I never thought I'd attend a Renaissance Fair (because ha!) but I found myself witnessing one today by accident. I met up with some teammates for a barbecue in a park, and much to our surprise, a lot of the space was claimed by a few hundred fully costumed Ren Fair devotees.
I like people-watching, but watching people who are playing pretend is fascinating in a whole new way. This wasn't a performance for an audience (though the couple dozen of us who happened to be at the park had great seats), just adults amusing themselves and each other by sweating through heavy costumes in heat that would have called for shorts and using funny accents to say words like "exalted" and "decree."
A lot of things were going on at the end of the Middle Ages, but if you were relying on these LARPers for your information, you might think it was nothing but fencing. The men loved fighting with their swords and that took up the majority of the day. It seems like it might be more accurate if some of them were sharecropping or whatever. Then again, if they were concerned with accuracy, I probably wouldn't have seen so many of them playing with their smartphones.
And then there was the Queen! She wore the fanciest gown and a crown, and had attendants follow her around with parasols to provide her majesty with shade. I wonder how they chose the Queen and whether she got to be the Queen every time they played. When an ice cream truck came to the park's parking lot, the Queen went over to buy some and several of her attendants tagged along. I also wondered whether they were obligated to do this or wanted popsicles, too.
Although the women remained primarily in subservient positions - true to the times, I suppose - it was nice to see that the African American participants held various ranks. More than anything, however, I was just surprised that there were black people there at all. It's times like these that I recognize my underlying prejudices. White people? I expect this kind of Ren-Fair shit from them. But black people… I guess I thought that black people were cooler than that.
Showing posts with label theater. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theater. Show all posts
2013-06-02
2013-01-17
Le Mis? More Like IS LAME!
It wasn't entirely bad. Some of the music was cool. Plus, with my activist tendencies, I started getting really excited whenever they featured the French Revolution -- too bad that kept getting pushed aside to make room for more love stories. But what was with the non-stop close-ups? The point of turning theater into a movie is to add some amazing visuals - but this was largely just a bunch of talking (or more accurately singing) heads. And if we - as the audience - aren't supposed to believe that Hugh Jackman is a child molester, then they should have done a better job of establishing that. I mean, I'm pretty sure he wasn't a ChiMo, but it's best not to leave that lingering doubt about your main character (unless of course we're talking about the movie Doubt, which is a way better example of adapting a play to cinema.)
I have no problem acknowledging that Anne Hathaway is pretty darn good. But then she dies really quickly. AND THERE'S STILL TWO HOURS OF THE FILM LEFT! You can't ask people to stick around for 120 minutes after the best part of your movie bites the dust.
The main criticism I've read about the film is that Russell Crowe really sucks. But honestly, I fail to see how he's measurably worse than most of the cast. Like, you're going to call out Crowe for having a poor singing voice when Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter have multiple musical numbers in the film? And do you really think he's worse than that inbred looking kid who seems to have taken voice lessons from Kermit the Frog?
Also, when you're promised that everyone in the film dies, make sure you actually kill everyone. Because the young couple left standing at the end? I didn't really care for them. It didn't seem fair to let them live when everyone they know and love dies, particularly since Ginger Kermit played a big role in the demise of all of his friends.
I was told that even if I don't like musicals, I would get caught up in the tragedy and cry. I fully expected to cry, actually, because I was already crying a lot that week. That was another side effects of being covered in hives - I kept crying at the smallest things. It wasn't the pain, but I felt so vulnerable and hormonal that even the stupidest, sappiest things could provoke a few tears. Here's a list of things I remember crying about while be-hived (not to be confused with beehived):
- Searching for Sugar Man
- two consecutive episodes of The Biggest Loser
- The Sessions
- The Other Dream Team
- merely thinking about a previous viewing of Beasts of the Southern Wild
- Won't Back Down (and no one should cry over Maggie Gyllenhaal unless they're asked to spell her name or endure a conversation with the woman)
- this flash mob at an unemployment office in Spain
And yeah, shut up I watched a lot of movies last week - you try thinking of another way to spend your time when you can't use your hands.
Anyway, the point is that I cried at just about everything indiscriminately, yet I did NOT cry at Les Miserables. That should say something. Heck, that should say everything. Worst Best Picture nominee of the bunch.
2012-12-11
Carousel? More Like Domestic Abuse = Love
I'm not a big fan of musicals, but despite not knowing so much as a song from the show, I gave the 50s film adaptation Carousel a chance. After learning that Time Magazine named Carousel the best musical of the 20th century, I figured it might actually be entertaining.
But oh dear, it's terrible. In short, a man and young woman meet for the first time on a carousel. Over the course of a single song, they fall in love, in a way that can only happen in theater. Despite knowing nothing about each other, they immediately marry. The guy is an unemployed jerk who controls his wife, alienates her from her family, and hits her. She's pretty forgiving of his poverty, lack of compassion, and abuse, however, because of, duh, *love*. We know this because she sings about it a lot.
The funny thing is for some reason we're supposed to relate to this man. He's like "the every man" who deserves redemption, or that's how it's portrayed anyway. And, sorry, but I don't relate to a man who loses hundreds of dollars that he doesn't have while gambling with a known conman (who else could deal himself three blackjacks in a row?) and then attempts to rob an innocent man at knifepoint. He dies in this botched robbery, and his wife is distraught - even if her friends don't totally understand - because she LOVED being a doormat, you see?
Anyway, the guy gets to go some approximation of heaven because despite all of his actions, he was deemed a good man deep down. Years later, he receives a day pass back down to earth so he can meet the daughter his wife was pregnant with when he died. He talks to his daughter for all of a few minutes before he winds up smacking her.
Wait, it gets worse. The dialogue that follows between the wife and the daughter is truly disturbing.
Daughter: "He hit me hard. I heard the sound of it, Mother, but it didn't hurt. It didn't hurt at all. It was just as if he kissed my hand."
(a couple of lines later)
Daughter: "Is it possible, Mother, for someone to hit you hard like that - real loud and hard, and it not hurt you at all?"
Wife: "It is possible, dear, for someone to hit you, hit you hard, and it not hurt at all."
And that's pretty much how the film ends, with the wife swooning and fondly recalling the husband who used to hit her without it hurting. I mean, who wouldn't love getting hit if it feels like a kiss? That's how you know he loves you!
I get that it's from another era when domestic abuse isn't quite as frowned upon, but who the fuck would write an abuse-apology story like that? It makes me suspect that you might have been able to find some bruises hidden under stage makeup on Mrs. Rodgers and Mrs. Hammerstein.
2012-09-25
Welcome to the O.C., Bitch
So Luke from The O.C. lives in my neighborhood. I know this because I see him all the time, more than some of my own friends, in fact. He's always at this one bar I go to. And I've seen him at the other local bar, too. And tonight while standing in line for tacos.
I'm not trying to brag, but it's a pretty big deal since he's still a working actor. Recently, he's appeared in the TV movie Beauty & the Briefcase. And another TV movie Deadly Honeymoon. And the upcoming TV movie A Christmas Wedding. Plus he was in the movie Into the Blue 2, which maybe you've seen in theaters. (You haven't, it went straight to DVD.) Joking aside, you can actually see him in theaters. Or, well, I can anyway, as I literally see him at the local theater two blocks away.
Every time I see him, I am overcome with the urge to kick him and scream "Welcome to the O.C., bitch!" I know it's a cliche and something strangers probably quote to him on a regular basis, but I still think it would be satisfying. But maybe instead of saying "the O.C.", I could welcome him to my neighborhood, as we are neighbors after all. I'd still kick him, though.
2011-09-20
To Tell the Truth
Isn't it funny how we go to a doctor for an honest assessment of our health, but when asked basic questions about our everyday practices, we can't help but lie? We want to believe we're treating our bodies right, so we say, "Yeah, I drink socially, occasionally, and exercise 4-5 times per week," even though in reality those activities' frequencies are probably switched. It must be interesting for doctors to have to go through this pointless charade day in and day out.
When one of my friends went for an appointment, a doctor-in-training ran the examination. For some reason, my friend felt too guilty to give false responses to the personal health questions because he didn't want to mislead someone who was still learning the ropes. So he wound up going for broke, rattling off a whole bunch of recreational drugs he had used in the past, as well as some other questionable health practices. The doctors present were amazed, unaccustomed to such candidness without there being a clear problem that would necessitate this sharing. Rather than chastising his unhealthy lifestyle, the doctors actually just thanked him for his refreshing honesty.
His story has now inspired some of my other friends to get real with their own doctors. "When they ask about my drinking habits, I'm going to tell them the truth: 30-40 a week," one said. "And at least two or three pizzas," another chimed in. On second thought, I'm not sure whether all doctors are prepared to hear the brutal truth of the way many twenty-somethings treat their bodies.
As for me, I don't even have to worry about this dilemma because I don't have healthcare. Bullshitting a doctor would require me going to a doctor. I'd actually like to thank all of those who fight to keep me uninsured, as it helps me to stay an honest man.
When one of my friends went for an appointment, a doctor-in-training ran the examination. For some reason, my friend felt too guilty to give false responses to the personal health questions because he didn't want to mislead someone who was still learning the ropes. So he wound up going for broke, rattling off a whole bunch of recreational drugs he had used in the past, as well as some other questionable health practices. The doctors present were amazed, unaccustomed to such candidness without there being a clear problem that would necessitate this sharing. Rather than chastising his unhealthy lifestyle, the doctors actually just thanked him for his refreshing honesty.
His story has now inspired some of my other friends to get real with their own doctors. "When they ask about my drinking habits, I'm going to tell them the truth: 30-40 a week," one said. "And at least two or three pizzas," another chimed in. On second thought, I'm not sure whether all doctors are prepared to hear the brutal truth of the way many twenty-somethings treat their bodies.
As for me, I don't even have to worry about this dilemma because I don't have healthcare. Bullshitting a doctor would require me going to a doctor. I'd actually like to thank all of those who fight to keep me uninsured, as it helps me to stay an honest man.
2011-08-28
Video Music Award Nominees
The MTV Video Music Awards are on tonight, and while browsing through the nominees, I realized that I have only seen one out of dozens of videos. Am I getting that old? To convince myself that I'm still hip to pop culture, I watched through all of the nominated videos and... wow. If these are the best videos of the year, perhaps they should just call the whole ceremony off.
I'll be rooting for two videos, each of which only received one nomination: "Howlin' for You" by The Black Keys, a captivating spoof of a Kill Bill-ish movie trailer and "Fuck You" by Cee Lo Green for having a video that's as fun-spirited as the song. I also have a soft spot for dimwitted Britney Spear's "Till the World Ends" because she seems to think a post-apocalyptic world will consist of writhing gay men. Mostly, I'm partial to the closing shot where her head is coming out of the sewer. It's a metaphor for her career, y'all!
As for the rest, whatever. We'll never see any of the New Artist nominees again (what the heck are you, Kreayshawn?) and the most controversial video might be Kanye West's "All the Lights" for the epilepsy warning that prefaces it. Way to keep it menacing, hip-hop.
I have some problems with other nominees. Beyonce's "Run the World (Girls)" is pretty revisionist as to how much power women have. And far be it from me to tell you how to do feminism, but having women dancing provocatively in skimpy clothing doesn't really signify empowerment as much as it demonstrates oppression. Lady Gaga, maybe you shouldn't have linked homosexuals with space aliens when your hokey song is trying to promote acceptance. And what right does Eminem have to turn his collaboration with Rihanna into a message about her own domestic abuse?
I figured the nominees for best video would be the cream of the crop, but they're all pretty lame, actually.:
Bruno Mars's "Grenade" is dull, though I did laugh when gang members screamed at him for a pushing a piano through their turf. I mean, what?
If Adele can't even be bothered to stand up during "Rolling in the Deep", why should I like it? She just sits in profile like she's Whistler's Mother or something. There's also enough broken glass to summon Annie Lennox. Maybe that was her dancing in the cocaine?
Katy Perry has four different videos nominated in various categories, but the one getting the top distinction is "Firework". I'm a little confused by the narrative. Are they doing a Care Bear stare? Is the sparkling a cautionary tale of gonorrhea? I know the song is supposed to be inspirational, but if all those people are lighting off hundreds fireworks in that enclose space, it will surely end in fatalities.
The Beastie Boys have an appropriately named song, "Make Some Noise", as they've been making the same noise for decades now. This gimmicky video's cast is a who's who of comedy (AKA the Beastie Boys call in every favor ever), though, and this is probably my favorite Elijah Wood performance ever.
By default, I guess I'm cheering for "Yonkers" by Tyler, The Creator, even though it only contains three main plot points: eating a cockroach, vomiting, hanging himself. MTV seems to have decided that suicide is "in" this year, because they've also nominated similarly themed videos from Pink and Rise Against.
Now that I know I'm apathetic to the nominees, I've decided to go see a production of Hamlet tonight rather than watch the awards show. If I'm going to be bored, I'd rather do it in the name of culture than pop culture.
I'll be rooting for two videos, each of which only received one nomination: "Howlin' for You" by The Black Keys, a captivating spoof of a Kill Bill-ish movie trailer and "Fuck You" by Cee Lo Green for having a video that's as fun-spirited as the song. I also have a soft spot for dimwitted Britney Spear's "Till the World Ends" because she seems to think a post-apocalyptic world will consist of writhing gay men. Mostly, I'm partial to the closing shot where her head is coming out of the sewer. It's a metaphor for her career, y'all!
As for the rest, whatever. We'll never see any of the New Artist nominees again (what the heck are you, Kreayshawn?) and the most controversial video might be Kanye West's "All the Lights" for the epilepsy warning that prefaces it. Way to keep it menacing, hip-hop.
I have some problems with other nominees. Beyonce's "Run the World (Girls)" is pretty revisionist as to how much power women have. And far be it from me to tell you how to do feminism, but having women dancing provocatively in skimpy clothing doesn't really signify empowerment as much as it demonstrates oppression. Lady Gaga, maybe you shouldn't have linked homosexuals with space aliens when your hokey song is trying to promote acceptance. And what right does Eminem have to turn his collaboration with Rihanna into a message about her own domestic abuse?
I figured the nominees for best video would be the cream of the crop, but they're all pretty lame, actually.:
Bruno Mars's "Grenade" is dull, though I did laugh when gang members screamed at him for a pushing a piano through their turf. I mean, what?
If Adele can't even be bothered to stand up during "Rolling in the Deep", why should I like it? She just sits in profile like she's Whistler's Mother or something. There's also enough broken glass to summon Annie Lennox. Maybe that was her dancing in the cocaine?
Katy Perry has four different videos nominated in various categories, but the one getting the top distinction is "Firework". I'm a little confused by the narrative. Are they doing a Care Bear stare? Is the sparkling a cautionary tale of gonorrhea? I know the song is supposed to be inspirational, but if all those people are lighting off hundreds fireworks in that enclose space, it will surely end in fatalities.
The Beastie Boys have an appropriately named song, "Make Some Noise", as they've been making the same noise for decades now. This gimmicky video's cast is a who's who of comedy (AKA the Beastie Boys call in every favor ever), though, and this is probably my favorite Elijah Wood performance ever.
By default, I guess I'm cheering for "Yonkers" by Tyler, The Creator, even though it only contains three main plot points: eating a cockroach, vomiting, hanging himself. MTV seems to have decided that suicide is "in" this year, because they've also nominated similarly themed videos from Pink and Rise Against.
Now that I know I'm apathetic to the nominees, I've decided to go see a production of Hamlet tonight rather than watch the awards show. If I'm going to be bored, I'd rather do it in the name of culture than pop culture.
2010-10-15
Urban Iditarod 2010: Recently Deceased Celebrities
Apparently, running around in public dressed like the dead Olympic luger makes people cringe; I had a blast, though!
This happened seven months ago, but old news can still be great news! After last year's successful Urban Iditarod, six of us decided to make another go of LA's annual dress-in-costumes-and-get-super-inebriated-while-pushing-shopping-carts-around-public-streets festivities. Needing a new theme, we decided to push the envelope by dressing as recently deceased celebrities.
Jocelyn as Bea Arthur
Ben as Ed McMahon
Jessica as Michael Jackson
Me as the Georgian Olympic luger
Jenna as the Sea World trainer
Bear in mind that the Iditarod took place just one and two weeks after the deaths of the trainer and luger respectively (yet not respectfully), so we were really pushing the tacky meter with that one. But then, no one pushed the tacky meter as much as...
Allison as David Carradine.
What's worse than dying of autoerotic asphyxiation? Having someone portray you with a belt around her neck and a baby doll's arm protruding from her pants.
Our cart was a gilded coffin, which our Michael Jackson sat in a lot, both as our most esteemed colleague and because she had a bum leg and couldn't do much running.
We were a hit!... if being a hit means being highly offensive. Actually, a bunch of the people saw the humor in our costumes and admired our creativity, but there were plenty of people who said things like, "That's just wrong." Though we never came up with a team name, one was decided for us by strangers' consensus: "Team Too Soon." We thought it was a great monicker and took it as a compliment. Besides, coming from a largely fratty crowd, I find their lifestyles too offensive to be offended by their offense.
A drunk guy dressed as a skier came up to me and said, "Hey, I just got back from the Olympics, too!"
To which I deadpanned, "Oh, I didn't make it back. I died."
Then he walked away.
This is why I have trouble making new friends.
David Carradine didn't have trouble making friends, though. That baby doll arm dick was a dude magnet. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the it's-not-really-gay-if-it's-attached-to-a-girl factor, but a lot of bros were all about touching, fellating, and eating a bagel off the mock-dick.
Other exciting moments included people repeatedly using the inflatable whale to beat up Trainer Jenna, Ben awarding drunks large novelty checks signed by God, and random dance breaks on the Venice boardwalk. This year the cops didn't even chase us, instead letting us run around foolishly. However, when we tried to congregate in the dog park, they disbanded us way too quickly. That just meant we took our beer to the beach, where we rested in peace on the sand.
See you next year, Iditarod! At this point, you're only five months away!
Overhead video:
And I love the curling team clearing way for a large truck:
This happened seven months ago, but old news can still be great news! After last year's successful Urban Iditarod, six of us decided to make another go of LA's annual dress-in-costumes-and-get-super-inebriated-while-pushing-shopping-carts-around-public-streets festivities. Needing a new theme, we decided to push the envelope by dressing as recently deceased celebrities.
Jocelyn as Bea Arthur
Ben as Ed McMahon
Jessica as Michael Jackson
Me as the Georgian Olympic luger
Jenna as the Sea World trainer
Bear in mind that the Iditarod took place just one and two weeks after the deaths of the trainer and luger respectively (yet not respectfully), so we were really pushing the tacky meter with that one. But then, no one pushed the tacky meter as much as...
Allison as David Carradine.
What's worse than dying of autoerotic asphyxiation? Having someone portray you with a belt around her neck and a baby doll's arm protruding from her pants.
Our cart was a gilded coffin, which our Michael Jackson sat in a lot, both as our most esteemed colleague and because she had a bum leg and couldn't do much running.
We were a hit!... if being a hit means being highly offensive. Actually, a bunch of the people saw the humor in our costumes and admired our creativity, but there were plenty of people who said things like, "That's just wrong." Though we never came up with a team name, one was decided for us by strangers' consensus: "Team Too Soon." We thought it was a great monicker and took it as a compliment. Besides, coming from a largely fratty crowd, I find their lifestyles too offensive to be offended by their offense.
A drunk guy dressed as a skier came up to me and said, "Hey, I just got back from the Olympics, too!"
To which I deadpanned, "Oh, I didn't make it back. I died."
Then he walked away.
This is why I have trouble making new friends.
David Carradine didn't have trouble making friends, though. That baby doll arm dick was a dude magnet. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the it's-not-really-gay-if-it's-attached-to-a-girl factor, but a lot of bros were all about touching, fellating, and eating a bagel off the mock-dick.
Other exciting moments included people repeatedly using the inflatable whale to beat up Trainer Jenna, Ben awarding drunks large novelty checks signed by God, and random dance breaks on the Venice boardwalk. This year the cops didn't even chase us, instead letting us run around foolishly. However, when we tried to congregate in the dog park, they disbanded us way too quickly. That just meant we took our beer to the beach, where we rested in peace on the sand.
See you next year, Iditarod! At this point, you're only five months away!
Overhead video:
And I love the curling team clearing way for a large truck:
2010-07-21
Roofies
I don't care how cool his hair is, I am not inviting a guy named Roofie-o to my party.
At a bar last week, Melinda excused herself to the bathroom and asked me to hold her drink so it wouldn't "get roofied." Though it seemed a little arrogant that she thought herself worthy of a date rape drug, Melinda pointed out that since she was the only Asian girl in the bar, if that was someone's type, she'd be the prime target. Besides, Bob Saget was at this bar (for realsies), so I guess you can never be too careful.
I don't know if Melinda went to take a dump or get better acquainted with Mr. Saget, but she was gone quite a while and my hand was getting tired - you know how I feel about manual labor. At that point, I decided it might be best to roofie her drink. My intent would not be to harm her, but teach her a couple of lessons, namely not to trust me or ask me for favors. When Melinda returned, I confessed my intentions to her and she argued that it would only prompt her to trust me more, since she knew I'd be a gentleman about it and get her safely to bed.
The conversation diverged from roofies for a while, but returned when Melinda recalled that she, Allison, and I had scripted an as-yet unperformed comedy sketch at lunch a year ago involving a would-be rapist. The rapist is in the market for roofies, but winds up encountering a shifty drug dealer (is there any other kind?) who secretly sells him meth instead. Unknowingly, the rapist slips meth into his target's beverage, which causes her to become super alert and aggressive. In this state, she handily kicks the rapist's butt when he makes his move. See, it's not just a dark comedy, it has a moral. I'm not sure why no one has agreed to stage this for us yet.
Changing the subject, Andrew recounted a recent situation when he found himself stuck in an awkward conversation. Though he wanted to leave, he couldn't determine how to extricate himself from the situation. Melinda interjected that Andrew should have roofied this acquaintance's drink, pointing out that they're the perfect tool for an escape. Rather than having to awkwardly excuse yourself, you can easily slip away as they're passing out. She brings up a good point: roofies have this awful stigma attached, but they don't always have to lead to rape. As we learned that night, they can be quite useful as a sleep aid, joke punch line, trust test, community theater plot, and diversionary tactic.
Bangerang, Rufio!
2010-07-09
I saw Howl before you!
Paul works for the box office at Outfest and got a bunch of us comp tickets for the steerage class of the Orpheum theatre's special screening of Howl. The only downside to having a seat in the "rear balcony" was not the seat itself, but having to hear the lispy usher near us make "rear" jokes for forty minutes to everyone who entered. "Are you a rear boy?" "Do you like the rear?" We get it, you're cheeky, now shut up.
Before the film, the festival's organizer asked everyone to get out their phones and text "outfest" to a number to donate $10. I was thankful that my phone was dead so that I had an excuse not to be charitable, but a lot of people obliged, including Jessica to my right, who told me her text bounced back as invalid. Indeed, at the end of night, they handed out slips of paper explaining that the number that was on all of the signs was incorrect and gave us a corrected number to try texting again. That's a pretty big fuck up, but as Stacy pointed out, at least the donations failed rather than ending up at the Christian Coalition. I'd be curious to know how many people originally tried to donate when in a peer pressure situation and then chose not to without a whole audience of people watching.
Also before the film, Jane Motherfucking Lynch received some award for being an awesome gay or what Amy Poehler referred to as Jane's "Gay Bat Mitzvah." She was great, her speech was even better than Howl itself.
Speaking of which, I should probably get to reviewing Howl since that might actually be of interest to everyone who has to wait two more months for it to "come out" (hey-o!) I actually liked Howl, but I didn't love it. The film attempted to interweave three things: poet Allen Ginsberg's life story, the trial that determined whether his work "Howl" was obscenity, and Ginsberg's poems. For this reason, there was no consistent narrative and you had to deal with its form or it was going to be a problem.
The court scenes were the most compelling, perhaps because they had an actual narrative arc. Mary Louise Parker and Jeff Bridges had funny yet brief scenes as critics who testified that "Howl" had no literary merit, while Jon Hamm played Don Draper, if Don were willing to defend Sal in court rather than toss him aside.
James Franco (who you might know from General Hospital) did a pretty good job as Ginsberg in the biographical portions. As for the poetry, I'm glad that they found a way to feature it, and I enjoyed the animation that they paired with the poems, but Franco's voice has a strange cadence, so I found it annoying listening to him read lengthy poetry excerpts. We didn't need quite so much of the poetry anyway, since we've all either read the poem or will read the poem now that we know that some labelled it "obscene," but the directors stretched the material past the point of necessity and entertainment in order to make it feature length when it would have worked best as no longer than an hour piece. I did learn a bunch about Ginsberg, though, which is nice. Embarrassing disclosure: Up until more recently than I'd care to admit, I thought that Allen Ginsberg and Alan Greenspan were the same person. I would think, a lauded poet and our nation's foremost economist - what can't this man do?
My review of liking it all right is far kinder than a lot of the audience. At the after party, most of the people I encountered were griping about the film. Some people had shown up drunk and couldn't handle such a somber film, others found it terribly boring, and still others were just plain disappointed that Franco didn't take off his clothes.
The after party started out fairly lame, but at least the drinks were free as long as you ordered it with Absolute vodka. The music was awful, which is not to say that the music was gay, but rather not gay enough. If you're not going to play good music, play campy, fun pop songs that everyone knows the lyrics to, especially with this crowd, not wordless techno. Halfway through the DJ either switched or got a clue, because then the Whitney, Journey, Gaga, and La Roux began, but not before half the crowd had already cleared from the place out of boredom. I started chanting "Homos go home," not as hate speech, but because I wanted to clear room for some personal space since I was now ready to "Absolute"ly boogie. My friends and I danced for a good hour, during which I kept hoping to "accidentally" back my ass up into Jane Lynch, but alas, no dice. Still, it was a fun time, and I'd recommend you see Howl if you A) like poetry B) are boring like me or C) are stoned.
Before the film, the festival's organizer asked everyone to get out their phones and text "outfest" to a number to donate $10. I was thankful that my phone was dead so that I had an excuse not to be charitable, but a lot of people obliged, including Jessica to my right, who told me her text bounced back as invalid. Indeed, at the end of night, they handed out slips of paper explaining that the number that was on all of the signs was incorrect and gave us a corrected number to try texting again. That's a pretty big fuck up, but as Stacy pointed out, at least the donations failed rather than ending up at the Christian Coalition. I'd be curious to know how many people originally tried to donate when in a peer pressure situation and then chose not to without a whole audience of people watching.
Also before the film, Jane Motherfucking Lynch received some award for being an awesome gay or what Amy Poehler referred to as Jane's "Gay Bat Mitzvah." She was great, her speech was even better than Howl itself.
Speaking of which, I should probably get to reviewing Howl since that might actually be of interest to everyone who has to wait two more months for it to "come out" (hey-o!) I actually liked Howl, but I didn't love it. The film attempted to interweave three things: poet Allen Ginsberg's life story, the trial that determined whether his work "Howl" was obscenity, and Ginsberg's poems. For this reason, there was no consistent narrative and you had to deal with its form or it was going to be a problem.
The court scenes were the most compelling, perhaps because they had an actual narrative arc. Mary Louise Parker and Jeff Bridges had funny yet brief scenes as critics who testified that "Howl" had no literary merit, while Jon Hamm played Don Draper, if Don were willing to defend Sal in court rather than toss him aside.
James Franco (who you might know from General Hospital) did a pretty good job as Ginsberg in the biographical portions. As for the poetry, I'm glad that they found a way to feature it, and I enjoyed the animation that they paired with the poems, but Franco's voice has a strange cadence, so I found it annoying listening to him read lengthy poetry excerpts. We didn't need quite so much of the poetry anyway, since we've all either read the poem or will read the poem now that we know that some labelled it "obscene," but the directors stretched the material past the point of necessity and entertainment in order to make it feature length when it would have worked best as no longer than an hour piece. I did learn a bunch about Ginsberg, though, which is nice. Embarrassing disclosure: Up until more recently than I'd care to admit, I thought that Allen Ginsberg and Alan Greenspan were the same person. I would think, a lauded poet and our nation's foremost economist - what can't this man do?
My review of liking it all right is far kinder than a lot of the audience. At the after party, most of the people I encountered were griping about the film. Some people had shown up drunk and couldn't handle such a somber film, others found it terribly boring, and still others were just plain disappointed that Franco didn't take off his clothes.
The after party started out fairly lame, but at least the drinks were free as long as you ordered it with Absolute vodka. The music was awful, which is not to say that the music was gay, but rather not gay enough. If you're not going to play good music, play campy, fun pop songs that everyone knows the lyrics to, especially with this crowd, not wordless techno. Halfway through the DJ either switched or got a clue, because then the Whitney, Journey, Gaga, and La Roux began, but not before half the crowd had already cleared from the place out of boredom. I started chanting "Homos go home," not as hate speech, but because I wanted to clear room for some personal space since I was now ready to "Absolute"ly boogie. My friends and I danced for a good hour, during which I kept hoping to "accidentally" back my ass up into Jane Lynch, but alas, no dice. Still, it was a fun time, and I'd recommend you see Howl if you A) like poetry B) are boring like me or C) are stoned.
2010-05-30
Glee Concert Review
Many people have been asking me how the Glee concert that I won tickets to went, so I should probably recount the experience before I permanently block it out.While I’m tempted to call it awful, that’s not entirely fair. 90% of the people in attendance loved it, so it’d be more accurate to say that the concert was not too my taste. And in that sense, it was a shame.
Look, I’m a Glee fan. Admittedly, my interest has been waning, but I think it started as an excellent source of satire and cheesiness. At times, the dialogue is outstanding, and even the shoddier plotlines are peppered with clever one-liners. As for the musical numbers, I’m torn. I’m super nostalgic, so when they sing an old song that I love, I’m usually in, especially when they put a creative twist on it or camp it up like some hilarious karaoke performance. But when they sing what I presume are Broadway tunes (boring!) or any other ballad lacking crazy choreography where the point is to just sound nice, I’m pretty disinterested. There were approximately twenty a cappella groups at my college, and do you know how many of their shows I went to see? Zero. I only saw them by accident when they’d sing next to the line for free snacks. And that’s a cool idea, even, just as long as they know we were all actually there for the snacks.
But there’s another way to watch Glee: unironically. There are people, even some friends, who watch the show and care about the high school characters’ romantic relationships, only understand the surface humor, and buy all of the songs on I-Tunes. While I think that’s a stupid way to watch it, I actually think it’s brilliant that Glee has found a formula where it can different things to different people. But my main problem with the concert was that it was entirely geared toward the latter group of fans, people who watch because “Kurt sings like an angel” and not because it’s a funny send-up of high school life and contemporary pop culture. Granted, if you’re going to market to one group of fans, it should be those who watch it at surface level because they’ll be the ones who buy expensive tickets and then $70 Glee sweatshirts at the arena. But you’re headed for a major backlash from the witty crowd who will see the commercialization as a complete sellout.
Before departing for the show, my roommate told me that there would be a lot more people my age there than I was guessing. Actually, there weren’t many people my age, but I had misjudged the amount of middle-aged women that came with friends rather than their kids. Never underestimate housewives inappropriate adoration of singers half their age – it’s half the reason American Idol is still on the air. Other than that, the audience was pretty much as I expected. I had gays to my left, moms to my front, and preteen girls behind me. The girls were the worst. They screeched at everything, including events as insignificant as the lights dimming. Had I had a sharp object, I would have gladly Van Gogh-ed myself for some sweet relief from this constant irritation.
Fortunately, Alice had brought us earplugs. Initially, I was resistant; earplugs at a concert strike me as lame, but since I already felt thoroughly lame in this arena, I obliged. How thankful I was! The show was pointlessly loud. And while I might put up with that for Outkast, I didn’t share the same enthusiasm for someone covering “Sweet Caroline.” Periodically, I would pull one of the plugs out to see if the volume had gone down any, and the result was near deafening.
Also annoying; everyone stood for the duration of the concert. Didn’t they realize how much money we spent - well, myself excluded; I didn’t pay for them - how much money they spent for these seats? Enjoy the seats! Plop your teeny bopping teenybopper asses down!
At one point, a bunch of girls dressed as cheerleaders flooded the audience with free keepsakes: a Glee barf bag. Apparently, the joke is that Sue thinks the show is so awful you’re going to want to hurl. Except that the whole thing reads way more like a bulimia joke, especially since Sue is constantly telling her cheerleaders to lose weight by any means necessary. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think it’s appropriate to hand an impressionable young audience tools for an eating disorder.
I never buy drinks at concert venues because they’re ridiculously expensive, but fifteen minutes into the show, I told Alice that I needed a beer. It couldn’t be helped. Not only did it help relax me, it became a status symbol of sorts amongst a sea of people who weren’t even of an age to have a fake ID, let alone being of the legal age to drink.
Surprisingly, at least some of the vocals were clearly live: if Finn were lip-synching, I’m sure he would have sounded somewhat in-tune. Merecedes was great, though, and Santana sings way better than I remember on the show. Quinn had no solos and might not have ever been singing for real. She might have even been less utilized than the black guy. You know, the black guy who is just always in the background being his black guy self and filling out the show’s PC-rainbow. I actually heckled him with “Say your first line!” since, to my knowledge, he’s never uttered a single word on the show, but I’m sure my words couldn’t be deciphered over the girly shrieks.
There were still definitely numbers I enjoyed. The “Bad Romance” cover, complete with themed costumes, is probably the closest I’ll get to a Gaga concert, so I relished that moment, and I was excited to see them encore with Queen’s “Somebody to Love” because that song is epic, but for the most part, the performances were just retreads of what we’ve already seen on TV. The fact that they perform in character and act like dorks for kids reminds me of the Sesame Street Live stage shows my parents would take me to as a kid. I’m sure they find the contractually obligated concert tour to be part of the experience at the moment, but I guarantee that as these actors’ fame increases, they won’t find it so fun having to spend their summer hiatuses this way in upcoming years.
Well, I hope they can stomach it, anyway, because even with free tickets, I won’t be going again. If I could offer some advice to the Entertainment Weekly contest runners: when you’re dealing with tickets to a show this cheesy, don’t select winners who take pride in crafting clever insults. I couldn’t help but be critical, it’s in my blood!
2010-05-28
Dinner Theatre
The LA Times published a picture of me, 'cause I'm some awesome socialite who attends hip, local, cultural events, namely my friends' gallery's dinner theatre fundraiser.
Right before the photo was taken, I mocked Jessica for grabbing two plates to go through the buffet line. No, she wasn't making a second plate for someone else, she just wanted two plates full of food.
So of course the LA Times photographer walks over and snaps her picture. Just after it was taken, I laughed at her and told her she was going to look like a fat-ass in the paper. Granted, the photographer took hundreds of pictures that day and there was no real reason to believe that photo would be used, but I just know as a rule of life that if you are photographed pigging out, it's guaranteed to be published.
I must apologize, though, because clearly Jessica does not look like a fatty. If anything, and I think the camera angle contributes to this, it showcases her gangly arm. She could use a third plate full of food, actually.
And why not grab another plate? That buffet spread was mighty impressive and tasty. When I go to brunch with Jessica, she often orders a "white trash omelet" - her own invention consisting of onion and American cheese. So when she's presented with an opportunity for classy food, she should by all means have at it.
The classy part ended at the food, since she proceeded to pull a jelly jar full of wine out of her purse. Most of us were under the incorrect assumption that it would be an open bar, and Jessica bragged, "I had inside information." Annoyed, I told her that her LA Times caption would read "Hungry, boastful Jessica." Too bad they didn't get that part right. At least I had the largest piece of broccoli I have ever seen to console me. Allison and I ate it simultaneously from both ends Lady and the Tramp style.
Other than that, how was the play, tubby?
Ah, right, the theatre portion, here I am focusing on the dinner. The play was a Greek tragedy adapted from the myth Tereus. Oh, and it was fucked up. I say that with all due respect to the actors and director involved; I'm sure they wouldn't be insulted by this comment anyway, because by all accounts it was a fucked up story. Catch a whiff of this plot:
So there's this king Tereus and he wants to get married, so he hits up this father with two daughters. The dad gives him permission to marry Procne, and so it is so, and they have a baby. But, turns out Tereus really wants to bone Procne's sister, Philomela, so he rapes her. So that she won't be able to tell anyone, he cuts off her tongue and hides her away where no one can find her. Philomela stitches Tereus's wrong-doing in message form in a blanket and sneaks it to her sister. When Procne learns the secret, she gets revenge in the most sensible way imaginable: she kills and cooks her baby as a meal. Tereus eats his own baby before learning what he is eating. Enraged, he goes to kill the sisters, but suddenly all three characters magically change into birds. THE END.
So yeah, rape and baby eating. Also, that was the full plot, it's not as though I left out the boring scenes, it all just happened like that in succession. That said, it was provocative and I actually enjoyed how it threw me totally off-guard as an unsuspecting audience member, but there's no wonder why the LA Times skipped over specific details about the play.
Right before the photo was taken, I mocked Jessica for grabbing two plates to go through the buffet line. No, she wasn't making a second plate for someone else, she just wanted two plates full of food.
So of course the LA Times photographer walks over and snaps her picture. Just after it was taken, I laughed at her and told her she was going to look like a fat-ass in the paper. Granted, the photographer took hundreds of pictures that day and there was no real reason to believe that photo would be used, but I just know as a rule of life that if you are photographed pigging out, it's guaranteed to be published.
I must apologize, though, because clearly Jessica does not look like a fatty. If anything, and I think the camera angle contributes to this, it showcases her gangly arm. She could use a third plate full of food, actually.
And why not grab another plate? That buffet spread was mighty impressive and tasty. When I go to brunch with Jessica, she often orders a "white trash omelet" - her own invention consisting of onion and American cheese. So when she's presented with an opportunity for classy food, she should by all means have at it.
The classy part ended at the food, since she proceeded to pull a jelly jar full of wine out of her purse. Most of us were under the incorrect assumption that it would be an open bar, and Jessica bragged, "I had inside information." Annoyed, I told her that her LA Times caption would read "Hungry, boastful Jessica." Too bad they didn't get that part right. At least I had the largest piece of broccoli I have ever seen to console me. Allison and I ate it simultaneously from both ends Lady and the Tramp style.
Other than that, how was the play, tubby?
Ah, right, the theatre portion, here I am focusing on the dinner. The play was a Greek tragedy adapted from the myth Tereus. Oh, and it was fucked up. I say that with all due respect to the actors and director involved; I'm sure they wouldn't be insulted by this comment anyway, because by all accounts it was a fucked up story. Catch a whiff of this plot:
So there's this king Tereus and he wants to get married, so he hits up this father with two daughters. The dad gives him permission to marry Procne, and so it is so, and they have a baby. But, turns out Tereus really wants to bone Procne's sister, Philomela, so he rapes her. So that she won't be able to tell anyone, he cuts off her tongue and hides her away where no one can find her. Philomela stitches Tereus's wrong-doing in message form in a blanket and sneaks it to her sister. When Procne learns the secret, she gets revenge in the most sensible way imaginable: she kills and cooks her baby as a meal. Tereus eats his own baby before learning what he is eating. Enraged, he goes to kill the sisters, but suddenly all three characters magically change into birds. THE END.
So yeah, rape and baby eating. Also, that was the full plot, it's not as though I left out the boring scenes, it all just happened like that in succession. That said, it was provocative and I actually enjoyed how it threw me totally off-guard as an unsuspecting audience member, but there's no wonder why the LA Times skipped over specific details about the play.
2010-05-19
Winners Go to Glee in Concert
I WON tickets to go see Glee in concert tomorrow night!Truthfully, the emphasis and excitement rests more on the word "won" than the concert itself, but I will gladly reap the reward.
A couple of months ago, Stacy told me that she was excited to see Glee in concert. The conversation proceeded something like this:
Me: "Really?"
Stacy: "Yeah. You wouldn't want to see that?"
Me: "I don't know. I guess I'd see it if it were free, but I'd never pay for that."
That is what former English teachers like myself call foreshadowing.
While browsing Entertainment Weekly's website yesterday, I saw a contest to win tickets to the show in LA on Thursday. If it were a sweepstakes, I would have just overlooked it altogether, but since it was a writing contest, I thought that might be fun and read the specifics. As it turned out, the objective was to write an original insult that Sue Sylvester might deliver to one of the other characters. Not only is that fun, I knew I could win at that.
I have Sue's dialogue down to a science. She says something mean, then shows her egotistical side by going off on a tangent about herself and how awesome she is even though most people would interpret what she brags about as insane. To be clear, I don't mean to say her lines are predictable. Actually, Jane Lynch, who plays Sue, is easily the best part of Glee. If anything, I call it a science because she always gets it right. Plus she delivers the dialogue so quickly that you don't have time to predict where it's going before she's done and you're laughing. Following the format, I banged out this: (For the uninitiated, Quinn is the former teen cheerleader who is currently knocked up.)
To Quinn: Listen, Bristol Palin, you say "pregnant," but I say "fat." You're a push-over as long as you allow that parasite you call a baby to live in there without paying rent. I have a strict policy against freeloaders. When my cousin stayed in my guest room last weekend, I charged her a reasonable rate and made it clear that I expected a mint on MY pillow.
Look, I don't get cocky often. I'm underemployed and have little self-esteem, but as soon as I submitted that, I started clearing my Thursday night. I just knew. Plus, I was able to see the other entries, and while some of them were good, most of them were about Will's hair. Though a deserved target, not original.
Within a couple of hours, I heard the news officially, and I contacted Stacy. I was more excited for Stacy than myself, truthfully. But she told me she can't go! I probably wouldn't have even entered if I knew that up front. And all of the sudden I had this "Oh my gosh, I am an adult male with two Glee tickets and a dilemma." They're expensive tickets to a sold-out show, so naturally I considered hawking them, but a large part of me also wanted to experience the prize. I won a humor-related creative writing contest, which is what I want to do with my life, so it would be nice to experience the reward, no matter how cheesy the event ends up being. Fortunately, Alice agreed to accompany me, so we'll go be losers together. She also agreed to bring some earplugs from her costume shop, because you just know there are going to be a lot of screaming pre-teens. My one hope is that Justin Bieber dies earlier in the day so that a lot of the kids stay home in mourning.
This morning, I caught up on some Glee episodes since I've been behind; Tuesday nights are for Lost, obviously. When Glee first came out, it was one of my favorite shows because it was ridiculous and included some biting satire and a lot of karaoke. Yes, I consider the show to be karaoke. I don't care that some of the stars have been on Broadway, they're still singing popular songs in an exaggerated manner. Karaoke.
Look, I want to still like Glee like I once did, but lately they try to make every episode as sappy and melodramatic as possible. Where is the humor? Where is the insightful social commentary?
I was distracted by the latest episode for a couple of reasons. Recently Chris Kelly wrote a popular Tumblr post with a list of complaints about Glee including this:
I know - I JUST FUCKING KNOW - you’re eventually going to have a dream sequence episode where that wheelchair kid is going to imagine he’s not crippled, and he’s going to get out of that chair and tap dance. And let me just tell you right now: I do NOT want to see that shit. It’s clear as day that this show’s going to be on until the world ends, and this actor - who can walk in real life - is going to bitch to the executive producer about how he wants to show off his dancing skillz, and then we’re all gonna have to watch him dance-masturbate for an at least an entire episode.
And then this happened:
It's like he had read the upcoming script! I couldn't believe it, and at the same time I couldn't help but notice the interior of the mall during the wheelchair kid's dancing scene. It looked just look my local mall! Granted, I've barely been in any malls lately, I avoid malls as much as possible, call it a lifestyle choice. But it distracted me so much, that I did some research, and found that they did film that scene at my local mall.
Now first of all, you might not recognize it because they packed it full of extras. No one goes to the Eagle Rock Plaza. If it weren't bookended by a Target and a Chucky Cheese's, no one would go there at all. I think if you added up all of the people who visited that place in a month, it still wouldn't be as many as they had in the background of that scene. If the question, "What if there were a flash mob and no one was there to witness it?" were a commonly used hypothetical, it could be put to the test at Eagle Rock Plaza. I bet they didn't even have to shut the place down or film at night just to get this scene without interrupting anything. Even if there were some people there, Tina wouldn't be one of the few Asian people. Nearly every store space inside that mall has been vacated, except for the Asian Seafood Supermarket, right across from where they filmed. Let me tell you, it stinks and attracts a very specific crowd.
That said, I did get excited at thinking, wow, the Glee kids filmed at my mall! I can walk there! Granted, it's a few miles away, but I have walked there, so yeah. Maybe this means I will be more excited to see them in concert than I thought. But I hope the concert won't feature the wheelchair kid dancing. And I also hope, again, that Bieber will be dead.
2009-12-01
Black Friday Redux
Another Black Friday has came and passed. No one died this time around, so I’m not as inspired to compose a rant as I was last year. Of course, the media already planned to devote a lot of time and attention to the event, so they followed through with the stories regardless. Perhaps the most reported story from the day was a riot at the Wal-Mart in Upland, California. Even though the store had been open all night to prevent any trampling deaths, that didn’t stop costumers from fighting, tearing open off-limits merchandise, and being unruly/trying to break back in when everyone was kicked out of the store. Nice.
What I find most crazy about this incident is that that was my local Wal-Mart – under five minutes from my home – for the previous six years of my life. It’s one thing to read these stories and be like, “Oh, people can be crazy,” but it’s another when these shoppers turn out to be your neighbors.
Despite my proximity, I never shopped at that store. By that point in my life, I was pretty anti-Wal-Mart. The corporation deserves every negative criticism thrown its way; in addition to demolishing local economies, it treats its employees like crap and finds shifty ways to underpay them. Although I never shopped there, I did enter the store once, but under some pretty unusual circumstances.
I participated in what is known as a Whirl-Mart demonstration. About twenty-five of us college students and as many adult anarchists who were in town for a conference gathered in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. We entered the store in small numbers, each pushing a shopping cart. For several minutes, we walked around with blank expressions, paying no attention to the merchandise. After time had passed, however, we began to clump together. When you saw another person participating, you got in line behind them until, after a while, all fifty of us had formed one continuous single-file line of empty shopping carts maneuvering around the store, zigging and zagging through the aisles. Alone, no one paid attention to us, but it was impossible to ignore so many people moving in unison yet buying nothing.
It was a silent protest, so we didn’t really say much. When employees and shoppers would ask what we were up to, someone would slip them a piece of paper that had startling facts about Wal-Mart’s employee mistreatment and data showing the impressive profit margins of the corporation and how the basic-level employees were among the most poorly compensated in the country, with all of the money going straight to the top. In one biweekly paycheck, the CEO of Wal-Mart earns what its average worker makes in an entire lifetime. And when they’re screwed in terms of insurance and made to work only 39 hours (or worse, only write down 39 hours) to avoid having to pay them full-time wages, this lifetime income is one of struggle.
Some of the store’s managers starting getting flustered, but didn’t know how to handle the situation. We didn’t stop anyone from shopping, we merely educated the people who were curious about our cause. After enough time had passed, we broke up from our line and one-by-one exited the store with our empty carts to end the protest. I’m not sure how successful the event was or whether we changed anyone’s views on the corporation, but it was nice to at least give it a try.
It’s a little sad to see that our minor disruption doesn’t even compare to this past Friday’s events. Evidently, it’s easier for over-eager consumerists to shut down a store for all the wrong reasons than a bunch of well-meaning protesters for the right ones. Sigh. Maybe people get what they deserve.
What I find most crazy about this incident is that that was my local Wal-Mart – under five minutes from my home – for the previous six years of my life. It’s one thing to read these stories and be like, “Oh, people can be crazy,” but it’s another when these shoppers turn out to be your neighbors.
Despite my proximity, I never shopped at that store. By that point in my life, I was pretty anti-Wal-Mart. The corporation deserves every negative criticism thrown its way; in addition to demolishing local economies, it treats its employees like crap and finds shifty ways to underpay them. Although I never shopped there, I did enter the store once, but under some pretty unusual circumstances.
I participated in what is known as a Whirl-Mart demonstration. About twenty-five of us college students and as many adult anarchists who were in town for a conference gathered in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. We entered the store in small numbers, each pushing a shopping cart. For several minutes, we walked around with blank expressions, paying no attention to the merchandise. After time had passed, however, we began to clump together. When you saw another person participating, you got in line behind them until, after a while, all fifty of us had formed one continuous single-file line of empty shopping carts maneuvering around the store, zigging and zagging through the aisles. Alone, no one paid attention to us, but it was impossible to ignore so many people moving in unison yet buying nothing.
It was a silent protest, so we didn’t really say much. When employees and shoppers would ask what we were up to, someone would slip them a piece of paper that had startling facts about Wal-Mart’s employee mistreatment and data showing the impressive profit margins of the corporation and how the basic-level employees were among the most poorly compensated in the country, with all of the money going straight to the top. In one biweekly paycheck, the CEO of Wal-Mart earns what its average worker makes in an entire lifetime. And when they’re screwed in terms of insurance and made to work only 39 hours (or worse, only write down 39 hours) to avoid having to pay them full-time wages, this lifetime income is one of struggle.
Some of the store’s managers starting getting flustered, but didn’t know how to handle the situation. We didn’t stop anyone from shopping, we merely educated the people who were curious about our cause. After enough time had passed, we broke up from our line and one-by-one exited the store with our empty carts to end the protest. I’m not sure how successful the event was or whether we changed anyone’s views on the corporation, but it was nice to at least give it a try.
It’s a little sad to see that our minor disruption doesn’t even compare to this past Friday’s events. Evidently, it’s easier for over-eager consumerists to shut down a store for all the wrong reasons than a bunch of well-meaning protesters for the right ones. Sigh. Maybe people get what they deserve.
2009-11-22
Performance Art: So Much Nudity
Performance art has quite a reputation for being ridiculous and pointless. I haven’t seen too much of it myself, and though I figure a great deal of it is absurd, I’ve believed that its reputation was somewhat exaggerated. Last weekend, however, I attended a performance art show and was horrified at, if not scarred by, the sick, outrageous things I saw. These things included nudity, bodily-harm, butt-plugs, pooping, and an adult man having his diaper changed. Disgusted yet?
Let’s start at the beginning. While making plans for the evening, Terri mentioned that she had met a man at a bar the previous night who dresses up as the baby Jesus and nails himself to a vagina. She wasn’t willing to give him her phone number, but she would gladly accept the flyer to his event. I wasn’t sure that it would be a good show, but I figured it would be an experience of some sort. Stacy agreed that this guy’s shtick would at least be entertaining. Though we were put off by the fifteen-dollar tickets, Terri argued that it would either be the best or worst fifteen bucks we’ve ever spent, so we accepted the gamble and went to the show.
Upon entering the performance space, a man dressed as a female nurse approached me and asked if I would like a “crotch shot.” I wasn’t sure what that was, but I was the designated driver and not interested in drinking alcohol, so I declined. The “nurse” told me I was missing out and proceeded to find someone else to participate. Curious, I watched the crotch shot in action. As it turned out, there was no alcohol involved, just some strange thing that involved the nurse placing his head between the volunteers’ legs and nuzzling his face against their crotches. After seeing that, I was glad I didn’t agree to participate; I can only imagine what would have happened if I had thought I was receiving a drink and was sexually harassed instead.
But that was just the pre-show entertainment. Soon after, we were moved to a large room for the show; there were no seats so most people just took a seat on the floor. The first act was some sort of skit with three men wearing elaborate pumpkin-monster costumes. There was almost no dialogue, but a lot of exaggerated crying and dying amongst the characters. With a lack of narrative and deeper meaning, it was like watching third graders perform a skit. Plus, the damned thing dragged on for nearly fifteen minutes. As I asked myself “why is this still happening and what is going on?” I decided to calculate what percentage of my weekly income I had spent on this ticket. In essence, people could do anything on a stage and call it “art” and these people were taking full advantage of this fact.
The next act was a pair of men, one wearing a robe and one in nothing but his underwear, with a variety of props. They used half a roll of packing tape to attach a sharp blade to the microphone and I winced the whole time at the possibilities. If they were going to sing and talk into the mic (which they did plenty of), there was a good possibility of slicing their faces open. I guess the real reason for the blade was to create some excitement. There was a box, taped shut, attached to the ceiling. One of the guys held up the microphone stand from the bottom and used it to try to cut open the box. Slicing the box open proved difficult, requiring literally dozens of attempts, including a couple botched attempts in which the guy would lose control of the mic stand and it would start falling – blade first toward us sitting in the audience. If the objective was to terrify me, it worked: I was pretty sure someone was going to be impaled. Finally the box opened, and about fifty bouncy balls fell from the sky. It was exciting, but the anticipation of what was in the box (as well as potential bodily harm) outweighed the actual event.
From there, the men did whatever they felt like. Bouncing balls, eating bagels, singing metal songs. Periodically, they would mention that we had paid a lot for these tickets and rhetorically asked if we felt like they were giving us our money’s worth. It was like they were thumbing their noses at us, laughing at the fact that we agreed to give them artistic license to do whatever. They also made reference to the fact that it cost a lot to have this show because the clean-up costs alone are astronomical since blood and shit stains are hard to get out. Unfortunately, I don’t think this was a joke. The guys continued to do random activities, most notably the one in just underwear fried an egg on a hot plate, then afterwards put his own head on the hot plate, which was still operational. I’m not sure what he was trying to prove. Though I didn’t notice it myself, Terri later claimed he became visibly aroused while doing that, so maybe it was a sadomasochism thing.
We were moved to another room for the next piece, which had mazes of upside down golf tees set up all over the floor. These props were secondary to the toilet in the center filled to the brim with fertilizer and a naked man in the back corner pooping into a bucket. A butch woman came out and spoke about the maltreatment of people afflicted with mental health conditions while plunging the “soiled” (get it?) toilet. She mentioned some kerfuffle of a schizophrenic with a police officer that resulted in injury and passed around the evidence in a ziplocked plastic bag. When I was handed it, it looked like hair and blood, and I decided I didn’t even want to know for sure what was inside, so I passed it along quickly. This story was supposed to make us mad, apparently, and the main performer (as opposed to the man pooping on the bucket – still pooping on the bucket, might I add) encouraged us to pick up a golf tee and chuck it at the wall whenever we got mad during the piece and she showed us by example. Not one person throughout the piece threw a tee; I’m not sure I was ever “mad” as much as I was disturbed.
Anyway, there was more of the same for a while, but here’s where things really got weird. The woman got bare-ass to correspond with the pooping man and the two of them took pieces of floss that had books tied to one end and stick it in their teeth, leaving the books dangling from their mouths. They then got down on their hands and knees and very slowly crawled toward us in the audience, knocking over the golf tees in their wake. I grew uncomfortable as they approached me, trying to shift backward into the audience so that they wouldn’t end up brushing against me. Still, nothing was quite as disturbing as when they passed by me. It wasn’t until then that I realized that each performer had a butt plug in his or her bare ass. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. They pair continued to crawl toward the door, which had a dozen rolls of toilet paper sitting in front of it. I figured something dramatic would happen once they reached the paper, but instead they just pushed passed it and proceeded to exit through the door and crawl around outside.
Right next door to this performance space is a more traditional gallery that was hosting its own opening. It featured nice, traditional paintings and a lot of people showed up, many of whom were standing just outdoors to smoke, drink wine, and have conversations. They were most likely unaware of what was occurring next door… that is until two naked people with butt plugs crawled outdoors. Fortunately, there were windows in the room that allowed us to peek outside and watch all of this unfold. It’s one thing to know you’re going to watch a non-traditional show and another thing to have the non-traditional show ambush you. Watching the art-goers oblivious smiles turn into horrified expressions once they noticed the naked duo was immensely enjoyable. Terri said that this part was worth the price of admission alone, but I’m not sure I’d go that far. Still, that was my favorite moment of the night. I guess the point of this piece was to make sure to take better care of people with mental health conditions… or they’ll put on this show for you!
I should probably mention that I openly laughed pretty frequently during all of the acts. No one else was doing it, but if you’re going to put weird shit out for me to interpret on my own and not offer an explanation, if I find it funny, I’m going to laugh and not apologize. Put your genitals away and make sense if you feel differently. The rest of the audience was largely artsy unaffected twenty-or-thirty-somethings that stared emotionless as if they see this sort of thing all the time. Maybe they do and maybe that’s why they’ve been rendered emotionless. My favorite person in the audience, however, was a middle-aged woman who was most definitely a mom that did not ever go to these types of events. From the beginning, her jaw was wide open in shock at what was occurring around her. It was often horrifying, so I didn’t blame her. But by the end of the show, she was just laughing. I think she finally realized what a joke all of this was and just let loose, openly laughing at it instead. I loved watching her transformation more than the actual art.
From there, we moved back to the first room, now cleaned of all props, and saw a nude woman standing in the center. Again with the nudity. On one wrist she had a handcuff with about one hundred pieces of paper attached. She began telling a story about how her dad raped her and she is now a lesbian, but then stopped. The rest of the story was written on the pieces of paper attached to her handcuff. She walked around the audience and we were all to tear off a sheet of paper and read the bits of story aloud to make it more interactive. The order wasn’t important, and the voices could read simultaneously. Afterwards, we had all been provided with markers. She invited us to come up and write on her skin. Only one person did. I actually wanted to go and write on her naked body for the novelty of it – like behind her knee or somewhere tame – but since no one else was doing it, I felt weird being that guy. I don’t know that the piece was successful since the audience did not participate in the way she expected, but at least I understood what the greater symbolism (we, too, could “rape” her body) and feelings she was trying to convey. Still, it was weird.
And then finally the night ends with the Jesus guy. The lights go up and there is an obese man wearing nothing but a diaper. He is made to look like Jesus and is crucified on a nine-foot tall vagina. A band in the corner, costumed as Roman soldiers, begins to play and Jesus sings cover songs like some sort of lounge act. Eventually, he breaks free of his vagina crucifixion and gives us party favors – baby rattles and pacifiers. We shake the rattles as he sings and explains that this piece is about a breakup – a breakup with his mother. It’s clear that at least Jesus is not taking this as seriously as everyone else and is having fun with it. Nevertheless, he’s making people uncomfortable as he crawls and ambles around. He had greased himself thoroughly with baby oil, so whenever he would brush against someone, they would essentially be slimed with the stuff.
He sang to us for a while and then laid on a makeshift changing table just feet away. One of the Roman soldiers came and changed his diaper, providing us with a full, naked view. There was a whole lot of baby powder utilized, which then wafted in the air. Though it smelled pleasant, I knew that that powder had just bounced against his naked butt and I didn’t like the particles falling all around me. The previous night, this man had told Terri that he had waxed his entire body for the role – including his asshole – because there was a “diaper change” in the act. We interpreted this to mean a costume change of some sort, not a real live diaper change.
And so concluded the night. There were actually two more acts listed on the program, but apparently the artist involved pulled out of the show after the previous night. In some ways, I was thankful, because I really don’t know how much of this I could have handled. But one of the acts was to feature someone eating dirt, while the other involved someone submerging himself in a vat full of Gatorade. They seemed a bit funnier in concept than some of the other acts, so I do regret missing out on them a bit, but as I figure, they’d probably find a way to make those gratuitous and un-watchable too, so it was perhaps better to just get out of there.
I can’t un-see what I’ve seen, but I can make a point not to experiment with experimentation again. This night might have ruined art for me – not just performance art, but water colors and ceramics, too. It’s all art and it’s all disturbing. One thing is for sure: I will probably never have a reason to see anything even resembling these acts again, and that I can be thankful for.
Take care. And beware performance art.
Let’s start at the beginning. While making plans for the evening, Terri mentioned that she had met a man at a bar the previous night who dresses up as the baby Jesus and nails himself to a vagina. She wasn’t willing to give him her phone number, but she would gladly accept the flyer to his event. I wasn’t sure that it would be a good show, but I figured it would be an experience of some sort. Stacy agreed that this guy’s shtick would at least be entertaining. Though we were put off by the fifteen-dollar tickets, Terri argued that it would either be the best or worst fifteen bucks we’ve ever spent, so we accepted the gamble and went to the show.
Upon entering the performance space, a man dressed as a female nurse approached me and asked if I would like a “crotch shot.” I wasn’t sure what that was, but I was the designated driver and not interested in drinking alcohol, so I declined. The “nurse” told me I was missing out and proceeded to find someone else to participate. Curious, I watched the crotch shot in action. As it turned out, there was no alcohol involved, just some strange thing that involved the nurse placing his head between the volunteers’ legs and nuzzling his face against their crotches. After seeing that, I was glad I didn’t agree to participate; I can only imagine what would have happened if I had thought I was receiving a drink and was sexually harassed instead.
But that was just the pre-show entertainment. Soon after, we were moved to a large room for the show; there were no seats so most people just took a seat on the floor. The first act was some sort of skit with three men wearing elaborate pumpkin-monster costumes. There was almost no dialogue, but a lot of exaggerated crying and dying amongst the characters. With a lack of narrative and deeper meaning, it was like watching third graders perform a skit. Plus, the damned thing dragged on for nearly fifteen minutes. As I asked myself “why is this still happening and what is going on?” I decided to calculate what percentage of my weekly income I had spent on this ticket. In essence, people could do anything on a stage and call it “art” and these people were taking full advantage of this fact.
The next act was a pair of men, one wearing a robe and one in nothing but his underwear, with a variety of props. They used half a roll of packing tape to attach a sharp blade to the microphone and I winced the whole time at the possibilities. If they were going to sing and talk into the mic (which they did plenty of), there was a good possibility of slicing their faces open. I guess the real reason for the blade was to create some excitement. There was a box, taped shut, attached to the ceiling. One of the guys held up the microphone stand from the bottom and used it to try to cut open the box. Slicing the box open proved difficult, requiring literally dozens of attempts, including a couple botched attempts in which the guy would lose control of the mic stand and it would start falling – blade first toward us sitting in the audience. If the objective was to terrify me, it worked: I was pretty sure someone was going to be impaled. Finally the box opened, and about fifty bouncy balls fell from the sky. It was exciting, but the anticipation of what was in the box (as well as potential bodily harm) outweighed the actual event.
From there, the men did whatever they felt like. Bouncing balls, eating bagels, singing metal songs. Periodically, they would mention that we had paid a lot for these tickets and rhetorically asked if we felt like they were giving us our money’s worth. It was like they were thumbing their noses at us, laughing at the fact that we agreed to give them artistic license to do whatever. They also made reference to the fact that it cost a lot to have this show because the clean-up costs alone are astronomical since blood and shit stains are hard to get out. Unfortunately, I don’t think this was a joke. The guys continued to do random activities, most notably the one in just underwear fried an egg on a hot plate, then afterwards put his own head on the hot plate, which was still operational. I’m not sure what he was trying to prove. Though I didn’t notice it myself, Terri later claimed he became visibly aroused while doing that, so maybe it was a sadomasochism thing.
We were moved to another room for the next piece, which had mazes of upside down golf tees set up all over the floor. These props were secondary to the toilet in the center filled to the brim with fertilizer and a naked man in the back corner pooping into a bucket. A butch woman came out and spoke about the maltreatment of people afflicted with mental health conditions while plunging the “soiled” (get it?) toilet. She mentioned some kerfuffle of a schizophrenic with a police officer that resulted in injury and passed around the evidence in a ziplocked plastic bag. When I was handed it, it looked like hair and blood, and I decided I didn’t even want to know for sure what was inside, so I passed it along quickly. This story was supposed to make us mad, apparently, and the main performer (as opposed to the man pooping on the bucket – still pooping on the bucket, might I add) encouraged us to pick up a golf tee and chuck it at the wall whenever we got mad during the piece and she showed us by example. Not one person throughout the piece threw a tee; I’m not sure I was ever “mad” as much as I was disturbed.
Anyway, there was more of the same for a while, but here’s where things really got weird. The woman got bare-ass to correspond with the pooping man and the two of them took pieces of floss that had books tied to one end and stick it in their teeth, leaving the books dangling from their mouths. They then got down on their hands and knees and very slowly crawled toward us in the audience, knocking over the golf tees in their wake. I grew uncomfortable as they approached me, trying to shift backward into the audience so that they wouldn’t end up brushing against me. Still, nothing was quite as disturbing as when they passed by me. It wasn’t until then that I realized that each performer had a butt plug in his or her bare ass. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. They pair continued to crawl toward the door, which had a dozen rolls of toilet paper sitting in front of it. I figured something dramatic would happen once they reached the paper, but instead they just pushed passed it and proceeded to exit through the door and crawl around outside.
Right next door to this performance space is a more traditional gallery that was hosting its own opening. It featured nice, traditional paintings and a lot of people showed up, many of whom were standing just outdoors to smoke, drink wine, and have conversations. They were most likely unaware of what was occurring next door… that is until two naked people with butt plugs crawled outdoors. Fortunately, there were windows in the room that allowed us to peek outside and watch all of this unfold. It’s one thing to know you’re going to watch a non-traditional show and another thing to have the non-traditional show ambush you. Watching the art-goers oblivious smiles turn into horrified expressions once they noticed the naked duo was immensely enjoyable. Terri said that this part was worth the price of admission alone, but I’m not sure I’d go that far. Still, that was my favorite moment of the night. I guess the point of this piece was to make sure to take better care of people with mental health conditions… or they’ll put on this show for you!
I should probably mention that I openly laughed pretty frequently during all of the acts. No one else was doing it, but if you’re going to put weird shit out for me to interpret on my own and not offer an explanation, if I find it funny, I’m going to laugh and not apologize. Put your genitals away and make sense if you feel differently. The rest of the audience was largely artsy unaffected twenty-or-thirty-somethings that stared emotionless as if they see this sort of thing all the time. Maybe they do and maybe that’s why they’ve been rendered emotionless. My favorite person in the audience, however, was a middle-aged woman who was most definitely a mom that did not ever go to these types of events. From the beginning, her jaw was wide open in shock at what was occurring around her. It was often horrifying, so I didn’t blame her. But by the end of the show, she was just laughing. I think she finally realized what a joke all of this was and just let loose, openly laughing at it instead. I loved watching her transformation more than the actual art.
From there, we moved back to the first room, now cleaned of all props, and saw a nude woman standing in the center. Again with the nudity. On one wrist she had a handcuff with about one hundred pieces of paper attached. She began telling a story about how her dad raped her and she is now a lesbian, but then stopped. The rest of the story was written on the pieces of paper attached to her handcuff. She walked around the audience and we were all to tear off a sheet of paper and read the bits of story aloud to make it more interactive. The order wasn’t important, and the voices could read simultaneously. Afterwards, we had all been provided with markers. She invited us to come up and write on her skin. Only one person did. I actually wanted to go and write on her naked body for the novelty of it – like behind her knee or somewhere tame – but since no one else was doing it, I felt weird being that guy. I don’t know that the piece was successful since the audience did not participate in the way she expected, but at least I understood what the greater symbolism (we, too, could “rape” her body) and feelings she was trying to convey. Still, it was weird.
And then finally the night ends with the Jesus guy. The lights go up and there is an obese man wearing nothing but a diaper. He is made to look like Jesus and is crucified on a nine-foot tall vagina. A band in the corner, costumed as Roman soldiers, begins to play and Jesus sings cover songs like some sort of lounge act. Eventually, he breaks free of his vagina crucifixion and gives us party favors – baby rattles and pacifiers. We shake the rattles as he sings and explains that this piece is about a breakup – a breakup with his mother. It’s clear that at least Jesus is not taking this as seriously as everyone else and is having fun with it. Nevertheless, he’s making people uncomfortable as he crawls and ambles around. He had greased himself thoroughly with baby oil, so whenever he would brush against someone, they would essentially be slimed with the stuff.
He sang to us for a while and then laid on a makeshift changing table just feet away. One of the Roman soldiers came and changed his diaper, providing us with a full, naked view. There was a whole lot of baby powder utilized, which then wafted in the air. Though it smelled pleasant, I knew that that powder had just bounced against his naked butt and I didn’t like the particles falling all around me. The previous night, this man had told Terri that he had waxed his entire body for the role – including his asshole – because there was a “diaper change” in the act. We interpreted this to mean a costume change of some sort, not a real live diaper change.
And so concluded the night. There were actually two more acts listed on the program, but apparently the artist involved pulled out of the show after the previous night. In some ways, I was thankful, because I really don’t know how much of this I could have handled. But one of the acts was to feature someone eating dirt, while the other involved someone submerging himself in a vat full of Gatorade. They seemed a bit funnier in concept than some of the other acts, so I do regret missing out on them a bit, but as I figure, they’d probably find a way to make those gratuitous and un-watchable too, so it was perhaps better to just get out of there.
I can’t un-see what I’ve seen, but I can make a point not to experiment with experimentation again. This night might have ruined art for me – not just performance art, but water colors and ceramics, too. It’s all art and it’s all disturbing. One thing is for sure: I will probably never have a reason to see anything even resembling these acts again, and that I can be thankful for.
Take care. And beware performance art.
2009-07-29
A Night at the Symphony
Andrew invited me to the symphony, and being the cultured guy that I am, I couldn't decline. While I tend to like classical music when I hear it, I don't generally take the time to listen to it. I like singing along to songs, and classical music is largely lyric-less; it's not classical composers' faults that they wrote music before singing was invented. Off we went to the Hollywood Bowl, wine bottles in hand. The LA Philharmonic performed Mahler's Fifth. Truthfully, I don't know Mahler from Mozart, but he sounds like a composer I can trust. (I have my eye on you, Tchaikovsky.) I was a bit concerned that I wouldn't be able to follow the Fifth seeing as I hadn't heard Mahler's first four symphonies, but that didn't prove to be a problem.
Andrew actually conducted extensive research (by which I mean Wikipedia) on Mahler, who is one of his favorite composers, before the show. He found out that Mahler hemorrhaged and nearly died before writing his Fifth. At the same time, he was also falling for his soon-to-be-wife Alma. Since these were his inspirations for the music, I tried to listen for love and hemorrhaging during the symphony; I think I heard it, but it might have just been the french horn.
Andrew also learned that Alma was a hussy who had an affair with Mahler's architect, Gropius. Never trust your wife with a man named Gropius. Then Mahler died because of heartsickness (or perhaps hemorrhaging or the plague or whatever), and Alma married Gropius and they lived together in the house that he was building for Mahler. How I would like to hear the symphony inspired by all of that drama! I'm thinking fewer chimes, more tubas.
Although Allison had not researched Mahler, she did bring the puns. Not just quick puns, but long drawn out stories that somehow resulted in a punch line sounding like Mahler. (Think "Maul her" or "Mallard.") Also, each story inexplicably referenced the recession. Some of them were so painful, I'd rather have been hemorrhaging, frankly. Since she doesn't know when to leave bad enough alone, she sent me another one today:
Just the other day I read about this super successful business analyst known for saving struggling small businesses. This little mom and pop restaurant was having a hard time due to the recession, so they decided to enlist his services. Unfortunately the two parties had very different visions for the restaurant. The couple wanted to keep their food simple, sticking to the same small but delicious menu they'd had for years. The analyst kept trying to convince them to diversify their menu, offering a variety of foods similar to that found in the food court at the mall. Things really got heated one afternoon after the restaurant owners and analyst had the same fight not once, not twice, not even three or four times. The working relationship ended as the analyst walked out the door shouting, “You need to be more like a mall! Maller! For the FIFTH time MAHLER!”
At least my groans fell in harmony with the instruments.
I liked Mahler's music and am interested in hearing more of his work. That said, the best performance of the night was the twit behind me who butchered the National Anthem at the start of the night. If you are the only person in earshot who is singing, you should have a decent voice or, failing that, know the words. Then she had the nerve to blame her mistakes on the fact that she was following the conductor on the large screen and that there must be a tape delay. It was definitely the conductor that fooled her into singing "And the rockets' red glare" three different times. Right.
As a break from Mahler, a pair of xylophonists took center stage and started playing some song (I forget the exact title) in "A minor." They played for about a minute before announcing they were "just kidding" and would be playing something else instead. The crowd laughed because of course they wouldn't really play that joke of a song. It sounded fine to me. I guess I'm just the rube sitting in the nosebleed section who doesn't get the classical music humor. Maybe if they cracked wise about a "tromboner," I'd have gotten it.
I was all about the conductor. He just flailed about wildly the whole time. I think he was on meth. Surely, conductors are largely ornamental. There is no way the musicians can interpret those bizarre arm movements; I noticed the cellist trying to steal third base.
During the last movement, Andrew sneezed, and basically ruined the entire performance for everyone. I wouldn't have accepted his invitation if I had known he would just be such a rude dick. Mahler deserved better than that, Andrew.
All right, folks, keep it classy.
2009-05-08
Understanding the Understudy
As a teen, I participated as part of the backstage crew on a few youth theater performances by constructing, painting, and moving sets. My friend Jen was acting in the show, though she didn't have a large part. In the week leading up to opening night, I noticed Jen was studying the script. Since she only had a few lines, I made an inquiry and discovered that she was actually the understudy for the lead role. I told her that that seemed like a lot of work just to be a back up, to which Jen agreed but said she had pretty much learned all of the lines anyway "just in case." That's when I started joking, "So if something were to happen to Lauren [the lead], you would get to perform?" "Yeah," she said. Then, doing my best mobster impression, I slammed my fist into my open palm in a menacing manner and promised to "see what I can do." Appreciating my joke, Jen laughed and thanked me.The following night, now just two days before the show's opening night, the director gathered everyone to give some bad news. Lauren, the lead, had been injured and was in the hospital with two broken ribs. I immediately felt awful, partially because Lauren was seriously hurt, and partially because I was afraid that Jen might think I was somehow responsible after the vague threats I made in jest the night before, especially given the lack of explanation as to how Lauren was injured.
I tried to find Jen immediately to make sure she didn't actually suspect me of anything, but she was already busy going through scenes as the newly promoted understudy. It wasn't until the end of the night that we finally caught up. Our conversation used as few words as possible, but we conveyed what we needed to convey:
Jen: So...
Kevin: No!!
Jen: Yeah...
Kevin: Yeah.
Jen: I didn't think you would, it's just...
Kevin: We had that conversation, so you'd...
Jen: Yeah...
Kevin: But yeah, no.
Jen: Good.
Kevin: Well, congratulations anyway.
Jen: Yeah, ha, thanks, I guess.
It was one of those funny scenarios where I would have not only been offended if she thought that of me, but also a bit if she hadn't at least wondered. I can be tough and evil, right? Jen didn't really think I would do that, and I didn't really think she would think I would do that, but the situation necessitated at least articulating this, however poorly, as confirmation.
As it turned out, Lauren was out of the hospital by the next day and, even with broken ribs, was determined to play the part. The crew did some last minute changes to the choreography and stage directions to accommodate Lauren's injuries, so Jen never even got her big shot at stardom.
I learned a lesson from all of this:
Next time, I won't settle for simply maiming... BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
2008-05-31
Anything Goes, Though It Shouldn't
There are only two reasons to attend children's theater: out of obligation or masochism. I must fit in the latter group since when Allison invited me to attend eir grade school's annual musical, I accepted. I didn't have high hopes - it would be unreasonable to expect more from preteens - but Allison told me that the director was hyping the show as professional and the best one yet. This same director also claims to have "Broadway training," so it struck me that this person was likely delusional.
We arrived at the school, but had difficulty finding our way inside. A school in the city is different than one in the suburbs in that it requires far more security; this one is enclosed in an intimidatingly spiky fence. We paced the large campus' perimeter looking for an entrance, only to find ourselves sufficiently locked out. After searching unsuccessfully in a location that could best be described as an upscale crack alley, a friendly face finally took pity upon our lost souls and snuck us through a back gate.
We were escorted to the theater by passing through backstage. Momentarily, I felt privileged to have this opportunity to see the behind the scenes action until I came face to face with a member of the cast: a ten-year-old in a costume dress shakily practicing her tap dance. Though the theater still reeked of self-importance, I fast realized this show was not going to be something worth writing home about. Blogging is another story, evidently.
The play was Anything Goes, a musical about upper class Brits and Americans on a boat in the 1930s. In other words, it was a high interest piece for Latino children. The show was so distant irrelevant to both the cast and the audience that it became a chore for everyone. The detachment from the piece was evident in the delivery of the lines. Though most of the words seemed to be correct, the awkward punctuation and inflection revealed that the kids had no idea what they were saying. Between the dated cultural references and pun-driven humor, I wouldn't blame them for this fact, however. Truthfully, I feel the same way when I have my students read Shakespeare. Sure, they (well, some of them) can read the words, but when they don't even attempt to comprehend their meaning, what's the point? It's an exercise in tradition rather than education, something I've come to recognize as a true fault of the system.
If I didn't know better, I'd have thought half of the performers were missing their hands. Amusingly, the costumes were comprised of ill-fitting adult clothing such that the sleeves covered the kids' hands. As they gestured without visible appendages, I liked to imagine that they were all amputees, which kept me giggling pretty much the entire show.
The most dramatic aspects of the play were the dramatic pauses. For up to a minute at a time, the theater was deafened with silence as an actor missed a cue or struggled to remember a line. At this rate, the play appeared as though it might drag on for four hours. Fortunately, one unskilled actor made up for lost time by reciting his lines as quickly as possible, seemingly afraid that if he didn't say it quickly, he might forget it altogether, which sometimes he did. He also was monotone and mumbled. He was a lead and he was awful. Heck, Mischa Barton could act circles around this kid. Worst of all, his character was meant to be constant comic relief, but without the necessary comic delivery, it took me a while to realize that his character's lines were remotely funny.
In addition to being situationally inappropriate, Anything Goes, it was also inappropriate for preteen students at a Catholic school. If I understood it correctly, and I can't be sure that I did, there seemed to be a lot of religious satire, which I suppose makes the whole performance even more satirical in that context. Additionally, there was a great deal of sexual innuendo. I don't quite enjoy nine-year-olds behaving friskily with one another, though I realize I'm in the minority on this issue. On some occasions, I could tell that some alterations must have been made: a line in the song where the word "hell" would have fit as the rhyme was replaced with "heck." The censorship was inconsistent, though, because they followed through with the song "I Get a Kick out of You," which unapologetically features a verse about sniffing cocaine. After the cocaine lyrics, the subsequent song "Blow, Gabriel, Blow" also carried a new meaning.
The show legitimately offended me with the young Chinese characters Ching and Ling. Their sole purpose is to allow for extraneous, stereotypical Asian jokes, particularly when the protagonists steal their oversized hats and speak in broken English in a successful attempt to disguise themselves. Unsurprisingly, the audience loved these characters, as it was the "easiest" humor to understand. Allison and I cringed and slumped in our seats.
The problem with Anything Goes, as it the case with most musicals is that between all of the song and dance numbers, there's simply no time for a plot. Nothing happens. There are two sets of love interests and by the end they swap partners, even though there's no character development for the audience to give a hoot over who ends up with whom. During "I Get a Kick out of You," after picking my jaw off the floor following the cocaine lyrics, I tapped Allison to ask who the character was singing about. It was so ambiguous, I had no idea who she was even in love with at that point.
At intermission, we contemplated leaving, but I was curious how it would end. Not because there were loose story lines, but because I was genuinely confused where the plot would go since I didn't see the point in a damn thing that happened thus far. The title "Anything Goes" is right: the writers apparently pieced together a bunch of barely cohesive songs and dialogue and passed it off as a genuine musical.
If this show indeed demonstrated "Broadway training," then people need to start studying elsewhere in order to hone their craft. Regrettably, I must strongly not recommend the St. Catherine* Catholic grade school revival of Anything Goes. Those kids truly put on a shitty show and, frankly, they should be ashamed of themselves.
This article will also appear in the New York Times Arts section this Sunday.
We arrived at the school, but had difficulty finding our way inside. A school in the city is different than one in the suburbs in that it requires far more security; this one is enclosed in an intimidatingly spiky fence. We paced the large campus' perimeter looking for an entrance, only to find ourselves sufficiently locked out. After searching unsuccessfully in a location that could best be described as an upscale crack alley, a friendly face finally took pity upon our lost souls and snuck us through a back gate.
We were escorted to the theater by passing through backstage. Momentarily, I felt privileged to have this opportunity to see the behind the scenes action until I came face to face with a member of the cast: a ten-year-old in a costume dress shakily practicing her tap dance. Though the theater still reeked of self-importance, I fast realized this show was not going to be something worth writing home about. Blogging is another story, evidently.
The play was Anything Goes, a musical about upper class Brits and Americans on a boat in the 1930s. In other words, it was a high interest piece for Latino children. The show was so distant irrelevant to both the cast and the audience that it became a chore for everyone. The detachment from the piece was evident in the delivery of the lines. Though most of the words seemed to be correct, the awkward punctuation and inflection revealed that the kids had no idea what they were saying. Between the dated cultural references and pun-driven humor, I wouldn't blame them for this fact, however. Truthfully, I feel the same way when I have my students read Shakespeare. Sure, they (well, some of them) can read the words, but when they don't even attempt to comprehend their meaning, what's the point? It's an exercise in tradition rather than education, something I've come to recognize as a true fault of the system.
If I didn't know better, I'd have thought half of the performers were missing their hands. Amusingly, the costumes were comprised of ill-fitting adult clothing such that the sleeves covered the kids' hands. As they gestured without visible appendages, I liked to imagine that they were all amputees, which kept me giggling pretty much the entire show.
The most dramatic aspects of the play were the dramatic pauses. For up to a minute at a time, the theater was deafened with silence as an actor missed a cue or struggled to remember a line. At this rate, the play appeared as though it might drag on for four hours. Fortunately, one unskilled actor made up for lost time by reciting his lines as quickly as possible, seemingly afraid that if he didn't say it quickly, he might forget it altogether, which sometimes he did. He also was monotone and mumbled. He was a lead and he was awful. Heck, Mischa Barton could act circles around this kid. Worst of all, his character was meant to be constant comic relief, but without the necessary comic delivery, it took me a while to realize that his character's lines were remotely funny.
In addition to being situationally inappropriate, Anything Goes, it was also inappropriate for preteen students at a Catholic school. If I understood it correctly, and I can't be sure that I did, there seemed to be a lot of religious satire, which I suppose makes the whole performance even more satirical in that context. Additionally, there was a great deal of sexual innuendo. I don't quite enjoy nine-year-olds behaving friskily with one another, though I realize I'm in the minority on this issue. On some occasions, I could tell that some alterations must have been made: a line in the song where the word "hell" would have fit as the rhyme was replaced with "heck." The censorship was inconsistent, though, because they followed through with the song "I Get a Kick out of You," which unapologetically features a verse about sniffing cocaine. After the cocaine lyrics, the subsequent song "Blow, Gabriel, Blow" also carried a new meaning.
The show legitimately offended me with the young Chinese characters Ching and Ling. Their sole purpose is to allow for extraneous, stereotypical Asian jokes, particularly when the protagonists steal their oversized hats and speak in broken English in a successful attempt to disguise themselves. Unsurprisingly, the audience loved these characters, as it was the "easiest" humor to understand. Allison and I cringed and slumped in our seats.
The problem with Anything Goes, as it the case with most musicals is that between all of the song and dance numbers, there's simply no time for a plot. Nothing happens. There are two sets of love interests and by the end they swap partners, even though there's no character development for the audience to give a hoot over who ends up with whom. During "I Get a Kick out of You," after picking my jaw off the floor following the cocaine lyrics, I tapped Allison to ask who the character was singing about. It was so ambiguous, I had no idea who she was even in love with at that point.
At intermission, we contemplated leaving, but I was curious how it would end. Not because there were loose story lines, but because I was genuinely confused where the plot would go since I didn't see the point in a damn thing that happened thus far. The title "Anything Goes" is right: the writers apparently pieced together a bunch of barely cohesive songs and dialogue and passed it off as a genuine musical.
If this show indeed demonstrated "Broadway training," then people need to start studying elsewhere in order to hone their craft. Regrettably, I must strongly not recommend the St. Catherine* Catholic grade school revival of Anything Goes. Those kids truly put on a shitty show and, frankly, they should be ashamed of themselves.
This article will also appear in the New York Times Arts section this Sunday.
2007-07-29
The Shittiest Play I've Seen
Last weekend at a quaint picnic in the park, I met Kat's friend from junior high Sasha. At first Sasha was quiet, but I came to appreciate eir sense of humor from the way ey ruthlessly teased Kat (I respect that) and took photos of strangers having a threesome on their nearby blanket (pictured at right). When Kat brought up the play Sasha had seen the previous night in Hollywood, however, Sasha immediately ranted about how it was the worst thing ey had ever seen, describing it as "Andy Dick meets Multiplicity meets the toilet from Trainspotting meets the Holocaust." Sasha and friend Chris went to see the play to support Chris's friend. They found the play so grotesque and unbearable that they snuck out when the friend wasn't on stage, knowing they would be unable to pay even the slightest of compliments to the actor. You can read Sasha's full account of the night at eir blog, This Was the Worst Fucking Idea. Coincidentally, that's how Sasha felt about the play, as well.The play, by the way, is named Ubu the Shit, a modern adaption of Ubu Roi an influential play from the late 1800s somewhat based on Macbeth. From what I'd researched, it's absurdist theater with poop jokes thrown in for good measure. Naturally, with a description like that, I was intrigued. I love poop, not to mention Andy Dick and the Holocaust. Although Sasha warned us vehemently not to go, it got the best of Kat and me, so we made plans to attend. How can you resist the opportunity to see the world's worst play?
Kat also convinced Cecilia and Oscar to come. Though no one is sure how to account for the discrepancy, Cecilia thought Kat described Ubu the Shit as a "mustache and cigar" play, so Cecilia agreed to go. This miscommunication is confusing for two reasons: first, the play has nothing to do with mustaches or cigars, so Kat definitely said nothing of the sort, and second, it makes no sense why Cecilia would be excited to attend a play with a "mustache and cigar" theme, unless ey's really into Groucho or something. In the meantime, Cecilia had invited two more friends, who knew even less about the play, to tag along as well.
We got to the play and accidentally began interacting with the fresh-out-of-college director who was really intrigued that we would show up. Evidently, without it being explicitly stated, it was rare for a non-friend or family member to attend. Diplomatically, Kat explained we learned about Ubu from word-of-mouth, hearing it was an experience not to be missed; even when pressed, Kat truthfully would not commit to hearing it was "good," though I think the word "traumatic" was used, which was pretty gutsy. Even more gutsily, Kat asked the director if ey would like "feedback" after the show. I violently shook my head no as Kat made this offer -- how could you possibly volunteer to speak constructively about something hyped as "the worst ever" to the person responsible for its creation? Of course, the director said ey would love to hear what we had to say at the play's conclusion.
Before the play started, they sold wine. "How much for the Two Buck Chuck?" Kat asked. "It's strictly donations," we were told. "Between $3-5." So for $3 a piece, we each got a glass of horrible and cheap wine for more than the entire bottle cost. 'tever, if the play was as bad as we heard, we were going to have to imbibe. We wanted to play a drinking game, per Sasha's suggestion, and take a sip each time a racial slur was made.
Before I get into my own description of the play, I'm going to borrow from Sasha for a moment:
i honestly don't even know where to start with this thing. oh wait, how about here: the main character has a giant penis dangling between his legs the entire show. is that a good starting point? it was about a foot long, green, and bumpy. he strokes it, fucks his dinner with it, rapes people with it (who are puking in the toilet at the same time), slaps his wife with it, and puts it in various mouths. and i believe this all happened in the first three scenes. how many scenes were there? oh, just twenty. WTFWTFWTF.
Yeah, it was pretty gross like that. The actors took turns playing the main characters, wearing distinguishing masks to differentiate between the characters. Unfortunately, their voices were often muffled behind the masks, so it was difficult to follow the dialogue. That's not to say the voices were soft, however. Hell, people two blocks away could probably hear enough to not assume such a thing. The actors were shouting each and every line with all of their might, sometimes, confusingly, in unison, which certainly didn't add to the comprehension. But the shouting, gosh darn that shouting, gave me a headache by the second scene. I don't understand how in their fourth show of the weekend, the actors still had the vocal cords to irritate my eardrums so greatly. I suppose it would be unfair of me to portray the actors as entirely untalented, bearing in mind this gift.
Shortly into the play, Kat quipped, "There aren't enough racial slurs." That's not a complaint you'd typically hear, but we certainly weren't drinking our marked-up wine quickly enough, so we switched to sipping every time a curse was uttered, which consequently emptied our cups in no time. By the time the racial slurs came fast and furiously at the end, we were unfortunately out, though still not remotely tipsy enough to enjoy ourselves.
There was a lot of "humor" involving pooping, raping, and queeny homosexuals. Another running gag was that every time characters delivered a line that mirrored a song lyric, they would break into that song. That got old, oh, almost immediately. If there was some sort of commentary being made, it was about how power corrupts, though the play offered nothing new on the subject - at least not coherently. And although it spoofed Macbeth, it failed to reference the most famous part where Lady Macbeth tries to wash the blood from her hands. As Cecilia pointed out, that was pretty lazy since there was an easy connection of having to wash
The audience was a peculiarity in itself. Whenever there are just as many actors on stage as people in the audience, there's going to be a strange dynamic. From Sasha's account, the audience behaved as awkwardly as a play of this type would warrent. For our showing, however, friends of the actors sat behind Kat and me and laughed hysterically pretty much the entire show. It was so frequent and so loud (perhaps to match the loud dialogue) it seemed disingenuous. I suppose they also could have been really, really, really dumb with simple senses of humor, perhaps the type of people who like Jay Leno. I'm glad the play fronted as a comedy, because that gave me license to laugh loudly when the play was at its worst. More often, however, I laughed at Cecilia and friends seated in front of us in the front row. Remember, these were the people who came to the play simply to see theater, unaware it was the "worst.show.ever." Occasionally, I would check for their facial expressions and seeing how not amused and confused they were, I couldn't help but snort and chuckle. At one point, an actor rolled off the stage and onto Claire's legs. At another, a plant flew and hit eir friend. It was awkward and you could tell they weren't sure how they ended up attending such crap in the first place.
At the end of the show, I couldn't even stand up. Between the shouting, the overzealous crowd behind us, and trying to figure out what the hell was going on, it left me worn out. It wasn't quite as abysmal as Sasha had described, but it was pretty fucking awful. I learned nothing, gained nothing, except a splitting headache.
We tried to exit the theater with little fanfare, but the director stopped us for that feedback Kat promised. Expertly, Kat again gave meaningless praise about being glad to have seen it to believe it. Kat then destroyed this delicate approach by inquiring, and I (Ubu the) shit you not, "Did you pay the rest of the audience to be here?" Clearly, this question was taken offensively, so Kat backtracked after being told no, saying it seemed like an important element of the show, which might have been a decent save were it remotely believable. When the director looked to me for my opinion, I only shrugged and said "I'm still thinking about it." I know that's pretty rude, but so is a depiction of raping and killing a baby. I'm not necessarily offended by it, but there should be some point to it. Granted, there are times when being gross for gross' sake is fine, but for nearly two hours of that material, you're going to have to give us either some good acting, witty dialogue, understandable dialogue, or fucking anything else to make it worth the while. The truth of the matter is that I'm not "still thinking about it": there's nothing to think about.My favorite part of the night came shortly before we left for our cars, the timing of which was probably not coincidental. When the director asked what Cecilia thought of the show, Cecilia said, "It made me think a lot about beards. I love beards." "Oh, so you liked the judges scene?" the director inquired. "No." Cecilia said matter-of-factly. "But it did make me want to buy a fake beard." Awkward silence ensued, which Cecilia broke a few seconds later to add, "A really long one." Since this parenthetical remark was another transparent attempt to say something besides how worthless the play was, the director finally stopped pushing us for compliments that clearly were never going to surface. Kat agreed to email the director any additional thoughts that might come after digesting it further. If ey ever does actually do that, I hope Kat CCs me, because I'd be mighty curious to see what the hell more could possibly be said.
Ubu the Shit is open for just one more weekend, so be sure not to miss your opportunity to hate life and recall why you rarely patron the arts.
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