Mikhail Baryshnikov is an f'ing legend. There have been many dance superstars--your Gelseys, Rudy's, and Dame Margot's. My generation knows Suzanne Farrell because she was on Sesame Street. But Baryshnikov is that rare dancer who is also a household name. As a teenager, I used to rewind his Don Q and Le Corsaire scenes from The Turning Point over and over and over. And, okay, I'll admit it. Also the love scene with Leslie Browne.
He's still dancing at the ripe old age of 59. He'll be 60 next month. But since his body won't do everything it used to, he's branching out into acting. I am a huge fan of this career choice. His short stint on Sex and the City was, dare I say it, hot. And now, he's starring in a compilation of Samuel Beckett shorts with the New York Theater Workshop. He's getting pretty good reviews. What's interesting to note is that in three of the four short plays, Baryshnikov doesn't say a word. It's all physical acting, set to original music by Philip Glass.
Not having seen the performances, I really can't say much by way of review, but I do have two problems with this general concept. Number one, Baryshnikov is the most accomplished person in the world at movement. Sure, he's going to be modest and say it's challenging to move and act in different ways on a different type of stage; but let's be honest, this has got to be child's play for him. Physical acting has been his life since the mid-1950s. Give the guy a challenge! Second, how can one put him on a stage and not take advantage of that sexy Russian accent? It's a shame, I say. A damn shame.
This one's specifically for Zach. Consider it your welcome to blogging.
The word "starchitect" is loaded with a lot of controversy these days. Often starchitect status is earned when an architect produces an influential body of work; just as often, it's the result of relentless self-promotion à la Frank Lloyd Wright. It's both a good and bad thing, in that it raises the profile of architectural designs, but it also gives egotistical architects the impression that they have a "free pass" to design whatever the hell they want, budget and clients be damned. The latest person to take on the modern starchitect system is John Silber, Boston University's anointed messiah. (Check out the shrine dedicated to him in Mugar Library if you think I'm kidding).
I don't quite know what to think about John Silber. Most of me wants to dismiss him as a curmudgeon who somehow gets paid to complain about modern culture, kind of like Andy Rooney but without the eyebrows. You know, that old guy who yells, "you kids get off my lawn!" while he shakes his cane at you. My general opinion of Silber is that he's a conservative homophobe who offers unresearched opinions (and often inaccurate information) in order to cause a ruckus. He's a demagogue who likes to hear himself talk. So you can imagine how much it pisses me off me when he actually has a point.
His new book, Architecture of the Absurd: How "Genius" Disfigured a Practical Art, takes on star architects like Frank Gehry, Daniel Libeskind, and Jose Lluis Sert. He claims their buildings are "absurd" because the legend of the architect's genius overshadows the fact that their designs aren't really appropriate for the clients who are paying the commission. Rightly so, he insists that clients of "absurd" architecture share the blame for allowing architects create buildings that don't fit their intended function, or that come in way over budget. I absolutely agree with Silber on these points. For example, Libeskind probably could have come up with something better for the Royal Ontario Museum than the quick-and-dirty design he sketched on a cocktail napkin, pictured above. And some of Gehry's creations, like the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, have caused some pretty weird problems, like reflecting unbearable heat onto neighboring apartments.
But should MIT sue Gehry for his leaky Stata Center? Given his track record, they surely ought to have have known what they were getting into when they hired him in the first place. Also, I think the building looks wicked cool on the outside, and ultimately MIT will benefit from commissioning such an inventive structure, as will the ROM with Libeskind. Could MIT have hired a different architect who would have offered a more practical design? Absolutely. But it's their prerogative. They wanted a Frank Gehry building, and they got what they paid for.
The problem I have with Silber's book (besides that it could use an editor to weed out all the inaccuracies) is how inconsistent he is in his definitions of what is "absurd" and what is not. From what I can tell, "absurdity" serves as code for anything that isn't derivative. He dislikes anything that looks too modern or arty and wants us to go back to nineteenth century practicality. Now, I have no problem with the nineteenth century. I just don't think it belongs in the twenty-first century. It's time to stop copying our ancestors. What he's really calling for is a return to "safe" architecture, Neoclassical boxes that are constructed from traditional materials like brick and don't look weird. He doesn't like buildings that challenge his standards of beauty. He likes Mies van der Rohe's buildings because of their clean simplicity. He neglects to mention that Dr. Edith Farnsworth, who commissioned the famous Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois, sued Mies for going over budget and for building her a house that had structural problems and didn't fit her needs. She couldn't see out the glass windows of her country home because they were always steamed up. How is that different from MIT's problem with the leaky Stata Center? The Farnsworth House would seem to fit into the category of the absurd, would it not?
I would agree that buildings with structural problems, leaky roofs, and the like are not deserving of the label "genius," though often that's as much the contractor's fault as the architect's. But Silber's problem with the Stata Center is not just that its roof leaks. It's that it looks weird. (He has the same opinion of Boston's City Hall. It's an inverted pyramid! Oh, the horror!) The book's final insult places the Stata Center alongside the nursery rhyme, "There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile. He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse. And they all lived together in a little crooked house." Silber doesn't offer an intelligent critique of Gehry's design; he just wants to make fun of it.
So, why can't architecture be playful and funny? Why can't it look weird, or at least different from what we're used to? Does it all have to look like his own pride and joy, Boston University's School of Management? Now there's an absurd building if I've ever seen one. Absurd because it's a monument to opulence and greed. The bronze planet sculpture in the central atrium just screams, "Globalization! Yippee!" The west end on the first floor has gold-plated elevators, fabric-covered walls, and tapestries. Tapestries! This is an academic building, not a castle, folks. And it's all sheathed in a conservative, rectangular brick facade. Apparently, the top three floors are so richly decorated, they've been nicknamed the "Taj Mahal." Zach and I recently tried to infiltrate them, but they're sealed off tighter than a...I won't say what.
My conclusion is that John Silber was on the right track when he started thinking about the subject of "genius" architects, but he's just such a douche that he couldn't resist resorting to petty name-calling. Now watch as the BU secret police comes to take me away...oh no!
Just one more gushy Joss post, and then I'll get back to writing about art for real, promise.
Last Friday, December 14th, I attended the Boston TV Party, a.k.a. the rally on behalf of the Writer's Guild of America as they continue their strike. Organized by Jaime Paglia (Eureka), Rob Kutner (The Daily Show), and Mr. Joss Himself, the rally drew an unexpectedly large crowd for the day after an official "Boston Snow Emergency." (Seriously, Boston, an emergency? Surely not. Eight inches isn't even enough for this Mainer to bust out her snow pants.) We met at the First Parish Church in Harvard Square. Speechifying ensued. Instead of summarizing them badly, I'll just post the YouTube clips so you can see for yourself. Rob's speech was especially awesome. I nearly peed myself laughing. Then we picketed. We yelled. We sang. We carried signs with witty slogans on them. We got our feet wet. We froze our asses off.
There is a lot of confusion as to what the writers are striking for, due to some badly written propaganda pieces by the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers and some equally grinchy major media outlets. (The New York Times described the first pickets as having "all the trappings of a union protest," except the writers wore "arty glasses and fancy scarves." Way to miss the point.) The writers and the producers are mainly fighting over residuals. Residuals are a small compensation that a writer receives when their work is rebroadcast, whether it be on DVD or in reruns on TV. Like actors (who also receive residuals), writers rely on creative bursts and don't always have regular work. Residuals get them through those times when they aren't working, or when they're writing on spec. It's a safety net.
So when their contract came up, the writers asked for 8 cents per DVD sale. Currently they receive 3 cents. Apparently that was a dealbreaker for the AMPTP, so the WGA dropped that demand. Now they're asking for 2.5% of the profits from all Internet broadcasts. That's it. To put it in understandable terms: when you watch The Office on broadcast TV, the writers get paid. When you watch The Office on the NBC website, they don't get paid. When you buy an episode of The Office on iTunes, they don't get paid. What is the AMPTP's rationale for not paying writers for their work? They've basically said, "What is this newfangled Internet thing, anyway? Are you sure we can actually make money from it? Sounds kind of weird! Give us a few years to research its possibilities, and then we'll decide if we can pay you for your work." Never mind that the studios have already sold millions of dollars worth of web advertising based on these writers' products. Never mind last time I took a Math class, 2.5% of nothing is nothing. Never mind that the Internet is the future of TV. In summary, they're just asking for their fair share.
After the rally, we trudged through the slush to Pandemonium Books & Games in Central Square (possibly the most deliciously geeky store in Boston) for a meet-and-greet. On my way down Mass. Ave., I got a chance to talk to Joss a bit about social issues in television writing. Anyone who knows me well will know that I was trying my damndest not to freak out and yell, holy crap, you're Joss Whedon! And I'm talking to you! And you're saying things back! This man is truly my hero. Not just because he writes cool TV shows and movies that I love, but for all the work he's done on behalf of feminist causes and social justice. As an unofficial spokesperson for the organization Equality Now, his support has helped raise a lot of money and awareness about human rights issues for women around the world. He creates strong female heroes who have meaningful life problems, whom audiences can relate to, and who use their powers in ways that make the world a better place. Buffy Summers, Willow Rosenberg, Fred Burkle, Faith Lehane, Melaka Fray, Zoey Washburn, River Tam (and, coming soon, Echo). The short-lived showFirefly and its film incarnation, Serenity, dealt with government corruption and the evils of large corporations. I truly was very grateful for the chance to tell Joss how much I respect the way he addresses social issues in his writing and in his life. Here's hoping we can get a pencil in his hands again sometime soon.
Also, Joss claims that a lot of the striking writers on the West Coast wear Red Sox hats to the picket lines. I said I think it's because the Sox are the team of romantics, those people who (until recently) had no hope. He agreed. Though I was not as star-struck, I had a nice conversation with Rob Kutner as well. It felt like I was talking to Jon Stewart, which makes sense because this guy literally puts words into Jon Stewart's mouth. I really hope Rob is able to get back to work before the State of the Union, but it's not looking good.
Here are a couple of clips of speeches from the rally. I won't post them all, but these ones are especially worth watching.
Back home for the holidays and suddenly faced with nothing to do, I'm blogging with renewed vigor. I've been stockpiling ideas for so long, I'll never get to most of them. But for once, I've decided to write about something timely: The Nutcracker.
Any dancer, current or former, will tell you that their own hometown Nutcracker is the best. I am no exception. I danced in the Robinson Ballet's annual Nutcracker for eight years and worked backstage for nearly as long. At various points, I have danced the parts of Clara, the maid, a harlequin doll, a soldier, a snowflake, a China doll, and many, many other roles. When I hear the music, I can feel the steps. Muscle memory is a grand thing. I've seen a lot of other Nutcracker performances before--some world-caliber; some less so--but none will ever measure up to the "real" one, the one that I first saw at the age of six when my dance teacher, Miss Maureen, was the Sugar Plum Fairy and I was wide-eyed with wonder.
Jennifer Fischer, a dance scholar and a former snowflake herself, examines this phenomenon in Nutcracker Nation: How an Old World Ballet Became a Christmas Tradition in the New World. The first Nutcracker in nineteenth century St. Petersburg was a spectacular failure. When it came to the United States, its popularity exploded. The New York City Ballet has undisputed possession of the most popular American version, which reached its 2000th performance just this week. But there are so many others, there is no definitive. There's the Pacific Northwest Ballet version with creepy sets by Maurice Sendak (who wrote Where the Wild Things Are). There's Mark Morris's Hard Nut, which takes place in the Swinging '60s, meaning the party guests are all stoned and dressed like Cher. In my own city, there's the Boston Ballet (traditional and flashy, with shimmering set pieces that move around without the aid of techies wearing rat masks), the José Mateo version out in Waltham (less flashy, but nevertheless very well danced), and the Urban Nutcracker (a fusion of ballet, swing, hip-hop, and tap, set to Duke Ellington's Nutcracker score). My hometown version up in Maine has a cast drawn from local dance schools, costumes sewn by parents, and set pieces built by, well, people like me.
Unable to head home this year for my own Nutcracker, I splurged for a $30 upper balcony ticket for the Boston Ballet. I was duly impressed with the pyrotechnics and the flying hot air balloon. And those techies sure know how to make good use of a scrim. The costumes glittered accordingly. But the subject I'd like to write about here is the role of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Boston Ballet's grand pas de deux has almost exactly the same choreography as the one I learned in partnering class in high school (likely derived from the traditional Petipa and Ivanov 1892 version from Russia). It felt like home. But I've never seen it danced with that level of technical expertise. I attended a Saturday matinée, which always means seeing the 3rd or 4th cast, so I can't imagine what I might have seen had it been a first cast. One expects nothing less than perfection from the Boston Ballet, and that afternoon's Sugar Plum Fairy, Misa Kuranaga, didn't disappoint. Having attempted these steps myself, I appreciate the skill involved in the pas de deux more than most.
But you know what, technique is only so much. Don't get me wrong; anyone worthy of wearing the pink tutu on one of those big stages works harder than anyone and has definitely earned their stripes. But the best lead performances I've ever seen have been by teenagers who have maybe half the skills of Ms. Kuranaga and and have no other option than to pour their hearts and souls into the dancing. They're good dancers, and they've worked all year for this moment. They're inexperienced, scared shitless, and energetic beyond our world. They're in love with the stage, and it shows in the joy on their faces. The Boston Ballet dancers smile appropriately, but after so many Nutcrackers over so many years, it looks like they're on autopilot. They're delicate and beautiful, but they forgot their passion back in the rehearsal studio. They can jump, but they don't fly.
The above photo (By Gary Soucy, lifted from his website) is from a Robinson Ballet performance at the Maine Center for the Arts a few years back. The dancer suspended mid-leap is 17 years old. Doesn't it look like she's having the absolute time of her life? So if you're thinking about going to see The Nutcracker this year or in the future, I recommend something that's not the Boston Ballet or the New York City Ballet or the like. Go to a performance where the audience members include the dancers' moms. Something genuine. Happy Holidays.
Mikhail Baryshnikov is an f'ing legend. There have been many dance superstars--your Gelseys, Rudy's, and Dame Margot's. My generation knows Suzanne Farrell because she was on Sesame Street. But Baryshnikov is that rare dancer who is also a household name. As a teenager, I used to rewind his Don Q and Le Corsaire scenes from The Turning Point over and over and over. And, okay, I'll admit it. Also the love scene with Leslie Browne.
