I went to the Theatre Garage with a surprisingly heavy heart, owing partly to how tired I was and partly to revisting the neighborhood of a star-crossed romance I had with a certain long-haired theatrical type (you know, one of those) who lived across the street. So a blood drenched show about intrigue, betrayal and evil women sounded like just the thing to pick up my spirits.
If the Guthrie is distinguished by its grandeur, and Pro Rata by being so provocative and raw, then the production company behind this show, Torch Theater, differentiate themselves by their dedication to accessibility in all forms. The obvious reflection of this is making every show accessible to blind and deaf patrons, but there's also such an apparent effort to shoo away the snooty veneer of... the thee-a-tah... and bring audiences into closer contact with the performance. When I called to make ticket reservations I was surprised to find that Lady Macbeth herself (Stacia Rice, Miss Jane Eyre herself for all you Charlotte Brontë junkies out there) recorded their daily automated message, but she is in fact a founder of that theater,
and her decidedly un-diva-like involvement in the daily operation of the theater really demonstrates their mission to fight snootiness and exclusion in all its forms. Plus I imagine her sexy voice is part of the reason people come to see her strut and fret her hour upon the stage.
And Stacia is great as Lady Macbeth, in a very Detroit minimalist techno sort of presentation with a stylish yet versatile black set and fabulous costumes. After Jane Eyre I had wanted to see Stacia in something different that maybe gave her a little more room to come out and play, so it was a treat to see her in a very focused, very modern show like After a Hundred Years last spring. Macbeth splits the difference between elegant period piece and stylish modern psychological drama represented by those two shows, but the immediacy of that tiny theater and the minimalist made this an actors show, it was really fun to see Stacia and Sean Haberle's presentation of the ruthless couple.
In the past, I've never really followed that transtition from level-headed schemer to raving lunatic in Lady Macbeth and the descent from noble soldier to paranoid preacher in Macbeth, either reading it or in Roman Polanski's film. (Out of Joint's west african production at the old Guthrie Lab had its own cohesive take on the story, but I've been told to stop annoying people by raving about that production.) In this production, Sean Haberle's Macbeth slips into almost rodent-like mannerisms whenever challenged make him a furious warrior pressed on by his gnawing insecurities, which makes it easier to believe his descent into tyranny. And Lady Macbeth's ineffectual attempt at an angelic intervention in Fife, helplessly watching the slaughter behind a white silk hood, bridges the gap between the childless woman who can talk casually about dashing her own baby's brains out to the gaunt, sleepwalking figure who aimlessly shuffles off the stage in Act V.
It's a good show, and I couldn't help but think as I was watching it I wish I could get more kids there. Back in our days at the Academy the Scottish Play was our first introduction to Shakespeare, and I wish I could slip a few kids into a show like this that's trying so hard to engage rather than to elevate. A theater that invites you to take your drinks back in with you and offers non-crinkly bags for you to put your noisier snacks in just seems made for people who are thirsty for a first taste of culture but maybe not aware of it. And it really has been great the last couple of nights I went to the theater to be in a crowd that was clearly having a fun night out, with much to discuss afterwards. So yeah, I'm sold on Torch and Pro Rata, at the Garage or the Gremlin or anywhere else, and I hope my vast readership gives Macbeth a chance. And really if your choice of Halloween entertainment is seeing Macbeth for $20-$30 or Saw V for $8.50, it's well-worth the extra money (and the snacks are more reasonably priced).
Friday, October 24, 2008
Sunday, October 19, 2008
The Lost Boys: a case against GPS
Don't get me wrong, it was nice to see Corey Feldman was able to tap back into his scowling, growling persona of Edgar Frog 20 years after last performing the role. Actually I suppose all he had to do was put on that stupid headband. It's also funny to see Corey Haim's cameo, where the meth-face makes him look about twice Feldman's age. But wow, what a shitty movie. I accept that trashy cinema is going to be derivative, but the foundations of this movie were laid pretty bare, trying to update Point Break... only with vampires this time.
Bad things come in threes, so I thought I'd wash down that piece of crap with two more bad movies: the listless Prom Night, and the vapid remake of Prom Night. I did recently see a movie about a sleazy maniac who kills people for no apparent reason and the closeted lesbian who fights back that took a very old formula and did it right, so it's possible High Tension just spoiled my appetite for crappy slasher movies. But there's still no excuse for either version of this film ever being released.
I thought a comparison of the remakes to the originals, separated by decades, would be at least amusing and worth a decent rant. But it wasn't... just boring, sadly. There's not even a decent joke about dubbing Nicholas Cage into Cantonese to be had here.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
"Wake up motherf***er, it's our ball!", or Vikings 12-10 Lions
Well that was certainly bizarre. Really, really bizarre. The Vikings beat the Lions in a game that at one point had most people around me thinking the Vikings might hold onto their 2-0 lead to win the game, unless a second half field goal by Detroit allowed them to squeak out with a 3-2 road win. When the Vikings entire scoring output consisted of Dan Orlovsky running a bootleg out the back of his own end zone (and still looking for an open receiver when he realized the Vikings pass rushers were already celebrating) I must admit I began to lose hope.
Both times the Vikings got a first down in field goal range after a big play, my dad sardonically suggested kicking a field goal then rather than trying to score a TD, and it was really sad that he was proved right when Adrian Peterson's fumble ended their first real scoring drive, and they later penalized themselves back out of field goal range (leading to a blocked kick). The Vikings only TD came when Bernard Berrian broke one open and didn't give the OC a chance to overthink things and choke. Facing 3rd and 20 in your opponent's half of the field, it's kind of clever to call in a running play to try and set up a field goal rather than go for a difficult first down. It's less clever when you telegraph it by putting in 2 tight ends and a fullback to block for him, and don't even send the receiver deep to pull off the safeties or anything.
I have no idea how the Vikings won this game committing so many offensive penalties and turnign the ball over three times, but somehow they did, partly because our defense was driving their skill position players into the ground like they were using them to build a fence. I would occasionally wonder why our d-backs could give a receiver so much room to catch a pass and get up to full speed in open space, until I'd see a linebacker and safety converge to high-low the guy and basically rip him in half. Somebody behind me set the tone for the game when a Calvin Johnson made a big catch, took two steps before disappearing into a purple Charybdis (thank you Oddysseus now go to Ithica) while Ben Leber picked up the live ball that came squirting out. As the trainers attended to limp, motionless heap that Ray Edwards and Ben Leber left on the field where Johnson had been standing, one of the drunks behind me shouted, "Wake up motherfucker, it's our ball!!"
Up next: Da Bearss, in that giant toilet bowl somebody left on Museum Campus Drive
Both times the Vikings got a first down in field goal range after a big play, my dad sardonically suggested kicking a field goal then rather than trying to score a TD, and it was really sad that he was proved right when Adrian Peterson's fumble ended their first real scoring drive, and they later penalized themselves back out of field goal range (leading to a blocked kick). The Vikings only TD came when Bernard Berrian broke one open and didn't give the OC a chance to overthink things and choke. Facing 3rd and 20 in your opponent's half of the field, it's kind of clever to call in a running play to try and set up a field goal rather than go for a difficult first down. It's less clever when you telegraph it by putting in 2 tight ends and a fullback to block for him, and don't even send the receiver deep to pull off the safeties or anything.
I have no idea how the Vikings won this game committing so many offensive penalties and turnign the ball over three times, but somehow they did, partly because our defense was driving their skill position players into the ground like they were using them to build a fence. I would occasionally wonder why our d-backs could give a receiver so much room to catch a pass and get up to full speed in open space, until I'd see a linebacker and safety converge to high-low the guy and basically rip him in half. Somebody behind me set the tone for the game when a Calvin Johnson made a big catch, took two steps before disappearing into a purple Charybdis (thank you Oddysseus now go to Ithica) while Ben Leber picked up the live ball that came squirting out. As the trainers attended to limp, motionless heap that Ray Edwards and Ben Leber left on the field where Johnson had been standing, one of the drunks behind me shouted, "Wake up motherfucker, it's our ball!!"
Up next: Da Bearss, in that giant toilet bowl somebody left on Museum Campus Drive
Killer Joe at the Gremlin
Not knowing recently if my Guthrie adventure was coming to an end or just turning a page (or more likely entering a long murky denouement) I had decided to start sampling more of the local theater scene to see what I was missing with my usual obsessive tendency to over focus, drawing the universal from the particular, rather than distilling it from the mass of experience like everyone else (that may make no sense to anyone but me, but hey it's not like anybody's reading this). On my first sample of one of our smaller theater companies, I got everything I asked for and rather more than I bargained for.
Really it's not my first taste of what the rest of the local scene was doing, since Theatre Latte Da had just done such a wonderful production at the Guthrie of Old Wicked Songs and I saw Penumbra's operatic production of Gem of the Ocean here on August Wilson's birthday. So on Thursday when I mentally flipped a coin to decide between Torch Theatre's production of MacBeth at the Garage and Theatre Pro Rata's production of Killer Joe at the Gremlin, I figured it should be interesting either way (and boy was it ever). Ultimately my decision came down to needing to eat first, and when I couldn't find a parking spot on 4th to run into Pizza Luce for a slice or to dash into Koy to ask Kirby how quick he could get me a bank roll and a cuppa green tea, I decided to go to the theater I knew was across the street from a Mickey D's and wouldn't be full enough for anyone to notice my post-Big Mac gas attack. The winner was Killer Joe at the Gremlin.
The Gremlin Theatre is in St. Paul on University near Raymond Ave, home of Key's where they always put onions in my motherf***ing omelette no matter what I order. Seriously, if they would just knock that off and quit telling me "Oh, those are just white tomatoes" I might pop in there again... I've seen it happen to other people too, so I don't know why their kitchen is so fixated on making sure everyone is getting their daily dose of sulfites. At least the guy throwing up in a garbage can six feet from my table was a one-time thing, even if it did last 20 minutes. But don't let his review fool you, if they'd bring back the regular waffles ($3.95 with a second one for $1.00) I would totally hop on the #16 bus and go back.
And now that I've cleared that up, the Gremlin shares its building (and its bathrooms) with the aikido school next door, which meant that when I arrived at this University Ave storefront with empty display windows and a door that just directed me down a creepy hallway to a back room draped with black curtains, I was expecting to find a naked FBI agent sliding around silk sheets and Laura Palmer talking backwards to a dancing dwarf... and where the hell was Annie anyways? Oh dear, I may have wandered off on another tangent. The rough look of the theater was in perfect keeping with the set, which was a garbage strewn trailer in some Texas hell-hole. It looked like a tornado had just hit the theater and deposited all this crap on stage. As I settled into my creaky, threadbare seat (nicked from the ruins of the Loading Dock Theater) I thought these were dire beginings to an evening at..."the Thee-a-tah!"
But I was wrong. Killer Joe is the story of Texas trailer trash who concoct a half-baked scheme to bump off their mother for the insurance and live like minimum-wage kings, and that horrible looking collection of trash was exactly how those people lived, with biting ants on the floor and the constant flicker of NASCAR in the living room. It was a really great show, full of characters I couldn't look away from, sometimes because I was desperate to know what would happen next, and sometimes because they were like a sore I couldn't stop scratching. If Quentin Tarantino nd Robert Rodriguez owned a theater, this is the show they would open with (well, either Killer Joe or Titus Andronicus) because never have I seen anything crammed with so much nudity and raw sexual violence that wasn't direct-to-video. Apparently the playwright Tracy Letts also penned August: Osage County which won him a Tony Award earlier this year, and I hear those aren't easy to come by.
I was looking for something I wouldn't see at the Guthrie, so I was certainly intrigued when the first actor to cross the stage came out completely bottomless. As she and her son-in-law bickered about the appropriateness of her exposed bush in graphic detail, I had to admit Pro Rata had certainly delivered. The honest, uncomfortable nature of that presentation, the imperfect, quivering exposed bodies that sent a tingle up my spine and and the brutal violence that twisted me in my seat was so raw that by intermission I was chatting up the lobby staff about my vast expertise as a theater volunteer and offering my services. And it was only partly because she was cute and had a genuine, guileless quality that said, "I'm groovy-relaxed enough to be delighted by my haiku shirt and to possibly give you a chance" that I was talking to her, and mostly because of the art on display. (And given all the pain, confusion, and growing sense of horror that everyone who dates me seems to experience, I'm going to leave it to the cute of the world to amuse themselves.)
Killer Joe runs at the Gremlin (2400 University Ave in St. Paul) until Oct 19 with tickets on a sliding scale ($14-28), and I encourage anyone looking for a visceral theater experience to give it a try, especially since October movies are so dire (and there's only so many times you can see An American Carol, Captain.
http://www.theatreprorata.org/
Box Office: 612.874.9321
Really it's not my first taste of what the rest of the local scene was doing, since Theatre Latte Da had just done such a wonderful production at the Guthrie of Old Wicked Songs and I saw Penumbra's operatic production of Gem of the Ocean here on August Wilson's birthday. So on Thursday when I mentally flipped a coin to decide between Torch Theatre's production of MacBeth at the Garage and Theatre Pro Rata's production of Killer Joe at the Gremlin, I figured it should be interesting either way (and boy was it ever). Ultimately my decision came down to needing to eat first, and when I couldn't find a parking spot on 4th to run into Pizza Luce for a slice or to dash into Koy to ask Kirby how quick he could get me a bank roll and a cuppa green tea, I decided to go to the theater I knew was across the street from a Mickey D's and wouldn't be full enough for anyone to notice my post-Big Mac gas attack. The winner was Killer Joe at the Gremlin.
The Gremlin Theatre is in St. Paul on University near Raymond Ave, home of Key's where they always put onions in my motherf***ing omelette no matter what I order. Seriously, if they would just knock that off and quit telling me "Oh, those are just white tomatoes" I might pop in there again... I've seen it happen to other people too, so I don't know why their kitchen is so fixated on making sure everyone is getting their daily dose of sulfites. At least the guy throwing up in a garbage can six feet from my table was a one-time thing, even if it did last 20 minutes. But don't let his review fool you, if they'd bring back the regular waffles ($3.95 with a second one for $1.00) I would totally hop on the #16 bus and go back.
And now that I've cleared that up, the Gremlin shares its building (and its bathrooms) with the aikido school next door, which meant that when I arrived at this University Ave storefront with empty display windows and a door that just directed me down a creepy hallway to a back room draped with black curtains, I was expecting to find a naked FBI agent sliding around silk sheets and Laura Palmer talking backwards to a dancing dwarf... and where the hell was Annie anyways? Oh dear, I may have wandered off on another tangent. The rough look of the theater was in perfect keeping with the set, which was a garbage strewn trailer in some Texas hell-hole. It looked like a tornado had just hit the theater and deposited all this crap on stage. As I settled into my creaky, threadbare seat (nicked from the ruins of the Loading Dock Theater) I thought these were dire beginings to an evening at...
But I was wrong. Killer Joe is the story of Texas trailer trash who concoct a half-baked scheme to bump off their mother for the insurance and live like minimum-wage kings, and that horrible looking collection of trash was exactly how those people lived, with biting ants on the floor and the constant flicker of NASCAR in the living room. It was a really great show, full of characters I couldn't look away from, sometimes because I was desperate to know what would happen next, and sometimes because they were like a sore I couldn't stop scratching. If Quentin Tarantino nd Robert Rodriguez owned a theater, this is the show they would open with (well, either Killer Joe or Titus Andronicus) because never have I seen anything crammed with so much nudity and raw sexual violence that wasn't direct-to-video. Apparently the playwright Tracy Letts also penned August: Osage County which won him a Tony Award earlier this year, and I hear those aren't easy to come by.
I was looking for something I wouldn't see at the Guthrie, so I was certainly intrigued when the first actor to cross the stage came out completely bottomless. As she and her son-in-law bickered about the appropriateness of her exposed bush in graphic detail, I had to admit Pro Rata had certainly delivered. The honest, uncomfortable nature of that presentation, the imperfect, quivering exposed bodies that sent a tingle up my spine and and the brutal violence that twisted me in my seat was so raw that by intermission I was chatting up the lobby staff about my vast expertise as a theater volunteer and offering my services. And it was only partly because she was cute and had a genuine, guileless quality that said, "I'm groovy-relaxed enough to be delighted by my haiku shirt and to possibly give you a chance" that I was talking to her, and mostly because of the art on display. (And given all the pain, confusion, and growing sense of horror that everyone who dates me seems to experience, I'm going to leave it to the cute of the world to amuse themselves.)
Killer Joe runs at the Gremlin (2400 University Ave in St. Paul) until Oct 19 with tickets on a sliding scale ($14-28), and I encourage anyone looking for a visceral theater experience to give it a try, especially since October movies are so dire (and there's only so many times you can see An American Carol, Captain.
http://www.theatreprorata.org/
Box Office: 612.874.9321
More On Vice Presidents (pun intentional?)
I havne't watched any of the Presidential debates this election season, mainly because I'm so bored with all of it. I feel like I made up my mind on Super Tuesday when I had to decide whether I was going to caucus for McCain or Obama, and I have yet to regret my decision. I did watch the Vice Presidential debate last week, because Sarah Palin's candidacy may have been questionable politically, but it did make for damned good television.
As I watched her face Joe Biden in the debate with all the questions swirling and most of America with one mind salivating for it to turn into a train wreck of one kind or another, there was just one recurring thought I couldn't keep out of my mind: Sarah Palin really didn't look so good in HD. I previously described her as the one part of Alaska's natural beauty that I'd like to drill, mostly for a chance to pull out that corny line (and because Jewel is too annoying) but the Maverick Mom did what most women do when they sense they're thought of as attractive: she pulled her hair back and slathered on make-up, covering over and buttoning down anything that made her look good.
Since her whole candidacy is based on being a Maverick Mom, the fact that she's ultimately an old-style corrupt politician who circumvents the rules to get her way, values her own lifestyle above anybody else's (like Nancy Pelosi, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Harry Reid, and the entire establishment she's bucking) doesn't make her much of a maverick. The rest of her claim is that she's raised a kid and that makes her a "real person", but most people don't shoot wolves from helicopters, and all the real people I know who had an opportunity to get an education also have a passport and used it before turning 40.
So now I'm back to being bored with all of it.
As I watched her face Joe Biden in the debate with all the questions swirling and most of America with one mind salivating for it to turn into a train wreck of one kind or another, there was just one recurring thought I couldn't keep out of my mind: Sarah Palin really didn't look so good in HD. I previously described her as the one part of Alaska's natural beauty that I'd like to drill, mostly for a chance to pull out that corny line (and because Jewel is too annoying) but the Maverick Mom did what most women do when they sense they're thought of as attractive: she pulled her hair back and slathered on make-up, covering over and buttoning down anything that made her look good.
Since her whole candidacy is based on being a Maverick Mom, the fact that she's ultimately an old-style corrupt politician who circumvents the rules to get her way, values her own lifestyle above anybody else's (like Nancy Pelosi, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, Harry Reid, and the entire establishment she's bucking) doesn't make her much of a maverick. The rest of her claim is that she's raised a kid and that makes her a "real person", but most people don't shoot wolves from helicopters, and all the real people I know who had an opportunity to get an education also have a passport and used it before turning 40.
So now I'm back to being bored with all of it.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Black Sox 1-0 Twins
At the end of a tight division race, the Twins needed to take two out of three at home against the Royals to clinch the division title over the floundering Sox. This would have put them in the play-offs when the team that usually knocks them out, the Yankees, are finally missing a series for the first time in over a decade. (Apparently Joe Torre wasn't the problem.) So of course... they lose the series to the Royals 2-1, and go into a play-off against Chicago. In a nasty tight pitcher's duel, Jim Thome caught one pitch left up by Nick Blackburn and scored the game's only run on a solo homer. The closest the Twins came to scoring was Michael Cuddyer testing Griffey's arm coming home from third on a shallow fly ball and then tackling A.J. Pierzynski at the plate. It took a perfect throw to beat Cuddyer to the plate, but it was fun to watch him try it, and even more fun to see him take out Pierzynski.
The '08 Twins took a long time to sort out fielding positions and give the kids a chance over the tired veterans Smith brought in last winter, and Gomez's inability to get on base combined with the disappearance of Cuddyer and Morneau's power really killed them, but they were still in it until game 163, and a pleasure to watch in the second half of this season. Unlike the Black Sox, who play ugly, look ugly, won ugly, and have an ugly-ass stadium.
The '08 Twins took a long time to sort out fielding positions and give the kids a chance over the tired veterans Smith brought in last winter, and Gomez's inability to get on base combined with the disappearance of Cuddyer and Morneau's power really killed them, but they were still in it until game 163, and a pleasure to watch in the second half of this season. Unlike the Black Sox, who play ugly, look ugly, won ugly, and have an ugly-ass stadium.
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