but longing to be one at the same time? Warhol, you say? No, turns out it's Weegee, the cigar chomping photographer — aka Arthur Fellig — who fled New York in 1946, where he made his reputation as a chronicler of the night, of crime scenes and the spectators who gathered to watch, to turn his sights on Hollywood.
Claiming he was "through with the newspaper game," after selling the title of his book of New York photographs called "The Naked City" to a producer who turned it into a movie, he was drawn to Hollywood. But, as the sweeping show currently up at MOCA proves, Weegee was a lot more complicated than we thought.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Friday, November 4, 2011
Yes, the physical distance between Northridge and Hollywood and Vine might seem daunting. But an adventurer needn't miss either Twyla Tharp's extravaganza "Come Fly Away," her latest ode to Frank Sinatra, or the new Valley Performing Arts Center's headliner, Valery Gergiev with his Mariinsky Orchestra, those venerable Russians.
Both, you see, are storied artists. And what's a few scrappy miles down the freeway for the hardiest among us? Right now it's possible to catch the ultimate Sinatra-phile's show at the Pantages. It was only a few blocks from there, actually, that dance fans feasted on the choreographer's "Nine Sinatra Songs," back in 1982.
Remember? We left swooning over "Strangers in the Night," which Tharp's lead dancer Gary Chryst let us see as the sleek tango rhythm that underpins ol' blue eyes balladeering. No less were the other songs/dances in this black velvet dazzler, the women in Oscar de la Renta's swirly chiffon dresses, the men in black tie.
But don't start thinking Fred and Ginger - because, in contrast to them, Tharp came up with wonderfully inventive subtexts for each song, often cued to night-time mischief or silly weariness or lush nostalgia, with touches of sly humor when least expected.
Both in "Come Fly Away" and in "Nine Sinatra Songs" Tharp gives us "That's Life" as a low-down, treat 'em rough, deadpan farce. And in the closing number, "My Way," she's back to dreamy idealization. But no matter what the song in her earlier work it became potent stuff, tapping images in the collective pop unconscious.
There ends the similarity between Tharp 1982 and Tharp 2011. Sorry to say, the road gets rougher here. From the upside-down splits for women -- aka crotch dancing that's featured in at least 15 lifts -- to the sleazy-schlock costumes, to the glaring back-lit tinsel set imitating a chintzy exurban roadhouse club, "Come Fly Away" has transformed the original into a coarse spectacle.
Still, it's Sinatra - boasting some newly-discovered tapes from his voice-troubled years (sung slightly off-pitch) - and it's Tharp. So the show's credits outweigh its debits.
It was credits also that piled up at Valley Performing Arts Center, when Cal State Northridge's new $17 milliion edifice hosted Gergiev/Mariinsky. First came the shock of this ensemble's crystal-clear sound in Stravinsky's "Firebird" Suite: each section and each instrument within it emerged as a separate entity that massed into a gleaming, smooth, and rich avalanche. Then, together with long-time Russian compatriot Alexandre Toradze, they dug deep for an earthy, inward, dark but still explosive Prokofiev 3rd Piano Concerto, unlike the purely lyric/percussive piece we usually hear.
Shostakovich's 1st Symphony, written when the composer that Stalin hated was a teen, completed the bill. A pity there was no Tchaikovsky, but Gergiev had fully exhausted that realm on his previous nights in Orange County.
Not to be outdone by these Russian riches, though, was Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra at UCLA's Royce Hall - in a concert that featured Britten's ravishing "Les Illuminations." So, yes, the world of poetry - Rimbaud's, for instance, which the British composer set so powerfully to music here - can pierce the thickest skin. And thanks to conductor/director Jeffrey Kahane and Co. who delivered this song cycle's shimmering vivaciousness we're left to wonder why it is rarely performed.
Maybe because the evening's protagonist, soprano Katrina Gauvin, is also a rarity. She took us through the texts - an outsider's observations of life as "a savage parade" - by getting inside the physical nature of the words with her whole being, her whole demeanor. And she painted those words in a myriad of colors, with a voice ranging from its pure, delicately disembodied high notes to broad, dramatic ones. A standout event.
For different reasons, we can remember Gustavo Dudamel's last concert with the Los Angeles Philharmonic for a few months. Why, exactly? Well, because I can't recall a program that opened with so sparse a composition and ended with one so ferociously packed.
Start with sparse: That would be Kurtág's "Grabstein für Stephan," consisting of a few musicians scattered around stations within Disney Hall, each emitting a single note or two, then another, and another. The whole 10-minute thing could stand as a parody of new music, or so this non-elite perceived it.
End with enormous: That would be Strauss's "Also sprach Zarathustra," the pan-Galactic piece, now an icon, because its opening bars are used in Kubric's classic "2001: A Space Odyssey." Well, folks, you can imagine the mighty Philharmonic spilling over the stage (as augmented orchestras do) and making splendid Straussian noise in the manner Dudamel luxuriates in. It was that, and more. It was also, after the sonic fireworks, a darkly somber, back-to-earth splashdown of Nietzschean matter.
Everything you can think of seems to happen in L.A.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Los Angeles Review of Books (LARB) devotes a week to the work of Joan Didion, who has just released another memoir, called Blue Nights. Meghan Daum, Susan Straight, Amy Wilentz, Richard Rayner, Amy Ephron, and today, Matthew Specktor, who grew up around the corner when Didion lived in Brentwood, contribute essays contemplating the author and her place in the L.A. literary landscape.
The upstart literary review now comes in e-book format via Kindle. And on Thursday, November 3, Live Talks Los Angeles hosts a benefit for the LARB in the form of a conversation between the New Yorker's Adam Gopnik and filmmaker Ed Zwick.
Can't get enough of La Didion? Catch "An Evening with Joan Didion" at Vibiana on Nov. 16 through the ALOUD lectures program.
Thursday, October 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
After viewing the traveling show "The Elizabeth Taylor Collection" at MOCA PDC this morning, it isn't hard to understand why Andy Warhol once said, "It would be very glamorous to be reincarnated as a great big ring on Liz Taylor's finger."
Taylor, who died last March at the age of 79, spent a lifetime amassing her legendary collection of fabulous jewels, fine art, and haute couture. The show, which represents just highlights of the collection that will be auctioned by Christie's this winter, is a window into Taylor's dazzling life. After being on display in Moscow and London, the exhibit will run in Los Angeles for four days beginning Oct 13 then move on to Dubai, Geneva, Paris, Hong Kong, and New York.
The jewelry is considered one of the greatest private collections ever assembled. There are stories behind numerous pieces. Many were gifts from the men in Taylor's life. Viewers can drool over gems from husband numbers 5 & 6, Richard Burton — including the 33-carat "Elizabeth Taylor Diamond" ring; "La Peregrina," a ruby and diamond necklace incorporating a 16th century pearl once owned by King Phillip 2 of Spain; and the "Taj Majal Diamond," a 40th birthday present.
From husband number 3, Mike Todd, there is the "Mike Todd Diamond Tiara;" given to Taylor in 1957 and the "Cartier Ruby Suite" which Todd gave her while she was swimming in their pool in St. Jean Cap Ferrat. One of the most unique pieces is the necklace fashioned from ivory theater tokens once owned by Hollywood costume designer Edith Head. This was Head's signature necklace and Taylor admired it throughout the years of their close friendship. Head left it to Taylor in her will.
Warhol's 1963 portrait of Taylor is there, representing just a small part of Taylor's art collection. Also on display is a Versace beaded evening jacket from the 1990s, arrayed with portraits of Taylor in her most famous roles, a Chanel ballgown, and a Tiziani black velvet evening cape from the late 1960s which Taylor wore to Princess Grace's 40th birthday ball.
It's not surprising that tickets sold out quickly. Exhibit organizers announced this morning that viewing hours will be extended to include Friday and Saturday evenings from 8 p.m. to midnight on Oct. 14 and 15. Tickets cost $50.00 and will go on sale tomorrow morning at www.christies.com/elizabethtaylor. A portion of the profits will be donated to The Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation.
Those lucky lucky enough to score tickets most likely won't be disappointed. Fans will get a close look at many of Taylor's most treasured posessions. Collectors will no doubt contemplate making arrangements to attend the auctions in New York and London. Taylor herself would be pleased. She always planned to put her jewelry up for auction with the hope that the next owners would "give them a really good home."
"The Collection of Elizabeth Taylor" @MOCA Pacific Design Center
Oct. 13-16, 2011
Photos by Sean Roderick except sautoir, which was provided by MOCA.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
An exhibition of the artists who formed a community around Sam Maloof in the Claremont area opens today at the Huntington Library. The House That Sam Built: Sam Maloof and Art in the Pomona Valley 1945-1985 includes furniture by Maloof, ceramics by Ward Youry, paintings by Karl Benjamin and Millard Sheets and works by more than two dozen other artists. The show runs through Jan. 30, 2012 as part of the Pacific Standard Time series. Rocking chair by Sam Maloof
Also today: Q&A with April Damman of the Stendahl Gallery by Adrienne Crew at Native Intelligence.
Coming up: Blue Sky Metropolis: The Aerospace Century in Southern California opens at the Huntington on Oct. 8.
Photos: The Huntington Library, Art Collections and Botanical Gardens. Click to enlarge.
Ah, love! Ah, love lost! Ah, love deliciously betrayed! So begins the Los Angeles Opera's seasonal salvo: with the profound Russian melancholy of Tchaikovsky's "Eugene Onegin" and the antic comeuppance of Mozart's "Così fan tutte."
So if you run down the freeway to catch both works, bear in mind that the two are worlds apart in their notions of the human condition.
Pacific Standard Time: Art in L.A. 1945-1980 -- that Getty-supported initiative documenting the origins of the area's contemporary art scene currently on display at various cultural institutions across the Southland -- provides Angelenos with unprecedented opportunities to peep into hitherto hidden private collections and galleries all over town. One such treasure is the Stendahl Galleries in the Hollywood Hills. It is the legacy of legendary art dealer, Earl Stendahl, who played an important role in incubating a market for Modern art in Southern California in the early 20th century.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Late into the season, what does a week at Hollywood Bowl bring? Memories of big-boned, sweeping symphonies? Of long-built explosive climaxes? Of thundering musical monuments? No, to those.
But yes, to what guest conductor Leonard Slatkin and the L.A. Philharmonic delivered in their Ravel evening. Afterwards, how about having the tenderly misty strains of the "Mother Goose" Suite, followed by the glinting sensual silver of the "Daphnis and Chloe" Suite No. 2, branded in your brain for days and days? Spinning 'round and 'round on that imaginary turntable, despite all the more sensational works that came before and after.
The likeliest bet is that such textural delicacy will dissipate, and certainly not haunt us. What we've come to expect at the orchestra's summer home in Cahuenga Pass is big-muscled music with broadly stated themes. You know, the resounding stuff.
But there it was, the L. A. Philharmonic waxing luminous in the Ravel. And there he was, hometown hero Slatkin, back from musical wars around the country, finding both a lofty place via the French composer, and kindred musician spirits to commune with.
We never quite know the magic ingredients, besides the artistic ones -- climate conditions, sound engineers turning knobs and all other variables that affect outdoor music - but somehow they coalesced to a state of near-perfection here.
What's curious, though, is how the powerhouse piano/orchestra works that Slatkin and the band also dug into made less of an impression. For starters, there were two soloists: the veteran André Watts and the young Russian Olga Kern -- both of them keyboard firebrands who go for the literature's knuckle-busters. And if you think that they're not compelling, with the Bowl's cameras zooming in on their every cheek-muscle spasm, every elbow thrust skyward, guess again.
But listening to music needs a focused ear, not a captive eye, per se. And so, the big screens don't always do us such a favor. Especially in Watts' case, playing Liszt's 2nd Concerto.
Because here is a pianist who, even without a close-up capturing him, entertains us with his facial antics. To the point of laughter, I'm afraid. Just imagine what the Jumbotron adds: his fast-fluttering auctioneer lips with silent incantations of gibberish that never stop; meanwhile his physicality at the keyboard -- those big hands that grabbed up fistfuls of notes and unleashed percussive might -- were a thrill. In a concert hall, without a camera? Okay, if you like his brand of pianism. Here, a severe compromise.
Kern, on the other hand, didn't put on that kind of show. Although the tall, gorgeous blonde came close histrionically several years ago when she then, also, took up Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini" at Royce Hall with the touring National Philharmonic of Russia. She was more assured earlier (better rehearsed, having played it countless times with the same orchestra and conductor). Here, her approach to it seemed broken down, section by percussive section, with some sound lapses between -- until, of course, she got to the big, dreamy, all-encompassing ultra-romantic theme. It always scores.
Lesson learned: Mammoth amphitheatres can sometimes win with the most intricately spun music and fall behind in blockbusters.
I love books. I also love historic architecture and gossip, especially gossip involving historic architecture. So I was delighted to mix all my obsessions at a reception celebrating the publication of George Snyder's novel, On Wings of Affection, in William Randolph Hearst's two-story, customized suite at the historic Los Altos apartment house near Hancock Park.
The novel is about a well-connected Angeleno immersed in the West Hollywood substance abuse-recovery scene who struggles to keep his social circles from intersecting when his young ward befriends a notorious gigolo kept by a Beverly Hills interior decorator who turns up dead. It's a sexy read and well-written.
Another opening, another show. Last week the faithful trekked up to Cahuenga Pass, with their picnic baskets, to inaugurate the summer season at Hollywood Bowl -- both before and after our so-called Carmageddon put us in the national spotlight and had Angelenos quaking in their driving shoes.
Yes, it was splashy. Gustavo Dudamel's name on the marquee, alone, guarantees big notice. He could have programmed the Yellow Pages and, as always, caused a box-office bonanza. But our LA Philharmonic director didn't leave it at that. The celebrity conductor added the celebrity pianist Lang Lang to the first bill and put on a concert version of Puccini's last opera "Turandot" for the second.
Now everyone knows that the Bowl crowd feasts on familiar, hummable fare and that our Venezuelan man of the hour doesn't have an elitist bone in his lithe body - which make evenings at the mammoth showplace happy, easy-going affairs.
Especially so when, at last, we get an ear-opening account of Moussorgsky's "Pictures at an Exhibition" after having it served as pain quotidien every summer for as far back as I can remember. No surface contours alone -- the usual -- would do for Dudamel and his band.
Instead there was depth of characterization, with more seriousness and more mystery, so darkly vivid in the low strings that the big, heavy, striding chords seemed to shake the huge amphitheatre from the ground up. So immersed was our podium meister in getting what he wanted that once we even heard him explode in a grunt, forgetting the live mic, and that this was not a rehearsal where a conductor's audible urgings are commonplace.
And if full-out explosions are Dudamel's order of the day (they are), then it came as no surprise that Lang Lang -- in all-white attire sans neckwear, his black hair moussed high to perfection - provided the keyboard pyrotechnics. His launchpad was Prokofiev's Third Piano Concerto (remember "The Competition" with Richard Dreyfus and Lee Remick? That concerto.)
Ordained for virtuosos with the chops for dense, raging octaves and the snap-and-spring for tinkling effervescence, it was a mere toy in his hands. Dreamy, ghostly effects emerged in the slow movement, with a growing sweep that spread through the orchestra, before arriving at the tumultuous, heart-stoppingly percussive climb to the finale.
The Chinese wonder played an encore: Liszt's Consolation No. 3. And we could see he was ready for his close-up. Cameras complied and took in his face -- eyes shut, head tilted back so as to capture the chiseled cheekbones, lips in open ecstasy. Yes, the showman lives.
But he was not the only guest force at work opening week at the Bowl. On Sunday Dudamel & Co. let it rip as they enlisted Christine Brewer, she of the powerhouse voice, as Princess Turandot. And while she made us wince deeply at some wayward high notes yelled out too close to the mic, not to mention at the strangest slurs down from the top, her soprano, when warmed up, cut through full-decibel orchestral tuttis and overwhelmed other voices - including Frank Porretta, as Calaf, who, in his best moments, could recall Franco Corelli; Hei-Kyung Hong, who sang a gorgeously wrenching Liù (after a dry-throated start) and the terrific LA Master Chorale and Children's Chorus.
Overall, though, this concert version was arbitrarily staged. Calaf turned, at the end, to give his X-sized Turandot a big smooch, but Liù did not gesture her knife-to-the-gut suicide, even with the music charting it.
Main afterthoughts: Puccini's opera, not grounded in the composer's skilled music drama, but overridden with grandiose, ceremonial Chinese motifs and bulked up here with the Bowl's amplification, never sounded so much like a score to fit the name Hollywood. All those triumphal climaxes, coming at key junctures, one after another, made me feel like a witness to the birth of overkill, movie-score glory. Did the composer know what he wrought?
"Isn't there some millionaire out there who can save all this?" The question hung in the air as hundreds of ordinary people, film buffs with their kids, designers and lookie-loos lined up to ogle the astounding array of costumes and props collected over the years by Debbie Reynolds and now, sadly, being put up for auction.
The collection is on display for preview before Saturday's auction at the Paley Center in Beverly Hills. A visit is a jaw-dropping experience. So many costumes from so many landmark films, it simply boggles the mind that no one has stepped forward to save the collection before it's dispersed in a diaspora of Ben Hur-ish proportions.
As I worked my way through the crowd, I overheard again and again that same lament: "Why couldn't this be saved?" Apparently not for lack of trying, as Reynolds has found out. She has finally given up her dream of creating a museum in Los Angeles to house her vast collection of some 5,000 costumes and sets after a failed attempt to open one in Las Vegas in the 80's. Now she is ready to move on.
Walking through the rooms of pristine costumes, each accompanied by a loop of the scene from its movie, I was awestruck at the tenacity of Reynolds, who attempted to save all this history. Where did she keep it all? And how did she keep them in such good condition? Every gown looked pristine.
"They all came folded in plastic tubs," said a Paley Center employee, "We were shocked at how perfect everything was." Everything from Gene Kelly and Donald O'Connor's vaudeville suits from "Singin' in the Rain" to Marlon Brando's uniforms in "Mutiny on the Bounty," Audrey Hepburn's gown from "My Fair Lady," Katherine Hepburn's from "Mary Queen of Scots," and Marilyn Monroe's iconic white dress from "The Seven Year Itch," displayed next to the photograph that froze it in our memory as she famously stepped over a subway grate and tried to maintain some modesty. There is Grace Kelley's pink appliquéd dress and Cary Grant's sports coat, come to life as they picnicked on fried chicken in "To Catch a Thief." Even one of Austin Powers' 60's suits made the cut. All the greats are there: Hepburn (Kate and Audrey), Kelly (Gene and Grace), Donald O'Connor, Barbra Streisand, Bette Davis, Greta Garbo, Rudolph Valentino, la Liz, Brando.
Joanne Paull let her daughter Elizabeth miss a day of school ("They were cleaning out their desks, so I decided it was okay") to come and view the collection with her mom Holly Margulies in tow. It was as worthy an experience as any museum had to offer.
Erica Enders, who works with Profiles in History, the auction house Reynolds chose to sell the collection, says she has met the actress several times. "She's got a sad face," she said. "This is hard for her." No doubt. My condolences to Debbie.
Tim Burton's major retrospective of his art and film work was a big hit at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. The exhibition opens Sunday in the Resnick Pavillion at LACMA. Included are more than 700 drawings, paintings, photos, film and video works, puppets, storyboards, costumes and other "cinematic ephemera." The show is organized in three sections "each in relation to Burbank, the city in which he was raised."
Burton will be at the museum on Saturday from noon to 2 p.m. signing the catalog. Tickets for the exhibition are $20 each. LACMA's Unframed blog has a video interview with Burton's high school art teacher.
Selected images from the show, provided by LACMA. The bottom photo is by Sean Roderick.
What a weekend for dance: Lucinda Childs and Mark Morris back-to-back! The old avant-garde and the ever-new Baroque. Both brought their signature wares to town, to profoundly different effect.
Morris, you may remember, was in the money 23 years ago. Or rather, in Brussels' Monnaie Theatre, where its impresario Gérard Mortier offered to his newly installed dance director "the biggest thing you want to do."
If last week's royal wedding has left you wanting more things British, check out the Huntington Library's exhibit Revisiting the Regency: England, 1811-1820.
The Regency period, named for the decade in which the "extravagant, emotional, and self-indulgent" Prince of Wales (later George IV) ruled in place of his mentally disabled father King George III, was an era of expansion in technology, media, arts, and architecture. It was also a time of war and rising unemployment.
Museum visitors who are Jane Austen devotees can see a first edition of "Pride & Prejudice" from 1813. The Prince Regent was a fan of Austen, insisting she dedicate her novel "Emma" to him. Architect John Nash, who spent the bulk of his career working for the Prince, built the Royal Pavilion at Brighton and remade London's West End. He was responsible for the planning of a good deal of what is now contemporary central London. The exhibit includes an image of the Pavilion's "Music Room" from 1826.
Also on view is a manuscript fragment of the score from "King Stephen" by Ludwig van Beethoven. The composer was extremely popular in Regency England. His iconic 9th Symphony was commissioned by the Philharmonic Society of London in 1817. There were developments in fashion with the introduction of "modern" men's clothing and the early version of today's business suit. Women favored the "empire" silhouette.
Curator Mary Robertson and exhibit designer Lauren Tawa want viewers to feel the extravagance of the era. They painted the gallery walls a shade of bright red that was widely used in stately English homes of that period. They also hung the objects in a scaled-down version of the floor-to-ceiling "salon style" to showcase the abundance of materials, including drawings, manuscripts, and rare books. All come from the Huntington's collection.
This show should satisfy even the most scholarly of Los Angeles Anglophiles — and give fans of British history and culture lots to think about until Kate and William come to town in July.
"Revisiting the Regency: England, 1811-1820" through August 1, 2011 at the Huntington Library in San Marino. Photos courtesy of the Huntington Library, Art Collections and Botanical Gardens
There's the world, says choreographer Barak Marshall, with all its social inequities, hard-scrabble struggles and heartless contradictions. And then there's a person's heritage - a dual one in the case of this native Angeleno whose mother is the former Yemeni star of Inbal Dance Theater and whose father hails from the Bronx.
In "Monger," the piece danced by Marshall's Israeli troupe at UCLA's Royce Hall, we find them both - societal vagaries and his own cultural heritage - framed in the dark downstairs quarters of humbled, obedient servants answering their mistress's bell.
We hear her clicking footsteps through the floor boards and a leak dripping from the interior plumbing - all of it fearsome and ominous. We hear those solemn, ting-a-ling attention calls, followed by the employer's amplified voice delivering orders. We see the listeners below gather like frightened prisoners as one of them replies to those orders and apologizes for any infraction previously committed.
But all hell breaks loose after the duties are fulfilled. No longer supplicants, these workers show their raging side; through hyperkinetic, in-your-face movement, they spill aggression in forcefully rhythmic low squats and pungently pithy gestures plotted as a convulsive step-per-beat -- all set to a raucous sound score pieced together from Middle Eastern rock and Klezmer bacchanales. At intervals it stops to embrace American pop ballads and '50s swing, and, yes, even Handel and Verdi.
Because, after all, there is a lyrical component to life, even in the worst of circumstances. For that, Marshall turns to an aptly balletic "Traviata" excerpt, in this case, the terminally tubercular Violetta sadly reciting Alfredo's love letter to her. (Remember, she is of the underclass as well, a courtesan who would bring dishonor to a "good" family, so the episode is thematically akin).
And then there's the curious sleight-of-hand image he constructs of three women clutching their babies, born in the backstairs, away from public view. Also, there's the outright comic cross-dressing vignette that brilliantly makes two seated men into three figures, one of them a woman. Interspersed are choice tidbits like commercials for Manischewitz as delivered on NPR's Yiddish Radio Project and spoken with laughably perfect English diction.
No doubt, the choreographer boasts endless sources of material that inspire him, though, possibly, he might want to limit his palette somewhat.
And while the work may not boast the nuanced stratification seen in Bob Altman's "Gosford Park" or the grim sado-masochism of Jean Genet's "The Maids" (both cited in the program notes as its basis) there's a huge inventory here of vulnerability, helplessness, and finally revolt.
Still, it's subterranean anger that has a field day in "Monger," which in the spirit of fish-sellers and war-makers, is no subtle business. Brutish, it curiously resembles an aspect of Israeli culture: argumentative, unafraid of loud debate. The national reputation is built on this stuff, as with the Israeli Philharmonic, for example, that marvelously irascible band of players.
"Monger" shows a tender nostalgia, though, as it ends. The ballad "Close Your Eyes," led us out the door, with a golden-oldie male voice poised in the air, gently floating above all that had preceded it.
[* Update: Also posted at LA Opus.]
Donna Perlmutter is an award-winning critic, journalist and author. Formerly the chief music/dance critic for the Los Angeles Herald Examiner, she contributes to the Los Angeles Times and other publications.
Photo: Gadi Dagon
David Smith, considered the greatest American sculptor of the 20th century, is the subject of a new exhibit opening April 3 at LACMA's Resnick Pavilion. That's almost poignant. He died in a car accident in 1965 (at the age of 59) during the planning of a major exhibit for the new Los Angeles County Museum of Art, which opened on Wilshire Boulevard that year. Thursday is the 46th anniversary of LACMA's debut.
David Smith: Cubes and Anarchy is the first West Coast exhibition of his work since then.
Born in Indiana in 1906, Smith worked as a welder and riveter at a Studebaker auto factory while attending college. He later moved to New York City to study art and was heavily influenced by Pablo Picasso and Cubism, Italian sculptor Alberto Giacometti, and Spanish artist Joan Miró. When Smith saw images of Picasso's iron constructions in 1932 he realized that he could use his welding skill and knowledge of industrial materials for making art.
Smith, who preferred to work with steel, iron, and aluminum, has "often been presented as a counterpart to the abstract expressionist painters or as a draftsman in space." The welder from Indiana befriended many other prominent artists, including Adolph Gottlieb and Milton Avery in the 1930's and Robert Motherwell, Jackson Pollock, and Franz Kline in the 1950's.
The new exhibit was designed by Brenda Levin, more known for her work as a preservation architect. She discusses the project on LACMA's blog. "David Smith: Cubes and Anarchy" runs through July 24.
All photos by Judy Graeme
William Henry Fox Talbot, "An Oak Tree in Winter," 1842/43
One of my college student daughter's favorite photographic subjects during her recent semester in London was trees. Trees of all shapes and sizes caught Sean's eye on outings in the city and day trips around the countryside. I first noticed when she posted pictures on Facebook from a day in Hampstead Heath. Time spent walking around the Victoria Embankment Gardens, Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace Gardens, Oxford, and even Liverpool yielded more arboreal subject matter. I wondered the cause of her attraction. She grew up in Los Angeles, and while she's been avidly using a camera for years now, she's never shown any interest in photographing trees.
Who better to invite along to view "In Focus: The Tree," the newest offering in the Getty Center's series of thematic photography exhibits. This is a small show, about 40 images, but it gives viewers a chance to see how the tree has been interpreted by a variety of photographers throughout the history of the medium. William Henry Fox Talbot's 1842/43 An Oak Tree in Winter is one of the show's earliest pieces. There are images by photographers famously associated with trees, such as Ansel Adams and Carleton Watkins, and surprises by some who are not, like Man Ray and Dorothea Lange. There are pictures which faithfully record trees in their environment, like a Henri Cartier Bresson from Brie, France , and also works like Simryn Gill's large-scale black and white close-up conceptual image of a tree trunk.
Sean gravitated to an image from London, naturally: John Jabez Edwin Mayall's 1851 daguerreotype showing a tree growing inside the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park. She saw irony in Darius Kinsey's photo of loggers trying to saw through a giant cedar, 76 feet in circumference, by hand near Seattle in 1906. Robert Adam's closeup of a blossoming tree in Utah struck her as more optimistic. I sensed that as she looked at the photographs she felt the stirrings of a bond. Maybe she was realizing that these photographers were drawn to trees in part by the need to understand and connect with what's unique about a particular location. No surprise, then, that someone who has taken trees for granted in her hometown would suddenly pay them close attention while far away in a new place for an extended period.
The exhibit — co-curated by Francoise Reynaud (photography curator at Paris' Musee Carnavalet) and Getty associate photography curator Anne Lyden — began as a research project when Reynaud was a guest scholar at the Getty in 2004. Walking through the exhibit with us a few weeks ago, Reynaud explained that she has been fascinated by trees since childhood. Especially trees standing alone in the countryside.
"I thought that they were like people looking at us, trying to send us messages that we probably wouldn't understand," she said. Reynaud collected images of trees from books and auction catalogues with the thought of someday doing a project on the subject. When she arrived at the Getty and was asked what she would like to concentrate on, Reynaud requested to explore the trees represented in the museum's photography collection. "It was like a gift — doing something I really wanted to do."
Lyden said that Reynaud "brought to light many aspects of the collection that we hadn't realized existed in our storeroom and vaults....We asked her in 2008 if she would be interested in working on an exhibit and she very graciously said yes!"
Reynaud pointed us to some of her favorites in the show, among them Eliot Porter's richly colored dye-transfer print "Juniper Tree, Arches National Monument, Utah, 1958." She takes delight in mentioning that the show's popular favorite so far seems to be William Eggleston's "Untitled, (Small Tree against Wall), 1980," which depicts a tiny, almost-bare tree struggling to survive in dirt against the backdrop of a wall.
Before leaving us, Reynaud recalls a friend's experience with a neighbor's burning house and the tree growing next to it. The friend was instructed to tell the firemen, "save the tree — I can always rebuild the house!" Those words stayed with her. In the exhibit's book, Reynaud writes: "Such a desperate plea highlights the fierce attachment a person may feel for the presence and company of a tree; in fact, human identification with the tree is a recognized phenomenon....The tree has, for millennia, also been a symbol of life, and the structure of a tree's branches, leaves and roots is mirrored in other living systems."
On our way out of the exhibit, I asked Sean if she had gained any new perspective. Unaccustomed to analyzing her photographic motives, she simply said, "whenever I saw something that turned a light on in my head I took a picture. I think that with the trees I just really wanted to capture something that was naturally there." And really, when you think about it, what more reason does a traveler need to make a photograph?
In Focus: The Tree is on view at the Getty Center through July 3, 2011
Curator Lyden leads a gallery talk on the exhibition on April 7 at 2:30 p.m.
Photographs courtesy of the Getty. Click on the image to see bigger.
I have a confession to make. I'm a Bill-a-holic. I can't start the weekend without first checking out legendary photographer Bill Cunningham's column of street fashion on the New York Times website. If I miss his latest pictures for some reason, I feel like something's off, like I've misplaced some piece of vital information that is my fashion touchstone for the week.
I'm especially addicted to his "On the Street" audio slideshows. When I press play and the cool, man-about-town theme music reaches my ears, I'm transported to the streets of New York. His distinctive voice makes me happy. Former Los Angeles Times photographer Iris Schneider, who met Cunningham when she was freelancing in NYC, says you can almost hear the twinkle in his eye. "I'd say he sounds like an upper-crust leprechaun," she says. "There is an upper-crust polish straight out of Sutton Place, but he's got an infectious lilt that is totally his own."
Cunningham also chronicles New York society parties in his weekly "Evening Hours" column, but fashion is his love. A ladies' hat designer in his younger days (he's now in his 80s), Cunningham has been documenting fashion trends in New York and Paris since the mid 1960's — for Women's Wear Daily and Details Magazine as well as the Times. Not merely a reporter, Cunningham is a fashion historian and anthropologist, detailing shifting styles and eras of fashion. He photographs everyone from society matrons in Chanel to kids showing off the latest trend in t-shirts, if he thinks they're interesting. Subjects who make the cut are usually thrilled. "We all get dressed for Bill," says Vogue editor Anna Wintour, part of the sartorial royalty that respects Cunningham's fashion eye. Harold Koda, curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume Institute, is another fan.
As someone who has shot a bit of street fashion, I marvel at how easy Cunningham makes it look. Shooting street fashion is not easy. First you have to spot someone who's wearing something interesting. Then it's about getting just the right angle, in the right light, at just the right moment (and that's when your subjects are cooperating.) Cunningham has the advantage of hunting his subjects in the highly compressed geography of Manhattan. On any given day, hundreds of fashionistas parade before his camera. But Cunningham isn't interested in just the well-dressed. He's looking for men and women who think creatively with their clothing. That's the stuff that really excites him.
And get this: This 80-something photographer gets around New York's wild streets on a bicycle, day and night. He's on at least his 29th bike. The others have been stolen.
Even before Andy Warhol hung his painting of a soup can, people have pondered what is art, who is an artist, and what role do museums have in determining either. But after spending a few hours at MOCA walking through the new Dennis Hopper show, ironically titled "Double Standard" — after one of his most famous photographs — curator Julian Schnabel and MOCA director Jeffrey Deitch seem to have re-opened the debate anew and added several layers to the stew.
I went to the show to see Hopper's photography. And somewhere, nearly buried in the rambling exhibit, there are several hundred photographs, mounted grid-style on a couple of walls. The photography was shot over several decades beginning with the civil rights march on Selma, the early birth of pop art in Los Angeles, Hopper's moviemaking years in Hollywood and his more recent fascination with abstract street art in Venice.
After looking at those pictures, my main thought was: what an interesting life this guy had. And he had the presence of mind and artistic inclination to document every inch of it. While it would be easy to dismiss his photography as a case of being in the right place at the right time, his photographs are more than that. He had an eye for the ironies of life, a sense of humor and history, an appreciation for the struggles of the common man, and for his own fortuitous place at the corner of art and commerce. Some of his photographs moved me, made me laugh ("Is that really Jane Fonda in that bikini?") and shake my head. Lucky guy, I thought, and talented. And, apparently, very likeable. This, I think, is what got him in trouble MOCA-wise.
As museum director Jeffrey Deitch explained for the press last week, the show was rushed into production in two or three months due to Hopper's illness. (He died a few months before the show was to open). As his condition became more grave, Schnabel, a good friend, told Deitch "We've got to do this" and volunteered to curate the show. It feels as though his relationship with Hopper clouded his vision of what exactly is art. In Hopper's case this show reflects as much the fact that he was an appreciator of art, and a knowledgeable collector, than an artist himself.
The two huge pop sculptures — a 30-foot-tall "La Salsa Man" and an Esso gas station attendant — at the entrance of the show are a puzzling case in point. Hopper apparently saw the Mexican waiter towering above PCH as he was driving through Malibu and thought it was fabulous. These figures are common in the California landscape. I remember seeing that waiter myself, and thinking if I had the money I would love to buy one and put it in my backyard.
Hopper did have the money. He bought the mold and hired someone to fabricate one that he could call his own. This, in the world of pop art, would be "found art" or a "readymade." It now sits at the entrance of the exhibition, attributed, like many pieces in this show, to the Dennis Hopper collection.
Deitch said Hopper was very involved in every step of the fabrication of these pieces, even determining that the hair on the Esso man should be blonde, not brown. But if you recognize something as great, buy it and put it on display, does your name go on it as the artist? Hopper may have recognized its coolness but Salsa Man is not his creation. What is it doing in a museum show of his artistic works? If the show were a re-creation of his home, which was filled with pop art he had collected over time, I could understand it. But as a retrospective of his artwork, it feels wrong to be here, and misleading.
This kind of clouding of the waters is rampant at the show. The gallery walls are filled with huge paintings that replicate his photography. These are described in the press release as "Hopper's monumental billboard paintings from the 2000's." One wonders how and when Hopper did those? Did he project the negatives from his photos onto the canvas?
When Schnabel was asked about the technique, he clarified: Hopper hired billboard artists to create these renderings of his photographs. Those artists' names are nowhere to be found, and the assumption that Hopper created the paintings is only corrected in conversation with the curator. I'm sure that many who visit the show will think that these works were done by Hopper.
In the end, what was meant to be a tribute to Hopper has become a messy example of throwing everything on the wall to see what sticks. If Deitch and Schnabel had focused on his photography, and exhibited it so it could be appreciated as an artful and interesting document of a life well-lived, and a history of the burgeoning art scene, Hopper's friends would have given him a much more fitting tribute.
Double Standard is at the Museum of Contemporary Art until Sept. 26.
Observing an L.A. Photographer: fifth in a series
Photographer Charles Brittin is not as revered in Los Angeles as his work deserves. In the 1950s and '60s, he documented the Los Angeles avant-garde artists like Ed Ruscha, Robert Irwin and John Altoon. Brittin's friend, the artist Wallace Berman, introduced him to the Beat culture and social life of the Ferus Gallery, a legendary exhibition space that opened in 1957 on North La Cienega.
The Ferus was notable for showcasing innovative young artists who would become famous, and was the site of Andy Warhol's first solo pop art exhibition. Founded by artist Ed Kienholz and curator Walter Hopps, it was just around the corner from Barney's Beanery, where the artists and friends such as Frank Gehry and Dennis Hopper gathered to smoke, drink and talk about art.
Brittin's photographs are sure to become better appreciated now that the Getty has acquired his archives and plans to feature him in a major L.A. art retrospective. "Charles' work stands as an important record of the Los Angeles art scene in the 1960's," senior curator Frances Turpak told me.
Brittin, now 80, wears his long hair in a ponytail. His subjects have also included Venice Beach when the view was filled with oil derricks, Ocean Park before it became gentrified, and the civil rights and antiwar clashes of the '60s. As the child of an abstract expressionist painter who was active in Los Angeles then, I jumped at the chance to meet Brittin and see his photographs. We met in the Seminar Room of the Getty Research Institute and went through box after box of prints, proof sheets and negatives.
A surprise for me was seeing Brittin's photographs from the 1966 art installation called "The Peace Tower," which was conceived by the L.A. Artists Protest Committee as a response to the Vietnam War. The 58-foot steel tower, built in an empty lot on Sunset Strip, was designed by artist Mark di Suvero. It held 418 2 foot-by-2 foot paintings contributed by artists including Vija Celmins, Elaine de Kooning, Roy Lichtenstein, and Robert Motherwell. Brittin's color image of the installation appeared on the cover of Artforum magazine.
Brittin's work was also published in the Los Angeles Times, Harpers Bazaar, the New York Times, and Semina, the handmade Beat literary and art magazine created by Wallace Berman. Born in the Midwest, Brittin moved here in 1944. He lived first in the Fairfax area, where he says, "I was politically and culturally awakened." After attending high school in Pomona he enrolled at UCLA and discovered photography. He was attracted to the work of Alfred Stieglitz and Paul Strand and admired the documentary style of Robert Frank.
He moved to Venice and helped attract attention to the young painters and sculptors who were creating an exciting new art movement in Los Angeles. In the 1960's, he became involved with CORE and the Black Panthers. His growing political activism moved him to document civil rights demonstrations in Los Angeles and the South. His photo of a woman being arrested at the Los Angeles federal building in 1965 is among his images from that time in a 1999 book, "Charles Brittin," from Smart Art Press and the Craig Krull Gallery.
Later he worked for the designers Charles and Ray Eames. The 1970's saw Brittin drop off the radar. He put everything aside to deal with health issues and survived liver and kidney transplants. After an extended recovery period, he began photographing again in 1996.
Over the years, Brittin has utilized various photographic formats from 35mm to 4x5 view cameras. He has recently embraced digital technology and carries a camera with him "always." He continues to be primarily interested in photographing people. His love of the ocean and living in Santa Monica Canyon keep him close to his old haunts.
While we talk, his pleasure at having his work acquired by the Getty is palpable. His images will be included in a 2011 exhibition entitled "On The Record: Art in L.A., 1945-1980," being curated by Getty Research Institute assistant director Andrew Perchuk. Referring to the late 50's and early 60's, Perchuk says that Brittin's photographs help bring attention to this "very difficult period of art history to study. Many of these artworks no longer exist. He was a real insider to the scene. You get a sense of the personal connection he had with his subjects."
Many of his Beat friends never knew about his later work. "Until I had the privilege of reviewing Charles's work for this book, I had no idea of the range or the amount of work he'd done," Ferus gallery co-founder Walter Hopps said in the 1999 book. "Some artists are always out there pitching the goods but Charles has never done that, nor have I ever heard him complain about not getting more attention. His self-effacing modesty is, of course, key to his sensibility as an artist."
Brittin is still out there shooting Los Angeles. I can't wait to see what he comes up with next.
This is the fifth post in an occasional series about Los Angeles photographers whose subject is the city. Previous entries featured Iris Schneider, Julius Shulman, teenagers Downtown and Joyce Campbell.
All photos courtesy of the J. Paul Getty Trust