Review Time.

rating:

There's an unjust war, racial tension, gender inequities and ecological problems. Forty years ago, America was humming the same tune. So much for progress, right? Well, despite the correlations that can be drawn from 2008 to 1968, in the current production of "Hair" now playing at the Delacorte Theater in Central Park, director Diane Paulus has stated she didn't want the play to be transposed or translated for today's audience; "Hair", headlined by Spring Awakening star (and hottie) Jonathan Groff retains almost every touch of what the audience in the Biltmore Theater saw so many years ago. Ontologically speaking (if one can speak ontologically concerning a piece of theater) the musical itself is now a period piece, even though it was once very contemporary work. But even with the displacement of time, "Hair" still has the ability to touch the audience (literally, in some cases) while staying true to its roots.

Since he is no stranger to unconventional rock-based musicals, Jonathan Groff seamlessly presents himself as Claude Hooper Bukowski, the 1960's answer to both Hamlet and Jesus Christ. It's all too often these days that performers, especially young ones, on the great white way just have "good" voices, and virtually no acting skills, so it was quite refreshing to see Mr. Groff successfully play the part in addition to belting out the music. It can be argued, though, that since the musical is basically a melange of song, dance, music, story, interaction, protest, message, culture, drugs and sex, character development isn't all that apparent or important. And that's true. For the most part and with most characters (like Dionne), nothing really changes or happens. But not with Claude. Indecisive, sacrificial, idealistic and with the tinge of inwardness, he can be plucked out as both the protagonist and the most successful part in the play. From his forceful utterance of the perceptive "I am Aquarius--destined for greatness or madness" to the waning of his final line "That's me", Groff brings you on a trip through the human psyche with Claude, ending quite finally. Of course, a lot of this is more appropriately attributed to James Rado and Gerome Ragni, not to mention Galt Macdermot (who is actually on keyboards in this production) but Groff does his share. Quite convincingly.      

As for the rest of the cast, while "modern" youth cannot be completely taken out of the "modern" world, they do as well as they can to properly portray young flower children. And, in most cases, that is quite well. The girls are braless and unmade, as per Paulus' request, the boys are unshaven and wig-donned, and, in fact, everyone's voices are not as polished as one would expect. Of course that is meant to be taken as a compliment, as it adds a sense of  realism to the show to have a few cracks and squeaks. Will Swenson and Patina Renae Miller of are particular mention. 

Paulus does an exceptionally good job of directing, from staying true to old standards (such as Berger melding the lyrics "my" and "donna" together to imply the Virgin Mary) to implanting some new ones (from what I can gather, at least) such as the tribe jumping down and crawling over the backdrop of the stage. She made the play intimate and relatable while still letting it keep its necessary distance, both for the illusory importance of storytelling and inevitable time period representation. 

It should also be noted that the Delacorte would appear to be the most appropriate setting for this of all musicals. The outdoor environment not only lends itself to the ideals of the hippie subculture, planting you right back into nature, but the size and setup (a theater in the quasi-round) allows the cast to interact easily with the audience. When Woof requests we "Look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon, look at the moon" we, the audience, are able to do just that.

After viewing the 40th anniversary concert performance last September, I was happily pleased this time around. Perhaps we cannot go back in time, but we can still experience parts of it. 

HAIR

With Ato Blankson-Wood, Steel Burkhardt, Jackie Burns, Allison Case, Lauren Elder, Jonathan Groff, Allison Guinn, Anthony Hollock, Kaitlin Kiyan, Andrew Kober, Megan Lawrence, Nicole Lewis, Caren Lyn Manuel, Patina Renea Miller, John Moauro, Darius Nichols, Brandon Pearson, Megan Reinking, Paris Remillard, Bryce Ryness, Saycon Sengbloh, Maya Sharpe, Kacie Sheik, Theo Stockman, Will Swenson, and Tommar Wilson.

http://www.publictheater.org/content/view/126/219/

Fire in my Belly

In my recent study of New York twenty years ago, I stumbled across the artist David Wojnarowicz, and one of his short films on Youtube (posted here) that made me feel something, unlike much art today. But, instead of going on, I just suggest you watch it, and see if you have a strong, visceral reaction.

No day but yesterday

In the coming weeks, we will see a remarkable show on Broadway end its original run. RENT, the revolutionary rock opera will have its final performance on September 7. I have previously expressed my disdain for what the production has become, filled with stunt casting and fangirls, and even though it still saddens me, I can only think it is for the best. RENT lost its novelty long ago. Even before the dour Columbus-directed movie. However much the themes permeate modern society, the show itself hearkens back to a time where one couldn't walk down Avenue D without getting jumped, raped, or killed. It is a period piece that takes place in a New York that no longer exists. 

Last year, in my ever growing love and interest for Manhattan, I traveled to Alphabet City one day to see the setting of RENT in real life. Even though I had heard tales of gentrification in my research, I always thought, somehow, with hope that the area would remain unchanged from the Eighties and still retain some sort of Bohemian charm. But I was wrong. Children played in Tompkins Square Park, faceless corporations set up shop. The raw and unidealized area from once upon a time had been cleaned, scrubbed and rebuilt from the ground up to accommodate the prim over-indulgence of contemporary society. And it's not just on the Lower East Side; slowly but surely, all of New York is losing its charm. It has become trendy, expensive, and, worst of all, fake. Just for instance, while it was always exclusive to live there, now a 500 square foot apartment costs $100,000/month, and you know the only people living there are yuppies and poseurs with sinecures. 

In 1985 and the years surrounding, there was, I am told, an electricity in the air of New York. With the outspread of AIDS, the apprehension of the new millennium, the drugs, the homeless problems, the rebellion, New York was a different place. Was it better? Well, it's certainly safer now. But does that make it better? To me, as some kind of bush league artist, or, more appropriately, a dilettante, I know that I personally find a great deal of inspiration from that time period; I think, as an artist, suffering is integral to achieve a powerful, moving expression. The artists of that decade, like Keith Haring and David Wojnarowicz, used their suffering  to produce impressive, moving works. Is it a bad thing that suffering is being dissipated? Officially, no. Of course not. I would never want to have AIDS or an addiction or to be homeless, and would not wish that on anyone. But, as much today as yesterday, whatever help is given to these plights, there is also a level of concealment and, sanitization about them. AIDS is still a very big problem today. Perhaps it's more controlled than before, but, as recent ads have stated:   

People apparently think it's not serious. In the 80's, it was almost demonized. There was an hysteria about AIDS and while ignorance was rampant, so was panic--panic that contributed to people to do whatever they could to save themselves and, whatever they could do to make themselves known. Nowadays, AIDS has fizzled out as has the hope and desire of those afflicted with it. Suffering is still naturally present today, as it always will be, but it just seems more and more people deny it, mask it, and clean it up just like they did with the city. With the loss of suffering comes the loss of expression. The loss of culture. 

I'm not ending my love affair with Manhattan; it's still a nucleus of art, fashion and culture in America. But, I fear, as we continue to lose the grit of the city, will its charm and intrigue soon leave as well? I say yes. If a teacup falls from a table and shatters into a hundred pieces, those pieces will never reassemble themselves, no matter how long one waits. They will only break down into more and more pieces until they are dust. Progression, in its most primal form, is a synonym for destruction. Entropy. Holes in the Ozone layer, ice caps melting, everything ending. Everything dies. That's what progression is. Nothing gets better. I worry that soon, the entire world will be plastic. Clean, white plastic. This sanitization and removal of suffering that it seems so many people wish for will be our downfall; to deplete the natural order of things, to remove the dynamic of conflict between man and his surroundings is a travesty. A travesty to art, to drama, to literature, to fashion, to communication, to ideas, to thoughts, and to life. Soon, there will be no grit. Soon, there will be no suffering. Soon, there will be no culture. 

Chain Reaction

June 1, 2008; 6:03 Am

A small monarch butterfly glides across a plain, due north, towards two fields of flowers. On the left are daffodils, the right, lavender. The butterfly turns left, to suckle on the yellow flowers. It emits a small puff of air from its left wing, headed west, a zephyr, if you will. This puff floats across the field, gaining strength, joining with other gusts of wind. This puff of air heads clear across the United States, in bits and pieces, traveling to the Pacific Ocean. It goes across the vast body of water, rapidly growing stronger, and stronger, until it generates a terrible hurricane, the wrath of which destroys a small village on the coast of Guam. Many die. 

or

June 1, 2008; 6:03 Am

A small monarch butterfly glides across a plain, due north, towards two fields of flowers. On the left are daffodils, the right, lavender. The butterfly turns right, to suckle on the purple flowers. After a moment, it suddenly dies. There is no puff of air. There is no zephyr. There is no hurricane. The people of the Guamanian village begin their day and live long, happy lives.

I've heard this concept many times before, as I'm sure we all have: the smallest occurrence can have the largest impact on one's life. The smallest puff of air can kill thousands.

My interpretation? Keep your eyes open. See all of your options. Never dismiss something as insignificant. In our short, fleeting lives, everything matters. 

A Woman without a Man...

...is like a fish without a bicycle. 

Yup.

Judging a Cover by its Book.

Recently, like the good little eco-warrior I aspire to be, I have taken to buying used books. (I'm not exactly sure if this is good for the planet, but I figure it probably does something to take a book off of someone else's hands instead of letting them throw it away.) It started last month with a textbook, and continued now with a book on prostitution and a book of essays.

Now. I'm not one to make sweeping generalizations (ha!) over something as trivial as looks (haha!). But, after seeing, handling, and reading these three books, I noticed each and every single one has some defect: stains, tears, dog-ears, folds, bends, rips, rolled spines, creases, fingerprints, smudged ink, and/or dead moths stuck between the pages. Yes. Dead moths. My question is: why must people treat their books like this? What did their books ever do to them? Do they objectify books, thinking they're only there to serve whatever purpose they decide? Like napkins or fly-swatters? Do they have an ever-brewing hatred for education and express it subconsciously by treating the tokens of said education like shit? Used clothing is typically in good condition. Used DVDs? Usually perfect. But books? Books seem to always be in a terrible condition. There was not one used book I saw in three stores that didn't have some overt damage. Surely there are those out there who have books that look like new even after extended use? They're not that delicate.

Maybe I'm neurotic (maybe?) or odd, but...well, I'm definitely odd, but in any event I try to keep my books in as good condition as possible. Maybe out of respect, but mainly because I want to keep things nice. I've never been one to intentionally influence another's habits or practices (ha!), but in all honesty I don't see how one can find it acceptable to put superfluous wear and tear on something they own. Not only that, these people, these people who don't respect their belongings, are obviously the ones who sell their books to stores to be resold. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know personally I don't have the most enjoyable time reading a book that was soiled by a stranger. It stands to reason that others do not have a good time with this either, and it also stands to reason that fewer people will buy used books for this reason. And that's no good, is it? Is it? 

Do your books a favor: treat them right. They're only there to serve, and they deserve your best.

Carrots are your eyes...

Just something I wanted to share from a chain e-mail...Disclaimer: not ALL of this is accurate (there were even some of the more crude "facts" left out, such as that Figs are also a mild laxative and if you look at a dissection of one, it slightly resembles an anus), and some of the vegetables need a little squint to see what they hell these people are talking about, but I just thought this was cute, and sorta shows our relationship with the Earth.

A sliced Carrot looks like the human eye. The pupil, iris andradiating lines look just like the human eye... and YES, science now shows carrots greatly enhance blood flow to and function of the eyes.

A Tomato has four chambers and is red. The heart has fourchambers and is red. All of the research shows tomatoes are loaded with lycopene and are indeed pure heart and blood food.

Grapes hang in a cluster that has the shape of the heart.Each grape looks like a blood cell and all of the research today shows grapes are also profound heart and blood vitalizing food.

A Walnut looks like a little brain, a left and right hemisphere,upper cerebrums and lower cerebellums. Even the wrinkles or folds on the nutare just like the neo-cortex. We now know walnuts help develop more than three (3) dozen neuron-transmitters for brain function.

Kidney Beans actually heal and help maintain kidney function andyes, they look exactly like the human kidneys.

Celery, Bok Choy, Rhubarb and many more look just like bones.These foods specifically target bone strength. Bones are 23% sodium andthese foods are 23% sodium. If you don't have enough sodium in yourdiet, the body pulls it from the bones, thus making them weak.These foods replenish the skeletal needs of the body.

Avocados, Eggplant and Pears target the health and functionof the womb and cervix of the female - they look just like these organs. Today's research shows that when a woman eats one avocado a week, it balances hormones, sheds unwanted birth weight, and prevents cervical cancers.And how profound is this? It takes exactly nine (9) months to grow an avocadofrom blossom to ripened fruit. There are over 14,000 photolytic chemical constituents of nutrition in each one of these foods (mo dern science has only studied and named about 141 of them).

Figs are full of seeds and hang in twos when they grow. Figs increase themobility of male sperm and increase the numbers of Sperm as well to overcome male sterility. 

Sweet Potatoes look like the pancreas and actually balance theglycemic index of diabetics.

Olives assist the health and function of the ovaries .

Oranges, Grapefruits, and other Citrus fruits look just l ike the mammaryglands of the female and actually assist the health of the breasts and themovement of lymph in and out of the breasts.

Onions look like the body's cells. Today's research shows onionshelp clear waste materials from all of the body cells. They even produce tearswhich wash the epithelial layers of the eyes. A working companion, Garlic, alsohelps eliminate waste materials and dangerous free radicals from the body.

Concluding Close* Courses

Well, in honor of acing Short Fiction for Retards, and the fact that I can't come up with any new posts, I'm going to share with my fabulous reader(s?) my final essay, which counted for 60% of my grade, and thus, had contributed greatly to my final grade (considering my ecofeminist rant garnered only an A-). I didn't like it quite as much, because I felt I was backed into a corner considering we were just suposed to give summaries of the stories and not (necessarily) our opinons, but, opinionated bitch that I am, I feel I tried too hard with this essay and injected WAY too many ten dollar words in an effort to make it "mine", but it just came across as sanctimonious. Whatever, I gave her what she wanted, and apparently learned one of the most important lessons in life: screw how you feel, do as you're told. Isn't THAT fabulous? Jesus...

In it, I compared the two stories "Miss Fur and Miss Skeene" by Gertrude Stein, and "Happy Endings" by Margaret Atwood, both of which are good reads and I recommend. Thinly veiled is the theme of my life-long attempt to disparage conformity and the bounds of society, but mostly it's just about the stories. Enjoy! 

How and Why

In writing, as in life, there are certain expectations and conventions one is meant to fulfill. Exposition, Rising action, Climax, Falling action, Denouement: these are the necessary steps in writing prose. But to some writers, this does not always result in meaningful or even interesting works. Some mavericks beg the question “How and why?” One such maverick, namely Gertrude Stein, challenged the norms associated with short stories frequently, particularly in a 1922 tribute to a couple of her close bohemian friends “Miss Furr and Miss Skeene”. In favor of focusing on plot and setting, her manipulation of words in both an aesthetic and eloquent manner displays the characters over every other aspect in the story. Following in these footsteps, prolific Canadian author Margaret Atwood defied the standards of short stories in a more direct way with her composition entitled “Happy Endings”. In this piece Atwood satirizes the typical happy endings of traditional stories, ultimately pointing out that the only ending is death, and instead writes interesting “middles” in the story, all focusing on different (and occasionally the same) couples. In their respective, rebellious works, Stein and Atwood defy a typical, plot-driven story to focus on their characters’ interpersonal relationships.

            Miss Furr and Miss Skeene are depicted as two women who form a bond over their interest in “cultivating their voices” and “being gay together”. They move in together, away from their families, to participate in their common interests. It’s interesting to note that the subtext of the story suggests an intimate relationship between the two women, a theory only substantiated by the intimate relationship of not only the real-life couple the characters were based on, but also of Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas. This story, then, marks one of the first uses of the word “gay” as a synonym for homosexuality. On this vein of thought, the relationship between the two women is strengthened in the eyes of the reader, and their experiences, thusly, have more meaning than if they were just good friends.

            Stein utilizes what critics call a “word portrait” to tell her story, where she transposes the ideas and techniques commonly associated with the fine arts and applies them to her writings. In exchange for a relatively simplistic plot in which the two women meet, spend time together, and break up, Stein carefully chooses specific words and phrases that she repeats again and again to emphasize the relationship between the characters: “They were quite gay there, Helen Furr and Georgine Skeene, they were regularly gay there where they were gay. They were very regularly gay.”    

            Atwood, too, sacrifices a linear plot for a character-driven story in “Happy Endings”. This story appears to share the same characteristics of repetitive and focused description and action of the protagonists as Stein’s work did; by dividing the text up into six different vignettes, Atwood allows herself to fill the work up with many different stories that all share a connective thread. She weaves the relationships of John and Mary, John and Madge, Mary and James, and Fred and Madge in an overlapping fashion that all end with death, for “…the endings are the same however you slice it”. Instead of building up to a climax, she tries the “how and why” of a plot by favoring “the stretch in between” since they “are just one thing after another, a what and a what and a what.”

            Slyly, Atwood mocks the typical layout of a story, and perhaps even the typical subject of a story in “Happy Endings”. In recent years, this work has been described as “metafiction”, which is defined as “fiction in which the author self-consciously alludes to the artificiality or literariness of a work by parodying or departing from novelistic conventions (esp. naturalism) and traditional narrative techniques.” While that sums it up nicely, Atwood never intended to write a piece of metafiction; she intended to write a short story. It seems like a natural reaction from people to put labels and qualifiers on that which is unfamiliar, but it would appear that this was not the reaction Atwood intended, and in fact, was quite the opposite. Regardless of whatever epithet critics choose to give “Happy Endings”, it remains a tribute to the avant-garde in writing prose. 

            To challenge and renounce expectations and standards can result in interesting, thought-provoking works of prose, as illustrated by the stories “Miss Fur and Miss Skeene” and “Happy Endings”. But, before I write an ending (of which we have learned there is only really one), instead I close with the request to go back and read the middle of this essay; it should be more interesting.   

             

*uncomfortably humid or airless. I didn't know it could mean that, but I needed an alliterative title.  

Sultry Desultory

I've come to the conclusion that I hate the summer. Despite it's high points such as late nights, early mornings, and the apparent access to unbounded free time, I have come to despise these months. 

The weather is oppressive. However slicing the cold winter wind is, the moist heat of summer weighs down heavily on the lungs, the limbs, and the head. The sour, sticky air is not breathable, the bright, blinding sky is not viewable. 

But what I hate most about the summer is the aimlessness. I hate that school ends for four months. It sounds crazy, and it took me a while to confront the reality, but it's true. Even though I love sleeping late, waking up early is a small price to pay for an education. The smallest.

I'm a person who wants to do something. I am a person who needs to do something. And I am going to do something, goddamn it. 

...

I just don't know what it is. 

Ceci n'est pas une poste...

The MoMA is having a fabulous Dali exhibition until September. 

Of particular interest is the short film Un chien andalou, which features the infamous scene of a man slitting a woman's eye open with a razor blade.

Opinions, please.

Well, if anyone is still reading this god forsaken blog, I need your help. Since I respect the opinions of the literally twos and threes of people who read my blog, I submit for your approval an application essay. I plan on attending a specially devised BA/BFA program at the New School (dividing my time between Parsons and Eugene Lang, respectively), and before I can matriculate, I need to be accepted. One contingent is this essay, who's question was "Why do you want to pursue a BA/BFA program?" Brilliant, thought-provoking question, no? Well, here it is. Likes dislikes, suggestions, sarcastic comments; any reaction is welcome. 

 

The Best of Both Worlds

            Before even the start of this essay, I am contemptuous of it. Not because I have a particular disdain for writing or expressing my thoughts on the whole—of course not—but for the sole reason that I am limited. I am limited intellectually because I am allotted only 500 words (which I never happened to feel was an adequate amount of space to convey even one idea). I am limited artistically due to the required professional and readable font and layout that is expected. And I am limited personally, because I have yet to cultivate a voice that would produce the perfect impression within the confines of this paper. But as I write this scalding criticism of an essay I have yet to start, I feel the need to ask myself: why in the world do I to feel this way? The answer, quite unfortunately, is because of the very education that has allowed me to do it. 

So far in my academically dominated life, I have had ample experience in both the liberal and fine arts disciplines. I spent the first part of my higher education in an intensely academic preparatory school, where I earned my diploma after a rigorous (and slightly torturous) four years. On the heels of high school, I quickly enrolled in a fine arts college (applying the August before my senior year), where I spent two years freely wandering and expressing myself. While both experiences had their pros and cons, I could not help but feel imbalanced every step of the way. Very often, I was scornful of each school, believing they were not offering me proper instruction and that, somehow, neither of these situations actually fulfilled any of my needs. It was unfortunate, but the unequivocal truth of the matter.

In high school, logic ruled and strict boundaries were set; my opinions were often degraded and I had absolutely no connection to my peers. I was in this incredible mental state of restrained pandemonium at that school, the odd sensation of feeling rebellious and submissive at the same time. Combined with the bubbling hormones commonly associated with adolescence, it was an arduous time to say the least. But, I would not trade it in for another experience, because what I learned there I could not learn anywhere else. Though it pains me to say it, my basic skills of reasoning and logic were nurtured in a way that will never leave me, and I am a better person for it. Still, the scars inflicted will never heal, and I will always resent it.

Art school was the flip side of the coin. Free and bohemian, I have no objections saying that it was a much more enjoyable experience. I was inspired regularly, built relationships, and produced some of the best work I ever had. But, as a school, it was so disorganized and topsy-turvy I encountered too many frustrating problems: professors had no skill in the art of teaching, grades were late, paperwork had to be repeatedly filled out; it was a mess. Not to mention the overall subjective nature of art; how can someone possibly put a letter grade on that?       

To achieve this proper balance, I have found it necessary to pursue a sort of mélange of an education, combining the two spheres of thought into a tightly packed five years. Aside from the ambitious thought of obtaining two degrees simultaneously, the notion of a BA/BFA program lends itself to the idea that for the first time in my life, I would have achieved this proper balance. It would hopefully seem, anyway. Do I want to spend another five years in school? Yes. And no. Regardless of the Hamlet-esque indecisiveness, I am secure in the fact that there is to be absolutely no other venue for me to learn and blossom in the manner that I personally need. I will always be indecisive about my future, (and my present, for that matter) and I will always want the whole plate if I were ever to feel satisfied.

Whether it’s self-righteous, pathetic, or brilliant, this is the path I have chosen to follow. Despite the cynical tone of this essay, I am charmed by the notion of studying two major disciplines concurrently, and I expect I will do better at the New School than any of the previous institutions. Certainly this is speculation, but given my past it seems only logical that the two halves I accomplished will eventually culminate in a whole.

I seem to have gone over the suggested limit by…three hundred and seventy-eight words. Sorry. 

Topanga: TV Character or Fabulous Bohemian Enclave?

Need I say more?

Little Boxes on the...border?

Well, the fourth season of Weeds started two weeks ago, and I am happy to report it's flying steadily along. With the revamp I feared the show had jumped the proverbial shark (we last left Nancy and co. fleeing their precious suburb as it burned to the ground, relocating to the seaside town of Ren Mar near the Mexican Border), but I realized something about the show: would we rather see it deteriorate over time in a rut, trying to pump out the same jokes with the same characters and the same setting, or take a chance and move on? Nancy is till Nancy, Celia is still Celia, Andy's still Andy...but the show is different. I think it was a good move to have a change of setting, because it keeps it fresh, and shows the growth of the characters without rewriting them completely. We'll see how the season pans out, but so far I have high hopes.