The WholeArt theatre of Kalamazoo opened Thursday night with Edward Albee’s now classic play Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Ambitious, given that the play demands from its actors a level of psychic engagement that could only lead to a state of exhaustion.
And this was the case for most of cast as indicated by Richard Philpot’s (George) occasional stammering and line confusion. But, Albee’s play has plenty of room for these occurrences; in fact, it necessitates that the actor, in all of his or her idiosyncrasies, occupy the vacant spot to embody the language. This after all is Albee’s point.
The set on Thursday night was both intimate and accessible. It was a large square, outfitted in the furnishings of 50s era east coast socialites: jazz records, the Kinsey report, ashtrays, and plenty of the finest booze. Four bleachers crowded the small space where the action took place. The audience almost sat on top of the actors, clouding the distinction between illusion and reality so essential to the play. It also evoked a kind of voyeurism. At times the Philpot’s seemed to get-off in the heavy gaze of the audience, as they unloaded on one another as the disillusioned Martha and George.
Perhaps the only thing out of place was the empty bottle of Popov that Mr. Philpot hurls at the bookshelves in the culmination of scene one. No socialite would touch that shit!
Edward Albee came across the phrase “Who’s afraid of Virigina Woolf?” in a bar restroom. It was written with soap on the mirror. For Albee, it was an intellectual’s joke; the kind of quip that socialites lay awake at night trying desperately to come up with, so as to arouse a haughty laugh at the next dinner party. It was not only the perfect frame for the erudite characters of his play; it held a greater significance: It pointed to the fundamental antagonism of human existence.
Albee embeds this antagonism in the boundaries of our definitions. In a barely veiled allusion to Epimenides’ “Liar’s Paradox”, Nick (Trevor Maher, K Alum), the young and fit genetic engineer, ignorantly shouts, “That of course would make us Cretans!” I speak, I lie: Deal with it! – Albee definitely says to his bewildered audience.
Nothing in our collective understanding remains unchallenged. George and Martha interrogate each and every taken for granted linguistic tic in their twisted search for truth.
While such attitudes can most certainly lead (and they most certainly do) to the cruel and manipulative ploys that the characters develop in a kind of ‘survival of the shrewdest’; there, nevertheless, remains a sense of hope. When the two men are deep in a moment of sparring, Nick desperately yells, “Tell you why? To make contact? To communicate?”
It is in these moments of betrayal: when what you meant to say and how you expected someone else to hear it, is twisted and contorted in such a way that you can neither recognize yourself or the other. This is a moment when it is apparent that beneath the humiliation and selfishness of the most vile of encounters, there persists the desire to authentically connect.
2.18.2008
2.14.2008
In Patience, Out of the Box
HBO’s new series In Treatment daringly opens onto the remote topic of psychotherapy and delivers a television classic. Unlike its predecessors, who have similarly incorporated psychotherapy (i.e. The Sopranos and State of Mind) – if only to inflect the already dysfunctional lives of their protagonists – In Treatment develops the characters within the doctor’s office and only there. The result: psychotherapy becomes something more than a prop, something less sensational and taboo, more raw and authentic; it offers the opportunity for a tightly woven creative exploration into the potential of an affective minimalism.
The genius of the show is, without a doubt, realized in a collective effort. The writers have taken on the Herculean task of restoring the forgotten art of conversation. In today’s culture, where television is for the large part unscripted or dulled by laugh tracks, a show of pure dialogue is a thorn in the side. There is something novel about the idea of an hour of dialogue. It not only places the heavy burden on the actors to realize the demanding nature of their characters. It also demands the subtle craft of the technical crew. In the case of the cinematographer, the intimacy of the office is never intruded: the camera is always the unobserved observer.
Each episode of In Treatment unfolds like an orchestral set. There are typically a series of movements that arise from the dizzying circularity of the patient’s logic. The therapist, Paul (Gabriel Byrne), is a conductor; whose sonorous linguistic acts gives shape to the ground swell that evades description. At his best, Paul is able to loop the conversation back onto itself, and fabricate a kind of crescendo. If successful, this artistic will has the ability to culminate in an epiphany for the patient (and viewer). Although, more often than not, Paul and his patients plummet deeper into the piece, leading Laura (Melissa George) to say: “I came here in darkness , and now I’m leaving into an even bigger one.”
The most tantalizing moments of sessions are Paul’s own therapy session. It is here where the seeming artistry is exposed for its vanity. Gina (Dianna West) – former mentor and estranged friend – is quite and unassuming. She lets Paul perform acrobatics, yet at every moment holds him to the literal meaning of his expressions. The omnipotent and collected Paul becomes agitated, insisting each time that she is twisting his words. This is a fine moment in television today. The craft is seamless, subtle and clean. Byrne and West generate more action with their performances than any stunt crew.
As to be expected, there will be those in the chorus of popular media that demand more action. To do so, however, would be to miss the point of this carefully crafted show. The action is in the inaction: the pauses and moments between soliloquy. It is the unintentional as opposed to the intentional that the viewer will have to develop sensitivity for. Admittedly, there isn’t much to the show, but dedicated viewers will reap unexpected benefits.
The genius of the show is, without a doubt, realized in a collective effort. The writers have taken on the Herculean task of restoring the forgotten art of conversation. In today’s culture, where television is for the large part unscripted or dulled by laugh tracks, a show of pure dialogue is a thorn in the side. There is something novel about the idea of an hour of dialogue. It not only places the heavy burden on the actors to realize the demanding nature of their characters. It also demands the subtle craft of the technical crew. In the case of the cinematographer, the intimacy of the office is never intruded: the camera is always the unobserved observer.
Each episode of In Treatment unfolds like an orchestral set. There are typically a series of movements that arise from the dizzying circularity of the patient’s logic. The therapist, Paul (Gabriel Byrne), is a conductor; whose sonorous linguistic acts gives shape to the ground swell that evades description. At his best, Paul is able to loop the conversation back onto itself, and fabricate a kind of crescendo. If successful, this artistic will has the ability to culminate in an epiphany for the patient (and viewer). Although, more often than not, Paul and his patients plummet deeper into the piece, leading Laura (Melissa George) to say: “I came here in darkness , and now I’m leaving into an even bigger one.”
The most tantalizing moments of sessions are Paul’s own therapy session. It is here where the seeming artistry is exposed for its vanity. Gina (Dianna West) – former mentor and estranged friend – is quite and unassuming. She lets Paul perform acrobatics, yet at every moment holds him to the literal meaning of his expressions. The omnipotent and collected Paul becomes agitated, insisting each time that she is twisting his words. This is a fine moment in television today. The craft is seamless, subtle and clean. Byrne and West generate more action with their performances than any stunt crew.
As to be expected, there will be those in the chorus of popular media that demand more action. To do so, however, would be to miss the point of this carefully crafted show. The action is in the inaction: the pauses and moments between soliloquy. It is the unintentional as opposed to the intentional that the viewer will have to develop sensitivity for. Admittedly, there isn’t much to the show, but dedicated viewers will reap unexpected benefits.
2.13.2008
The Absurd Life of Edward Albee
The life of Edward Albee sounds like the kind of stuff found in one of his plays. Well, that’s not far from the truth given that several of his plays were biographically informed. Born a parentless, Albee was adopted by a pair of New York socialites. Richard and Frankie Albee were conservative, Christian and cold. Albee, a homosexual, was at odds with his adoptive parents, causing him to leave at the age of 21.
I am not one for biographies and I am typically annoyed by the practice of referring the work of the artist to the life of the artist. In the case of Albee, the life of the artist is a work of art in many respects. The strange title “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” is taken by Albee to mean, “Who’s afraid to live a life without illusion?” Seems appropriate coming from a homosexual born to a family of conservatives.
Albee has dedicated his life (and art) to expunging American culture of illusion with his witty and biting dialogue. Included in the Theater of Absurd, Albee is an essential contribution to the tradition of American playwrights.
I am not one for biographies and I am typically annoyed by the practice of referring the work of the artist to the life of the artist. In the case of Albee, the life of the artist is a work of art in many respects. The strange title “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” is taken by Albee to mean, “Who’s afraid to live a life without illusion?” Seems appropriate coming from a homosexual born to a family of conservatives.
Albee has dedicated his life (and art) to expunging American culture of illusion with his witty and biting dialogue. Included in the Theater of Absurd, Albee is an essential contribution to the tradition of American playwrights.
2.04.2008
No Criticism for Old Ethos
What is the difference between a critic and polemicist? That is, where does one draw the line between criticism and opinion? This is precisely the question Renata Adler raises with respect to the venerable Pauline Kael whose tenure at The New Yorker elevated her to the pantheon of film criticism. Who could be a better case to test this delicate and fragile distinction? And what time more appropriate to raise the question, considering that so much of contemporary criticism has devolved into mere punditry?
There is no doubt that Pauline Kael revolutionized the practice of the critic. If it wasn’t for her poignant and clear writing, then it was most certainly for her unapologetic opinions with respect to those edifying topics in cinema that result in the residual dogmatism of social morality. No topic – not the even Holocaust! – was important enough to escape the critical scrutiny of Kael. Rather, Kael wanted to talk about sex, abjection and the violence that shoots through the sinews of American culture; the sustenance of culture that takes on its phantasmal form in cinema.
One of the most compelling examples of Kael’s refusal to submit to the pressures of piety is with respect to the work of Steven Spielberg. In Afterglow, Kael laments the work of the young Spielberg disgusted with his turn the heavy-handed moralism of Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan (we need only cite Munich and Flags of Our Fathers to complete this list). This criticism is far from unsubstantiated. Kael makes the keen observation that this high-handed morality affects the quality of the film in everything down to the actors. Kael points out that the very presence of Liam Nielsen anticipates the resolution, thus negating the moral ambiguity required for Schindler. Furthermore, Kael is quite right to object to directors like Spielberg who feel entitled to awards by virtue of topic alone.
Renata Adler, however, raises the important question as to whether Kael is simply a critic or polemic. To add weight to her claim, Adler suggests Kael’s tenure is to be taken as an exemplar of the negative effects of institutional support’. Adler identifies a ‘’turn’ in the career of Kael, noting that when she secured the position of ‘staff critic’ her writing degenerated: “A voice that may have seemed, sometimes, true and iconoclastic when it was outside can become, with institutional support, vain, overbearing, foolish, hysterical.” From here, Adler unleashes an entire arsenal of critical vocabulary to identify this phenomenon (e.g., In her later works, Kael exhibits a knowingness that sets her apart from the audience). In addition to this, Adler dissects the writing of Kael for the purpose of exposing the minutia that constitutes Kael’s otherwise robust rhetoric. Finally, the most devastating critique of Kael comes with Adler’s assertion that Kael relies on her own set of uncritical dogmatism, namely ‘abjection.’
Adler’s points are well taken and her close-reading of Kael is telling. In many senses, Adler’s piece suggests that the flaws of Kael are endemic of an entirely different phenomenon (e.g., the above mentioned punditry). Likewise, Adler’s assertion that ‘institutional support’ has deleterious effects on critics is well received. There is something that Adler elides in the course of the piece, however, that was intimated in the above passages on Kael. That is, the ability of the critic to make fluid those ossified opinions (e.g. heavy-handed morality), which themselves have institutional support. Thus, there is something anemic about the ideal that Adler espouses and that which Kael seems to have devoted her career to undermining.
There is no doubt that Pauline Kael revolutionized the practice of the critic. If it wasn’t for her poignant and clear writing, then it was most certainly for her unapologetic opinions with respect to those edifying topics in cinema that result in the residual dogmatism of social morality. No topic – not the even Holocaust! – was important enough to escape the critical scrutiny of Kael. Rather, Kael wanted to talk about sex, abjection and the violence that shoots through the sinews of American culture; the sustenance of culture that takes on its phantasmal form in cinema.
One of the most compelling examples of Kael’s refusal to submit to the pressures of piety is with respect to the work of Steven Spielberg. In Afterglow, Kael laments the work of the young Spielberg disgusted with his turn the heavy-handed moralism of Schindler’s List and Saving Private Ryan (we need only cite Munich and Flags of Our Fathers to complete this list). This criticism is far from unsubstantiated. Kael makes the keen observation that this high-handed morality affects the quality of the film in everything down to the actors. Kael points out that the very presence of Liam Nielsen anticipates the resolution, thus negating the moral ambiguity required for Schindler. Furthermore, Kael is quite right to object to directors like Spielberg who feel entitled to awards by virtue of topic alone.
Renata Adler, however, raises the important question as to whether Kael is simply a critic or polemic. To add weight to her claim, Adler suggests Kael’s tenure is to be taken as an exemplar of the negative effects of institutional support’. Adler identifies a ‘’turn’ in the career of Kael, noting that when she secured the position of ‘staff critic’ her writing degenerated: “A voice that may have seemed, sometimes, true and iconoclastic when it was outside can become, with institutional support, vain, overbearing, foolish, hysterical.” From here, Adler unleashes an entire arsenal of critical vocabulary to identify this phenomenon (e.g., In her later works, Kael exhibits a knowingness that sets her apart from the audience). In addition to this, Adler dissects the writing of Kael for the purpose of exposing the minutia that constitutes Kael’s otherwise robust rhetoric. Finally, the most devastating critique of Kael comes with Adler’s assertion that Kael relies on her own set of uncritical dogmatism, namely ‘abjection.’
Adler’s points are well taken and her close-reading of Kael is telling. In many senses, Adler’s piece suggests that the flaws of Kael are endemic of an entirely different phenomenon (e.g., the above mentioned punditry). Likewise, Adler’s assertion that ‘institutional support’ has deleterious effects on critics is well received. There is something that Adler elides in the course of the piece, however, that was intimated in the above passages on Kael. That is, the ability of the critic to make fluid those ossified opinions (e.g. heavy-handed morality), which themselves have institutional support. Thus, there is something anemic about the ideal that Adler espouses and that which Kael seems to have devoted her career to undermining.
1.30.2008
Critical Defense
In “Friend Indeed Who Doesn’t Judge or Flinch” Manholia Dargis is not pulling any punches in her discussion of Romanian filmmaker (Cristian Munguin) “4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days”. In fact, she throws so many punches, I wonder if she doesn’t have a manuscript for her forthcoming book tucked away somewhere in her flat. This article is principally concerned with the status of art within contemporary culture. The intersections, however, are aplenty, as Ms. Dargis takes on the Academy, Pro-Lifers, representations of pregnancy in American popular culture and even arts criticism itself! With all of these topics colliding in one article, one may certainly wonder if Ms. Dargis’ has left enough space for the film.
The lede, while captivating, establishes the precedent for the remainder of the piece both in its size and scope: “[T]he camera doesn’t follow the action, it expresses consciousness itself”. Admittedly, Ms. Dargis brings the topic back to earth when she locates this ‘consciousness’ in the plight of a young woman in State controlled Romania in the 1980s.
Nevertheless, as is evident in Dargis’ swift transition to the film’s European acclaim and American neglect, Dargis has another ‘consciousness’ in mind.
Dargis is angry with the Academy for ignoring the film because the recognition would certainly prompt wide-release of the film. To this, Dargis adds the additional claim that this film is a welcomed alternative to the “coy, trivializing attitude toward abortion in vogue in American fiction films”. Indeed, Ms. Dargis is quite right in identifying the recent endemic in American films where a young and beautiful woman is accidentally impregnated and she keeps the kid! I can think of a few Juno, Knocked Up and Waitress. But Dargis, nevertheless, maintains that this film is should be viewed principally for the ‘new talent’ in Romania -- writer/director Cristian Munguin.
Now, what to make of this strange opening to Ms. Dargis’ piece? Should we see the film for its ‘alternative’ political view or for the burgeoning artistic genius of Munguin. It is evident throughout the rest of the piece that Ms. Dargis tries to vigorously defend (dig herself out of the hole?) the claim about the film’s artistic merit. Put another way, she is totally aware that taking a shot at both the Academy and representation of abortion could very well overshadow the film review itself. And what a heroic effort Ms. Dargis gives!
As an enthusiast for foreign films, especially those coming from Central and Eastern Europe, I think Ms. Dargis does a remarkable job at capturing the grim aesthetic. Her attentiveness to the way that a seemingly accidental realism is transformed into aesthetic is a remarkable insight as indicated by the following description: “Hours later, during an unbearably tense scene when she’s surrounded by barking dogs on a desolate street, you realize there are no accidents here, just art”. For me this indicated that Ms. Dargis has a special eye for the difficult and vexing images that set art from schlop.
In the end, despite the huge opening, I think Ms. Dargis adequately defends her claim that Munguis’ film should be watched for its artistic genius. She achieves this with her careful consideration of the tendency to interpret Mungiu films within a wider socio-political context. This is a seemingly contradictory statement given that Ms. Dargis seems to do just this at the beginning of the piece. Quite the contrary, however, given that Ms. Dargis draws attention to the fact that Mr. Mungiu creates a work of art that no mere interpretation could contain. In doing so, Ms. Dargis refocuses the piece on the artistic merit of the film, which in turn, justifies her claim that the Academy is full of ‘philistines.’
The lede, while captivating, establishes the precedent for the remainder of the piece both in its size and scope: “[T]he camera doesn’t follow the action, it expresses consciousness itself”. Admittedly, Ms. Dargis brings the topic back to earth when she locates this ‘consciousness’ in the plight of a young woman in State controlled Romania in the 1980s.
Nevertheless, as is evident in Dargis’ swift transition to the film’s European acclaim and American neglect, Dargis has another ‘consciousness’ in mind.
Dargis is angry with the Academy for ignoring the film because the recognition would certainly prompt wide-release of the film. To this, Dargis adds the additional claim that this film is a welcomed alternative to the “coy, trivializing attitude toward abortion in vogue in American fiction films”. Indeed, Ms. Dargis is quite right in identifying the recent endemic in American films where a young and beautiful woman is accidentally impregnated and she keeps the kid! I can think of a few Juno, Knocked Up and Waitress. But Dargis, nevertheless, maintains that this film is should be viewed principally for the ‘new talent’ in Romania -- writer/director Cristian Munguin.
Now, what to make of this strange opening to Ms. Dargis’ piece? Should we see the film for its ‘alternative’ political view or for the burgeoning artistic genius of Munguin. It is evident throughout the rest of the piece that Ms. Dargis tries to vigorously defend (dig herself out of the hole?) the claim about the film’s artistic merit. Put another way, she is totally aware that taking a shot at both the Academy and representation of abortion could very well overshadow the film review itself. And what a heroic effort Ms. Dargis gives!
As an enthusiast for foreign films, especially those coming from Central and Eastern Europe, I think Ms. Dargis does a remarkable job at capturing the grim aesthetic. Her attentiveness to the way that a seemingly accidental realism is transformed into aesthetic is a remarkable insight as indicated by the following description: “Hours later, during an unbearably tense scene when she’s surrounded by barking dogs on a desolate street, you realize there are no accidents here, just art”. For me this indicated that Ms. Dargis has a special eye for the difficult and vexing images that set art from schlop.
In the end, despite the huge opening, I think Ms. Dargis adequately defends her claim that Munguis’ film should be watched for its artistic genius. She achieves this with her careful consideration of the tendency to interpret Mungiu films within a wider socio-political context. This is a seemingly contradictory statement given that Ms. Dargis seems to do just this at the beginning of the piece. Quite the contrary, however, given that Ms. Dargis draws attention to the fact that Mr. Mungiu creates a work of art that no mere interpretation could contain. In doing so, Ms. Dargis refocuses the piece on the artistic merit of the film, which in turn, justifies her claim that the Academy is full of ‘philistines.’
1.28.2008
Heart, Soul and Good Acting Too!
Writer/director John Carney’s Once achieves the rare feat of successfully combining a diverse spread of artistic mediums without sacrificing the integrity of any one. More impressively, Carney puts forth a bold interpretation of the musical genre moving the camera away from the studio to the gritty streets of Dublin. In doing so, Carney eliminates the familiar garnishes of the musical and replaces them with real-time footage framed by a grainy digital camera. It is precisely this move that allows Carney to remain true to each artistic element of the film resulting in a harmonious triad of acting, music and cinematography. This equilibrium, however, would not be possible without the performances of the non-actor musicians Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, whose subtle and understated performances make this film possible.
Glen Hansard (Guy) and Marketa Irglova (as herself) fill the otherwise blight and depressive urban setting of Once with a robust spirit that finds its full expression in their musical numbers. Guy is a heart-broken and struggling musician who takes to the streets to perform when he isn’t working at his father’s vacuum repair shop. Marketa is a Czech immigrant who sells roses on those same busy streets as Guy. She is also a virtuoso pianist with an infant daughter and estranged husband. Admittedly, on description alone, the film certainly comes across as having the potential to be predictable and conventional. The acting, however, infuses this otherwise typical love story with an atypical element of authenticity.
Hansard and Irglova prove their ability as competent actors when they first perform the song that will later become the title track for the film. The two are so good in this moment that it is difficult to discern whether they are even acting. They display a range of emotions from reserve, nervousness, curiosity and concentration. Carney’s camerawork compliments the actors by maintaining a delicate balance between distance and intimacy. In doing so, he never forces a romance or chemistry that is absent from the performance. Paradoxically, some of the most intimate moments of the film are those filmed from a distance.
At times, Once can come off as overwhelmed by musical performance and underwhelmed by the actors’ performance. Such a criticism, however, ignores the fragile dialectic between Guy and Marketa’s personal struggles and the music they find in common. Accordingly, the prominent role that the music attains throughout the course of the film is never uncoupled from the integrity of the script or the actors. In sum, there is never a doubt as to whether or not Guy and Marketa have the ability to transcend their isolated and alienated condition, a necessity for the believability of the end.
It is rare to find a director willing to use non-actors in today’s world of cinema. There is something refreshing about not recognizing a lead role. Too often filmmakers adopt their style to better frame the star. Once is an exemplar of all the reasons to avoid this practice proving that no whole is greater than a part.
Glen Hansard (Guy) and Marketa Irglova (as herself) fill the otherwise blight and depressive urban setting of Once with a robust spirit that finds its full expression in their musical numbers. Guy is a heart-broken and struggling musician who takes to the streets to perform when he isn’t working at his father’s vacuum repair shop. Marketa is a Czech immigrant who sells roses on those same busy streets as Guy. She is also a virtuoso pianist with an infant daughter and estranged husband. Admittedly, on description alone, the film certainly comes across as having the potential to be predictable and conventional. The acting, however, infuses this otherwise typical love story with an atypical element of authenticity.
Hansard and Irglova prove their ability as competent actors when they first perform the song that will later become the title track for the film. The two are so good in this moment that it is difficult to discern whether they are even acting. They display a range of emotions from reserve, nervousness, curiosity and concentration. Carney’s camerawork compliments the actors by maintaining a delicate balance between distance and intimacy. In doing so, he never forces a romance or chemistry that is absent from the performance. Paradoxically, some of the most intimate moments of the film are those filmed from a distance.
At times, Once can come off as overwhelmed by musical performance and underwhelmed by the actors’ performance. Such a criticism, however, ignores the fragile dialectic between Guy and Marketa’s personal struggles and the music they find in common. Accordingly, the prominent role that the music attains throughout the course of the film is never uncoupled from the integrity of the script or the actors. In sum, there is never a doubt as to whether or not Guy and Marketa have the ability to transcend their isolated and alienated condition, a necessity for the believability of the end.
It is rare to find a director willing to use non-actors in today’s world of cinema. There is something refreshing about not recognizing a lead role. Too often filmmakers adopt their style to better frame the star. Once is an exemplar of all the reasons to avoid this practice proving that no whole is greater than a part.
1.23.2008
Writing About the Arts
William Zinsser proivdes a useful window onto the undefined and shapeless body of Arts criticism. He provides shape with his musing on the distinctions between reviewing and criticism: there are those who promote and those who mediate. The most compelling point (related to the former) of Zinsser's article is that critics need to find anyway to engage with the artist. That is, if critical mediation between the arts and public is possible, the critic must craft, like a gunsmith, his or her own language. To demonstrate this necessity, Zissner emphasizes the absolute importance of writing with clear language. If mediation is to be effective, the public must be able to understand. There is a careful balanace between dumbing criticism down, either through sensationalism or polemics, and using language as carefully and precisely as possible. For me this is what sets the critic apart from the artist. The critic has the task of mediating art in a universal public language. The artist has the task of mediating reality into negativity (not critical negativity). Thus, the critic is not so much as connected to the work of art as much as s/he is committed to the public.
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