By Victoria Looseleaf

As our loyal readers know, we recently admitted that the PBS smash, Downton Abbey, is our TV DOC (drug of choice). And now that Season 2, having to do with World War I and its ramifications, has ended – SPOILER ALERT – with Matthew Crawley on his knees in a snow-festooned scene that has him asking for Lady Mary’s hand (not for a waltz, but – tah dah – in marriage), we are elated at this turn of events. We’re also rueful, of course, that DA won’t be returning until Spring 2013, albeit with the great Shirley MacLaine, who promises to help turn the fashions and foibles of the 1920’s into a kind of, well, Occupy Downton Abbey.

All we can say is, “Thank God for On Demand.” (Lately we’ve also been revisiting HBO’s The Wire and will soon check in on Showtime’s Homeland again.) That said, who knew that this costume drama about class and changing times, mores and hemlines, would start a cultural conversation unseen since the likes of – well, you fill in the blanks.

Personally, we weren’t Upstairs Downstairs fans (we were too busy cruising  the world – Ceuta, anyone?), but do find DA every bit as delicious as The Sopranos was, as Boardwalk Empire is, and hope that Luck will be (all from HBO; also from the network, Ricky Gervais‘ new endeavor, Life’s Too Short, about which we’re reserving judgment, but confess we were decidedly unimpressed with Gervais’ wussy showing at the Globes).

But we digress: That the glitterati, of sorts, are having viewing parties (the Daily Beast reported that Patton Oswalt live tweeted during his soirees and Katy Perry – not to our liking, on any count – has been, since her split with Russell Brand, consoling herself with tea and crumpets, or at least tea and whatevers), says something. We’re just not sure what!

Ergo: With DA now a firmly embedded cultural touchstone (we wonder if the Obamas tune in…), it was only a matter of time before SNL had their shot at the series. It’s also no surprise that books have been rushed to print – but DA getting the paper doll treatment? Well, why not! Meanwhile, as blogs buzz with all manner of critics weighing in, we don’t necessarily agree with those arbiters of tastes who declared Season 2 not as fabulous as the show’s inaugural season. “Rot!” we scoff, tossing in our two shillings’ worth.

Indeed, to our way of thinking, never have so many intriguing characters been caught up in so many twists and turns, especially as endured in DA‘s last two, two-hour eps, with the Christmas finale particularly satisfying. We love the drama of Mr. Bates’ having been accused of murder, as his new bride, the housemaid Anna, stands by her man. As for Sir Richard’s smarmy tabloid ways (shades of Rupert Murdoch), will he or won’t he…publish Season 1′s tawdry story having to do with the deflowered Lady Mary and the dead Turk? We say, “Let ‘er rip.”

And what about that miracle from on high (or low – as it was Matthew Crowley’s below-the-waist problem that caused, er, friction with his betrothed, Lavinia)?

Cousin Matthew’s leap from that wheelchair was on a par with Jennifer Jones spotting the Virgin Mary in The Song of Bernadette – or at least Deborah Kerr telling Cary Grant, “If you can paint, I can walk,” whilst disabled on her couch in the final scene of the 1957 cinematic love-fest, An Affair To Remember.

And poor bad boy Thomas, throwing his lot in with black marketeers, only to get shafted himself. (His bit with Lord Grantham’s dog, Isis, is nasty, but priceless, and certainly in keeping with the servant’s closeted, noir self.) Yes, the drama keeps unfolding like Irish linens at a state dinner, with love seemingly at the root of it all: Lady Sybil ultimately getting daddy’s approval – almost – to run off and marry the chauffeur Branson; Lord G rooting for daughter Mary even after he learns of the tale of the Turk.

And whose heart didn’t stop during that whole business with the Spanish flu. Crikey! With Lady Cora on her deathbed and Lord G stealing a kiss from housemaid Jane, this was gasp-inducing television, often enhanced by the inclusion of new-fangled devices!  (The phonograph, at left, with Carson and Lady M, while certainly enlivening the proceedings, was also key to Lavinia losing her will to live.) In essence, what we have here is not a failure to communicate, but the rapturous ability to communicate, thanks to Julian Fellowes, who created the series and continues to crank out what is arguably, well, crack TV!

And the cracks just kept coming, from the indomitable, unforgettable, beyond brilliant, 77-year old Maggie Smith as the Dowager Countess Violet. To wit, here’s one of the grande dame’s choicer retorts, no matter that it’s from last season: “Why does every day involve a fight with an American?” Hey: She’s got no quarrel with this Yankee!

By Victoria Looseleaf

After seven years of performing together, two rock stars of the classical world – Grammy award-winning violinist Joshua Bell and pianist Jeremy Denk – have finally made their first recording together, French Impressions (Sony Masterworks). We’ve seen these instrumentalists each perform with the Los Angeles Philharmonic – to hair-raising effect (click here and here for our musings) – but not together yet. Happily, these good friends and fiendishly busy musicians found time in their schedules (Bell is on the road some 100 nights a year, Denk has been blazing a similar trail), to come together in the studio, with this release one of the year’s early gifts.

Recorded at Phoenix’s Musical Instrument Museum (another first, we’re told), French Impressions captures the ethereal beauty of that country’s romantic music while also offering the explosive virtuosity associated with these two mega-musicians.

Elegant and, quite frankly, addicting (we’re also hooked on PBS’ Downton Abbey and will be suffering from withdrawal when Season 2 ends, boo hoo), the disc features Camille Saint-Saëns’ emotionally heated Sonata No. 1 (the composer is known for many tunes, including the terpsichorean classic, The Swan; click here for that) and César Franck’s moody violin Sonata in A major, the disc’s centerpiece.

Completing the recording is the très hip, neo-bluesy sonata of Maurice Ravel (left). Each work, however, is itself a tapestry of lyricism and dramatic urgency, the result a textured and captivating soundscape. (Another artist working during the Impressionism era was Vincent Van Gogh; click here for our review of Van Gogh: The Life, an epic new biography by Pulitzer Prize winning authors, Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith.)

But we digress: Not for nothing did the New York Times write of the duo’s 2010 performance of the Saint-Saëns: “Mr. Bell and Mr. Denk gave a passionate performance…” [with] “plenty of fireworks in the whirlwind of the concluding movement.”

And though the sonatas may be a wee bit familiar, Bell and Denk keep things fresh, allowing listeners to feel the players’ sense of wonder. Also cool: Denk, a witty blogger (Think Denk), provides some wonderfully incisive liner notes. So, sidle up to the Veuve Clicquot trailer (really?!), and crank up your iPod with French Impressions. Mais oui!

By Victoria Looseleaf

He may be in the twilight/autumn of his years, but at 71, megatenor-turned-baritone Plácido Domingo, still has it going on. Tackling the title role of Giuseppe Verdi’s Simon Boccanegra, Domingo rocked the rafters of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Elijah Moshinsky’s exquisite revival, a production new to Los Angeles Opera. Domingo, also general director of LA Opera who can basically pick and choose what he wants, has, indeed, chosen very well here.

That Boccanegra initially flopped in 1857 when it was given its premiere at Venice’s La Fenice (click here for our musings on the watery burg), only to receive critical acclaim when the composer revised it in 1881, this time with help from librettist Arrigo Boito, adds to the work’s gloom-and-doom mystique. And while many operas have preposterous plots, Boccanegra, with its noirish, politically-charged story, takes the torte in mistaken identities, power plays, sex, murder, and what have you.

Set in mid-14^th century Genoa (our harps are from Genoa), the work opens with a prologue, where we learn that Boccanegra, an ex-pirate, has been trysting with Maria Fiesco, daughter of his arch-rival Jacopo Fiesco (the imposing bass Vitalij Kowaljow). Meanwhile, Simon is appointed to the coveted position of Doge, with a little assistance from Paolo (the able baritone Paolo Gavanelli). Flash forward 25 years and Amelia, Maria’s daughter with Simon (the lush-voiced, luscious looking soprano, Ana María Martínez), lives with Fiesco. Believing that her parents are dead (she’s right on one count: her mother died in childbirth), Maria has been brought up as Fiesco’s heir. Fiesco, having no clue as to who Amelia really is, thinks she’s merely an orphan with no connections whatsoever…ah, the convoluted plot thickens.

Simon then discovers Amelia’s identity, and, while they’re both ecstatic at this reunion, Paolo wants to marry Amelia, figuring it’s quid pro quo for helping Simon become Doge. Needless to say, Paolo is rejected, because – go figure – Amelia loves somebody else, Gabriele (the vibrant-voiced tenor Stefano Secco, in his LA Opera debut). Can you see where this is going? Hint, revenge is a dish best served Italian style (the whole Godfather thing didn’t just come from nowhere; click here for our Al Pacino coverage and here for Diane Keaton’s take on her on-screen hubby, Michael Corleone). In other words: Get out the poison, Paolo, so we can watch the slow-acting stuff take its toll on Simon. Seriously, aren’t all death scenes in the arts, er, slowly acted, drawn out, über-dramatic? (Actually, we wouldn’t have it any other way!) In any case, before Simon expires, he’s reconciled with Fiesco, and Gabriele not only gets the girl, but he’s named the new Doge.

Whew! If we only concentrate on Verdi’s score, sumptuously conducted by LA Opera music director James Conlon, as well as the singing – which was all stellar, including the marvelous chorus (directed by associate conductor/chorus master Grant Gershon), it’s a win-win night at the theater, with LA Opera having a huge hit on its hands. As for the singers being thespians, there may have been some stand-and-sing stuff, but the acting was believably verismo and worked exceedingly well here. Domingo’s presence is still formidable, his drama chops as good as his voice, now a burnished, but still authoritarian gift from God. And that afore-mentioned death scene – literally, to die for – brought gasps from the audience when this laryngeal superman hit the floor.

Then there’s the notion that Boccanegra resonates today, with its meditations on power, social strife and evil machinations no strangers to anybody who lives in Hollywood. Happily, much of this has to do with Moshinsky’s approach. The 66-year old Shanghai-born director who has been living in London for years, has staged Boccanegra five times since 1991 (and countless other operas and theater works).

He also has a genuine feel and flair for Verdi: Ultimately seeking truth on stage, the director delivers it big-time in this production. (Moshinsky can be heard during the intermission of KUSC’s live matinee broadcast, Sunday, February 19. We did the interview, but didn’t script or voice a story. For those Jonesing, however, to hear our most recent KUSC conversation, click here for our chat with Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Bruce Norris).

But back to Boccanegra: It’s a flawless production, made more so by Peter J. Hall’s thread-perfect costumes and Michael Yeargan’s spare, pillared set. Gorgeously lit throughout by Duane Schuler, the Act I Council Scene is especially mesmerizing, resembling nothing less than a luxuriant Italian painting.

You may not leave the theater humming the music, but we promise you won’t forget your time spent with Simon Boccanegra and LA Opera. (We heard that Oscar-winnning actor Christoph Waltz, right, was in the audience; click here for our take on him). So pick up that phone now and call for tickets, then get downtown to see one of the remaining four performances (February 19, 21, 26 and March 1), of this dazzling production. Who knows, you just might become an operaholic. (We know we are; click here and here for our most recent LAO reviews of Roméo et Juliette and Eugene Onegin, respectively.)

By Victoria Looseleaf

He was the tortured artist in every sense: misunderstood, broke (he was supported by his brother), and afflicted with what was then diagnosed as non-convulsive epilepsy – invisible fits believed to occur in the brain. He was, of course, Vincent Van Gogh, Dutch artist extraordinaire. And though he was unrecognized in his short lifetime (he died at age 37 in 1890), his works have yielded numerous masterpieces that have gone on to command record prices.

In 1990, the artist’s melancholy character study, Portrait of Dr. Gachet (right), was sold for $82.5 million, then the highest auction price ever paid for a work of art. That sum seems almost a pittance, though, compared to what went on last year when Paul Cézanne’s The Card Players sold for more than $250 million.

But way before the art market exploded, there was the incredible journey of the tormented Dutchman that ended in suicide. Or did it? In their beautifully written new biography, Van Gogh: The Life (Random House), authors Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith provide an astonishingly detailed tour through the artist’s personal, professional and sociological universe, concluding with their theory of Van Gogh’s death. Indeed, the tome is north of 900 pages and is so epic it required more than 5,000 typewritten pages of footnotes, conveniently located on the online site, Vangoghbiography.com.

The authors, in no rush to complete their saga, took a decade to write it (as they did with their previous book, Jackson Pollock: An American Saga, which won a Puliltzer Prize in 1991 and then went on to become an Academy Award winning film starring Ed Harris and Marcia Gay Harden; click here for our interview with Harden for her Tony-winning turn in God of Carnage).

No slouches in the research department, the authors drew heavily on archival material from Amsterdam’s Van Gogh Museum, as well as culling from a new, six-volume edition of Van Gogh’s letters, (about 900 freshly translated, annotated epistles), itself 15 years in the making and published in 2009. Thus were the authors able to convincingly portraying the complete Van Gogh: from his inner life and drinking bouts – which were legion – to his manic ups and downs, ultimately diagnosed during the artist’s final stay at the hospital in Arles by 23-year old intern, ­Dr. Félix Rey. Naifeh and Smith also chronicle the painter’s creative process and the complex relationship he had with his adored brother Theo.

So, we’re just sayin’: This book should be required reading for anyone heeding an artistic calling (and for those who simply crave great bios), as the authors somehow seem to put us inside the head of Vincent Van Gogh, which, is not always, well, a pretty picture. (Lopping off his own ear is decidedly not pretty, but a documented fact, with the artist himself having depicted the ravaged results in a self-portrait, one in which what’s left of the organ is swathed in bandages, right.)

As to WWVD – what would Vincent have done, were he mentally afflicted in the 21^st century – this subject is not addressed. But we believe that had he endured, say, electroshock therapy, or been prescribed a heavy pill-taking regimen, his paintings would have been bereft of violent colors, his brush strokes less brash, his subject matter more impressionistically rendered, that is to say, his art would have been more typical of the era: watery, pointillistic, perfumed. And don’t get us wrong: We have much affection for the ever soigné Renoir, a lily-loving Monet and the Tahitian-bent Paul Gauguin (seen below as portrayed by Anthony Quinn to Kirk Douglas’ Van Gogh in Lust for Life), whose stormy relationship with the artist is also scrupulously documented in the book, it’s just that their stories aren’t stormy or tragic.

While there have been numerous Van Gogh biographies – not to mention Robert Altman’s brilliant 1990 flick, Vincent and Theo, and the above-mentioned Lust for Life, Vincente Minnelli’s 1956 mawkish melodrama, with Kirk Douglas not up to thespian snuff as Vinnie, his New York accent so far gone it needs a GPS – Smith and Naifeh propose a new theory on the artist’s death, which, to date has been attributed to a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his stomach.

Not so, say the authors whose alternate theory took root from rumors first heard by art historian John Rewald in the 1930s during a visit to Auvers, the small French town where Van Gogh died. The bullet, the authors posit, was actually fired elsewhere in town by the bullying teen, Rene Secretan, who, with his friends, used to harass the eccentric painter. The authors suggest that some kind of encounter took place between Vincent and the boys on the day of the shooting. “Once the gun in Rene’s rucksack was produced,” they write, “anything could have happened — intentional or accidental — between a reckless teenager with fantasies of the Wild West, an inebriated artist who knew nothing about guns, and an antiquated pistol with a tendency to malfunction.”

Aha! This seems plausible to us, although the Van Gogh Museum says it does not accept the murder theory. Still: We loved this book and relished reading it, not only because we’ve been Van Gogh fans forever and have also been to many of the locations in the book (read our reportage on Den Hague, Amsterdam and the unpronounceable beach town, Scheveningen), but because it is exquisitely written, hugely authoritative and luminously layered, completely capturing the alchemy between art and life.

Oh, yes: The images are spectacular, too, with Van Gogh’s output prodigious (more than 900 paintings and 1,000+ drawings). From his earliest sketches and letters to his most famous works – Sunflowers, Irises, Starry Night and Wheat Field with Crows – all accompanied by descriptions as to how they were executed, the life of an unassailably authentic artist is revealed.

As Naifeh and Smith write: In the end, only art consoled. “My aim in life is to make pictures and drawings, as many and as well as I can,’ he wrote; ‘then, at the end of my life, I hope to pass away, looking back with love and tender regret, and thinking, ‘Oh, the pictures I might have made!’”

Finally: For those going to the East Coast any time between now and May 6, the Philadelphia Museum of Art has a fabulous exhibition, Van Gogh Up Close, which examines the artist’s relationship to nature and focuses on his years in France (1886-1890). To quote the New York Times, “the natural landscape inspired some of his most implacably innovative paintings, roiled of surface, ablaze with color and steeped in feeling. They are blunt, irresistible instruments for seeing.”

The show of 45 paintings,  organized by Philadelphia curators Joseph J. Rishel and Jennifer A. Thomson, who worked with art historian/ National Gallery of Canada curator, Anabelle Kienle, is a must-see for the serious Van Gogh devotee. Among the works are the exquisite, Almond Blossom, from 1890 (above), as well as the stunning Garden in Auvers (left, also from around 1890). The latter painting is making its first foray to the States, at least as far as anyone remembers. Make sure, too, that you purchase a copy of the Musuem’s sumptuous catalogue. The informative text and handsome photos will help deepen your Van Gogh experience, one blade of grass, one iris, and one tree trunk at a time.

By Victoria Looseleaf

Annie Hall. Reds. The Godfather trilogy. But before those incredible flicks, there was this: Diane Keaton* was one of the only members of the original Broadway cast of Hair – to keep her clothes on. And she is not reticent to talk about bodies in her touching memoir, Then Again (Random House).

Indeed, who knew that Woody Allen had a, er, great body? Hmm. This is one of the reveals in the book that is part Diane Keaton, part valentine to her two adopted children, Dexter and Duke, and part tribute to Dorothy Hall Keaton, the actor’s mother, who died in 2008 after fading from Alzheimer’s and whose journals (below), help comprise this exquisitely rendered tome.

But back to the body: Keaton, we were surprised to learn, admits to having struggled with bulimia for a number of years. Yes, this trend-setting fashionista (ooh, the hats, the ties, the vests…), graphically chronicles the huge amounts of food she downed – only to regurgitate said comestibles – in one sitting. (Hello, hamburgers, steaks, ice cream, hot apple pie, KFC, fries with blue cheese and ketchup – we think we’ll try that dish – and more).

In so doing (not sitting, but hunched over the toilet), she tells us, she’s adding her name to an already familiar list of food abusers, one that includes Jane Fonda (click here for our interview with that legendary star), Princess Diana, Karen Carpenter and today’s waifs such as Lindsay Lohan and Mary- Kate Olsen. (We’re not much into the last two names, and think they would do better to, well, read a book on occasion; for more on body fascism, click here.)

Food binging behind her, Keaton is nothing if not sensitive (her being extremely smart goes without saying). So while we dig the above-mentioned revelations, we find that the author’s deep feelings for her mother, who excelled at collage-making and photography but never had the opportunity to be a professional (Dorothy was a dutiful wife and mother of four), are beautifully mined here. Indeed, extracts from her mother’s perceptive letters and journals are artfully arranged in patterns alongside Keaton’s own reflections on her mother’s life. (A shout-out to the design team at Random House is in order, fersure!)

And while the mother/daughter relationship courses through the book, we admit that we especially loved learning about the three main squeezes of Keaton’s life, pre-adoption, that is, in spite of the fact that none of the flames proved romantically enduring. About Woody Allen, who helped her win a well-deserved Oscar for Annie Hall, (which also featured a weird-even-then Christopher Walken, one of our favorite hoofer/actors), Keaton writes that Allen is a genius who remains “borderline repulsed by the grotesque nature of my affection.”

Although she doesn’t go into detail about Allen’s body, Keaton does cut to the heart of what she feels about her thespianism: “Without a great man writing and directing for me, I was a mediocre movie star at best.” Hah – it should be that simple. Diane, you’re far too modest.

She also takes cues from Warren, as in Beatty, who directed her in Reds and whom she describes as, “smart, lawyer-smart … a mind-blowing dream of drop-dead gorgeous.” Keaton was smitten, writing: “Once Warren chose to shine his light on you, there was no going back.” (We’re not averse to having that light shine on us some time, nor the light of his sister,  Shirley MacLaine, who joins the cast of Downton Abbey next season and is receiving an AFI Lifetime Achievement Award in June.)

But we digress: Another Keaton confession is that Al Pacino had been the love of her life, from his, “killer Roman nose” to his “Al-ness” (okay, that’s our word, not hers, but we, too, worship at the altar of Pacino, his recent bad movie, Son of No One, aside). Keaton and Pacino made the Godfather films together, beginning their affair during GF I, and resuming it years later, with Keaton’s marriage ultimatum putting the kibosh on their hearts-and-flowers’ bond. (We never interviewed director Francis Ford Coppola…some day, perhaps, but we did interview his daughter, Sofia – who made a misguided appearance in GF III – for her equally misfiring, Somewhere.) And somewhere in her book, Keaton, ever alert and open to all that life offers, acknowledges that Pacino made her “think about the difference between being an artist and being artistic. I knew where I stood. I was artistic.”

Bah. Diane Keaton has always been an artist. And still is. We loved Then Again for its charm, frankness and originality. But, then again, that is what Diane Keaton, now 66, remains, her extraordinary acting only part of the equation. Besides, anyone who gets to kiss both Keanu Reeves and Jack Nicholson at age 58 in Something’s Gotta Give, is, in our book – and hers – absolutely fabulous!

*Full disclosure: Having been a huge fan of Keaton’s, we had the pleasure of being with her on various occasions over the years, notably dinners celebrating Grace Johansen. A spitfire of an elderly lady that Keaton cast in her documentary, Heaven, Johansen died in 2000. The nonagenarian also appeared on our now-defunct cable access TV show, The Looseleaf Report, with Keaton there for moral support and Bud Cort helping conduct a wonderfully quirky interview. (Talk about quirky: Click here to read our LA Times interview with Cort and ballet superstar Vladimir Malakhov, in which they discuss a terpischorean Harold and Maude.) Carol Kane, Cort and Keaton also helped Gracie during the last years of her life, ultimately arranging a beautiful service for her at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. (Diane, at left, with her son Duke)

By Victoria Looseleaf

…and this time in its home town. It’s been too long since Diavolo, one of Los Angeles’ premiere dance troupes, performed in Southern California. Founded in 1992 by artistic director Jacques Heim, the company did strut some of its signature hyper-physical stuff last July at the Watercourt at California Plaza as part of Grand Performances’ annual summer concerts. But the troupe shared a bill and its offerings were more akin to a tasting menu. (Click here to read about that program, which also has beaucoup de links to Diavolo’s history and our myriad writings about the company.)

Wait no more, Angelenos: Tonight the troupe takes to the stage of the new Valley Performing Arts Center in Northridge (we haven’t been there yet and have only heard good things, its 405-adjacent location aside); and on March 22, Diavolo heads to Irvine and the Barclay Theatre as part of its 17-city, four month tour.

On the programs are two favorite works: the rollicking boat number, Trajectoire (above) and Fearful Symmetries (left). Reviewing the 1999 premiere of the former for the L.A. Times, we wrote that it was “more Dramamine than drama.” As Heim is constantly tweaking, revising and editing, Trajectoire has since been elevated to classic status. So, too, has Fearful Symmetries. Since its 2010 premiere at the Hollywood Bowl, with Bramwell Tovey conducting the Los Angeles Philharmonic in the music of John Adams (click here for our New York Times story), this jaw-droppingly stunning work has proven enormously popular.

We admit it: Just as we’re addicted to Downton Abbey (click here for our musings on our TV DOC – drug of choice), we’re hooked on Diavolo, albeit we have been for a lot longer. Indeed, happy 20-year anniversary, Diavolo. We look forward to next year when you return to the Hollywood Bowl with the final installment of your collaboration/trilogy with the L.A. Philharmonic, “Fluid Infinities,” set to the music of Philip Glass. (Click here for some of our recent Phil coverage, cuz we’re crazy about Gustavo Dudamel, aka, The Dude, who’s appearing on Sesame Street February 6.)

And for more about Diavolo’s fiendishly busy touring sked, click here to read our current Dance Magazine news story on these fearless artists who continue pushing the boundaries of dance, dreams and death-defying moves.

By Victoria Looseleaf

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Ah, the French certainly have a way with words. And so does playwright Bruce Norris. So much so, in fact, that he snagged the Pulitzer Prize for Drama last year for his prickly play, Clybourne Park, now titillating audiences at the Mark Taper Forum through February 26. (It also won the 2010 Olivier Award for Best New Play in London.)

A dissection of race, gentrification and real estate – with a dose of turf wars thrown in for bad measure – Clybourne is a dramatic imagining of events taking place before and after Lorraine Hansberry’s seminal work, A Raisin in the Sun. (This is a work so iconic that even Sean “P. Diddy” Combs took to the Great White Way in a 2004 revival, assuming the role of Walter Lee Younger, which was originated by Sidney Poitier in 1959. In addition, Center Theatre Group, in conjunction with Ebony Repertory Theatre, has its own Raisin, through February 19 at the Kirk Douglas Theatre, directed by Phylicia Rashad.*)

But we digress: With the first act set in 1959, when Hansberry’s house on Chicago’s Clybourne Street, is sold to the African-American Youngers, a Mad Men sensibility is perfectly captured, Neapolitan ice cream, high-waisted trousers, faux civility and all. (Hooray, the AMC series returns March 25, we can’t wait!) But soon enough, bigotry bubbles to the surface, unpleasantries are swatted back and forth like tennis balls and swords are drawn. Flash forward half a century and the second act of 2009: The neighborhood, now black and having been ghettoized by drugs and crime (is that redundant?), has again become fashionable, with the house being sold to a white couple. Nouveau riche, it seems, will soon be nouveau biche, as the folks mercilessly go at each other, unleashing a fusillade of feelings through lacerating dialogue and outrageous bon mots.

Yes, it’s words that are the weapons here, and the original 2010 Playwrights Horizons cast of seven has a blast hurling them, thanks, also to Pam MacKinnon’s laser-sharp direction. Tackling corresponding characters in the second act, this ensemble couldn’t be more well-oiled. Particularly thrilling in his simmering, who-knows-when-he’ll-erupt-volcanic demeanor is Frank Wood, Act I’s troubled hubby (he and wife Bev, at right, expertly played with anal-obsessive repression, i.e., up-tight neo-shrillness, by Christina Kirk, have lost a son to suicide as a result of said son’s actions in the Korean War, compounding the powder-keg-like scenario with a plot point that later resurfaces).

Meanwhile, Karl Lindner (Jeremy Shamos) – yeah – the same obnoxious dude who briefly appears in the Hansberry play, has a deaf pregnant wife (a priceless Annie Parisse – who knew that disability could be so, gulp, funny), with the pair lending boisterous bravado to the first act. And let us mention, too, the fine thespian talents of: Crystal A. Dickinson (the perfect embodiment of Bev’s maid, Francine, who unabashedly refuses to accept Bev’s silver chafing dish – like she could ever use such a thing…), Brendan Griffin and, lastly, Damon Gupton, an understated, yet shining presence we also had the pleasure of seeing in Superior Donuts at the Geffen Playhouse. (Click here for our take on that; and here for our remembrances of the late Gil Cates).

And though Norris’ story, mostly a means for a series of ill-conceived arguments and plenty of jokes (the one about a feminine product draws gasps, hoots and the loudest applause), takes no prisoners, it also comes with a pitch perfect dénouement that manages to pack a pathos punch. (Ooh, sorry, but we dig alliteration.)

In any case, listen to the playwright here – in his own words – in our chat with him for KUSC. Norris (right), who gives hope to aspiring scribes and made only $21K in 2009 (mostly from acting), not only confesses that he actually curated most of the jokes, but also tells us why he likes making audiences feel really, really uncomfortable. Then get thee to the Taper to see the play that elevates the spoken jab to Olympian heights. In other words, you’ll be cringing through your guffaws while giving pause to your thoughts. You might also consider grabbing a stiff drink afterwards (no mint juleps, puhleeze), to continue carrying on the conversation that never seems to abate. Hint: It starts with an ‘r.’

This just in: The play, skedded for a Broadway run, has had its plug pulled by impresario Scott Rudin (ooh, don’t mess with the Rudin). But wait: Three days after we wrote about that dust-up, another Broadway producer has come to Clybourne‘s rescue. Norris’ work will now be opening at the Walter Kerr Theatre, courtesy of Jujamcyn Theaters. Great news for all involved, including the original Playwrights Horizons cast, as the ensemble takes to the stage in time for the April 26 deadline for Tony Awards consideration. Talk about drama – way to go, Bruce!

Playwright Bruce Norris told us he thought Doris Day singing Again was a great metaphor for Clybourne Park. We agree! (Taper production photos: Craig Schwartz)

*Rashad is Debbie Allen‘s sister; Ms. Allen was the subject of a recent cover story we penned for Dance Teacher Magazine. Check it out, folks!

By Victoria Looseleaf

With only a few significant gestures – and several astute sartorial choices – this postmodern icon, at 82, is still able to seduce, as evidenced by the wildly applauding Angelenos who were out in force at the Hammer Museum’s Billy Wilder Theatre Thursday. Part of the ongoing exhibition, Pacific Standard Time: Art in L.A. 1945-1980 (click here for our musings on a related LACMA show), the concert, dubbed Walking Tall, featured Rudy Perez and a slew of other performers. Included were musicians, dancers and spoken word artists, many of them mentored by the octogenarian. But it was Perez’ 10-minute solo, download/overload, set to a deliciously scratchy but still emotionally wrenching 1936 recording of Kirsten Flagstad singing the Liebestod (from Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde), that proved most potent.

A New York transplant who’s called L.A. home for nearly 35 years*, Perez commands respect, devotion…and awe. (Click here to read our 2009 L.A. Times story on the choreographer; here for our Dance Magazine review of his troupe’s performance from that time; and here for our L.A. Times review, December, 2008.) Having recently received a Santa Monica Artist Fellowship Award to create a new work and catalogue his archives (currently housed at USC’s Special Collections/Archives), Perez also still teaches his weekly movement class.  But, as the aging body is every dancer’s bugaboo, so, too, has Perez been confronted with physical problems, including visual impairment and mobility issues, making this performance a triumph on numerous levels.

Seated on a chair during part of his solo – and wearing dark glasses throughout – Perez radiated fierceness, his gaze unflinching. Occasionally rotating his body slightly – thrusting a bent leg forward one moment, sideways the next – he would return facing front, arms crossed, legs splayed. Suddenly, as if possessed, Perez propelled his hands forward then upward, unassailable, a frozen pose, as if doing battle with the unseen.

But whether struggling to keep a stronghold on the past or grappling with the relentless march of time, the moves are all written on his body, a language of the sublime, the pedestrian made profound: Perez stands, his crisp white shirt, un-tucked, slightly wrinkled, his thin red tie, a painterly splash of blood, now askew. ‘Remember me,’ he seems to be saying. ‘I’m here. Still. Now. Remember me.’   

*For those unfamiliar with Perez, here’s an über mini-bio: After studying with the legendary Martha Graham in the ’50s (click here to read our 2011 L.A. Times review of the troupe), Perez became entrenched in New York’s experimental Judson Dance Theater. It was that school, founded in 1962 by David Gordon, Trisha Brown and others, that defined boundary-breaking “downtown” aesthetics, a vocabulary Perez has embedded deep in his DNA. (Rudy Perez performance photos: Irene Fertik)

 By Victoria Looseleaf

…and then some. In the new documentary, Joffrey: Mavericks of American Dance, we get an inside look at the little company that could. And did: create a new form of American ballet, that is, courtesy of the visionary Robert Joffrey. Born Abdullah Jaffa Bey Khan to an Afghan father and Italian mother, Joffrey founded his eponymous troupe in 1956. He would later hook up with Gerald Arpino – both personally and professionally, with Arpino moving the company forward after Joffrey died in 1988 of AIDS. There is, however, scant footage in the film of Arpino, who died in 2008 and did his own share of choreographing (no matter that some of those works were less than critically acclaimed).

Directed by Bob Hercules and narrated by Mandy Patinkin (one of our favorites, especially now that he’s doing a star turn on Showtime’s Homeland; click here for that), this doc is the first to chronicle how the legendary Joffrey Ballet revolutionized the art form in the States by boldly combining modern dance with traditional (Giselle, anyone?) ballet.

Sure, the film has its share of talking heads, including former dancers who share their often poignant and insightful thoughts, but it also has some cool archival footage, including that of Astarte (left). Choreographed by Joffrey in 1967, this psychedelic ballet featured a live rock band, a light show worthy of Grateful Deadheads, and films of company members go-going at a boho nightclub. (The Joffrey, then based in the Big Apple, was the renegade troupe to Balanchine’s New York City Ballet and American Ballet Theatre.) As for Astarte’s onstage dancers, they were garbed in nothing less than LSD-inspired unitards, looking like they were having, well, quite the trip.

In other words, it was out with the swans and in with the hip(pie), as a new balletic era had begun. Indeed, even Time Magazine hailed the troupe’s edgy status by anointing the Joffrey on its cover.

Other pop culturally-oriented works followed, including Twyla Tharp’s 1978 Deuce Coupe, set to music of The Beach Boys (which, the doc tells us, would help put Tharp on the terpsichorean map, including her eventually making some 14 ballets for ABT).

And when the Joffrey found itself in dire financial straits, it was the critically panned (for the most part), Billboards, a 1993 pastiche making use of Prince’s music that helped fill its coffers. (Included in the suite was Laura Dean‘s Sometimes It Snows in April, pictured at top.) It would be the move from New York to Chicago, though, two years later, that ultimately saved the Joffrey from sinking into tutu oblivion.

Another Joffrey hallmark is that its founder was committed to preserving historic ballet masterpieces, ones that had vanished from repertories of the world’s major ballet companies. Joffrey understood that homage needed to be paid to the classical choreographic pioneers of their time, by the pioneers of the present. To that end, the doc gives us glimpses of Kurt Jooss’s 1932 antiwar ballet, The Green Table (above), with the German visionary himself teaching the Joffrey dancers this groundbreaking work that was seen in the States for the first time in 1967.

In 1973, Joffrey would also oversee the reconstruction of the surreal cubist ballet, Parade (left), a gem from 1917 that had originally been choreographed by Ballet Russes dancemaker, Leonide Massine. (Also a fabulous performer, he was the Cobbler in The Red Shoes, from 1948, the definitive ballet movie, unlike 2010’s Black Swan; click here for our ruminations on those films). With costumes by Picasso, a libretto by Jean Cocteau, and the quirky music of Erik Satie – the wacky score was enhanced by typewriters and sirens – this piece would have been lost to the world had not Robert Joffrey reconstructed it, bringing in Massine himself to stage on his dancers. (Click here to read our Dance Teacher Magazine story on Kermit Love, who received Picasso’s seal of approval before recreating the artist’s wildly imaginative costumes.)

But with very little new under the sun, it seems a lot harder to be avant-garde in the 21^st century (calling all cutting edge choreographers, puhleeze; meanwhile click here and here for our stories on Los Angeles Ballet‘s staying power and their commissioning commercial dancemakers, respectively, including several from So You Think You Can Dance; click here for our coverage on executive producer/SYTYCD judge, Nigel Lythgoe), we do have the Joffrey to thank for having sparked the pointe shoe riot. (For our Los Angeles Times article on the Joffrey’s 2003 Music Center appearance, which included Domingo Rubio performing the troupe’s reconstruction of Nijinsky’s Afternoon of a Faun, click here. [Rubio was also in the late great Robert Altman's fictional biopic of the Joffrey, The Company, which featured lots of dance beautifully shot.] And for our most recent take on the troupe, which performed its Nutcracker (above) at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion last month – pretty, but not exactly earth-shattering – click here.)

Whew – sorry for the multitudinous asides! Though Hercules’ film is far afield from that other dance doc currently in theaters – Wim Wenders’ Pina 3D, an Oscar nominee for best documentary (click here for our musings) – it’s wonderful to have an historical record of this thoroughly American troupe. Now let’s see where contemporary ballet goes from here. Will the Twitterati/Facebook generation, used to receiving its info in byte-sized bits, delve into the past in order to help spark a refashioning of ballet for the future? We certainly hope so. In the interim, catch the Los Angeles premiere of Joffrey: Mavericks of American Dance on February 1 at Zipper Concert Hall at The Colburn School.

By Victoria Looseleaf

There could be better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than going to a chamber music concert on the fifth floor of Los Angeles Music Center’s Dorothy Chandler Pavilion – but we can’t think of any! Seriously, after several unsuccessful attempts, we made it to Le Salon de Musiques, a monthly concert series now in its second season under the artistic directorship of Francois Chouchan and Phillip Levy.

That the audience members are up-close-and-personal with the musicians is part of the appeal, along with the après concert fare: free-flowing champagne and hors d’oeuvres, the latter courtesy of Patina. Past concerts have included music of Brahms, Schubert, Mozart and the usual suspects, while the most recent offering, an all-Baroque program meant to recreate a salon in Versailles during the court of Louix XIV (left), also featured a pair of dancers.

Linda Tomko (below right) and Jill Chadroff, both scholars in the field as well as performers, donned hooped and corseted gowns and tiny-heeled dancing shoes to give an elegant glimpse into a nearly lost art form. (Since we teach Dance History at USC, we’re up to terpsichorean snuff on Le Roi de Danse (aka The Sun King), and how his peeps at court were required to take dance lessons. In fact, if there were any sort of missteps – from whence the term faux pas comes – banishment from court would most likely ensue!)  Photos above right and below by Henry Lim.

But we digress: With Patricia Mabee on harpsichord, Leif Woodward on viola de gamba and Susan Feldman on a period violin, the music was  enhanced by mezzo-soprano Monika Bruckner (we don’t know if she’s related to the composer), with the tunes finally beginning after musicologist Julius Reder Carlson, who, while well-schooled and well-meaning, went on too long with bloated talk about the Baroque era. (Hint: Most of us probably know that Baroque art was intended to evoke emotion and passion instead of the calm rationality that had been the hallmark of the Renaissance.) And instead of Reder Carlson blabbing about each piece (there were 10 on the bill), perhaps some short program notes would be in order. (Hello: We wrote the program notes for the Los Angeles Master Chorale for four seasons beginning in 2004, including introducing world premieres by Steve Reich, Christopher Rouse, and others…)

That said, we loved the opening number by Jean-Baptiste Lully, with Bruckner rendering a lovely aria from the opera Armide, after which the dancers displayed precise, fleet footwork to the opera’s lively Passacaille. And who knew that Marie Antoinette was a composer? Not many, but it’s possible she wrote C’est mon ami in between adorning herself (with help from ladies-in-waiting, of course) in elaborate frocks, piling her hair/wigs high and feasting on beaucoup de gâteau (cake, friends, lots of cake).

Other works included a Marin Marais solo, Chaconne, nimbly played by Woodward, his flying fingers making easy work of double and triple stops. (Admittedly, we’re partial to Marais’ The Bells of St. Genevieve…) Tomko also executed a solo to a Jean-Phillipe Rameau work, one she herself choreographed only this year. Mabee, too, took a solo turn with a Domenico Scarlatti sonata (a pity she didn’t dedicate it to Gustav Leonhardt, who recently died at age 83), followed by Bruckner warbling Domenico Cimarosa’s, E vero che in casa.

Completing the program: an aria from Gluck’s Orphée et Eurydice, and music and dance scenes from the ballet pantomime, Le Peintre Amoreux de son Modèle (The Painter in Love with his Model), choreographed by Auguste Ferrère. With the latter, we were treated to Chadroff in a pants role and Tomko the scolding adult who discovers her charge has been painting – gasp – his model (Bruckner), topless, at least in his own mind (and with magic marker on butcher paper).

A short, informative Q & A with the musicians followed (these can be so dreary, with sub-par questions often being posed), while an attentive waiter began pouring champagne for a thirsty audience. Although the acoustics are not the best on the fifth floor that now looks like a Marriott banquet hall, albeit one with great city views (we miss the room of days gone by, the one with a gorgeous bar, sumptuous banquettes and comfy sofas), it was the chairs – squeezed super-close together because of the dancers’ need for more floor space – that proved most painful, though nothing a little bubbly didn’t help.

A welcome addition to Los Angeles’ chamber music scene, Le Salon de Musiques is yet another way to experience fine music in our culturally rich city. (Click here for one of our many written rhapsodies on Gustavo Dudamel and the Los Angeles Philharmonic, with Mahler coverage coming anon, our having zipped over to Disney Hall for an extraordinary Mahler Second after the chamber music concert.) Indeed, we’re looking forward to February 26, when Le Salon presents music of Arnold Bax, Fauré and Poulenc. (Btw, we loved the Labèque Sisters playing Poulenc at the Bowl last September; click here to read about that, including our KUSC interview with the sibs.)

A wonderful divertissement, Le Salon de Musiques now helps make Sundays a little more cozy: Yes, we may have the return of Downton Abbey, which we’re seriously addicted to (click here for our take on that), but the season ends to Homeland and Boardwalk Empire had left somewhat of a hole for us  (click here and here for our takes on those fabulous shows), a gap Le Salon can now help fill. So, til next time, à bientôt, mes amies!

P.S. We’re thrilled about most of the Oscar nominations, so kudos to The Artist, which we predict will take the award for best picture (click here for our musings), and Wim Wenders’ Pina, Germany’s entry for best documentary (click here for those thoughts). Thumbs up, as well, to Terrence Malick for The Tree of Life and its three noms, including for best director (click here). We’re not pleased, however, with Michelle Williams’ nod for My Week With Marilyn (click here). And what on earth happened to a best actor nod for Michael Fassbender, our dude of the moment (click here to, er, bone up on him). But whaddya gonna do. We know what we’ll be doing: We’ll be weighing in again soon on all of this Oscar stuff – click here for our Oscar coverage from last year, folks – so stay tuned!