Ranting Details

"La Vie En Rose."

Last night I had three "firsts." It was my first time seeing a movie at the legendary Paris Theater. It was my first time being exposed to Edith Piaf (other than the poster in my house.) And it was the first time I saw a movie with Barbara Cook.

Okay, okay, I didn't exactly sit next to the legendary singer but merely caught her eye as she walked down the aisle to take her seat shortly before show time. It shouldn't surprise me that such legends go to such a classy theater but I think I was probably the only person under the age of forty that recognized her. Then again, David and I were probably the only people under forty seeing the remarkable new film "La Vie En Rose."

Before I was born, my father was in a Broadway show titled "Piaf" that ran on Broadway in 1981. Since I can remember, the poster for that play has hung in various spots throughout our different houses and it currently resides on the wall of our staircase. Other than the doe-eyed gaze and blocky red letters that adorn the poster, I haven't ever heard my father talk much about the play itself or the French singer who dons the name Edith Piaf. Watching this movie last night I was suddenly eager to talk to my dad about her life, plagued with erratic behavior, morphine addiction, heavy drinking and above all incredible talent. What is so astounding about the film is how all encompassing it is. Nothing seems to skim the surface of her heartbreaking life; instead it delves deep into her past (the movie begins in 1918 when she is a young child) and follows her to her last breath on her deathbed at the untimely age of 46.

Many people have explained Edith Piaf to me as "the French Judy Garland" and after watching last night I can see the obvious similarities. I can't imagine a movie this detailed being made about Garland, probably because of the American audience's familiarity with her life. Anyone performing the role of Garland has too obvious an image to match. While many people have immense knowledge of Piaf, Americans are less likely to know all the details, or in my case none of the details. Maybe if I knew or had seen the actual singer perform in her lifetime I wouldn't have been so astounded by Marion Cotillard's performance. It is without a doubt one of the best performances I have ever seen on screen.

Cotillard plays Piaf from the 20's-60's and completely reinvents herself with every new decade. We watch Edith grow from a street singer to a cabaret singer and finally to a superstar artiste but not without incredible hardships and heartbreak. There are the physical transformations that Cotillard pulls off with incredible results but more importantly the emotional transformations. Piaf, as a singer, was completely transformed by the stage and she sacrificed everything to feed that hunger. Towards the end of the film, a nearly crippled Piaf is shut off from the world and looks as if she will never perform again. She hears a song that has the lyrics "No, no regrets" and exclaims that it is her life the composer has written. The music will sweep you away (all is the original Piaf recordings) but even more so Cotillard will break your heart. Her performance redefines the term "tour de force."

There is not enough praise for the brilliant performance of the title character but other aspects of the movie seemed a bit strange to me. Towards the beginning it jumps around time periods for no particular reason and some of the moments that would have more of an emotional impact are hindered by this strange choice. It seems fitting that a dramatic life would appear too melodramatic on screen and there are moments where that is the case. However, these are minor complaints for a movie that is not to be missed. Her performance has to be seen to be believed.

It has been a week of foreign movies for me with "La Vie En Rose” preceded by "The Lives of Others," which I am rather late coming to. "La Vie" made me miss the romantic streets of Paris but "The Lives of Others" didn't exactly make me want to run to Germany. Now I'm off to see my third "foreign" movie of the week, "Ratatouille," although I doubt that Pixar is going to do subtitles.

RANDOM FIND of the Day. 6/28/07. She’s So Happy To Be Free.

For those of you who live under a rock, Paris Hilton has runway walked herself out of jail.  Don't worry, I'm not going to devote any time to the issue.  Instead I wanted to post this video of Mika Brzezinski's hilarious on air annoyance with the required coverage of this non-news issue.  Of course people talking on-air about NOT covering it is just about as much attention as actually covering it, but it's funny nonetheless.

Between the look on her face as she eagerly tries to get the lighter going to no avail, the way she demands the prompter be pushed ahead, and the shredder, it's all pretty entertaining.  That is, all of it excpet the annoying men who keep interuppting her loveliness and mocking her on the side.  Although I did enjoy the sarcastic "Oh look at her, she's so shyyyy" comment from the second gentleman.

Rant Me Up.

They don't whip up crazy in Montana like they do in New York. Oh, wait. The Unabomber lived about two hours away from me in Montana so perhaps I should rephrase that statement...

Boy, they make some crazies in New York! Over the past week I've been bombarded with an array of interesting people parading around the streets. No, I'm not talking about Gay Pride when I had to squeeze my way through a bunch of shirtless boys with rainbow lei's on to get to brunch. These encounters have been sprinkled in my everyday life. Perhaps it's the heat melting people's brains or just the difficulty of living in the city. I've noticed said difficulty more over the past two and a half months than ever. Being (usually) young and full of energy, I took my ease of life for granted before I got sick. Suddenly mundane tasks like climbing subway stairs or going to the deli can seem laborious to me. I can only imagine being truly disabled or elderly (which none of the following stories were…I’m not THAT mean) in the city. Ah, I'm sure my day will come.

Needless to say, over the past few months whenever I do emerge from my den of rancid sickness (aka apartment) I am especially numb to the innocent bystanders around me. As the temperature readout on the morning weather goes up, so does my annoyance with getting around, prompting me to stay fairly localized to my neighborhood. But oh what a wealth of New York-iness I have seen in these few blocks.

In all honesty, my first sighting was on my way out of acupuncture many subway stops away from my home. After having about 74 needles poked in me at various dolphins, I mean meridians, I was a bit trepidatious about my trip home. You can imagine my astonishment when I turned a corner and saw a man stumbling towards a window with his penis fully exposed. He wasn't naked, just balls to the wind peeping out like a Wal-Mart Discount Happy Face in a world full of full priced items. I must remind you that this was a full twenty four hours AFTER gay pride parade where I'm sure many a penis were exposed in fuller view of children down in the Village. Shielding my eyes from the sight I caught a glance of something shiny sticking out of my ankle. Oops, just a few left over acupuncture needles. I promptly removed them and wondered if sights such as the Penis Parade were a sort of parting gift when you walked out of the doors of West Side Physical Therapy. Somehow I don't think it’s the gift bag they had in mind.

In my distracted state I flailed my arm out and caught a cab to take me back to the pristine cleanliness and sanity of downtown. Put a “Bed Bath and Beyond” in anywhere (as the did on 66th Street) and it will never be the same.

A mere 24 hours later I took a giant step out of the gutter and went to the gym for the first time in 2.5 months. Granted it was about as easy of a gym experience as you can get (15 minutes on the elliptical and some stretching) I relished the chance to be back in gay man-ville, I mean civilization. Of course I had to pick the absolute hottest day on the planet to journey there. By the time I arrived I had lost twenty pounds of water weight and looked like a prune-y Olsen twin. It wasn’t until I left the gym that I encountered crazy number 2 and 3.

Lucky number 2 wasn’t anything to write home about, just a drugged out bump in the road on my way home. He seemed to be enjoying himself but was definitely on something as his eyelids were mostly closed and he resembled a wet towel more than a human being. The rays of the sun had gotten to me too and by the time I reached the movie theater in Union Square on my way home I was ACTUALLY contemplating seeing “Shrek 3” just to have a pit stop. I get so desperate for air conditioning in the summer that I usually spend most of my breaks at the Met shopping in Victoria’s Secret (seriously the best AC in the city) for bras that I certainly won’t ever be using.

Something about the windows in this city are distracting people because as I paced back and forth in the lobby weighing the pros and cons of forking over two hours to Mike Meyers, I noticed something stopping outside. With the delicacy of viewing a rare butterfly, this man was staring into the window in front of me but gazing through me. He was staring at himself, admiring his homemade scarf headdress perhaps, and launched into a monologue. Due to the stealthy glass I was unable to hear the words coming from his mouth but I like to pretend he was doing Lady Macbeth’s mad scene. Why not?

(The craziest crazy of them all.)

The next, and final, encounter (so far) was the icing on the (cup)cake. After a meal with David at Jane’s Tavern it was decided that Magnolia was in order. The smell of this bakery is intoxicating and feels almost as if you have just waded into a house-size cupcake. It will also make you sick but if the line isn’t long enough you can grab your piece of heaven and escape with enough appetite to enjoy it. Usually milk is the expected side with a cupcake, but last night we got something totally different. Now, it’s not so much the fact that we were sitting right behind a tranny in the park that was crazy, more what was being said. Talking to what seemed like a revolving door of bench warming admirers, she had decided that it was time to talk about “illiterate hustlers” and “fitting” different things in different orifices. Of course we were only eavesdropping, so couldn't get the full New York lessons. It was "Reading Rainbow," the John Waters edition. Hmmm….Magnolia Bakery.

Unlike “Bed Bath and Beyond,” these experiences are very New York and don’t ruin a neighborhood at all. What am I talking about, I totally shop at “BBB.” I cherish these moments with my friends…and the people I don’t know at all that I just spent forever blogging about. Gotta love New York.

(Don't you like looking at my half eaten cupcake? Life is so interesting right now.)

Twins?

Following the line of Grant as Zoltar, I give you....

(Photo by Arron Scott.)

Perhaps?

Ferri’s Farewell.

If there is any event to push through sickness for, it’s Alessandra Ferri’s retirement from the New York stage. During my days at NCSA I remember countless evenings watching the video of her fearless and passionate balcony pas de deux from “Romeo and Juliet” in my dorm room with friends. We would marvel at her feet and arched lines but even on video something more came through. Since joining the company, her presence has been less frequent but never diminished, in fact it seemed to grow stronger year to year. To me she was always the most untouchable principal and an almost other worldly presence. Perhaps her celebrity status was what kept me away, but more so than that it was the complete awe that everyone had for her as an artist. She could, and did all the way to her last lingering reach for Romeo, do more with the small details than any other ballerina I’ve seen.

Last night was an event not to be missed so even thought I knew it would be a push health wise I journeyed uptown to assume my spot in the wings. The theater was packed to capacity with well wishers and devoted fans who welcomed the legendary ballerina with the prolonged applause that only a farewell performance evokes (although Freddie Franklin’s entrance applause as the Friar rivaled it.) After saying hello to my friends, I tried to find the best place that I could park myself and remain quiet. “Romeo” is one of the most difficult ballet’s to watch from backstage because of the enormous set that blocks many of the wings but I managed to compact myself enough to fit in the front wing in a position that tested the limits of how much the stage managers would put up with (I wasn’t the only one.)

(One of many blurry shots that I took. This one only begins to show the enormity of the Met audience from the stage.)

My one complaint with the evening was that guest artist Roberto Bolle just wasn’t good enough looking to fulfill the duties required of “Romeo.” Please note the IMMENSE SARCASM in the past sentence….check out the pictures and you will understand just how false the statement is. Ferri had mentioned in an article that she wished to introduce the New York audience to someone new as they bid farewell to her. I was very surprised by how much I enjoyed the pairing. He towered over her (at about 6’ 4”), lifted her with the ease of picking up a t-shirt (the most precious one in the world) and every moment between the two felt incredibly sincere. The balcony pas was everything you could hope for and I’ll miss having the chance to watch her do this from the wings.

After three acts of performing under the immense pressure the curtain fell on her illustrious career with ABT, however it would raise many more times within the next twenty minutes. In typical farewell fashion, the audience leapt to their feet and beckoned her out endlessly. The ranks of ABT, past and present, cascaded onto the stage and tears were shed as everyone cherished the chance to stand on stage with her one last time.



(One of Ferri's adorable daughters who acted as flower collecter and confetti thrower.)

The Storm Before the Storm.

I arrived at the Met last night shortly before curtain but that still gave me enough time to check in with my row. Since last year it has dwindled to three lonely boys who are lucky enough to spread out their things over six sprawling spaces. They presented their typically serious attitudes for the camera.

(Jared prepares for Benvolio but stops long enough to gaze into the lens.)

(Blaine rocks the newest trend for boys in the city: Tights with boots and a crop top sweatshirt. Sexy.)

(Daniel cuts right to the chase. Who's there to see Ferri? This is the main attraction.)

(More insanity than I've seen in a long time. Montana certainly didn't have anything rivaling this amount of energy.)

(And Montana certainly didn't have the sexiness that is Kristi Boone in her whore, I mean Harlot, getup.)

Ohad Me, Please.

(Disclaimer: I'm having major foggy sick brain today so forgive the following post.)


Last night I made my return to the New York dance scene….although only as a member of the audience. Since I heard about it in April, I have been waiting to journey to 26th and 10th to see Cedar Lake and enjoy their Ohad Naharin program, “Decadance.” While I was in Montana I heard from several friends that it exceeded expectations and part of my decision to come back to the city when I did was based on the necessity of seeing this.

Why is it that whenever you have time to spare, your cab seems to teleport you to your location while any time you need to get somewhere promptly the cab moves at geriatric speed? Last night I arrived at the theater over 40 minutes early and since there seemed to be nothing around except for closed art galleries, I just killed some time sitting on a stoop waiting for David. It was a good amount of time to process my jealousy that Cedar Lake had gotten to work so closely with Naharin. By the time David had arrived, my excitement was palpable and I was ready to be wowed.

It’s been about a year since I saw “Telophaza,” Naharin’s life changing explosion of dance at the Lincoln Center Festival. It was the first full-length work I had ever seen of his and I knew that it would be hard to surpass. “Decadance” didn’t change my memory of that incredible evening but it came pretty damn close to equaling it.

In my past few years of dancing (and viewing) in the city, I’ve never consistently enjoyed a choreographer as much as Naharin. His movement doesn’t follow the same sunken hip, hyper-kinetic pattern so many choreographers are intent to reproduce these days. Instead it uses dance as the most important form of self-expression that can push the audience to points of elation that otherwise seem impossible. At moments the dancers seem otherworldly only to seem utterly human the next moment.

Emerging from the back of the stage came about 14 floating torsos and I knew I was in heaven. Dancers clad in white biketards that made them look as if they were legless mannequins hovering in the air presented the first of many stunning visuals of the evening. They stood staring at the audience in almost uncomfortable silence that kept us guessing when things would begin. Suddenly with a unison chant, the music started and the movement quickly followed. All of Naharin’s pieces are so perfectly structured but I was interested to see how “Decadance” would compare as it’s more of a “greatest hits” collection than a fully new work. Fortunately it’s not presented piece by piece but instead flows as if they were all created together.

(The view from my pre-show jealousy stoop.)

Following the floating torsos came my favorite two sections of the entire evening which consisted of a duet (featuring schoolmate Jason Kittelberger) and five men doing some of the most difficult (stamina wise and technically) dancing I have seen in a long time. Both the duet and the men’s piece contained some gasp inducing partnering that found the dancers flipping themselves to the floor and landing in positions I’ve only imagined. This piece perfectly exhibited everything that I love about Ohad; the fact that it can have extreme moments of stillness (passing the bucket of paint from one man to another or the gentle rocking of Jason's hands in the duet) followed by unparalleled energy. The men ran all over the stage, jumping and partnering each other with abandon to one of my favorite musical choices of the night.

The eclecticism both in music choice (which ranges from classical to techno) and movement quality astounds me. In the middle of the men’s section, just when you think you are getting a grasp on things a feather boa clad woman comes strutting across on stilts only to disappear moments later. She’s a blip on the radar (who will later return) but enough to turn the whole piece on its head. It was a moment that highlighted Naharin’s unique sense of humor and his embrace of not taking dance too seriously. After years of working in classical ballet corps, which stresses unity down to the last hair strand, it was quite different watching the dancers perform “Decadance.” Within the moments of unity there is a constant difference between the way the dancers move that emphasizes the individuality of every person’s unique style; you can really see Naharin’s Gaga technique in use.

If I had the patience I would detail every moment of this stellar evening but I can only recommend that if you are in the New York City area you go to Cedar Lake’s Website and pick up a ticket. From the production aspects to the dancers to the incredible choreographer, it’s an evening that’s not to be missed. Congrats to all of the dancers for performing this piece so beautifully night after night! I have NO IDEA how their bodies make it through.

"Carrie Bradshaw’s perfidious boyfriend."

(Photo taken from NY Times.)







While I was scanning the New York Times today I came across a familiar face, Mikhail Baryshnikov. It seems that this man is everywhere: in the dance studio, on your TV, in art galleries and now in the newspaper. One of the many things that amaze me about this incredible artist is the extreme longevity of his career. He broke onto the scene and was immediately successful in the United States and to this day is still one of the most recognized names in all of dance. Ask any male dancer who his top influences are and Baryshnikov is sure to be near (if not AT) the top of the list. Some of my friends that don't know a thing about ballet even know who he is (blame "Sex and the City.")

For me, even more than his extraordinary initial career I find myself wanting to emulate what he has done afterwards. He has transitioned more into the modern dance world, champion’s young choreographers (one of my favorite pieces at Fall For Dance was AsZure Dance, whom he works with in the article) and seems to constantly be broadening his horizons. The world of ballet is notoriously stereotyped as uneducated and shallow, yet he defies all of that. Most dancers (rightfully) fear what they will do once their dance career is over but Baryshnikov seems to have done it with ease.

I find my peers frequently comparing the careers of people now to Baryshnikov and wondering if anyone will ever have the type of impact that he had and still has. Will anyone ever bring the audience to ballet that he was able to? Of course, comparing anyone’s career to someone as legendary as him is an impossible task; no one will ever be him.

Warning….

Just so nobody has a panic attack (there's nothing more important in the world than blogging, right?!) I'm planning on taking a few days off from blogonating. After three weeks in Montana I have returned to the city and humidity and therefore panic attacks. All of this added together has prompted me to take a few days off from blogging to get life back in order and run around to various witch doctors to help speed my healing process. There are some exciting events coming up this weekend so I'll post by Monday at the latest. Hope everyone is doing well!

Don’t Call Me During the Tony’s.

As everyone knows (wait, maybe not everyone had a Bernadette Peters shrine in their room at 5 years old) "Spring Awakening" swept the Tony's last Sunday night in all of its angsty Broadway glory.  I had mixed feelings about the show both times I saw it but enjoyed the great cast and music.  Regardless of my feelings for it, I was happy to see something completely original winning the Tony this year.  Since I'm going to be flying across the country today, I thought instead of documenting my travels ("here's Matt eating crappy food," "here's Matt on the moving walkway") I'd share a few Tony videos.  Below is "Spring Awakening" performing a montage of some songs complete with camera work at the end that's like a bird crashing into a windshield....repeatedly.   

Last, but not least, is a hilarious red carpet video with Triumph the Insult Dog.  Not much I can say about this one but between the "Gaydar" and his comment to Angela Lansbury, I was laughing pretty hard.