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Macbeth – Review

When a mind is lost where does it go? If you are Alan Cumming at Lincoln Center you venture into the world of William Shakespeare’s Macbeth; not the man, the play. In this ostensibly one-man play Mr. Cumming plays all the most vivid and recognizable parts while a patient in an institution. He descends into custody after a criminal event. The play opens to the stirring pantomime of him being undressed by attendants (Ali Craig and Myra McFadyen.) Evidence is collected, gently and cooly from; beneath his nails, inside his wounds and mouth. He is allowed to hold onto one evidence bag. A bag we assume holds the emotional evidence of the crime. The attendants climb the stairs and reach for the door as the first audible lines are spoken; “When shall we three meet again.”

So begins the tour de force that is this Macbeth production from the National Theatre of Scotland. It is a Herculean undertaking this play within a play. To convincingly construe a device to deliver a one-man Macbeth is no easy feat. Directed by John Tiffany and Andrew Goldberg this stunning production hits the mark with only one or two relatively small hiccups. The creative alchemy of the; storyline, set (Merle Hensel,) sound (Fergus O’Hare,) image (Ian William Galloway,) characterization and staging work to keep the audience mesmerized. Without the excellent staging or performance it would be impossible to follow this play. Mr. Cumming easily transforms himself into (at times dueling) characters. He often achieves this with only his body and voice although there is a prop or two also engaged. We are helped to follow these transitions with real time projections.

What is most remarkable about this Macbeth is not Macbeth. It is a tale, told through Macbeth of a man’s descent into insanity. Clever devices such as the attendants appearing to periodically anesthetize Cumming, or the closed circuit cameras (producing the projections) in his locked ward remind us of what we’re watching. We are forced outside of Macbeth at the appearance of the Lady’s bloody hands. The lady’s hallucination becomes the patient’s hallucination becomes stigmata as the attendants look fruitlessly for a source for the blood. We are reminded of the ill man on display during more than one emotional collapse. A heart wrenching yet contained Cumming dissolves and curls into himself. One of these devolutions has an attendant carrying him to the bed. This event can only be called a pas des deux. There is much beautiful movement (Christine Devaney) in this production, but it is this particular dance that clutches the heart.

It can be seductive to forget that we are not watching a Macbeth, but a man who is lost in the world of Macbeth. Cumming’s portrayal of all the characters is so convincing (and at times very funny.) He manages to capture the sexual chemistry between husband and wife with nothing more than his own body. Toward the end of the play we discover the content of his evidence bag. Our imaginations easily construe countless plausible explanations for this man’s psychiatric demise. It is not clear he will ever recover. The last words spoken are; “When shall we three meet again” suggesting we are inside the endless loop that is his mind.

 
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Posted by on July 9, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

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Pretty Woman (Walking Down The Street)*

When I saw a woman walking on the street in just a bathing suit I did not say anything. I told myself there could be any number of reasons for such a thing. “Out patient” came to mind, as did “house fire” or “luggage lost.” My therapeutic self wondered if she’d yet to find closure for an unfortunate childhood experience. I decided that a woman walking down the street (of a major metropolis) in only a bathing suit was if not entirely a one-off well then certainly an anomaly. And then I saw another one. However this one was not alone. She was walking with a male companion and talking on the phone (indications of someone sane enough to be socializing.) She was walking right up the avenue, if you will, on the Upper East Side. (For those unfamiliar with this territory think: uber-conventional, traditional, a “society” kind of reputation. There was a time you would find actual blue haired ladies in the area. Today those ladies are tightly pulled, puffed & have their many hued long hair blown straight.) There she was, strolling along in her two scraps of fabric, dyed jet black & white hair, and ink intensive tattoo spanning shoulder to shoulder. No doubt coming from a fitting, choosing a hat or on her way to plan a brunch.

I’ll admit a heat wave is a natural enemy of style. When the temperature slips north of 90 nobody wants anything touching them. A waistband, a sleeve or even a proper shoe could send chills up the spine (which probably would feel refreshing!) A straw hat is practically a must, which causes a muss of the hair. Which is actually fine because who in the world is going to take a blow dryer to their head in this heat? It’s certainly tempting to forgo proper foundation garments because lifting and separating can also be sweaty and suffocating. So style slippage is understandable. Walking around town in a bathing suit is not.

If we were to ask the young lady what exactly she was thinking when she put together her little ensemble; no doubt she would cite “comfort” as her biggest inspiration. Comfort’s great. Ya know what’s comfortable? Bed, bed is very comfortable. But you see being in public is not the same as being in private. Making the choice to leave your house (when it’s not on fire) involves some cerebral cortex functions. Keys? Check. Phone? Check. Lights off, stove off? Check and check. Wearing clothes? Not really. If a bathing suit was clothing a) it wouldn’t have a special name b) it wouldn’t have a special section in the department store c) it wouldn’t only be sold in the summer. No doubt there are times when wearing only a bathing suit while walking is perfectly acceptable; at a marina perhaps or on the boardwalk. But context is king is it not?

We all live in the world. The world is not exactly the same as our living room. Clipping nails on the subway, playing with or styling one’s hair in public (over my lunch) are hostile acts. Choosing to ignore context is tantamount to giving the world the finger. You needn’t dye your hair blue or don a sweater set and pearls to walk the street, but you need to put on some clothes. Without them we will assume that walking the streets is what you “do”.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

*Pretty Woman (1964) Roy Orbison & Bill Dees

 
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Posted by on July 6, 2012 in Style

 

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Life, Liberty And A Parade

Independence Day is so inherently celebratory and stress-free it seems odd to think of it as a holiday.  There are no cards or gifts; there is no real family obligation.  There is no food preparation or turning one’s home upside down.  What there is though are oodles of ways to celebrate (and zero societal expectation to really do so.)  Eat a hot dog, wear the colors, hold a sparkler and you’re part of the festivities.  Sit at home and read historical doctrines and you’re in.  Drive on the right side of the road and feel grateful & you’ve partied. Regardless of personal politics or religion, it’s hard to bristle at the substance of the holiday.  Declaration of Independence? Birthday Party? What’s not to like.

Fireworks are nice, though I prefer mine small, local and muted.  Barbecues and picnics are just an excuse for that berry flag cake for me.  What really makes me happy and filled with that 4th feeling is a small town parade.  I’m not sentimental enough to care whose small town or where.  I just want to see kids pulling wagons or riding their decorated bikes. I want my Uncle Sams and scouts of all ages and I want to be pelted with candy from fire trucks. Truth be told without the incentive of impending candy pelting, I’m not sure I would find some of the marchers so endearing. So this 4th, in pursuit of a parade I suited up and crossed a bridge for my slice of the patriotic pie.

At the first sight of re-enactors I knew I’d found the place.  I’m afraid I can’t get more specific than “re-enactor” as the men were dressed in Revolutionary garb, the women were dressed in 19th century dresses and they were all playing Dixie.  The local Republican Party and local Democratic Party were in modern dress and marched with their banner.  I’m accustomed to politicians (elected or running) marching, but these were just party members.  I know we think that there are only two political parties in this country but that doesn’t actually make it true.  They are of course recruiting for their locality and why not?  But what about the disproportionate representation of the military at the parade?  I am all for honoring those who serve but I find it difficult to consider the Fourth of July as a military holiday.  If the military marched to represent service to our country where was the contingent from Teach For America, Americorps and the Peace Corps?  If they were marching to represent our ‘freedoms’ how about a media float or marching judges and voting booths?

I know I was at a small town parade, but that’s the point isn’t it?  Our country is made up of these towns and on some level they really do represent how Americans feel and think.  I’ve no doubt that there were parades around this country that were broad and inclusive.  But the majority were probably more like my sample of one. I’m not convinced though that we need to forfeit quaint and charm to avoid reductionism.  Sitting in my shady spot, trying to blend into the fauna and flora, I learned about what mattered to my sample of one; a small suburban town 20 minutes outside of New York City.  To the naked untrained eye, the marchers and spectators seemed to be of the same ethnicity and perhaps religion.  They were not overly enthusiastic about children (the cars participating outnumbered the children participating 2:1) and they really liked bagpipes and kilts (not one, but two marching groups!)  They are a generous people, supplying spectators with; candy, flags, candy, pinwheels, candy & temporary flag tattoos.  And you did not need to be Jane Goodall to detect that they really like firetrucks.  At least 12 of them were wheeled out at the end (a la Santa Claus.)  One dozen firetrucks.  For a small town whose most popular form of architecture is brick colonial homes.

As the final four firetrucks made their way down the route, I put on my straw hat, grabbed my mini flag and headed cross the river.  No, I had no powdered wig, and yes I was technically headed in the wrong direction, but a little poetic license with one’s re-enacting can be festive.

 
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Posted by on July 5, 2012 in Cultural Critique

 

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Everybody In The Pool

Teenagers attacked a lifeguard on opening day of the McCarren swimming pool.  The lifeguard had reprimanded the teens for reckless diving behavior. There was a bit of buzz about the event, but generally it seemed to be ignored.  There was a suggestion that lifeguards should be adults, as if teenagers respect adults. Teenagers push limits, it’s actually their job.  But there is more than a thin line that separates normal developmental boundary pushing and attacking another person.  The real issue in an attack on a public lifeguard (besides the guard’s safety) is the alarm bells it should be ringing.  If the only person(s) of authority at a public facility are shown no respect what are the other swimmers shown?  What kind of environment are these potential emotional terrorists creating for hundreds of other people.  The moment after this incident occurred was the time to initiate the ‘zero tolerance’ policy.  A pool is not a right nor is it the public education system.  One strike and you’re out.  The tone must be set from the very beginning that there are rules of civility in public spaces.  Clearly this tone hasn’t been set as three days after the lifeguard incident swimmers punched a police officer in the face.  The officer was assisting the lifeguard reprimanding the teenagers for diving.  A second officer was injured as well.

Now before I get all “what in tarnation is going on here” let’s remember that this is a very large pool!  About 1,500 people can fit into that pool at one time.  It stands to reason that a majority of those people are under 21.  That’s a lot of kids.  That’s the size of most high schools.  Add to that the fact that the pool has been closed for 28 years and you might have one or two generations who have never been to a public pool.  This is why you have clearly stated rules and zero tolerance policies.  However, even if you have never been to a public pool you know you’re in public.  What in fact does it say about us that regardless of pool experience our teenagers would even consider attacking anyone let alone a lifeguard or police officer?  None of the perpetrators were identified as a roving gang of thugs (it’s hard to imagine swimming gangs isn’t it?)  By all accounts these were just regular old teens looking to feel more important than they actually are.  But when exactly did that age-old bravado cross the line into borderline sociopathic behavior?  When did they get the idea that it is actually acceptable if not even cool to attack people?!

But for every good student who did show up on time and did complete their homework who has to sit and listen to the teacher’s tirade, I say focus on the kids playing by the rules.  McCarren (and every other public pool) should be a safe and enjoyable respite for all.  Let’s be clear, anyone who attacks a person of authority has no problem wreaking havoc on civilians.  It is intolerable that 1,400+ people should feel intimidated.  There is a very small window in setting a tone for a short season.  A little crackdown in the next couple of (steaming hot) days will go a very long way.

 
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Posted by on July 3, 2012 in Childhood, Cultural Critique

 

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That Which We Call A Rose

No one is immune to the volcanic force of language.  An altered preposition, an inflection or a simple nuance can change the course of events if not our mood for the day. This awesome power is acknowledged before we even arrive on the planet. Our names will be labored over (sometimes literally.)  First names, middle names even last named will be constructed to pay respect or foretell character traits or ensure we’ll never have a seat on the supreme court. The words we are first taught, those we are allowed to hear and those we are punished for saying are all overseen with a scrutiny befitting a bank manager. Our legal system and our government are keen on the minutia of language and are poised to change and limit it all the time.  (Lest we think only of the dangers of limiting free speech, let us remember that screaming “fire” in a movie theater is simply not prudent.)  As a society we are continuously reexamining what words and terms are inflammatory or used to incite.

One of the most potent uses of language is that of branding.  There are words and phrases whose intent is spin.  Over the course of time we have found ways to passively (aggressively) brand people or things.  When a grown woman is continuously referred to as a girl, it just sounds more polite than repeating, “you are less than a man.”  Almost any person who’s affiliated with an underrepresented group could offer examples of this paradigm.  As groups become more visible and vocal, words and labels change.  People and groups are still labeled but with new words that have yet to ring as offensive to our ears.  No doubt there is a predictable timeframe of revision that is in play.  What sounds innocuous in 2012 will probably be horrifying in 2032.  We need only think back to what a compliment it was in the 1950s to be called a ‘housewife.’  In the 21st century it is considered an insult (to houses or wives, I’m not sure.)  People now stumble and scramble over terms such as: ‘stay at home mother’ (which suggests an ankle monitor) or “work in the home” (which could mean anything from novelist to parenting to piecework.)  Lots of awkward vague phrasing which rarely accurately communicates anything.

Of course where this less than graceful terminology stems from is the discomfort we’re currently experiencing around women, work, and parenting in the 21st century.   There is much anxiety around the freedom of choice that some women experience.  The anxiety is only exacerbated by the fishbowl we now inhabit.  Even a person 100% certain about his/her choices is barraged by confidence shaking messages.  Culturally we are reacting vigorously to the fact that women now do have choices (perhaps not enough but far more than any other time in recent history.)  If you were a Martian and found yourself at a magazine stand you would think it was in fact the 1950s.  Women are cautioned and coached on how to keep a man interested.  Fashion consists of girdles (with naughty names) sky-high heels, artificial hair (all the better to swish ‘round a pole) dark lacquered nails (requiring daily maintenance) and false eyelashes (forcing perfect posture so as not to inadvertently drop one onto someone’s lap or lunch.)  Now of course no one would confuse a fashion magazine for anything but a nicely bound advert delivery system.  But people are buying them and presumably reading them (which takes all of 10 minutes.)

Is it any wonder that in the midst of what can appear to be a pop culture feminist backlash we find ourselves peppered with the ‘man’ prefix?  It all probably started innocently enough with the first utterance of “male nurse.’  As if we are French and need gender defining articles preceding our nouns.  We now find ourselves in a sea of ‘man caves’ ‘man bags’ ‘bromance’ ‘manny’ ‘manscape’ and countless others I’ve been fortunate enough to ignore.  I’m not sure when a tote bag became feminine or why male friendships need a new name.  Having had male sitters as a child, I’ve no idea why nannies need gender identity.  Manscape?  Really?  It’s called grooming.  What really sticks in my craw however is the ‘man cave.’  If this was a real cave, one in which caped crusaders worked on mammoth computers and were served tea by stiff-upper-lipped British man-servants, I’d be all over it.  But alas, it’s not.  It is a reference to an abode or part of an abode that is reserved for a man.  You know, like how Ward Cleaver had his den and Don Draper had his office because the home was really the woman’s domain?  Look, I’m no Martian (or am I?) but it’s beginning to look a bit like the late 1950s.  Women molded into a Betty Boop silhouette (surgically or through the miracle of spandex) teetering on heels, men sequestered in their “he-man women hater no girls allowed’ space looks an awful lot like there is a yearning to get the genie back into the bottle.

Whether there is something worthwhile in this yearning for a time with clearly defined roles is an interesting concept.  It could be illuminating to tease apart our feelings and desires around equality and options.  But to do so, to have a discourse which goes beyond soundbite or 1000 word blog post we need to know what we’re actually saying.  Understanding ourselves, let alone each other is not facilitated by euphemism or trendy semantics.  There is a difference between using language that is respectful and using language to obfuscate.

 
 

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