Events

Draupadi – Will My Spirit Live On?

mandy — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 08:00:00 +0000

On the heels of International Women’s Day, the Indo-American Arts Council in New York City hosted the North American premiere of a unique and thought-provoking Indian play called Draupadi – Will My Spirit Live On? Produced and conceptualized by Shivani Wazir Pasrich, and co-directed by Pasrich and Tina Johnson, Draupadi weaves a tale from the Hindu epic Mahabharata with an intense contemporary story of a woman battling her experience with sexual abuse. The play sheds light on the plight of many women suffering such abuse, connecting a mythological tale with a modern parallel, and delivers a mostly engaging experience.

The play extends the story of Draupadi (played by Pasrich), from her travails that were supposed to have triggered a great war, crossing centuries to meet Maaya (Charu Shankar) in modern day India. Draupadi is stuck between heaven and earth, pondering her fate and choices, and being guided by her confidant Lord Krishna. Maaya is a young housewife who is taken advantage of by her husband Arjun’s brother Kaurav, and is too afraid of societal taboos to fight for justice. Added into the mix is Krishna, who flits in and out of situations donning various avatars to help guide the two women in distress towards finding peace with their own respective scenarios.

One of the play’s greatest strengths is in its talented and accomplished cast. Pasrich as Draupadi exudes confidence and power in her quest for salvation and also helping Maaya out of her predicament. She does, however, remain angry throughout, thus affecting the depth of the character. Shankar plays Maaya with a dignified innocence and is quick to gain audience sympathy.

The most spirited performance comes from Dilip Shankar as Krishna, portraying a deity with an edge. He provides the comic relief in many tense scenes and dishes out ample doses of tough love that would come from any respected mentor, heavenly or human. Among the rest of the cast, Arjun Fauzdar as Maaya’s husband Arjun and Ashish Paliwal as Sukarna are both competent in their roles.

When asked about the genesis of the play, Pasrich explained, “It’s just essentially that, as women, we judge ourselves very harshly and we expect ourselves to perform so many different roles. And we do it happily with a smile. But at the end of the day we realize everybody’s going through the same kind of situation, our issues are similar, and there’s a great strength that you get out of that. So that was the reason to bring [Draupadi] into the current times because, if anyone’s had a difficult life, it’s Draupadi. So whoever today is having a tough time, it couldn’t be tougher than Draupadi’s life and if she moved on, so can everyone else.”

Draupadi – Will My Spirit Live On? is an important work of theatre for confronting through the arts an issue that plagues Indian society today. It is a show to be watched and lauded – such artistic confrontations of social plagues need only be encouraged.

Read the full review at The NRI

Written by: Pulkit Datta, April 19th 2011

Marie and Bruce (4/8/11)

brittany — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 20:00:00 +0000

Theatre Row

New York, New York

When I was a kid I used to stay out of sight when my parents fought, fearful that their vitriol would extend to me. But I always listened, eager to understand the conflict. So it is with Marie and Bruce, Wallace Shawn’s look at the most dysfunctional of dysfunctional relationships.

The play begins even before a word of dialogue is uttered. As the audience enters the theater, Marie (a furious and pained Marisa Tomei) and Bruce (a disaffected and cool Frank Whaley) are lying on a large, ill-made bed in center stage. He’s asleep. Marie, however, is awake and the audience sees her tossing and turning, blowing her nose, touching her forehead to check for fever, and getting up stretch and smoke. Her angst is visible as Bruce softly snores, apparently unbothered by his wife’s unease.

As morning dawns, Marie turns to the audience and confides that she is planning to leave her mate. Her ire is apparent in her language: Bruce is addressed as a “fucking pig,” a “goddamn worthless piece of shit,” and a “cocksucking turd.” We also learn that they’ve had a “a miserable summer.” Neither has a job—although as the play unfolds, money doesn’t seem to be a problem—and Marie has been afflicted with some sort of physical malaise that she likens to the flu.

As Marie rants about Bruce’s inadequacies, he seems unfazed and we soon realize that theirs is a waltz that is repeatedly danced. Like couples that bicker endlessly, Marie and Bruce are locked in a routine that is both senseless and compelling.

The three-scene, one-act play—it is one hour and forty minutes long—goes from the bedroom, to a nine-person dinner party rife with neurotic conversation, to a small café where the couple’s banter is clearly well honed. Both are verbally abusive. At one point, Bruce tells Marie that she “can be sort of a cunt” while she lambastes him as someone she neither respects nor loves.

It’s horrible to watch and must be far worse to live.

First performed in London’s The Royal Court Theatre in 1979, Marie and Bruce crossed the ocean a year later, arriving on U.S. shores in 1980 and garnering mixed reviews.

The New Group’s revival of the piece is beautifully acted. Furthermore, the staging, set design, lighting, and special effects are exceptional. That said, the play is depressing and audience members leave the theater thanking their lucky stars that they don’t have to contend with Marie and Bruce in real life.

What’s more, as a cautionary tale of love gone sour, Marie and Bruce makes for a harrowing, often cringe-worthy, evening. Worse, while the rancor expressed by each member of this lovelorn pair pulls at the viewer’s heartstrings, the play is ultimately an unsatisfying peak at a horrid relationship. One can only wonder why The New Group dusted the play off and brought it to Theatre Row.

Marie and Bruce runs through May 7, 2011 at Theatre Row.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, April 12th 2011

Spy Garbo (3/6/11)

brittany — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 08:00:00 +0000

3-LD Art and Technology Center

New York, New York

Sheila Schwartz’s Spy Garbo, an innovative multi-media production, takes place in history’s limbo, the eternal resting place of three prominent twentieth century political players. The first is Generalissimo Francisco Franco Bahamonde, played by Steven Rattazzi with a perfect mix of pomp, arrogance, and affability. The fascist leader of Spain from 1939 to 1975, Franco is displeased by his now-tarnished image and presents himself as the eternal victim, a peacemaker who did everything in his power to remain neutral during the war, a misunderstood genius who should be lionized rather than condemned.

His quest for adulation brings him into contact with two additional attention seekers. The first is Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, enacted by Steven Hauck with the stiff upper lip and rigid bearing often associated with the Third Reich. At one time, Canaris served as Hitler’s Military Intelligence Chief, but his ultimate betrayal of the Fuhrer led the Gestapo to execute him in 1945.

Franco’s second competitor is Harold Adrian Russell, aka Kim Philby—played by the excellent Chad Hoeppner with brash charm that slowly dissolves as he descends into alcoholism—another double agent who ultimately defected to the former Soviet Union where he penned the 1968 bestseller, My Secret War.

Hovering over the three is the never seen but frequently referenced Spy Garbo, a real-life Spanish double agent—identified post war as Juan Pujol Garcia—whose espionage served both Britain and Germany.

There’s much to recommend Spy Garbo, not the least being the 130-foot video screen that surrounds the audience. Throughout the production, archival footage weaves images of Hitler, Franco, and 1940’s film stars into a seamless background that is simultaneously eerie and intriguing.

“Film makes history immortal,” Franco muses as he turns toward the screen and it is clear that that he longs for the adoration that seems exclusive to movie icons. As Philby and Canaris join Franco’s lament, a horrifying truth is revealed: while most of us will recall the names of film legends decades after their passing, few will recall the spies or military strategists who orchestrate our theaters of war.

And that’s the problem with Spy Garbo. Although audiences without deep knowledge of World War II can certainly understand the overall thrust of the play, those lacking a thorough grasp of the period will miss the nuances of the production and will likely find the dialogue—sequential monologues by each actor—overly diffuse. Indeed, while it is fascinating to see the three men vie for a spot on history’s top ten list, the play would have been more successful had it framed the action with hard facts about the war.

A short narration at the beginning, for example, might have offered an overview, explaining a bit about the era. In addition, a narrator might also have linked the global conflict of sixty years ago to contemporary warfare, bridging the distance between then and now.

That said, Spy Garbo is a provocative look at the male ego and a well-directed, beautifully acted, and well-staged production. And, since the historical record is typically written by the victor, Spy Garbo underscores the subjectivity of truth, reminding us that who does the telling is as important as what we’re told about the when, where, and how of life’s ongoing dramas.

Spy Garbo will run through April 11, 2011 at 3-LD Art and Technology Center, 80 Greenwich Street, New York, NY. Tickets are $30 and can be ordered by calling the box office at 212.352.3101.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, March 20th 2011

Women’s Health: What We Know Now (1/31/2011)

mandy — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 10:00:00 +0000

92nd Street Y

New York, New York

Blueberry myths and spicy food hot flashes were but two of the multitude of topics covered at an informative lecture on Women’s Health at the 92nd Street Y. Aimed at the middle aged uptowner, Women’s Health: What We Know served as a forum for the educated health consumer to raise their concerns with health professionals not waiting on their next appointment. Both Dr. Susan Love and Dr. Alice Domar were patient and honest, even occasionally funny. Exactly the type of woman you'd hope to find on the other end of the stethoscope.

The need for such a lecture is slightly disheartening in that it is clear even those who care and have financial means cannot find a fair answer between their providers, the media, and other sources. Time and again the speakers went back to studies in the media and the need to maintain absolute critical vigilance in deciphering who paid for the study, who got the results into the paper, and why.

Going into this event I thought I would learn nothing. Utterly false in my assumption, I learned many new tidbits, which may or may not be true, but they all have some evidence behind them. These include:

Buying organic produce is worth it if you are buying fruits or vegetables you don’t peel (e.g., strawberries and tomatoes); otherwise, it’s not (e.g., banana).
Think of menopause as backwards puberty. It’s natural. It’s bizarre. It's uncomfortable. You will get through it.
Fitness and exercise do not necessarily go hand in hand. If you are under fifty, you need to be fit, which may or may not imply that you need to exercise. If you are over fifty though, you need to exercise regularly to remain fit no matter what.
Vitamins and supplements, on the whole, have not been shown to be effective. But New York City does have a vitamin rich sewage system.
The existence and insistence of girls obtaining the Human Papillomavirus Virus vaccine may exist thanks to the fact that HPV studies needed to be conducted on people not rats.
There are women who still believe hormone therapy is the answer to their hot flashes. IT'S NOT!
Even breast cancer advocates are sick of the pink ribbon craze. Donate to breast cancer research, not awareness raising.

But my absolute favorite tidbit was Dr. Domar’s three cardinal rules: don’t smoke, wear a seatbelt, and have safe sex. These apparently are the only things science knows for sure.

Written by: Nicole Levitz, March 10th 2011

Modern Day Asian Sex Slavery: The Musical (2/18/11)

brittany — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 08:00:00 +0000

California State University

Long Beach, California

Each year CSULB has Sex Positive Week, presented by various feminist and queer student groups. Mariko Passion, activist, artist, and out and proud sex worker, kicked off the week of festivities with her one-woman show, Modern Day Asian Sex Slavery: The Musical.

Passion is a champion of what she refers to as the Whore Revolution, a phrase coined by fellow activist Emi Koyama. According to Koyama, the Whore Revolution begins with the acknowledgment that not all sex work is voluntary or safe and it aspires to create a world in which they are. After getting to know Passion a bit and attending an event thrown by the Sex Workers Outreach Program in Los Angeles (SWOP-LA), it has been brought to my attention that there is an entire generation of young women who do not feel victimized by their work. There are literally thousands of women who are not ashamed of how they make their money. These are women who are passionate, empowered, intelligent, and fighting for the most basic of human rights. As Jessie Nicole, director or SWOP-LA told me at an event earlier this month, sex workers see their work as just that—work. The average person doesn’t have to worry about being beaten, raped, or robbed while at the office and sex workers don’t want to have to worry about these things either.

Passion began her one woman show explaining to the audience that she starts each session with a massage. Straddling a pink Hello Kitty body pillow, Passion described how she uses her small hands to rub and coax her client into a safe, submissive state. This quiet before the storm also assists her in preparing to be intimate. According to Passion, eighty-five percent of the time she is not sexually attracted to the men she services and her sensual, slow massage enables her to “establish a genuine connection” while getting in the mood.

Her show was off to a strong start but was interrupted by various technical glitches and a few awkward on-stage costume changes that resulted in the audience getting a glimpse of Passion’s goods. It was obvious that Passion, who is Chinese and Japanese, hoped to tell the story of the plight of the Asian sex worker and the many ridiculous sound bits and pop culture tidbits she’s been reduced to. As a matter of fact, one of the most compelling moments of Passion’s show was when it appeared as if she broke away from the script, cursing, saying how much the infamous scene from Full Metal Jacket fucked with her childhood, how often she heard, “Me so horny, me love you long time.” As a virginal child completely unaware of sex work, it proved a rude introduction to the stereotypes Asian women must deal with.

Using old news clips and radio broadcasts, music, slides, and songs, it was an admiral attempt to cover decade’s worth of racism and sexual politics stemming from the Vietnam War, but it simply seemed like Passion didn’t have enough time to tell the story that was in her heart. Though entertaining and containing flashes of genius (traipsing around stage using a pink dildo as a mic and singing a dirty version of “I Enjoy Being a Girl"), we’ll have to call this a precocious work in progress with a lot of potential.

Photo courtesy of Stefan Agregado, photographer and photo editor at The Daily 49er.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, February 28th 2011

Jonathan Safran Foer (01/19/2011)

brittany — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 20:00:00 +0000

London School of Economics

London, England

Jonathan Safran Foer spoke about the issues in his most recent book Eating Animals to a packed house at the London School of Economics. I haven’t read the book yet, or either one of his other two titles Everything Is Illuminated and Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, so I went bracing for a preachy rally full of vegetarian dogma.

For those of you who have read the book, you probably know that I had no reason to fear. I’m a vegetarian, but both vegetarian activists and passionate meat eaters alike bother me. I tire of vegetarian propagandists shoving violent pictures of animal cruelty in people’s faces in an attempt to convert the nonconvertible. Just the same, I grow weary of telling people I’m a vegetarian and fielding questions like “No meat? What the hell do you eat?!” “Why? It’s natural to eat meat, y’know” or my favorite, “Ok, but jamon you eat, right?”

Thankfully, there were no leaflets handed out for either cause. Rather, I was captivated by Safran Foer’s social and environmental observations gained from the three years of research he put into the project. Safran points out that at this point in society’s development, everyone can recognize that eating meat is an “issue”, something we care about. However, voices from both sides are overly judgmental.

Safran Foer says vegetarian activists have helped create this strict dichotomy between meat eaters and non-meat eaters so much so that people do not see the benefits of just cutting down on meat consumption. “They have created a framework in discussing this so that they feel there are only two options: you’re a vegetarian or you’re a carnivore. And, most people cannot condition themselves to become a vegetarian… I think most people can condition themselves to eat less meat.” According to Safran Foer, if Americans can attempt to not eat meat for just one meal every week, the influence on the environment would be the same as taking five million cars off the road.

Vegetarians are often teased that they have canine teeth because humans are meant to eat meat naturally. Perhaps that was true during times when food was simply putting calories in our bodies. But Safran Foer points out that the huge social discourse surrounding the meat industry and the great lengths they take to create an idealistic picture of factory farms plays a much larger part in what we eat than we realize. According to Safran Foer, the animals in factory farms in the U.S. consume eight times more antibiotics than humans. Safran Foer asks “Is it natural to eat these kinds of animals that are raised in these ways? What’s natural about eating an animal that cannot survive without antibiotics? What’s natural about eating food that most nutritionists biologist and doctors I’ve spoken with say is probably the reason why girls are going through puberty at ages nine and ten?”

The system in which meat is produced is so distanced from consumers that we aren’t conscious of the externalized costs to the environment. Safran Foer says fast food “is presented as the cheapest food that’s ever been produced, when in fact it’s the most expensive food that’s ever been produced.” Indeed, the cost rung up at the supermarket does not include the destruction done to the environment. Safran Foer says the Global South has paid a huge price for this. Africa, South America, as well as parts of Eastern Europe all export food that they grow themselves but don’t eat to American and European companies. Their natural environments are destroyed in the process. Safran Foer asks “For what? Only for burgers. Not to solve the healthcare problem. Not to create peace in the Middle East. It’s for cheap burgers that make us fat.” Safran Foer also found that ninety-nine percent of the world’s soy crop is fed to animals concluding that, “No one eats tofu like meat eaters.”

Safran Foer claims that Eating Animals exists to begin a discussion about how people eat meat. He was not trying to create a book to persuade readers to become vegetarians, which is why he approached it journalistically, relying on the industry’s statistics and using two fact checkers. Even if you’re a die hard carnivore who scoffs at anything coming from the Kingdom Plantae or if you’re a vegan who refuses to swat a malaria carrying mosquito or somewhere in between, you should read Safran Foer’s book, if for no other reason than to learn about the affect the foods you choose to eat have on the rest of the world.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

An mp3 recording of the event can be accessed here.

Written by: Sara Custer, February 9th 2011

Charles Bukowski: Poet on the Edge

mandy — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 09:00:00 +0000

Huntington Library

San Marino, California

The Huntington Library is a sprawling estate—part research library, museum, and botanical garden, all of which are tucked away in the uber-rich city of San Marino, CA. It's the kind of city that would have rejected ol’ Charles Bukowski—or Hank Chinaski, as he’s known in his many books and poems. So, this blindingly bright, beautiful library seemed an odd location for a retrospective of Bukowski’s work, but the two rooms that housed his life story were magic.

I try not to be ashamed to admit that Bukowski is my favorite writer. I discovered him around the age of thirteen, and while other geeky book-loving girls I knew were reading Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women or Emily Dickinson’s breathy, delicate prose, I was devouring every Bukowski book in the library.

I had no idea that poetry could be so biting, so drunkenly sincere, so sexual, or so human. I had no idea you could write poems that weren't about feelings and flowers, but about the city and skid row, about being down and out or working shit jobs while living paycheck-to-paycheck. As Bukowski put it, his genius stemmed from his interest in “whores, working men, and street-car drivers—lonely, beaten-down people.”

Even as a young girl, I considered myself to be a feminist, and it was difficult to explain how I could feel so strongly for a notorious womanizer, a man who valued women mostly based on how good their legs looked. In his defense, Bukowski was also working class, a voice for the disaffected, though that’s hardly a defense. What I know, however, is that love is complicated, and my love for Bukowski is as complicated as his deep (and brutal) love of women.

For me, the single best part of Charles Bukowski: Poet on the Edge exhibit was what you saw immediately upon entrance: the writer’s desk. I stood and stared at it for a good ten minutes. Technically, there was just an old beat up radio, a typewriter, an incredibly thick pair of glasses, a couple of pens, and a stained wine glass, but it felt like so much more than that. Bukowski is a hometown hero for Angelinos, our patron saint of the downtrodden, and to see his desk exactly as it was when he was hammering away was nothing short of amazing. There was a recording of Bukowski reading aloud playing in the distance that was sort of intermingling with a never-ending loop of the poet’s favorite classical music, and it was sort of like he’d never left us, like we were standing in the middle of his late-night living room.

I’m not sure how Bukowski would feel about a retrospective of his life and work appearing at such a snooty, manicured museum, but I’m happy his wife Linda Lee made it happen. Part one, entitled “What Matters Most is How Well you Walk Through the Fire,” detailed his childhood. Bukowski endured a particularly painful adolescence, mostly because of an extreme case of acne that left his face and chest covered in boils. It’s doubtful he knew that the last chapter of his life would end with the heading “Hollywood,” as many of his books have now been made into mainstream movies.

For fans well-versed in his story, the eight-part walkthrough provided little insight into his inner workings or his writing, but being able to see childhood photographs, edited drafts of poems with Bukowski’s scribbles in the margins, and incredibly rare chapbooks was a real treat. Despite his many shortcomings as a human being, I respect Bukowski as a writer. Even after his struggle had ended and he began receiving the acclaim that escaped him for nearly thirty years, Bukowski was still simple in his needs and desires. “All I need now is what I needed then,” he said. “A desk lamp, a typewriter, the bottle, the radio, classical music, and this room on fire.”

This exhibit will run until February 14, 2011.

Written by: Tina Vasquez, February 8th 2011

A World Apart (2/4/2011)

mandy — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 09:00:00 +0000

The Flea Theater

New York, New York

As Susan Mosakowski’s A World Apart opens, Mother Augustina, an abbess in a Cistercian monastery, is deeply engrossed in reading a religious text. Once interrupted, she explains that she is searching for answers to a host of troubling questions. Doubts about all kinds of things have begun to creep in, she says. Take the issue of heaven and hell. Common assumptions posit one above and the other below us. But why?

“Heaven and hell do not have that kind of geography,” the abbess (beautifully performed by Antoinette LaVecchia) tells a stunned Sister Cornelia (played with graceful torment by Amelia Workman). “Maybe heaven is right next to us, shoulder to shoulder, or in front of us, or behind, and that anyone who wanted to go to heaven could be there in a minute, if only they had the desire. It’s all about desire.”

Ah yes, desire. When Father Daniel Byrne (an intense Andy Paris) arrives at the convent to lecture the sisters, he and Sister Augustina trade smoldering glances. Not only that, his presentation further ignites the uncertainty that Sister Augustina has been grappling with. She finds one query particularly provocative: “Are we doing more for others by being inside our monastic world, or should we be outside and active, a part of everyday life, a part of every life that needs us?”

In short order Father Byrne confides that he has decided to leave the priesthood and—surprise—after a few brief encounters he asks Sister Augustina to remove her wimple and join him. He presents the option matter-of-factly, as if it’s a no-brainer for her to renounce her vows and leave the cloistered, celibate life she’s led for decades. Much to the priest’s annoyance, the request provokes crises of faith and commitment in Augustina, crises that spill into the lives of the nuns in her care. So what to do?

While A World Apart might have delved into the roots of the Sister Augustina’s angst more deeply—for example, it’s hard to imagine that her lust had been completely dormant before Father Byrne’s arrival or that it took decades for her to become curious about world events—the play raises issues that continue to nag at the Catholic Church. To its credit, A World Apart does not offer an oversimplified resolution of these concerns. Is there a place for monastic life in the twenty-first century? Does requiring celibacy make sense today? You decide.

Lee Savage’s spare set and Mark Barton and Ryan Seelig’s lighting design create a haunting environment for this eighty-minute play. It’s a serious work with ample humor, delving into what it means to be mindful and make conscious choices. Well acted and resonant, A World Apart addresses the human need for authenticity, love, and meaning. In the end, regardless of whether Sister Augustina’s religious order chooses to remain cloistered or opts to frolic in the muck of earthly delights, Father Byrne’s admonition rings true: “Sometimes you have to go outside to get more on the inside.” At the same time, what he doesn’t say is also true: Sometimes quiet contemplation and solitude can be enough.

*A World Apart will run through February 26, 2011 at The Flea Theater in Manhattan. Tickets are $18 and can be ordered by calling 212.352.3101 or by going to theatermania.com.

Photo credit: Jim Baldassare

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, February 7th 2011

Literary Readings: Salman Rushdie (11/22/2010)

mandy — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 14:00:00 +0000

92nd Street Y

New York, New York

Everywhere you go in India, you see bootlegged copies of Salman Rushdie's groundbreaking Midnight's Children being sold by hawkers along the footpaths to tourists who've come to see if the romanticized country is as mythical a place as the then-copywriter delightfully described in his make-me-or-break-me novel. The fantastical worlds created in Rushdie's mind closely resemble our reality, but their magical element—at times more prevalent than others—has the ability to transport the uninitiated from a place of sensory overload to one of simple beauty. And it was with great pleasure that I attended the literary reading with Rushdie, and subsequent jocular verbal sparring with fellow Mumbaite, and Maximum City author, Suketu Mehta at the 92nd Street Y.

After Mehta's endearing introduction of Rushdie, in which he comically described being rebuffed at the authors' first encounter, the senior writer took the stage to read excerpts from his recently published young adult adventure novel, Luka and the Fire of Life. I had read the book a few days prior to the event while stuck on the 2 train from Prospect Heights to West Harlem. Crushed on all sides in the crowded train, Luka's quest allowed me some reprieve from claustrophobia during the snail's pace journey. And I much preferred experiencing Rushdie's linguistic acrobatics and smarty pants humor in the comfortable seats at the Y.

The audience seemed pleasantly amused at the children's story, crafted at the request of Rushdie's own adolescent son. They tittered at all appropriate parts and chuckled at Rushdie's added commentary between excerpts. Luka and the Fire of Life is clearly a rumination on mortality and fatherhood, a point Rushdie freely admitted. As an aging father of a teenage son, the desire to leave a personal legacy influenced the timing of this book, which Rushdie said was vetted by his son before he turned it over to the publisher.

After the reading, Mehta returned to the stage to facilitate a conversation that ran the gamut of nonlinear literature, so-called cultureless Americans, the inevitability of the novel's survival, and Rushdie's addiction to Angry Birds. Rushdie's natural charisma outshone his interviewer, but he was gracious enough to dim the light from time to time. The evening came to a close with a more serious consideration of present day tyrannical regimes and Rushdie's having the "misfortune of acquiring an interesting life."

He told Mehta, "[Writers] look aghast at the world as it is...When times are bad, it's great for writers [because] the worse it is, the better it is [for us]." To which Mehta fondly responded, in an effort at comical flattery, "Then let's hope it gets worse."

Written by: Mandy Van Deven, February 5th 2011

Blood From A Stone (1/22/2011)

brittany — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 00:00:00 +0000

Acorn Theatre

New York, New York

Tommy Nohilly’s first play, Blood From A Stone, treads the familiar terrain of family dysfunction, zeroing in on the return of oldest son Travis [played with anguished complexity by Ethan Hawke] to the family’s ramshackle Connecticut home. What exactly ails this prodigal child is a mystery. We know that he is jobless, broke, single, and addicted to pain killers, but the demons that hover near him are never fully revealed. At first, the reasons he’s returned home are also unclear. Is he looking for solace? Hoping for a financial handout? Or does he truly want to see his parents and siblings?

As the play opens, Travis is in the living room schmoozing with his bedraggled mom [Ann Dowd] about the many problems besetting their nearest and dearest. They’re clearly comfortable with one another and as they fold laundry, we learn that Travis’ visit is intended to be a short stopover before he drives cross-country “to start over.” First, however, this eldest son intends to help his baby brother [played with a perfect blend of surface bravado and emotional terror by Thomas Guiry], a gambling addict now heavily in debt and in the throes of a marital break-up. Travis also makes clear that he’s in need of quality time with his mom, dad, sister [Natasha Lyonne], and former girlfriend [Daphne Rubin-Vega], a now-married mom.

Crisis after crisis looms. While there is some humor throughout the play, the shouting, stomping, and cursing that are this family’s M.O. make it hard to watch. Worse, Blood From A Stone says nothing new about the dynamics that simultaneously cleave people apart and hold them together. Indeed, while there is ample affection between the siblings and between each of the kids and their parents, why mother Margaret and father Bill [an apoplectic, continuously-raging Bill Clapp] have stayed together for umpteen years is anybody’s guess. In fact, their non-stop exchanges of vitriol are perplexing and awful.

The tension in the home is stomach churning, and one gets the sense that this is because of both political differences and family history. At one point Bill unleashes a racist rant, telling Travis that the U.S should turn Baghdad into “a fucking parking lot.” He verbally assails Osama Bin Laden, and while his comments elucidate his character, they do nothing to shed light on the tortured dance he, his wife, and kids have been doing for eons. Instead, the audience is privy only to his taunts, tirades, and violent outbursts. At the same time, Margaret’s proves that she is capable of giving as good as she gets, but to what end?

By the two-act play’s denouement, the audience has seen brilliant acting, a fantastic set evoking homey decrepitude, and a lot of fury, which, in a phrase, signifies nothing. It’s disappointing, to say the least.

In the end, Blood From A Stone confirms what we probably already knew, that love is not enough to quell deeply held hostilities or repair broken relationships. What’s more, it attests to the fact that the way family members interact needs to change before new ways of being can take root. Sadly, no one in Nohilly’s play seems ready to make that leap.

Blood From A Stone runs through February 5. Tickets are $60 and can be ordered by calling 212.239.6200 or going to TheNewGroup.org. The play is being performed at The Acorn Theater, 410 West 42 Street, New York, NY 10036.

Photo credit: Monique Carboni

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, January 24th 2011

Baby Universe (A Puppet Odyssey)

mandy — Fri, 31 Dec 2010 19:00:00 +0000

Baruch Performing Arts Center

Baby Universe, a one-hour, adult-themed puppet show, begins with a DJ from Apocalypse Radio announcing to the audience that he is ”broadcasting live from the darkest corner of the bunkers.” His tone conveys urgency as he reports that the program will include an interview with one of the last people alive. The situation, we’re told, is grim: “These are the last days. Nothing can keep death from us. The plants are scorched, the animals blistered…The seas? What seas…? Soon everything will perish.”

Using more than thirty puppets ranging in size from nine inches to nine feet, Baby Universe explores the imminent environmental catastrophe facing the earth’s inhabitants and questions whether anything can be done to stop this seemingly inevitable destruction. Special effects are in large supply—spectators are repeatedly stunned by flashing lights, the appearance of fire and smoke, and the sounds of crashing waves—as five onstage puppeteers, clad in gray spacesuits, their faces completely covered by enormous gas masks, manipulate their charges. It’s highly inventive and totally captivating.

Among the subjects explored is the notion of “baby universes,” human-generated black holes that scientists in Japan and Switzerland currently believe can lead to the development of alternative life forms. Baby Universe introduces the concept of scientifically generated “babies,” manufactured beings whose sole function is to attempt to create a new solar system. If they are successful, the play tells us, animal, plant, and human life will continue on another planet, far from our devastated earth.

Time, of course, is of the essence, and whether this can succeed or not depends on baby number 7001, a hand puppet, (Peter Russo provides the pitch-perfect voice, part whiny child, part messiah) who has been reared by an always-doting surrogate mother (voiced by Gwendolyn Warnock). Can this savior come through and protect the biosphere’s few remaining survivors? Or is it already too late?

As the performance progresses, it raises a plethora of controversial subjects, not the least of which is whether scientists are usurping the role of God. The matter is left for the audience to ponder, and the show smartly avoids heavy-handed moralizing on the matter. Still, in raising the issue it asks viewers to not only address the trashing of diverse ecosystems, but to think about what our behavior will mean for evolutionary development. It’s big stuff.

That said, Baby Universe is anything but ponderous. While heavy philosophical issues are touched upon, and serious themes regarding religion, science, and ecology are presented, the play is highly entertaining and often funny. There is ample shtick—including an almost-Vaudevillian moment in which 7001 discovers that he lacks a penis—as well as several musical digressions. Indeed, music by Norwegian composer Lars Petter Hagen adds tension and zest to the production. Similarly, the simple set designed by Naho Tatuishi, Joy Wang, Brett Jarvis, and Kate Leahy—movable scrims onto which images are continually projected—give the show an eerie feel.

Strange, moving, and intriguing, Baby Universe is a timely look at looming environmental catastrophe. There’s melancholy, tempered by hope, throughout. “Life is so fragile,” one of the puppets declares near the end of the production. “It’s the most beautiful thing I know.”

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, December 31st 2010

Hapgood

mandy — Mon, 20 Dec 2010 03:00:00 +0000

Phoenix Theatre Ensemble

Tom Stoppard’s 1988 espionage thriller, Hapgood, addresses the insanity of the Cold War by zooming in on a band of British spies. Alongside the CIA, the group engages in crosses and double-crosses, the end result being little more than a game of chicken.

Led by Mrs. Elizabeth Hapgood, AKA Betty, AKA Mother--played by actor Elise Stone with a perfect mix of sass and sadness—the reconnaissance team’s efforts are a showcase for three distinct plot lines: The juggling of employment and child rearing responsibilities for single mothers; the temptation of forbidden love; and the competitive race for scientific knowledge between the “free world” and the Communist bloc. While the first two themes are presented with straightforward punch, the latter is muddled, perhaps emblematic of the Cold War itself. As Hapgood says near the denouement of the play, “It’s them or us. We’re keeping each other in business. We should send each other Christmas cards.”

Indeed, the inanity of the spy effort is underscored as the two-act drama unfolds. Can anyone be trusted? Is it possible to know good people from bad? As the characters assess and then reassess one another, a host of preposterous, and often funny, mishaps occur. Hapgood’s associates—Ridley (Jason O’Connell), Merryweather (Brian Costello), and Kerner (Joseph Menino)—stomp, probe, and snoop, all the while trying to determine who among them is leaking strategic military secrets to Moscow. Unfortunately, despite terrific acting and wonderful staging, this element of the plot is confusing as it intertwines numerical data—supplemented by a host of algebraic and scientific formulae that are projected onto the stage’s back wall—into the dialogue. Yes, it’s illustrative of the secrets being pursued, but the long-winded repartee gets tiresome for non-scientifically inclined audience members.

Apparently, this was of little concern to Stoppard who reportedly became obsessed with particle physics when his son was studying the subject. “Stoppard saw in physics a metaphor for human nature,” the Playbill for Hapgood explains. “Does light operate like a bullet or a wave? The answer is both—depending on whether it’s being observed or not. So too people, who have different selves sharing the one body, which appear or disappear depending on who’s looking.”

Hapgood’s exploration of duality includes all the tricks of the international spy trade—or at least the ones one might find in a John Le Carre novel. There’s blackmail, entrapment, fraud, lying, and kidnapping. At the same time, there’s also kindness, collegiality, loyalty, and love between contending parties.

Some critics have found Hapgood dated, but while the Cold War is surely over, the ongoing international quest for domination and conquest of the Middle East and Africa makes espionage as relevant today was it was decades back. That said, I would have enjoyed Hapgood more had it been pared down, with a tightened script that shifted the focus to politics rather than mathematical and scientific jargon.

Stoppard had an answer for critics like me: “I must stop compromising my plays with this whiff of social application. They must be entirely untouched by any suspicion of usefulness,” he wrote in the late 1970s. Using that criterion, Hapgood fits the bill, turning the foreign policy foibles of world governments into something that is both absurd and mildly entertaining.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, December 19th 2010

Hibiki (Resonance from Far Way) (10/20/2010)

alicia — Wed, 01 Dec 2010 00:00:00 +0000

Sankai Juku

Dance Center of Columbia College

The dancing performed by the Japanese butoh company Sankai Juku in Hibiki (Resonance from Far Away) at the Harris Theater in Chicago, Illinois, manages to invoke simultaneously everything and nothing. In choosing the word ‘everything,’ I am attempting to describe the fact that the six dancers and their choreographer execute actions that remind the viewer, possibly, of children, stones, priests, frogs, soldiers, streams, women, the wind, and a flower. By saying ‘nothing,’ I am acknowledging that the gestures and poses themselves are so controlled, so elemental, that the observer must concede that some degree of the perceived meaning or symbolism is projected.

In the beginning, lights slowly rise to reveal a sand-covered stage strewn with twelve symmetrically placed shallow glass saucers approximately a meter in diameter. Above, four glass bulbs shaped like art nouveau separating funnels steadily drip, the soundtrack either amplifying or suggesting the drops. The huddled figures of the dancers could be mistaken for driftwood or rocks, but of course unfold from their embryonic curls to entrance so completely that time itself seems somehow altered. The six tableaux directed by choreographer Ushio Amagatsu explore the very rhythms of existence—origin, end, and resurrection.

Sanjai Juku manifests conventions of butoh with the white rice powder coating, shaven heads, and simple robes of the dancers. While some versions of the school appear darkly anarchic, this dance concert is profoundly poetic and minimalistic. The performers move with such precision that their bodies come across as a series of statues with gradually changing poses placed in one location. The movement of a few can entrance so thoroughly that the remainder evaporate from the stage, unnoticed.

Amagatsu appears in a solo sequence, executing gestures like the movements of the most necessary rite of an undiscovered faith. The dancers can march through one another in crossed ranks so dense that they appear a multitude, and in the final sequence, move with such coordination that they could be mistaken for one organism. In the fourth scene—Outer Limits of Red—the dancers gather around a saucer now filled with red liquid, their lower robes augmented with red-laced bodices and dangling ear ornaments.

The laces mimic the stitches that may follow abdominal surgery, but I had to speculate—due to the corsetry and the predominance of blood-color—that this segment acknowledged something specifically feminine, but by no means consoling. At one point their hands move with cutting synchronization, first scissors, then claws. The predominantly electronic score, composed by Takashi Kako and Yoichiro Yoshikawa, mostly complements the austerity of the performance but occasionally swells with an unnecessary exuberance that might be more suited to a movie version of Hibiki.

The closing sequence resonates magnificently, a broadening aperture of light opening to silhouette the circled dancers. The following standing ovation was the longest that I have witnessed in my life, every echoing slap of palm on palm completely earned.

Written by: Erika Mikkalo, November 30th 2010

A Man’s A Man

mandy — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 00:00:00 +0000

Phoenix Theatre Ensemble

If playwright Bertolt Brecht were alive today, he’d likely blanch at the contemporary tendency to seek common ground with those whose ideologies are diametrically opposed to one’s own. His dozens of plays speak truth to power in daring, direct language and, while farce and sarcasm are employed, his repeated denunciations of colonialism, war, and militarism are boldly presented. A Man’s a Man (sometimes called Man Equals Man) was first staged in Dusseldorf and Darmstadt, Germany in 1926. Eighty-four years later, The Phoenix Theatre Ensemble’s beautifully-presented staged reading of the play is so relevant that the audience quickly forgets the age of the work.

Themes include the folly of armed conflict; the ways gender stereotypes are used to manipulate men and women into serving the Empire; and the ways youth are unscrupulously lured into patriotic service. Identity—whether we develop into thinking adults or order-following automatons—also comes into focus. The end result is riveting—full of wit, sass, and pointed jabs at the never-ending quest for land and resources that ensnares so many political regimes.

The action of A Man’s a Man follows a motley band of soldiers who belong to The Royal Imperial Army. In Kilkoa, India to guard—or perhaps loot—the Pagoda of the Yellow Monks, the play zeroes in on the Eighth Regiment, AKA The Scum—and what happens when one of their members, Jeraiah Jip, suddenly becomes unable to continue in Her Majesty’s armed forces. Since a Unit requires four men, the remaining three expect big trouble when Sergeant Fairchild, AKA Bloody Five [played by Grant Neale], arrives on the scene. Known for his fiery temper—Bloody earned his nickname after killing five Hindu prisoners—his underlings know that their superior will be apoplectic when, or if, he learns that Jip is gone.

In short order, Unit members devise a plan in which happy-go-lucky Galy Gay (Josh Tyson), “a man who can’t say no,” is hoodwinked into pretending to be the no-longer-present Mr. Jip. “One man is as good as another,” the soldiers quip, thrilled to have concocted so simple a solution to their conundrum. Gay is first promised cigars and beer for agreeing to go along with the deception; later, as they step up their brainwashing, the audience watches Gay morph into the perfect soldier—compliant, docile, and obedient.

The ten short scenes of A Man’s a Man, framed by a Prologue and Epilogue, move quickly, and include a bevy of rousing—and pitch-perfect, often hilarious—song-and-dance numbers. The nine characters, plus a keyboardist, are on stage at all times. They read with tremendous force, unapologetically delivering Brecht’s none-too-subtle critique of imperialist expansion. Elise Stone is particularly good as Widow Begbick, whose wily charms are used to raise questions about what it means for men to be men. Her sexy persona is used to profound effect and showcases the inane impact of both personal and political rapacity—whether in 1920s India or today’s Iraq and Afghanistan.

The seven-year-old Phoenix Theatre Ensemble is to be commended for reviving a play that other actors had relegated to history’s attic. The Company asks that patrons pay $25 per ticket, but their policy is to allow audience members to pay whatever they wish for each show.

Written by: Eleanor J. Bader, November 26th 2010

Literary Readings: Jonathan Franzen and Lorrie Moore (11/13/2010)

mandy — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 08:00:00 +0000

92nd Street Y

New York, New York

In the deeply downtrodden, recession smashed state that the publishing industry is in, and in a culture in which few people seem to have the attention span to read an entire novel (much less one nearly 600 pages long), it seemed unlikely that America would ever crown yet another Great American Novelist. However, Jonathan Franzen has been given such a title by many media outlets, some of which showed a photo of President Obama carrying Franzen's latest work, Freedom. Franzen’s readings across the country have lead to lines around the block, giving life to a dying industry. But all of the fawning and attention directed at Franzen has lead some writers, like Jodi Picoult and Jennifer Weiner, to wonder if writing by men is automatically taken more seriously than writing by women, who are often written off as "chick lit" or left to play second fiddle.

This question seemed to be in the air at the opening of the 92nd Street Y’s talk with Lorrie Moore and Jonathan Franzen. Despite being a well known and prolific writer, Moore was the first to read, and functioned much like the opening act at a concert, warming up the crowd for the headliner. She even made a joke out of the situation, choosing to begin by reciting the lines: “Opening acts,/opening acts/I’m not a girl complaining,/I’m just facing facts.” Moore then launched into singing part of the song “We Shall Overcome,” poking fun at her underdog status.

While the majority of the attendees seemed to be there for Franzen, Moore managed to solicit more laughs in the end with her warm, laid back nature as she read from her novel A Gate at the Stairs. Franzen’s reading of his recent, critically lauded Freedom was, by comparison, a bit hurried and self-conscious. He did not stop to pause over the language and coy jokes the way Moore did as she languidly hovered over the lines in her story that drew the most laughter. This caused her work to come across as more humorous than Frazen’s, though they both implanted plenty of wry observation into their respective works.

Both authors chose to read passages that depicted women naively giving all of themselves to men who do not love them quite as much as they assume, with Moore’s being from the woman’s point of view and Franzen from the man’s. The similarity of their two plots made it seem as though they were reading two sides of the same story.

Following the reading, a moderator took questions from the audience. One audience member questioned whether there was a connection between being from the Midwest and writing humorously. Moore responded that perhaps it is the result of the terrible weather in the Midwest, and that they have to find ways to amuse themselves. Franzed added that “those who can leave the Midwest must have mastered one coping skill, such as flight,” and Moore noted that perhaps humor is another of those coping skills.

During the course of the evening, Moore’s warmth and Franzen’s self-consciousness showed that, unlike stars of other artistic mediums, those of the literary realm are much more grounded, even when endless lines of fans wait in rapt anticipation for them to autograph their newly purchased books.

Written by: Adrienne Urbanski, November 25th 2010