Friday, December 24, 2004

 

Merry Xmas or Winter Soltice

Back Monday.

posted by Dan 10:32 AM
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Thursday, December 23, 2004

 

My Labors

One of the wonderful benefits of going to college recently became apparent to me: I can't stop writing important works.

When I come upon a blank page, I am seized with the compulsion to impress upon its white landscape all of the significant thoughts that I contribute to humanity. My digital quill etches for the benefit of all, and there's no way I can stop it.

You know how writing teachers tell you that if you force yourself to write every day, eventually it will become a habit? Well, I've forced myself to write importantly every day, and it's become a relentless flood!

Whoa! Did you hear that? Was that thunder? Or was it the resounding tremor of my insights upon the plain of civilization?

The lofty height I live upon is far beyond you mortals! It's in geosynchronous orbit above Fort Wayne, New Jersey! You can only reach it with a Space Shuttle, and look what my mind did to the last one that tried!

Kapow there go my thoughts bursting in frumulous colors! A kaleidoscope of spectrums as yet unseen by mortal eyes! Dimensional rifts burst at my command! The sea otter frolics at my whim! Ha Ha!

posted by Dan 2:16 PM
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Wednesday, December 22, 2004

 

The Amateur Gourmet

I am not all about theatre and snide holiday commentary -- no no. I am also about food. Let me direct you to The Amateur Gourmet aka Adam Roberts. It's totally unrelated that he's also a grad-student theatre-weenie at NYU with me. I would have come across his site in the course of my gourmand internet meanderings, regardless.

Adam serves up piping hot recipes and fricasseed videos, with a daube of humor in apple-wine sauce.

posted by Dan 11:10 AM
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Tuesday, December 21, 2004

 

A Very Williamsburg Xmas

Did I ever mention that mine is an interfaith family? My wife is a card-carrying member of Hebrew National, Secular Division. I think I was baptized when I was a child, but then that Star Trek episode was on where Kirk became a woman, and my parents were distracted from shepherding my soul. Anyway, somehow I'm the Christian. But we're both actually closer to agnostics leaning toward Deism. Try explaining that to a three year-old, see the stare you get.

Culture being culture, and habit being habit, we don't avoid the high notes of our ur-religions. This means that our daughter gets the best of both worlds, and by "best" I mean mixed signals that are certain to lead her into Arcane Zoroastrianism by age fourteen. We celebrate pairs of major holidays throughout the year. Chanukah and Christmas! Passover and Easter! Rosh Hashanah and September 11th! This leads to the sticky questions about the Almighty, made all the stickier by trying to explain certain shall-we-say points of contention between our two background faiths. Observe my wife and I explaining a street nativity scene to Ruby:

WIFE:
This is a baby, and his name is Jesus, and this is his Mommy, and this is an angel -

RUBY:
Where's the baby's daddy?

(Pause as WIFE and I see who will field this ball.)

I:
On the other side of the baby.

WIFE (simultaneously):
On a golden throne in Heaven.

WIFE & I:
DAMMIT!

RUBY:
What's dammit?

There are other questions Ruby has, like, "Why is Daddy drunk all the time?" But the most touching interfaith moment happens during my recitation of the prayer as we light the Menorah candles. Hebrew is not a language that rolls trippingly of the tongue of goyum such as me. Nevertheless, it's become my job to say the prayer while Julie gets to light the candles. She says if a non-Jew does it, the magic oil-spell doesn't work, and while we sleep our throats will be slit by the Latke Slasher.

So I do the prayer. Since I have no idea what I'm saying, I've memorized it phonetically, and employed several mnemonic devices:

Barukh (like Baruch College, got that) atah (rhymes with ha-chah!) Adonai (one of God's many names, like Monroe), Elohaynu ( I'm trying to say elephant and Ed McMahon interrupts me to tell me something is new: "Ele -- HEY NEW!"), melekh ha-olam (this one's trouble, but it starts with "mel" and ends with "lum," and if I gargle in the middle no one notices) asher (a Cher) keedishanu (it's not the adult Shawn character, it's the kiddy Shawn character, and he's pointing out something new: "Kiddy Shawn: NEW!" b'meetzvotav (like barmitzvah without the "r", and it's tough) v'tzeevanu (rhymes with what I would say if I were watching a later episode of Pee Wee's Playhouse and noticed that the part of Miss Yvonne was no longer played by actress Lynne Marie Stewert, but by Kirstie Alley: "Me: Miss Yvonne -- NEW!") l’had’lik neir (A fictional French football team named Le Hod develops a group craving for the hair-removal product Nair, and proceeds to lick it) shel (as in Shell Oil, on Chanukah it's all about the oil) Chanukah (Hooray! I am the greatest non-Hebrew Hebrew sayer in the world!)

Christmas requires no mnemonic devices such as these, because it is true and dwells deep within our unconscious. Still, I'm trying to come up with some exercise to put my wife through, so that she can feel like she's a true participant in the spirit of the holiday. On Christmas Eve in my family, one of us had to climb on the roof and jump up and down, pretending to be eight tiny reindeer trying to break in and eat us, which always delighted the little ones. I think we'll try that.

posted by Dan 1:14 PM
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Monday, December 20, 2004

 

But Let's Talk Theatre-Weenie

I got to see a lot of free theatre, thanks to my NYU credentials. Okay, not free. But the amount of money that I saved on admission costs actually comes out equal to the tuition for one semester at Tisch. So I consider it a wash.

I'm late to this discussion, but I have to say that one of the most exciting pieces I saw was NYTW's production of Hedda Gabler, as directed by the man that makes the Art School Boys green with envy, Ivan van Hove. van Hove made a lot of radical choices with the production, but his most important one was to bring the subtext entirely to the surface. None of the characters gave a nod to social niceties. The bourgeois morays and sentiments that Ibsen played with? Scrap heap. Instead, we had three hours of Liz Grubman-type socialites and backbiting academics crucifying each other emotionally, without shame or delicacy. The production was violent, it was contemporary, it was outlandish, revolting, deliberately off-putting and banal. It was exactly not what the author, Henrik Ibsen, intended, or could have even imagined in a whitefish-inspired fever. I loved it.

Some (a few) (maybe one) of you that know me may be surprised at this response. I loathe the disregard directors have for the instructions of the author. Ibsen is very clear about how this play should be staged. van Hove is riding the coattails of Derrida, and I think Derrida's coat should be soaked in lighter fluid and torched. So, why did I like this production, which is anathema to the good of playwrights?

Because I hate Hedda Gabler. I hate this play like it was a rabies shot.

I first read it when I was sixteen, and I hated it. I also read Chekov's The Three Sisters at the same time, and hated that too. But not long after, I learned about self-sabatoge, fear and paralysis, and now I love Three Sisters. I couldn't figure out what Hedda was about, except that the stultified bourgeois can bore one to tears.

Next time I hit the text for Hedda was in college, and my recollection of that analysis is Rolling Rock $3.99/six pack.

I saw two productions in my life, and both were played Heavy on the Pauses, in that way that Americans imagine the Swedes to behave, thanks to Bergman. Lots of Leaden Stares. A big dollop of Dread. It's amazing how these productions made me long for the sunny optimism of Camus.

I read Hedda again recently, fully expecting the play to have opened up and revealed its creamy center to me. Instead, it revealed a whiff of industrial exhaust, and a crumpled fortune written in Swedish.

So I didn't mind that van Hove decided to have Judge Brack give Hedda, not a series of suggestive statements and glances, but a V-8 juice shower. I didn't mind that Hedda tore apart the stage at the end of Act I, when she really wasn't supposed to go ape until Act IV. Because when it comes to obscenely vague and obtuse dialogue that positively oozes Important Subtext, I'm on the next train to Obviousville with a layover in Schtickburg.

It's not that I don't like Ibsen. I like A Doll's House. I like Peer Gynt. It's Hedda that makes me want to break walnuts with my eyelids, rather than watch yet another inaccessible discussion of Mademoiselle Diana. Ibsen was perfectly capable of being funny, entertaining, moving or obscure in an interesting way. Hedda is none of those to me.

Thus, my hypocrisy dances for all. If I like a play, like A Streetcar Named Desire, I prefer von Hove to keep his reinterpretive mitts off. But if it's Hedda, then stage it as a with nauseous goats if you wish. I'll thank you for it.

posted by Dan 4:28 PM
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There Was An Earthquake, A Terrible Flood, Locusts

Writing here, after months away, is awkward. It feels like I'm speaking to a girlfriend I haven't called in the same period of time.

But I'm back in the swing of -- what's this called? ah yes -- Venal Scene.

Needless to say, grad school took over everything. My life has consisted of (1) family (2) school (3) work. Everything else, down to my passion for Minesweeper, had to be eliminated. Is anyone out there? I suppose I'll find out.

posted by Dan 4:27 PM
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