The Swell Season 11/27/09

    

Right at Home
11/27/09
Egyptian Theatre
Boise, ID

Marketa Irglova, alone at centerstage, introduces a song with a self-depracating reflection on the reduced showers of tour bus life. "We moight be a bit smelly," she admitted in her sweet Czech/Irish accent. "Well, I tink we're noice people anyway."

That's the kind of warm transparency that the Boise audience was treated to Friday night at the Egyptian theatre. The audience cheered as Glen Hansard and Marketa walked onstage, sat down, grinned, adjusted mics, and sang the cheery number "Fallen from the Sky." Perched on a familial-looking Persian rug, they made the audience of several hundred feel as if they were invited to a private, informal living room performance. It's a significant accomplishment, seeing as The Swell Season has garnered international fame as a result of their turn in the sleeper hit "Once", nabbing an Oscar for best original song. 

Glen's full, inviting stage presence was always at the center, with Marketa providing a supporting (but nevertheless beautiful) role with her piano and harmonies. The two spent nearly equal time performing songs from their new album, and more well-known songs featured in their film. They performed with all the musicianship displayed on their albums, but they gave the crowd more than their money's worth in heart. Marketa sang with stirring tenderness, her voice like ripples in a clear pool, and Glen smiled like he was going to buy the whole audience a drink.

But a high moment of the night came when Glen ditched the band to perform a solo set. Alone with his battered acoustic guitar, the man can make magic. His voice begins gentle, and then, breathtakingly, soars up into a cathartic growl that rips through the heart. His music is tender, but muscular. He scrapes a melody from the bottom of his gut, delivering heartwrenching performances finished off with an infectious grin. This is a man pouring himself out in song, thrilled by the experience he gets to share with his audience. In the middle of the emotional "Say It To Me Now," he told a very personal story about a woman he had met who taught him to take his chances with relationships. He stepped away from the microphone, and the theatre again became the living room. He finished off his set with an epic rendition of Van Morrison's "Astral Weeks," playing with such speed and force as to imitate a drumline and a string quartet with only his acoustic guitar. The energy from his performance suffused the entire theatre, and the song drew an awed standing ovation.

Marketa and the band (Glen's Irish band, The Frames) returned to the stage for more. Marketa sang a few solo songs with a sweet vulnerability. Glen frequently invited the audience to sing along, teaching them a new refrain for each song. The songs aren’t always “catchy,” but they are haunting and affecting. At one point, Glen talked about Marketa as being his muse, “in the way that something beautiful can inspire you, like a butterfly or a bird.” Though they are no longer in a real life romance, they clearly have a great affection for one another. Their voices and personalities share a “fire and ice” relationship—the full-bodied passion of Glen, cooled by Marketa’s pure, shy vocals. They sing songs of heartache that are still romantic in tone, like “When Your Mind’s Made Up” and Oscar-Winner “Falling Slowly.”

Glen and Marketa’s warmth toward one another warms the audience to them. They shared many stories about the nice ‘Tanksgiving’ they were treated to the day before, and of how grateful they were. They engaged their hushed audience in more than mindless stage banter—they shared their stories, their real selves. At the end of the night, we had been treated to more than great music. It felt as if we had spent a long, homey dinner with our favorite friends. A night with The Swell Season is a night in a their living room, no matter how big the venue. 

The Blind Side

Meat and Potatoes

Football. Fast food. Religion. Southern hospitality. Nuclear families. The Blind Side may be the most All-'Murrican film of the year. That doesn't mean it doesn't accomplish what it sets out to accomplish. It's sweet, well-crafted, and strikes few false notes. But its unchallenging story leaves its viewers with nothing but the fuzzy affirmation of the American dream.

The Blind Side is tells the true story of Michael "Big Mike" Oher, an undereducated inner city black kid given a second chance by the upper class Touhy family. I say the story of Michael, but the film tells us a lot more about Leigh Anne Touhy, Sandra Bullock's plucky savior character. The film is hers from the beginning, and Bullock rises to the challenge, admirably filling out her manicured character with a believable soul. Leigh Anne, in a burst of determined altruism, decides to take homeless Michael back to her family's Tennessee mansion. From there, it is assumed, the family embarks on a journey of understanding and sparks a warm relationship with this underprivileged young man. 

But we actually see very little relationship grow between Michael and his adoptive family. Much more screen time is devoted to the Touhys: attractive teen daughter, wisecracking kid brother, Leigh Anne's various crusades on Michael's behalf, Tim McGraw's quiet, benevolent presence as husband Sean. Perhaps The Blind Side thinks it is the story of Micheal Oher's salvation, but its focus is on the saviors. "Is this some kind of white guilt thing?" a character asks Leigh Anne about halfway through the film. The question is met only with shocked reproof-- but we could have done with an answer. What does it mean for a family that owns 85 Taco Bells to show mercy to this young man? Is it merely "what Christians do"? 

The question is a relevant one for a few reasons. For one, the film spends a great amount of its running time depicting a family in the act of altruism. Not only that-- it is altruism in the face of adversity. Throughout the film runs the odd yet familiar trope of good white/bad white. The school board refuses to give Michael a chance until one good man speaks in his defense. Nobody will believe in Michael's football talent until Leigh Anne speaks up for and inspires him. Michael's football opponent pitches racist taunts at him, while his coach and family encourage him. It appears as if Michael would flounder were it not for the kindness of a very special few. So where does that kindness come from? What makes Leigh Anne Touhy any different from her rich, prejudiced girlfriends at the lunch table? What drives the "good" and "bad" people in the story-- what's at stake, morally? As in Christ's parables, there are clear-cut "wise" and "foolish" archetypes at work here. But those parables are meant to make the listeners see the fools in themselves and hope to one day become the wise. The Blind Side aspires to no such subtlety; there are merely good whites, doing what any decent American would, and obviously prejudiced bad whites. "Am I a good person?" Leigh Anne asks, in a rare pensive moment. Her loyal husband replies, "You're a great person." And that is that. The question of the nature of a good deed is invoked, but never fully addressed. 

About half way through the film, I was wondering if any stakes were going to show up. It seemed as if the story was completely about the Touhys gaining a sense of personal fulfillment. "You seem happy," Sean tells Leigh Anne as she falls asleep with a smile. "It has everything to do with Michael," she replies. Thankfully, The Blind Side finally decides to explore the Touhy's motives in the final quarter of the film. Leigh Anne says to Micael, "You know, we don't know too much about you." No kidding. The conflict at the climax of the film addresses this central problem with the film up to that point: have the Touhys missed caring for Michael, the person, in the midst of caring for Michael, the football player/vessel for generosity? The heart of the problem is expressed in one of the film’s final scenes. In the scene, Michael essentially says that everyone has only asked about him in relation to the Touhys, without asking him what he really thinks and feels. It is noble that the film finally lets him speak for himself, but it probably should have happened more than five minutes before the ending.

As a vehicle for Sandra Bullock’s talent, The Blind Side works. Her heroine sashays delightfully into situations and gits-er-done like an upper-class Erin Brockovich. The kid is adorable, the message is valuable, the ending satisfactorily redemptive (and true). There is a great movie inside The Blind Side, one that explores deeper character connections, more complex moral dilemmas, and higher stakes (for examples of these goals accomplished, look to films like Freedom Writers or Finding Forrester). As it is, the film is merely a pleasant entry into the inspirational genre, a Thanksgiving film that leaves audiences full, happy, and ready for that long, forgetful nap.

Equivocation 11/22/09

Backstage Politics

Equivocation at the Seattle Repertory Theatre

11/22/09

Review by Lauren Wilford

Speculative Shakespeare—it is beginning to become a genre unto itself. And no wonder: the most famous writer in our language, with little to no history to tie him down? What a playground for the imaginative scholar of literature. One can make him into anything one desires. 

Bill Cain’s Equivocation is a curious addition to the fictional Bard canon, because it confronts the very fact that allows it to exist. “You will be the only major writer with no history,” the villain Robert Cecil prophesies to Shagspeare (Cain’s name for the character). Cecil accuses Shakespeare of being a chronic pleaser, incapable of boldness in life or art.  “People will go to your plays as they go to church, leaving unchanged but feeling somehow improved.” Cecil’s indictment of Shagspeare is just as biting for the audience as it is for the character. Are we all too happy that our favorite writer has no troublesome affiliations, and we can read into his works whatever we see fit?

Equivocation is the story of Shagspeare’s relationship with the English government (and thereby the relationship of art to politics). He has been commissioned by the King to write a play about the gunpowder plot of 1605. When it becomes clear that Shagspeare is being asked to write propaganda, he recoils: “I am a writer, not a town crier.” But soon, it is not just a question of to write or not to write— it is a matter of truth and justice, with Shagspeare’s writing caught in the moral crossfire. Perhaps Shakespeare was not a revolutionary; Cain’s script proposes that he ought to have been.. The play self-consciously examines the purpose of a play, forcing its audience to keep up and think twice about its reactions.

This show is imported from the renowned Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and it shows; the production values are impeccable. The set, formed with sturdy, elegant wood panels, gives the impression of the theatre in the round, but is used for everything from a castle to a dungeon. The sound and light designs are subtle and effective. Best of all is the superb acting talent represented. Notable is John Tufts’ vigorous performance in multiple roles. He imbues young actor Sharpe with a kinetic petulance, writhes passionately as prisoner Tom Winter, and nails King James’ Scottish brogue and giddy demeanor—sometimes playing more than one in the space of a scene. Anthony Heald shows the full arc of Shagspeare’s journey here—this is clearly a role he has lived in. The part of Judith, Shagspeare’s daughter, is small but deftly written, and Christine Albright’s cynical charisma brings a sparkling female presence to the production. And Richard Elmore demonstrates surprising versatility in his moving turn as a Jesuit Priest in prison. All the actors move with a well-timed rhythm, surely the result of adept direction.

But all this brilliant execution comes to nothing without a quality script to execute. Equivocation is a knotty play—it’s often too clever for its own good, chockfull of semiprofound one-liners and winking self-references. It juggles a few too many themes—is it about activism? Grief? Art? Truth? And its moral, when made overt, can become overbearing. All this aside, Equivocation is a stunningly thoughtful play. It boldly holds its audience accountable for its response. It stands and says: Listen up. Art matters, because life matters. Equivocation is the manipulation of words to convey a particular meaning. For Cain, it is “to answer the question really asked, and to answer it with our lives.” Cain’s provocative script, performed by Ashland’s riveting actors, makes for one night at the theatre you are not permitted to forget. 

Opus 11/4/09

Bickering into Beauty:

The Seattle Repertory Theatre’s Opus 11/4/09

By Lauren Wilford

The first sound in Michael Hollinger’s play, Opus, is the sound of strings tuning—a preparatory, evocative sound, a sound that readies an audience for a relaxing evening at the orchestra. And part of that is true. Opus is a musical work indeed. The set includes mere music stands, chairs, and wood backdrops embossed with notation. The play takes poetic interludes for its characters to rhapsodize about music together in separate spotlights, speaking a monologue in four parts as if it were a piece they were playing. The play is full of these lyrical moments, where realism is suspended for an underscore.

But that’s only part of it. The lyrical gives way to the colloquial. At the end of a beautiful piece of music, we see the quartet explode in quarrels and nitpicking that an audience never gets to see during their night at the philharmonic. It’s an interesting take, and one that will resonate with any artist. That painting, that dance routine, that scene may seem moving and effortless. But the audience doesn’t see the dark underbelly, the hours of frustration and ugliness that go into creating something lasting and beautiful. I commend Hollinger for taking on such an intriguing and untapped subject for his play.

The play’s protagonist is not any one character, but instead it is a string quartet. The author asks us to root for the group as a whole. Individual character conflicts serve the arc of the quartet. They have recently lost their most brilliant (but unstable) member, and the story begins as they replace him with a pragmatic violist named Grace. Grace, as new to the group as we are, serves as our guide to the delicate social dynamics unique to a creative community.

The “quartet as protagonist” ploy might have come off better if the group was more cohesive. The chemistry took a while to emerge, as if the actors were warming up like they would with an instrument. Especially perplexing was Todd Jefferson Moore’s portrayal of the fired violist, whose presence hangs over the play like a ghost. It seems as if he never found the right tone for his mentally ill character, unconvincing in his histrionics. Notable was Allen Fitzpatrick, who was able to infuse energy and believability into the over-the-top, antagonistic Elliot. Throughout the play, I found myself feeling like an outsider, peeping in through a window; it was far into the performance before I began to feel any personal attachment to the lives before me.

Awkward silences, broken relationships, bickering, small personal tragedies. These are the language that Opus speaks in. Don’t go if you’re looking to get caught up in a great human drama. It’s there, but that’s not what the show is about. It’s about music. It’s about how messy, petty humans can come together to make something great. Perhaps most telling is a scene where the quartet finally gets a piece of the success they have been looking for. They come out of a performance, glowing with the high of accomplishment and applause. They laugh, giddily. There is a pause, a stop for breath. Their leader says, “Another day.” They reply, “Yes. Another day.” Opus is all about the pitfalls along the way to making art: the boredom, the frustration, the questioning of why you started making it in the first place. All they want to do “create an opus: something worthy of posterity.” So what do you do when you get there? Was it worth it? Ultimately, the questions posed in the play are not just questions of “Why art?”—it is a question of “Why life?” Why do we put ourselves through so much to accomplish something, when in the end it is just “another day”? Opus offers few answers, but it asks the questions in a language we can understand. Like a piece of music, there are refrains that haunt the mind for days after the final notes. 

Regina Spektor 11/3/09

With Jupiter One. Paramount Theatre, Seattle.


Listening to one of Regina Spektor's records, one could easily imagine her concert set inside Lewis Carroll's imagination, complete with curious creatures, swirling colors, quirkiness tinged with melancholy. Lacking this lush setting, one could at least hope for a small club full of green-haired music majors to laugh along to her lyrical flourishes, swigging beer with a smirk as on the cover of Spektor's Soviet Kitsch. Then again, it wouldn't be out of place to hear her songs played at your best friend's senior recital, greeted with hushed respect and applause.

There has always been a tension in Regina's music: is she an antifolk renegade, foul-mouthed and ready to bark like a dolphin? Or is she really just a classical musician, with a masterful command of her mezzo-soprano and riffs like Rachmaninoff? Now that she's hit the bigtime, are we any closer to the answer?

Her shows have moved from niche New York clubs to 3000-seat historic theatres. No longer populated  with university hipsters, her audiences now also include middle-aged couples, young girls, and high schoolers who fell in love with her songs in the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy. A Regina Spektor show is no longer an underground, literary affair. Heck, your grandma might even be there. Regina's got people to please.

Her opener, Jupiter One, was surprisingly mainstream. It seemed as if they were going to perform a by-the-books pop rock set, and in some ways it was. But they were earnest and energetic, and managed to give their sound a fun edge by working in violin, synths, and a loop machine. Lead singer K Ishibashi impressed with his punky jumps and his violin accompaniment to Regina's set. 

At last, Regina walked out, smiling graciously in a white sundress, accompanied by a violinist, a cellist, and a drummer. It was a sit-down affair from the beginning. She played from her new record Far, rarely straying from the recorded arrangements. From the string accompaniments to the whispered "Thank you" at the end of each song, the show started out very much like a recital. The audience bombarded her with applause and raucous calls of "I love you Regina!" and, more oddly, "Donate your eggs to me!" She mostly ignored this bait and moved from song to song with as little banter as possible.

After an initial section of pretty, restrained piano pieces, she ditched the band and headed over to the keyboard to loosen up. Here, she graced the audience with some of her quirkiest pieces, performed with synths, electric guitar, or no accompaniment at all. This is the Regina that I came to see, and I was sad to see that it only lasted for a few songs. A concert highlight was her acapella rendition of "The Eye Color Generalization Song", a jazz piece that had the audience laughing as she winked through song.

How does her live performance vary from her records? The short answer: very little. However, her live voice is more warmer, more agile and confident. Any meowing hesitation on her album was replaced with a pure, bright belt that never missed a note. Her stage presence is always warm and never manic, but she is at home behind her piano. It feels as if she doesn't know what to do with being the center of so much attention.

She withheld all her hooky hits until the encore, when she emerged from the wings beaming and grateful. Here, she proved what brought in the crowds in the first place: that she can write and perform pop perfection. Her sugared voice brought them what they came to hear: Fidelity, Us, Samson, Hotel Song. But, being herself, she ended on a curveball: a rousing, hilarious country song entitled "Love, You're a Whore."

Performance wise, the audience certainly got their money's worth. Regina was in full musical force, showcasing her classical and punky sides. But I come to concerts hoping to get a glimpse of the artist behind my favorite songs, and that was sorely lacking. She came, she smiled, she played, she bowed. The woman who wrote "Apres Moi" and "Chemo Limo" certainly has a lot going on in her head that she's not ready to share with an audience of 3000. That's fine. But I hope that the mainstreaming of Regina Spektor has not tamed the playful, daring artist inside. I'd love to meet her someday.