wordweaverlynn: (Stoppard)
A week ago I attended the first night of the revival of Tom Stoppard's Arcadia at the American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco. As of today, I'm still under the spell of the play: laughing at its jokes, pondering its philosophy, and occasionally overwhelmed by the profound grief that underlies the wit. The play is about gardening, math, sex, love, loss, weekend guests, and a turtle, and it is hilarious and thought-provoking in equal measure.

Arcadia, set in an English country house, moves back and forth in time between the Regency and the present day. The play poses and possibly solves several mysteries about the events of the past. What happened in 1809 that led to the disappearance of the poet Ezra Chater? Who was the mysterious hermit who took up residence in 1812 and lived many years in the grounds?

The nineteenth-century residents include the teenage Thomasina Coverly and her brother Augustus, her tutor Septimus (a friend of Byron's), and her mother, as well as Chater. (Neither Byron nor Mrs. Chater ever appear, but they are important characters nevertheless.)

In the present day, descendants of the Coverly family still live at Sidley Park: another teenage girl and her brother, a scientist, as well as a second brother who speaks only once in the play. This time their houseguests are a historian named Hannah who is researching the hermit, and Bernard who is trying to prove that Lord Byron was a guest in 1809 and killed Chater in a duel.

The present-day scholars are trying to decipher those events with, as it turns out, incomplete data, an inability to see the importance of what they do have, academic arrogance, and a great many theories in the way of the truth. Which is also true of the audience, at least of the audience members unfamiliar with the script. Stoppard inveigles the audience to misjudge the importance of almost every character; essentially, we see the play the way the modern-day characters see the past.

Stoppard is not generally considered an emotional playwright, but beneath the intellectual banter and the offhand adulteries runs a profound vein of love, sorrow, hope, and loss. Ironically, the repeatedly demonstrated point that we can never really know the past offers hope. So does the recurrence of lost ideas. And the house, Sidley Park, preserves the apparently meaningless artifacts that testify to the facts of the past; that continuity is essential to the play's action but also to its meaning. Individuals die; cultures and houses continue.

The production seems good. The basic set—a garden room with a table—serves for both eras. I was too ablaze with the play itself to pay much attention to nuances of performance. The American Conservatory Theater is housed in the spectacular Curran Theater, which is elegantly decorated but whose seats are sized for elves. (Seriously. Airplane seats offer more legroom.) It's worth going anyway. Go see this play. It runs through June 9. Then come back to talk to me about it.



Quotations


“THOMASINA: ....the enemy who burned the great library of Alexandria without so much as a fine for all that is overdue. Oh, Septimus! -- can you bear it? All the lost plays of the Athenians! Two hundred at least by Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides -- thousands of poems -- Aristotle's own library!....How can we sleep for grief?

SEPTIMUS: By counting our stock. Seven plays from Aeschylus, seven from Sophocles, nineteen from Euripides, my lady! You should no more grieve for the rest than for a buckle lost from your first shoe, or for your lesson book which will be lost when you are old. We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it. The missing plays of Sophocles will turn up piece by piece, or be written again in another language. Ancient cures for diseases will reveal themselves once more. Mathematical discoveries glimpsed and lost to view will have their time again. You do not suppose, my lady, that if all of Archimedes had been hiding in the great library of Alexandria, we would be at a loss for a corkscrew?”
― Tom Stoppard, Arcadia
wordweaverlynn: from http://www.fanpop.com/spots/shakespeare-in-love/links/883128 (Will)
Last night I saw Kevin Spacey in an incredibly powerful version of Shakespeare's Richard III. At the Curran Theatre in San Francisco until October 29; there were some people trying to sell tickets, so you might get lucky.

Richard III is a tough role for a number of reasons. For much of the play, he is written as a much nastier Snidely Whiplash, an over-the-top evil clown. That sort of portrayal can be fun for an actor (Kenneth Branagh was clearly having a ball playing the mad scientist/mechanical spider in Wild Wild West), but it can be limiting as well -- especially since the actor must shift into the tormented, desperate Richard III of the final act. Moreover, Richard carries this long, demanding play, and in many portrayals he has to do so while bent and limping as a hunchback, Despite contortions, hunchback, cane, and a steel leg brace, Kevin Spacey showed extraordinary grace and athleticism in the role.

And he was funny! OK, not all the way through; this was not Richard Dreyfus miserably lurching across the stage in a pink satin cape, as in The Goodbye Girl. But some lines I'd always read and heard as serious -- the scene where Richard attempts to seduce Anne in the presence of her father-in-law's corpse (and he's already killed her husband and father) -- were given a wry humor. It wasn't a perverse reading, it did fit the lines, and it gave some needed lightness to a play otherwise full of horrors and shocking, sudden deaths.

Richard III as written passes the Bechdel test; the three queens and Dowager Duchess of York have conversations about grief and loss and politics. Gemma Jones plays Margaret of Anjou, widow of Henry VI, as a tiger's heart wrapped in a woman's hide -- as she was described in Henry VI, Part Three. Now in old age, everyone she once loved dead, she curses Richard and the Yorkists with eloquent fury and a tinge of madness. Haydn Gwynne as Queen Elizabeth displays grace, dignity, and courage even under pressure. (Not, alas, as the fabled blonde she actually was.)

Most of the cast are excellent. I was not especially impressed with the actor who played Richmond (AKA Henry VII), but Chuk Iwuji, the Black actor who played Buckingham, was especially powerful.

And some of the violence really is shocking, even to blase modern audiences. I'm not giving anything away, but be prepared. This is a disturbing play.

The set was simple: a few chairs, a table or two, moved on and off as required; a scrim; a series of doors on both sides and the back of the stage, below battered white-painted brickwork. In this case minimal was powerful. The lighting design may be the best I've ever seen: generally unobtrusive, but occasionally brilliant white lights cast pitiless, sometimes gigantic shadows to emphasize certain individuals in certain scenes. For music, there were drums, sometimes offstage, sometimes played onstage, and some eerie keyboards. Very, very effective.

The first act comprised the first three acts of the play; at about 120 minutes, it really ran too long, especially since there are a number of scenes where Richard doesn't appear. I'd been warned by a review and limited my fluid intake beforehand, so I wasn't writhing and thinking of my bladder and could focus on the play. After a 15-minute interval, we got down to the nitty-gritty of the final two acts. You know the line: A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!

The final image of the play isn't in the text, but dear God, was it effective. Nobody will ever end the play so strikingly again. In the Valhalla Coffee House, where dead writers forgather, Shakespeare is buying rounds for everybody.

If you see this, it may help to brush up your Shakespeare -- though that's not essential. I know a fair bit about the history, but the play compelled me to the point where I didn't care about the divagations from history and plausibility. Another person who attended told me that she knows nothing about the period, but the play held together for her, too.

Another thing I should note, which I also felt when I saw Hamlet at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival: the writing is astonishingly good. There are reasons Shakespeare has lasted 400 years, despite drastic changes in our language and culture. Insight, compassion, complexity, wit -- yes, he had all those. And he wrote speeches an actor can say with ease -- a tougher proposition than you may think -- that are also richly, memorably expressed. So many of the lines are beautiful, and this isn't even a particularly poetic play.

This outing was a birthday gift from the generous and imaginative [personal profile] wild_irises, who accompanied me, along with [profile] abostick59. The Curran is a beautiful theatre, and our pre-play supper at Max's on the Square was delicious. (Best Reuben sandwich I've had on this coast.) A wonderful, memorable evening.

Another friend reviews the same production, mentioning details I didn't touch.
wordweaverlynn: (reader)
I have finished Wolf Hall, Hilary Mantel's extraordinary novel of Thomas Cromwell, Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, and Thomas More. The tough, pragmatic Cromwell draws fire from those who admire the sainted More, since Cromwell served on the committee that questioned and ultimately condemned More. Those who admire Anne Boleyn also loathe him, blaming him for her fall and execution (although he also helped engineer her marriage). This book presents him, not as a saint, but as a skillful organizer, a tireless worker, an intelligent and shrewd businessman who knows how to get things done, and as a kind, loving father and mentor.

The book was wonderful; even when I wasn't reading it, I was thinking about it or even dreaming about it. The marriages, divorces, and religious dilemmas of Henry VIII were more than a private matter even then, and they became a turning-point of history -- one with philosophical, economic, and religious echoes now as basic freedoms are eroding, governments resort to torture and imprisonment without charges, the middle class is endangered, the Catholic Church faces sex abuse scandals, the Anglican Church faces schism over the rights of women and gays. But the book's appeal is far more than that, even more than its sure, simple, vigorous language. It asks what makes a good father, and by extension a good monarch, a good government, a good church, a good society. Without getting forsoothly all over the page, or pausing for encyclopedia dumps about the sixteenth century, it brings the time's assumptions, beauty, and horrors alive on the page.

So what do I read now? I need either a superbly written Tudor history or biography to delve deeper into the period, or something incredibly well-written about something completely different. Fiction or nonfiction. What do you suggest?
wordweaverlynn: (cinema)
Sheer delight. Don't bother reading the review. Just go see it. Then buy the DVD to pick up all the little in-jokes.

OK, you want more details?

George Clooney voices Mr. Fox, a suave and sneaky chicken-stealer who attempts to go straight. (He becomes a journalist -- dunno how straight that actually is.) Meryl Streep is his wife, who plays the usual female role of trying to tame the bad boy for the sake of the cub. (No, the movie doesn't pass the Bechdel test.) At least Felicity Fox has a talent -- she's a stormy-landscape painter, and I would hang any of her pictures on my wall. Their cub is small and poorly coordinated, especially when compared with his karate-black-belt cousin, and he desperately wants to earn his father's approval.

They go up against Boggis, Bunce, and Bean, a trio of grotesque local farmers. It's a classic battle of animal cunning versus superior firepower.

Core story by Roald Dahl, adapted and directed by Wes Anderson, production design by Nelson Lowry, who deserves an Oscar for the gorgeous look of the thing. The soundtrack was witty and effective, with original music by Alexandre Desplat and songs from The Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys.
wordweaverlynn: (silence)
Sixty-two years ago, on January 27, 1945, Russian troops entered Auschwitz-Birkenau. This year, I commemorated the liberation of the surviving Jewish prisoners by attending S. Bear Bergman’s one-person show, “Monday Night in Westerbork.”

Westerbork was a transit camp where the Nazis gathered Jews, homosexuals, dissidents, and other undesirables; every Tuesday that week’s chosen victims boarded a train for the death camps. For a few years, it was also the site of the finest cabaret in Europe—a sparkling Scheherezade of a cabaret where Jewish actors and performers sang, danced, and joked to keep death away for one more night, one more week.

Now, as Bear ruefully notes, the Holocaust is a downer—not the world’s easiest choice for an evening’s entertainment. Holocaust stories can become syrupy paeans to inhumanly perfect martyrs, shallow mockeries (like Hogan’s Heroes), or bleak and painful sources of nightmares. (At least the last option is truthful.)

Bergman avoids these pitfalls by balancing the tragedy with humor. The storytelling is all the more poignant for being restrained and salted with wry humor. The humor, as much as the tragedy, reinforces the humanity of those who went to their deaths in cattle cars more than sixty years ago. The hilarity—and “Monday night in Westerbork” is astonishingly funny—never trivializes the sufferings of the 11 million who were murdered by the Nazis.

Bear (AKA [livejournal.com profile] bearsir) moves easily between the character of Max Ehrlich, one of the founders of the cabaret, and the present, where zie comments on growing up as a queer Jew, listening to stories of the Holocaust from those who had survived it, and on incidents that occurred on zir research trip to Europe. By weaving in the need for queer acceptance, Bergman has limited the market for the work, but made it infinitely more powerful for those willing to listen. Moreover, by speaking up for the queer and transgendered community, Bergman is doing the work of the righteous in reminding everyone of the humanity of those society pushes away, condemns, ignores, despises.

“Monday Night in Westerbork” is an astonishing play and an astonishing performance. It has heart, it has humor, it has genuine power—and it is ultimately an affirmation of life and joy. Go see it. Take your teenagers, and then talk to them about what it means to be different.
wordweaverlynn: (Frisco)
Quite a weekend!

So, PPO. Wow. I knew about half the performers and a lot of the audience, too, which made me feel warm and loved and connected. In addition to [livejournal.com profile] gramina and [livejournal.com profile] alanbostick, I saw [livejournal.com profile] whipartist, [livejournal.com profile] aranyamei, [livejournal.com profile] genderfur, [livejournal.com profile] blackpearl10, and several non-LJ people. Oh, and someone came up to me, since we both know [livejournal.com profile] noelfigart online. That also made me happy, as did the very attractive person who spotted my cross-stitch and showed me the lovely Owl and the Pussycat embroidery zie had been working on.

For the review, see [livejournal.com profile] mslorelei's LJ. Yes, I'm going to be paying more attention to that neglected LJ. But don't worry--I'll warn you when I post there. You wouldn't want to miss a drop.


And that was just Saturday night. )

And next weekend is going to be good, too, since I have tickets for the Saturday performance of [livejournal.com profile] bearsir's Monday Night in Westerbork at Theater Rhinoceros (2926 16th Street at South Van Ness in San Francisco).

(Theater Rhinoceros makes me think: All cats die. Socrates is dead. Therefore, Socrates is a cat. Or a theater. Or even Ionesco.)

[livejournal.com profile] bearsir is doing the show Friday night, 1/26, as well. Also various readings. Check the tour schedule. You do not want to miss seeing [livejournal.com profile] bearsir, who is an astonishingly powerful writer and performer.

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