t.b.c…,,,,
The exhibition Peintres Femmes, 1780-1830: naissance d'un combat currently at the Musée du Luxembourg in Paris.
The musical Sunday in the Park with George is one of those bold endeavors like the opera Nixon in China that seemed so improbable at its inception yet now so blatantly obvious when librettist James Lapine approached composer Stephen Sondheim. Lapine’s just written the history of that journey. The Act One company finale Sunday ranks for me with the end of Rossini’s William Tell, and Bernstein’s Candide as transfiguration. And the final moments among the simplest and moving in the theater repertoire.
Strange. Cannes Film Festival back again. Publicity, publicity, publicity. Goodness knows if anything needs PR its these films. Always these films. There’s only one place I’ve ever lived, %^%&)%*;) where anyone within at least 20miles would ever see any of these movies. They seem all somewhat elitist compared to normal life. Yet all are ‘normal life’ in one way shape or form. Ken Loach is, perhaps, one of the rare filmmakers ever to entertain and depress one with the real by equal measure. Then one must ask: who are the creatives making these movies for? Is it all preaching to the converted?
If one uses that reasoning, though, would the world have any culture whatsoever? The Italian Medicis weren’t such nice folk, but they knew the value of an artisan. Perhaps for the wrong reasons they glorified themselves in great art. At least we, now, are left with something. A great something rather than an ignominious nothing.
I’ve sat in darkened rooms day after day, month after month, year after year watching flickering images. Conclusion is: my life is far better for that. Would I have been happier without them? Possibly. Would I be human? Possibly not. Should I have followed mine own creativity instead, blissfully ignorant of what was out there?
One can now sit comfortably in one’s living room with a 65” TV screen watching DVD’s from Kino Lorber, Film Movement, Zeitgeist, Cohen Media, Sony Classics etc. All still ‘believers’, all still having survived. A plug for UK’s Eureka (a European Criterion Collection) with original commentaries, booklets etc etc.
Wouldn’t it be great if all the European theaters clubbed together to present a National Theatre at Home, sorta like OperaVision? Hey, there’s a job finally for me Nick Kenyon;)! seeing the new productions available. There’s a free month trial, so maybe wait until that darkness descends at 4pm in November and one starts screaming up the walls painting them a different color. It may just save you if you can’t jet off to the benign Miami in the winter. Same 4pm just different mornings waiting for the hurt to end…
There’s a Crazy Ex-Girlfriend reunion on Stars in the House. Who knew the lowest ratings (I’m sure not ever) would not deter CW from booking season after season. Now tell me there is not hope in the world when that happens! Alas poor Yorick. Beetlejuice before his time!
Speaking of Shakespeare, I did once see Sir John Gielgud on stage in London and introduced to him backstage. (Alas pre-Lord of the Rings Sir Ian. Always a lost soul before my time.) There sat I in the balcony Sir John’s every word pinging as if a cinema screen. Not a hint of the vocal technique. Like Barenboim with a Beethoven sonata. Silent and effortless.
What is it when we meet our idol and/or our love that one becomes, well not necessarily mush. But, well, boring. Why didn’t I tell Sir John about his ‘ping’? You all know what I mean. Come on. Weird, isn’t it? If one could re-write one’s life. No. Not re-write. Just have an inner ‘meow’ that jolted one forward from the mush. Crazy Ex-Life.
