Ranting Details

Out To Go Back. (BLOG SUPERSTAR SIGHTING!)

(I've found them! Blurry but they're there. Kristi, Isaac and Blog Superstar Adrienne pose for my camera in the audience.)

It has been almost three weeks since I began my couch tenure and my outings have been few and far between. Over the past week, peppered in with the occasional deli trips, I have journeyed to the Skirball Center of Performing Arts twice. Every time when I walk by this theater I am reminded immediately of my time in Studio Company but never was the rush so overwhelming as last night when I went to see the current Studio Company perform.

Even though I had vowed to myself to abstain from seeing any dance to spare my emotional state, I knew that I wanted to show some support for this group of young dancers as well as my friend Adam Hougland who had a piece on the bill. Little did I know how much of an excursion this would end up being. By the time I had arrived outside of the theater, I couldn’t quite turn my head without seeing someone I knew which therefore led to the inevitable conversation of what the heck has been wrong with me. I should have pre-recorded something or just worn a t-shirt with the explanation on it because never have I been so bored when talking about myself. Seeing everyone from work, and there were many people, was a welcome blip on the monotony that has become my life recently even if it was a little exhausting. It put a smile on my face nonetheless. Before I made my way into the theater I turned my head and saw an old friend from Montana, Maureya and her mother Beth. This was by far the highlight of my past few weeks and a major comfort to have a little piece of home to talk away the intermissions with.

After mingling a little bit with some friends, I promptly took my seat and was overcome with a flood of memories. It was a little over three years ago that I had been standing behind the same curtain with my friends, awaiting the inevitable judgment on our looming future. Nothing in the world seemed quite as pressing as our first New York performance and we danced with all the fierceness of the world’s top dancers…or so we thought. Studio Company was such a special time in my life and I remember exactly what it felt like to be performing under that much pressure. A few people in the audience asked me if I missed it and I quickly said that I wouldn’t wish that pressure on anyone.

In hindsight, it all just seems so humorous. Stressing about making the presses in “Continuo,” frantically waving the “water” sheet on the side of the stage during “The Sorcerers Apprentice,” eagerly awaiting word from John Meehan about how we had done. Ah, innocence. The theater, which we performed in shortly after it opened, is probably a little more broken in now but I am sure the pressures are all the same. Sitting in the audience last night I was proud to see everyone perform so well before I crept my way back to my apartment.

Oh, Amy.

When I was in Europe a few months ago there were three singers that everyone was talking about: Lily Allen, MIKA and Amy Winehouse.  I had picked up the CD's of the first two on my own and seen the face of Winehouse slouched over on her CD cover whenever I went to the racks.  It wasn't until my friend Matthew informed me that her CD was the must have of the bunch that I finally picked it up.  Standing outside nursing our drinks he said to me "She's a notorious drunk but she has an incredible voice and this hilarious song where she says she won't go to rehab."  In true fashion, the minute he put it in my brain I heard it everywhere. 

On the flight home I saw reviews for her album popping up in American magazines and after a few listens of her CD figured it wouldn’t' be long before she blew up here.  She had her American TV debut the about a month ago on Letterman, singing said "Rehab" song and looking the most coherent I have seen her in any live performance; she even manages to smile at one point.  All of the clips I had previously seen contain her grudgingly going through the motions with a strange disconnect in her eyes and a slightly drunken swagger to her stance.  The first clip below goes completely past drunken swagger into hilarious (and sad) drunkenness on the formerly pristine Charlotte Church's British talk show.   Next to Church's rehearsed "step, touch, step, touch" routine, Winehouse screams out the lyrics and stands somewhat like a zombie until her moments come up when she suddenly pushes the lyrics out.    The second clip is much more together and I really like how she changes up the bridge.  Over the past few nights I have been unable to sleep and this song keep running through my head at three in the morning, so I warn you to proceed with caution because it is one of the catchier songs you've heard in a while. 

Wasted Amy (This gets especially painful around the 1:55 mark.  Her hair is toppling over, I wonder if she has a tequila bottle stored in there.)

Slightly Less Wasted Amy

Reviewing The State of Things.

Disclaimer: Over the past few weeks I have become increasingly frustrated with my inability to produce clear thoughts due to my illness. My brain is in this constant state of cloudiness and clarity seems utterly unattainable. Forgive any confusion that this rant produces because things just aren't adding up upstairs recently!

Amidst the emails in my inbox this morning were three things all pertaining to the same article. If fifty percent of my inbox was dedicated to the same thing, I knew it must be viewed immediately so in my half-conscious state, I rubbed my eyes and opened them to find links to a review in the NY Times.

New York City Ballet started its spring season a few nights ago and therefore we are bound to see various reviews sprouting up over the next few weeks. If all of the reviews are written with the care of this, I will be more than happy to read them. More than any reviews I have read recently, this is not purely a description of the events that occurred on stage. Alastair Macaulay delves into some of the more interesting questions surrounding the state of the arts in the world we live in without ever losing the fluidity of his review.

"When people who have come to Balanchine choreography in the last 20 years ask me what makes me miss New York City Ballet in his lifetime (though I caught only the tail end of that golden age), I find myself saying that the company’s dancing in those days blazed with a kind of energy that was positively disturbing: it shook you by the shoulders as if to say, “This matters.” “The Four Temperaments” is one of many Balanchine ballets so extraordinary in their architecture and its conception that many new dance-goers must surely feel that they still matter now; I can only say it mattered more."

I can't help but read this and wonder if this isn't just the unfortunate change that has occurred in all of classical ballet over the past few decades. The steps people have taken in choreography and performance more often than not accentuate pyrotechnics over artistry, not that I am in any way suggesting this was what City Ballet did. I, myself, have never been able to jump exceedingly high or turn with the force of a tornado so it is easy for me to dismiss this progression, which I often see as a regression. Maybe if I could do 10 pirouettes, I would feel differently but I like to believe that I would still have faith in the simplicity of movement and nuances rather than flashiness. Sometimes I think the audience comes to expect something like this and the importance and power of movement can be lost if it isn't "wowing" them by sheer force.

When Macaulay describes "The Four Temperaments," which was performed at the evening he reviewed, he says "Nothing here is more crucial than the basic transfer of weight. Starting with the weight on both legs, the dancer extends one leg into the air, then starts to transfer the body weight with the advancing foot well before it has reached the ground. (Here Balanchine caught something both jazzy and American, while offending the European sense of propriety.) The sense is of stepping out over a brink." It is no secret that Balanchine was a genius of stylistic movement and I really love the way in which Macaulay explains it here. There was so much thought behind it where as these days choreographers often have superfluous movement meant to dazzle in its ambition and speed just as a dancer who winds up for fifteen turns but can't connect to the next step.

My recent trips to the theater have further reiterated the idea that people don't believe that this "matters" anymore. More than just the way that the dancing on stage is handled, there is a responsibility for the audience to support new ventures with the idea that ballet does "matter" again. Broadway theaters have started allowing popcorn and other refreshments as if you are sitting on the bleachers at a ball game. How has this happened? Let's just keep our fingers crossed that you won't start hearing people smacking on Milk Duds at "Manon."

#17

I have always had a hard time analyzing poetry but over the past few hours I have been looking through a book of Lawrence Ferlinghetti poetry that my mom sent me and some of it is really beautiful. His work is rather accessible and I think even people who aren't inclined to like poetry might find some of these enjoyable. Unfortunately Blogger won't let me format this correctly which is frustrating, but I will post it anyway.

#17

Do dreams rescue your ego
as an ocean saves a sinking ship?
Things you cannot deal with
in waking life
like an iceberg off the bow
are transformed in dreams
to something you
can throw a lifeline to
or recognize as some pale idol
of a familiar monster
whom you have already
learned to deal with
like some old friend or lover
still coming around
for free kisses
or other doubtful blisses

So that you wake with some elation
and instead of the torments of
the great hereunder
you hear again the ego's
erotic thunder

And await the lightening's
next illumination

Envy and Awe.

Sometimes I wish I could turn into someone else, even if just for a moment. Or just coexist in their brain with them, like a roommate who keeps to himself. The ability to transport myself into their mind and feel how it creates and processes things would be an incredible experience but is indeed impossible. Then again, a moment wouldn’t be nearly enough to accomplish this task.

Whenever I see a piece of art that I like, this is how I feel afterwards. Most recently this was the case after I finished watching “Talk To Her,” a film by Pedro Almodovar. I go into his movies with such exceedingly high expectations and ten minutes in I realize how deserved the raves are. All American filmmakers seem to pale in comparison. Watching a movie with subtitles has been a bit easier over the past week because it forces me to focus, unlike so many of the other movies I watch. Ten minutes into an American movie, I will find myself distracted by the discoloration of the wall behind my TV or the wilting of the flowers a friend brought me. If the words are on the screen, my eyes have something to focus on and I tend to absorb more. His films are recently new to me and people usually gasp as if they are being swallowed in a sea of greatness when you even mention "Talk To Her." My favorite film of his is still "All About My Mother," but I found much to admire in this film.

One of the things I have always struggled with is the pretentiousness associated with foreign films. (Not really a life struggle, there are far more important things after all.) At times it feels very elitist to enjoy them and being a fan of Almodovar is almost clichéd as being a fan of the Yankees. Call me clichéd, but I love both. Yet as I sit and watch his movies I am just amazed at the power that the stories have. There in an inherit romanticism to foreign films that can cloud judgment but Almodovar makes accessible and engaging movies almost without fail.

To have that universal power must feel incredible surging through you. Is he aware of his brilliance? Creativity is a juice you can’t taste but you can envy its power. If only I could feel what it is like to create cinematic poetry, or anything artistically as engaging as his films.

The Pile Begins. Pt. 1

(Just the beginning....)

Some of my earliest memories are sitting in my parent’s bed in California watching classic movie musicals. “West Side Story,” “Kiss Me Kate,” “On The Town,” you name it and if it was out on VHS it was in my head. Ann Margaret would tap dance her way into my heart at an early age but it seemed musical classics were a stronger part of my cinema vocabulary than regular classics.

Over the past few years, I always return home for about a month of the year and promise myself I will finally get around to watching all of the movies I’ve been eager to for years. Friends or laziness quickly take over and nothing gets accomplished in my movie education. Isn’t it amazing how laborious watching a movie can feel at times? The past few weeks have made me aware of what a giant blob time is. EBV looks likely to overtake a 12th of my year, so I figured now was as good a time as any to devour some classic (and not so classic cinema.)

People have always raved to me about Netflix, and from their devoted descriptions it has always sounded more like a cult than a friendly video service. Little did I know, it’s both! David came over after my diagnosis and helped me join the addiction, I mean service, and start setting up my queue. What began as a handful of movies rapidly multiplied to a list longer than the number of times Gonzales said “I can’t recall” in the recent Senate hearings. Unlike the Senate Judiciary Committee, my mess looks a lot more fun than theirs. How did it all begin?

In an effort to blog about something, I will try to keep this brief (note to everyone, this ends up being anything but brief) as I know it might not be that entertaining.

THE CLASSICS:
One of the toughest parts about classics is the pop culture familiarity that comes with them. Most any movie buff you turn to will tell you “The Godfather” series is the best ever made as they gasp for air when recalling it. Once someone has almost gone into a coma just explaining something, it’s hard not to go in with exceptionally high expectations. So many films have become fodder for jokes that you feel like you have seen them before you put them in your DVD player. Regardless of that, I decided to finally journey to the known unknown.

“The Godfather Part 2”- I think my parents will finally accept me as their own son now that I have watched this movie. For years they have tried to sit me down with them to watch it but “Pocahontas” always seemed more accessible. Even though it took me a while to get through this epic, it was truly great and one of the best crime films ever made. The performances of Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro are incredible, at a time before they were giant cartoons of themselves.

“The Graduate”- This has always been one of my favorite classics even though it is comically dated. As the shots zoom in and out with Simon and Garfunkel echoing in the background, you are taken back to the 60’s (I should know, I was there.) Dustin Hoffman is hilarious in this and even though the cinematography is dated, I love it from the first shot to the last; even at 7am when I couldn’t sleep.

“Breakfast at Tiffany’s”- Perhaps you have to grow up with Audrey Hepburn to really love her but something about this movie left me a little cold. I was constantly distracted by how skinny she was and the Mikey Rooney’s politically incorrect character was a little strange. That being said, the fashion was great and she really is quite the movie star. I think I would prefer Capote’s version.

“West Side Story”- After a month of doing “Romeo and Juliet” I was anxious to look at this again. A few of my friends came over and we watched the dance sequences and proceeded to get chills. The rhythms that Jerome Robbins creates with his movement are beyond definition. From the opening scene to the dance at the gym, to “Cool” it is all just perfect in every way. Will there ever be Broadway choreography like this again? Highly improbable.

“Pulp Fiction”- There are several movies that I own but still hadn’t watched and this was at the top of that list. Quentin Tarentino’s movies are sometimes overly stylized for my taste but this one has a truly incredible script. One of my biggest pet peeves in art is ending something the way it began, but there is no denying the power of this movie by coming full circle. All of the actors were great and even in the horrific events I found myself shocked and laughing in equal measure.

CURRENT CRAP:

The more movies I’ve watched, the more aware I am of how much money is wasted on stupendously bad filmmaking. I am every bit as guilty of supporting these terrible movies as the next person, but often by the end of the movie I feel tricked into watching it. An enticing movie star can lure you in before you realize your brain has been chewed by a dog for the last hour and a half. Case in point….

“Just Like Heaven”- The danger of having movie channels is best summed up by movies like this one starring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo. Her allure hasn’t ever taken a hold of me and I still find it somewhat laughable that she won an Oscar (then again, so did Halle Berry.) I can almost imagine the pitch meeting for this disaster. “Reese needs a new movie to follow up her turn as June Carter! Well, we’ve already done ghosts and pottery, we’ve already done ghosts getting busted, and we’ve already done ghosts haunting people. Maybe we can spice it up by just putting her in a coma and letting her spirit fall in love with someone she didn’t even know in real life! It will keep the costume budget for Reese rather low and let people realize how pretty she is even half dead!” Please return the hour and a half you stole from me in a sealed envelope.

“The Holiday”- Even more than Reese Witherspoon, Cameron Diaz makes me more prone to chiseling out my eyeballs than almost any other actress. Wait, maybe that is the wrong idea, I think I’d rather never hear her than never see her. Although in this overly long romantic comedy her “physical” comedy might make the no eyeball thing useful. The only redeeming factors are Kate Winslet and the increasingly handsome Jude Law. Between the eyes and the accent, I could sit and watch him pick his nose as long as he said “hello.”


(It is not hard to be considered a "physical" comedian when you are standing next to Jude Law.)
To be continued...

Curves.

(My goddess Nicole pops her head up in the back on the current Skirball playbills.)





Last night I removed myself from my cocoon to journey a few blocks to the Skirball Center of Performing Arts. Jackie was kind enough to come over to my apartment after her hectic day at work and we both basked in our fatigue, albeit for entirely different reasons. Walking from my front door and through Washington Square Park was a welcome excursion although my grogginess was at an all time high yesterday. My brain is still having a hard time dealing with the guilt of these small excursions even though I am well aware of their necessity. Little did I know how hard it would be to get through the performance of Lar Lubovitch Dance Company.

Now before anyone takes that statement the wrong way, the performance itself was very enjoyable and had some truly breathtaking dancing. It was the fact that I was watching dance as if suddenly paralyzed and unable to partake that was difficult. After two weeks (wow that is depressing to type) on the couch, seeing such free movement was a little hard to swallow and made me more anxious than ever to return to the studio. For the next couple of weeks I think it will be best if I stick to Broadway and other forms of entertainment for my own sanity.

Throughout the past year, I have had the pleasure of working with Lar on both “Meadow” and “Othello.” He has such a distinct fluidity to his movement that I find hard to master but once you get it in your system it feels very freeing to dance. By balancing release and control (sometimes difficult for ballet dancers) he has created a style that is distinctly his own.

On top of my excitement over seeing the actual work, I had a handful of friends dancing in the evening so I was happy to go and show my support. There also happened to be several Easter eggs hidden in the audience as I ran into old friends and co-workers. Explaining that fact that I was at a show, but still missing work, wasn’t exactly my favorite task but I try not to get too wrapped up in worrying about the perceptions of other people.

The lights came down for the first piece “Love’s Stories” and the opening movement reminded me a lot of “Meadow,” which ABT performed in the fall. Using recorded music of standards performed by Kurt Elling was not my preferred choice of music from the evening. I still find it difficult to watch classical dance choreographed to music with lyrics for some reason. A sort of literalness comes into the work when lyrics are in the picture that I find hard to digest. Even if the choreographer doesn’t intend for the connections to always happen, as an audience we are trained to piece together the words and the images. Lar’s corps work all has the rollicking, rolling, qualities of waves and he has an uncanny ability to create stunning imagery with his partnering. This first piece was no exception, and while the concept a series of different duets was familiar to me, the final movement with the corps displayed Lar at his best.

The ending of this piece was just a hint of what was coming in the final piece of the program, “Dvorak Serenade,” which was my favorite of the night. A corps of dancers framed the lead couple of Drew Jacoby and Scott Rink to tremendous effect. Jacoby, in all of her muscular glory, instantly put Melissa Hayden’s voice in my head. Melissa loved tall women (“You’re an AMAZON,” she would scream at them) and Jacoby had the musculature of a Greek statue. However, for me, it was the corps that stole this piece. There was such precision in their movement, which alternated between allegro and adagio, and their patterns were almost flawless. During the piece there was an incredible quartet that appeared at various moments and I couldn’t take my eyes away from Charlie Hodges. While the rest of the dancers lilted around the stage towards the end of the piece, Hodges energy seemed indefatigable. His legs cut the air with the swiftness of a bird’s wings from the beginning to the end. What I loved so much about the piece as a whole was the continuity contained within each section and from movement to movement. It mirrored the curvature and fluidity of Lar’s style perfectly.

Sandwiched between those pieces was a fun trio titled “Little Rhapsodies” for Sean Stewart, Rasta Thomas and Jay Franke. Of all of the work I have seen of Lar’s this was the most different and it was danced very well. At moments it seemed to have a tongue in cheek approach (incorporating some character dancing) and you could tell that the three men were having a great time with it. Pedja Muzijevic, playing the score by Schumann, executed the music beautifully.

One of the most disappointing sights of the evening was the relatively slight audience. People need to start supporting the dance world more religiously or it will die and tonight was evidence of that. The Skirball is not an extremely large theater and the program was well worth the price of admission yet the weather tempted people to stay outside. I can’t say that I blame them for falling in to that temptation. Sifting my way through the crowds on the street while I walked home, I felt a bit like a Hamster who has tasted freedom but dutifully goes back to its cage. Patience, I keep telling myself, it is a test of patience. Seeing the throngs of students out to enjoy the spring evening made resuming my throne in my couch kingdom all the more difficult. Patience.

Dueling Personalities.

The darkness is still overwhelming, so how can it be that I am actually awake. My mind immediately turns to the right of my bed where the bottle of pills lays that is supposed to ward off such unwelcome moments. After being diagnosed with Epstein Barr virus, in all its vagaries, on Thursday I have tried my hand at sleeping pills with limited effect. My body seems to react like a child whose parents wish to pacify it for travel, with more energy than ever. I am used to exerting myself for many hours of the day so it doesn’t surprise me that sleep is an elusive goal at the moment. Part of me enjoys being up for so much of the day, or even waking at five am to see the sun welcoming spring, but my body needs to be programmed what to do with such time.

Slouched in my chair across from the doctor, wrapped up like it was the dead of winter, I didn’t know how to react once I had heard the words pass his lips. In the moments between spilling out his lips and catching them in my ears I had hopped perhaps what I would hear would be along the lines of “Lollipops! That’s what you need, lollipops and you’re cured!” Even I knew that was impossible. Now that I have been diagnosed I feel a sense of relief with periodic waves of frustration and depression. This is turning into some forced vacation and that is the only way I can look at it. It is not often that I get the chance to sit at home reading and watching movies so I should figure out how to make the best of it.

Rearranging my brain has always been a difficult task for me and this is the most trying experience yet. Phones ring or emails chime, alerting me to the outside world and the events I am missing at work and with my friends. The only way I can make it through this is to concoct new plans for myself that include my new best friends, the TV and the computer. Each morning I have decided to wake up and read the news and then do research on a subject that I have interest in. This morning it was World War 2, which will probably take more than one morning to grasp.

Samurai warriors named guilt and acceptance battle in my head, in an endless series of fights with varying outcomes. Part of my recovery is that I need to get outside of the apartment and breathe fresh air and do an activity to keep my body moving. Yet as I walk to the park sit down, and devour my book I am overcome with a sense of guilt like a prisoner who sneaks out of his cell to study in the library. Tricks of the mind are something I am going to have to deal with, but at least I have a wonderful book helping distract me.

Over the past year, the most memorable books I have read were biographies. This was a new genre for me and after reading de Kooning and Will In The World I have now switched back to fiction with The Wind Up Bird Chronicle. Every kind of book has its merits but this feels a bit like switching from steak to ice cream as I wonder how worthwhile fiction is. Any doubts that I have are quickly quieted as soon as I open the pages of Murakami’s phenomenal story. My friend Michael once asked me how anybody choreographs a ballet. For a singer versed in the world of notes, it was hard to understand how movement can be looked at the same way. I feel just as naïve when it comes to a masterful work of fiction like this book. Progressing through the book I am astounded at the twists and turns that it takes and wonder how much intense storyboarding had to happen before he wrote a single word. Sentence after sentence, there is so much beauty in his similes (truly incredible) and the concise way he tells his stories. The best authors tend to get me looking at my world in a different way and the detail with which he creates his Japan blows me away. It is never enough to be sitting in a restaurant and asking the reader to accept that fact. Murakami takes the restaurant and, without ever feeling too wordy, details everything down to the way the bubbles are sitting in the glass. On my bench in the park yesterday I tried thinking of how Murakami would describe the trees and the frisbees but was at a loss for words. Just like viewing the most masterful choreographers, sometimes the magic is unattainable. That never takes away from the fact that it is immensely enjoyable.

Back to the couch now…

Imprint. (Rough 1st Idea)

Why do my lips peel?
Is it the body’s attempt
at erasing the kisses of the past?
An outward portrayal
of a mending heart?
These aren’t the same sweet lips
You kissed.
I’ve peeled away your presence.
My heart beats the same,
But it’s as different as each passing day.
You linger there
Like an accidental fingerprint cooked in clay
Whose maker vanished.

In the mirror, I’m
desperately peeling away
an adhesive I can’t easily
get rid of.
Layer by layer until my lips
Are new again.
No trace of you;
A sunken footprint covered in fresh snow.
But I know better.

More Feisty Love.

I often day dream that I am a filmmaker.  Something about it seems so raw and emotional when I know that it is anything but.  After viewing endless hours of film this week on the couch I am even more in awe of the filmmakers whose work holds up.  On a smaller scale sometimes it seems even more difficult to make an impression.  Lately there have been a stream of music videos that are bringing back the days of movie musical choreography in all its quirkiness.  Feist has done this not only with the video I posted last week but with this video for her single "My Moon, My Man."  I think it is even better than the video for "1,2,3,4" and while it owes a lot to OK Go's treadmill video for inspiration....I love every minute of it.  Why can't something like this take over VH1 instead of the crap that is streaming all the time?!