If you don’t do your research before you see Richard Maxwell’s People Without History, you’ll have the same response that most of the audience did on the night I saw it: “What was that play actually about?”
You can’t really deduce the setting or meaning from just watching the play, so reading about it beforehand achieves a new level of importance. The play is ostensibly set during the 15th century Battle of Shrewsbury, but it has a much more anonymous and timeless feel. The Battle of Shrewsbury is the linchpin of Shakespeare’s Henry IV Part I, which Maxwell directed at BAM five years ago. Soldiers Owain, Mendace and Rhobert march their prisoners Blunt and Sheriff to a makeshift prison after a devastating battle. They try to piece together their memories of the battle, but they’ve either forgotten or suppressed most everything. Enter Alice, a healer, who cannot heal what ails these men.
But from simply viewing the play, all you know is that these men, dressed in chain mail and red long johns, have just been through a battle of some sort, that some of them are prisoners, and that their speech and syntax resembles that of PTSD sufferers. The language is not 15th century English, French or Welsh, it’s a stunted version of modern American English (typical for Maxwell’s plays). There are no references to landmarks, historical personages, the time frame, or anything else that might ground this play in the concrete. In a sense, it’s a strangely accurate way of portraying what 15th century Englishman must have felt like after a battle—unmoored, lost, lacking basic information like whether they even won or lost, and too tired to care. Lara Furniss’s design, consisting of three wheeled scrims that serve alternately as backdrops and prison walls, highlight the physical and spiritual barrenness at the center of this play. The small cast exhibits an oddly moving empathy for their characters; their collective humanity is what keeps this from being a play about automatons.
Richard Maxwell (Caveman, Boxing 2000) is known for his brief, atonal plays, usually about the dead, numbed center of everyday life, about a Beckettian existential despair. (In fact, the soldiers’ endless querying and emotional detachment is very Waiting for Godot.) People Without History fits neatly into the Maxwell oeuvre, albeit in a historical context. It’s best not to get too caught up in the actions or the meaning of the play, because you’ll leave feeling slightly confused and empty. Instead, enjoy the subtle arrhythmic poetry of Maxwell’s dialogue, the centerpiece of all his plays.
Written by Richard Maxwell
Directed by Brian Mendes
With Tory Vasquez (Alice), Rafael Sanchez (Anonymous), Bob Feldman (Blunt), Tom King (Owain), Alex Delinois (Sheriff), Jim Fletcher (Rhobert) and Pete Simpson (Mendace)
Design: Lara Furniss
Running Time: 90 minutes with no intermission
New York City Players at The Performing Garage, 33 Wooster Street; 212-479-0808
Tickets $20
Thursday through Sunday, 8 pm
March 19 – April 5, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Oxtail ragu
This weekend I spent most of Sunday cooking, because I could and because I needed the release. Cooking is one of the few activities that unilaterally takes me out of my brain; banging around in the kitchen for a few hours is relaxing because I can only think about what it is that I'm doing. Everything else just falls away.
So in an ode to what I hope are the last gasps of winter, I made an oxtail ragu. It was sort of an on-the-fly recipe; first I seared the oxtails on all sides, then took those out and added some really nice, really thick chopped bacon. Then I added onions, garlic, celery and carrots; deglazed that with some white wine (Yellowtail Chardonnay, because I was trying to get rid of it), put the oxtails back in, added two large cans of fire-roasted whole tomatoes, most of a can of leftover tomato sauce, bay leaves, and assorted spices. Oh, and some pork broth. After letting it simmer down for about 4 hours, I took the oxtails out, let them cool, then shredded the meat off the bone and added it back in.
My original plan was for gnocchi; but for some reason, they fell apart in the boiling stage. So I threw a box of pasta into the ragu instead.
So in an ode to what I hope are the last gasps of winter, I made an oxtail ragu. It was sort of an on-the-fly recipe; first I seared the oxtails on all sides, then took those out and added some really nice, really thick chopped bacon. Then I added onions, garlic, celery and carrots; deglazed that with some white wine (Yellowtail Chardonnay, because I was trying to get rid of it), put the oxtails back in, added two large cans of fire-roasted whole tomatoes, most of a can of leftover tomato sauce, bay leaves, and assorted spices. Oh, and some pork broth. After letting it simmer down for about 4 hours, I took the oxtails out, let them cool, then shredded the meat off the bone and added it back in.
My original plan was for gnocchi; but for some reason, they fell apart in the boiling stage. So I threw a box of pasta into the ragu instead.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Pinot Noir "Dance Off" at Cru
Last night was the much-anticipated pinot noir tasting at Cru. I can definitively say that I got my $295 worth. Naturally, the wine I liked best was the most expensive one, at $400 a bottle. Good taste is a curse.
It was a full five-course seated meal (with Krug grand cru champagne to start), with four different wines at each course, tasted blind--one from Copain (2006), one other California cult pinot noir, and two Burgundy premier crus (2002). Cru's grand sommelier and Wells Guthrie, the winemaker for Copain in Sonoma Valley, hosted the evening. They were tasting blind as well, and the comments after each course got pretty lively. The crowd was about what I expected--mostly male, mostly older, mostly wine snobs. Those that weren't professional wine geeks were lawyers or i-bankers. Compared to these people, I knew absolutely nothing about wine. And trust me, when I declared my exposure to French wines had been limited and that really I actually liked the California wines better, I got The Look. You know, the "I can't believe you're so uneducated and low-class as to admit that in public" look. Honestly, I didn't care. I got just as happily drunk as everyone else, and my favorite wine of the evening ended up being everyone's favorite wine of the evening, so no harm no foul.
I would have happily drunk a bottle of any of the wines, but it was interesting to compare them against each other and against the food. The ones that were best to drink alone, the ones that went best with the foie gras/lobster/cheese/whatever, the ones that opened up right away and the ones that took longer to open. My tasting notes got rather more prosaic the more wine I drank ("Awesome!!!").
The full menu, with wines tasted and my own tasting notes after each, was:
Amuse Bouche: Foie Gras
LOBSTER
Red Wine Braised Fennel / Brioche Foam / Pistachio
A1. Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses Mugnier 2002 (licorice)
A2. Copain Pinot Noir Kiser Bas 2006 (hints of strawberry)
A3. Aubert Pinot Noir Reuling 2005 (went surprising well with lobster)
A4. Chambolle Musigny Cras Roumier, G. 2002 (blueberry)
GNOCCHI
Oxtail Sauce / Smoked Pecorino / Truffle Butter
B1. Volnay Mitans Montille 2002
B2. Marcassin Pinot Noir Marcassin 2002 (big)
B3. Copain Pinot Noir Wentzel 2006 (big, spicier)
B4. Volnay Clos des Chenes Lafarge 2002
DUCK BREAST
Sunchoke / Farro / Arugula
C1. Copain Pinot Noir Monument Tree 2006 (hints of cherry)
C2. Gevrey Chambertin Clos St Jacques Rousseau 2002 (yum, yum, yum)
C3. Gevrey Chambertin Corbeaux Bachelet 2002 (smoky)
C4. Michael, P. Pinot Noir Moulin Rouge 2004 (tasted like bourbon)
LAMB LOIN
Eggplant / Sweetbreads / Preserved Lemon
D1. Kosta Browne Pinot Noir Russian River 2006
D2. Copain Pinot Noir Kiser Haut 2006 (fruity)
D3. Vusne Romanee Malconsorts Cathiard 2002 (best with cheese)
D4. Vosne Romanee Brulees Engel 2002
CHEESE
Bolded wines were my faves. My palate is decidedly "New World"; I like the dense, jammy fruit bombs that California and Australia do in spades, but which wine snobs tend to deride as lacking in finesse and structure. French and Old World European wines have great structure, but can taste thin and timid. The Gevrey Chambertin Clos St Jacques was the crowd favorite, and my top pick of the night; it bridged the Old and New Worlds nicely--it had depth and polish, but plenty of fruit. It was lush, fruity, aromatic, and it just kept opening up. Unfortunately it retails for about $400--when you can find it. The Copains run about $60 a bottle. I'm starting a "Great Wines I Must Buy and Drink Someday" list, and the Clos St Jacques goes on it. Also on there are Chateau Valandraud, Penfolds Grange, Joseph Phelps Insignia, Chateau Y'quem, most of the wines I drank in Italy, and other $100+ bottles.
It was a full five-course seated meal (with Krug grand cru champagne to start), with four different wines at each course, tasted blind--one from Copain (2006), one other California cult pinot noir, and two Burgundy premier crus (2002). Cru's grand sommelier and Wells Guthrie, the winemaker for Copain in Sonoma Valley, hosted the evening. They were tasting blind as well, and the comments after each course got pretty lively. The crowd was about what I expected--mostly male, mostly older, mostly wine snobs. Those that weren't professional wine geeks were lawyers or i-bankers. Compared to these people, I knew absolutely nothing about wine. And trust me, when I declared my exposure to French wines had been limited and that really I actually liked the California wines better, I got The Look. You know, the "I can't believe you're so uneducated and low-class as to admit that in public" look. Honestly, I didn't care. I got just as happily drunk as everyone else, and my favorite wine of the evening ended up being everyone's favorite wine of the evening, so no harm no foul.
I would have happily drunk a bottle of any of the wines, but it was interesting to compare them against each other and against the food. The ones that were best to drink alone, the ones that went best with the foie gras/lobster/cheese/whatever, the ones that opened up right away and the ones that took longer to open. My tasting notes got rather more prosaic the more wine I drank ("Awesome!!!").
The full menu, with wines tasted and my own tasting notes after each, was:
Amuse Bouche: Foie Gras
LOBSTER
Red Wine Braised Fennel / Brioche Foam / Pistachio
A1. Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses Mugnier 2002 (licorice)
A2. Copain Pinot Noir Kiser Bas 2006 (hints of strawberry)
A3. Aubert Pinot Noir Reuling 2005 (went surprising well with lobster)
A4. Chambolle Musigny Cras Roumier, G. 2002 (blueberry)
GNOCCHI
Oxtail Sauce / Smoked Pecorino / Truffle Butter
B1. Volnay Mitans Montille 2002
B2. Marcassin Pinot Noir Marcassin 2002 (big)
B3. Copain Pinot Noir Wentzel 2006 (big, spicier)
B4. Volnay Clos des Chenes Lafarge 2002
DUCK BREAST
Sunchoke / Farro / Arugula
C1. Copain Pinot Noir Monument Tree 2006 (hints of cherry)
C2. Gevrey Chambertin Clos St Jacques Rousseau 2002 (yum, yum, yum)
C3. Gevrey Chambertin Corbeaux Bachelet 2002 (smoky)
C4. Michael, P. Pinot Noir Moulin Rouge 2004 (tasted like bourbon)
LAMB LOIN
Eggplant / Sweetbreads / Preserved Lemon
D1. Kosta Browne Pinot Noir Russian River 2006
D2. Copain Pinot Noir Kiser Haut 2006 (fruity)
D3. Vusne Romanee Malconsorts Cathiard 2002 (best with cheese)
D4. Vosne Romanee Brulees Engel 2002
CHEESE
Bolded wines were my faves. My palate is decidedly "New World"; I like the dense, jammy fruit bombs that California and Australia do in spades, but which wine snobs tend to deride as lacking in finesse and structure. French and Old World European wines have great structure, but can taste thin and timid. The Gevrey Chambertin Clos St Jacques was the crowd favorite, and my top pick of the night; it bridged the Old and New Worlds nicely--it had depth and polish, but plenty of fruit. It was lush, fruity, aromatic, and it just kept opening up. Unfortunately it retails for about $400--when you can find it. The Copains run about $60 a bottle. I'm starting a "Great Wines I Must Buy and Drink Someday" list, and the Clos St Jacques goes on it. Also on there are Chateau Valandraud, Penfolds Grange, Joseph Phelps Insignia, Chateau Y'quem, most of the wines I drank in Italy, and other $100+ bottles.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Theatre review: 1984
“They’ll shoot me I don’t care down with Big Brother. Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death.”
--Winston Smith
1984 has been turned into a play a number of times, and at least once into a movie. I’m pretty sure this is the first production of it I’ve seen, although several years ago I reviewed Animal Farm as part of The Orwell Project. Godlight Theatre Company’s production of 1984 is best when it’s simplest. The chemistry between Winston and Julia in their love scenes and Winston’s brutal interrogation and subsequent betrayal are the core of this adaptation of Orwell’s famous novel. Unfortunately, the rest of the piece lags, bogged down by too many actors, scenes and sound effects.
I almost wish they’d skipped the first part of the story; 1984 seems so ubiquitous by now, it’s hard to imagine there are people who need the backstory. Winston Smith is Joe Average, an Everyman trapped in a soulless dystopian future. Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength run the slogans. Human emotion has been almost crushed out of existence, but Winston is determined to harbor some small shred of humanity. He begins an illicit love affair, starts a diary, tries to seek out like-minded citizens who also hate Big Brother. Unfortunately, his efforts come to a vicious and sudden stop; the authorities arrest him and, not satisfied with mere torture, are determined to completely reprogram his traitorous brain.
The production, while visually appealing, is almost too crowded for the tiny space at 59E59. The four women, who play the omnipresent Telescreens (used to spy on the populace), move around the playing square and station themselves at the four corners, thereby breaking the stage’s continuity. An actual screen would have more effective. There are short scenes to introduce various secondary characters, which break up the central Winston/Julia arc, and the lighting and sound effects—while innovative and completely in tune with the spirit of the play—often overpower the human element. An apt metaphor, I realize, but still distracting.
Again, the piece is best when it’s simplest. When the production is stripped of the extra people, the extra effects, and it’s just two people in a cramped space, attempting to connect on any human level—well, that’s the metaphor that counts. Gregory Konow as Winston and Enid Cortes as Julia have a simple and lovely chemistry onstage. Dustin Olsen as O’Brien is the other standout; his torture scene with Winston is far more effective, and powerful, than all the narrative and backstory leading up to it. In fact, the message of the novel and the play can be derived from that one scene alone. Torture scenes are obviously difficult, especially now, with all the talk of waterboarding in the news. But this particular torture scene is well-balanced; emotionally compelling without being graphic. The two men never even touch.
I realize cutting the backstory from a play that runs 85 minutes is a little extreme. But the directorial business became too distracting during the narrative scenes. Too many characters, too much of an effort to compress a lot of information into the smallest possible amount of time. But these are small quibbles for what is ultimately an accurate rendering of the novel’s spirit.
Based on the novel by George Orwell
Adapted by Alan Lyddiard
Directed by Joe Tantalo
With Gregory Konow (Winston Smith), Dustin Olson (O’Brien), Enid Cortes (Julia), Aaron Paternoster (Syme), Nick Pagliano (Parsons), Michael Tranzilli (Charrington), Michael Shimkin (Goldstein), and Deanna McGovern, Katherine Boynton, Sammy Tunis and Scarlett Thiele as the Telescreens
Original Music and Sound Design: Andrew Recinos
Production Design: Maruti Evans
Choreographer: Hachi Yu
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
Godlight Theatre Company, 59E59, 59 East 59th Street; 212-279-4200
Tickets $25
Tuesday 7:30 pm, Wednesday through Friday at 8:30 pm, Saturday 2:30 and 8:30 pm, Sunday 3:30 pm
March 13 – April 19, 2009
--Winston Smith
1984 has been turned into a play a number of times, and at least once into a movie. I’m pretty sure this is the first production of it I’ve seen, although several years ago I reviewed Animal Farm as part of The Orwell Project. Godlight Theatre Company’s production of 1984 is best when it’s simplest. The chemistry between Winston and Julia in their love scenes and Winston’s brutal interrogation and subsequent betrayal are the core of this adaptation of Orwell’s famous novel. Unfortunately, the rest of the piece lags, bogged down by too many actors, scenes and sound effects.
I almost wish they’d skipped the first part of the story; 1984 seems so ubiquitous by now, it’s hard to imagine there are people who need the backstory. Winston Smith is Joe Average, an Everyman trapped in a soulless dystopian future. Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength run the slogans. Human emotion has been almost crushed out of existence, but Winston is determined to harbor some small shred of humanity. He begins an illicit love affair, starts a diary, tries to seek out like-minded citizens who also hate Big Brother. Unfortunately, his efforts come to a vicious and sudden stop; the authorities arrest him and, not satisfied with mere torture, are determined to completely reprogram his traitorous brain.
The production, while visually appealing, is almost too crowded for the tiny space at 59E59. The four women, who play the omnipresent Telescreens (used to spy on the populace), move around the playing square and station themselves at the four corners, thereby breaking the stage’s continuity. An actual screen would have more effective. There are short scenes to introduce various secondary characters, which break up the central Winston/Julia arc, and the lighting and sound effects—while innovative and completely in tune with the spirit of the play—often overpower the human element. An apt metaphor, I realize, but still distracting.
Again, the piece is best when it’s simplest. When the production is stripped of the extra people, the extra effects, and it’s just two people in a cramped space, attempting to connect on any human level—well, that’s the metaphor that counts. Gregory Konow as Winston and Enid Cortes as Julia have a simple and lovely chemistry onstage. Dustin Olsen as O’Brien is the other standout; his torture scene with Winston is far more effective, and powerful, than all the narrative and backstory leading up to it. In fact, the message of the novel and the play can be derived from that one scene alone. Torture scenes are obviously difficult, especially now, with all the talk of waterboarding in the news. But this particular torture scene is well-balanced; emotionally compelling without being graphic. The two men never even touch.
I realize cutting the backstory from a play that runs 85 minutes is a little extreme. But the directorial business became too distracting during the narrative scenes. Too many characters, too much of an effort to compress a lot of information into the smallest possible amount of time. But these are small quibbles for what is ultimately an accurate rendering of the novel’s spirit.
Based on the novel by George Orwell
Adapted by Alan Lyddiard
Directed by Joe Tantalo
With Gregory Konow (Winston Smith), Dustin Olson (O’Brien), Enid Cortes (Julia), Aaron Paternoster (Syme), Nick Pagliano (Parsons), Michael Tranzilli (Charrington), Michael Shimkin (Goldstein), and Deanna McGovern, Katherine Boynton, Sammy Tunis and Scarlett Thiele as the Telescreens
Original Music and Sound Design: Andrew Recinos
Production Design: Maruti Evans
Choreographer: Hachi Yu
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
Godlight Theatre Company, 59E59, 59 East 59th Street; 212-279-4200
Tickets $25
Tuesday 7:30 pm, Wednesday through Friday at 8:30 pm, Saturday 2:30 and 8:30 pm, Sunday 3:30 pm
March 13 – April 19, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Theatre review: Rambo Solo
You don’t have to be a fan of the Rambo movies or of Sylvester Stallone to enjoy Rambo Solo, but it certainly helps.
Rambo Solo is a one-man homage to Rambo: First Blood, the movie adaptation of the pulp novel starring Stallone. You never knew there was a novel version, did you? Neither did Zachary Oberzan’s character, until he fell in love with the movie as an eleven-year-old and subsequently discovered the paperback in his local grocery store. He promptly fell in love with it, beginning a life-long obsession with the story.
Oberzan describes the events of the book, as compared to the events and depictions in the movie, in an eerily accurate Stallone impression. Backing him are three separate movie screens, each showing a very slightly different filming of Oberzan relaying the same words and actions in his 220-square-foot Manhattan loft studio. Most of the charm in this piece derives from the dichotomy between live Oberzan and filmed Oberzan (times three); each movie version has him with slightly different facial hair, with slightly different movements, with slightly different timing; turning on a light, for example, might have a one-second delay across the three screens. To keep up with the various home movies, he takes his cues from an earpiece.
It’s a literal blow-by-blow retelling of the story, complete with many vacant pauses—the “uh”s and “um”s and “you know”s are some of the funniest moments, as you can almost see Oberzan’s fanatic fan brain whirring along at high speed, often getting ahead of his tongue. Only a true fanatic would find value in telling us the entire story of Rambo, and his fan love is evident and abundant. Overall, it’s whimsical, with several moments of unrestrained laughter. It does drag a bit between the laugh-out-loud sections. The best part came at the very end, with a fake movie trailer for Oberzan’s very real movie homage, entitled Flooding With Love for the Kid (taken from the last line of the book)—DVDs are available after the show for $10. In the film, he plays all the characters, complete with costumes and fake moustaches, and shoots the entire story again within the confines of his 220-square-foot studio—a sort of extended version of the one-man show. Only, you know, not a soliloquy.
Like most plays, it would be better if it were shorter. Brevity is the soul of wit, after all, and Oberzan’s doofy characterization begins to wear thin after the first hour. At this point, a shared enthusiasm for Rambo would come in handy. The seating is not the most comfortable, either—audience seating for this is on pillows, scattered across a thick shag rug (a few chairs are available if needed), so dress appropriately. But Peter Nigrini’s design and video are first-rate, as are co-directors Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper, and SoHo Rep’s familiar layout has been completely turned around in a very amusing way. Nature Theater of Oklahoma is one of New York’s hottest avant-garde troupes, and this is a one-of-a-kind show—and believe me, that phrase is hard to come by in New York theater.
Conceived and directed by Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper
Featuring Zachary Oberzan
Design and Video: Peter Nigrini
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
SoHo Rep, 46 Walker Street; 212-352-3101
Tickets $25
Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday at 7:30 pm; no performance on Sunday, March 22
March 19 – April 12, 2009
Rambo Solo is a one-man homage to Rambo: First Blood, the movie adaptation of the pulp novel starring Stallone. You never knew there was a novel version, did you? Neither did Zachary Oberzan’s character, until he fell in love with the movie as an eleven-year-old and subsequently discovered the paperback in his local grocery store. He promptly fell in love with it, beginning a life-long obsession with the story.
Oberzan describes the events of the book, as compared to the events and depictions in the movie, in an eerily accurate Stallone impression. Backing him are three separate movie screens, each showing a very slightly different filming of Oberzan relaying the same words and actions in his 220-square-foot Manhattan loft studio. Most of the charm in this piece derives from the dichotomy between live Oberzan and filmed Oberzan (times three); each movie version has him with slightly different facial hair, with slightly different movements, with slightly different timing; turning on a light, for example, might have a one-second delay across the three screens. To keep up with the various home movies, he takes his cues from an earpiece.
It’s a literal blow-by-blow retelling of the story, complete with many vacant pauses—the “uh”s and “um”s and “you know”s are some of the funniest moments, as you can almost see Oberzan’s fanatic fan brain whirring along at high speed, often getting ahead of his tongue. Only a true fanatic would find value in telling us the entire story of Rambo, and his fan love is evident and abundant. Overall, it’s whimsical, with several moments of unrestrained laughter. It does drag a bit between the laugh-out-loud sections. The best part came at the very end, with a fake movie trailer for Oberzan’s very real movie homage, entitled Flooding With Love for the Kid (taken from the last line of the book)—DVDs are available after the show for $10. In the film, he plays all the characters, complete with costumes and fake moustaches, and shoots the entire story again within the confines of his 220-square-foot studio—a sort of extended version of the one-man show. Only, you know, not a soliloquy.
Like most plays, it would be better if it were shorter. Brevity is the soul of wit, after all, and Oberzan’s doofy characterization begins to wear thin after the first hour. At this point, a shared enthusiasm for Rambo would come in handy. The seating is not the most comfortable, either—audience seating for this is on pillows, scattered across a thick shag rug (a few chairs are available if needed), so dress appropriately. But Peter Nigrini’s design and video are first-rate, as are co-directors Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper, and SoHo Rep’s familiar layout has been completely turned around in a very amusing way. Nature Theater of Oklahoma is one of New York’s hottest avant-garde troupes, and this is a one-of-a-kind show—and believe me, that phrase is hard to come by in New York theater.
Conceived and directed by Pavol Liska and Kelly Copper
Featuring Zachary Oberzan
Design and Video: Peter Nigrini
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
SoHo Rep, 46 Walker Street; 212-352-3101
Tickets $25
Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday at 7:30 pm; no performance on Sunday, March 22
March 19 – April 12, 2009
Work is crazy
...as you might have deduced, given the date of my last post. The money is great, but working ten to twelve-hour days, every day, sucks. Essentially I have no more life during the week, which is why I had to cancel my Momofuku Ko reservation last week. It killed me to do it, but there was a bit of office chatter about how I wasn't staying late enough. Staying later was the political thing to do. Besides, I'd rather spend my money at the Cru wine tasting tomorrow, which I'm definitely going to, never fear.
Otherwise I don't have much to report. Work, work, more work. I spent the weekend recuperating both from that and from my sister's visit last weekend. That was great, but I slept on the sofa the whole time and so I was very happy to get my bed back. I discovered the existence of the Virginia Pork Festival in June--how I managed to miss that for 33 years is beyond me--and promptly booked a plane ticket home. I'm also headed back to the single world. The most recent interest is good on paper, but I just can't get into it and my head is in a completely different place right now anyway. However, I hope to practice my flirting skills at tomorrow night's wine event. I'm certainly not getting any practice anywhere else right now.
Otherwise I don't have much to report. Work, work, more work. I spent the weekend recuperating both from that and from my sister's visit last weekend. That was great, but I slept on the sofa the whole time and so I was very happy to get my bed back. I discovered the existence of the Virginia Pork Festival in June--how I managed to miss that for 33 years is beyond me--and promptly booked a plane ticket home. I'm also headed back to the single world. The most recent interest is good on paper, but I just can't get into it and my head is in a completely different place right now anyway. However, I hope to practice my flirting skills at tomorrow night's wine event. I'm certainly not getting any practice anywhere else right now.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Great meals on the horizon
My newfound financial largesse has spawned two very exciting reservations: one for Momofuku Ko on Tuesday, and another for a cult pinot noir tasting and dinner at Cru on the 24th.
If you're a foodie, you know reservations at Momofuku Ko are nigh-impossible, and designed to be as labor-intensive and as frustrating as possible. There's no phone number, no email, and no walk-ins allowed; instead, you log onto their website at 9:59 AM, click the button frantically at 10 AM, and pray to the restaurant gods that your particular click beats out 49 million other frantic clicks. All available reservations are gone by 10:00:02. They only seat 12, only take reservations one week in advance, and allow no parties bigger than four. Somehow, after many months of haphazard clicking, the restaurant gods allowed me in for this coming Tuesday. And yes, reviews say the food is well worth the hassle of making a reservation.
I've also reserved a spot at Cru's upcoming pinot noir dinner, hosting by Wells Guthrie from the Copain winery in California. For an all-inclusive $295, I get dinner at Cru plus tastings of all these truly great pinot noirs; to wit:
Wells Guthrie’s wines from Copain: 'Cerise' 2006; 'Monument Tree' 2006; 'Wentzel' 2006; and 'Kiser en Haut' 2006
The rare and “cult” Pinot Noirs:
Marcassin 'Marcassin Vineyard' 2002
Kosta Browne 'Russian River Cuvee' 2006
Peter Michael 'Moulin Rouge' 2004
Aubert 'Reuling' 2005
The great domaines of Burgundy, all premier cru from 2002:
Gevrey Chambertin 'Clos St Jacques' Domaine Armand Rousseau 2002
Gevrey Chambertin 'Corbeaux' Domaine Bachelet 2002
Chambolle Musigny ' Les Cras' Domaine Georges Roumier 2002
Chambolle Musigny 'Amoureuses' Domaine JF Mugnier 2002
Vosne Romanée 'Malconsorts' Domaine Cathiard 2002
Vosne Romanée 'Brûlées' Domaine Engel 2002
Volnay 'Mitans' Domaine de Montille 2002
Volnay 'Clos des Chênes' Domaine Michel Lafarge 2002
Many of these bottles cost $400 to $500 per, IF you can find them. I consider $300 all-in to be kind of a deal, actually. It comes brilliantly timed after Eric Asimov's article on pinot noirs in the Times this week. Stay tuned for full details.
In a semi-related but completely random note, I recently discovered I have carnal knowledge of the host of Travel Channel's "Man vs. Food" (although it was so long ago I'm not even sure it counts anymore). How do I get a job like that?
If you're a foodie, you know reservations at Momofuku Ko are nigh-impossible, and designed to be as labor-intensive and as frustrating as possible. There's no phone number, no email, and no walk-ins allowed; instead, you log onto their website at 9:59 AM, click the button frantically at 10 AM, and pray to the restaurant gods that your particular click beats out 49 million other frantic clicks. All available reservations are gone by 10:00:02. They only seat 12, only take reservations one week in advance, and allow no parties bigger than four. Somehow, after many months of haphazard clicking, the restaurant gods allowed me in for this coming Tuesday. And yes, reviews say the food is well worth the hassle of making a reservation.
I've also reserved a spot at Cru's upcoming pinot noir dinner, hosting by Wells Guthrie from the Copain winery in California. For an all-inclusive $295, I get dinner at Cru plus tastings of all these truly great pinot noirs; to wit:
Wells Guthrie’s wines from Copain: 'Cerise' 2006; 'Monument Tree' 2006; 'Wentzel' 2006; and 'Kiser en Haut' 2006
The rare and “cult” Pinot Noirs:
Marcassin 'Marcassin Vineyard' 2002
Kosta Browne 'Russian River Cuvee' 2006
Peter Michael 'Moulin Rouge' 2004
Aubert 'Reuling' 2005
The great domaines of Burgundy, all premier cru from 2002:
Gevrey Chambertin 'Clos St Jacques' Domaine Armand Rousseau 2002
Gevrey Chambertin 'Corbeaux' Domaine Bachelet 2002
Chambolle Musigny ' Les Cras' Domaine Georges Roumier 2002
Chambolle Musigny 'Amoureuses' Domaine JF Mugnier 2002
Vosne Romanée 'Malconsorts' Domaine Cathiard 2002
Vosne Romanée 'Brûlées' Domaine Engel 2002
Volnay 'Mitans' Domaine de Montille 2002
Volnay 'Clos des Chênes' Domaine Michel Lafarge 2002
Many of these bottles cost $400 to $500 per, IF you can find them. I consider $300 all-in to be kind of a deal, actually. It comes brilliantly timed after Eric Asimov's article on pinot noirs in the Times this week. Stay tuned for full details.
In a semi-related but completely random note, I recently discovered I have carnal knowledge of the host of Travel Channel's "Man vs. Food" (although it was so long ago I'm not even sure it counts anymore). How do I get a job like that?
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Wild Shad Roe
Last night I finally got around to making the wild shad roe I'd purchased over the weekend. Wild shad roe is a seasonal delicacy, usually available at the very beginning of spring on the East Coast. I'd never had it before, much less cooked it before, but it turned out pretty well. Its appearance is a bit off-putting; two membranous lobes filled with billions of fish eggs. I delicately sauteed it in some butter, flipped it carefully, then added a couple of strips of bacon for good measure and finished it in the oven for a few minutes. I served it over a bed of arugula with lots of lemon and salt and pepper. It was pretty good, not fishy or caviar-y as you might expect--more like a fish steak, with a slight consistency of liver.
Although I wonder if I liked it only because it was essentially a butter and bacon delivery system.
Although I wonder if I liked it only because it was essentially a butter and bacon delivery system.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Spaghetti with Wild Boar Sausage and Rock Shrimp
One of my better recent inventions.
spaghetti
onion and garlic
1 cured wild boar sausage from Stinky Bklyn, chopped
1 pound fresh wild rock shrimp
1 big can whole tomatoes
seasonings
Cook spaghetti to just al dente. Soften one chopped onion and some garlic in good olive oil, then add chopped wild boar sausage. Cook for a couple minutes, add one big can whole tomatoes. Add dried red pepper flakes and appropriate herbs (I used a couple tablespoons of the "Italian Seasoning" mix from Sam's Club. Good all-purpose stuff) and good salt. Cook down, then add rock shrimp and cook until just opaque, maybe 1-2 minutes. Turn off heat, add spaghetti, mix well, and serve immediately with freshly grated parm and more good salt.
spaghetti
onion and garlic
1 cured wild boar sausage from Stinky Bklyn, chopped
1 pound fresh wild rock shrimp
1 big can whole tomatoes
seasonings
Cook spaghetti to just al dente. Soften one chopped onion and some garlic in good olive oil, then add chopped wild boar sausage. Cook for a couple minutes, add one big can whole tomatoes. Add dried red pepper flakes and appropriate herbs (I used a couple tablespoons of the "Italian Seasoning" mix from Sam's Club. Good all-purpose stuff) and good salt. Cook down, then add rock shrimp and cook until just opaque, maybe 1-2 minutes. Turn off heat, add spaghetti, mix well, and serve immediately with freshly grated parm and more good salt.
Too Old for Clubbing
I realized two things this weekend. #1, I'm officially too old for clubbing. And #2, I like my own cooking better than at least 50% of the restaurants I go to.
On Saturday, I went out with a friend of mine to distract her from her dismal work situation. We met for a play, then grabbed some dinner on the way to one of New York's hottest (supposedly) nightclubs, Cain. After wandering through the Village in search of dinner after the play, we settled on Barbuto in the Meatpacking District, just up the street from Tortilla Flats--which, naturally, was packed to the gills. My goat cheese ravioli was underdone and her gnocchi was overdone, leaving me to opine out loud that my homemade ravioli and gnocchi were far superior. And, at $24 a plate, far cheaper. It used to be that me thinking "I could cook better than this" was precipitated only by a truly dismal restaurant experience. I mean, isn't that the point of going out to eat? To get something better than you'd have at home? But either my palate is refining or my cooking skills are improving (or both), because now I think "I could cook better than this" at least half the time. The other half of the time I think, "I should try to cook this, this is good/interesting/innovative." Perhaps this is a sign from God that I should actually start that underground restaurant/secret supper club I've been talking about.
Then we proceeded to Cain, which was exactly what I expected--crowded, noisy, completely overpriced and full of trashy B&T wannabes. The music was deafening, the flashing lights were seizure-inducing, and the drinks were $15 each, but the people watching was really amusing. We had a great time making fun of everyone. The women were, uniformly, 23 to 26 and dressed in designer shoes and teeny dresses. The men were, uniformly, either 24-year-old investment bankers just off work, trying to pick up women by getting $400 bottle service, or members of the Russian mafia, trying to pick up women by getting $400 bottle service. Everyone was drinking either shots of Patron or vodka and Red Bull. Oh wait--one of the frat boys who bribed the doormen in order to get in may have been drinking a Corona. During my debilitating hangover the next day, I determined that yes, in fact, I am too old for clubbing, and that I'm also too old to have that kind of hangover for no good reason. I'm not so naive as to think I'll never be hungover again, but next time it better be for a really epic cause, not just because I happened to go out on a Saturday night.
Then again, my sister and her husband are visiting this weekend, and her only must-do New York item is to go to Hogs & Heifers. So my no-hangover-except-for-a-good-reason rule may be shortlived.
On Saturday, I went out with a friend of mine to distract her from her dismal work situation. We met for a play, then grabbed some dinner on the way to one of New York's hottest (supposedly) nightclubs, Cain. After wandering through the Village in search of dinner after the play, we settled on Barbuto in the Meatpacking District, just up the street from Tortilla Flats--which, naturally, was packed to the gills. My goat cheese ravioli was underdone and her gnocchi was overdone, leaving me to opine out loud that my homemade ravioli and gnocchi were far superior. And, at $24 a plate, far cheaper. It used to be that me thinking "I could cook better than this" was precipitated only by a truly dismal restaurant experience. I mean, isn't that the point of going out to eat? To get something better than you'd have at home? But either my palate is refining or my cooking skills are improving (or both), because now I think "I could cook better than this" at least half the time. The other half of the time I think, "I should try to cook this, this is good/interesting/innovative." Perhaps this is a sign from God that I should actually start that underground restaurant/secret supper club I've been talking about.
Then we proceeded to Cain, which was exactly what I expected--crowded, noisy, completely overpriced and full of trashy B&T wannabes. The music was deafening, the flashing lights were seizure-inducing, and the drinks were $15 each, but the people watching was really amusing. We had a great time making fun of everyone. The women were, uniformly, 23 to 26 and dressed in designer shoes and teeny dresses. The men were, uniformly, either 24-year-old investment bankers just off work, trying to pick up women by getting $400 bottle service, or members of the Russian mafia, trying to pick up women by getting $400 bottle service. Everyone was drinking either shots of Patron or vodka and Red Bull. Oh wait--one of the frat boys who bribed the doormen in order to get in may have been drinking a Corona. During my debilitating hangover the next day, I determined that yes, in fact, I am too old for clubbing, and that I'm also too old to have that kind of hangover for no good reason. I'm not so naive as to think I'll never be hungover again, but next time it better be for a really epic cause, not just because I happened to go out on a Saturday night.
Then again, my sister and her husband are visiting this weekend, and her only must-do New York item is to go to Hogs & Heifers. So my no-hangover-except-for-a-good-reason rule may be shortlived.
Theatre review: The Unseen
Valdez: “Is this what you think about when we're not talking?”
Wallace: “No, this is what I think about when you're talking.”
The Unseen is a Kafkaesque (and, one imagines, Guantanamo-esque) drama, set in an unnamed political prison. Two prisoners, Wallace and Valdez, are daily and systematically beaten and tortured. They’ve been there for ten years, held without being charged with any crime. They have no valuable information to offer, and indeed, the guards stopped asking them for information years ago, simply torturing them and then sending them back to their respective cells. Their sole comfort in life is talking to each other through the wall; they’ve never laid eyes on each other, or for that matter, on anyone in the prison other than the aptly-named guard, Smash.
Wallace and Valdez manage to keep from going insane by weaving elaborate fantasies and speculating as to the actual nature of the prison. How is it constructed? How many other people are being held prisoner? Is there a third prisoner in the cell between theirs? Smash has his own spiritual and psychological issues with the regular cycle of pain and torture, though he is more immune to it than he thinks. Ultimately his feeble conscience wins out, enabling a meeting for Wallace and Valdez in a completely unexpected way.
The small cast does an excellent job, especially Thomas Ward as Smash. He has just enough doubt and fear to be dangerous; any less, and he’d be a soulless automaton. His brutal physicality, full of yelling and stomping and spitting, is the perfect backdrop for his limited sort of moral exploration. Sarah Brown’s set is somewhat loftier than you’d expect for a prison, but still a fine embodiment of the endless twists and turns Wright mentions.
My only quibble with the production is that it is far more concerned with the particularities of daily prison life than the subject matter would suggest. Kafka’s The Castle, for instance, worked largely because there were no particularities—the lack of detail, of specificity, both made the tale more maddening and more universal, because any regime/government/bureaucracy could be seen to fit. The same holds true for other existential works, like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. The Unseen has that same maddening lack of specificity; we don’t know any more about the prisoners’ crimes or fates than they know. But director Lisa Denman has chosen to highlight the few details that exist in the prison—the seemingly random buzzers, the tin plates and spoons, the lighting, the pattern of stonework, the bloody work that precedes Smash’s inarticulate rage. The actors, too, channel their search for detail into Wright’s precise language; trapped as the characters are, the actors aren’t able to explore any range of motion, other than Wallace’s fiddling with random scrounged objects and Valdez’s aimless wandering. This makes the play less a commentary on political prisoners and the corruption of power than a simple story of two men who have largely given up. It’s a fine story, to be sure, but this production lacks the broader context the script hints at.
Written by Craig Wright
Directed by Lisa Denman
With Steven Pounders (Wallace), Stan Denman (Valdez), and Thomas Ward (Smash)
Set Design: Sarah Brown
Lighting Design: Travis Watson
Costume Design: Carl Booker
Sound Design: Dustin Chaffin
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
Cherry Lane Theatre, 38 Commerce Street; 212-239-6200
Tickets $45
Tuesdays through Sunday at 8 pm, Saturdays at 2 pm, Sundays at 3 pm
March 5th – 28th, 2009
Wallace: “No, this is what I think about when you're talking.”
The Unseen is a Kafkaesque (and, one imagines, Guantanamo-esque) drama, set in an unnamed political prison. Two prisoners, Wallace and Valdez, are daily and systematically beaten and tortured. They’ve been there for ten years, held without being charged with any crime. They have no valuable information to offer, and indeed, the guards stopped asking them for information years ago, simply torturing them and then sending them back to their respective cells. Their sole comfort in life is talking to each other through the wall; they’ve never laid eyes on each other, or for that matter, on anyone in the prison other than the aptly-named guard, Smash.
Wallace and Valdez manage to keep from going insane by weaving elaborate fantasies and speculating as to the actual nature of the prison. How is it constructed? How many other people are being held prisoner? Is there a third prisoner in the cell between theirs? Smash has his own spiritual and psychological issues with the regular cycle of pain and torture, though he is more immune to it than he thinks. Ultimately his feeble conscience wins out, enabling a meeting for Wallace and Valdez in a completely unexpected way.
The small cast does an excellent job, especially Thomas Ward as Smash. He has just enough doubt and fear to be dangerous; any less, and he’d be a soulless automaton. His brutal physicality, full of yelling and stomping and spitting, is the perfect backdrop for his limited sort of moral exploration. Sarah Brown’s set is somewhat loftier than you’d expect for a prison, but still a fine embodiment of the endless twists and turns Wright mentions.
My only quibble with the production is that it is far more concerned with the particularities of daily prison life than the subject matter would suggest. Kafka’s The Castle, for instance, worked largely because there were no particularities—the lack of detail, of specificity, both made the tale more maddening and more universal, because any regime/government/bureaucracy could be seen to fit. The same holds true for other existential works, like Beckett’s Waiting for Godot. The Unseen has that same maddening lack of specificity; we don’t know any more about the prisoners’ crimes or fates than they know. But director Lisa Denman has chosen to highlight the few details that exist in the prison—the seemingly random buzzers, the tin plates and spoons, the lighting, the pattern of stonework, the bloody work that precedes Smash’s inarticulate rage. The actors, too, channel their search for detail into Wright’s precise language; trapped as the characters are, the actors aren’t able to explore any range of motion, other than Wallace’s fiddling with random scrounged objects and Valdez’s aimless wandering. This makes the play less a commentary on political prisoners and the corruption of power than a simple story of two men who have largely given up. It’s a fine story, to be sure, but this production lacks the broader context the script hints at.
Written by Craig Wright
Directed by Lisa Denman
With Steven Pounders (Wallace), Stan Denman (Valdez), and Thomas Ward (Smash)
Set Design: Sarah Brown
Lighting Design: Travis Watson
Costume Design: Carl Booker
Sound Design: Dustin Chaffin
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
Cherry Lane Theatre, 38 Commerce Street; 212-239-6200
Tickets $45
Tuesdays through Sunday at 8 pm, Saturdays at 2 pm, Sundays at 3 pm
March 5th – 28th, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Theatre review: Tales of an Urban Indian
“Choice is the only thing you never lose.”
--Simon Douglas
Tales of an Urban Indian is the story of Simon, who grew up on a reservation in central British Columbia, as told by Darrell Dennis. Stories told from a Native American standpoint are rare, it’s true, but this show feels less about a Native American coming of age than it does about anyone’s coming of age in impoverished surroundings. Replace the word “reservation” with “South Central LA” or “Appalachia” or “Detroit” and Simon’s story would still ring true.
The first part of the show covers Simon’s childhood and adolescence, growing up dirt poor while the white kids around him either ignored him or made fun of him. The second part covers his early career as an actor and drug and alcohol addiction, and his first attempts at rehab. This part of the show could be called Tales of an Addict, since his Indian heritage is no longer really an element. Strangely, for a show about assimilation, there’s a lot of stereotyping—whites are uptight, West Coast inhabitants are perpetually stoned, cockroaches speak in Mexican accents, and God is Jackie Mason. Much of it is intentional, but still.
Dennis is a sincere and heartfelt performer, and he manages to almost pull off the completely clichéd ending—in less sincere hands, it would degenerate into maudlin schmaltz. I’d love to sit down with him and hear more of his story over a cup of coffee, but the play almost feels like he’s trying to be a stand-up comedian, completely with wacky characters and impersonations. He should just be himself; he can completely charm an audience with his forthright honesty, no impersonations required.
Written and performed by Darrell Dennis
Directed by Herbie Barnes
Set Design: Beowulf Boritt
Lighting Design: Russell H. Champa
Costume Design: Fritz Masten
Sound Design: Matt Hubbs
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
The Public Theatre, 425 Lafayette Street; 212-967-7555
Tickets $10
Tuesday at 7pm; Wednesday - Friday at 8pm; Saturday at 2pm & 8pm; Sunday at 2pm & 7pm; No Performance/Unavailable: Sat 2/21 at 2pm, Sun 2/22 at 7pm
February 20 – March 15, 2009
--Simon Douglas
Tales of an Urban Indian is the story of Simon, who grew up on a reservation in central British Columbia, as told by Darrell Dennis. Stories told from a Native American standpoint are rare, it’s true, but this show feels less about a Native American coming of age than it does about anyone’s coming of age in impoverished surroundings. Replace the word “reservation” with “South Central LA” or “Appalachia” or “Detroit” and Simon’s story would still ring true.
The first part of the show covers Simon’s childhood and adolescence, growing up dirt poor while the white kids around him either ignored him or made fun of him. The second part covers his early career as an actor and drug and alcohol addiction, and his first attempts at rehab. This part of the show could be called Tales of an Addict, since his Indian heritage is no longer really an element. Strangely, for a show about assimilation, there’s a lot of stereotyping—whites are uptight, West Coast inhabitants are perpetually stoned, cockroaches speak in Mexican accents, and God is Jackie Mason. Much of it is intentional, but still.
Dennis is a sincere and heartfelt performer, and he manages to almost pull off the completely clichéd ending—in less sincere hands, it would degenerate into maudlin schmaltz. I’d love to sit down with him and hear more of his story over a cup of coffee, but the play almost feels like he’s trying to be a stand-up comedian, completely with wacky characters and impersonations. He should just be himself; he can completely charm an audience with his forthright honesty, no impersonations required.
Written and performed by Darrell Dennis
Directed by Herbie Barnes
Set Design: Beowulf Boritt
Lighting Design: Russell H. Champa
Costume Design: Fritz Masten
Sound Design: Matt Hubbs
Running Time: 85 minutes with no intermission
The Public Theatre, 425 Lafayette Street; 212-967-7555
Tickets $10
Tuesday at 7pm; Wednesday - Friday at 8pm; Saturday at 2pm & 8pm; Sunday at 2pm & 7pm; No Performance/Unavailable: Sat 2/21 at 2pm, Sun 2/22 at 7pm
February 20 – March 15, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Theatre review: Fire Throws
“I thought that was how I could control my story—to die. A martyr for a cause. But what did my sacrifice achieve?”
--Antigone
Fire Throws is not quite a dance piece and not quite a play. The players are not dancers, but actors who dance; the dance pieces are narrative where they shouldn’t be and interpretive in places that need more narrative; and there’s far too much use of the color red. It’s a very pretty piece, but ultimately it feels like a well-done senior year Juilliard project. It lacks depth, and despite the heavy use of red and orange, it also lacks any real warmth.
Adapted from Sophocles’ Antigone, Fire Throws weaves the story of the classical Antigone with her modern, 2400-year-old counterpart. The modern Antigone looks back on her story, on her younger self, and attempts to make sense of it all. Of course, in a modern setting, her story doesn’t make much sense. Martyrdom for any cause is no longer fashionable, especially for a cause like burying your brother. It’s a noble gesture, and standing up to Creon’s megalomania is admirable, but it’s hardly worth dying for, and on some level Antigone knows that—especially measured by what her life could have become. She could have been a queen, could have had children, known love. Instead she died, chained in a cave, victim of her own youthful stubbornness.
The production is a swirl of competing imagery, dances, colors and sounds. At times it is stark, with Ingmar Bergman-like black-and-white video projections and long shadows; at other times it is a riot of color and light and long red silk scarves. Again, it’s a very pretty show, and almost technically brilliant. But it ultimately felt cold to me. The characters never really came alive for me, caught as they were in their own stilted, 2400-year-old language and intricate dance pieces that failed to reveal any real information. At times it seemed the director was more concerned with the conflicting colors and shapes, the dichotomy between the dances and the video projections, than in telling a story. I don’t think Antigone came to any real epiphany about her story or her place in history, and certainly the other characters were there merely to support her own internal explorations. Perhaps Antigone just wasn’t meant to be an interpretive dance piece.
Written and directed by Rachel Dickstein
With Erica Berg, Laura Butler, Kiebpoli Calnek, John Campion, Kimiye Corwin, Juliana Francis-Kelly, Paula McGonagle, Leajato Amara Robinson, Jorge Rubio and Caesar Samayoa
Set Design: Susan Zeeman Rogers
Lighting Design: Tyler Micoleau
Costume Design: Oana Botez-Ban
Sound Design: Jane Shaw
Video and Projection Design: Maya Ciarrocchi
Running Time: 75 minutes with no intermission
3LD Art & Technology Center, 80 Greenwich Street; 212-352-3101
Tickets $25
Wednesday through Sunday at 8pm
February 18 – March 28, 2009
--Antigone
Fire Throws is not quite a dance piece and not quite a play. The players are not dancers, but actors who dance; the dance pieces are narrative where they shouldn’t be and interpretive in places that need more narrative; and there’s far too much use of the color red. It’s a very pretty piece, but ultimately it feels like a well-done senior year Juilliard project. It lacks depth, and despite the heavy use of red and orange, it also lacks any real warmth.
Adapted from Sophocles’ Antigone, Fire Throws weaves the story of the classical Antigone with her modern, 2400-year-old counterpart. The modern Antigone looks back on her story, on her younger self, and attempts to make sense of it all. Of course, in a modern setting, her story doesn’t make much sense. Martyrdom for any cause is no longer fashionable, especially for a cause like burying your brother. It’s a noble gesture, and standing up to Creon’s megalomania is admirable, but it’s hardly worth dying for, and on some level Antigone knows that—especially measured by what her life could have become. She could have been a queen, could have had children, known love. Instead she died, chained in a cave, victim of her own youthful stubbornness.
The production is a swirl of competing imagery, dances, colors and sounds. At times it is stark, with Ingmar Bergman-like black-and-white video projections and long shadows; at other times it is a riot of color and light and long red silk scarves. Again, it’s a very pretty show, and almost technically brilliant. But it ultimately felt cold to me. The characters never really came alive for me, caught as they were in their own stilted, 2400-year-old language and intricate dance pieces that failed to reveal any real information. At times it seemed the director was more concerned with the conflicting colors and shapes, the dichotomy between the dances and the video projections, than in telling a story. I don’t think Antigone came to any real epiphany about her story or her place in history, and certainly the other characters were there merely to support her own internal explorations. Perhaps Antigone just wasn’t meant to be an interpretive dance piece.
Written and directed by Rachel Dickstein
With Erica Berg, Laura Butler, Kiebpoli Calnek, John Campion, Kimiye Corwin, Juliana Francis-Kelly, Paula McGonagle, Leajato Amara Robinson, Jorge Rubio and Caesar Samayoa
Set Design: Susan Zeeman Rogers
Lighting Design: Tyler Micoleau
Costume Design: Oana Botez-Ban
Sound Design: Jane Shaw
Video and Projection Design: Maya Ciarrocchi
Running Time: 75 minutes with no intermission
3LD Art & Technology Center, 80 Greenwich Street; 212-352-3101
Tickets $25
Wednesday through Sunday at 8pm
February 18 – March 28, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Babbo
Because the universe is finally, after many long years, being nice to me (new job, new man, more money, etc.), I decided to celebrate on Friday night. In typical Jenny fashion, I took myself to Babbo, Mario Batali's flagship restaurant near Washington Square.
I'd never been, and I somehow--more evidence of the universe being nice to me--managed to snag a reservation within 24 hours of requesting one. It was exactly what I was expecting--sublime Italian food, in upscale surroundings, the perfect celebration vehicle. The only off note was the new guy; while happy to be there, I think he was just humoring me and my foodie passion. He wasn't nearly as excited about it as I was, but then again, few people would be. I don't know anyone else who would quiver while ordering grilled octopus and sweetbreads.
But order the grilled octopus and the sweetbreads I did--and the pig's foot, and the proscuitto, and the beef cheek ravioli, and the black spaghetti with salumi and rock shrimp, and the braised beef, and a $90 bottle of nebbiolo. Needless to say, I had to be rolled out of there at the end of the evening and into a cab, whereupon I promptly fell into a deep and satisfying food coma. I entered that zen-like state that (in me, anyway) can only be induced by stuffing myself to the gills on perfect food, accompanied by half a bottle of really good wine. I had aspirations of the cheese plate and the grappa tasting, but alas, even I can only eat so much. Now I have visions of returning, and eating at the bar all by myself, and dreaming happily of butter and pork fat and good wine and more grilled octopus.
Babbo, like Mario Batali, has had inconsistent reviews of late. While some people claim his menu has faltered, I found no fault with anything I ate or with the service, which was excellent. At first I feared the sommelier had recommended a too-light wine; but it opened up nicely about halfway through the pasta course. I'd much rather eat at the bar at Babbo than anywhere in Otto, his nearby pizza restaurant, which is predictably loud and crowded. The evening just reconfirmed what I discovered on Thursday night, at A Razor, A Shiny Knife: I prefer my food simple, uncomplicated by chemistry experiments, and really, really good.
I'd never been, and I somehow--more evidence of the universe being nice to me--managed to snag a reservation within 24 hours of requesting one. It was exactly what I was expecting--sublime Italian food, in upscale surroundings, the perfect celebration vehicle. The only off note was the new guy; while happy to be there, I think he was just humoring me and my foodie passion. He wasn't nearly as excited about it as I was, but then again, few people would be. I don't know anyone else who would quiver while ordering grilled octopus and sweetbreads.
But order the grilled octopus and the sweetbreads I did--and the pig's foot, and the proscuitto, and the beef cheek ravioli, and the black spaghetti with salumi and rock shrimp, and the braised beef, and a $90 bottle of nebbiolo. Needless to say, I had to be rolled out of there at the end of the evening and into a cab, whereupon I promptly fell into a deep and satisfying food coma. I entered that zen-like state that (in me, anyway) can only be induced by stuffing myself to the gills on perfect food, accompanied by half a bottle of really good wine. I had aspirations of the cheese plate and the grappa tasting, but alas, even I can only eat so much. Now I have visions of returning, and eating at the bar all by myself, and dreaming happily of butter and pork fat and good wine and more grilled octopus.
Babbo, like Mario Batali, has had inconsistent reviews of late. While some people claim his menu has faltered, I found no fault with anything I ate or with the service, which was excellent. At first I feared the sommelier had recommended a too-light wine; but it opened up nicely about halfway through the pasta course. I'd much rather eat at the bar at Babbo than anywhere in Otto, his nearby pizza restaurant, which is predictably loud and crowded. The evening just reconfirmed what I discovered on Thursday night, at A Razor, A Shiny Knife: I prefer my food simple, uncomplicated by chemistry experiments, and really, really good.
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