Obscene Jester

on a lighter note

Act I, scene 1: Cute young thing meets New York caustic bitch

Haggard and none too pleased woman (played by sharkskin) stands by computer store with massive box.  Cute young thing in summery green dress and a BINDER is panhandling massages and whatnot.  Approaches haggard woman.   (Apparently they don't teach 'how to read people' in the seminar.) 

"Ma'am," young thing says.

Haggard woman who's just been called MA'AM bristles.  "No," she says before young thing can go any further.

"But," oh so chirpy, "aren't you interested in massages and facials?"  Young thing smiles winningly.

Haggard woman waits a beat, replies, "No, I hate massages and facials."

Young thing, hardly taken aback--in fact, taking a step forward, says, "You know, I didn't mean to be rude." 

"Of course not," haggard woman says.

"You need to relax," says young thing and leaves.

Have I mentioned it's my birthday tomorrow?

a question of integrity

So, forgive the circumspect nature of this post, and its lack of links, but a bit of a personal attack has been posted online and sharkskin is totally reeling.   Basically, one of the journals with which I am affiliated received an email about a month ago from a young grad student who believed she had been plagiarized by an author in the magazine, and, now, after the issue had been handled internally (the attack found to be unfounded), the affronted grad student has launched a public and personal attack at all involved.

But, first to give a bit more background: Taking into consideration both the serious nature of the charge as well as the sometimes precarious position of grad students in the academy, I responded, with what I believed was a professional but compassionate email asking the grad student to send the specific materials, in English (as the website on which the allegedly plagiarized materials were published is mostly not in English), and assuring her that we would handle this objectively and promptly.  After much going over of both the allegedly plagiarized and allegedly plagiarizing articles, our editors determined, quite fairly, the grad student's claims to be baseless.  It seemed to be more a case of two people writing about the same performances, but from entirely different perspectives.

Time passes... everyone moves on, or so we thought.  But yesterday I found a frankly libelous post concerning this incident, in which the grad student publicly accuses the author and personally attacks the editors--in a not particularly professional or compassionate way.

What I find most upsetting about all of this is that I do, in fact, feel for this grad student.  Not that I believe she was plagiarized--not at all, in fact--but rather that she clearly feels slighted because of her position as a student.   However, in her post she excerpted parts of my email to her--choosing to excise any possible lines that reflect a generosity on my part, including the segment in which I identify myself as a grad student sensitive to her concern.  What I find most strange is that in her feminist attack on the mag's male editors, she reduces me, the one woman she had email contact with to just an academic cog in the machinery--and, without knowing anything of my ethnicity or nationality, refers to me, among others, as a 'dumb American.'  Yes, I am an American, and I am white, hyperaware of the fact that despite my liberal views, I partake of the same privileges as those who vote Republican and support the troops.  To conjure Richard Schechner, I am simultaneously "not" and "not not" that American.  That said, to assume nationality, to assume anything about someone with whom one has only had virtual correspondence, is a pretty big leap.  To have been implicated in all of this, if not accused myself, is very unsettling to me, but the whole situation does bring up a potentially productive question in the performance community.

Susan Sontag once wrote, "Whatever the artist does is in (usually unconscious) alignment with something else already done, producing a compulsion to be continually checking his situation, his own stance against those of his predecessors and contemporaries."  This is true not only for the artist, but for the writer as well--and for the writer, citation is the most formidable tool we have against this sort of accusation.  Yet, in a globalized and digitized culture, it is inevitable that writers will take on the same subject matter, and that their opinions and criticisms may recall someone else's--even if they've never read or even heard of the other.

The point of this post is to open up a conversation about not so much plagiarism but unconscious overlaps in the constant quest for the 'new.'  And, more so, to drop the proverbial bomb: Is there anything *new* anymore?

Sharkskin girl's advice for the day:  Include this little addendum to your email signature.  Really.

This email may contain confidential and privileged material for the sole use of the intended recipient.  Any review or distribution by others is strictly prohibited.  If you are not the intended recipient, please contact the sender and delete all copies.

metatext: reader and woof, daddy at the fringe

I have followed Ianthe Demos’s One Year Lease company for the past six years—in fact, I once even followed them to Athens for their performance of the Oresteia.  While I have, for sure, enjoyed their reinterpretations of ancient Greek texts (though the sandbags in Antigone still make me cringe a little), and, as well, OYL’s ongoing commitment to contemporizing the subject matter to relevant political events—in much part due to Jessica Kaplow Applebaum’s insightful and in-cite-full dramaturgy—I have recently more enjoyed their work reviving classic plays: Sophie Treadwell’s Machinal and John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger, for instance, allowed both the direction and acting to flourish without a millennial burden on their texts.  Their recent New York premiere of Ariel Dorfman’s Reader, as part of this year’s Fringe Festival, was by far the most successful of any production to date, demonstrating both just how much perseverance to an ideal serves well the development of a company and the ongoing strength of One Year Lease. 

Reader, a play that addresses the havoc government censorship (and personal ambition) wreaks in our lives through a dizzying, though not confusing, text-within-a-play-within-a-text format, takes on, not only the evils of government interference into the arts, but also how something as seemingly altruistic as ecoactivism might be misconstrued and misused to serve a larger dehumanizing project: Texts are banned based on a contrived ecological conservation—can’t waste trees on drivel (which, honestly, is not such a bad idea until one considers the overarching ramifications of who determines what isn’t drivel—think about, for instance, the NEA scandal of the late ’80s and early ’90s that still plagues the arts today)—and, as well, the whole system is predicated on a utopic ideology of “happiness.”  “If one isn’t happy one must be crazy—and dangerous” is an oft-quoted line throughout the play. 

As always, One Year Lease’s set design, this time by James Hunting, is hauntingly beautiful—a sparse office, with a backdrop of torn pages (occasionally fluttering down from the wall) that outline a covered window through which spectral demons plague the present.  Further, Mike Riggs’s lighting throughout is innovative and, truly, illuminating—which may seem obvious, but, unfortunately, is so often not—in its subtle nuance between what is happening in the present, what has happened in the past, and what is (un)certainly to come.  I have to admit, I wasn’t terribly thrilled with Kay Lee’s costuming—what exactly was going on with The Man’s (Zach Griffiths) shaggy robe?—but for this to be the only fault, and a nitpicky one at that, is a remarkable feat. 

The actors, Nico Evers-Swindell, Emma Jackson, Darrell James, Susannah Melone, Nick Stevenson, and Zach Griffiths, most playing several roles between the what-was-happening and what-was-written, were brilliant across the board—a testament to both their talent and Demos’s constantly superb direction.  James’s descent into the text and into his own disillusionment was particularly impressive, adding another dimension to the many-layered performance by which one lost one’s own grounding in what was real, that is, on the page, and what was the manifestation of his increasing paranoid dementia.  It is this aspect of the play, and the performance, that speaks the loudest from the stage; for what is political theatre, and art, if not a whirlpool of cultural dementia that isn’t necessarily paranoid in the slightest?

Dementia also plays out in Bryan Reynold’s Woof, Daddy, also featured in the Fringe.  I fear I must take a moment to address Reynold’s bio, which begs pause.

Reynold’s research spans several disciplines, including critical theory, history, performance studies, social semiotics, philosophy, cognitive neuroscience, and dramatic literature, especially of the English Renaissance.  It focuses on the experience, articulation, and performance of consciousness, subjectivity, and sociocultural formations, particularly the ideologies, passions, and geographies that define them, both on and off the stage.

Bracketing, for the moment, the fact that I was under the impression that as a performance studies scholar I was, in fact, already dealing with critical theory, this longwinded introduction to the writer served well for the longwinded, and, oh yes, rhyming philosophical platitudes offered by Richard Franklin/daddy (Jason Vande Brake) throughout the first quarter or so of the play.  Within the first few minutes I’d girded my loins for the rest of the play, feeling, as Henry Franklin/son (Andrew Heringer) stated, “What an esoteric fuckhead” Daddy is. 

Yet as the play progressed, I was drawn, and not so reluctantly, into the spiraling discourse of these characters’ lives, much helped along by the excellent craft of all the performers: Christa Mathis, playing both Julie/daughter and Claire/mother, and, in particular, Mercedes Manning playing Sparkles, excessively beloved family dog, as well as Vande Brake and Heringer, gave strong performances; and while there may have been a bit too much screaming throughout, what can one expect in a play about patriarchal devotion and betrayal, implied incest, and canine bestiality? 

Reynolds managed to fully flesh—and fur—out a perversely dysfunctional dynamic in this diminished family, and all in a succinct 45 minutes.  Not a small task for one so given to verbosity.  And the dream sequences, accomplished on this absolutely bare stage through songs by Alan Terricciano and Reynolds (“The Long Island Song”) and Patrick Williams (“Silent Spring”), were almost magical (one small step from successfully delusional).  Most impressive was the division between what was “real” and what was “remembered” or “imagined” throughout—using the imaginary division between front and back parts of the stage, the delimination of past and present was a spatial one that was both somewhat phenomenological (even, referencing Reynold’s bio, Deleuzian, if you will) and absolutely clarifying. 

I wonder, if like a Webern concertino, this play might be better to experience two times, rather than one, in performance.  Though I fear for the actors’ vocal cords, there was simultaneously too much and not enough to fully grasp in one viewing.  Which says a lot, actually—I do love my Webern. 

enter sandman, stage left

Ever since James Hetfield and Metallica started middling in Napster's music-sharing business a few short years ago, the lawsuits and debates over copyright infringement on the Internet have been rampant.  And although I disagree with the rhetoric posed by Hetfield et al, I can certainly understand the rage involved in the multi-billion dollar industry.

"Me and my stupid mustache is comin' for ya, YouTube!" -->

But imagine my confusion over this week's Backstage article, "Equity Nixes Pirated Plays on YouTube."  Apparently, the illegal recording of Broadway and other Equity productions has become an "epidemic," according to Nicole Kristal.  Epidemic?

Seems to me that the performance community should take the opposing side, that of the smaller guys who see this technically "illegal" activity as beneficial, spreading the reputation of a relatively small industry and exposing Web-goers who ordinarily can't go to a professional production to the wild, wonderful world of live performance.

Equity, in its typical "You kids get off my lawn!" idiom, is wielding an iron fist over a kitten of an issue.  Not only does its stance create debates over this illicit Internet business, but it also harms performers as well; according to Barbara Hauptman, executive director of the Society of Stage Directors and Choreographers,

"many directors and choreographers would like to have their work professionally videotaped for their reels but cannot do so because of Rule 69 in Equity's Production Contract, which states, 'There shall be no televising, visual and/or sound recording, motion picture filming, or videotaping, in whole or in part … without the express permission of Equity.'"

Perhaps the issue needs to be reconsidered, particularly when theatre is becoming less and less accessible to a general audience.  But if Equity's track record and the antiquated idealism of theatre professionals are any indication, this is another pointless spitting contest that exists only in the minds of a misguided and ironically greedy industry.
.

a matter of taste

My evening last night began with drinks and chatter with LA-based actor Jason Vande Brake, who is currently “Daddy” in Bryan Reynold’s Woof, Daddy, playing through Sunday as part of the Fringe Festival.  I’m excited to see the show on Sunday, and, perhaps, more excited to develop our nascent conversation concerning whether the “avant-garde” might be revived now that it has its own critical discourse to disparage it.  (Personally, I’m a big fan of the rather banal but elegantly simple “experimental theatre” or “experimental performance”—nothing fancy, just, well, a matter of taste.)

I then trekked out to Red Hook with sharkskin boy to attend the first installment of pianist Jacob Greenberg’s “At Close Range” series, held, Happening-esque, in his one-bedroom apartment.  We were early, though, so we popped into Hope and Anchor, “a new American diner,” and, lo and behold, we have a new favorite restaurant.  There are not many places in the city where you can confidently order a shredded Vietnamese salad and a plate of pierogies—served with homemade apple sauce no less!—and even fewer where they don’t come with a side of semisweet pretension.  I’m a big fan.

Arriving fashionably late to the salon—but in time to partake of some yummy snacks and conversation—we settled in with a few but devoted other guests and spent the rest of the evening listening to Jacob perform Stravinsky, Mozart, and Schubert.  An ambitious program, no doubt, the intimacy both of the apartment and Jacob’s sweet but scholarly for sure introductions to the pieces created a compelling space in which to revisit my (often dormant) love of classical piano music. 

Jacob is a brilliant player, and, having of recent been more familiar with his performance of contemporary  repertoire, “At Close Range” episode 1 was a pleasant reminder of how the virtuosity and attention to detail I’d become so used to in twentieth- and twenty-first-century composition is in fact grounded in slightly more aged rep.  What was most enchanting was the proximity to that very same technique: to be able to be all of three or so feet from Jacob’s hands was a visual and tactile experience one loses in the more usual venues, and I’d forgotten how much pleasure there is in watching the gracefulness of a player’s hands on their instrument. Musciologists Lawrence Kramer and Richard Leppert have both written about the significance of the visual in the reception of classical music performance, and it is an aspect of the genre not lightly dismissed—if too easily forgotten. 

There’s a scene in James Lapine’s 1991 film Impromptu about Chopin’s brief but passionate affair with George Sand (otherwise known as Amantine-Aurore-Lucile Dupin, Baroness Dudevant) in which she lies beneath the piano while Chopin plays.  While this would, certainly, shift the perspective, and perhaps make audience members I might not know very well a bit uncomfortable (and maybe Jacob more so), there’s something strangely compelling about giving into one’s only slightly post-adolescent fantasy and crawling beneath the piano for a different view.

the kids are alright

It's hard to believe that Columbia students held a giant protest in the 70s over out-of-control theatre ticket prices, but perhaps even more shocking is the lack of stink that is put up by students over inaccessible performance today.  When Broadway tickets are going for over $400, and even more delicious institutions such as BAM and Lincoln Center have incredibly complicated and prohibitive student ticket policies (if any at all), the popular assumption among next-generation artists, scholars, and critics is that theatre has become more trouble than it's worth.

And rightfully so.  Although it is a two-way street, there is an incredible lack of outreach among cultural centers to bring in interested and idealistic performance-goers.

Enter Playwrights Horizons' new (and unfortunately named) "Live for Five" program, in which anyone can log on to the Playwrights Website and enter a lottery for $5 tickets to upcoming performances.  Although not as revolutionary or convenient as Signature's $15 ticket initiative, perhaps this will motivate the youngsters a bit more, and more importantly, cue other venues to take similar measures.

older and wiser

By the way, OJ is officially one year old!  Let the obscenity continue!

(Chocolates and champagne are always welcome...)

enough about you / let's talk about me for a minute

Okay, clearly sharkskin needs to step away from her computer and actually write about something "live" (and she will--just as soon as that second chapter is finished!); but for the moment, here's another New York Times article to consider for its deployment of a very particular critical methodology. 

A composer recently sent me Woody Allen's homage to Ingmar Bergman, struck by the line, "In the end, your art doesn't save you."  It's a good line, for sure.  And the piece is respectfully nostalgic without being overly sentimental.  That is, until it stops being about Bergman, and starts being about Allen. 

Forgive me for the lengthy quoting to come, but I think it bears citing in full:

Because I sang his praises so enthusiastically over the decades, when he died many newspapers and magazines called me for comments or interviews. As if I had anything of real value to add to the grim news besides once again simply extolling his greatness. How had he influenced me, they asked? He couldn’t have influenced me, I said, he was a genius and I am not a genius and genius cannot be learned or its magic passed on.

[...]

I learned from his example to try to turn out the best work I’m capable of at that given moment, never giving in to the foolish world of hits and flops or succumbing to playing the glitzy role of the film director, but making a movie and moving on to the next one. Bergman made about 60 films in his lifetime, I have made 38. At least if I can’t rise to his quality maybe I can approach his quantity.

It's the line about "I am not a genius" that begs pause.  No matter the controversy surrounding his romantic life, I love Allen's movies; and I really do think that, with all their neurotic yet not insincere pathos, they are, indeed, the work of a genius.  I expect, further, that many people (okay, so maybe mostly New Yorkers or would-be New Yorkers, generations of young, beret-wearing film students,  and all those young women who wanted to grow up to be Diane Keaton in Annie Hall) also believe they are works of a genius. 

So what is the purpose in Allen denying that charge?  It would seem to be either 1) false modesty, which is never pretty; 2) writerly conceit, which is even less pretty; 3) any number of other things, including, perhaps, some queries that unfortunately went unasked by whomever edited the piece. 

My point here (and, yes, I do seem to need my own editor to tame this vague verbosity) is that the piece ends more about Allen than Bergman.  Which, in one way, is appropriate: the past gives way to the future, etc etc.  Yet... I'm still left with the bitter taste of really good wine left out too long.  Fine for cooking, but rather disappointing on its own.   

you shall know my velocity

As if one needed another reason to love New York, this article appeared in this week's New York Magazine about New Yorker life expectancy far surpassing the national average, and gaining ground.

My personal favorite moment is a discussion of not simply all the walking we do (sidewalks as treadmills, subway stations as stairmasters), but the pace at which we walk has been found to be a significant factor in our health.  The most endearing quotation:

“Walking speed absolutely reflects health status,” [Dr.] Simonsick says. So when you irritatedly blow past a trio of ambling visitors from Ohio or Iowa on the subway platform, you’re not just being an obnoxious New Yorker. You’re demonstrating that you’re going to outlive them—and enjoy better health while they slowly degrade."

Not all of it is good news, though; many of the reasons attributed to this health boom are common New Yorker complaints: the "clean up" of Giuliani's New York, the Disneyfication of Times Square, the smoking ban, etc.  Not only that, statistics tend to be incredibly dehumanizing and cold.  Take this graphic, for example:

Should we really be giving ourselves a pat on the back that the AIDS crisis peaked in the early 90s?  Unnerving, to say the least.

"But Tweed, you sexy blogger, you," I hear you chime in, "Why are you writing about this on OJ, the bestest performance art blog in history?"  Very good question, my well informed reader!  There is very little emphasis in the article on culture in New York.  I'm sure the writer wouldn't have had to look very far to find a study or two concerning the impact of arts and culture upon the quality of life.  Even a side note on the wealth of performance, museums, concerts, architecture, or galleries would have been apropos, to say the least.

But for the moment, we'll simply have to bask in our superiority in the ways we already know.  Keep plowing down down those city streets, fellow citizens!  I'll see you in the sauna that is the subway platform very soon!

an open letter from tweed [scorned lover]

Dear NYC Fringe Festival,

As you know, the OJ is purveyor and champion of all marginalized art forms, and, seeing as you purport to present performance on the "fringe," the casual observer might deduce that we would naturally do the same for you.

But, my darling, I can no longer do this.

When I first arrived in New York, we had a passionate and frenzied affair: I would see shows every night, all night long.  My appetite for you was insatiable.  I learned new things about performance and, I'd like to think, about myself.  We grew so much together, and it was beautiful.

However, the honeymoon is over, and I fear that our relationship shall no longer work.  I used to get excited when you came around, and that morphed into routine, which gave way to a sense of obligation to support you.  It's become a charade, dear Fringey, and I can longer live this lie.

To be frank, you've become unattractive; now you're fat and bloated from biting off more than you can chew.  You used to have taste and an appreciation for the good things; now, you'll consume any crap that gets shoved in front of you.  You were an aesthete; now it's like you don't even care about performance any more.  You used to be adventurous; now, you've surrendered yourself to an ugly routine of the same show, over and over. 

"But they're quirky and entirely opaque!" you desperately cry to me.  I can't even respond: it's like I don't even know you any more.

In closing, dear Festival of My Heart, I didn't want to leave you.  You gave me no choice.  Perhaps, with time, you'll see the error of your ways.  Perhaps you'll even find the passion and thrills that made you shine so bright for me and the entire performance community.  But honestly, I don't have the time, energy, or money to wait around and find out.

Adieu, ma cherie.  Je te manquerai.

       Always yours,
       Tweed

[Update: Apparently, I'm not the only one who's been burned--curse your wily ways, Fringe!  I have no idea how the response will go, but it's worth a look-see.  It's the Phuck the Phringe Festival, Saturdays this month.]