What We Talk About When We Talk About…(Fill in the Blank)

By Victoria Looseleaf

This just in: Englander has won the Frank O’Connor award for this book, earning him £25000, or about $50,163.69. Click here for the details, but it’s the largest cash prize given for a collection of short stories – and we’re thrilled for the guy.

Spare. Evocative. Ultra-Jewy. And we still found ourselves loving Nathan Englander’s latest short story collection, What We Talk About When We Talk About Anne Frank (Knopf). While the title decidedly takes it cues from the Raymond Carver classic, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, Englander’s style and subject matter are far from the so-called “Kmart/dirty realism” movement god-fathered by Charles Bukowski and that includes cronies Carver and Cormac McCarthy.

In other words, Englander is more bar mitzvah than baptism; so, hello, allegory with lots of Jews, Jews, Jews! From Orthodox folk to Holocaust survivors, this slim tome (207 pages) features eight stories that veer from I.B. Singer-esque to Philip Rothian, Peep Show smacking of the latter.

 

Taking place in a seedy Times Square sex shop (that would be, of course, the Times Square of yore, those good old pre-Disneyfication days, when beach chairs on the pavement would have seemed like an LSD hallucination), the story also manages to turn back on itself. Featuring a suburban husband who plans to live out his fantasies in one of those $5 booths, this tiny tale finds our protagonist encountering not a bevy of luscious (?) nude babes, but a scenario rife, instead, with barely-clad rabbis, the man’s half-naked wife and – gulp – his mother.

Talk about a guilty conscience!

As for the title tale, we confess to having a weakness for Anne Frank (and visit her home each time we’re in Amsterdam; click here for some of our Netherlands reportage), and are in awe of Englander’s deft way with both characterization and plot in the Frank story, where two couples – one secular, one Hasidic – gab around a kitchen table. In between guzzling vodka and toking on tampon-wrappered joints (the dope is appropriated from the hostess’ son, no less), the quartet riffs on subjects ranging from Mormons converting dead Jews (oy!), including Ms. Frank (double oy!), not to mention non-Jews such as Marilyn Monroe and Elvis, to Floridian neighbors liking their guns and porn.

Shades of the 60’s mesh with today’s notion of perverse psychological game-playing: “If one of you wasn’t Jewish, would you hide the other?” becomes the question du jour. (There is a similar kind of morbid joke running through Jennifer Westfeldt’s forgettable rom-com, Friends With Kids, with the lead couple continually asking each other uncomfortable questions like, ‘Slow death by cancer or swift death by car?’ Click here for our take on that flick.)

Camp Sundown also serpentines into moral ugliness: Set at an old folks’ summer camp, a comical elder-rompfest (for more on “Elder Love,” click here for our Olympia Dukakis/Zach Galafianakis post), soon descends into a sinister situation with several of the campers believing one of their own had actually been a Nazi guard at a concentration camp. A geriatric witch hunt ensues: not a pretty sight.

Englander has a fine ear for dialogue and pitch-perfect inflections that immediately transport us to such varying locales as the aforementioned Catskills, the state of Florida and 42nd Street. He also takes us to an Israeli settlement in the heart-wrenching story, Sister Hills, where bad luck, superstition and grief course through his finely etched prose. Having burst onto the scene in 1999 with For the Relief of Unbearable Urges, another short story collection chronicling the Jewish experience with equal parts wit, black humor and farce, Englander continues on the brilliant path trod by Bellow, Malamud and our long-time favorite scribe, Philip Roth (click here for some of our Roth coverage).

“What you do is tell the stories you have, as best you can,” says the wife in the formalist saga, Everything I Know About My Family On My Mother’s Side. And whether we’re defined by our stories, our ancestors, or even what we eat – Kosher pickles, anyone – with our memories also not immune to playing tricks, the 40-something Englander makes identity a profoundly moving and mystical experience.

P.S. Just in time for Passover: The New American Haggadah (Little Brown), edited by Jonathan Safran Foer (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close; click here for our Oscar coverage), with a new translation by Englander (below left), will soon be gracing Seder tables around the  country. As our Jewish mother would say, “Enjoy!”

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on What We Talk About When We Talk About…(Fill in the Blank)

Friends With Kids: Forgettable Fluff

By Victoria Looseleaf

Between going to a cool Purim party (best costume was a Julius Caesar toga, replete with spangled, pinking-sheared trim), which was really an all-out drunken wine tasting (the vineyards, of course, were Jewish-owned, with a 2009 Honig Cabernet absolutely lip-smacking), teaching Dance History at USC, and hunkering down to finally begin work on our long-awaited e-book (the title’s so hot we’re trademarking it), we’re just now getting around to this week’s post.

Still, we did manage to check out Los Angeles Ballet’s Swan Lake (click here for our LA Times review and here for a more in-depth look at the avian ballet), as well as catch a screening of Jennifer Westfeldt’s directorial debut, Friends With Kids. Having had her biggest success with Kissing Jessica Stein (and an even bigger coup in coupling with Mad Men’s Jon Hamm – the pair have been together since the late ‘90s), Westfeldt is a gentile Woody Allen…kind of. She is also, unfortunately, a Diane Keaton wannabe (click here for our take on Keaton and her brilliant memoir, Then Again), and therein lies the problem(s).

The movie, basically a predictable rom-com, posits the question, ‘Can sexual attraction survive childbirth,’ with its answer being, ‘No, so why not have platonic pals procreate while seeking other life/sexual partners?’ And while this thesis did lead to some funny lines/situations, we weren’t in love with the film. Indeed, there is something about it that just doesn’t work. After scratching our heads, we’ve come up with the following theories.

Westfeldt, attractive enough, is no Diane Keaton, as mentioned above, and inserting herself in the lead role is a mistake, no matter that she also wrote and produced the film. It also seems Westfeldt has had some work done and thus has a hard time truly emoting (click here for our take on the Goddess of Plastic Surgery, Joan Rivers).

We also didn’t care for her co-star, Adam Scott, a lothario (huh?), named Jason, who insists he’s not sexually into Westfeldt’s Julie, but somehow has enough heat to attract the bootylicious Mary Jane (Megan Fox).  We’d never heard of the dude, Scott, but, short and lubricious-like, he apparently stars in Parks and Recreation and also has a recurring role on HBO’s Eastbound & Down. (For anything HBO, we turn instead to the recently-ended Boardwalk Empire, now available On Demand; and currently are lapping up Luck, starring the bromantic duo Dustin Hoffman and Dennis Farina as today’s answer to Midnight Cowboy‘s Ratzo Rizzo and Joe Buck, albeit a pair with dough. We also dig the latest Ricky Gervais show, Life’s Too Short, which, to us – and contrary to most critics’ opinions – is so far so good.)

But we digress. The supporting roles are well-cast – hello, Bridesmaids – with the kid-bearing couples, Kristen Wiig and Hamm, and Maya Rudolph and Chris O’Dowd, completing the ensemble. But Bridesmaids it ain’t (or so we’re told; sue us, cuz we haven’t yet caught that film, having been in Europe during its box-office boffodom; click here for some of our overseas coverage; here for yet more of that reportage.) We do know, however, that we would rather see Hamm in the lead and Westfeldt in a supporting role. (Happily, we don’t have much longer to wait for the two-hour premiere of Season 5 of Mad Men, which begins March 25, filling the void that Downton Abbey has left…)

And while FWK is requisitely chatty, it’s about as daring as pastrami with mayo, and a wee bit too hip for the room: men blathering about Kegel exercises – really? Friends With Kids, as the New Yorker notes (cover caricature by Clayton Junior), is more like the TV series, Friends (we never watched one ep, truly), with a few kids thrown in for good – or bad – measure. Westfeldt is talented, but as an auteur she’s no Orson Welles. (In fairness, who is?) This is a small, forgettable flick that will suffice on the small screen, with its last line probably the worst ever uttered in cinematic history: Far from the poetry of Citizen Kane’s “Rosebud” (itself a reference to a female organ, but who knew?), or Casablanca’s Rick offering these glorious words, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” Julie, alas, says to Jason, “Fuck the shit out of me.”  Talk about a romantic faux mot. Pass the Purim wine, s’il vous plait!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Friends With Kids: Forgettable Fluff

From Fowl Play to Fouettés: Swan Lake Lives

By Victoria Looseleaf

“How many ‘Swan Lakes’ can you see? How many ‘Giselles’? That’s what a cranky German asked me one year in Havana where we were both attending that elegantly decaying city’s International Ballet Festival. “How many Beethoven 9ths can you listen to,” we replied, “cuz it depends who’s performing it and what production it is, blablabla.”

 

Well, we’re happy to report we never tire of Swan Lake (or at least almost never), in part because of Tchaikovsky’s glorious music. Thus did we look forward to Los Angeles Ballet’s premiere of this classical, er, war-bird, this past weekend at UCLA’s Royce Hall. At only six years old, LAB has gained a foothold, no pun intended, in our fickle city, and is also garnering quite a following in the process. (Click here for some of our recent LAB coverage; click here for earlier reportage).

In any case, trust us when we say we’ve seen our share of Swan Lakes, including the above-mentioned Cuban mounting, several Russian offerings, among them the Bolshoi‘s and Mariinsky‘s (cover shot of the latter’s Diana Vishneva by Gene Schiavone; click here for our 2008 LAT feature on the prima), a San FranciscoBallet production and a few from our East Coast compatriots, such as American Ballet Theatre‘s version starring Gillian Murphy, above right…and the list goes on. But for those who aren’t able to catch a live performance of the Petipa/Ivanov masterpiece, there are, propitiously, DVDs galore.

The astonishing Cuban ballerina, Viengsay Valdes, a protégé of Alicia Alonso, demonstrating her flawless technique, here with Elier Bourzac.

Indeed, our friends at Video Artists International (VAI), have a slew of classic releases, including a Bolshoi Theatre production from 1957 featuring the über-pliant Maya Plisetskaya, dancing with her Siegfried, Nicolai Fadeyechev (“This Swan Lake is a treasure,” touted the New York Times); and, from 1992, The Bolshoi’s Nina Ananiashvili pirouetting with the Perm State Ballet, partnered with Nicolai’s son, Alexei Fadeyechev. VAI also has various Swan Lake excerpts in its enchanting series, Great Stars of Russian Ballet, Volumes 1-4.

How then does L.A. Ballet’s rendition compare? Find out for yourselves by clicking here for our LA Times review. And don’t be afraid to ruffle your own feathers: Check out one of the troupe’s remaining four performances to see what this fantasy world of good and evil avians is about. After all, without art, our lives would be emotionally bereft. LA Ballet photo, Reed Hutchinson

P.S. We can’t resist Babs Streisand as Fanny Brice in ‘Funny Girl!’

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on From Fowl Play to Fouettés: Swan Lake Lives

Dancing For Dollars (And Other Tidbits)

By Victoria Looseleaf

Now that February is over – and with the Oscars telecast finally marking the end of awards season (check out our before and after takes on Hollywood’s biggest night) – we’ve got other things on our minds – like work!

Seriously: Calling all terpsichores, at least those keen on strutting their stuff – for pay! The March issue of Dance Magazine is all about jobs – how to get ‘em, how to keep ‘em and everything else you need to know to further – or jumpstart – your career. And hey – we even contributed to the issue with a story, How I Got That Job, talking to four brilliant dancers about their paths to success, including Katricia Eaglin of Dallas Black Dance Theatre (above right). We’ve also written a piece about students and professional choreographers teaming up at UCLA, in a course called First Hand (click here for that).

As Martha Graham once said, “Movement never lies” (click here for our recent Graham coverage, including our LA Times review), so keep on dancing and the truth will set you free. In the interim, if you just like to watch, there’s plenty going on in Los Angeles in the coming weeks, including Los Angeles Ballet’s new production of Swan Lake (we’ll be covering the performance for the LAT this weekend; click here and here for some of our recent coverage on the troupe celebrating its sixth season); Ronald K. Brown’s Evidence, A Dance Company (click here for our LA Times feature from, gulp, 2007), at the Ahmanson Theatre, March 9-12. On a more intimate scale: L.A.-based butoh artist extraordinaire, Oguri, will be at the Electric Lodge, March 16-18, with Andres Corchero, a guest dancer from Barcelona. (Click here for our Oguri Times coverage from 2009; click here for an earlier review. Then you’re on your own, though we’ve been writing about this master for many years and it’s cool to see the vast array of performances he’s given all over town in the past several decades.)

The end of the month (March 23-25), brings Ballet Preljocaj’s Blanche Neige, or Snow White, to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. (We covered the world premiere of the piece in 2008 in Lyon, France; click here for that; click here for our LAT coverage of Angelin Preljocaj dancing a solo in Montpellier in 2009; and click here for our Dance Mag coverage of the troupe’s performance of The Four Seasons at UCLA, also from 2009.)

If you can’t make any of those shows, well, you can always tune in to the new season of Dancing With the Stars, which, to our way of thinking, has come up with its weakest list of so-called stars yet, Martina Navratilova and Gladys Knight aside. (Click here for our Dance Teacher Magazine cover story on DWTS pro, Cheryl Burke).

In any case, we confess that we love to watch the pros (and have a fondness for Maksim Chmerkovskiy, whom we met in Vegas while covering a quartet of Cirque du Soleil shows; click here for our recent Dance Mag review of Iris, click here for our Vegas coverage; and click here for some of our Jacques Heim coverage – he choreographed Cirque’s KA and is artistic director of Diavolo, who, btw, will be at the Irvine Barclay Theatre March 22.) But enough about us, just go out and shake a tail feather. Who knows, you might even find yourself digging dance so much you’ll sign up for classes and dream about winning that mirror-ball trophy, a feat (no pun intended), that became reality for last season’s DWTS victors, the heroic JR Martinez (whom we adore!), and his partner, Karina Smirnoff.

 

P.S. And just cuz we love him, we’re glad that Ivan Vasiliev, left, has the job that he has – dancing with Mikhailovsky Ballet, whose current artistic director is Nacho Duato (click here for our 2007 LA Times story when Duato was still at the helm of Compañía Nacional de Danza). Yeah!

(Cover photo: Twyla Tharp’s Come Fly Away)

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Dancing For Dollars (And Other Tidbits)

The Oscars: A Bi-Polar Schmooze(Snooze)-Fest

By Victoria Looseleaf

You know the annual Oscar extravaganza is in trouble when one of the best moments happens before the proceedings. We’re talkin’ about the glorious prank our man Sacha Baron Cohen, aka The Dictator, pulled when he dumped ashes he says belonged to the late Kim Jong Il, all over Ryan Seacrest, the most overpaid, overexposed emblem of mediocrity show biz has managed to produce in recent years. (We do think, however, Seacrest handled it with a modicum of finesse, though we understand the American Idol emcee was somewhat, er, miffed.)

As for Billy Crystal returning to host the affair for the ninth time, he would have been better off kept on ice in some sort of cryogenic-like holding cell, his actual on-air visage/mummification making King Tut look like the boy wonder he actually was. In other words, Crystal wasn’t funny, relevant or worthy of the gig (okay, we did like his Sammy Davis, Jr., all racism aside, below), and here’s hoping that next year brings a breath of originality in the form of, well, Chris Rock, Eddie Murphy or even, hmm, Lewis Black.

WTF and why not? (We normally would be touting Ricky Gervais, though his major wimp-fest at the Globes significantly lowered his ranking in our book, not to mention that the Oscars would never have a British host, our love of Brit men notwithstanding.)

 

In any case, most of our prognostications came true (click here for our picks and pans), with our favorite film, The Artist, snagging top honors with five wins, and Hugo accruing its five-statuette bounty in technical areas.

 

The big upset of the evening, though, was Meryl Streep, who, in Lanvin’s hideous gold lamé gown that looked like a shower curtain from Cleopatra’s court, managed to sneak the little man away from Viola Davis in the best actress category (Streep’s third Oscar win). “They like her, they really really like her,” is what we thought about the academy members sticking to their own kind (average age, 62, white and, well, male), but if you ponder the situation, Streep’s Thatcher could have been a great drag performance; it certainly took the pancake makeup from Glenn Close in the unfortunate Albert Nobbs).

Davis, who gave one emotional acceptance speech after another during the awards season – aside from Streep copping the Globe – must have freaked out, though being a fine thespian she did hide her disappoint with aplomb. We don’t feel too bad, however, cuz Viola  is still (relatively) young and has a (somewhat) long career ahead of her.

Indeed, Viola would make a great Michelle Obama, not to mention Angela Davis, Winnie Mandela or, umm…, perhaps a Zora Neale Hurston or Lorraine Hansbury. (Click here for our L.A. Times interview with Davis from 2004; click here for our musings on Clybourne Park, Bruce Norris’ Pulitzer Prize-winning response to Hansbury’s classic, A Raisin in the Sun.)

As for presenters, we did like Zach Galifianakis and Will Ferrell (click here for more about the former), spoofing marching bands and cymbalists, but, for the most part, the bequeathers were as dull as their teleprompted words. (Where was Bruce Vilanch when we really needed him?) Then there was the lack of production numbers, which was, to put it mildly, pathetic.

Face it: The Cirque du Soleil scene just didn’t cut it (click here to read our take of Iris, not a pretty picture), and why there were only two best original song entries is beyond baffling. Admittedly, we wouldn’t have wanted to see Madonna crowing about anything related to her bomb of a movie, W.E., much less the song she was “persuaded” to write (and for which the Hollywood Foreign Press fawned all over her by awarding her the Globe). Hah!

Oy! And don’t get us started on the fashions. We long for the days of Bob Mackie and Cher (talk about “oxy-tv,” Mackie can be seen hawking his appliquéd leisure suits for aging Floridians on the shopping channel…), or Björk’s ode to insanity in her inspired sartorial choice – a swan-necked faux tutu.

In other words, nothing really stood out, and that goes for Angelina Jolie flashing her leg in an otherwise drab black Atelier Versace gown. That the thigh-baring pose was immediately aped by The Descendants screenwriters Alexander Payne, Nat Faxon and Jim Rash after they accepted the screenplay award from Jolie means nothing (and wasn’t all that amusing). By the way: Is it us or has Ms. Jolie come to resemble her very own Madame Tussaud creation, even when she opens her mouth to speak, the Twitterati be damned, as there were allegedly 3399 tweets per minute (see @AngiesRightLeg), about Jolie’s pretentious and put-upon, er, position.

To quote Meryl Streep after winning the Gold, “…but whatever!”

Tomorrow at this time we won’t remember 99% of the telecast, including most of the losers, also-rans and what-have-yous. (And we’re doing our best to forget anything having to do with Melissa McCarthy and Jonah Hill, that’s for sure.)

Even Uggie’s appearance couldn’t save the show from complete ennui, appearing as it did during the final moments when The Artist was crowned with Hollywood’s top honor. So, until next year, it’s au revoir and bon chance – goodnight and good luck. And may the best Frenchman continue to show Hollywood how it’s done!

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

The Oscars: Picks, Pans and Prophecies

By Victoria Looseleaf

Now that Downton Abbey is finished for the season, there is something we have to look forward to this Sunday, besides HBO’s Luck: The Oscars, the mother of all awards shows. Having declared The Artist best picture immediately upon seeing it last November (click here for our rave), we’ve been on that Hazanavicius (pronounced Ha-zahn-a-vish-us), train ever since. And nothing has changed! The Artist is a feel-fabulous film that reminds us why we love movies in the first place. (We’re not even going to list the other eight best picture nominees, though we were high on Hugo, Midnight in Paris and Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life.)

We’re also gonna stick out our swan-like necks and declare that, oui – Michel H. will snag best directing honors, thus needing both arms to schlep his Hollywood gold back to France. Meanwhile, Michel’s wife, Bérénice Bejo, won’t be so charmed – she’s up for best supporting actress. No matter; she’s got him and her career has now officially been launched into the stratosphere, her funky dancing aside. As to the other director nominees, we generally like Alexander Payne (hello, Sideways), but found The Descendants dull and disjointed. On the other hand: The charm of Hugo won’t garner another little man for Scorsese, who won an Oscar for The Departed, and hope he returns to gangsta form with something a little less kid-friendly for his next outing. (We know, that was the whole point of the flick. Actually, Sacha Baron Cohen, who once thought we were, gulp, porn stars, should have been nominated for his turn as the Station Inspector.)

That brings us to Woody Allen. Since having taken a darker turn with the wonderful Match Point and Cassandra’s Dream (nobody but us saw the latter), he’s been on a roll – not counting the ill-conceived Scoop, of course – with his Midnight in Paris absolutely brilliant. This marks Allen’s 15th nomination as a writer and seventh nod as a director, but he’s not gonna show up to collect the statuette for best original screenplay, so let’s give him a hand here and now. (How J.C. Chandor got a nod for Margin Call, we’ll never know. But since we saw it minutes after finding out Steve Jobs died, we attribute some of our disinterest to that; click here to read our Jobs remembrance; here for our Son of No One/Margin Call musings.)

As for the acting categories: Our readers are well aware that we dissed Michelle Williams as Marilyn (click here for that), but loved Rooney Mara as the sado-masochistic Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Neither chick, however, will win. After all, Monroe doing Monroe was never nominated, and Mara, though young, lovely and übertalented, will have her shot in due time. Then there are the grande dames: Meryl Streep and Glenn Close (The Iron Lady and Albert Nobbs, respectively). Though we’re huge fans of both these gals, we didn’t see either film (we’re not alone there), so sue us. Seriously, we would like to see Glenn win, but fugeddaboudit for now.

This brings us to the winner, Viola Davis (below, right). We disliked The Help on many levels (perfunctory script and directing, for two things), but since Davis has been wowing everyone with her acceptance speeches and did do a fine job in a mediocre film, the Oscar goes to…her. (Disclosure: We interviewed Viola back in 2004 for the Los Angeles Times, when she appeared on stage at the Mark Taper Forum in Intimate Apparel. What a lady, what an actor; click here for our story).

The big given: Christopher Plummer (above), is a lock for best supporting actor in Beginners. We were, however, also very keen on Max von Sydow in the otherwise bad film, Extremely Mawkish & Incredibly Pretentious, er, well, you know what we mean. Cheers, then, to Plummer! Octavia Spencer (near right), nominated for best supporting actress in The Help, is the other no-brainer. We like Jessica Chastain, but, frankly, she was overexposed. (Indeed, she was in so many movies last year that her performances bled together like madras shorts in warm water, what with Wilde Salome, Coriolanus and Take Shelter giving her the Jude Law dubious distinction award. We didn’t mind her, however, in The Tree of Life; click here for our take on that; and bah to those who didn’t “get” it.)

Alas, we’re torn between best actor nominees. It’s about time that Gary Oldman was recognized for his abilities, which finally culminated in a pitch-perfect portrayal of George Smiley in the formidable Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. And it would be a coup if he carried off the upset of the evening. In a perfect world…maybe, though we doubt this will happen. (Remember Javier Bardem in last year’s Biutiful? He didn’t win, but click here for our interview with him anyway.) But we digress: Brad Pitt is always good, just not good enough in Moneyball (okay, we didn’t see it, but are longing to). We also didn’t see Demián Bichir in A Better Life, so congrats on the nom, but the statue, we feel is a tug of war between George Clooney (The Descendants) and The Artist‘s Jean Dujardin. (Above: The five best actor nominees at the Academy’s annual luncheon.)

And while we’re crazy for Clooney, The Descendants did less than nothing for us (not nothing, but less than nothing, hah!). Who cares that Clooney cried while talking to his philandering, coma-ridden wife? Who cares that he huffed and puffed in flip-flops? No big whoop. But we do care about Dujardin as a fading silent movie star who eventually finds his footing, all puns intended, in the form of tap dancing. Thus it would please us, très beaucoup, to see Dujardin take home the Oscar – as long as he shares it with Uggie, and doesn’t tap dance over the heads of the audience (shades of Roberto Benigni, when Mr. Looseleaf and I were in attendance way back in 1999).

And while we’re grateful that Anne Hathaway and James Franco will not be returning as hosts (click here for last year’s coverage), we’re not thrilled with the old-school casting of Billy Crystal, whose face, as of late, seems to have been rearranged like a Picasso portrait. (Mr. Crystal should take some cues from the queen of cosmetic surgery, Joan Rivers; we’re just sayin’.) We’re also rooting for Wim Wenders’ Pina (above) to win best doc (click here), and, finally: We’re sad that Oscar’s star scribe, Bruce Vilanch, has not been recruited for this year’s telecast, meaning we’re gonna need to stockpile the Veuve Clicquot …beginning, well, maintenant.

P.S. We also want to mention A Separation, our pick for best foreign language film – and, in a complete aside – are hoping that The Dictator rabble-rouses a bit, either before or during the proceedings, cuz afterwards we just won’t care.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on The Oscars: Picks, Pans and Prophecies

Crack TV: Drum Rolls For Downton Abbey

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!

 

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Crack TV: Drum Rolls For Downton Abbey

Joshua Bell and Jeremy Denk: Brio and Drama In Spades

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!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Joshua Bell and Jeremy Denk: Brio and Drama In Spades

Bring On The Baritone: Simon Boccanegra

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-14th 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.)

 This Just In: And if singing the lead role in a Verdi opera isn’t enough, Domingo – in his spare time, hello – managed to make an appearance on The Colbert Report, teaching the unbelievably brilliant Stephen Colbert, how to, er, sing. Check it out here!

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Bring On The Baritone: Simon Boccanegra

Gaga For Van Gogh

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 21st 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.

 

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Gaga For Van Gogh