My Big Show Biz Comeback
The day after that I contracted a stomach flu and spent much of my agonizingly waking hours ejecting any and all foods I was careless enough to ingest.
Don’t get me wrong, though, it wasn’t all bad.
Anyone who hasn’t vomited out of the open door of a speeding car, plastering 202 with their partially digested stomach contents--whilst driving said speeding car–hasn’t lived.
Sam succumbed to the same viral onslaught. What a pair we made!
However, did this minor set-back keep us from attending the Battle of the Bands?
Indeed it did NOT!
Sam and I, with evening wear and "barf bags" replete, ventured to the Holyoke War Memorial Building for the 7th Annual Battle of the Talented Bands and Banded Talents Musical Extravaganza Show . . . part 7!
The show had its ups and downs. And while the ups mostly outnumbered the downs, it was a sad day for comedians everywhere. It seems, despite a marvelous showing last year, stand-up and sketch comedy have been abandoned as talents. Holyoke Catholic is a shining example that funny people are a lot rarer than smart ones. My friends, the show has reverted back, over the course of one year, to it’s original form of dance, sing, band, dance, sing, band. Not to say that is isn’t worth viewing. The kids of Catholic were true to form, as usual, but I longed for laughs that night. It seems no one had stepped up to take the reigns handed them by Steven, Sam, Tony, and myself.
There were a few exceptions to this. No formal zany comedy, but several acts incorporated funny into their set list. Pat Dandrea, exhibiting his naturally likeable personality, oozing effortless cool, cracked good-natured jokes in between sweetly crooning to the audience with his Barbershop friends, Adam Goddu, James Haskins, and Mike Pytka (filling in for the absent Conor McKenna.)
And the big winners, Mike Pytka’s Suicide Death wish Existence, was arguably more comedy than music. Mike and his band, Jason Frank, Pat Dandrea, and paraded about the stage in black eyeliner and lipstick, moaning and weeping. In between portions of their depressingly funny, nihilistic spiel, they would blast out such hits as Build Me Up, Buttercup, by the Foundations, and Nat "King Cole’s timeless L.O.V.E.
But I have gotten ahead of myself. Let me take you through the acts, one at a time, in order, for the sake of organization.
Starting off the evening was Brittany Ankiewicz, performing a lyrical ballet dance to Broken, by Seether and Amy Lee.
Next were the vocal stylings of the ever awesome Kate Bonci. Miss Bonci sang "Atonasette, Fisher, Quarantotto." At least, those are the three words in my program. I have not a clue as to what they signify. One a you cultured readers mind helping me clear this one up?
Kate was followed by Sarah Cox, with a rendition of "Breathe No More," by Evanesence.
Then came The Procrastinators, the first band of the night, with "Skydiving Jefferies," and another as yet untitled song.
I’d love to tell you how these were, but while they were performing, and no doubt doing very well, I was in the Plains School parking lot, vomiting up a bagel.
By the time I finally arrived at the show, Brad Sawyer’s band, Autumn’s Bitter End (which rings upon my ear more as an intriguing album or song name than a band name, but I like it anyway.) were warming up. They sang "Time Is Running Out," by Muse, "Mutt," by Blink 182, and "Holiday," by Green Day. And a more than halfway decent job they did of it, too.
Next was another lyrical dance, choreographed by Mary-Alice Dupont, and performed by Danielle Dupont, and the ever-patient Becky Gay. Becky, while currently the apple of EJ’s eye, was that night one of the most likeable performers on stage. There were numerous technical difficulties, but Becky waited them out with a smile, and showed some real dance talent when the music finally played properly. I have no concept of how difficult dancing like that is, but Becky, her lithe and lissome little frame cavorting across the stage, made it look deceptively easy.
The metal band Burning Within followed Becky’s graceful display, and they gave the audience a taste of blaring, coppery "screamo" with their renditions of Godsmack’s "Awake," and Battle of the Bands staple "For Whom the Bells Tolls," by Ernest Hemingway. I mean Metallica.
Now these fellows, and the other "screamo" band, Vengeance, can be found in some supposedly unholy incarnation at every Battle of the Bands. I usually don’t care for their annoying loud noise, but this year it was a bit different. For, while the screeching was still very much intolerable, and the respective lead singers mere untalented, growling mumblers, never before had I seen bands of this type perform with so much intensity and gusto. They put a good deal of talent into their musicianship and "singing," and, as such, deserve respect.
After I had manage to stem the flow of blood from my ears, I heard the next act, Jim Croke and James Haskins tackling "Hear You Me," by Jimmy Eat World, and "Collide," by Howie Day. Jim calmly sat and played guitar while charismatic, and not at all bashful, James sang. At one point he hopped off the stage and stood in front of his lady love, Martina Gowrich, sweetly serenading her, seemingly oblivious to the audience in front of him. He’s a smoothie . . . he’s a smoothie!
Conor "Wee bit Flakey" McKenna was up next, singing "To Where You Are," the song popularized by Josh Groban. It’s a difficult piece. Anything by Groban would be, as he is such a talented singer. Moreover, Con-man sang acapelli. He couldn’t quite pull it off, though we all know he has a beautiful voice, but he did stick it out and finish the song. So kudos to him.
The next act was another band, Beyond the Thunderdome. They performed an impressive and lengthy version of Freebird.
Karolina Podolska and Nicole Bouffard shook their groove-things to "Loose My Breath," by Destiny’s Child.
And then Mike Pytka, my new favorite diva, sang the partially audible "You Are the Sunshine of My Life," by Stevie Wonder. For a gay white-boy, Pytka’s got some soul.
15th came the highly anticipated Superhero Lunchbox, comprised of Adam Goddu, Conor McKenna, Jim Croke, and James Haskins. These fellows came out in matching black blazers, jeans, and Superman T-shirts, and proceeded to . . . kinda rock. They were decent. That’s all I can say. For a band I was expecting to be the next ‘Fix, they left much to be desired.
A vocal performance by Adam Goddu followed. He sang "If I Can’t Love Her," from Broadway’s Beauty and the Beast, and also played the piano. It was ‘round about this time that Sam excused himself, got up, and proceeded to the men’s room, where he discharged several gallons of vomit onto the floor. He also hit one of the toilets, and the lobby on the way there. I helped him clean up, explained to the black police officer who was apparently on patrol looking for suspicious sick people, that he had a stomach virus and hadn’t been drinking. This was difficult, as Sam professed to imbibing copious amounts of rum.
We were back in our seats in time for The Left Chord, who sang Barbershop and wooed the audience. Frontman Pat Dandrea described them as heavy metal barbershop. And, indeed, their performance was unconventional. They sang snippets of songs and did vocal tricks. The result was light, breezy entertainment which wasn’t quite satisfying, but was melodically impressive. Those boys can sing. While Sam was chucking up, and I was cleaning up, we missed The Abstract Ensemble, another band.
Then was a bagpipe solo from Dave Peters. Impressive and original, this was possibly the best talent of the night. Peters had the audience up and River dancing (I kid you not) with some rollicking Irish hits. Bagpipes are a bit of a love/hate relationship. I happen to like them, but am well aware of how harsh and shrieking they are.
Finally came Suicidal Death wish Existence in which Mike Pytka and company strutted about the stage in make-up and spoke with mopey enthusiasm in faux-British accents. Pytka, adopting the accent and black face paint, made himself look more gay than ever, a feat which of its own, deserved first place in the talent division. He bickered all too convincingly with Jason Frank, while Pat Dandrea played along. Colin Jalbert was on drums. He was actually the most overworked at the show that evening, handling percussion for nearly half of the bands. He fills Will Murray’s shoes as overtaxed drummer nicely.
And that, discounting some judging time, was that.
Sam and I had already bid a hasty retreat to the Falcon by the time the winners were announced as Sam could feel the Sprite coming up on him and desired the privacy of his own bathroom for all future puking.
I’m not sure, then who won, except that Mike stole both first place checks.
I like the guy, and, indeed, would enjoy licking him, but I need to disagree with the judge’s rulings that night. Sorry, Mike, but you didn’t deserve first place last year, when you beat me, and you didn’t deserve it this year.
But Mike is talented, and charismatic, and so it’s not a ridiculous miss.
And, I suppose, SDE (Suicide Death wish Existence, as they are known to their loyal followers) was possibly the "best" band, even though they were a parody act.
I have almost forgotten to mention the best part of the evening. Continuing with last year's student Master of Ceremonies idea, this Battle of the Bands/Talent Show was hosted by the irrepressibly funny Mike Martin. Mike is by far the best MC the show has ever had. Not to say anything untoward about last year's host, Nicole Warren, for she is a sweet, intelligent girl. However, Mistress of Ceremonies material she ain't. Mike, displaying his easy-going boyish charm, freely joked with the audience in between honorably praising the acts. Especially the ones who slipped up to a degree, eliciting applause on behalf of every act. It's a shame Mike cannot host the show again next year, for he brought a likeable charm to the proceedings and made the display that much more enjoyable. However, perhaps his fine example will be followed by future student MC's.
But, anyway, thus ended another Battle of the Bands.
A few thoughts on that competition:
No one stepped up to fill the clown shoes left by last years talented comedic performers. But aside from the fact that there was no actual comedy, which I consider a screaming disgrace, I have some problems with the show.
First, as previously stated, it’s all musical acts. For some reason the students of HCHS all seem to think "talent" is exclusively synonymous with "music," and never break from their self-imposed limitations. Where are the jugglers? The magicians? The acrobats and tumblers? Where are the poets and actors? Hell, even a break from the usual musical acts would be welcome. This is why the barbershop and bagpipe acts were so refreshing. What about classical music? Or country? How about a freestyler? Or a blues group? No, Holyoke Catholic is too steeped in tradition for such things. In most every other case, I long for Catholic to cling to her traditions for dear life, but in this case I wish the ol’ broad would mix it up a little.
Also, it angers me a little bit that in every talent show, you always end up with the same people doing all the acts. This year Goddu, Haskins, McKenna, and Jalbert were each in three acts. Dave Peters on bag-pipes was in two. And Mike Pytka was in four! Last year I was in stand-up, then in a skit with Tony, which Steve was also part of, and then in a band with Steve. You see what happens is, many of those in the bands decide to do solo acts, and vice versa, many of those who do solo acts decide to team up with other soloists for a band.
To call this repetitious practice elitist wouldn’t be fair, for every student in the school is offered the opportunity to perform, and would be granted stage time if they applied for it. Nor would I necessarily want any limitation on the performers, say, making it against the rules to be in more than two acts. Still, something about the narrowness of the line-up makes me ill-at-ease, and I wish it would change. The shows, for lack of a better word, are too specific.
But I think I’ve rambled on long enough . . . on that topic.
The next night, Saturday April 2nd, Sam and I went to see a concert at the Second Baptist Church in South Hadley. It was part of the church’s "First Saturday" concert series, which I intend to make a habit of going to.
The first act was a four-piece band (guitar, key-board, flute, and tambourine) from up in the Berkshires somewhere. It was composed of a minister and his wife, along with two of their friends, on of whom was a descendant of Emily Dickinson. They played light, lilting pieces, one a poem by Miss Dickinson put to music. Much of their work was inspired by modern fairy-tales, the works of Tolkien and Lewis. It was enjoyable if one stifled the chuckles which arose at the spectacle of a grown man singing about Bilbo Baggins. The music was quiet and calming. Despite any reservations I may have, I was overcome by how ethereal it seemed. Indeed, they did fill their songs with an undeniable magic quality.
The opening act played several elegies, odes, and lullabies, and then gave the stage over to one of my favorite local performers, Mr. David LeTellier and the Narrow Gate (Ed Chagnon on drums, Joe Sirillo on bass.)
For those of you who have not heard Mr. L play, I can only say that you should go and do so without hesitation at the first possible opportunity. For those of you who have heard him, especially his sons, if they are reading this, I can only apologize for my lack of eloquence in an attempt to do him justice.
David LeTellier plays what is known as Christian Rock. This sub-genre of music is possibly more difficult to make respectable than Country Pop. Indeed, the commercial for Songs for Worship will be on for less than a minute when a smirk starts playing around the corners of my mouth. However, Mr. L finds a way to gain an audience’s admiration and undivided, reverent attention without ever asking for it, nor demanding it.
Mr. L is a large man. He would have to be, to sire a living circus tent-pole like Andrew. Moreover, his shoulders are broad, and his arms brawny from years of carpentry work. However, I have noticed that he always sets the mic a little lower than necessary. The result is that he leans forward when he sings, and this gives him a very ingratiating appearance. He seems to be inviting, gently beckoning, the audience to come and share his music with him. He doesn’t sing to you so much as with you. Even if your lips are tightly closed (as mine were for most of the performance) he sings with you spiritually. (This may seem sappy, but it’s the truth.)
Mr. L has a powerful voice. Many singers can be eclipsed by the music around them, but not Mr. L. He surges not through or past the music, but rather around it and in it. His voice in many ways has an ubiquitous an encompassing quality.
I know not enough about musicianship to comment on his guitar playing. I can only say that it, like his voice, is powerful and rich, but can range from quiet and contemplative, through strong and somber, to thrilling and rockin’, and always so sweet and filled with love.
Smiling is one word that comes readily to mind when thinking back on Mr. L’s music. No matter what the song, be it a heartfelt ode to his incredible father, a good-natured query about true happiness in life, or a simple Christian Rock staple about unity, Mr. L’s music always invokes smiles. Broad, twinkling smiles fueled by a warm swelling in one’s chest. Smiles both on the faces of the audience and on Mr L’s face as well. He feels it with you.
There’s no way a Roman Catholic could have this much soul, you say? Well you, sir or madam, are wrong. Mr. L’s music rings with all the spirit and stand-up, hand-clapping faith of Baptist Gospel, yet has the underlying strains of Catholic ardor and understanding.
Maybe this praise is too lavish, but I don’t think so.
I’m at a time in my life when my faith is weak and I have grown to distrust organized religion. Yet, when I hear Mr. L sing it reaffirms my beliefs and makes me feel stronger and happier and proud to be a Christian. Such a feat should not be taken lightly.
Mr. L’s first solo CD comes out next month. It’s called Love’s Example and is filled with his many of his best and most inspirational songs.
Be sure to snag yourself a copy.
For further details I suggest you go through Andrew. (Although I believe there are sites on the web which have Mr. L’s contact information.)
Well, that little tribute segued me right in to my first general topic for this evening.
Music:
(Man, it’s been a while since I’ve seen that . . . )
First off in this category, I owe a long-overdue CD review.
The name of this CD is View Finder, the debut album from Andrew "Jackson" LeTellier. It seems the lanky acorn don’t fall far from the tree, as Andrew follows in his father’s (see above paragraphs) singing and song-writing footsteps in this affable and charming CD.
View Finder
Andrew LeTellier
Ninja Pirate Records
Track List:
1) Children
3) Evelyn
2) Wannabe Song
4) Morning After
5) Into Your Arms
6) Nature’s Siren Song
With Andrew Letellier on
vocals, back-up vocals, lead guitar, rhythm guitar, drum-tar, synthesizer, key boards, tambourine, triangle, spoons, maracas, and, on track 2, oboe.
All songs written by Andrew LeTellier
All songs recorded, mixed, and produced by Andrew LeTellier
Cover Art and Lettering by Andrew LeTellier
*Before you ask, let me just assure you that Andrew did not clone himself in order to make this album. One lone Jackson was indeed talented enough to handle every aspect of production. And thank the Sweet Lord for that. Can you imagine what more than one Andrew would be like? If he started cloning himself there’d be no end to the Andrew’s running around the place. And run they would . Great herds of them, tearing across the open plain. And woe betide any bagel shop they descended upon like a swarm of locusts.
Where the hell was I?
Oh yeah, the CD.
In his first CD, Andrew sings 6 original songs, all obviously and meaningfully semi-autobiographical. In every track Andrew sings with dauntless sincerity and conviction in his shaky falsetto. He also plays the guitar (and every other razza-fraggin’ instrument). Now, as regards to his skills as a musician, they have improved astoundingly over recent years and that improvement is evident on this CD. He is an undeniably talented guitarist, and the lightly strummed chords perfectly compliment his emotional songs.
The technical aspects of the CD are also impressive. He has certainly crafted a complex group of songs. For a CD done by a crew of one, with less-than state-of-the-art equipment in a college dorm room, it is surprising, almost unbelievably professional sounding. He expertly lays track upon track of various properly-meshing sounds, including a seemingly favorite technique, the ethereal, drifting, staggered background vocals in the choruses of several songs.
Andrew’s talents lie more in the area of song-writing than actual singing. Indeed, he never belts any songs out, and many times when stretching his range and trying to throw in a bit more vehemence, he falls slightly short. However, his voice is sweet and gentle and falls soothingly upon the ears, regardless of his limits.
It is in the lyrics where his talent really lies. For Andrew strikes me as more poet than musician and singer. His songs more like poems put to music than anything else. Such talent is rare these days. His words evoke rich, clear images which usually have deeper emotional connotations. As in Morning After, a folksy, new age-sounding, heartfelt query to a new lover.
Sorrow came from a good night’s rest.
As I dreamt of her, the Sun would set.
Behind vibrant clouds glowing red.
Did our words even matter?
Did I make you glad?
Or in the ballad of one knowingly captivated, Into Your Arms.
The frost on the windows
Reflects your heart;
Fractured and frozen,
You knew from the start.
The leaves fall down
Before your step
In gracious adoration
From this mountain I would have met.
Into your arms,
Away from grace.
Brilliant stars shimmering
Long after our embrace.
Returning to the poetry line of thought, Andrew’s songs often have layers of meaning and interesting, prolonged metaphors, for instance the comparing of truth to a dragon in the strained and teary Wannabe Song.
Andrew’s first effort yields mixed results. It is an amateur production which sounds in many ways quite professional. The songs are rich and inspired, without being over-bearing or bombastic. It is a quiet, contemplative collection of decently sung and image-laden poems, set to the gentle strumming of Andrew’s reasonably skilled hand. The light melodies of the songs belie their inner feeling, from blissful prostration in the face of Mother Nature’s glory to anguished yearning at the close of one relationship, and again at the beginning of another.
It is obvious that the CD is heavily influenced by some of Andrew’s favorite artists, but it is not obvious where and how. Andrew, so concerned with achieving originality, has done what I have long believed to be the best anyone can do, which is take their influences, and works already created, process them, use creativity and personal experience, and forge something not wholly new, and yet, paradoxically, completely unique. View Master is a fine CD which contains quality original material. It shows the blossoming, rare talents of a gifted young man.
In addition to the above debut, I have been listening to a great deal lately.
My favorite singer/songwriter of all time, Mike Doughty, has finally landed a record deal. His first officially released solo album, Haughty Melodic, comes out May 3rd. However, to keep his ravenous, if small, legion of fans satiated until then he re-released two of his other solo efforts, a re-mastered version of 1996's Skittish and a special edition of 2001's Rockity Roll, with several rare bonus tracks.
Then there’s Green Day’s magnum opus, the thrilling rock opera American Idiot.
I also started listening to Bruce Hornsby, a rocky, folksy alternative to Randy Newman.
Let’s see, David Gray, also, and Warren Zevon, too. Soul Coughing. I’ve basically re-listened to my entire CD collection since the last post. I daren’t even try to list and describe them all.
The same goes for
Movies:
To show you how truly difficult it would be for me to review every movie I’ve seen since the last entertainment post, let me explain my strategy for movie renting.
I walk into my local Blockbuster, fully intent on spending at least 20 dollars. This allows me 5 movies. I always make sure to rent one foreign film, such as the quirky-sweet romantic comedy Amelie (au Francais) or the violently unsettling psychological thriller Audition (Japanese.) Then I rent one new release. Next comes a movie that has been recommended to me, or that I have read about, and has probably been on the shelves a while. I also rent one movie starring that month’s favorite actor (usually one of The Men (ask Sam for details), and usually under the so-bad-it’s-good category.) Finally I rent a comedy, either one I have seen and love, or one that seems a sure-fire hit. This serves to lighten my spirits in case the other movies dampen them.
I do this every other week.
So, as it has been over a third of a year since my last Entertainment post, you can imagine how extensive that list of movies would be.
But let’s talk about three films I’ve recently seen in the theatres.
I saw with everyone’s favorite Cadet the new Blue Sky computer-animated masterpiece Robots. Aside from being the most visually dazzling piece CG cartooning ever created, Robots had charm, spunk, and heart to spare. For those of you unfamiliar with the film, it takes place in an entirely robotic world. Yet, the Robots do not look like everyone’s perception of futuristic humanoid machines. On the contrary, they look like they were pieced together by some mad scientist of spare parts to 1950's cars and appliances. Like us humans, they are all uniquely flawed. The adventure begins when Rodney Copperbottom (Ewan McGregor), a promising young inventor, journeys to Robot City to seek employment in the largest technology firm in the robot world, Big Weld Industries. However, all is not well in Robot City, as Big Weld, perfectly voiced by grand-fatherly Mel Brooks, has been ousted from his company by the devious Ratchet, who plans to cripple all the outdated robots of Robot City to make way for newer, sleeker models. Ratchet (a smarmy Greg Kinnear) is the perfect example of robotic cosmetic surgery, all smooth contours and gleaming blue silver, with a dangerous shark grin bolted to his pointed head. Rodney, with the help of a motley crew of robot rejects, led by Robin Williams’ incorrigible, slobbish but good-natured crook, Fender, must stop Ratchet from destroying all the "outmodes" and return Big Weld to his Industrial throne.
The movie breezes by with shimmering splendor and fascinating detail, every speck of rust, every groove in every screw, every gleam and every dent is amazingly life-like and seems almost tangible. The movie garners plenty of hearty laughs at the Robots' comical exploits, (especially through the minor characters, such as Rodney’s kindly pop, voiced with warmth by Stanley Tucci, or Paul Giammati’s hilariously cruel gate guard, Tim, a demented little puppet in an oversized hat. But Robots also presents a much-needed and refreshing parable for our image-conscious society.
I have also seen, with Ler aforementioned Jackson, the stylish thriller Hostage. We were both in agreement that this film was truly close to cinematic perfection. By combining the mood and pace of a French suspense film, and the occasional bursts of sporadic violence seen in American actioners, Hostage has created the ideal blend of genres to form a movie greater than the sum of its parts. Bruce Willis flexes his now-impressive acting chops in the role of a former star hostage negotiator and S.W.A.T. team captain, now retired and wrestling with inner demons as the police chief of a small northern California town. He tries to forget the tragedies of his past as he very nearly loses touch with his present, in the form of an angsty daughter and lonely wife, while doing his best to mentor the inexperienced cops of the town who are so in need of guidance.
His not-so-perfect existence is shaken to the core one fateful day when three teenage hoodlums break into the house of ridiculously wealthy accountant Kevin Pollack and hold him and his son and daughter for ransom.
This would be bad enough, as one of the hoods is a dangerous psychopath, but things keep getting worse. It seems Pollack has been doing some side-work for some seriously bad fellows. He owes his beautiful house to the exorbitant sums he is paid for fixing the books for some assorted villains. Well, when these villains find out that their accountant is in danger, and their operations in peril of being exposed, they do the only thing evil people can do in a situation like this: torment the hero. Willis finds to his screaming dismay, that his wife and daughter have been kidnapped by Pollack’s bosses and are being held under threat of torture and death unless Willis manages to save Pollack and get a disk containing records of the bad guys’ business dealings.
The film is truly psychologically-based, and details normally laid plain in American films are left in the nebulous background. We never find out why Willis’ marriage is on the rocks. Nor do we ever learn the true nature of the villains, so shady that what they do, and, indeed, what they look like, are always shrouded in darkness. As opposed to many "action" films, the true suspense in this comes from the astounding pathos and emotional anguish the characters are put through. It is far more impressive seeing Willis’ character struggle with his moral dilemma (especially in a scene in which he enlists the help of Pollack’s adorably adventurous son, putting the boys life in danger in order to possibly save his own family) than it is seeing him struggle against the villains, especially in the frightening, fiery conclusion.
The film has excitement, yes, but it is not overdone. It has intensity while maintaining credibility. It places more importance on feelings than actions. It even has some of the scariest scenes I’ve ever witnessed. These were courtesy of the violently sadistic teenage captor, Marshall, brought to disturbing life with water-eyed, snaky menace by Ben Foster.
Hostage is one of the best blends of genres ever filmed, but its perfection comes partly from its defiance of convention and contrivances, so that it never seems to be a blend, per se, but a new genre unto itself. It is a great film.
The third film I have seen recently is the Robert Rodriguez/Frank Miller opus Sin City. I saw this one with Sam directly after Mr. LeTellier’s stunning performance on Saturday night. For those of you living under rocks, Sin City, the film, is based on three comics from legendary Frank Miller’s seven-book-long graphic novel series, specifically The Hard Goodbye, The Big Fat Kill, and That Yellow Bastard. The film was directed by Robert Rodriguez (Spy Kids, Once Upon a Time In Mexico) and Frank Miller himself. Before I dive into the review itself, lemme give ya a little history.
In the late ‘80's, Frank Miller wrote and illustrated a mammoth graphic novel which revolutionized the way stories were told in comic book form, and re-defined many iconic characters. It was called Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, and it told the story of an aging Bruce Wayne, now retired from vigilantism and wiling away his remaining years as a race car driver and billionaire industrialist. Ol’ Bruce was forced into retirement by the U.S. government, which effectively outlawed all super-heroics. The only super hero still active is the president’s lap dog, Superman, who saves as many lives as he can while enforcing America’s policies around the globe. Well, during Batman’s hiatus from crime-fighting, Gotham City has slowly sunken lower and lower into the cesspool of sadistic depravity and avaricious corruption it was wallowing in years ago. The people live in fear. Arkham’s inmates are being released back into the public, and a new gang of street punks, The Mutants, hold the city in the grip of terror. Finally, during a thunderstorm in the worst heat wave in Gotham’s history, Bruce snaps and his alter-ego takes over. Batman returns. He meets with mixed welcomes. James Gordon, the soon-to-be retired police commissioner is glad, as are many of the citizens. Criminals are obviously shaking with fright. The media goes wild as various political pundits, psychologists, and analysts debate the controversial topic of Batman’s "right" to protect people. Batman faces The Mutants and their fearsome leader, Two-Face, Superman, a twisted-as-ever Joker, and his worst enemy yet: The Public.
The comic book, aside from being engaging and exciting, is a thoughtful deconstruction of the super-hero world, and our own world, as well. I suggest you all read it.
Where was I?
Oh yeah, so this guy, Frank Miller, becomes an overnight sensation. He gets offers from movie studios to do screenplays. He tries, with Robocop 2. However, rich in ideas though his script may be, it is too controversial and too long for the studio. He is ignored and censored as his work is butchered. (I know the feeling.) He leaves, turning his back on the entertainment industry, and sits alone and writes what will be his masterpiece, Sin City.
The books follow the intersecting lives of the characters who inhabit Basin City, a desert Mecca for violence, vice, and depravity.
A few years later he returns, and Dark Horse, God bless them, publish his 7 books. He is a sensation once again.
Fast forward a decade or so. Robert Rodriguez, the crazy Mexican artist behind El Mariachi, and the effects wizard behind Spy Kids approaches Miller. He just so happens to be possibly Miller’s biggest fan. Rodriguez had gotten a few actors together, namely Josh Hartnett, to shoot a sequence from Miller’s books. He does this without the slightest hint of a license. The material is strictly copyrighted. He’s committing a major felony. He films the sequence and shows it to Miller, with the question of "Will you let me have them?" on his lips. Miller is blown away. He has hated movies since Robocop 2, and had no intention of allowing anyone to touch his babies. But Rodriguez has done something different. He hasn’t adapted the books, he’s translated them. He put the images as Miller drew them, the words and Miller wrote them, directly onto film. Miller agrees. He steps up as co-director. (The Director’s Guild very rarely allows a film-maker to give the title of co-director to anyone. When they denied permission to Rodriguez, he quit the prestigious organization, saying "I never liked clubs, anyway."
So the movie is made with Miller there to oversee every shot. It is a cinematic marvel. It incorporates never-before-used state-of-the-art technology. It has a cast of every big-name badass in Hollywood. It revolutionizes film as we know it.
What did I think of it?
M’eh.
Here’s the thing:
I cannot have my entertainment both ways. I cannot read a book and see the movie based on the book. My problem is that I can’t understand the word "based." I can’t tolerate adaptation. When I see a film based on a book it needs to be exactly as the book was or I hate it. I have ridiculous expectations. It goes to show how high my standards are when this film, which has possibly gone farther then any other in the field of adaptation, isn’t good enough.
I didn’t like how they picked three of the intertwined stories and sewed them together in a different way than was in the book. I didn’t like how they left out seemingly necessary and completely awesome parts. I didn’t like how they couldn’t quite manage to convince me to take the film characters seriously. I didn’t like how they changed what was already perfect.
There are three stories depicted in the film. The first of which (chronologically, not through the books) is That Yellow Bastard. It’s the tale of one decent cop and his attempt to save the life of a girl he rescued years ago from the clutches of a deranged, violent, completely evil pedophile. Bruce Willis is Hartigan, the aging, rugged, honest cop, and he plays his part as best he can, but is not given much to work with. The same is said of Nick Stahl, who plays the titular monster. Jessica Alba, as Nancy Callahan, is the weakest part of the film. Sadly, she doesn’t even do the nude work featured in the comics. My major problems here were:
1) The extreme shortening of the story.
2) The debacle over that yellow bastard. (See, in the comics, the villain is awkward and almost funny-looking. However, he still conveys a tremendous deal of disturbing menace. His entrance scene is very frightening in it’s suddenness. In the movie, they try too hard to make him look scary, and the result is unintentional comedy. Plus, they blow his easy-to-do entrance scene.)
3) The way they could not capture the deadly serious tone of the story.
The next tale is of Marv, the ugly-as-sin, tougher’n-a-nickel-steak, stronger’n-a-barr brawler who’s on a quest for revenge. The only woman who ever showed him love has been murdered and he’s out to find out who did it and give ‘em The Hard Goodbye. This is the only one that really I liked, for four reasons.
1) It wasn’t shortened as much as That Yellow Bastard.
2) It is the best story, really, of all seven books.
3) It starred Rutger Hauer.
4) Only Mickey Rourke as Marv, the sentimental brute, captures the feel of Miller’s books. Through him pours all the strength, charm, violence, and, ultimately, vulnerability of the Sin City.
And, The Big, Fat Kill, the last story, is a T&A-ridden entry about the fate of an abusive jerk, Jackie-boy, played with perfect sleazy cool by Benecio del Toro, and all the forces that collide as they scramble for his corpse. This one was probably the most faithful adaptation, and by far the funniest. Moreover, all the actors fit their roles perfectly and did decent jobs.
So, all in all, it wasn’t a faithful enough adaptation and I couldn’t take much of it seriously. I suppose I would have loved the film had I not first read the beautiful comic books first.
Speaking of Comic Books . . .
In the CB department, I have been reading Frank Miller’s starkly beautiful Sin City. I recommend them to comic book fans.
Also, I have been revisiting Alan Moore’s world in The Watchmen, considered by many to be the best comic book ever written. It tells the story of a world in which super-heroes have been outlawed, and the sickening, impossibly deep conspiracy that is revealed when one of those former super-heroes is brutally murdered. At first reading I hated this book. But, looking back on it, it’s so compelling, and honest, and blissfully sad that I really to agree with experts who say it’s the best ever. I recommend it to everyone.
Whew. Hang in there, we’re close now.
Now that I am back online with a vengeance, I have been visiting all type-a sites. Here are some I suggest you check out for your own safety in the coming apocalypse:
I know we all know about this one already, but many of us have strayed from the flock of loyal followers and have not witnessed the genius of Los Brothers Chaps for some time now. Rest assured, fair adherents, the site is funny as ever.
This is a great little online comic that details the misadventures of six hat-wearin’ fellas out in a dessert somewhere. I keep looking for deeper meaning behind some of the almost-metaphors, but you’d be advised just to sit back and laugh. Plus, the creator is fairly cute.
http://keentoons.com
This is a flash cartoon site which I believe is trying to spread Zen Enlightenment throughout the world by exhibiting the craziest bunch of animation I have ever seen. I suggest you check out Space Tree, the space tree: In Space, by Ed Atlin. The first episode is one of the funniest things I have ever witnessed. For best results watch with a friend.
http://watermanstudios.com
Another flash cartoon site in the tradition of homestarrunner. For those of you have visited before, check out the new Puppets in the Park, re-visit the zany adventures of Roy-bot, Ice Cream Girl, Raccoon X. Espanosa, Professor Hootington, and Robotic Chuck Norris, and possibly order the 16Buttons of Justice CD. For those of you who have no idea what I just said, check it out and have fun.
Goofy, inexplicable 5-minute-long indie shows. I recommend the Failed Pilots section.
Blogs, too. There have been some new ones since last I surfed the web. Be sure to check out Andrew’s http://livejournal.com/users/chooseausername
And, great news for those of you who can appreciate true literary talent: Dave is back blogging again. Be sure to hit up http://kingcrazydave.blogspot.com
And what entertainment post would be complete without some high-brow talk of the thee-ah-tah?
I recently saw a production of Fiddler on the Roof in at Springfield Symphony Hall, and I gotta say, I liked Holyoke Catholic’s better. So ha! Nuts to you, Amy, and all your smug Jew friends. The Holyoke cast gave more lovable, real performances, and had better chemistry than a professional troupe of actors. And, under the direction of Mr. Goddu, the interactions and dances were much livelier and more fun to watch.
I also saw three performances of Willy Shake’s As You Like It at the Veritas Theater in Elms College. The kids from Catholic did it again, pulling off another splendid production.
For the purposes of clarity, I will provide a plot synopsis and full cast listing before I begin my review of this play.
Cast:
Orlando: Patrick Dandrea
Oliver: Mike Pytka
Adam,
Audrey: Mike Martin
Dennis,
Corin,
First Page to Old Duke: Steph Lepine
Rosalind: Sara Sawka
Celia: Sarah Cantler
Touchstone: Jason Frank
Duke Frederick: Kristin Baran
William,
First Lord to Duke Frederick: Bryan Pytka
Charles,
Hymen: Samuel Sugrue
Mssr. LeBeau,
Second Page to Duke Senior,
Sir Oliver Martext: Chelsea Letasz
Duke Senior: Andrew Menard
Jacques: Becky Gay
Amiens: Dave Peters
First Lord to Duke Senior: Kate Bonci
Second Lord to Duke Senior,
Jacques de Boys: Trisha Gilley
Silvius: Brittany Ankiewicz
Phoebe: Meg Boraski
Synopsis:
Once upon a time in a far away and mystical land (probably France), there lived two brothers. The eldest brother had inherited the title of Duke from their late father, and the younger brother, Frederick, grew more jealous every day. Finally, Frederick, through cunning and wickedness, overthrew his brother and banished him to the Forest of Arden. Several lords, loyal to the old duke, followed him there. As they in effect gave up their lands to Frederick, he let them go. The old Duke’s daughter, Rosalind, was held captive in Frederick’s castle, for she was so close to Frederick’s own daughter, Celia.
Fast forward a few years.
The Duke has been living in exile for a bit, Celia and Rosalind have blossomed into womanhood, and, in a small town within Frederick’s dukedom, a young man named Orlando is suffering.
Orlando is the second son of Sir Rowland de Boys, a noble lord and firm supporter of the old duke. Sir Rowland has died (possibly during the coup in which Frederick usurped his brother’s throne) and has left his title and lands to his eldest son Oliver. Oliver was charged through his father’s will to watch over his younger brother Orlando and see that he is educated and schooled in the ways of the court. Oliver, a greedy and cruel man, has ignored his dying father’s wishes and, to keep more money for himself, refuses to pay for Orlando’s education, and treats him like a slave rather than a brother. Orlando’s only friend is the servant of his late father, the aged Adam. Despite Oliver’s negligent cruelty, Orlando has grown to be a fine young man, strong of mind and body, gentle and of good humor, and loved by everyone he meets. Indeed, the people of Oliver’s land love Orlando more than Oliver himself, which riles Oliver to no little extent. Well, one day Orlando’s patience fails. He assaults his brother and demands, hand upon Oliver’s throat, that he be educated and treated like a person, or, at the very least, given the money his father left him and leave to wander to make his fortune as he will. Oliver, frightened and furious, agrees, gives Orlando some of his inheritance, and banishes him from his lands. Orlando leaves to seek his fortune, starting in the court of Duke Frederick.
Oliver is told by his servant, the jittery Dennis, that he is being called upon his friend, Charles, the boastful and imposing chief wrestler in service of Duke Frederick. Charles informs Oliver that he has learned that Orlando has decided to disguise himself and enter into a wrestling competition in the Duke’s court in which he, Charles, willingly fights and all competitors foolish enough to challenge him. Charles is a fearsome fighter, and many men who enter the ring with him do not come out alive. Therefor, he has sought out Oliver, his friend, to warn him of his brother’s plan so that he might stop the boy from doing such a dangerous and impetuous thing. Charles would gladly snap him in two, but for love of Oliver, he would be sorry to do so. Oliver sees a way to rid himself of his brother once and for all. He tricks Charles, telling him that he had better not underestimate Orlando. Orlando, he says, is a fiend and a brigand and should be taught a lesson. Moreover, he should probably be killed, for if he loses to Charles, he will not rest until he has had revenge, through poison or any other sort of trickery.
Back at the palace of Duke Frederick, Rosalind and Celia are discussing love. The Duke’s philosophizing jester, Touchstone, enters and has a brief discussion with the ladies on the subject of honor. We find that Touchstone is indeed batshit insane. They are interrupted by the Duke’s herald, the ceremonious Mssr. LeBeau, and told that the very room they are in will soon be the scene of some grievous violence, as Charles the Wrestler will be squaring off against some foolish young man. LeBeau explains that Charles has already sequentially killed three strapping brothers, hurling them out of the ring and snapping their ribs, and is now warmed up properly.
The girls wait in anticipation of the spectacle as the Duke, his page, a swaggering, dainty little fellow with a large sword, trumpeters, servants, soldiers, and a large crowd of bloodthirsty spectators are led into the hall.
The girls, concerned for the brave Orlando, entreat him not to wrestle with Charles. But Orlando is too headstrong and politely refuses their help. In addition, he and Rosalind have fallen in love at first sight, and he is anxious to impress her. Celia is less than elated at her cousin’s obsession with this strange boy.
Orlando wrestles Charles. As predicted, he is unable to match the skilled combatant and subsequently gets the snot kicked out of him. However, fate is with Orlando, and he manages to topple Charles, upsetting the heavy man’s balance, and sends him rumbling down a flight of steps. Charles dies.
Orlando is heralded as a hero, and earns audience with the Duke. He tells Frederick of his father, Sir Rowland de Boys, whom Frederick hated for his devotion to the old Duke. Orlando is later warned by the noble Mssr. LeBeau that he should leave the Duke’s palace immediately and go home, for the Duke is in a foul mood. Orlando decides he’s tempted fate once that day, and agrees to leave. Before he goes he has one more visit from the fair Rosalind, who gives him her necklace. Celia is worried.
The Duke, enraged at the death of his wrestler and the identity of Charles’ killer, banishes his niece, Rosalind, to the Forest of Arden. Celia cannot bare to be separated from her beloved cousin, and so plans to journey with her. The tall Rosalind disguises herself as a young man named Ganymede, and Celia as a servant girl named Illyana. They take along Touchstone for comic relief.
Orlando, meanwhile, is warned by Adam that his brother Oliver plans to burn his (Orlando’s) sleeping quarters whilst he (Orlando) is in them. So, he decides to leave and make his way on the road. Loyal Adam comes with him.
The Duke is now further enraged to discover his daughter and jester missing. The swaggering little page tells Frederick that Celia is probably with Rosalind, who is in love with that young wrestler, and so to seek out Orlando.
The Duke summons Oliver and orders him to find his brother and bring him back, and with him, Celia, Rosalind, and Touchstone. Oliver, under threat of banishment, sets out.
(Still with me? Good, ‘cause this is where it gets wiggy.)
Now, flash to the Forest of Arden, where the old duke is living happily with his lords, and the melancholy scholar, Jacques. They are having a lunch under the trees when Orlando, unaware of where he is, threatens them with his brandished sword and demands food, for he and Adam are starving. The Duke begs him lay down the blade and join the meal. And, learning he is the son of his friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, welcomes him to the forest.
In another part of the forest, Celia, Rosalind, and Touchstone stumble across the old shepherd, Corin, currently advising the love-struck Silvius on how best to woo his beloved Phoebe.
They ask Corin for a place to stay and he takes them to the home of his master, a local rich man, where they become shepherds.
Orlando, still head over heels for Rosalind, sets out carving atrocious poetry into the trunks of the trees of the forest. Rosalind sees these and learns from her cousin that it is indeed done by the same Orlando she fell in love with back at the palace. She meets with Orlando, still under the guise of a shepherd boy, and tricks him into desiring a cure for love, claiming that her old uncle, a magician, told her of how love was actually a madness.
Her cure involves Orlando’s agreement to pretend that she is his beloved Rosalind (which she is, but unbeknownst to him) and to try to woo her. She will respond by being fickle, driving him to the point of madness, and thus curing him of love. Orlando agrees.
Touchstone meets Jacques, and the two have frequent philosophical discussions, which both have been longing for. Touchstone also meets and falls in love with a local whore, Audrey.
Rosalind likes counseling couples in love, it seems, and tries to help the timid Silvius to win over the shrewish Phoebe. Unfortunately, the plan goes awry, and Phoebe falls in love with Ganymede, Rosalind’s male alter-ego.
Touchstone insanely defends Audrey from the clutches of sweet, young suitor, William.
Oliver makes it to the forest, bedraggled and weary, and falls asleep under a tree. He is nearly bitten by a snake when Orlando walks by and scares the serpent away. The snake enters a bush, scares a lioness. The lioness leaps hungrily out of the bush and tries to eat Oliver. Orlando, seeing that the unkempt man is his wicked brother, first ignores this and leaves the lioness to her meal, but soon has a change of heart and saves his brother, killing the lioness, but winding up grievously wounded.
Oliver, moved by Orlando’s compassion, begs his forgiveness. The brother reunite, hurray, hurray. Oliver is sent to seek out Rosalind, whom his brother was supposed to meet, and gives her a bloody handkerchief, proof of Orlando’s battle with the lion and excuse for being late. He quickly falls in love with Illyana (Celia) and also discovers that Ganymede is a woman, for he is smarter than his lovesick brother.
Rosalind decides it’s time to end the charade and get hitched. She asks Orlando if he would marry Rosalind on the spot, provided she (as Ganymede) can work a little magic and bring her to the forest. She also makes Silivius swear that he will marry Phoebe, and Phoebe swear that she will marry Silvius is she cannot marry Ganymede. Illyana and Oliver plan to get married as well, and Oliver decides to give all his wealth and lands to his brother in order to live in the forest with his beloved.
Touchstone gets talked out of marrying the whore, Audrey, by Jacques, leaving Sir Oliver Martext, the morose local priest, out of luck.
Rosalind (as Ganymede) makes the Duke (her father) swear to give his daughter (Rosalind) to Orlando, whom he likes immensely.
And so, she leaves for a minute.
She returns, in a gown, as Rosalind, led in by Hymen, the mystical, androgynous god of marriage. Hymen leaves for a minute and returns with Celia, no longer the servant girl, but the daughter of the duke she really is.
Hymen unites all four couples, Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, Phoebe, who cannot marry Ganymede now that she sees Ganymede is really a woman (for they didn’t have same-sex marriages back then) and Silvius, and Touchstone and Audrey.
The Duke marries them all, and everything is joy and jollity.
Suddenly, an elegant messenger breaks up the party to say that he has some good news. It seems Duke Frederick, angry at everything, had gathered his armies and marched upon the Forest of Arden with the intent of committing a good deal of violence against his deposed brother, the sons of Sir Rowland, his traitorous Jester, his insolent daughter and her rebellious cousin, and anyone else who got in his way. However, upon reaching the forest, he met an old man (possibly Corin) and was talked out of his dangerous mood. Moreover, the old man, a religious and calming sort, convinced Frederick to start leading a life devoted to God. So he took off for the nearest monastery, leaving all his lands and titles to his brother.
So the good Duke returns, with all the cute couples and loyal lords, to his rightful place on the throne.
And they all lived happily ever after.
Whew! So, now, onto the
Review:
From the start I was in awe. The play opens with a spirited monologue from Orlando, building up to a roaring crescendo of repressed anger at his cruel brother, Oliver. Pat Dandrea is a damn fine actor. Oliver, by the way, as played by Mike Pytka, was a little off the first two nights, but by the third he had gotten a firm grasp on the character and was at his villainous best. Steph Lepine, in her first of three appearances, garners all type a laughs as the jittery Dennis. (Steph, aside from pulling off three roles perfectly, was also stage co-director. Mike Martin was also at his best the last night, milking Adam’s decrepitness for all it was worth; hamming it up with hilarious results. Sarahs Cantler and Sawka were amazing in their scenes together, perfectly capturing the saucy, giggly, yet strong ladies, and their on-stage chemistry was astoundingly real. Every line was delivered holding hands, in breathless, wide-eyed adoration of each other. Chelsea Letasz was the most underrated comedienne of the night, with her pompous Mssr. LeBeau and dour Sir Charles Martext. Kristen Baran tread on ground first cleared by Tony in the land of angry on-stage villains, and, while she never convinced me that she was an older man and not a pretty school girl, she did hammer home her character’s anger and implacable wrath. And Brian Pytka, as the absent-minded page, though he spoke his lines too fast, managed the comedy bits perfectly.
However, it was Sam, swaggering, blustering around the stage, delivering his lines with a rumbling basso, as Charles the Wrestler who stole the first portion of the program.
Now, for the second half.
Andrew Menard was satisfactory was the Old Duke, and his lords filled their parts gamely.
Young Becky Gay probably had the hardest part in the whole play. She must be larger than life, and distracting, for her character is a central one, and delivers the "All the World’s a Stage . . ." speech. However, she must also keep herself morose and frowning at all times, for her character is defined as melancholy. She tried valiantly and acted well, but couldn’t quite pull it off. But she did just as well, if not better, than most in the play. Her part was just too odd. I can’t imagine anyone being able to play it properly.
Now, a note on the characters. I was very much impressed at how even the flattest of parts was filled out somewhat. Take Bryan or Steph, as the easily spooked servants. Or Dave Peters, who turned the bland Lord Amiens into a sort of sycophantic wise guy. Chelsea Letasz did it twice, with LeBeau and Martext, who I am told she fleshed out on her own. I don’t know who was responsible for this, be it Mr. Goddu or the actors themselves, but it was very professional and intelligent thing to do.
Silvius and Phoebe, as well captured by Brittany Ankiewicz and Meg Boraski, respectively, were far funnier than the audience gave them credit for.
Sadly, the play was under-cast, and several students had to take on various roles. They did so admirably, but the downside was that it was no longer as believable as Pat and others had made it when certain male parts needed to filled by girls. The lords under the Old Duke, three of them played by girls, were as convincing as Sarah Sawka’s Rosalind trying to play a man.
The biggest hit of the night was low-brow, for a Shakespearean comedy, but oddly traditional.
Mike Martin in drag.
The part of Audrey, the whore for whom Touchstone falls, was played by everyone’s favorite fellow, Mike Martin. I gotta admit, it was pretty damn funny. He cooed and batted his eyelids at Touchstone, conducting himself in a manner most unfitting for a . . . young man?
However, I think people made too big a deal out of it. Mike in drag, as I said as very traditionally Shakespearean thing to do, got more laughs than all the clever wordplay.
That was the standard for the whole evening, though. Shakespeare’s hilarious, if slightly complicated, verse was set aside in favor of physical comedy. Sam’s pratfall or Jason’s spanking Mike were laughed at more than some of the genuinely intelligent, partially dated, humor.
However!
While this may not be what the original productions were like, and while purists might take offense, I have to say that I was impressed. Kudos to Mr. Goddu and the cast for making something so antiquated and difficult-to-understand seem so funny. It may have been low-brow, but that doesn’t change the fact that it took creativity and talent. Comedy is hard, people. I think they all did a phenomenal job.
I was very angry with one thing, or, rather, one person in particular, though.
Jason Frank.
This shameless over-actor weakened the general experience of the play and lessened the work of his peers.
He is the Jar-Jar Binks of Holyoke Catholic.
Jar-Jar Binks was not flawed in production. The voice actor didn’t do a poor job. The CGI technicians made him life-like enough. The designers and artists who drew him didn’t make too many blunders. As far as his character went, he did well. But he was loud and spastic and inherently annoying. Placed in amongst solemn actors like Liam Neeson or Ian McDiarmid he steals the show . . . in a bad way: by diverting attention from the proper players. Yet, stupid people the world over found him funny. Alas.
And yet, mayhaps I go too far.
I’ll say that Jason Frank is the Jim Carrey of Holyoke Catholic.
You give him a comedic role and he lets himself loose with absolutely no concern nor control. He seems to think that the whole play revolves around him. Carrey is fine as a dramatic actor, as is Frank, who was properly reserved in The Clearing. However, in comedy he cannot control himself.
He isn’t a bad actor, as I said before. And perhaps his performance was the ideal for such a play. But where Jason slips up is in his total disregard for his peers. If you’re acting with people who are naturally restrained, and will give reserved performances, you cannot try to play your part as loudly and bombastically as Frank does.
He shares a scene with Steph in which they are supposed to banter back and forth equally, and one gets a sense of the contrast between Steph’s, as Corin, simple common sense, and Jason’s elaborate theories. However, though Steph’s performance is strong, Jason overwhelms her. The same is true of his scene with Becky. She struggles under the complicated nature of her character, while Jason dances around, seemingly blissfully unaware that anyone but he is on the stage.
His one decent scene is the one in which he threatens Bryan Pytka’s poor William.
Jason Frank should not be allowed to do comedy.
Mr. Goddu called the play "one of Shakespeare’s wackiest." To further this concept of lunacy, the sets for the Forest of Arden became a surreal, neon jungle, with vines to the ceiling and flowers as large as the students on stage. The insane decor was complimented by Dr. Croke’s expert lighting.
Another wonderful aspect to the play was the music involved. Dave Peters plays the bag pipes, Trisha Gilley sings, Dave sings, Becky sings. Steph and Chelsea harmonize beautifully for a lengthy musical number. In the finale, Peters plays the bag pipes while the assembled cast does a frolicking neo-Irish step dance that captures both old and new worlds and the mood of the play.
Sam’s return to the stage as Hymen, the androgynous god of marriage, a role that seems the polar opposite of the burly Charles, show his skill as the greatest character actor in Holyoke Catholic’s history. He breezes across the stage in a flowing white dress, a white wig and a crown of laurels on his head. He speaks in an ethereal falsetto voice. The best part of the scene is the way the other characters look at him. While he spins about, gesturing and speaking in a light, rhyming sing-song voice which had the audience rolling in the aisles, the rest of the assembled cast look at him in sheer bewilderment, as if they can’t understand what’s going on or who this crazy, glittery person is.
The costumes were beautiful, as usual, though it strikes me that Mr. Goddu ought to make more use of false facial hair.
The theater was glorious and fitted the production perfectly.
One final thought:
While Rosalind is masquerading as Ganymede, Orlando ardently woos her. He admits to kissing her. It’s fine, as she’s really Rosalind, but for all Pat knows she’s a man. He goes on like that knowingly kissing and flirting with a man. Homosexual intimations abound.
The play was filled with colorful settings, music, dancing, shimmering costumes, and action. But most impressive were the skilled performances and professional handling of the verse. That, and how Goddu and his good-natured cast manage to get an evening full of laughs. They made Shakespeare funny, and that’s something to brag about.
And lastly, I feel I need to included some form of blood sport coverage in my post, so:
A few nights ago I witnessed the end of a strong run toward the finals, with the startling defeat of the Holyoke Catholic Quiz Team by Minnechaug Regional in the intense, no-holds-barred arena-style As Schools Match Wits.
The team this year, Grant Newman, Mike Martin, Matt Lonzack, and Jason Frank, managed to go a good deal of the distance, all the way to the second round of the semi-finals. That is impressive in a game where one loss knocks you crying back to the classroom, and it’s farther than any Catholic team had gone before. (Matt O’Reilly and I got to first semi-final round my Junior year.)
So, I simultaneously curse Minnechaug, and especially that smarmy bastard Anthony Fey, the noxious, leering team captain who must have sold his soul to the devil to be that good at trivia, and congratulate our team on a courageous campaign. You did us proud, boys.
Seriously if anyone of my readers knows Fey, punch him in the face for me.
And now, a few thoughts on As School’s Match Wits (ASMW):
The game is decidedly unfair in the way it leaves far too much up to chance. The rosters of the teams vary too much, and finally lining up a decent enough combination of players is about as easy to accomplish as unlocking a combination lock through pure guess work. With the constantly shifting students in the school, Freshmen in, Seniors out, every year, it’s impossible to have the right team.
Secondly, the questions themselves are all luck-based. You figure they should objectively test your knowledge, but it doesn’t work that way. The way the questions work is that you pick a category and point value. Say, Literature for 30. Now you have to answer a qualifier in order to get to the questions that count for points. Maybe your qualifier will be easy, and the questions afterward too hard. Maybe it will be a difficult qualifier and ridiculously easy point questions afterward. The points really mean nothing as far as difficulty is concerned. I’d like to think that it’s designed so that the smarter team wins, but that isn’t the case. The first game my team won went in our favor because we got easier questions. The last game I played, the opposite was the case. In the end, this "academic" test all comes down to dumb luck.
The questions are poorly phrased and that bastard Dr. Todd Rivelli throws in tricks. The damn trivia is hard enough without you handing out trick questions, Dr. Ass-head!
I hate John Baran. He is a smug, insincere bastard who is inept as a game show host. He alone is probably responsible for the negative outcomes of a fourth of the games. Man, I wish he’d fall down a flight of stairs.
Okay, I think that’s all.
Realize that I type these harsh words only partially because I’m bitter. This really is the way the show goes, and it is an outrage.
I will close with the simple and sweet Book of Love, by The Magnetic Fields.
The book of love is long and boring
No one can lift the damn thing.
It’s full of charts and facts and figures
And instructions for dancing.
But I-ee-yi-ee-yi-hi
I love it when you read to me.
And you-oo-oo-oo
You can read me anything.
The Book of Love has music in it.
In fact that’s where music comes from.
Some of it’s quite transcendental.
Some of it’s just really dumb.
But I-ee-yi-ee-yi-hi
I love it when you sing to me.
And you-oo-oo-oo
You can sing me anything.
The Book of Love is long and boring
And written very long ago.
It’s full of things that can’t be mentioned,
And things we’re all too young to know.
But I-ee-yi-ee-yi-hi
I love it when you give me things
And you-oo-oo-oo
You oughta give me wedding rings.
Current Mood: Angry at being rushed.
Current Music: Sam's nagging.
