City Lit NYC

Last week, I brought my class discussion of Hamlet to its own demise and dashed off to see Chris Rock’s live show at the theater at Madison Square Garden. 

One of the things I love about seeing live performances- of any kind- music, theatre, even sports- (yes, sports) is that you gain a better perspective on how these artists truly manage their craft. For some reason, the distance that television instills- not only the actual spatial distance, but the added distortion of editing, commercial breaks, etc– makes it harder to appreciate that these artists are, in fact, working.  Going to a live dance performance allows you to hear the breath, and see the sweat of performers who mask their effort under the cover of grace and athleticism.

And I never fully appreciated how difficult improvisational comedy is until I went to a show at the Upright Citizens Brigade with SNL pros like Amy Poehler and Seth Myers. It was really fascinating to see them create, and work, and experiment right in front of me. When they asked the audience to give them a topic for their next set of skits, someone called out: “people who drink Pedialyte for hangovers.” I know, right? That’s a tough one. How far can you really take that joke? The group then proceeded to spin that idea for the next thirty minutes through an ever changing sequence of skits and situations- it was like watching people think out loud as they tried everything that came to mind. Some of it worked- some of it didn’t- but they just shrugged and invented a new character on the spot and kept going.

I can’t do that.

There is a reason why they get paid to do that.

They are good at it- and more importantly- they work hard at it.

Chris Rock was impressive to watch in the same way. It goes without saying- the man is funny. He came out and immediately declared, “Wow! There are A LOT of white people here!” As we laughed, he joked- “I bet you each thought you were going to be the only white person here, didn’t you?” Um… yes? 

Rock moved through a range of subjects- Britney Spears, the upcoming Presidential election,  and the proverbial question,  “Can a white person ever use the N word?”

(the answer: not… really.)

He entertained us for two solid hours without even pausing for a sip of water. What I found especially mesmerizing was how he moved in and out of his material. You could watch him start a new joke and slowly build his momentum until he was at full volume, summoning our laughter with every “wtf!” he declared indignantly.

 Now, I would never. ever. ever! put myself on the same level as Chris Rock… but I saw something familiar in the rhythms of his performance.  He performs a lot like the the way I teach. Except with more swearing.

Okay. Let me explain. When I teach class, I too have a list of topics I want to cover in our discussion, and there is always a period of uphill pedaling to get the conversation started.  Sometimes it does feel like I’m a stand-up comic- I make jokes, I improvise, I have to warm up the audience/students before we can really delve into the material. Once I find my own footing, I get excited- and then the students begin to add to the energy with their own participation, and we follow that topic as far as we can take it, until we slow down, and I work to create the next segue into another approach. I feed off of them as much as a comic feeds off of an audience’s live response. And yes, while I am there to educate, first and foremost- I do believe the most effective educator is also a bit of an entertainer. Nobody learns when they are bored. Or for that matter, unconscious.

As I sat there, admittedly laughing my tuckus off at Rock’s jokes- which I’m resisting reprinting here so as to not destroy his comic timing and inflection-  I came away with a better appreciation of what he does up there, after the text is written and committed to memory. That’s only part of it- the real work, is in the delivery.

Chris Rock, – we aren’t so different after all, you and I…

And really- when you think about it- it’s a hell of a lot more expensive to see my show than Chris Rock’s.

So- when do I get my HBO special?

Las Vegas! Sin City!

This is where I went last week, and, going against all ad campaigns and sworn pacts- I’m going to spill EVERYTHING that happened there. That’s right.  All the juicy, steamy details of my week of crazed debauchery.

So here’s the tally:

Scooby Doo: 7 times.

Over the Hedge: 2 times.

Monster House: 5 times. hold on- make that 6 now.

Aladdin: 4 times.

Fraggle Rock: 2 times. 

Shrek: 3 times.

Ratatouille: 2 times.

Snow White: 1 time.

Baby Einstein? too many to count.

These are the most cherished films of a certain 2 year old (my nephew,) at this juncture in his life.It’s a fairly decent selection, in my opinion. I was impressed by his love of Monster House- a rather dark choice for such a young mind, and I was relieved that he seemed to be over his great Cars obsession; a film whose visual technological prowess is matched by a total lack of originality in story. (In my opinion, the producers of Doc Hollywood have grounds for a lawsuit.)

 I’m back in New York now, and my focus must turn from amusing one two year old, to a hundred undergraduates. If only I could park them in front of Monster House for a few hours…

As promised- the follow-up entry to my trepidatious concerns about teaching Doris Lessing’s famous tome, The Golden Notebook.

That’s Doris Lessing above, by the way. This was a publicity photo she took for the publication of The Golden Notebook in 1962. I’ve posted it, because when we usually think about Lessing (okay, those of us who do) we picture her how she is today- a feisty, (read: curmudgeonly) 88 year old woman who, upon learning that she had just won the Nobel Prize for literature last year,  had trouble mustering Publisher’s Clearing House prizewinner excitement for the reporters- watch the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vuBODHFBZ8k. (Actually, I think she’s quite endearing.)

 I really do have to give my students credit- they all genuinely attempted to engage with the material- and I think some of them even finished the book! I would say about a third of the class enjoyed it- one third conceded it had merit, and the last third out and out disliked it.  I’m okay with these stats. I think it’s important for people to encounter this text. Credited as one of the most important novels of the 20th century, it feels a bit dated- but remains a fascinating artifact of 1960’s political currents and narrative innovation. The book I will teach this week, Margaret Atwood’s exquisitely perfect The Blind Assassin, is a more sophisticated version of some of the postmodern writing techniques Lessing implements in The Golden Notebook– but of course, it comes to us forty years later. And we may smile at Lessing’s portrayal of “free women” who are mainly depicted as women who move from one casual encounter or disfunctional relationship to the next– but kudos to Lessing for imagining a fictional alternative for female sexuality.

I’m a new fan.

Don’t you just love that feeling? Of finding a new album that you just want to play over and over again? Of discovering a new sound and having it fill your head until that’s all you want to hear?

This past week, I walked into a Gnarls Barkley concert at the Highline Ballroom knowing only their mega hit, Crazy, and maybe one, or two other songs off the first album. I left a convert. I’ve been listening to both albums, ‘St. Elsewhere,’ and the just released ‘The Odd Couple’ non-stop ever since.

I would be remiss if I didn’t first mention the opening act, Santogold, fronted by the tremendously appealing Santi White. Her punk/pop/reggae/hip-hop beats were catchy and groove-worthy,  but what really sealed it for me were her two back-up dancers. Never breaking character, they performed quirky and inventive choreography with perfect precision. I loved it. If you watch the video for the song, L.E.S. Artistes,you can barely get an idea of what I mean- but it really doesn’t do justice to what these ladies were doing onstage. In an age of back-up dancers that are used more as back-up strippers (aka, Pussy Cat Dolls) it was really refreshing to see some moves that actually complimented the music and made the women look bad-ass. Plus- I haven’t been able to get her songs out of my head either.  So- I’m a fan of Santogold now too.

But! Back to Gnarls. The Highline Ballroom is a spiffy new concert venue in the Meatpacking district– (with a shockingly excellent dinner menu– get the risotto!) –and even though I was running straight from teaching class, we were able to get spots right up front. I am literally, literally! standing right behind the guy who took some of these neat pictures. (thank you, Bao Nguyen from Rolling Stone!) I saw every drop of sweat on Cee-Lo’s face as he belted out the new material.

The man’s got charisma. He told us that they were going to play some new stuff, adding with a smile, ”Don’t be surprised if it’s good.” My favorites of the night were ”Run,” “Surprise,”  and “Just a Thought.” Check out the photos posted on brooklynvegan–  they’ve done a great job of capturing the evening’s intensity. And as an added bonus- I think my mouth made it into one of the shots.

 (do you see me? ) 

We danced, we sang, we clapped our hands in the air, we screamed when commanded to do so; it was a pretty electric scene. Dangermouse, Cee-Lo and the rest of the tuxedo clad band were clearly having a blast performing the new songs for the first time before their big SNL gig.

 At one point, Cee-Lo introduced the hypnotic ”Who’s gonna save my soul,” by whispering devilishly into the microphone that he was now about to seduce us all. 

He wasn’t wrong.

The Cat is back on Broadway. Not CATS– although we should probably expect that revival any day now– but Tennessee Williams’ famous ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.’ This time Debbie Allen directs an all-black, star-studded cast, with James Earl Jones as Big Daddy, Phylicia Rashad as Big Momma, Terrence Howard as Brick, and Anika Noni Rose as the ever mesmerizing, Maggie the cat.

Much ado has been made in the Times, and other publications about Allen’s ‘Black Cat,’ and whether a play aimed at African American audiences would be, er… “financially viable.”  Sigh. A brief review of ‘Cat’s’ profits ($700,000 in one week, for example) quickly settles that question. And what a ridiculous question, anyway. Stage a popular play on Broadway with a cast made up of movie stars and entertainment icons, and yes, they will come- regardless of race.

But I was interested to see what Allen would do with this opportunity- would her interpretation of Williams’ text reflect the color of her actors? My opinion, is that it does not. Allen delivers a fairly straight staging, and instead of highlighting the specific departure from Williams’ original vision, she makes it irrelevant. The only difference, as far as I, amateur theatre reviewer, could tell, was in the casting.

However, as I became engrossed in the action of the story, I actually forgot that the play was NOT written about African American characters. At one point, Big Daddy credits his impressive wealth to his ambitious rise from field hand to plantation owner. This conversation takes on a new level of significance if Big Daddy is black. When he claims that nothing shocks him anymore- you believe it. Allen doesn’t need to do anything to open up the play to new readings. The words on the page are fluid enough, and when delivered by such talented performers as these, new layers emerge seamlessly. Brick’s defense of his masculinity, Maggie’s determination to maintain her hard-earned social mobility– these are issues that translate for all audiences, but resonate here with a slightly different pitch. It’s really effective.

I saw the show on a rainy Wednesday last week, and barring the absence of James Earl Jones (ably replaced by the jolly Count Stovall) the experience was dynamic.
The parts are exceptionally well cast; Rashad breaks your heart with her aching vulnerability, and as charming as Howard and Stovall can be, in these roles, their cruelty is especially raw.

But the real star of the show is of course, Maggie. Rose carries the entire first Act with verbal dexterity, ranging from comedic references to the “no necked” children of her sister-in-law, to barely concealed frustration and rage at her husband’s cool dismissal. By the end of Act III, you are really rooting for her to survive the greed and hostility surrounding her.

Anika Noni Rose certainly holds her own in a slip, but what’s especially sexy about her is the force of her emotions, whether carefully reined in or exploding before you. She’s no languid cat; this Maggie’s purr is a roar.

The Guggenheim Museum. By day, the circular  interior is white, calm, serene, and dignified. Visitors casually glide up (or down) the winding aisle, enjoying  art at their leisure. This is all well and good.

 But on the first friday of every month, the Guggenheim likes to let her hair down, push back the tables, and party with the rest of Manhattan. Add a DJ, and a cash bar, and you’ve  got a dance party- with ART!

I knew it would be something of a scene because the current exhibit is the wildly popular, (and rightly so) Cai Guo-Qiang: “I Want To Believe” installation. The middle of the atrium contains a dazzling depiction of the motion of a car that has been propelled into the air by an explosion. To do so, they have suspended nine cars lit with flashing bursts of colored light. The pulsing neon cars are perfectly complimented by the pulsing beats emitting from huge speakers downstairs, and the entire building is charged with energy.

I feel sorry for the poor saps who go to see this exhibit in the daytime. In silence. Sober. They are definitely missing out on the full effect of Cai Guo-Qiang’s vision.

As you wind around the upper floors, you are treated to Cai Guo-Qiang’s art work using gunpowder, his “work-in-progress” sculptures, and life-like models of wolves and tigers in motion. And I would just like to clarify, that the phrase: “life-like models of wolves and tigers in motion” is a COMPLETELY inadequate description of what this man has done. You’ve really got to see it.

On May 2nd, there will be one last “first friday” with the Cai Guo-Qiang exhibit, so I fully advise you to take advantage of it. Admission is $25 cash at the door, and get there early. Lines start forming over an hour in advance, and they wrap all the way around the block of 89th street by the time doors open at 9pm.

You could see this exhibit any other day from now until May 28th, but… why would you?

Last summer, I had a bit of a transcendent movie experience when I saw The Banquet at the New York Asian Film Festival. Ever since, I’ve tried to recommend it to anyone who would listen to me- friends, family, my students- but there was one problem- there was no way for anyone to see it. The Banquet was never released as a feature film in the United States, and only recently became available on DVD- under a different title- Legend of the Black Scorpion. Since it is currently in circulation on Netflix and Amazon, I feel that now, it is finally fair to tell you why you should see it.

The Banquet is a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon/Hero/House of Flying Daggers/ version of Hamlet. Do I really need to say anything else? Aren’t you already adding it to your queue? 

Let me address the first part of that description. The film is gorgeous. It delivers everything you would expect when named in a list with the films above: the same attention to sets, costuming, intricate choreography,and music–scored by the same composer, Tan Dun. It even boasts the same star power- the luminous Ziyi Zhang, who truly, owns the movie–

because even though The Banquet is an adaptation of Hamlet, this version, is Gertrude’s story.

Film adaptations of literary works should, in my opinion, do one of two things:

 1) Depict with painstaking accuracy the original vision of the text. This is never a perfect process, but- it should be a goal of the filmmaker adopting this approach.  

2) Offer a new interpretation of the text in its portrayal on screen. Say something different! Show us why we should watch ANOTHER version of this story.

The Banquet is a glorious example of the latter category. Those familiar with the Bard’s famous text will note a lot of key changes to plot and circumstance, but I would argue that the integrity of the text is never compromised. In this version, Gertrude is not Hamlet’s mother- but instead, his ex-lover, who his father, the Emperor, chooses for his own bride. When Hamlet returns after his father’s death, the implied Oedipal sexual energy between Hamlet, Gertrude, and Claudius is now literalized, and to add even further tension- Gertrude and Ophelia become rivals for Hamlet’s attention!

As I’ve said, this film is about Gertrude, and the way she is able to survive and maintain power within the Imperial Court. In literature, Hamlet is famously targeted as the symbol of indecision, of impotent action. In The Banquet, Gertrude calls him on this, and tells him, (and I’m paraphrasing, here) that fixing this mess was his responsibility, and since he has done nothing, she will just have to take care of it herself.

Yes!!!! No longer shall we debate Gertrude’s innocence and passivity versus her conniving culpability. In The Banquet, she is a riveting and complex figure who dictates the action of the plot. There are even more changes that I won’t reveal to you, but they work so well- and as I watched, I marveled at how such simple alterations open up the text to enormously exciting and refreshing new interpretations.

I’ve been thinking in haiku this week. I like the impact of their brevity. If you can’t say what you need to say in 17 syllables, well then… why bother?

Perhaps my abrupt yearning for concise expression is due to the fact that I’ve been re-reading Doris Lessing’s gargantuan 1962 effort, The Golden Notebook. I’m inflicting it upon my students this week and the next, and I’m cautiously curious to hear their reactions–reactions other than groans of distress at its inordinate length. (635 pages)

Perhaps I’ll save my discussion of Lessing for a future post, so that you can benefit from the entire…

students: “why are you making us read this?”

me: “because”

…dialogue.

 So- stay tuned for Lessing, Africa, Women’s Lib, British Communism, and endless discussions of the “artist” and “fragmentation of self.”

But I digress-

back to haiku.

 So I’ve been thinking in haiku, and dabbling in composition. These efforts are not to be confused with hipster haiku, although my hat is off to those superior poets who found an infinite number of uses for the three syllable PBR, and even more respect for whoever wrote the hipster sonnet, villanelle, and sestina. Kudos.

My efforts are amateurish, at best, but- I’m still honing my craft. One doesn’t become a haiku master in one week.

 Some selections:

On teaching:

                                accusing glances

                                waiting for their marked papers

                                I have no excuse.

On my block:

                                A brand new men’s spa

                                 joining “G,” “Diesel,” “The Noose”

                                has to be Chelsea…

On my cat:            Perched above my head

                                She purrs methodically

                                Waiting to attack.

On theory:             There is no center

                                Meaning is only a trace

                                Il est       différance!

On home life:

                                  A bottle of wine

                                  selection of Lean Cuisine

                                  What more could one want?

Okay, okay. They’re pretty bad.  But at least the internet is a constant source of inspiration. I can only hope to achieve this kind of brilliance:

Send me YOUR haiku!

I’ve said it before. My students are wonderful. Let me be clear- I don’t mean that they are cuddly, or adorable, or that they make my heart go awww… That would be demeaning. Besides-I save that kind of nonsensical goo for my cat. My students, however, are adults. They are working, functioning human beings who have day jobs, who have kids, who understand how much education costs because for the most part, they are paying for it themselves. They deserve respect.

Yes.  I’ve definitely had semesters with students who made my life a little harder. Students who were…unpleasant. It happens. But this semester- and you really have to learn to recognize and appreciate when it happens, I really like all of my students. They cheer me up. They give me energy. They teach me. And even more importantly, they’re nice to me. This matters! Sometimes they are the only people I see all day.

 Tonight I was hurrying to class, because I was late. As I passed through one of the hallways at my school, I saw one of my students next to a huge speaker blaring music that sounded sort of Jackson 5-y, (except it wasn’t)- and… he was dancing. And handing out some sort of pamphlet. I smiled as I passed, and thought to myself- oh….man.  I have many questions for him- if he shows up to class tonight.

When I arrive to class, I tell my students about my sighting, and that when he comes, we are going to get to the bottom of this mystery. I make them my co-conspirators. Sure enough- in he walks, 15 minutes late, and we all smile at him craftily.

“Well, hey there,” I greet him cheerfully. And I ask him to explain the meaning of the dancing. The music. The fliers. The lateness.

He is sheepish, but then he goes on to respond with the CORRECT answer to the question.

He has put out a publication. He collects submissions of writings from other students. He edits. He contributes his own. The dancing, the music- it was all to raise awareness and to promote the publication which is meant to be an anonymous forum for students to have a voice. On any topic, in any style of writing.

How wonderful.

I accept this explanation. I am pleased.

 I teach a women writers class that focuses on intertextual narratives. How are texts constantly referencing and responding to other texts?  Our syllabus is packed with gems like Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, Charlotte Lennox’s The Female Quixote, and Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea.

This past week’s focus has been a collection of poetry by Anne Sexton, called Transformations. In it, she reconceives seventeen of the Grimm Brothers’ Fairy Tales through the voice of a “middle-aged witch,” inserting jarring contemporary references, and forever altering the way we think about these familiar “bedtime” tales. These are not your ”Politically Correct Bedtime Stories“  Snow White isn’t your typical victim- but she’s not exactly an empowered feminist heroine, either. Sexton refers to her as the “dumb bunny” who repeatedly falls for the queen’s ruses until she, in the end, wins out, and brutally punishes her stepmother, (as per the Grimm story). The tale concludes,

“Meanwhile Snow White held court

rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut

and sometimes referring to her mirror

as women do”  

The cycle begins anew, and suddenly attributing the evils of society to bitter old women no longer seems like a viable moral code.

My students enjoy Sexton’s rendition of “Cinderella,” which she resignedly refers to as “That story.”

But I think my favorite piece of the collection– apart from an applause-worthy foreword by none other than Kurt Vonnegut, is the first poem, “The Golden Key.”

“The boy has found a gold key

and he is looking for what it will open.

This boy!

Upon finding a nickel

he would look for a wallet.

This boy!

Upon finding a string

he would look for a harp.

Therefore he holds the key tightly.

Its secrets whimper

like a dog in heat…”

What secrets do these stories hold? What are the larger truths these simple fables unlock?

My students are amazing. We discuss Greek mythology, Freud, incest and doppelgangers, standards of heteronormativity, theories of narratology. I look forward to tomorrow’s discussion, as we tackle “Briar Rose,” and why she becomes, of all things-

an insomniac…