Being Ben…Whishaw

By Victoria Looseleaf

This Just In: If the name Ben Whishaw doesn’t quite ring a bell yet, it will. And in a big way. Though we wrote this original post several months ago, it has come to our attention that BW has been tapped to play Q to Daniel Craig‘s James Bond. We knew he was on a tear, but this is phenomenal news, and makes Ben the youngest Q, that pseudonymous tech wizard of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, to grace the Bondian screen (he’s 31 to Craig’s 43). And though none of Q’s latest gadgets have been announced, the New York Times has speculated about a “murderous iPhone,” for the new  movie that will be called Skyfall. Adding icing to Whishaw’s acting cake, the BBC News recently reported that our Ben is slated to play Richard II for the BBC.

Now: Some back history on the Brit who has been gracing screens since 1999, but we only became aware of him in 2004’s Layer Cake, which also featured a relatively unknown – at that time – Daniel Craig. (And speaking of Craig, we still regard The Mother, from 2003, a film in which Craig has an affair with a 60+ sex-starved Ann Reid, a masterpiece.)

“Forget the Excedrin…I’ll have a spot more of Mr. Craig, please…”

Ben then went on to play Keith Richards in Stoned, a 2005 biopic about the death of the Rolling Stones’ Brian Jones. (To read our review of Keith Richards’ platinum-selling memoir, Life, click here, then click here for our update on literary narcissists, which, for obvious reasons, includes Richards.) No easy task capturing the Keefster, but Whishaw did, cuz he can do it all. Remember him as the titular killer Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in Perfume: The Story of a Murderer? (OK – we didn’t actually see it, but we promise we shall, so in the interim, try to forgive us…). We did make an extra effort, however, to catch his Arthur in Todd Haynes’ surreal ruminations on Bob Dylan, I’m Not There. In that film, Ben held his own with the likes of Cate Blanchett, Heath Ledger, Christian Bale and Richard Gere. Not bad company, fersure.

Oy: We also admit we missed Julian Jerrold’s 2008 remake of Brideshead Revisited, in which our man about town assayed the role of Sebastian Flyte. But we promise to TiVo it, DVR it or whatever it as soon as we can. (We don’t do Netflix.) Next came Tom Tykwer’s The International, with Clive Owen and Naomi Watts, a film we’ve only seen bits and pieces of on transatlantic flights, but have no doubt that Whishaw’s presence helped elevate his thespian currency.

Then, veritable leading man status was conferred upon the dashing young Brit in 2009: Jane Campion’s underappreciated (and practically unseen by everyone), Bright Star, where Whishaw shone as the tragically dead-at-25-from tuberculosis poet, John Keats. His leading lady was Abbie Cornish, an excellent Welsh actor (actually, there aren’t that many, the fabulous Richard Burton, notwithstanding and forever leading the pack), playing Fanny Brawne, one of Keats’ love interests (the other being Paul Schneider‘s Mr. Brown, a role laced with homoerotic under/overtones).

The best part about Bright Star, though, besides the stellar acting, fine storytelling and gorgeous cinematography, was that we were privy to interview Campion. It was a roundtable press thing at The Four Seasons, with only one other journalist showing up. (There are usually lots more scribes, as they come for the free eats as much as anything, making sure to pile their plates high before sitting down for polite and well-policed chatter.) But we digress: Whishaw, it turns out, was the bonus interview, charming and beguiling, but, alas, none of that conversation made it onto the airwaves of KUSC. Perhaps when the dude gets huge – and he will – we’ll go back to the vaults and mine some lovely gems from the likeable lad. Here, here!

After Bright Star, Whishaw did a fine turn as Ariel in Julie Taymor’s vastly underrated The Tempest, from 2010. (How Taymor directed that and was working on her doomed Broadway fiasco, Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark, simultaneously, remains a mystery, though Taymor did make use of Reeve Carney in both poorly-received efforts.) Other notable cast members populating The Tempest include the always amazing Helen Mirren (in the gender-bending role of Prospera), Alfred Molina, David Strathairn and Tom Conti.

There’s no keeping a good man down, as our brilliant Ben then moved from Taymor’s flick to The Hour. Airing recently on BBC America, it’s the vehicle that made us fall in love with the wonderful Whishaw all over again.  A six-part television series set in Cold War-era England (think Mad Men with bad teeth and more drinking, if that’s possible), The Hour is a gripping behind-the-scenes drama/espionage thriller that centers on a journalist (Whishaw, as Freddie Lyon), a producer (Romola Garai, she of One Day – for The Leaf’s take on that abomination, click here), and an anchorman (the insanely brilliant Dominic West, he of The Wire fame), all working on an investigative news program.

There are way too many commercials, however, which is a hassle, but at least we can forward through them in order to salivate over Ben Whishaw. He’s authentic, cocky, wise beyond his years, provocative, adorable, smooth and will, hopefully, be a huge star along the lines of Jim Sturgess, James McAvoy, Ewan McGregor and all those other British dudes we love, not to mention Ricky Gervais (he’s back hosting the Golden Globes in January, so click here to read more about that), with Craig and Owen also part of that well-heeled pack, if a tad older.

So Ben, Mr. Whishaw, if you check your Google Alerts and this posting pops up, please give The LooseLeaf Report a shout-out. And remember, we knew you when…

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Cocaine & Cabrioles

By Victoria Looseleaf

We all know that dancers, ballerinas in particular, occasionally go to extremes for their art: Being rail-thin is the ideal, with chain smoking and drinking diet pop one way to stave off hunger pangs. So is binging and purging, the result being that some of these lithe creatures bourrée down the road to becoming full-fledged anorexics/bulimics. Indeed, this kind of behavior has been going on since Marie Taglioni donned her first pair of La Sylphide wings (see picture below). Well, maybe not. But we do know that the concept of body fascism – placing a value on one’s physical appearance – was rearing its ugly head even back then. (Click here to read The Leaf’s L.A. Times essay on that subject).

But smuggling 330 pounds of cocaine in pointe shoes – what gives? (Click here to read that bizarre story.)

Not much, really. Though perhaps Darren Aronofsky will integrate that plot line into Black Swan 2, cuz this smuggling story has about as much to do with ballet as the Natalie Portman-starring horror flick did. (Click here to read The Leaf’s review of the $13 million film that grossed some $163 million, which at least thrust ballet into the zeitgeist. And click here to read her follow-up to the review.)

Seriously, why are the words cocaine and classical ballet colliding these days? The Leaf has no inside knowledge on erstwhile ballet superstar Nikolaj Hübbe’s involvement with the drug as it pertains to the Royal Danish Ballet (click here to read that sordid story), but after Hübbe retired from New York City Ballet and headed to the quieter climes of Copenhagen so that he could helm the Royal Danish, perhaps the responsibilities of bringing a storied, centuries-old institution into the new millennium got to him. The Leaf sees some sort of connection between Taglioni whose ethereal presence was the result of her father’s tyrannical teachings and first seen at Bournonville’s Royal Danish Ballet, and Hübbe. But then there’s always a connection in ballet, the art form that is passed down from body to body, generation to generation.

Nicolaj Hübbe: Then…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nicolaj Hübbe…now.

 

As these stories continue to unfold, we’ll be here continuing to comment. In the interim, whatever is going on with ballet and that white powdery stuff shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone who remembers Gelsey Kirkland’s memoir, Dancing On My Grave. Fortunately, Gelsey got over her addictions and is very much alive and well. Let’s wish the same for Mr. Hübbe and his troupe of fabulous dancers – and take all of these cocaine stories with a grain of, well, salt.

 

 

 


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On Literary Narcissism

By Victoria Looseleaf

“Hail to the Keef!” declared Little, Brown and Co. publisher Michael Pietsch, on learning that Keith Richards’ autobiography is among the bestselling rock memoirs of all time. And a good thing, too, as Little B. shelled out more than $7 million for the tome, Life, which received across-the-board raves, with The Leaf calling it, “the Citizen Kane of rock memoirs.” (Click here to read her review.)

But is the book worth a second read? Probably not. How could it be, when there’s so much more egocentric, narcissistic stuff coming at us in a constant stream of self-indulgence. Jane Fonda’s got another book out, Prime Time, with its ungainly subtitle: Love, health, sex, fitness, friendship, spirit – making the most of all of your life. Who came up with that one? And don’t get me wrong, The Leaf adores Ms. Fonda. (Click here to read her musings on the Goddess of, well, Just About Everything!). Below is a pic of Ms. Fonda from Barbarella, a flick she tells The Leaf she’d like to revisit in a sequel.

Perusing the NYT  nonfiction bestseller list tells us that the following peeps are incessantly droning on about themselves: The kidnapped victim Jaycee Dugard tops the list with A Stolen Life (while hers was undoubtedly an ordeal of mammoth proportions, does the world really need to indulge in this grisly, morbid past?); and Tina Fey’s Bossypants has been on the list for some 18 weeks now. (The Leaf hasn’t read this yet, but should she receive a copy, she would most likely get a few good yucks from Ms. Fey’s Mensa-like mind…). Then there’s some quarterback called Tim Tebow who chronicles his personal and professional course – from his career at the University of Florida to his rookie season in Denver, in Through My Eyes, written with Nathan Whitaker. (Gads, is The Leaf the only person left in this country who has never been to or watched a football game in its entirety, and why would those who have, care a whit about this, er, Whitaker fella’s subject?)

Into each life a little accordion-typist must fall: The fabulous Tina Fey!

And don’t get The Leaf started on that broad Chelsea Handler, whose self-indulgent tome, registering at number nine on said list, is called, Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me. In addition: Who, really, wants to spend time with Steven Tyler? His blatherings (scribed with David Dalton), tell of the rise, fall and rise again of Aerosmith, aptly titled, Does The Noise In My Head Bother You? Actually, Steven, everything about you bothers me. And God spare us, puhleeze, from Laura Ingraham’s Of Thee I Zing, as she satirizes (?) America’s cultural decline, from…body shots to muffin tops (would this latter topic be referring to the Ana Gasteyer/Betty White SNL sketch – click here to read The Leaf’s musings on Ms. G.)  Written with Raymond Arroyo, this poor excuse for a book is another doing-it-for-dollars piece of drivel.

And that’s just a partial run-down of the sacrosanct NYT list. So, if you’re seriously looking for some good first person reading material, go back to Proust and his Remembrance of Things Past (okay, it’s fiction), or Obama’s Dreams From My Father. The Leaf also fondly recalls Lillian Hellman’s Pentimento, and Gore Vidal’s Palimpsest: A Memoir.

The list is long and seemingly a lot better than today’s offerings. And, dear readers, somewhere over that rainbow The Leaf, as egomaniacal a writer as any, will be weighing in with her own somewhat sardonic story, Don’t Let Me Die On Doheny – if she ever finds time to get it into some sort of literary shape.

Pianist Yuja Wang in the dress that launched a thousand quips!

In the interim, The Leaf suggests you turn on the radio – preferably KUSC-FM – and listen to a broadcast by the Los Angeles Philharmonic at the Hollywood Bowl – Saturdays at 2 p.m. (The concerts are also available on line the week following the concert’s airing). Tomorrow’s broadcast features 24-year old French conducting phenom, Lionel Bringuier, who leads the Phil in Tchaikovsky’s epic Fifth Symphony, as well as a towering performance of the Rach 3, by another 24-year old, superstar pianist Yuja Wang, whose jaw-droppingly short orange dress had tongues wagging across the blogosphere and beyond.

In other words, have a wonderful weekend, the penultimate before summer officially ends with Labor Day, which, on that particular Monday, will be the first since 1966 without the über-narcissistic Jerry Lewis helming his Muscular Dystrophy Telethon. Hmm…let the fall season begin.

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She Said, ‘No, No, No…’

By Victoria Looseleaf

Amy Winehouse finally said ‘no.’ To life, in any case, and to drugs, on July 23, 2011. Or at least that’s what the latest autopsy report would have us believe: The erstwhile dope-addled Amy, she of the soulful voice, bee-hive hairdo and tragic ending, met hers with no illegal narcotics in her system. What she did have, we are told, was a whole lotta alcohol in there.

And it is possible for a 27-year old woman to die of acute alcoholism, although the toxicity levels, organ/tissue probes and whatever the hell else medical examiners do (one of The Leaf’s majors at Berkeley was criminology – she wanted to be Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs; guess she needs to watch more Law and Order eps, in order to get her morgue terminology down), have not yet announced that they found a bloated liver and/or other swollen appendages symptomatic of chronic drinking.

Had Ms. Winehouse barfed? Could she have choked on her own vomit the way Mama Cass did (and not on a ham sandwich, as has been reported over the years)? Were there empty alcohol bottles strewn around? Hidden? Or were they in their proper places, beside her bed? And just what was Amy’s drink of choice?

Then there’s the issue of death from legal drugs – pharmaceuticals. Like Heath Ledger, who died of an accidental overdose of painkillers, sleeping pills, anti-anxiety medication and other prescription drugs, or so sayeth the New York City medical examiner’s office. That would thus be termed a poly-pharmaceutical overdose, which is what caused Elvis to expire (that compounded by the heart attack he had while trying to defecate. Oy, the ignominy!) Click here to see how fans recently mourned the 34 years since the King’s passing.

We know that a handful of other famous 27-year old rock Gods and Goddesses shuffled off this mortal coil from heroin, booze, barbiturates, gagging on one’s own puke or a combination thereof.  Janis Joplin (smack and Southern Comfort, in Los Angeles – and puhleeze, don’t let Amy Adams play Pearl in a Hollywood biopic), Jimi Hendrix (asphyxiated in his own vomit, mainly red wine which filled his airways, along with substantial amounts of a Belgian sleeping pill, Vesparax, in London), and Jim Morrison (his official death certificate states he died in a bathtub of “natural causes,” in Paris. Click here to read about the recent 40th anniversary of that rock star’s passing)…and the list goes on.

The rock poet himself, Jim Morrison

Seriously, death is not a pretty picture, but some kind of closure would be nice for Ms. Winehouse, unless we’re content with the good old natural-causes-and-alcohol-combo answer. But who ever really dies of natural causes, save for centenarians and those lucky enough to float away in their sleep?

 

 

What we do know about Amy Winehouse is that she was one helluva singer/songwriter (click here to read The Leaf’s original memorial tribute to her), and that we look forward to hearing more of her music, however much might be left. Oh, yeah!

 

 

 

Ms. Joplin as Jacskon Pollock drip painting!


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Chaos & Clafoutis = Carnage

By Victoria Looseleaf

The Leaf wishes she could be in Venice in the coming weeks for the world premiere of Roman Polanski’s latest flick, Carnage, an adaptation from Yasmina Reza’s Tony Award-winning play, God of Carnage. The French-born Reza is a formidable talent, having penned the award-winning play Art and the intriguing little book, Dawn, Dusk or Night: A Year With Nicolas Sarkozy (Knopf, 2008). Alas, The Leaf will be in Venice in spirit only! (But if you’d like to read her posting on that fabulous city, click here.) In any case, the play starred a quartet of big names: Marcia Gay Harden, Hope Davis, Jeff Daniels – and The Leaf’s hero – James Gandolfini, aka Tony Soprano, who all garnered Tony nominations for their über-charged performances.

But for various and sundry reasons that we’ll never be privy to, the movie features not one of those stellar names that made up the original Broadway cast (and came together again for a highly profitable run at the Ahmanson Theatre last spring. Click here to read The Leaf’s thoughts on that engagement, and click here to listen to her KUSC chats with Davis and Harden, the latter snagging a Tony for her portrayal as the highbrow art writer, Veronica).

The Venice Film Festival’s Golden Lion

Nope, Polanski decided to go in a different direction (as has been his wont for some five decades of filmmaking, which has been cool except when it concerned sex with an underage girl…). The movie stars Kate Winslet, John C. Reilly, Jodie Foster and Christoph Waltz as concerned parents of 11-year old boys who have just had a violent after-school altercation. The action takes place in a trendy Brooklyn loft, and was shot in Paris because  of Polanski’s, er, legal situation.

Tulips play an integral part in Carnage, as do an incessantly chirping cellphone and a, gulp, bucket!

Still, The Leaf is excited to see this film, having been a Polanski fan since Knife In the Water, Rosemary’s Baby and Chinatown, among other flicks – hello, The Pianist! (Admittedly, she wasn’t that enamored of The Ghost Writer, but that’s probably because she saw it on a plane crossing the Atlantic and kept nodding out.)

 

A still from Knife in the Water, Polanski’s first feature film, 1962.

 

 

 

So, without further ado, here’s the trailer for the upcoming Carnage, with more to come from your intrepid reporter after the movie opens in Los Angeles.

Right:  Award-winning playwright Yasmina Reza strikes a pensive pose.

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One Day: One Dud

By Victoria Looseleaf

Mawkish, maudlin, mushy. Oh, sorry. Those words all mean the same thing. But they do aptly describe the latest film by director Lone Scherfig (An Education). One Day feels more like one huge snooze-fest, despite the presence of the marvelous Jim Sturgess (Across the Universe), and partially because of Anne Hathaway (she was bad enough on the Oscars; click here for my coverage of that televised fiasco). Hathaway couldn’t find an English accent with a GPS. Seriously, veering from bad British and shabby Scottish to a kind of weird Irish brogue, the girl who is this decade’s answer to Julia Roberts is sorely miscast. (And to quote BigDave from the YouTube trailer: “It’s like listening to Rebecca Black read from Wuthering Heights.”)

The problem doesn’t lie solely with Hathaway, however. Give some credit (or not), to the writer, David Nicholls, who adapted the screenplay from his own romantically weepy mega-seller (somehow the book escaped The Leaf). A cross between The Bridges of Madison County and The Notebook (at least those flicks had Eastwood/Streep and Gosling, respectively) with a dash of Same Time Next Year, the film is a love story minus the love. It was all the Leaf could do to keep herself from marching out of the screening room in frustration.

Bah! The couple – Emma and Dexter – meets cute on college graduation day in 1988 and then proceed to rendezvous – strictly as BFFs – every July 15, until 2006, or maybe it’s 2003. Could even be 2008, 09’ or ’11. Who knows? Who cares? There’s so much whirling ahead in time with so little happening that The Leaf was beginning to suffer whiplash. Oy! Dexter (bad choice for a name, cuz it recalls Cary Grant’s C.K. Dexter Haven in The Philadelphia Story and Hathaway is no Kate Hepburn), comes from money and becomes a drunken, drug-using, sex addict. When he’s “sacked” from his TV hosting gig, he rapidly falls into decline. One wonders what happened to all that family $ (his parents are played by Ken Stott and Patricia Clarkson, the latter in her usual wry, under-utilized mode).

Emma (couldn’t Nicholls find a more original moniker), comes from no bucks, is secretly in love with Dex, but settles for seeing him one day each year while she toils as a waitress in a Mexican restaurant (in London, no less), finally settling for an aspiring, geeky stand-up comic (Rafe Spall, son of the wonderful Timothy, sans his pop’s rotund jocularity). Of course, Emma is a poet/wannabe writer, and, in short order, begins teaching, pens a hit teen novel, dumps the geek, moves to Paris and finds a hunk. She’s ascending; Dex is on the downward spiral, though he somehow manages to marry the rich girl he knocks up (Romola Garai, wasted here and far better in the BBC’s fabulous new, The Hour), becoming a father in the process.

Do Emma and Dex finally get together? Do we care?

God, no. And it’s all too predictable: Once they do get hitched, all The Leaf could think about was: Who’s gonna get sick, croak or have an accident first, leaving those many wasted years in their wake. Perhaps Scherfig did what she could, given the material (does being Danish have anything to do with the utter blahness of it all), but when she piles on Rachel Portman’s manipulative score and gives us those run-up-a-grassy-cliff vistas, it’s all too much. Or too little.

Indeed, this flick makes Love Story (“Love never means having to say you’re sorry”), palatable. In short: One Day is One Drag.

Ah: The good old daze of Ali MacGraw & Ryan O’Neal in Erich Segal’s fabulous potboiler, Love Story

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Ana Gasteyer: A Broad for All Seasons

By Victoria Looseleaf

She’s not just for comedy anymore. That’s right, this Goddess of hilarity from Saturday Night Live can carry a tune. But those who watched D.C.-born Gasteyer for six seasons  do her fabulous characters on the show – from Celine Dion and Babs Streisand to Bobbie Mohan-Culp, Martha Stewart and Hillary Clinton (alas, the erstwhile first lady did not sing, nor does Ms. Martha, at least not to our knowledge), well, we all know she’s got some serious vocal chops.

And she’s bringing them to Los Angeles for the West Coast debut of her cabaret act, Elegant Songs From a Handsome Woman. And, hey – it’s not as if Gasteyer hasn’t got a theatrical pedigree, having studied voice and “art songs” at Northwestern.  Since leaving SNL in 2002, the comedy diva has sung Fosca in Stephen Sondheim’s Passion, the green witch Elphaba in Wicked (both in Chicago and on Broadway), and Mrs. Peachum in the Weill/Brecht masterpiece, Threepenny Opera. And she’s even been Fanny Brice in a Pittsburgh mounting of Funny Girl. (Note: A Bartlett Sher-directed production will land at L.A.’s Ahmanson Theatre starring, enigmatically, Lauren Ambrose, best known from HBO’s Six Feet Under.)

Will Farrell & Ana Gasteyer as the Culps

Whatever! It’s all good, including Ms. G’s turn in the musical Reefer Madness. As for her cabaret act (which she also did at the tony NY boîte, Feinstein’s at Loews Regency), the mega-talent will be backed by a five-piece band (and oh, do they rock). She’ll be belting out such tunes as the Theme from Valley of the Dolls (my sister – with whom I recently reconciled – and I watched the classic flick when we were in Florida for The Leaf’s birthday, quel hoot), Slap That Bass (what would we do without the Gershwins) and the Gilbert & Sullivan ditty, Titwillow from The Mikado. But when I asked Ms. G. to sing me a few bars of the G & S tune, she demurred.

Not to worry. And, if you’re unable to make it to Catalina Jazz Club this weekend for the show in which the lady will be all gussied up, including sporting a kind of Breakfast at Tiffany’s up-do and pearls for days, you can soon catch Ana all over the small screen. She’s playing a love interest for The Leaf’s favorite nudge, Larry David in the last two eps of this season’s Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then there’s ABC’s upcoming sitcom Suburgatory, with Gasteyer in the recurring role of Sheila Shay, the “typical nosy neighbor – this hyper-perfect woman with a little dose of TMI,” says the star herself.

With the world in such shambles these days, it’s great knowing that Ana Gasteyer is doing what she does best – making us all laugh and feel better about things. Go Gasteyer, go. And for The Leaf’s first of two KUSC mini-chats with the chanteuse, click here. And click here to listen to our second convo. In the interim, this fan can’t wait to have a cocktail in her fabulous honor. Make it extra dry, puhleeze…

 

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Debbie Allen: Fierce, Fabulous and So Fine

By Victoria Looseleaf

They call her ‘Ms. Allen.’ And with good cause. She’s a force of nature and has been respected and beloved in the entertainment world for decades. The Leaf recently had the honor of writing a cover story for Dance Teacher Magazine about Ms. Allen, a sextuple-hyphenate (dancer/actor/choreographer/director/writer/producer) and all-around magnificent human being. (Click here to read the feature.)

And for KUSC-FM radio, The Leaf spoke to Debbie Allen about her storied career, including helming and choreographing Twist – An American Musical that recently ended its run at Pasadena Playhouse. The musical, btw, was composed by Grammy-winner Tena Clark, who also talks about working with the indomitable Ms. Allen in the interview. (Click here to listen.)

If, by chance, dear readers, some of you may not know of Debbie Allen, let’s just say that she earned a Tony Award nomination for her portrayal of Anita on Broadway in a revival of West Side Story in 1980, and is also the only actor to have appeared in Fame the movie, (also 1980), the television show (1984-87), and the remake of the film in 2009. She’s also been artist-in-resident at the Kennedy Center since 1995, where she has directed and, more recently, written, a host of memorable plays. As to smashing glass ceilings, Ms. Allen directed the first all-black cast of the 2008 Broadway revival of Tennessee Williams’ Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. The groundbreaking production starred Ms. Allen’s sister, Phylicia Rashad, James Earl Jones, Terrence Howard and Anika Noni Rose.

Ms. Allen also directs episodic TV, including Grey’s Anatomy and Hellcats. And the hits keep coming…including receiving an honorary doctorate from Spelman College (along with her sister and First Lady Michelle Obama). How cool is that! And finally, closer to home, Debbie Allen’s most enduring legacy may be her Los Angeles-based Debbie Allen Dance Academy, a wonderful organization whose students go on to succeed on Broadway, in films and…in life.

Debbie Allen, a mega-talent, keeps on keeping on, including giving back by passing her knowledge down from generation to generation, dance body to dance body.

All hail Ms. Debbie Allen!

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Farewell, Amy Winehouse; Adieu Milly Del Rubio

By Victoria Looseleaf

Another day, another death. I don’t like to check email on the weekends, just crank out articles. But my iPhone and iPad were chirping incessantly last Saturday as I was writing my first script for the Los Angeles Philharmonic broadcasts at the Hollywood Bowl (to air on KUSC-FM beginning Saturday, August 6 at 2 p.m. with Gustavo Dudamel and Lang Lang – together for the first time).

So I peeked and was in for a shocker: Chanteuse/songwriter/doomed damsel Amy Winehouse, 27, had been found dead in her Camden home. No details as to cause, which was stated as ‘unexplained.’ Autopsy results have thus far proved inconclusive. What is conclusive is that Ms. Winehouse, a mega-talent bigger than her insanely high beehive, was a throwback to 60’s girl bands, soul music, funk and blues – of whatever era.

She was our Billie Holiday, our Edith Piaf, her desperately emotional voice and plaintive lyrics speaking to us from another place, yet one we all recognized. As The Leaf continues to memorialize the dead in recent weeks, again, she reminds you that she is not an obituary writer, so please click here to read the New York Times death notice (and here to read the NYT’s Jon Pareles’ insightful appraisal of the woman taken too soon from us).

Amy, we hardly knew ya. We understand that you were recording new tracks for a long overdue recording – Ms. Winehouse only released two CDs, the astonishing Grammy award-winning Back To Black from 2006 and her 2003 recording, Frank – so we have those tunes to look forward to. But, like Janis, Jimi, Jim and a slew of other iconic musicians who left us too soon, you have now ascended to the pantheon of those forever frozen in time. Farewell, my lovely London Jewess.

The Leaf also wishes to bid adieu to another singer/guitarist: Milly Del Rubio. The last surviving triplet of an all-girls’ band (?), the Del Rubios, Milly joins identical trips Eadie and Elena, the gals who performed into their 70’s (or beyond, no one really knows), strumming guitars and dishing out unique harmonies of pop tunes in their own inimitable style. Some would say that they played guitars badly and sung even worse, but theirs was such a unique sound – and their costumes – matching tops, hot pants and white go-go boots – proved the apotheosis of kitsch.

The Del Rubio Triplets: The Early Years

The Trips made several appearances on The Leaf’s erstwhile cable access TV show, The Looseleaf Report, beginning in the late 80’s (their first appearance on The Leaf’s show was with Huell Howser, a beloved PBS chronicler of Californians who did one of the first stories on the sisters), and she loved them. Adored them. The Leaf even used clips of them in both the opening and closing credits of The Looseleaf Report – and also paid more than one visit to their triple-wide trailer in San Pedro, where the blond sisters, who were born in Panama, slept in the same bed – in formation (Milly on the left, Eadie in the middle, Elena on the right – the way the girls were positioned at birth).

Talk about originals. These gals performed in nursing homes for years, bringing joy and pleasure to the residents, even after they’d been “rediscovered” by pop songwriter, Allee Willis. Soon the gals were making guest appearances on shows such as Pee Wee’s Playhouse, The Golden Girls and Married With Children. Thank you, Allee, for giving the world another glimpse of such rare and beautiful human beings.

Now living on in The Looseleaf Report archives (as soon as The Leaf begins digitizing her shows, she’ll begin uploading segments to The Looseleaf Report YouTube channel), and already an internet sensation, clips of the Trips can be seen singing some of their classic hits, including These Boots Were Made for Walking (eat your heart out, Nancy Sinatra), I Will Survive (ditto, Gloria Gaynor) and What Have I Done To Deserve This, the Pet Shop Boys’ hit penned by Ms. Willis.


    Goodbye Amy, aloha, Milly, and thank God for all the music you gave us.

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Gil and Gustavo: Combustion Squared

By Victoria Looseleaf

It was a virtual love fest at the Hollywood Bowl when violinist extraordinaire, Gil Shaham, blew the shell off the 90-year old venue with his reading of Mozart’s Fifth Violin Concerto. Of course, he had some help from maestro Gustavo Dudamel, aka, The Dude, and the stellar musicians of the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Indeed, it was an all-Mozart program under the stars as the classical season at the Bowl continued with a vengeance, with more than 9,000 patrons uncorking wines, whistling, stomping and generally having a blast.

Beginning with the overture to the opera The Abduction From the Seraglio, Dudamel – conducting sans score the entire evening – was ebullient and unstoppable, the jauntiness of Mozart permeating the balmy air. But this was a mere prelude to the genius of Shaham, who first played the Bowl two decades ago. At 40, the fiddler is at the top of his game, his 1699 Stradivarius sounding sweet, luxurious and thrilling, his love of music oozing through every ferocious bowing, double stop and pizzicato.

What does it take to make a Strad?

And not for nothing is this concerto dubbed the Turkish, its slithery arpeggios and zingy lines creating a positively electric buzz. And talk about flying fingers (pesky aircraft overhead were another story): Shaham reveled in Joseph Joachim’s lush cadenzas, his body gyrating with the melodious tones as if on fire. The Turkish element didn’t stop there, either, as Shaham assayed the traditional number, Nihavend Longa, ratcheting up the crowd’s devotion as he romped through the raucous number, his pal The Dude, equally astonishing with his awesome, well, armwork.

The icing on this Mozartean cake continued after intermission with Symphony No. 41, the Jupiter, its four movements a thrill ride from beginning to end. What more can The Leaf say, save that she adores the Jupiter, its first movement bristling with martial rhythms, countermelodies and full-orchestral outbursts creating a feast for the ears. And don’t even get her started on the achingly lyrical Andante, or the lightness of the Minuet. Bringing it all back home in the final Molto allegro movement, Mozart, with his deft harmonic colorings, has painted one of music’s most indelible portraits.

Fragments from Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony

And for those folks who weren’t privy to being at the Bowl that night, not to worry: Classical KUSC will be broadcasting select concerts, this one included, on successive Saturdays at 2 p.m., beginning August 6 with Dudamel and Lang Lang. (To read The Leaf’s latest on superstar pianist Lang Lang, click here.) In addition, your faithful scribe will be talking to many of the musicians performing at the Bowl this season, so put the Champagne on ice and let ‘er rip. After all, it’s not summer in Los Angeles without enjoying a night of music and dining at the fabled Hollywood Bowl.

 

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