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"content": "\u003cp>First let me say that I’m all for the trying. The \u003cb>Noh Pressure Cooker Festival\u003c/b>, which ran over three weekends in October, is meant to offer a range of new works by the NOHSpace’s resident troupe Theatre of Yugen. Now in its 28th season, this active group of performers studies a variety of techniques centered around the venerable 600-year old Japanese theater form, but their focus in the \u003cb>Pressure Cooker Festival\u003c/b> is new work and contemporary stories. Anyone wandering in looking for a classical Noh version of \u003cb>The Tale of Genji\u003c/b> is in the wrong place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If the air of experimentation is admirable, however, the execution still leaves something of a slapdash feeling. Enthusiasm for their work obviously informed the three pieces on display on the second weekend, but the overall impression was that these were works-in-progress that, for the most part, were just not thoroughly thought out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Libby Zilber’s \u003cb>Chu-no-mai Remix\u003c/b>, which opened the show, strove to demonstrate the underpinnings of the training dance of the title, which according to the program notes is one traditionally used in Noh theater pieces. Divided into two parts — the first a film and the second a demonstration of chu-no-mai with Yugen’s artistic director Zilber on Noh flute accompanying co-artistic director Jubilith Moore’s dance-demonstration — the whole affair came off as part didactic and part etude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film was recorded at the troupe’s retreat at Circle W Ranch as well as the Burning Man decompression party. The result is a dizzying (and I mean that literally, given the amateurish \u003cb>Blair Witch Project\u003c/b> camerawork) and — to the uninitiated — incomprehensible blur of clips. People in the woods with sticks, with cleavers, moving solo or in groups, splashing in the lake. It somehow reminded me of those wintry afternoons when my geeky friends and I used to cut school to play out our own episodes of \u003cb>Star Wars\u003c/b> in Central Park. They were elaborate productions, sometimes requiring props and borrowed blankets for cloaks — but it was all very much for ourselves, not for anyone else to see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More traditionally Noh and worthy of further development was \u003cb>Internment of the Heart\u003c/b>. Undoubtedly the most fully realized of the three, it was the only one to use an integrated text, based on haiku poetry composed by Japanese-Americans interned in camps during World War II.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Yugen” is a word that implies the deep, dark richness of the spirit world, which often emerges in Noh works. In \u003cb>Internment\u003c/b> it is personified by Moore as the wind, but the demons and ghosts lie within the characters. With a looming white circle that served as both a moon and a screen for slides of real internment papers, three characters (Julie Brown, Yugen co-artistic director Lluis Valls and Stephen Siegel) trudge through the indignities of the concentration camp tagged and numbered like so much department store merchandise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The piece has room to improve of course — it’s far too long for one thing. And when the characters step out of the poetry and into explicit literality, we see the seams of the play’s construction and its effort to espouse a cause, rather than simply tell the story. Nevertheless, \u003cb>Internment\u003c/b> elegantly adapted a poetical Noh sensibility to a 20th century story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The final piece, \u003cb>Clowns on the Moon\u003c/b>, seemed like an elaborate afterthought. The program notes mention that none of the routines in this piece are original — indeed they are not. Accompanied by Max Baloian and Jason Ditzian — on, variously, clarinet, sax, guitar and drum — the six players (Brady Gill, Christina Lewis, James Pelican, Jules Pelican, David Rosenfeld and Valls) reenact the famous “eating a leather workboot” scene from Charlie Chaplin’s 1925 film \u003cb>Gold RushL\u003c/b>, and other vaguely familiar routines that resonate from childhood: a clown covered in telephones, or battling with a lamp, another one tentatively emerging from a picture frame.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still the whole shebang looks to me like an embarrassing violation of the unwritten clown code, the centuries old — and very serious — tradition in clowning which dictates that you don’t steal someone else’s bits. But most unforgivably of all, they are not funny — and you can’t blame the material.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Noh Pressure Cooker\u003c/b> ran October 1-19, 2006 at Noh Space.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>First let me say that I’m all for the trying. The \u003cb>Noh Pressure Cooker Festival\u003c/b>, which ran over three weekends in October, is meant to offer a range of new works by the NOHSpace’s resident troupe Theatre of Yugen. Now in its 28th season, this active group of performers studies a variety of techniques centered around the venerable 600-year old Japanese theater form, but their focus in the \u003cb>Pressure Cooker Festival\u003c/b> is new work and contemporary stories. Anyone wandering in looking for a classical Noh version of \u003cb>The Tale of Genji\u003c/b> is in the wrong place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If the air of experimentation is admirable, however, the execution still leaves something of a slapdash feeling. Enthusiasm for their work obviously informed the three pieces on display on the second weekend, but the overall impression was that these were works-in-progress that, for the most part, were just not thoroughly thought out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Libby Zilber’s \u003cb>Chu-no-mai Remix\u003c/b>, which opened the show, strove to demonstrate the underpinnings of the training dance of the title, which according to the program notes is one traditionally used in Noh theater pieces. Divided into two parts — the first a film and the second a demonstration of chu-no-mai with Yugen’s artistic director Zilber on Noh flute accompanying co-artistic director Jubilith Moore’s dance-demonstration — the whole affair came off as part didactic and part etude.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The film was recorded at the troupe’s retreat at Circle W Ranch as well as the Burning Man decompression party. The result is a dizzying (and I mean that literally, given the amateurish \u003cb>Blair Witch Project\u003c/b> camerawork) and — to the uninitiated — incomprehensible blur of clips. People in the woods with sticks, with cleavers, moving solo or in groups, splashing in the lake. It somehow reminded me of those wintry afternoons when my geeky friends and I used to cut school to play out our own episodes of \u003cb>Star Wars\u003c/b> in Central Park. They were elaborate productions, sometimes requiring props and borrowed blankets for cloaks — but it was all very much for ourselves, not for anyone else to see.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>More traditionally Noh and worthy of further development was \u003cb>Internment of the Heart\u003c/b>. Undoubtedly the most fully realized of the three, it was the only one to use an integrated text, based on haiku poetry composed by Japanese-Americans interned in camps during World War II.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Yugen” is a word that implies the deep, dark richness of the spirit world, which often emerges in Noh works. In \u003cb>Internment\u003c/b> it is personified by Moore as the wind, but the demons and ghosts lie within the characters. With a looming white circle that served as both a moon and a screen for slides of real internment papers, three characters (Julie Brown, Yugen co-artistic director Lluis Valls and Stephen Siegel) trudge through the indignities of the concentration camp tagged and numbered like so much department store merchandise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The piece has room to improve of course — it’s far too long for one thing. And when the characters step out of the poetry and into explicit literality, we see the seams of the play’s construction and its effort to espouse a cause, rather than simply tell the story. Nevertheless, \u003cb>Internment\u003c/b> elegantly adapted a poetical Noh sensibility to a 20th century story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The final piece, \u003cb>Clowns on the Moon\u003c/b>, seemed like an elaborate afterthought. The program notes mention that none of the routines in this piece are original — indeed they are not. Accompanied by Max Baloian and Jason Ditzian — on, variously, clarinet, sax, guitar and drum — the six players (Brady Gill, Christina Lewis, James Pelican, Jules Pelican, David Rosenfeld and Valls) reenact the famous “eating a leather workboot” scene from Charlie Chaplin’s 1925 film \u003cb>Gold RushL\u003c/b>, and other vaguely familiar routines that resonate from childhood: a clown covered in telephones, or battling with a lamp, another one tentatively emerging from a picture frame.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still the whole shebang looks to me like an embarrassing violation of the unwritten clown code, the centuries old — and very serious — tradition in clowning which dictates that you don’t steal someone else’s bits. But most unforgivably of all, they are not funny — and you can’t blame the material.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Noh Pressure Cooker\u003c/b> ran October 1-19, 2006 at Noh Space.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The other night I saw Bekah McNeil’s production of \u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b>, a play written by Sam Shepard and Patti Smith, at The Exit Theater. The Exit’s an unassuming place with only a sign reading “EXIT” out front to distinguish it. This sign, which glows right near the entrance, is a very Shepard-like touch. His plays often contain out-of-place objects that make deep sense; that is, they seem to originate in our dreams, where the anomalous symbol takes on a meaning personal to the dreamer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But before I tell you about what I witnessed that night, I have a question: have you ever secretly wished to be famous? Or more to the point: can you imagine sabotaging your wildest dream?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The play begins when one character, Slim, enters a dirty apartment at gunpoint. Behind him, dancing and waving a pistol, is his lover, Cavale, who lives in the apartment. Aside from their physical attraction, the two have a strong artistic connection because Slim WANTS to be a creator/star and Cavale is creative to the point of near-madness. But on the night of the play’s action Slim can’t give himself entirely to Cavale because he’s remorseful about what he’s just lost by chasing her — his wife and his child. In other words, he’s thrown away his entire past in service to his dreams of fame. All evening Cavale urges him to shed the past entirely and emerge in a future where he will be a rock n’ roll Jesus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I can only imagine how emotionally difficult it must have been for Shepard to play Slim’s role when \u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b> opened in 1971 (which he did, for one night, then he fled the production) because at the time he’d just left his wife and child for Patti Smith. But this production’s Slim, Chris Carlone, is mischevious, reckless, and volatile. The real anguish of the situation — Slim’s (and Shepard’s) sudden uprooting — never seemed to make it to the surface. Instead, Carlone’s Slim comes across as spoiled, critical of his lover, and certainly not deserving of the worship Cavale wants to heap on him. Cavale, played by Kimberly Schooling, is mad, vulnerable, and full of a potential she (that is, the character) doesn’t realize. Her Cavale is full of charisma, which is interesting, because Slim believes that HE’S the main attraction, as he made the greater sacrifice in order to carry on with Cavale. This isn’t necessarily a brand-new spin on the play, but for me it was a new spin on my view of Sam Shepard, who I’ve revered since the first time I read something by him. It’s very apparent in this production that the Shepard who co-wrote the piece was young and confused and felt out of his league when dating Patti Smith. He was very human, indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In between scenes Chris Kaup, a sweet-faced, mournful man wearing a fringed cowboy shirt, provides an unobtrusive but haunting soundtrack of original music. This device is a little startling at first, but once I got used to the idea of having a musician off to the side of the stage, I found that the accompaniment provides a soft frame for — and a little respite from — the cruel drama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the course of the evening Slim orders a lobster dinner. It’s delivered, to the couple’s amusement, by a creepy human-sized lobster. After the lobster drops off the food, the couple taunts each other in a way that’s brutal and sexual all at once, never getting satisfactorily comfortable as a couple. Later, because they aren’t sufficiently amusing each other, they call the lobster man back and beg him to return. He does, and Slim is finally able to leave Cavale and relieve himself of his own dreams — and Cavale’s expectations — that he will be a rock-god. Kris Kaup, the musical accompanist, plays the role of the giant lobster. Very well, I might add. His presence is thrillingly disturbing, especially when he literally emerges from his carapace and turns out to be the rock god Cavale was waiting for, and he’s as soft and vulnerable as the musical numbers that accompany the play.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This version of \u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b> has a lot to say about the nature of fame. To become famous one must make a lot of personal sacrifices, channel the audience’s desires in lieu of one’s true identity, and become incredibly vulnerable in the process. At the beginning of the play, Slim makes the initial sacrifice by severing his ties to the past, but by the end he rejects fame in order to hang on to the one thing he can’t sacrifice: himself. The idea that the self is the last bastion of humanity is a very American notion, so Bekah McNeil’s take on the play — that to cling to the self is, well, SELFISH — made me question this notion. Which was a little disorienting, much in the way dreams can be disorienting, because sure, I understand that celebrity is supposed to be difficult, but having never tasted it I can’t quite shake the notion that fame is some kind of jackpot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Sam Shepard play is wide open to interpretational nuance, so please, judge for yourself and go see this play! Better yet, bring a few friends, think on it for a little while, and then discuss what you saw. Believe me, during that discussion you’ll learn at least one new thing about your dreams, whether you expect them to be realized or not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b> runs October 5 – 21, 2006 at Exit Theatre. Call 415.218.6033 for tickets.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The other night I saw Bekah McNeil’s production of \u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b>, a play written by Sam Shepard and Patti Smith, at The Exit Theater. The Exit’s an unassuming place with only a sign reading “EXIT” out front to distinguish it. This sign, which glows right near the entrance, is a very Shepard-like touch. His plays often contain out-of-place objects that make deep sense; that is, they seem to originate in our dreams, where the anomalous symbol takes on a meaning personal to the dreamer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But before I tell you about what I witnessed that night, I have a question: have you ever secretly wished to be famous? Or more to the point: can you imagine sabotaging your wildest dream?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The play begins when one character, Slim, enters a dirty apartment at gunpoint. Behind him, dancing and waving a pistol, is his lover, Cavale, who lives in the apartment. Aside from their physical attraction, the two have a strong artistic connection because Slim WANTS to be a creator/star and Cavale is creative to the point of near-madness. But on the night of the play’s action Slim can’t give himself entirely to Cavale because he’s remorseful about what he’s just lost by chasing her — his wife and his child. In other words, he’s thrown away his entire past in service to his dreams of fame. All evening Cavale urges him to shed the past entirely and emerge in a future where he will be a rock n’ roll Jesus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I can only imagine how emotionally difficult it must have been for Shepard to play Slim’s role when \u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b> opened in 1971 (which he did, for one night, then he fled the production) because at the time he’d just left his wife and child for Patti Smith. But this production’s Slim, Chris Carlone, is mischevious, reckless, and volatile. The real anguish of the situation — Slim’s (and Shepard’s) sudden uprooting — never seemed to make it to the surface. Instead, Carlone’s Slim comes across as spoiled, critical of his lover, and certainly not deserving of the worship Cavale wants to heap on him. Cavale, played by Kimberly Schooling, is mad, vulnerable, and full of a potential she (that is, the character) doesn’t realize. Her Cavale is full of charisma, which is interesting, because Slim believes that HE’S the main attraction, as he made the greater sacrifice in order to carry on with Cavale. This isn’t necessarily a brand-new spin on the play, but for me it was a new spin on my view of Sam Shepard, who I’ve revered since the first time I read something by him. It’s very apparent in this production that the Shepard who co-wrote the piece was young and confused and felt out of his league when dating Patti Smith. He was very human, indeed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In between scenes Chris Kaup, a sweet-faced, mournful man wearing a fringed cowboy shirt, provides an unobtrusive but haunting soundtrack of original music. This device is a little startling at first, but once I got used to the idea of having a musician off to the side of the stage, I found that the accompaniment provides a soft frame for — and a little respite from — the cruel drama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During the course of the evening Slim orders a lobster dinner. It’s delivered, to the couple’s amusement, by a creepy human-sized lobster. After the lobster drops off the food, the couple taunts each other in a way that’s brutal and sexual all at once, never getting satisfactorily comfortable as a couple. Later, because they aren’t sufficiently amusing each other, they call the lobster man back and beg him to return. He does, and Slim is finally able to leave Cavale and relieve himself of his own dreams — and Cavale’s expectations — that he will be a rock-god. Kris Kaup, the musical accompanist, plays the role of the giant lobster. Very well, I might add. His presence is thrillingly disturbing, especially when he literally emerges from his carapace and turns out to be the rock god Cavale was waiting for, and he’s as soft and vulnerable as the musical numbers that accompany the play.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This version of \u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b> has a lot to say about the nature of fame. To become famous one must make a lot of personal sacrifices, channel the audience’s desires in lieu of one’s true identity, and become incredibly vulnerable in the process. At the beginning of the play, Slim makes the initial sacrifice by severing his ties to the past, but by the end he rejects fame in order to hang on to the one thing he can’t sacrifice: himself. The idea that the self is the last bastion of humanity is a very American notion, so Bekah McNeil’s take on the play — that to cling to the self is, well, SELFISH — made me question this notion. Which was a little disorienting, much in the way dreams can be disorienting, because sure, I understand that celebrity is supposed to be difficult, but having never tasted it I can’t quite shake the notion that fame is some kind of jackpot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Sam Shepard play is wide open to interpretational nuance, so please, judge for yourself and go see this play! Better yet, bring a few friends, think on it for a little while, and then discuss what you saw. Believe me, during that discussion you’ll learn at least one new thing about your dreams, whether you expect them to be realized or not.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Cowboy Mouth\u003c/b> runs October 5 – 21, 2006 at Exit Theatre. Call 415.218.6033 for tickets.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The Dark Room Theater is located in that area of Mission between 19th and 20th, where you can find some truly great Mexican food but you shouldn’t let that distract you from guarding your purse. The front of the building is painted black, and until show time a black accordion gate bars the narrow entryway. Once the proprietor unlocks the gate, note that the front door’s offset so that what goes on inside the theater can’t be glimpsed from the street — there’s something clandestine-feeling about entering The Dark Room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I went to The Dark Room to see Jennifer Blowdryer’s comedy act, \u003cb>The Mind of Blowdryer\u003c/b>, and while I waited in my seat for the show to begin, I had only vague notions about what to expect, pieced together from what I’d found on the internet. I’d gathered that she’s a worldly Jewish punk rock singer with a wild past and a good head on her shoulders. And in order to get an idea of the context in which she was performing, I’d read about a few of The Dark Room’s other featured events. Such as every third Wednesday night at 8pm, which The Dark Room has dubbed \u003cb>Bad Porn Night\u003c/b>. Then there’s Thursdays, when the theater hosts its weekly \u003cb>American Fido\u003c/b> contest, a spinoff of American Idol; the idea, however, is to find the worst act in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Having learned all this, I expected camp. Art that’s racy and mannered and makes light of art. But I didn’t expect the casual, impromptu feel of the show, which wasn’t racy at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jennifer Blowdryer came out on stage wearing a tousled wig, ripped fishnets, and a plaid dress that could barely contain her. She introduced herself in a way that was part comedy routine and part conversation with the audience. Clearly we were welcome to sass back, and while few of us did, the evening had the unrehearsed tone of a party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ms. Blowdryer then sat with the audience to watch a DVD featuring some of her friends, comedy skit actors living in New York. One actress, Johanna Buccola, stood out for playing several distinct characters: a drawling, laconic Southern beauty in lingerie intent on showing us just how much she loved her brand-name skin products; a hyperactive woman blurting strange, self-revealing facts about herself to her evasive first date; and finally a Christian woman leading a tour of her church, her every gesture made hurky and awkward with what seemed to be immense sexual repression. Before airing this final skit, Ms. Blowdryer warned us that she could barely watch Buccola’s act. And part of the way through she left the room, reminding us that if we, too, found it unbearable, she would stop the DVD. Not one of us did, though, because while they were certainly grotesque, each character Johanna Buccola played was fascinating and hilarious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this evening’s act two, a blonde male actor performed a monologue in the voice of a drunk guy who, during the course of one evening, gets evicted from several bars. Then a statuesque woman wearing striped tights came out of the audience to tell her story of being kicked out of a fetish club for doing something that, considering the context, seemed as though it might be permissible. (Though in the vast majority of other public contexts, one might run the risk of getting arrested for committing the act she described.) And Jennifer Blowdryer herself described a night during which she went home with someone who may or may not have been Cher and was subsequently kicked out for vomiting all over her hostess’s fur bedcover.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the evening Blowdryer appeared to be very at ease. This was interesting, as the evening’s subject matter and the kinds of characters we’d seen on the screen seemed tied together by one theme: the rejected outsider. One doesn’t expect a rejected outsider to be so gracious and warm. It was as though we, the audience, were being called upon to remember being excluded, to recognize that exclusion doesn’t amount to much in the long run, and that for the evening the performers and viewers alike were INCLUDED by virtue of having been — each of us, at some point in our lives — excluded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of the evening, having adjusted to my surroundings, I stepped out to the street less concerned about my purse. On the corner a man lay on the sidewalk, clutching his chest. He appeared to be bleeding. The crowd that surrounded him consisted of concerned and capable-looking people; some were ordering the man to stay awake, others were on their cell phones seeking assistance, and still others waited on the perifery in case fate called on them to spring to action.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s funny, the things that can bring us together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Mind of Blowdryer\u003c/b> plays Fridays, September 22 and 29, 2006. Show starts at 8pm. Call 415-401-7987 for info.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The Dark Room Theater is located in that area of Mission between 19th and 20th, where you can find some truly great Mexican food but you shouldn’t let that distract you from guarding your purse. The front of the building is painted black, and until show time a black accordion gate bars the narrow entryway. Once the proprietor unlocks the gate, note that the front door’s offset so that what goes on inside the theater can’t be glimpsed from the street — there’s something clandestine-feeling about entering The Dark Room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I went to The Dark Room to see Jennifer Blowdryer’s comedy act, \u003cb>The Mind of Blowdryer\u003c/b>, and while I waited in my seat for the show to begin, I had only vague notions about what to expect, pieced together from what I’d found on the internet. I’d gathered that she’s a worldly Jewish punk rock singer with a wild past and a good head on her shoulders. And in order to get an idea of the context in which she was performing, I’d read about a few of The Dark Room’s other featured events. Such as every third Wednesday night at 8pm, which The Dark Room has dubbed \u003cb>Bad Porn Night\u003c/b>. Then there’s Thursdays, when the theater hosts its weekly \u003cb>American Fido\u003c/b> contest, a spinoff of American Idol; the idea, however, is to find the worst act in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Having learned all this, I expected camp. Art that’s racy and mannered and makes light of art. But I didn’t expect the casual, impromptu feel of the show, which wasn’t racy at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jennifer Blowdryer came out on stage wearing a tousled wig, ripped fishnets, and a plaid dress that could barely contain her. She introduced herself in a way that was part comedy routine and part conversation with the audience. Clearly we were welcome to sass back, and while few of us did, the evening had the unrehearsed tone of a party.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ms. Blowdryer then sat with the audience to watch a DVD featuring some of her friends, comedy skit actors living in New York. One actress, Johanna Buccola, stood out for playing several distinct characters: a drawling, laconic Southern beauty in lingerie intent on showing us just how much she loved her brand-name skin products; a hyperactive woman blurting strange, self-revealing facts about herself to her evasive first date; and finally a Christian woman leading a tour of her church, her every gesture made hurky and awkward with what seemed to be immense sexual repression. Before airing this final skit, Ms. Blowdryer warned us that she could barely watch Buccola’s act. And part of the way through she left the room, reminding us that if we, too, found it unbearable, she would stop the DVD. Not one of us did, though, because while they were certainly grotesque, each character Johanna Buccola played was fascinating and hilarious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this evening’s act two, a blonde male actor performed a monologue in the voice of a drunk guy who, during the course of one evening, gets evicted from several bars. Then a statuesque woman wearing striped tights came out of the audience to tell her story of being kicked out of a fetish club for doing something that, considering the context, seemed as though it might be permissible. (Though in the vast majority of other public contexts, one might run the risk of getting arrested for committing the act she described.) And Jennifer Blowdryer herself described a night during which she went home with someone who may or may not have been Cher and was subsequently kicked out for vomiting all over her hostess’s fur bedcover.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the evening Blowdryer appeared to be very at ease. This was interesting, as the evening’s subject matter and the kinds of characters we’d seen on the screen seemed tied together by one theme: the rejected outsider. One doesn’t expect a rejected outsider to be so gracious and warm. It was as though we, the audience, were being called upon to remember being excluded, to recognize that exclusion doesn’t amount to much in the long run, and that for the evening the performers and viewers alike were INCLUDED by virtue of having been — each of us, at some point in our lives — excluded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the end of the evening, having adjusted to my surroundings, I stepped out to the street less concerned about my purse. On the corner a man lay on the sidewalk, clutching his chest. He appeared to be bleeding. The crowd that surrounded him consisted of concerned and capable-looking people; some were ordering the man to stay awake, others were on their cell phones seeking assistance, and still others waited on the perifery in case fate called on them to spring to action.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s funny, the things that can bring us together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>The Mind of Blowdryer\u003c/b> plays Fridays, September 22 and 29, 2006. Show starts at 8pm. Call 415-401-7987 for info.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Hello, my name is Alison and I am a musical theater geek. You wouldn’t know it from looking at me. I won’t go so far as to say I am closeted, because I have recently come clean about this, and have even gone so far as to admit (and even brag) that I am writing a full-length Broadway musical. It will probably take me about ten years to finish it, but it will happen. In the meantime, I am happy to embrace and express my inner M.T.G., and to mourn the lost years where I buried this passion under layers of cool ass rock n’ roll.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I spent most of my childhood and early adolescence performing in musicals and plays, and the absolute happiest moments of my life were play rehearsals. Even more than the performances, I loved being at rehearsal. It was a special, insulated place where my talents were recognized, my friends were all around me, and most of all — I belonged. In the outside world, and at school, I was too smart, too Jewish, had a big butt, had divorced parents, was an only child, preferred listening to records to playing with other kids. But at play rehearsal I was part of an elite group of people who were working on something important, learning lines, singing, dancing, blocking scenes, all those cool fun things that I loved more than anything in the world. We would start after school, and work into the evening, when it would feel incredibly romantic and glamorous to be toiling so late into the night. In reality it was probably only six o’clock, but it sure felt exciting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At some point, that all changed. It’s sad to think about, but there were several factors that turned me away from musical theater. I honestly saw theater as my career path, my calling, and my lot in life. But then the musical theater director left our high school, and I discovered smoking pot and punk rock. I continued to act in plays and even went to NYU theater school for my freshman year of college, but at some point I decided that theater was clearly for the uncool, self-absorbed actorly types, and I just wanted to play in rock bands. My attitude won the fight, and that was that — I switched majors, started a band and never looked back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But during those lovely years when I was all-singing-all-dancing-all-the-time, I had the good fortune of seeing some original musicals on Broadway during their initial runs. \u003cb>Godspell\u003c/b>, \u003cb>Annie\u003c/b>, \u003cb>The Wiz\u003c/b>, and best of all — \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b>. I had never experienced anything like it. Even at ten years old, \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b> spoke to my soul. I probably didn’t understand most of the dirty jokes, and some of the more sophisticated ideas may have floated right over my head, but I sure got what that play was about. It was about loving everything about performing, and never being able to let go of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The current production of \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b> playing here in San Francisco is about to open on Broadway, and it brings back all the passion and beauty and pathos of the original, without modernizing a single word. For those uninitiated, \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b> takes place at the audition for a Broadway show. The actors stand in a line and answer questions about themselves asked by a director who sits in front of the stage. Their personal revelations turn into universal truths, and ultimately fantastic songs. Sure, the cultural references are outdated, and the musical arrangement is ’70s cheeseball Broadway (written by Marvin Hamlisch, for chrissakes!), but somehow the show has remained an absolute marvel, a true masterpiece of its kind. And oh, those songs. The second Sheila started singing “At the Ballet,” I had to nudge my mom (my date for the evening) for a tissue so I could bawl my eyes out. My favorite song, sung by the character I always wanted to play but never got the chance, Diana Morales, is called “Nothing.” For anyone who has ever been to acting school, this song hits the nail right on the self-indulgent head. Diana describes her first week at the High School for the Performing Arts, where her acting teacher is trying to get the students to work with sense memory. Diana cannot connect, and feels frustrated and unworthy:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Okay… we’re going to do improvisations.\u003cbr>Now, you’re on a bobsled. It’s snowing out.\u003cbr>And it’s cold…Okay…GO!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ev’ry day for a week we would try to\u003cbr>Feel the motion, feel the motion\u003cbr>Down the hill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ev’ry day for a week we would try to\u003cbr>Hear the wind rush, hear the wind rush,\u003cbr>Feel the chill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I dug right down to the bottom of my soul\u003cbr>To see what I had inside.\u003cbr>Yes, I dug right down to the bottom of my soul\u003cbr>And I tried, I tried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And everybody’s goin’ “Whooooosh, whooooosh …\u003cbr>I feel the snow… I feel the cold… I feel the air.”\u003cbr>And Mr. Karp turns to me and he says,\u003cbr>“Okay, Morales. What did you feel?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I said…”Nothing,\u003cbr>I’m feeling nothing,”\u003cbr>And he says “Nothing could get a girl transferred.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They all felt something,\u003cbr>But I felt nothing\u003cbr>Except the feeling\u003cbr>That this bullshit was absurd!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, this cast is worthy, and they handle the material with great flair and exuberance. The current choreographer played the part of Connie in the original Broadway cast, which brings a nice continuity to the affair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have seen so many musicals over the past ten or twenty years, and most of them suck, I must say. In this age of hackneyed shows wrung from the greatest hits of ABBA or Queen, there is nothing that compares to an original piece of work, a story spun from the hearts and souls of the people who created it, with songs that were written to propel the emotional highs into the stratosphere, and convey the essence of the characters’ inner lives. That doesn’t seem too much to ask from a show. At least it’s what I’m going to try to do with my musical, if I ever get it done. Although I have continued performing in bands (and some theater) all these years and have never stopped working as an artist, I am continually awed by beauty of this magnitude — voices singing together, feet dancing together, people expressing in song what they cannot say in words. So I shall sing to the rafters: I am a musical theater geek, and proud of it.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Hello, my name is Alison and I am a musical theater geek. You wouldn’t know it from looking at me. I won’t go so far as to say I am closeted, because I have recently come clean about this, and have even gone so far as to admit (and even brag) that I am writing a full-length Broadway musical. It will probably take me about ten years to finish it, but it will happen. In the meantime, I am happy to embrace and express my inner M.T.G., and to mourn the lost years where I buried this passion under layers of cool ass rock n’ roll.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I spent most of my childhood and early adolescence performing in musicals and plays, and the absolute happiest moments of my life were play rehearsals. Even more than the performances, I loved being at rehearsal. It was a special, insulated place where my talents were recognized, my friends were all around me, and most of all — I belonged. In the outside world, and at school, I was too smart, too Jewish, had a big butt, had divorced parents, was an only child, preferred listening to records to playing with other kids. But at play rehearsal I was part of an elite group of people who were working on something important, learning lines, singing, dancing, blocking scenes, all those cool fun things that I loved more than anything in the world. We would start after school, and work into the evening, when it would feel incredibly romantic and glamorous to be toiling so late into the night. In reality it was probably only six o’clock, but it sure felt exciting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At some point, that all changed. It’s sad to think about, but there were several factors that turned me away from musical theater. I honestly saw theater as my career path, my calling, and my lot in life. But then the musical theater director left our high school, and I discovered smoking pot and punk rock. I continued to act in plays and even went to NYU theater school for my freshman year of college, but at some point I decided that theater was clearly for the uncool, self-absorbed actorly types, and I just wanted to play in rock bands. My attitude won the fight, and that was that — I switched majors, started a band and never looked back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But during those lovely years when I was all-singing-all-dancing-all-the-time, I had the good fortune of seeing some original musicals on Broadway during their initial runs. \u003cb>Godspell\u003c/b>, \u003cb>Annie\u003c/b>, \u003cb>The Wiz\u003c/b>, and best of all — \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b>. I had never experienced anything like it. Even at ten years old, \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b> spoke to my soul. I probably didn’t understand most of the dirty jokes, and some of the more sophisticated ideas may have floated right over my head, but I sure got what that play was about. It was about loving everything about performing, and never being able to let go of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The current production of \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b> playing here in San Francisco is about to open on Broadway, and it brings back all the passion and beauty and pathos of the original, without modernizing a single word. For those uninitiated, \u003cb>A Chorus Line\u003c/b> takes place at the audition for a Broadway show. The actors stand in a line and answer questions about themselves asked by a director who sits in front of the stage. Their personal revelations turn into universal truths, and ultimately fantastic songs. Sure, the cultural references are outdated, and the musical arrangement is ’70s cheeseball Broadway (written by Marvin Hamlisch, for chrissakes!), but somehow the show has remained an absolute marvel, a true masterpiece of its kind. And oh, those songs. The second Sheila started singing “At the Ballet,” I had to nudge my mom (my date for the evening) for a tissue so I could bawl my eyes out. My favorite song, sung by the character I always wanted to play but never got the chance, Diana Morales, is called “Nothing.” For anyone who has ever been to acting school, this song hits the nail right on the self-indulgent head. Diana describes her first week at the High School for the Performing Arts, where her acting teacher is trying to get the students to work with sense memory. Diana cannot connect, and feels frustrated and unworthy:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Okay… we’re going to do improvisations.\u003cbr>Now, you’re on a bobsled. It’s snowing out.\u003cbr>And it’s cold…Okay…GO!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ev’ry day for a week we would try to\u003cbr>Feel the motion, feel the motion\u003cbr>Down the hill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ev’ry day for a week we would try to\u003cbr>Hear the wind rush, hear the wind rush,\u003cbr>Feel the chill.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I dug right down to the bottom of my soul\u003cbr>To see what I had inside.\u003cbr>Yes, I dug right down to the bottom of my soul\u003cbr>And I tried, I tried.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And everybody’s goin’ “Whooooosh, whooooosh …\u003cbr>I feel the snow… I feel the cold… I feel the air.”\u003cbr>And Mr. Karp turns to me and he says,\u003cbr>“Okay, Morales. What did you feel?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And I said…”Nothing,\u003cbr>I’m feeling nothing,”\u003cbr>And he says “Nothing could get a girl transferred.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They all felt something,\u003cbr>But I felt nothing\u003cbr>Except the feeling\u003cbr>That this bullshit was absurd!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Well, this cast is worthy, and they handle the material with great flair and exuberance. The current choreographer played the part of Connie in the original Broadway cast, which brings a nice continuity to the affair.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I have seen so many musicals over the past ten or twenty years, and most of them suck, I must say. In this age of hackneyed shows wrung from the greatest hits of ABBA or Queen, there is nothing that compares to an original piece of work, a story spun from the hearts and souls of the people who created it, with songs that were written to propel the emotional highs into the stratosphere, and convey the essence of the characters’ inner lives. That doesn’t seem too much to ask from a show. At least it’s what I’m going to try to do with my musical, if I ever get it done. Although I have continued performing in bands (and some theater) all these years and have never stopped working as an artist, I am continually awed by beauty of this magnitude — voices singing together, feet dancing together, people expressing in song what they cannot say in words. So I shall sing to the rafters: I am a musical theater geek, and proud of it.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>The Netizens of the world are in the midst of an identity crisis — there is more information publicly available about each of us, and I have a sneaking suspicion that we have less to fear from the government’s Echelon agencies snooping on our reading lists than we do from Amazon.com’s patented shopper profiling technology. Heck, even the government is turning to the online giants to get its info. AOL recently ignited a firestorm by making public a detailed record of their users’ online searches. They didn’t have names attached to the searches, but the \u003ci>New York Times\u003c/i> found it almost laughably easy to identify user No. 4417749 simply by analyzing what subjects she searched on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This mounting identity crisis is precisely the subject of \u003cb>Super Vision\u003c/b>, an elegantly, beautiful and disquieting multimedia production by The Builder’s Association and studio dbox, which I caught at the Yerba Buena Center forthe Arts. Mixing cutting-edge computer technology with real-time action, it’s a show that makes a powerful impact, visually and viscerally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The action of this unusual and absorbing show plays out in a multi-layered space, with a line of screens and equipment set up like mission control in front of an ambiguous wide-screen space in which live actors interact with each other and with projections of objects in computer-manipulated surroundings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The main plotline centers on three disparate and yet thematically linked dots in a constellation of datasphere characters, starting with a perfect family who appear to be idyllically situated in front of an Auto-CAD generated Dream House (shades of the ubiquitous TV walls in Ray Bradbury’s \u003cb>Fahrenheit 451\u003c/b>). The father logs onto his computer to enter a kind of Holodeck space — dominated by an IMAX-sized vision of his own face on awebcam — in which he creates money transfer schemes using his young son’s identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In another segment, a business traveler with an Indian name and a Ugandan passport endures grilling at the hands of suspicious passport control officials, who call up and manipulate his data in a creepily brisk manner reminiscent of Tom Cruise in the prescient \u003cb>Minority Report\u003c/b>. The third segment deals with a young New Yorker who stays in touch via webphone with her aging grandmother who lives in Sri Lanka. Grandma isn’t on The Grid, but her granddaughter, keen to archive the family’s memories, is mining her for data, even as the older woman’s mind is failing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The stories themselves are fairly straightforward, but what is fascinating about this production is the seamless integration of technology, with its pointed implications about how seamlessly and ruthlessly technology has integrated into our lives. The Builders Association, who put this show together, have been at this since 1994, and the company’s skill at fashioning a richly textured multimedia space out of pixels and sound bytes makes \u003cb>Super Vision\u003c/b> thoroughly compelling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the plugged-in age, many of us have learned to finely tune our ability to multi-task. How many of us come home, turn on the evening news, start up the computer, check email, open a browser to look at movie times, start dinner microwaving and make a quick call on the cell phone — all in the space of five minutes? I was astonished — and not a little discomfited — to realize that even as I watched Mr. Shah being quizzed by passport control, my eyes were darting about trying to absorb the screen projections of his itineraries, names of his family members, his prescriptions. Still, director Marianne Weems and her collaborators — including the masterful lighting designer Jennifer Tipton — construct \u003cb>Super Vision\u003c/b> carefully and never allow it to dwell on the feelings of information overload per se. Their focus is on how identity is shaped — whether it is consciously shaped and whether we can control that process — given the all-encompassing technology that feeds into cyberspace.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Virtual reality is no longer just for the cyberpunk nihilists and “console cowboys” of William Gibson. All of us now reside in the datasphere. The question is who are we when we’re there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Super Vision\u003c/b> runs August 17 – 19, 2006 at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. TICKETS: $23-$30, call 415-978-ARTS\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The Netizens of the world are in the midst of an identity crisis — there is more information publicly available about each of us, and I have a sneaking suspicion that we have less to fear from the government’s Echelon agencies snooping on our reading lists than we do from Amazon.com’s patented shopper profiling technology. Heck, even the government is turning to the online giants to get its info. AOL recently ignited a firestorm by making public a detailed record of their users’ online searches. They didn’t have names attached to the searches, but the \u003ci>New York Times\u003c/i> found it almost laughably easy to identify user No. 4417749 simply by analyzing what subjects she searched on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This mounting identity crisis is precisely the subject of \u003cb>Super Vision\u003c/b>, an elegantly, beautiful and disquieting multimedia production by The Builder’s Association and studio dbox, which I caught at the Yerba Buena Center forthe Arts. Mixing cutting-edge computer technology with real-time action, it’s a show that makes a powerful impact, visually and viscerally.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The action of this unusual and absorbing show plays out in a multi-layered space, with a line of screens and equipment set up like mission control in front of an ambiguous wide-screen space in which live actors interact with each other and with projections of objects in computer-manipulated surroundings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The main plotline centers on three disparate and yet thematically linked dots in a constellation of datasphere characters, starting with a perfect family who appear to be idyllically situated in front of an Auto-CAD generated Dream House (shades of the ubiquitous TV walls in Ray Bradbury’s \u003cb>Fahrenheit 451\u003c/b>). The father logs onto his computer to enter a kind of Holodeck space — dominated by an IMAX-sized vision of his own face on awebcam — in which he creates money transfer schemes using his young son’s identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In another segment, a business traveler with an Indian name and a Ugandan passport endures grilling at the hands of suspicious passport control officials, who call up and manipulate his data in a creepily brisk manner reminiscent of Tom Cruise in the prescient \u003cb>Minority Report\u003c/b>. The third segment deals with a young New Yorker who stays in touch via webphone with her aging grandmother who lives in Sri Lanka. Grandma isn’t on The Grid, but her granddaughter, keen to archive the family’s memories, is mining her for data, even as the older woman’s mind is failing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>I remember the first time I was ever drunk on art. Early in my college career, my Dad called. He was coming to Philadelphia by train and we were going to visit a mysterious place that a friend had told us about called the Barnes Foundation. He secured an appointment and I met him at the station in Merion, PA, about ten minutes outside of Philly on what is familiarly known as “the Mainline.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To get to the Barnes, you must pass the kind of immense mansions and neatly manicured estates that inspired Agnes Nixon to create the people and places of soap operas like \u003cb>All My Children\u003c/b> and \u003cb>One Life to Live\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What the heck is inside this place, anyhow?” we wondered as we walked through the Doric portico decorated with tiles of clearly African motif. Inside? A treasure trove of not just African but Egyptian, Greek, and Navajo art, not to mention some 181 paintings by Renoir, 46 Picassos, 59 Matisses, and more Cezannes than I had ever seen in my entire life. It was like seeing hundreds of old friends — ones you’d known for years, but had never seen before. We had entered the playhouse of Dr. Albert C. Barnes, educator, art collector, and something of a cranky old codger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That was back in the early nineties, shortly before the history of this mind-bogglingly priceless art collection took the tragic turn documented in Thomas Gibbons’ intriguing play \u003cb>Permanent Collection\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Loosely disguising the names of key players (the foundation becomes the Morris Collection here) Gibbons traces the nasty battles that occurred as the collection transitioned from the hands of the founder’s right-hand woman and into the control of the board of trustees of a local, primarily African-American university — the real-life Lincoln University. For Gibbons, the story of the Barnes Foundation becomes a complex entrée into a discussion of the larger, volatile topic of race relations in America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Sterling North — the thinly-veiled alter ego of the Barnes’ tempestuous and embattled black director Richard Glanton, who served as executive director in the 1990s — L. Peter Callender finds a brilliant and terrifying combination of slow burn and short fuse. Driven and autocratic, North rings true as a product of his time — a man possessed by every wrong that has been done him as an African American of a certain era, and consumed by a self-righteous tyranny. Glanton himself “played the race card” vehemently and often. In 1996, he filed a federal civil rights lawsuit charging that he was a victim of prejudice and racist opposition at the hands of the Merion zoning board and the neighbors of the Barnes Foundation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The vituperative accusations of racism were indeed the focus in the early years of the Barnes scandal, but for anyone who followed the fight, it became quickly clear that the real core of the issue had less to do with race than with money. How could it not be so when you’re talking about a collection currently valued at $25 billion (yes, that’s billion with a “B”)?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like the real life Barnes, Morris leaves strict indentures in his will about how his artwork is to be handled after his death. A student of the works of Jung and Adler, as well as of the great educational theorist John Dewey, Barnes created the foundation not as a traditional museum, but rather a school for educating the public about the universal themes of art, in which the paintings were merely reference tools. Irascible and temperamental, he never forgot a grudge and tangled with the art “establishment,” disdaining to the end of his life the critics and museum administrators who rejected his theories and his collection — in his time, they were not even permitted to set foot inside the building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His Barnes Foundation eschewed gift shops and corporate logos — for many years, there was not even a parking lot. Nothing in the way that the collection was exhibited was changed, none of his estimated 5,200 art objects ever left the building, none of the artwork was ever photographed in color, and only a limited number of visitors were permitted to make the appointment to see the works each week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Given the collection’s mystique as well as its richness, perhaps it was inevitable that it would eventually become the focus of greed. Over the last decade, there has been an almost audible “cha-ching,” as dollar signs popped up in the eyes of the major players with every new round — and there were many rounds. As does Sterling North in the play, Glanton quickly racked up astronomical fees as a result of his lawsuits, as well as about $225,000 in “personal expenses,” easily running through the foundation’s $10 million endowment. To pay for the continuing costs, Glanton and his supporters dreamed up a blockbuster world tour featuring 81 of the collection’s most famous Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings — many of which had not been seen outside of the Barnes Foundation’s walls since their acquisition. Incurring more legal fees in the effort to break the will, they succeeded in staging a tour that went to Tokyo, Fort Worth, Ontario, as well as the National Gallery of Art, the Musée d’Orsay, and the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The $17 million the tour raised for the Foundation — ostensibly to restore the endowment and make upgrades to the original building — was spent within a few years, leaving the Foundation again broke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gibbons’ refrain in \u003cb>Permanent Collection\u003c/b> is “put yourself in my place.” It’s repeated by North, by the earnest Tim Kniffin as the foundation devotee Paul Barrow, but it is also silently echoed by the art collection itself, which becomes a seventh voiceless character in the play — the poor little rich child used as a pawn in an ugly divorce battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richard Olmsted’s set elegantly sketches out the idiosyncratic layout of the Barnes Foundation, a vitrine of African objects against a wall that scatters Van Goghs, Renoirs, and Cezannes. Hanging from the catwalks around the space are more paintings, and in the center, worn benches for the actors to sink into as they contemplate the sense of being enveloped by art. Melissa Gray is suitably perky as Gillian Crane, the opportunistic reporter who sniffs out the story. And Karen Aldridge ably forms a stable core as Kanika Weaver, the representative of a more youthful generation frustrated by the intransigency of both North’s and Barrow’s views on race as well as art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, though, discussion of the real-life collection is scarcely about the quality of human endeavor. Art is big business. Just last May a Cubist Picasso portrait of Dora Maar sold for $95 million, and just weeks later, Ronald Lauder paid $135 million for a Gustav Klimt. To put this into some sort of perspective, $135 million also happens to be the exact amount that the US Government has pledged to fight malaria in Africa for the fiscal year 2007.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the real questions that plague me about the Barnes Foundation go unanswered. An art history professor of mine once asked what our responsibility is to the life of a painting? Should the Sistine Chapel ceiling really be cleaned of centuries of dirt and “corrections”? Or is doing so like freshening the face of a fading starlet with plastic surgery — a way of trying to make a glorious moment permanent, of denying that the real life of someone or something might be embedded in the scrapes and scratches?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The biography of the Barnes Foundation now encompasses several grisly episodes. Do we try to deny the changes that will occur to the building, to the collection and to the founder’s vision? Lured by $150 million in grants, the foundation now plans to transplant the Barnes collection to downtown Philadelphia, where it can become the kind of tourist destination that Barnes never envisioned. It’s a travesty, but in a way, it’s a testament of its own — a silent witness to the story of human greed and fallibility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Permanent Collection\u003c/b> runs through July 23, 2006 at the Aurora Theatre, 2081 Addison Street, Berkeley, CA\u003cbr>\nTickets: 510-843-4822\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Learn more about the \u003ca href=\"http://www.barnesfoundation.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Barnes Foundation\u003c/a> (at barnesfoundation.org) and at \u003ca href=\"http://www.barneswatch.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Barnes Foundation Watch\u003c/a> (at barneswatch.org), a group oppossed to the foundation’s relocation.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>I remember the first time I was ever drunk on art. Early in my college career, my Dad called. He was coming to Philadelphia by train and we were going to visit a mysterious place that a friend had told us about called the Barnes Foundation. He secured an appointment and I met him at the station in Merion, PA, about ten minutes outside of Philly on what is familiarly known as “the Mainline.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To get to the Barnes, you must pass the kind of immense mansions and neatly manicured estates that inspired Agnes Nixon to create the people and places of soap operas like \u003cb>All My Children\u003c/b> and \u003cb>One Life to Live\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What the heck is inside this place, anyhow?” we wondered as we walked through the Doric portico decorated with tiles of clearly African motif. Inside? A treasure trove of not just African but Egyptian, Greek, and Navajo art, not to mention some 181 paintings by Renoir, 46 Picassos, 59 Matisses, and more Cezannes than I had ever seen in my entire life. It was like seeing hundreds of old friends — ones you’d known for years, but had never seen before. We had entered the playhouse of Dr. Albert C. Barnes, educator, art collector, and something of a cranky old codger.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That was back in the early nineties, shortly before the history of this mind-bogglingly priceless art collection took the tragic turn documented in Thomas Gibbons’ intriguing play \u003cb>Permanent Collection\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Loosely disguising the names of key players (the foundation becomes the Morris Collection here) Gibbons traces the nasty battles that occurred as the collection transitioned from the hands of the founder’s right-hand woman and into the control of the board of trustees of a local, primarily African-American university — the real-life Lincoln University. For Gibbons, the story of the Barnes Foundation becomes a complex entrée into a discussion of the larger, volatile topic of race relations in America.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As Sterling North — the thinly-veiled alter ego of the Barnes’ tempestuous and embattled black director Richard Glanton, who served as executive director in the 1990s — L. Peter Callender finds a brilliant and terrifying combination of slow burn and short fuse. Driven and autocratic, North rings true as a product of his time — a man possessed by every wrong that has been done him as an African American of a certain era, and consumed by a self-righteous tyranny. Glanton himself “played the race card” vehemently and often. In 1996, he filed a federal civil rights lawsuit charging that he was a victim of prejudice and racist opposition at the hands of the Merion zoning board and the neighbors of the Barnes Foundation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The vituperative accusations of racism were indeed the focus in the early years of the Barnes scandal, but for anyone who followed the fight, it became quickly clear that the real core of the issue had less to do with race than with money. How could it not be so when you’re talking about a collection currently valued at $25 billion (yes, that’s billion with a “B”)?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Like the real life Barnes, Morris leaves strict indentures in his will about how his artwork is to be handled after his death. A student of the works of Jung and Adler, as well as of the great educational theorist John Dewey, Barnes created the foundation not as a traditional museum, but rather a school for educating the public about the universal themes of art, in which the paintings were merely reference tools. Irascible and temperamental, he never forgot a grudge and tangled with the art “establishment,” disdaining to the end of his life the critics and museum administrators who rejected his theories and his collection — in his time, they were not even permitted to set foot inside the building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>His Barnes Foundation eschewed gift shops and corporate logos — for many years, there was not even a parking lot. Nothing in the way that the collection was exhibited was changed, none of his estimated 5,200 art objects ever left the building, none of the artwork was ever photographed in color, and only a limited number of visitors were permitted to make the appointment to see the works each week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Given the collection’s mystique as well as its richness, perhaps it was inevitable that it would eventually become the focus of greed. Over the last decade, there has been an almost audible “cha-ching,” as dollar signs popped up in the eyes of the major players with every new round — and there were many rounds. As does Sterling North in the play, Glanton quickly racked up astronomical fees as a result of his lawsuits, as well as about $225,000 in “personal expenses,” easily running through the foundation’s $10 million endowment. To pay for the continuing costs, Glanton and his supporters dreamed up a blockbuster world tour featuring 81 of the collection’s most famous Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings — many of which had not been seen outside of the Barnes Foundation’s walls since their acquisition. Incurring more legal fees in the effort to break the will, they succeeded in staging a tour that went to Tokyo, Fort Worth, Ontario, as well as the National Gallery of Art, the Musée d’Orsay, and the Philadelphia Museum of Art. The $17 million the tour raised for the Foundation — ostensibly to restore the endowment and make upgrades to the original building — was spent within a few years, leaving the Foundation again broke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gibbons’ refrain in \u003cb>Permanent Collection\u003c/b> is “put yourself in my place.” It’s repeated by North, by the earnest Tim Kniffin as the foundation devotee Paul Barrow, but it is also silently echoed by the art collection itself, which becomes a seventh voiceless character in the play — the poor little rich child used as a pawn in an ugly divorce battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richard Olmsted’s set elegantly sketches out the idiosyncratic layout of the Barnes Foundation, a vitrine of African objects against a wall that scatters Van Goghs, Renoirs, and Cezannes. Hanging from the catwalks around the space are more paintings, and in the center, worn benches for the actors to sink into as they contemplate the sense of being enveloped by art. Melissa Gray is suitably perky as Gillian Crane, the opportunistic reporter who sniffs out the story. And Karen Aldridge ably forms a stable core as Kanika Weaver, the representative of a more youthful generation frustrated by the intransigency of both North’s and Barrow’s views on race as well as art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Nowadays, though, discussion of the real-life collection is scarcely about the quality of human endeavor. Art is big business. Just last May a Cubist Picasso portrait of Dora Maar sold for $95 million, and just weeks later, Ronald Lauder paid $135 million for a Gustav Klimt. To put this into some sort of perspective, $135 million also happens to be the exact amount that the US Government has pledged to fight malaria in Africa for the fiscal year 2007.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the real questions that plague me about the Barnes Foundation go unanswered. An art history professor of mine once asked what our responsibility is to the life of a painting? Should the Sistine Chapel ceiling really be cleaned of centuries of dirt and “corrections”? Or is doing so like freshening the face of a fading starlet with plastic surgery — a way of trying to make a glorious moment permanent, of denying that the real life of someone or something might be embedded in the scrapes and scratches?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The biography of the Barnes Foundation now encompasses several grisly episodes. Do we try to deny the changes that will occur to the building, to the collection and to the founder’s vision? Lured by $150 million in grants, the foundation now plans to transplant the Barnes collection to downtown Philadelphia, where it can become the kind of tourist destination that Barnes never envisioned. It’s a travesty, but in a way, it’s a testament of its own — a silent witness to the story of human greed and fallibility.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Permanent Collection\u003c/b> runs through July 23, 2006 at the Aurora Theatre, 2081 Addison Street, Berkeley, CA\u003cbr>\nTickets: 510-843-4822\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Learn more about the \u003ca href=\"http://www.barnesfoundation.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Barnes Foundation\u003c/a> (at barnesfoundation.org) and at \u003ca href=\"http://www.barneswatch.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Barnes Foundation Watch\u003c/a> (at barneswatch.org), a group oppossed to the foundation’s relocation.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Nobody has more issues than a lapsed Catholic. “All of the guilt, with none of the calories,” is what one of my friends used to say. And lapsed Catholics lurk everywhere. I myself wanted to be a nun when I was nine years old. Maybe it was the ritual, the easily memorized litanies and the clear-cut rules that appeal to those at that first level of Piaget’s stage of moral development. No doubt my lapsed Catholic father was very much relieved when I stopped serving pretend Masses with Necco Wafers and talking about taking the veil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rick Miller’s one man show \u003cb>Bigger than Jesus\u003c/b> — which plays this weekend at Zellerbach Playhouse as part of Cal Performances’ season — reminded me of the view of religion that comes through childlike — which is not to say childish — eyes. I want to say it’s a naïve view, but not naïve in an ignorant sense, but rather in an innocent one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Miller, a one man tour-de-force, gathered kudos for his “MacHomer” a Simpson’s-inspired telling of Macbeth, which Berkeley Rep presented earlier in the year. In \u003cb>Bigger Than Jesus\u003c/b> though, he delves into the story of the Messiah and the underpinnings of Christianity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Loosely framed on a Catholic mass, Miller’s 75-minute play ranges across space and time, with Miller playing Jesus as, variously, a drawling professor-cum-Borscht Belt comedian, a proselytizing minister, and a hyperactive flight attendant. It’s a versatile performance that Miller reels off with deceptive ease, but like a child’s game of playing Mass, at the end it left me unmoved and oddly uninterested in asking any of the bigger questions like, Who is this God anyway?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Early on, we find ourselves at the start of Mass. Those with any kind of Catholic background found ourselves murmuring “Thanks be to God,” at appropriate moments, without even thinking about it. Someone speaking with priestly intonation in a darkened room and then pausing for our response — it just seemed natural.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The production itself, designed by Ben Chaisson and Beth Kates and directed by co-writer Daniel Brooks, is superb. A video screen in the back and a smooth white floor that doubles as a white board make a simple set, but Chaisson and Kates meld video and sound together to make the kind of seamless experience that is incredibly difficult to achieve. Live video cameras that feed real-time images merge with pre-recorded tape and live action with a skillfulness that eludes a lot of theater productions these days. It’s a clever production, and Miller makes a genial host — never too pushy with ideas, always inclusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Often lurking under the rational skin of a lapsed Catholic is an undercurrent of rage, or at least indignation. But there’s no rancor to Miller’s performance and his journey plays more like a didactic lecture, rather than any kind of commentary. I wished he had a little more bite. His notes on the portrayal of the historical Jesus, the development of the Christian faith and its place in the world today aren’t new, by any means, and it felt as though he were perhaps a little afraid to utilize the fullness of sarcasm that I sensed lurking behind the words.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, Miller attacks the stage performance with phenomenal vigor and he can be raucously funny at times. At one point he prowls the house, planting a kiss on the mouth of a surprised man in the front row of the audience. He turns the camera on us and exhorts us to wave our arms ridiculously in the air as if we were at a revival meeting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Quick, get your arms up before he comes over here!” my husband hisses at me. “You saw him, he’s crazy!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And a re-enactment of the Last Supper using a five-inch plastic Jesus action figure (I believe I’ve seen the package and it says that he has “poseable arms and wheels in his base for smooth gliding action”) bopping along to a send-up of “Gethsemane” from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Jesus Christ Superstar” is utterly hilarious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Miller can also be touchingly honest and open about his own confusion. Perhaps his best moments are the revealing ones, where we find out little snippets of what he himself believes. But so much of the show is him not being Rick Miller that I began to wonder if he were afraid to directly address his own religious confusion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, the bigger questions were still there, waiting to be asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Cast:\u003c/b> Rick Miller\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Director:\u003c/b> Daniel Brooks\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Bigger Than Jesus\u003c/b> runs June 20-24, 2006 at the Zellerbach Playhouse, UC Berkeley, Berkeley, CA\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Tickets:\u003c/b> $30, call 510-642-9988\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Nobody has more issues than a lapsed Catholic. “All of the guilt, with none of the calories,” is what one of my friends used to say. And lapsed Catholics lurk everywhere. I myself wanted to be a nun when I was nine years old. Maybe it was the ritual, the easily memorized litanies and the clear-cut rules that appeal to those at that first level of Piaget’s stage of moral development. No doubt my lapsed Catholic father was very much relieved when I stopped serving pretend Masses with Necco Wafers and talking about taking the veil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rick Miller’s one man show \u003cb>Bigger than Jesus\u003c/b> — which plays this weekend at Zellerbach Playhouse as part of Cal Performances’ season — reminded me of the view of religion that comes through childlike — which is not to say childish — eyes. I want to say it’s a naïve view, but not naïve in an ignorant sense, but rather in an innocent one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Miller, a one man tour-de-force, gathered kudos for his “MacHomer” a Simpson’s-inspired telling of Macbeth, which Berkeley Rep presented earlier in the year. In \u003cb>Bigger Than Jesus\u003c/b> though, he delves into the story of the Messiah and the underpinnings of Christianity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Loosely framed on a Catholic mass, Miller’s 75-minute play ranges across space and time, with Miller playing Jesus as, variously, a drawling professor-cum-Borscht Belt comedian, a proselytizing minister, and a hyperactive flight attendant. It’s a versatile performance that Miller reels off with deceptive ease, but like a child’s game of playing Mass, at the end it left me unmoved and oddly uninterested in asking any of the bigger questions like, Who is this God anyway?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Early on, we find ourselves at the start of Mass. Those with any kind of Catholic background found ourselves murmuring “Thanks be to God,” at appropriate moments, without even thinking about it. Someone speaking with priestly intonation in a darkened room and then pausing for our response — it just seemed natural.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The production itself, designed by Ben Chaisson and Beth Kates and directed by co-writer Daniel Brooks, is superb. A video screen in the back and a smooth white floor that doubles as a white board make a simple set, but Chaisson and Kates meld video and sound together to make the kind of seamless experience that is incredibly difficult to achieve. Live video cameras that feed real-time images merge with pre-recorded tape and live action with a skillfulness that eludes a lot of theater productions these days. It’s a clever production, and Miller makes a genial host — never too pushy with ideas, always inclusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Often lurking under the rational skin of a lapsed Catholic is an undercurrent of rage, or at least indignation. But there’s no rancor to Miller’s performance and his journey plays more like a didactic lecture, rather than any kind of commentary. I wished he had a little more bite. His notes on the portrayal of the historical Jesus, the development of the Christian faith and its place in the world today aren’t new, by any means, and it felt as though he were perhaps a little afraid to utilize the fullness of sarcasm that I sensed lurking behind the words.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, Miller attacks the stage performance with phenomenal vigor and he can be raucously funny at times. At one point he prowls the house, planting a kiss on the mouth of a surprised man in the front row of the audience. He turns the camera on us and exhorts us to wave our arms ridiculously in the air as if we were at a revival meeting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Quick, get your arms up before he comes over here!” my husband hisses at me. “You saw him, he’s crazy!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And a re-enactment of the Last Supper using a five-inch plastic Jesus action figure (I believe I’ve seen the package and it says that he has “poseable arms and wheels in his base for smooth gliding action”) bopping along to a send-up of “Gethsemane” from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Jesus Christ Superstar” is utterly hilarious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Miller can also be touchingly honest and open about his own confusion. Perhaps his best moments are the revealing ones, where we find out little snippets of what he himself believes. But so much of the show is him not being Rick Miller that I began to wonder if he were afraid to directly address his own religious confusion.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end, the bigger questions were still there, waiting to be asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Cast:\u003c/b> Rick Miller\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Director:\u003c/b> Daniel Brooks\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Bigger Than Jesus\u003c/b> runs June 20-24, 2006 at the Zellerbach Playhouse, UC Berkeley, Berkeley, CA\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Tickets:\u003c/b> $30, call 510-642-9988\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>You know what’s so incredible about live theater? It’s the eerie effect of seeing a story unfold in real time and real space. I mean, it’s one thing to watch a story depicted on the screen; actors these days rarely appear to have wrinkles or pores or anything physically human about them. But when a story’s enacted a few yards in front of us by people who sweat, spit, and bleed — when we take into account that a few yards of space are all that separate us from the action — we’re reminded that we, too, are alive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Killing My Lobster’s presentation of Peter Nachtrieb’s \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> not only reminds us that we’re alive, but that modern men and women are in absolute thrall to our most primal urges. \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b>, set in the living room of a sleek San Francisco loft, plays with the notion that though we live in a structured society full of straight lines and sharp corners, what drives us is neither straight nor structured but formlessly permeates our experience, like the fragrance of fresh-cooked meat permeates a city street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the play a married couple, Richard and Pam, slaughter and roast a lamb in celebration of their wedding anniversary. Killing the lamb is something, Richard says, that he and Pam can “do together” for their friends. “My entire life,” he explains, “has led up to this day.” Pam, true to her character, gives in to Richard’s basest instincts because her concept of “niceness” means that she must stifle her own desires in service to others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But when Wendy and Tom arrive it becomes clear that Wendy is more in touch with her basic desires than Pam. Indeed, Wendy has much more in common with the artistic and impulsive Richard than she does with her own rigid and passive husband, Tom. Given this dynamic and how well each of the four characters is rounded, the events of the evening rapidly turn, and then turn, and then turn again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Expect to witness debauchery in a dizzying array of forms: sex, violence, wild and lustful eating, survival, S&M — the play covers the gamut of basic animal urges. The characters in \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> continually push one another to their absolute limits, striving to realize their true purposes: Wendy, to give birth; Richard, to “spread his seed”; and Tom, to be physically dominated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In current cinema there’s something awfully pious about the idea of finding one’s purpose; while the Titanic sinks, the quartet plays on and even hypothermia is beautiful. But the characters in \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> are guided by something much more limbic. If they were passengers on the Titanic, we get the feeling they’d be having a last-minute orgy in the captain’s quarters after having killed and eaten him. The world of the play admits a hedonistic human core that maybe we, like the most stifled character, Pam, liken to anarchy. Maybe we fear intemperance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end the play belongs entirely to Pam, who declares that she “want[s] to come of age in a brutal ritual.” And oh, does she! Her final exit lent significance to the moment I stepped out of the theater into the wild urban San Francisco night. I headed back to my car with my — okay — my hunky date, and the smells wafting from the restaurants; the throb of crickets, I guess (or did I imagine this?); the strange warm breeze licking my shoulders — well, it all seemed so poignant. Needless to say, the night was more compelling than the car and we took a detour. Hours later, full of beer, we realized that I’d locked my keys in the ignition. This, my friends, was a happy discovery, and no, I didn’t do it on purpose! In San Francisco there are many ways to pass the time while waiting for Triple A…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Cast:\u003c/b> Melanie Case (Pam), John Kovacevich (Tom), Alexis Lezin (Wendy), Jon Wolanske (Richard)\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Director:\u003c/b> Tracy Ward\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> runs through July 9, 2006 (Wednesdays through Sundays) at the Thick House Theater, 1695 18th Street, San Francisco (Potrero Hill)\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Ticket line:\u003c/b> 415.558.7721\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>You know what’s so incredible about live theater? It’s the eerie effect of seeing a story unfold in real time and real space. I mean, it’s one thing to watch a story depicted on the screen; actors these days rarely appear to have wrinkles or pores or anything physically human about them. But when a story’s enacted a few yards in front of us by people who sweat, spit, and bleed — when we take into account that a few yards of space are all that separate us from the action — we’re reminded that we, too, are alive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Killing My Lobster’s presentation of Peter Nachtrieb’s \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> not only reminds us that we’re alive, but that modern men and women are in absolute thrall to our most primal urges. \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b>, set in the living room of a sleek San Francisco loft, plays with the notion that though we live in a structured society full of straight lines and sharp corners, what drives us is neither straight nor structured but formlessly permeates our experience, like the fragrance of fresh-cooked meat permeates a city street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the play a married couple, Richard and Pam, slaughter and roast a lamb in celebration of their wedding anniversary. Killing the lamb is something, Richard says, that he and Pam can “do together” for their friends. “My entire life,” he explains, “has led up to this day.” Pam, true to her character, gives in to Richard’s basest instincts because her concept of “niceness” means that she must stifle her own desires in service to others.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But when Wendy and Tom arrive it becomes clear that Wendy is more in touch with her basic desires than Pam. Indeed, Wendy has much more in common with the artistic and impulsive Richard than she does with her own rigid and passive husband, Tom. Given this dynamic and how well each of the four characters is rounded, the events of the evening rapidly turn, and then turn, and then turn again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Expect to witness debauchery in a dizzying array of forms: sex, violence, wild and lustful eating, survival, S&M — the play covers the gamut of basic animal urges. The characters in \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> continually push one another to their absolute limits, striving to realize their true purposes: Wendy, to give birth; Richard, to “spread his seed”; and Tom, to be physically dominated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In current cinema there’s something awfully pious about the idea of finding one’s purpose; while the Titanic sinks, the quartet plays on and even hypothermia is beautiful. But the characters in \u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> are guided by something much more limbic. If they were passengers on the Titanic, we get the feeling they’d be having a last-minute orgy in the captain’s quarters after having killed and eaten him. The world of the play admits a hedonistic human core that maybe we, like the most stifled character, Pam, liken to anarchy. Maybe we fear intemperance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the end the play belongs entirely to Pam, who declares that she “want[s] to come of age in a brutal ritual.” And oh, does she! Her final exit lent significance to the moment I stepped out of the theater into the wild urban San Francisco night. I headed back to my car with my — okay — my hunky date, and the smells wafting from the restaurants; the throb of crickets, I guess (or did I imagine this?); the strange warm breeze licking my shoulders — well, it all seemed so poignant. Needless to say, the night was more compelling than the car and we took a detour. Hours later, full of beer, we realized that I’d locked my keys in the ignition. This, my friends, was a happy discovery, and no, I didn’t do it on purpose! In San Francisco there are many ways to pass the time while waiting for Triple A…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Cast:\u003c/b> Melanie Case (Pam), John Kovacevich (Tom), Alexis Lezin (Wendy), Jon Wolanske (Richard)\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Director:\u003c/b> Tracy Ward\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Hunter Gatherers\u003c/b> runs through July 9, 2006 (Wednesdays through Sundays) at the Thick House Theater, 1695 18th Street, San Francisco (Potrero Hill)\u003cbr>\n\u003cb>Ticket line:\u003c/b> 415.558.7721\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>In the interest of full disclosure, let me say two things right off the bat: 1) \u003cb>Bent\u003c/b> is one of my all-time favorite plays; and 2) one of the actors in the current Theatre Rhino production is a friend of mine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>OK, so here goes: Please please please go see this play. Even if you’ve seen it before. Even if you’re not queer. Especially if you have seen the movie, which is a lousy facsimile of the real thing. This production, directed by John Fisher, is impressively conceived, cleverly designed, and full of nuanced, gut-wrenching performances. The holidays are an odd time to pick for an evening of savagery and survival in a Nazi concentration camp, but the play’s solemnity and ultimate testament to the redemptive power of love seem to me to be quite germane (ha, no pun intended).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The play opens in decadent 1930’s Berlin. We meet Max (Clayton B. Hodges), an apolitical hedonist who is always “working a deal,” and his effeminate dancer-lover Rudy (Enrique Vallejo). It’s the morning after Max has made a debauched spectacle of himself at a local nightclub. Ensuing events leave the couple on the run from the Nazis who have just launched their purge of suspected homosexuals. We meet a trick named Wolf (the yummy Michael Vega), and other friends and lovers who either aid or betray the couple as they fall further into exile, finally living as human scavengers in the woods. To be honest, the production takes a while to hit its stride — the opening scenes are a bit shrill with too much huffy, banging-around stage business — and Hodges and Vallejo are a little clumsy at defining the relationship between the two lovers (they get better as the play proceeds). But stick with it. Act One ends with the couple’s capture and detainment by the Nazis. On the train, a couple of vicious soldiers sadistically force Max into participating in his lover’s brutal murder. Then we land in Dachau.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ironically, Dachau is where the play becomes beautiful. The second act concentrates on the developing friendship between Max and another prisoner, Horst (Kevin Clarke), as they spend their days moving a pointless pile of rocks from one side of the camp to the other. In a standout performance, Kevin Clarke delivers a pitch-perfect portrait of Horst, an older, openly gay man who, despite his most appalling and inhumane treatment, hangs onto his shredded pride, diginity and sense of humor. Clarke’s slow, silent shuffle through a food line reveals more about Horst’s history in the camp than any words put to paper. Horst resents Max for wearing the yellow star of a Jew instead of the pink triangle of a homosexual (which relegates its wearer to the lowest rung on the prisoner ladder). How the dealmaker Max was able to “upgrade” his status to the yellow star is one of the more harrowing truths in the play, and Hodges delivers this story with such savage self-hatred, one can barely breathe when he is finished with his monologue. Clayton B. Hodges is a force to behold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the rocks mount and the men’s friendship strengthens, there are moments of bleak humor, unspeakable cruelty, and extraordinary tenderness. In a remarkable scene, the playwright has the two men — constantly watched by guards and unable to touch — stand side by side and talk each other to sexual climax. It is a scene of such powerful intimacy, it moves beyond sex and into the realm of human survival and hope. This staging was the most painful and exhausting and gorgeous sexual encounter I have ever witnessed in the theatre or in the movies, hands down. Hodges and Clarke were so emotionally raw, so connected, so believably turned-on, I almost had to avert my eyes. And get this: THEY WEREN’T EVEN LOOKING AT EACH OTHER.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the stagecraft: Erik Flatmo’s set and David Robertson’s lighting are great examples of compelling, intelligent theatrical design. They didn’t try to create a “realistic” concentration camp; instead they made clever use of their minimal resources, organizing a bare, exposed stage with an arrangement of wires, sheets, and pools of light. Fisher’s fluid direction, which incorporates video projection and live cabaret acts, makes maximum use of this Brechtian environment. And the play’s climactic ending is such an effective intersection of design, direction, and performance, it’s hard to top for sheer theatricality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I would say that the production’s one small flaw is the uneven performances of some of the minor players, though how one can portray a convincing Nazi in a post-Ralph Fiennes/\u003cb>Schindler’s List\u003c/b> world is hard to say. There was also a lot of reliance on the banging of doors, a contrivance that seemed over the top to me — the play’s circumstances are certainly menacing enough. But Fisher directs with a sure hand, and he gets some lovely, bittersweet performances out of the supporting cast, most notably Matt Weimer as Greta, a cross-dressing chanteuse, and Greg Lucey as Freddie, a wealthy, closeted uncle who tries to help Max. But it is Hodges and Clarke as Max and Horst who carry the show to a transcendent plane, and they carry us right along with them. Most people say \u003cb>Romeo & Juliet\u003c/b> is the greatest tragic love story ever told, but I would offer that \u003cb>Bent\u003c/b> may just be its equal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Bent\u003c/b> runs through January 7, 2006.\u003cbr>\nVisit \u003ca href=\"http://www.therhino.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Theater Rhinoceros\u003c/a> (at therhino.org) for tickets and information.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the stagecraft: Erik Flatmo’s set and David Robertson’s lighting are great examples of compelling, intelligent theatrical design. They didn’t try to create a “realistic” concentration camp; instead they made clever use of their minimal resources, organizing a bare, exposed stage with an arrangement of wires, sheets, and pools of light. Fisher’s fluid direction, which incorporates video projection and live cabaret acts, makes maximum use of this Brechtian environment. And the play’s climactic ending is such an effective intersection of design, direction, and performance, it’s hard to top for sheer theatricality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I would say that the production’s one small flaw is the uneven performances of some of the minor players, though how one can portray a convincing Nazi in a post-Ralph Fiennes/\u003cb>Schindler’s List\u003c/b> world is hard to say. There was also a lot of reliance on the banging of doors, a contrivance that seemed over the top to me — the play’s circumstances are certainly menacing enough. But Fisher directs with a sure hand, and he gets some lovely, bittersweet performances out of the supporting cast, most notably Matt Weimer as Greta, a cross-dressing chanteuse, and Greg Lucey as Freddie, a wealthy, closeted uncle who tries to help Max. But it is Hodges and Clarke as Max and Horst who carry the show to a transcendent plane, and they carry us right along with them. Most people say \u003cb>Romeo & Juliet\u003c/b> is the greatest tragic love story ever told, but I would offer that \u003cb>Bent\u003c/b> may just be its equal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Bent\u003c/b> runs through January 7, 2006.\u003cbr>\nVisit \u003ca href=\"http://www.therhino.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Theater Rhinoceros\u003c/a> (at therhino.org) for tickets and information.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>After a series of escalating personal setbacks, ranging from the receipt of film festival and grant panel rejection letters to coordinating the appointment with an exterminator to rid my house of bedbugs, I was at the end of my rope. I needed an escape, a guided tour of someone else’s imaginary realm, one that would help me completely disconnect from the harsh reality of having to throw out half the furniture and practically burn our clothes in order to rid my household of the city’s newest and most diabolical pest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When my friend Dennis called with free tickets to the Cirque Du Soleil, I could not pass up the opportunity to spend the afternoon in a dream world, rather than my own dreary reality. Even though it seems cliché at this point, I was always one of those kids who imagined running away with the circus and fell in love with the lure of carnivals, sideshows and films that depicted this sub-culture, like Tod Browning’s seminal film \u003cb>Freaks\u003c/b>. I had attended the Cirque Du Soleil a couple of times in the late nineties and always enjoyed the spectacle, daredevil feats of the performers, and creepy edge that characterized the shows themes and costumes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I made my way downtown, the dark clouds and long walk along the stormy bay seemed like an appropriate prologue to attending the Cirque Du Soleil. In the distance, the stunning yellow and blue striped tent clashed against the grey storm clouds that rolled across the sky and I felt a surge of excitement mingled with anticipation. Once inside the main performance tent, the cold and rainy day disappeared. The tent was warm and cozy, and gilt chandeliers imbued the space with a shimmering golden light. Staged in a round, the space was divided by a beautifully painted scrim draped across the middle of the set, which transformed the cavernous space into an intimate environment. Everything in the room sparkled in a fairytale sort of way. The combination of lighting, set design and props created a truly dreamlike environment and set the stage for the performance of \u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The show begins with a wild funeral procession as dreamt by a clown lost somewhere between death and dreaming. All the performers and characters are introduced and the enchanting fantasy world of the show is nicely established in this opening sequence. From there, a plethora of talented and engaging performers lit up the stage and delivered a show with non-stop action. From the four women performing aerial acrobatics hanging from giant chandeliers, to the tightrope artist walking on point shoes above our heads and the flying trapeze artists soaring through the air, the strength of \u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b> lies in the talent of the individual performers. But also in the ability of Cirque Du Soleil to cultivate the aesthetic of the show, combining the lineage of stock circus characters and the influence of performance art, with the high energy and daring feats of the street performers who started the Cirque Du Soleil over twenty five years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Only after I walked out of the circus tent, did I have a moment to reflect on the numerous elements that resulted in the shows creation. Each act is devised, choreographed, costumes designed, props built, music written and timed, performers staged, sets built and rigged and then there are the safety concerns that need to be dealt with at all times. It is an amazing achievement to put together a show of this magnitude and still maintain the dream-like reverie of a fantasy world. The only weakness of \u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b> lies in its attempt at humor, which fails often and miserably. The comedy set pieces simply fall flat and are unnecessary in a two hour plus show. But this is a small misstep when considering all the other elements of the show that are pure magic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Living in a modern city seems to disconnect us from the possibility of magic, since we are expected to be tuned into reality at all times. So more than a diversion, the circus provides a place of imagination and endless possibility that modern life has dissolved from our daily interactions and existence.\u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b> is a romantic creation, but sometimes a little magic and fantasy is necessary to make it through the day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b>‘s San Francisco run ends January 8,2006.\u003cbr>\nVisit \u003ca href=\"http://www.cirquedusoleil.com\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Cirque du Soleil\u003c/a> (at cirquedusoleil.com).\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>After a series of escalating personal setbacks, ranging from the receipt of film festival and grant panel rejection letters to coordinating the appointment with an exterminator to rid my house of bedbugs, I was at the end of my rope. I needed an escape, a guided tour of someone else’s imaginary realm, one that would help me completely disconnect from the harsh reality of having to throw out half the furniture and practically burn our clothes in order to rid my household of the city’s newest and most diabolical pest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When my friend Dennis called with free tickets to the Cirque Du Soleil, I could not pass up the opportunity to spend the afternoon in a dream world, rather than my own dreary reality. Even though it seems cliché at this point, I was always one of those kids who imagined running away with the circus and fell in love with the lure of carnivals, sideshows and films that depicted this sub-culture, like Tod Browning’s seminal film \u003cb>Freaks\u003c/b>. I had attended the Cirque Du Soleil a couple of times in the late nineties and always enjoyed the spectacle, daredevil feats of the performers, and creepy edge that characterized the shows themes and costumes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I made my way downtown, the dark clouds and long walk along the stormy bay seemed like an appropriate prologue to attending the Cirque Du Soleil. In the distance, the stunning yellow and blue striped tent clashed against the grey storm clouds that rolled across the sky and I felt a surge of excitement mingled with anticipation. Once inside the main performance tent, the cold and rainy day disappeared. The tent was warm and cozy, and gilt chandeliers imbued the space with a shimmering golden light. Staged in a round, the space was divided by a beautifully painted scrim draped across the middle of the set, which transformed the cavernous space into an intimate environment. Everything in the room sparkled in a fairytale sort of way. The combination of lighting, set design and props created a truly dreamlike environment and set the stage for the performance of \u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The show begins with a wild funeral procession as dreamt by a clown lost somewhere between death and dreaming. All the performers and characters are introduced and the enchanting fantasy world of the show is nicely established in this opening sequence. From there, a plethora of talented and engaging performers lit up the stage and delivered a show with non-stop action. From the four women performing aerial acrobatics hanging from giant chandeliers, to the tightrope artist walking on point shoes above our heads and the flying trapeze artists soaring through the air, the strength of \u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b> lies in the talent of the individual performers. But also in the ability of Cirque Du Soleil to cultivate the aesthetic of the show, combining the lineage of stock circus characters and the influence of performance art, with the high energy and daring feats of the street performers who started the Cirque Du Soleil over twenty five years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Only after I walked out of the circus tent, did I have a moment to reflect on the numerous elements that resulted in the shows creation. Each act is devised, choreographed, costumes designed, props built, music written and timed, performers staged, sets built and rigged and then there are the safety concerns that need to be dealt with at all times. It is an amazing achievement to put together a show of this magnitude and still maintain the dream-like reverie of a fantasy world. The only weakness of \u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b> lies in its attempt at humor, which fails often and miserably. The comedy set pieces simply fall flat and are unnecessary in a two hour plus show. But this is a small misstep when considering all the other elements of the show that are pure magic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Living in a modern city seems to disconnect us from the possibility of magic, since we are expected to be tuned into reality at all times. So more than a diversion, the circus provides a place of imagination and endless possibility that modern life has dissolved from our daily interactions and existence.\u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b> is a romantic creation, but sometimes a little magic and fantasy is necessary to make it through the day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Corteo\u003c/b>‘s San Francisco run ends January 8,2006.\u003cbr>\nVisit \u003ca href=\"http://www.cirquedusoleil.com\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">Cirque du Soleil\u003c/a> (at cirquedusoleil.com).\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Not Interactive Theatre as in “some unfortunate schmuck gets picked out of the audience and is forced onstage to do the Can-Can only to be sent home with a humiliating Polaroid snapshot and the laughter of a thousand strangers ringing in his ears.” No, I mean the kind of interactive theatre where the actual mechanics of the art form are challenged. Where the Brechtian notion of alienation gets stepped up a notch and the performance is created by both the audience and the actors in full collaboration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I produced this kind of stuff for years for Sausalito-based Antenna Theater. They’re known for putting their audience into headphones and then sending them through intricately constructed theatrical environments — sometimes prefabrications, sometimes pre-existing sites like the County Dump or Alcatraz. The “play” is created individually and uniquely every time a person goes through the environment guided by their headsets. Their actions become the performance itself (“Reach into the box…Take the necklace…Go on, do it before anyone sees you. That’s right, now put it in your pocket…”). It’s public spectacle, but also has an unnerving psychological element — no one will know if you’re giving it your all, but the more you “let go,” the better the “show” becomes for you. You’re the performer and the audience all at once, so the success of the piece lies as much in your own hands as in the hands of the “director.” Quite provocative.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I bring this up because last weekend I attended the first-ever \u003cb>SoWat Now! Festival of Contemporary Performance\u003c/b> in Santa Cruz. It was a three-day showcase of local and international talents, offering a multitude of performances, workshops and panel discussions, much of it interactive. I took in as much as I could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, a few highlights: Anne Randolph’s solo performance \u003cb>Squeeze Box\u003c/b> was a poignant & hilarious living-memoir based on Randolph’s experience working the graveyard shift at a homeless shelter for mentally ill women in Los Angeles. Randolph narrated and played all of the characters a la Anna Deveare Smith, and the kaleidoscopic journey she wove for us was both personal and political, funny and desperate, and remarkably genuine. I heard it was a hit in New York and has since been optioned for a film. I hope it gets made — but only if she plays every character on screen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another unforgettable performance was by San Francisco dance troupe Scott Wells and Company. \u003cb>Collateral Damage\u003c/b> was a violent, comic, full-body contact chessgame of a dance that involved two men, one table, a bowl of pretzels and numerous flying, slamming movements sure to induce bruising on the parts of the performers. It left me gasping for air.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From there, I walked into \u003cb>Shiver Thy Timbers\u003c/b> by Malaika Sarco, a Brussels-based performance artist. She was not in attendance, but sent a PowerPoint presentation to direct the audience on how to perform the piece in her absence. Ha. Right up my alley. There were 10 other people there, a small but committed group of theatrical adventurers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Suspicions arose quickly that we were not actually going to be in a theater piece but some sort of PERFORMANCE ART when the PowerPoint presentation began with a didactic manifesto about how the artist refused to be personally responsible for consuming the 2,246 gallons of oil required to fly a plane from Brussels to California. She berated our government and its policies on the Iraq War, the Middle East, our over-consumption of natural resources, and on and on and on. We all stood silent and somewhat puzzled reading this rather long “preface,” since this was \u003ci>Santa Cruz\u003c/i> after all. Talk about preaching to the wrong audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were then separated into three groups: Movers, Watchers, and Poets. The Poets were to read the text aloud as it appeared onscreen while the Movers (my group) responded to their words using our bodies, faces, \u003ci>essences\u003c/i> — while the Watchers would be, you know, watching us. And thus we began:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The intellectual may feel enslaved in matter. If only she could escape from the body. But the mind will not fly unless we embrace the body as a path to freedom.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Huh?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the next 35 minutes, my fellow Movers and I did our best to express things through our bodies other than “What the hell is going on?” and “OH MY GOD, how long can this possibly LAST?” My lowest moment found me intently scrutinizing a plastic clump of dusty white carnations attempting to absorb their “secret hidden emotions,” which I was then commanded to enact physically for my fellow participants. (For those of you who care about such things, it was a Pinnochio-esque yearning to be real. Try dancing that in front of your mirror sometime.) Later, we were directed to merge into a “flock” while being lectured about the precarious state of some rare mushroom found only in the jungles Bolivia. It was everything everyone fears performance art will be: bewildering, self-important, embarrassing and pointless. At the climax, I was actually instructed to “shiver my timbers” — at which point, I began shrieking internally “WHAT AM I EVEN STILL DOING HERE?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ah, but there was the rub. Even though it was excruciating, I couldn’t abandon my fellow participants. We were all equally drowning in absurdity, gamely acting as “the wind, the mite, the music of the flute.” When it was finally over, I felt an intense hatred for the artist and a huge swell of love for those 10 people in the room. I appreciated how willingly they gave of themselves, and treasured them for not abandoning me in the middle of it all. Stunned, I felt that my earlier question — What the fuck does this have to do with anything? — was answered in that feeling. It was in the \u003ci>not-abandoning\u003c/i> of each other that this experience transcended its own arty pretentiousness. We each put the group’s interest above our own; as a collective, we spontaneously created something both ephemeral and lasting (for us anyway), and only as a collective did we manage to survive the ordeal with some grace. It was impossible to tell from all of her muddled enviro-prose, but I wonder if this could have been the artist’s intention all along?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In any case, I guess that’s what you risk when you attend a festival full throttle, whether it be film, theater, music, or performance. There will always be the good, the bad, and the ugly. That’s what exploring an art form is all about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Learn more about Santa Cruz’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.scica.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cb>SoWat Now! Festival of Contemporary Performance\u003c/b>\u003c/a> (at scica.org).\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Not Interactive Theatre as in “some unfortunate schmuck gets picked out of the audience and is forced onstage to do the Can-Can only to be sent home with a humiliating Polaroid snapshot and the laughter of a thousand strangers ringing in his ears.” No, I mean the kind of interactive theatre where the actual mechanics of the art form are challenged. Where the Brechtian notion of alienation gets stepped up a notch and the performance is created by both the audience and the actors in full collaboration.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I produced this kind of stuff for years for Sausalito-based Antenna Theater. They’re known for putting their audience into headphones and then sending them through intricately constructed theatrical environments — sometimes prefabrications, sometimes pre-existing sites like the County Dump or Alcatraz. The “play” is created individually and uniquely every time a person goes through the environment guided by their headsets. Their actions become the performance itself (“Reach into the box…Take the necklace…Go on, do it before anyone sees you. That’s right, now put it in your pocket…”). It’s public spectacle, but also has an unnerving psychological element — no one will know if you’re giving it your all, but the more you “let go,” the better the “show” becomes for you. You’re the performer and the audience all at once, so the success of the piece lies as much in your own hands as in the hands of the “director.” Quite provocative.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I bring this up because last weekend I attended the first-ever \u003cb>SoWat Now! Festival of Contemporary Performance\u003c/b> in Santa Cruz. It was a three-day showcase of local and international talents, offering a multitude of performances, workshops and panel discussions, much of it interactive. I took in as much as I could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>First, a few highlights: Anne Randolph’s solo performance \u003cb>Squeeze Box\u003c/b> was a poignant & hilarious living-memoir based on Randolph’s experience working the graveyard shift at a homeless shelter for mentally ill women in Los Angeles. Randolph narrated and played all of the characters a la Anna Deveare Smith, and the kaleidoscopic journey she wove for us was both personal and political, funny and desperate, and remarkably genuine. I heard it was a hit in New York and has since been optioned for a film. I hope it gets made — but only if she plays every character on screen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another unforgettable performance was by San Francisco dance troupe Scott Wells and Company. \u003cb>Collateral Damage\u003c/b> was a violent, comic, full-body contact chessgame of a dance that involved two men, one table, a bowl of pretzels and numerous flying, slamming movements sure to induce bruising on the parts of the performers. It left me gasping for air.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From there, I walked into \u003cb>Shiver Thy Timbers\u003c/b> by Malaika Sarco, a Brussels-based performance artist. She was not in attendance, but sent a PowerPoint presentation to direct the audience on how to perform the piece in her absence. Ha. Right up my alley. There were 10 other people there, a small but committed group of theatrical adventurers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Suspicions arose quickly that we were not actually going to be in a theater piece but some sort of PERFORMANCE ART when the PowerPoint presentation began with a didactic manifesto about how the artist refused to be personally responsible for consuming the 2,246 gallons of oil required to fly a plane from Brussels to California. She berated our government and its policies on the Iraq War, the Middle East, our over-consumption of natural resources, and on and on and on. We all stood silent and somewhat puzzled reading this rather long “preface,” since this was \u003ci>Santa Cruz\u003c/i> after all. Talk about preaching to the wrong audience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We were then separated into three groups: Movers, Watchers, and Poets. The Poets were to read the text aloud as it appeared onscreen while the Movers (my group) responded to their words using our bodies, faces, \u003ci>essences\u003c/i> — while the Watchers would be, you know, watching us. And thus we began:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The intellectual may feel enslaved in matter. If only she could escape from the body. But the mind will not fly unless we embrace the body as a path to freedom.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Huh?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For the next 35 minutes, my fellow Movers and I did our best to express things through our bodies other than “What the hell is going on?” and “OH MY GOD, how long can this possibly LAST?” My lowest moment found me intently scrutinizing a plastic clump of dusty white carnations attempting to absorb their “secret hidden emotions,” which I was then commanded to enact physically for my fellow participants. (For those of you who care about such things, it was a Pinnochio-esque yearning to be real. Try dancing that in front of your mirror sometime.) Later, we were directed to merge into a “flock” while being lectured about the precarious state of some rare mushroom found only in the jungles Bolivia. It was everything everyone fears performance art will be: bewildering, self-important, embarrassing and pointless. At the climax, I was actually instructed to “shiver my timbers” — at which point, I began shrieking internally “WHAT AM I EVEN STILL DOING HERE?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ah, but there was the rub. Even though it was excruciating, I couldn’t abandon my fellow participants. We were all equally drowning in absurdity, gamely acting as “the wind, the mite, the music of the flute.” When it was finally over, I felt an intense hatred for the artist and a huge swell of love for those 10 people in the room. I appreciated how willingly they gave of themselves, and treasured them for not abandoning me in the middle of it all. Stunned, I felt that my earlier question — What the fuck does this have to do with anything? — was answered in that feeling. It was in the \u003ci>not-abandoning\u003c/i> of each other that this experience transcended its own arty pretentiousness. We each put the group’s interest above our own; as a collective, we spontaneously created something both ephemeral and lasting (for us anyway), and only as a collective did we manage to survive the ordeal with some grace. It was impossible to tell from all of her muddled enviro-prose, but I wonder if this could have been the artist’s intention all along?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In any case, I guess that’s what you risk when you attend a festival full throttle, whether it be film, theater, music, or performance. There will always be the good, the bad, and the ugly. That’s what exploring an art form is all about.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Learn more about Santa Cruz’s \u003ca href=\"http://www.scica.org/\" target=\"offsite\" rel=\"noopener\">\u003cb>SoWat Now! Festival of Contemporary Performance\u003c/b>\u003c/a> (at scica.org).\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"soldout": {
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