Author: rakemag

Let’s just get last weekend’s art events taken care of, shall we?

Go see the Ballet of the Dolls show! I don’t know a ton about dance, but I’d venture to say that this show is pretty terrific. I’m secretly a music-head, so the thing I liked best was how the music covered the gamut between Liberace and MC Solaire, with a whole lot of Randy Newman in-between. I enjoyed how the dancers–and especially the Dolls’ artistic director Myron Johnson, who’s getting up there in age–remained very conscious of and connected to the music they were dancing to. At times, they were even lipsyncing. It was almost like a series of rock videos, only the chicks were just barely less scantily clad, the dudes were drastically more scantily clad, and the dancing was a whole lot more interesting.

The Ritz Theater is also impressive–especially if you happen to be one of the lucky few that toured the place sometime within the past five years. A whole gaggle of nordeast artists pitched in to give it arty fixtures and a new marquee. For heaven’s sake, go check the place out.

My verdict on The Elephant Man opera: worth seeing, so long as you’ve downed some espresso before hand.

My random thoughts: This being a contemporary French opera, the “dialogue” seldom manages to get outside of poor Joseph Merrick’s head. Therefore, the libretto is gawd-awful, chalk-full of trite simplifications about how it must feel to be the poor guy with “iguana eyes.”

The music all sounded fairly minimalist to my untrained ears. Lots of bells and other percussion, which was nice. But there was one moment of singing that made it all worth it: In Act III (which means you should NOT skip out after intermission), a woman named Mary Wilson took it away with some crazy over-the-top singing. Staccato. Vibrato. High C’s that reached the stratosphere. She pulled every trick in the opera handbook, as mandated by this otherwise sleepy score in a sudden act of boldness. It was hilarious. It was beautiful. It was totally awesome!

Weird stuff from the front: David Walker, the guy who plays Monsieur Elephant, is a countertenor, which means he’s a freak of nature in his own right–his voice is about as high as that of your average mezzo-soprano, ‘cept it lacks the color. Also, he’s not a particularly bad-looking guy. Nor is he costumed to be elephant-man ugly. I’m not sure how I feel about the decision to keep Walker “normal” lookin’. On one hand, I think it encouraged the audience to feel empathy for the character, as well as to drive home the point about how this Elephant Man “is a man,” something he’s not entirely certain of himself. On the other, there’s a disconnect ’cause Walker’s actually sorta hunky.

I’m super glad about him being cast, though! The composer originally wrote this part to be played by a woman–and seeing/hearing that would have really pissed me off. “You are a man.” “I am a man.” These lines are central to the libretto. (“Homme” in the French.) No better way to piss off the feminist arts patrons (and there are a lot of ’em) than to emasculate male characters in this manner. Joseph Merrick was a cripple, and thereby a weakling; I guess that’s the logic. Why does that have to make him a woman?

Through it all, the Merrick character was surrounded by dancers who were supposedly using movement to represent his internal struggle. On Friday, I predicted that this would be a “palsied” affair, and, hate to say it folks, but I was spot-on. These dancers–brought to you by choreographer/director Doug Varone–kept flopping onto their sides and twitching, as if, on top of everything else, the poor Elephant Man had also been sacked with epilepsy.

There’s a showing tonight. Now, I’m not a betting woman. But if I were, I’d say there’ll be at least a few rush tickets.

Have ya’all heard about that insane 3-Day Walk thingamajig? It’s a fundraiser for the Susan B. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation in the form of an intense athletic event, not unlike the old AIDS Ride, for which women strap on running shoes and walk twenty miles each day for three days straight. (And many–most–of these women are not very athletic to begin with.) Folks take this thing very seriously; they log insane mileage, all the long fundraising like madwomen, because participating in these walks requires a hefty “down payment.”

Some walkers get pretty creative about their fundraising efforts, and among them is local songstress Patty Matthews. She’s throwing a concert tonight to compliment her 3-Day fundraising efforts, and she has invited some of the best local singers to join her onstage. Among them: Patty Nieman, Christina Baldwin (Jeune Lune’s Carmen!), Erin Duffy, and my best friend Andrea Leap. See it at 7:30 p.m. at Loring Playhouse. No reservation necessary.

Coming soon, when I’m not so swamped: my thoughts on Ballet of the Dolls and The Elephant Man opera.

Tonight: Doors Opening: A Symphony of the Dolls. This is the big opening night for The Ritz Theater in northeast Minneapolis after many, many dark years. I toured the space a while back–probably about two years ago. It then struck me as a long, cavernous room. So I’m looking forward to seeing what the Dolls have done with the place tonight, at the gala. (Eeeee!) If you want a smidgen about the Dolls’ long-running show, here you go.

Tomorrow night: I’m going to see The Elephant Man opera. I have an unhealthy fascination with contemporary opera, and I’m at a complete loss as to why. I make it a point to see every contemporary opera that I can, in any case. But here’s an interesting tidbit about this one: In hopes that there might be a gargantuan, impossibly heavy elephant-man costume worn by some peanut of a tenor, I called the Minnesota Opera a while back to find out more about this show. Turns out, the deformities are mostly being conveyed via choreography. I pledge to report back on the whole palsied affair.

I find it so frustrating that I, on occasion, regress into these high-school speech patterns. Perhaps you can’t empathize with this little dilemma, you being so sophisticated. But that’s probably not the case, lest you be social outcast or graduate of SPA. In any case, I find I’m reverting to adolescent patois quite often these days, with “awesome” and “dude” being the junior high-isms that have best survived in my adulthood. Some of my friends theorize that I am particularly afflicted, being as I’m from Circle Pines and all–a place they regard as being particularly backwards. But I happen to know plenty of refined, educated folk–many of them writers even–who do this exact same thing. At a meeting just the other day, for example, one of our editors was talking about our upcoming “Restaurant Week Package,” to which another editor responded, “Heh. You said package.” That counts!

My best friend Andrea, a classically-trained singer who has also lived, worked, and dated among the German and French “operati,” says “dude” a lot, just like me. My other friend, Adam, a graphic designer and artist, is probably the most formal person I hang out with. He’ll send you a thank-you note if you go to his birthday dinner. One time I asked him out for school-night drinks, and he responded, “I oughtn’t.” But get him excited about something really manly–say, a vintage BMW motorcycle or a Rick Bass essay–and his eyes glisten as he says, “Aweeeeeeeeeeesome.”

Dude, there’s just one thing worth checking out tonight, and that’s The Spyball, a hip, surveillance-themed fundraiser for–count ’em–five highly experimental arts organizations, most of them being performing arts organizations, my specialty; one of them being the Soap Factory, a kick-ass art gallery that I quite like. (BTW, their 8x8x8 exhibition totally rawks!)

Coolest thing happening tonight: Rainer Maria plays the T-Rock. I’m automatically impressed by bands that take name and inspiration from poetry, especially the poetry I regard as being good. I’m similarly enamored of the poet(s) who go(es) rawk. (My waking mind recalls only Jim Carroll.) On the other hand, I’ve yet to encounter a rocker gone poe that I like. Jewel, Billy Corgan, even–and especially–Jim Morrison. Sorry guys, but that “Lament for the Death of My Cock” nonsense was total bullshit. Arthur Rimbaud he wasn’t.