Month: May 2006

In case your American Theatre subscription has lapsed, you should know that Daniel Alexander Jones is one of fifteen artists “whose work will be transforming American stages for decades to come.” The Penumbra Theatre Company and Pillsbury House can boast that hip and socially aware works from this young playwright have already been seen on their stages. Now, his Phoenix Fabrik, which premieres at the Pillsbury House, examines the unlikely friendship that develops between two girls working in a South Carolina doll factory in 1945. Both of them, a black girl and a German orphan whose uncle owns the factory, keep hidden memories of a violent past, and Jones rattles stereotypes and presumptions as he unfolds their stories through a traditional ring play format, accented by music and dance. 3501 Chicago Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-825-0459; www.pillsburyhousetheatre.org

This month, the American Film Institute will count down the one hundred most inspirational movies in American history. Unfortunately, our family wasn’t consulted, because one of our more inspirational movies was inexplicably left off the list of three hundred nominees. That movie is Evel Knievel, a B-picture from 1971 starring George Hamilton as the daredevil motorcyclist. My brother saw it upon its release at the Boulevard Theater on 53rd and Lyndale (now a Hollywood Video), and, although only eleven at the time, he immediately set to work. He grabbed a wooden play refrigerator of my sister’s and laid it on the sidewalk in front of our house; then he found a sturdy two-by-four and laid it on the refrigerator for his ramp; then he climbed onto his banana-seat bicycle.

Initially it was enough to catch air, but this high wore off quickly and he began to look for things to jump. He found them: stuffed animals (too boring), then real animals (too disobedient), then real people—the kids in the neighborhood (just right). It amazed me how many kids would lie down for him. At one point I think he jumped seven kids—all huddled together, scared and thrilled and giggling. This practice promptly stopped when one mother glanced out her window and saw her youngest child last in line, inches from my brother’s landing gear.

So, yes, Evel Knievel was inspirational, just not the kind of inspiration AFI has in mind. Of the four criteria AFI asks its jurors to consider, Evel Knievel hits only two: “Feature Length Fiction Film” and “American Film.” It misses “Legacy” (I’ll be the first to admit it hasn’t exactly echoed across a century of American cinema) and “Cheers.” And since the list is called “100 Years…100 Cheers,” this last criterion is probably the most important. Here’s how it’s described on the institute’s website:

Movies that inspire with characters of vision and conviction who face adversity and often make a personal sacrifice for the greater good.

Robert Craig Knievel certainly had vision and conviction, and he faced adversity and made personal sacrifices (breaking nearly every bone in his body), but unless “greater good” involves pure white-trash entertainment, this is where he craps out. On the other hand, many of AFI’s nominees don’t fit the bill either. What was George M. Cohan’s personal sacrifice in Yankee Doodle Dandy—getting rich from writing patriotic songs and plays? Where’s the greater good in the Tom Hanks vehicle Cast Away or in the feminist snuff film Thelma & Louise? How is Tom Cruise in Top Gun a character of vision? He just has a need for speed.

I’ll agree, though, that all of the aforementioned movies are vaguely inspirational, and vagueness is what the institute is after. Established in 1967, and charged with preserving and promoting film as part of our shared cultural heritage, the American Film Institute has compiled its annual lists since 1998, and as list-makers go they ain’t bad. Greatest movie: Citizen Kane. Greatest star: Humphrey Bogart. Greatest hero/villain: Atticus Finch/Hannibal Lecter. Not much to disagree with.

This year’s theme seems intended to counteract the frequent claims that Hollywood doesn’t represent American values anymore. A quick look at the nominees, though, is like looking at the culture wars in microcosm. There are World War II-era war films (Guadalcanal Diary) and Vietnam War-era anti-war films (Coming Home). There is the Hollywood hokum of The Babe Ruth Story versus the anti-establishment misfits of The Bad News Bears. There is the pious Jesus of King of Kings, the hippie-esque Jesus of Jesus Christ Superstar, the human-sized Jesus of The Last Temptation of Christ, and the revenge-flick Jesus of The Passion of the Christ.

It will be interesting to see which path the institute follows in narrowing down its nominees. What’s more inspirational—following authority or combating it? Do we prefer to revere a saintly leader (Young Mr. Lincoln) or bring down a corrupt one (All the President’s Men)?

All in all, though, the vagueness of the inspiration is key. Like any profit-oriented art form, Hollywood has always been leery of acknowledging any way their product may inspire others to possibly litigious actions—whether it’s my brother jumping over neighborhood kids after seeing Evel Knievel or John Hinkley attempting to assassinate President Reagan for the love of Jodie Foster. Taxi Driver may have inspired, but it’s not inspirational and so isn’t among the nominees. Neither is The Candidate, inspiration for Dan Quayle. The Birth of a Nation? It inspired William J. Simmons to revitalize the Ku Klux Klan in 1915, and thus may have affected American history more than any movie ever made. But its greater good—protecting white southern womanhood from rapacious darkies—isn’t the kind of thing we consider inspirational anymore, and so it, too, failed to make the cut. Ah, for the days when Hollywood represented American values.

Other art forms have their own versions of Taxi Driver—“Helter Skelter” is the most obvious example—but movies, as traditionally watched, are tailor-made for inspiration. What happens in a movie theater? First it gets dark, then you disappear. Then characters appear, larger than life, and you follow their story. You become them. For the most part, they are idealized versions of you—better-looking, better-dressed, stronger, and braver. You’re dazed when the lights go up. Who am I again? Where am I? What am I supposed to do now?

Woody Allen captured this feeling perfectly in Play it Again, Sam. His upper lip curled under his teeth in classic Bogart fashion as he watched the final moments of Casablanca; then the lights went up and he turned into plain old Allan Felix again. We laugh at his predicament because we recognize ourselves in it. Drama is who we want to be; comedy is who we are.

In the early 1970s, my brother and I saw a re-release of Butch Cassidy & The Sundance Kid. When it was over and we were walking out of the theater, swaggering slightly, I was convinced, convinced, that the gaggle of girls a couple of rows back were looking at us, and were amazed, amazed, by our resemblance to Paul Newman (my brother) and Robert Redford (me). What were we really? A skinny, freckled twelve-year-old and a blond-banged ten-year-old schlub. This is close to dementia. It took me years to realize that not only was I not Robert Redford, I was Allan Felix.

Did you see The Incredibles? All the little boys running around afterward like Dash. The parents think it’s cute, and it is, but at the same time, Dash is the ultimate wish-fulfillment for a four-year-old. Their whole lives, whenever they’ve run toward something interesting, someone picks them up and brings them back to a place that isn’t so interesting. A kid running like Dash is basically saying, “You will never effin’ catch me again.”

I ran after a movie, too. Mine was Rocky, which is on the list of nominees, and will probably make the top three. When I left the theater it was evening and, feeling the need for speed, I began running down Lyndale Avenue. I ran all the way home. In high school I wound up on the cross-country team.

I biked after a movie, too. Mine was Breaking Away, which is also on the list of nominees and might make the top one hundred. At one point in the film, Dave Stoller rides his bike on the freeway. He’s behind a truck, and every time he appears in the truck’s side mirror, the driver indicates how fast they’re going by sticking fingers out the window: four for forty … five for fifty … and then the triumph: six for sixty! Afterward I scoffed, “How can someone possibly ride a bike sixty miles an hour?” My brother told me, “No no no, he was backdrafting. He was being pulled along by the truck.” “Oh,” I said. Biking around one weekend, I came upon a freeway entrance, thought I should try that backdraft thing, and pedaled furiously onto the 77 North on-ramp. A minute later the freeway—thank God!—drained into the south Lake Nokomis area. There was no proper shoulder, so I had been riding on the freeway, with cars honking and whizzing by me, backdrafting nothing. Afterward, I was like a cat that had scurried across a busy street and found itself safe on the sidewalk again, wide-eyed and freaked but trying to maintain its dignity. Both of us probably with the same thought: “Well, that didn’t work.”

In the end I wouldn’t be surprised if the institute’s number one movie turns out to be It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s the kind of vague, feel-good inspiration (with angels) that Hollywood loves to celebrate. But did it really inspire any of us? Did it make any of us think “the world is better because I’m in it”? Or did we only think that Bedford Falls is better for having George Bailey in it? Hell, the line I quote most often is spoken by the young, adventurous George: “I’m shakin’ the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I’m gonna see the world!” That’s inspiration that matters to me. The world is big and I want to be in it. It’s a Wonderful Life is a good movie, but it’s basically telling us we matter even if we live our entire lives in a little town. Where’s the inspiration in even if?

My most inspirational film, in fact, may be Annie Hall (another unnominated film). I first saw it as an impressionable fourteen-year-old and, upon watching it again twenty years later, I suddenly realized that the loves of my life have tended to be like the title character: sweet, pretty, slightly daffy girls with long, straight hair who are fun to be with. Maybe my heart would’ve gone in this direction anyway, but the fact that I don’t know is exactly the point. Woody Allen once said “The heart wants what it wants,” but does my heart want what Woody’s wants? Where do I end and the movies begin? How deep does it cut? The lone man standing up for what’s right in the face of cowards and fools—how many times have we seen that in the movies? How many times did George W. Bush? Twice in April, 1970, President Nixon screened the movie Patton; at the end of the month, he ordered the invasion of Cambodia. Was he inspired? The American Film Institute will seem to be cheerleading for the industry with its latest list, but it’s actually shortchanging the industry considerably. Movies are not something separate from us; we are intertwined.

For this article I did something I hadn’t done in more than thirty years: I watched Evel Knievel again. Disappointing. It obviously had no budget, and Evel’s career is glossed over in favor of, yes, how he won the love of his life, probably because that’s cheaper to dramatize. Yet there’s this kick-ass song, “I Do What I Please” (a fine anthem for any kid), and the footage of the real Evel jumping cars is still cool after all these years. So many cinematic moments of inspiration involve superhuman qualities—running like Dash, trying to bike sixty miles an hour, the Lone Ranger-esque Klan of The Birth of a Nation—and Evel fits right in. When he jumps, it’s like he’s flying. It says something about movies that even with this stinky low-budget story, I sat there, a forty-three-year-old critic with notepad out and analytical abilities working, and man if I didn’t want to be that guy.

According to many fairy tales, Disney films, and children’s adventure stories, the secret to a fantastic childhood is the eradication of meddling parental units, especially mothers. Stronger than Popeye, wilder than Peter Pan, way more fun than Orphan Annie (although both boast badly styled red hair), Pippi Longstocking is completely unfettered—her mother died when she was a baby and dad was lost at sea. That gives her full license to live with animals, dress as weirdly as she pleases, and wow the neighbor kids with unsupervised adventures. Swede Astrid Lindgren published her first Pippi stories in the 1940s, making her nine-year-old heroine one of the first and most personable female superheroes. This production, a fast-paced and frenetic musical comedy with dark undertones, has become a favorite at the Children’s Theater Company. 2400 3rd Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-874-0400; www.childrenstheatre.org

I Am My Own Wife, a one-actor show fresh off its 2004 Broadway debut, concerns itself with Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a real-life German transvestite who survived both fascists and communists. Most exciting of all is this production’s star: veteran stage actor and baritone Bradley Greenwald. Best known for the musical stunt-piloting he does over at Theatre de la Jeune Lune, Greenwald now leaps to the Jungle stage. Notably, Greenwald was also seen at the Jungle in its 2001 production of Torch Song Trilogy, in which he played, with gusto, a depressive drag-queen. 2951 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-822-7063; www.jungletheater.com

Summertime is getting to be synonymous with outdoor, site-specific performance pieces—and we’re not talking music in the park here. Last August we witnessed the monumental LANDMARK: 24 Hours at the Stone Arch Bridge, which rolled music, dance, theater, and literature together into one colossal, daylong experience that nudged onlookers to remember how beautiful that historic structure really is. This year, it’s “One River Mississippi,” a dance piece inspired by the river waters. The brainchild of local choreographer Marylee Hardenbergh, “One River” is actually seven different performances, scattered along the length of the Mississippi River, from its source at Itasca State Park all the way down to Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana. Of the other five pieces, one is right here in downtown Minneapolis, at the Stone Arch Bridge—a favorite site of Hardenbergh’s. From there, through audio-visual hookups, you’ll get a prime view of—and become a part of—the goings-on at all the other sites. www.onerivermississippi.org

She’s extracted feminist themes from Wagner babes and Grand Ole Opry theatrics; and now Shawn McConneloug enters the world of peg legs, planks, and swashbucklers, injecting some of her own pistol-slinging flair. In 2003, this ultra-modern local choreographer immortalized Tammy Wynette in Stand On Your Man, a yodel-heavy piece incorporating dance, music, film, and rhinestone cowgirls. Now she’s reviving the tale of Grace O’Malley, the legendary sixteenth-century Irish pirate queen, in another multimedia piece set to Irish music—from traditional Celtic fare to the Pogues and Flogging Molly. Thorpe Building 1620 Central Ave. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-340-1725; www.southerntheater.org

Pondering the beauty of Minnehaha Falls is so much sweeter when munching on a fish taco. Before Sea Salt Eatery set up shop in the park, a trip to the falls was like, “OK, pretty. Let’s go.” Now, with a crab cake sandwich or oyster po’ boy in hand, visitors can slow down to appreciate the scenery. And, just as the Minnehaha Falls is more than a mere waterfall, the Sea Salt is no run-of-the-mill concession stand; it’s a cool, modern eatery that kicks out freshly prepared seafood dishes, ranging from crispy fried clams to calamari, during a season when the Falls flow freely. Plus, there’s beer! 4825 Minnehaha Ave., Minneapolis; 612-721-8990; www.seasalteatery.com