The Shortstop of Seville

September brings one of my new favorite cultural events of the year: the Washington National Opera's annual "Opera in the Outfield" at Nationals Park. Last year I broke my opera maiden at "La Traviata," and now I'm hooked. And since that's exactly what the WNO is trying to do with this free event--deflower opera virgins and convert them into paying, Kennedy Center-going regulars, they're batting .500. The reason they're not batting 1.00 is that to some extent, they're victims of their own success--the cheap seats that people like me would be interested in are absurdly hard to get, while $200 can generally be found even the day of the show.


Money aside, the WNO knows what it's doing with the Opera in the Outfield, and the Shakespeare Theatre should take note. This year nearly 19,000 fans showed up at Nationals Park to see and hear Rossini's farce The Barber of Seville simulcast from opening night at the Kennedy Center. While District mucky-mucks were yucking it up in uncomfortable high heels and paying $15 for parking, J and I wore jeans and sneakers and munched on Ben's Chili Bowl delicacies in comfort. (Let's observe a moment's silence for Ben Ali, BCB's founder and spirit ... thank you.) Children romped in the outfield, and their parents could even buy beer! Beer at the opera!


But it's not all about being able to be lowbrow when you should be highbrow--the WNO also puts on an amazing show. While Barber is certainly a silly piece of fun--and the stage business in this production was often downright puerile--the principals did not disappoint with displays of vocal fireworks. One lovely surprise for me was tenor Lawrence Brownlee as Count Almaviva. You just don't see many minorities in the classical music world, and Brownlee has the added advantage of being home grown. It gives me hope for the state of American opera--and for its better integration. His voice is rich and lyrical and his comic acting superb. 


The silliness of the plot is an easy crowd-pleaser, but the stage direction offered some innovative approaches, including one scene sung in real time but blocked in slow motion--for an amount of time that I thought would be impossible to sustain. And no scene seemed too corny or over-the-top for the appreciative crowd, who guffawed in all the right places. I wonder how loud the guffaws were at the Opera House.


Don't get me wrong--I'd love to convert to a paying customer should two seats together for under $100 a pop every become available; but even if they did, I'd still want to come back every year for Opera in the Outfield. The friendly WNO staff and volunteers handled the crowd with ease and grace, with no lines too long except at the concession stands, where owners again this year underestimated the size of the crowd. Lesson for next year: Show up when the gates open, fill out lots of entries for season tickets to the opera, and get in line for Ben's before the crowds get there. But should you still be in line for a chili dog when the curtain goes up, you're in luck. Ben's has widescreen TVs in strategic places so you don't have to miss a note. 


Ars Nova Chamber Orchestra
Here's a new free kid in town. The Ars Nova  Chamber Orchestra, led by conductor Hoel Lazar, played the second show in its inaugural season, this time at the Providence Baptist Church in McLean. The orchestra consists of local profession musicians, and shows are free to the public, although they do pass the hat at intermission. (Since the concert took place in a church, the passing of the collection plate seemed perfectly natural.)


For the first half of the show, the orchestra nailed the lesser-known Beethoven's Fourth Symphony. The balance in the small orchestra (about 40 musicians) was perfect, despite the fact that most of us hear Beethoven played by orchestras the size of Midwestern towns. The strings were strong but happily did not overpower the winds, who were strong but agile. The woodwinds, featured nicely in solos throughout the Fourth, were excellent, with a clarinetist who boasted a sweet, perfect tone. It's so easy for the strings in Beethoven to steal the show, but he knew how to write for French horns, oboes, and clarinets as well, and the players with ANCO demonstrated that fact with flare.


The second half, which was devoted to Beethoven's ubiquitous Fifth Symphony, was a lesser effort, bedeviled by the occasional wrong entrance and some anxious strings who got ahead of the conductor. But even ANCO's not-as-good is far better than your average local symphony's zenith. And for a free show, I don't know if there's anything like it around. They are definitely worth catching--and bring the family. The show today began at a nap-friendly 3 pm and ran only one and a half hours, with a 10-minute intermission.


Full Disclosure: My husband, J, performed with ANCO today in the second violins. I am sure he did not participate in the violin section's mad dash to beat the conductor in the fourth movement of the Fifth. He is perfect. 


BREAKING NEWS: An ANCO bassist told us today that the Washington Ballet has fired its musicians and will perform The Nutcracker to canned music. This is not cool. Folks, when I was in college, the ALABAMA BALLET performed with a live orchestra. Kids' dance school perform to tapes, not major national ballet theatres. Shame on the Washington Ballet. This year, why not boycott the crazy ticket prices and the trip to the Warner--in the land of expensive and scarce parking--and catch a production of The Nutcracker by your local ballet company. In our area, the Rockville Civic Ballet is reputed to put on an excellent show, with nontraditional body types in lead roles and, last I heard, an orchestra.


For more information, visit:


Washington National Opera


Ars Nova Chamber Orchestra


Rockville Civic Ballet

The Taming of the Free-for-All

I'm woefully behind in my reviews of cheap and easy culture in the DC area, for which I humbly apologize. Late summer/early fall is a great time for freebies, and the city is peaceful, beautiful, comfortable, and relatively free of Congressmen at that time of year.

First, I'll give you some thoughts about the Shakespeare Theatre's new twist on its annual Free-for-All production. Until this year the annual free event was held at the Carter Barron Amphitheatre, which offered Shakespeare under the stars for more than 4,000 people at a time. Families brought babies and picnic baskets and introduced their young spawn to fabulous theatre in a fresh-air, non-threatening environment.

This year, for reasons that the Shakespeare Theatre Company never made clear in any meaningful way, the Free-for-All was held at its luxe, 774-seat Sidney Harman Hall across from DC's Verizon Center. Their argument was that being directly across from the Gallery Place Metro station, the entertainment complex would make the experience more available for more people.

Perhaps in theory. The Carter Barron was difficult to access by public transportation. I could argue, however, that people coming with strollers and picnic baskets weren't going to use Metro anyway. And although the STC was able to produce more shows in its own space than it could have put on at the Carter Barron, I'm not at all convinced that more people had access to the show this year.

First, lines for free tickets before each performance were at least 2 hours long. That's right, I sat in line on a filthy DC sidewalk for 2 hours before I was allowed to grab 2 free tickets for that night's show. Lines at the Cater Barron had been practically non-existent, yet they packed the place every night they played there. Many people this year were turned away after waiting for 2 hours because all tickets had been distributed, many thus discouraged from trying again another night.

And because it was indoors, there were no picnic baskets, few young children being introduced to Shakespeare, and no starlight. STC's suggestion that families could picnic on the grounds of the National Building Museum a few blocks away was laughable. The STC did thoughtfully provide a crying space next to the bar in the lobby with view of a monitor displaying the performance, where parents could have a martini, rock a petulant child, and watch the show all the same time without disturbing others. A brilliant and thoughtful idea. Nevertheless, I'm convinced that many parents shied away from attending the Free-for-All because they were intimidated by the glistening hall and by fears of being trapped in an enclosed space with a wiggly child. The new complex is largely made of glass, for God's sake.

That being said, J. and I did have a blast. The revival of the STC's 2008 The Taming of the Shrew was brilliant, adding new principals who outshone the originals and new stage business that lowered the tone considerably--and I mean that in a good way. While the original was a great production, this one was amazing. It's still not my favorite--that honor goes to an Alabama Shakespeare Theatre production in the late 1980s--but it's up there as one of the most lively and enjoyable I've ever seen. And perhaps if it had been produced outdoors, by 14-year-old might not have turned her nose up at the idea of going to see Shakespeare.

Was it worth the 2-hour wait? Yes, because I work within walking distance, took a good book to read in line, went on a casual Friday so I was wearing clothes that could not be sullied by DC grime, and met my husband for date night since our daughter wouldn't come.

I've never rated these experiences before, but I'm going to give it a bash here:

Production: A-
Overall experience: C

Next installment: Read all about how Opera in the Outfield kicks the Free-for-All's ass.

Rock Is Dead, They Say

I suppose it's fitting that I'm currently re-reading The Time Traveler's Wife. Last night at the Verizon Center, I performed a spontaneous time stunt of my own, in which I traveled back at least 20 years and stood with my teenage daughter of today, bobbing up and down to the furiously accelerated beat of a nuevo-punk band.

Translation? I took my 14-year-old daughter and her craziest, liveliest friend to see Green Day. I expected to be the oldest person there. To ward off evil spirits, I made sure I was wearing a t-shirt (Piggly Wiggly), jeans (not capris), and John Lennon signature Chuck Taylor hightops. A neutral ensemble that would help me to blend in but not necessarily mark me as a downtown office rat who just got off work (which I was).

I was swept up in the atmosphere as soon as I got there, although arena rock had never been my thing. In my day, if a band got too big for the Fox Theatre in Atlanta or the 9:30 in DC, I had no use for them. But I stood in line patiently with the girls to buy my daughter a Green Day t-shirt, then was so impressed by the styles that I bought my own, which bore a cartoon of a cheerleader with a banadana tied around her face, cheerfully setting fire to her school with a molotov cocktail. Awesome.

The opening act for Green Day, the Kaiser Chiefs, were a lovely surprise. They were a little punkier than Green Day, with a driving drumline that's absolutely essential to me, but they were no strangers to a guitar tuner or to spot-on harmonies. They gave me a little hope that perhaps punk is still alive somewhere, although by definition it can't be found at the Verizon Center.

As for the headliners, I find Green Day unwilling to be pigeonholed. They're socially conscious, they're metallic and powerful, yet they're capable of pulling off acoustic ballads without sounding like an 80s hair band trying to appear sensitive. They feel genuine, and if you want to question their punk street cred, that seems to be okay with them. They're questioning your punk listening cred. For example, I wonder if the irony of Billy Joe Armstrong singing to his devotees that they are controlled by the media, and their gleeful acceptance of that fact, is lost on his fans. The band offered pyrotechnics, arty-farty but very high-tech video images behind them, and sports arena cliches such as super-soakers and t-shirt guns. Hard to do that with a straight face, unless what you're really saying is "Is this what you want? Here it is. That'll be $75, thank you." That's the true spirit of punk itself.

Don't get me wrong. I would have preferred the stripped-down, raw punk of my earlier days, with no glitzy spectacle and even limited lighting tricks. But Green Day are fabulous showmen, and there's a place for that in nuevo punk. Billy Joe certainly knows how to please a crowd, and while he doesn't come out and mock them in so many words, the message is implicit. He stands on his monitor, and like a tiny punk puppetmaster raises his arms above his head, knowing that his audience will ape him exactly. Last night he even brought up fans from the floor to show them how to do it. And in another stroke of proletariat marketing genius, he repeatedly allowed fans to join him onstage to sing for him. In the case of one lucky, extremely dorky guy, he let him play his guitar onstage for quite some time. This was a dedicated fan who knew the songs and could definitely keep up, and Billy Joe gave him the gift of a lifetime: the certainty of finally getting laid. On behalf of my young daughter, who will soon be the target of oversexed but sexually inexperienced guitar-playing boys, I crow triumphantly, "One less!" Thank you, Billy Joe.

World's Worst Mom Sees 'Bruno,' Takes Teens

She'd already seen "Borat" and not been unduly traumatized, so I merely groaned when my daughter (not quite 14 years old) asked me to take her and two of her friends to see Sacha Baron Cohen's latest, "Bruno." The two other teens shrugged when I asked if it was okay with their parents that they see this film, saying, "Yeah, they know I'm going. Whatever." So off we went to Rio, where I sat several rows ahead of them so no one would know we were together and I wouldn't have to feel as embarrassed as I might were my daughter to be sitting next to me during what were sure to be scenes she's not really old enough to see.

She might be, but I don't think I am. While the controversial gay sex scenes and full frontal male nudity were so over-the-top comical and idiotic they seemed almost cartoon-like, there were scenes of heterosexual encounters that, while they bore black boxes over the naughty bits, left nothing to the imagination whatsoever. They were crude and more than a little scary, and certainly not what I'd want my teen to see. Serves me right.

Overall though, "Bruno" is just another tour-de-force for Cohen, who's becoming so recognizable that a third movie where he dupes people is surely out of the question. As it is, much of "Bruno" feels staged, with willing and knowing participants. Were all of them in on the joke? Hard to say. Once again, Cohen likes to have a bash at the far right-wing and the Southern religious--who doesn't? But he's left me wishing he'd attack the blind bigotry of some of his countrymen. Southern Baptists have nothing on certain groups of British football hooligans, so perhaps it's time Cohen have some fun with that crowd instead. Less market appeal, I imagine.

Nevertheless, "Bruno" has little of its predecessor's freshness, and its protagonist none of the innocence of Borat. Instead, the soulless Austrian fashionista Bruno keeps accosting people who are trying their very best to be polite and accept him at least on a superficial basis. That they're ultimately unable to do so, after much prodding from Bruno, seems less a sign of their hatred for what he represents as their very human inability to remain calm in the face of a nagging, petulant child.

In one of the final scenes of the film, however, and one that I fear is real and not at all staged, old-fashioned Southern homophobia reveals itself in all its dentally challenged ugliness. It's very disturbing to watch an Arkansas crowd's reaction to what it believes is a straight icon turning gay before their very eyes--their hatred and disbelief seem too powerful to be real, and yet I fear they were. This was the scene the 14-year-olds said disturbed them the most, and that was because of the raw homophobia that seemed to have no source, no logic behind it, just naked fear. Ding, ding, ding!

Is "Bruno" a slap in the face to the homosexual community? It's hard to say. I'm straight but like to think that I'm sensitive to those issues. I think the whole point was to bring out latent homophobia in people who were otherwise trying very hard to hide something they knew to be illogical and socially unacceptable, but the Bruno character had create a caricature to get there, and I could see how that might offend some. Yet I can't get away from the fact that the 14-year-olds were never appalled by the homosexual behaviors, never fearful of anything displayed in cartoon proportions, but were horrified by the hatred others showed toward it. Perhaps GLAAD and other groups who oppose the film have nothing to worry about on that score. As for perpetuating stereotypes, how could anyone as over-the-top silly as Bruno ever seem real to anyone? Someone who makes Ru Paul look sedate, almost matronly?

Apart from all these issues, what remains is that "Bruno," while it has its moments, isn't terribly funny. The first half of the film offered few, if any, genuine laughs, only picking up at the point where Bruno adopts a baby from Africa because "it's worked for Madonna and Brangelina." Seeing what lengths some people will go to achieve fame for their kids--I'm thinking, with horror, that some of these scenes of stage parents might be real rather than scripted--induced some good, guilty belly laughs and reminded me that Prince Michael and Paris Jackson are in serious trouble. Let's forget all about the perceived sins of homosexuality and just lock up all parents who would put their kids in show business, shall we?

I'm foregoing the usual comments about photography, direction, performances, etc. They simply aren't relevant. Cohen is who is he is, and who he is has nothing to do with quality and everything to do with shocking people just for the sake of shocking them. To me, that just induces an enormous yawn. I can't believe I've seen everything, but I've yet to be shocked by anything Cohen has done. Just a little bored.

A Weekend in Staunton

Once a year J and I head out to the Blue Ridge Mountains for a weekend B&B retreat sans child. This getaway generally involves history and wineries, and it's my chance to unwind a bit from the stresses of the school year and the June mayhem at work.

This year we didn't book soon enough to get a B&B close to Charlottesville that will take our dogs--geriatric and subdued though they be--so we wound up staying a little farther out in Staunton, VA. I'd read a bit about the town and was willing to give it a shot but a little disappointed that I wouldn't be haunting the town of TJ and Edgar Allen Poe.

Honestly, TJ can wait. Staunton was a gorgeous surprise. We stayed at a typically adorable and peaceful bed and breakfast, this time the Inn at Old Virginia just across the train tracks outside town. While the breakfast didn't knock us over, it was at least served in reasonable portions so we didn't have to go back to the room and lie down for an hour before having the energy to go out sightseeing. The inn was hosting a wedding that weekend, so it was gussied up in its wedding finery, and we even had a great view from our room of the wedding on the lawn.

One of the great things about Staunton was the cheap eats. The first night we ate at a Mexican restaurant called Baja Bean, located downtown, where the heavy Victorian architecture belies the atmosphere of the hip and artsy galleries, shops, and bookstores that reside there. The Bean was refreshingly inexpensive ($36 for two, with appetizer, two main courses, and two margaritas, generous tip extra). The ingredients were fresh and the menu original. What really stood out were the margaritas, which were made with fresh fruit juice and lime and leave me still craving margaritas two weeks later.

I wouldn't recommend going directly to The Split Banana next door. You have to give yourself time to recover from the fajitas and margaritas before you ask your body to take on the gelato, made fresh on the spot, right in front of your eyes. Once you're hungry again, try a couple of scoops of the Banana's fresh ice cream, gelato, or sorbet. Me, I'm a gelato fan, and theirs was heavenly. And if you're feeling bad about calories, a white board prominently displays calories, fat, and sugar content of all their products. (I need constant reminders that gelato is actually less fattening than ice cream. How could a scoop of this stuff be no worse for you than a Weight Watchers brownie sundae?)

But one of the best surprises in Staunton was, for me, the Blackfriars Playhouse. This small wooden O is a replica of Shakespeare's one-time theatrical home in London, complete with butt-torturing wooden benches and a musician's gallery. Here, as in Shakespeare's day, actors in the repertory company play popular music before the show and during intermission--but it's our poplular music, not Shakespeare's. There's something eminently hilarious about actors in Elizabethan garb playing Rick Springfield's "Jessie's Girl" or the Gin Blossoms' "Hey, Jealousy" on acoustic instruments. It makes me long for an entertainment venue that features electrified bands playing between the acts of a modern play, bringing theatre back to the masses, where it once belonged.

Nevertheless, the show at the Blackfriars had plenty to offer to the families on their summer vacation. On tap the night we went was a silly but entertaining production of Measure for Measure (as though that play could be anything but silly) that played to the groundlings and reminded me that Shakespeare really shouldn't have written his own plots. Nothing wrong with that--it was a great night, the cast was fresh and lively, and there was even a bar set up on the stage itself before the play and during intermission.

Later this summer, they're putting on Titus Andronicus. It's worth the expense of a trip back to see how they tackle Shakespeare's most sensationalist play of all. Blood! Incest! Cannibalism! Gelato! Margaritas! I have to go.

The Soloist

Now that my beloved Olney 9 Cinema is no more, J and I are forced to go to Rockville or Rio to catch a pic. What's worse, we have to drive the teenagers and then wait for their movie to be over because going home and then coming back takes almost as long as watching the film.

But the recent trip to Rio to see "The Soloist" was well worth the trek and possibly worth the $10.50 ticket. It's melodic, jarring, virtuosic, and soft--not unlike a symphony.

I find irony in the title of the film, though, because the story is really a complicated duet--never a duel--between Robert Downey, Jr, as LA Times columnist Steve Lopez and Jamie Foxx as the homeless and schizophrenic Nathaniel Ayers. I've often felt puzzled at the fuss over Foxx, but he earned his hype as Ayers through a deft performance that always hit the right notes and never scooped a note to please the audience. As for Downey, he's one of the greatest actors of my generation, and it's breathtaking to see him back in action in a film of depth and importance, with his edge completely intact (and the drugs and firearms, I hope, behind him).

As Lopez, Downey avoids the stereotype of the Great White Hope, and Foxx, thankfully, takes a detour from what another actor might see as his inevitable destination of Magic Negro. Downey's Lopez is a cynical "savior" of Nathaniel Ayers, a kindly but delusional Julliard dropout living on the streets and off his meds. Lopez can't resist Ayers' childlike charm and soaring musical talent, and the two become unlikely friends.

Watching Lopez's attempt to control Ayers--arguably while exploiting him in print--can be painful to watch, but I've been there, and I know how true to life the filmed portrayal of the relationship is. When it comes to forging relationships with people that ill, well, you can do it, but you have to throw out your preconceived notions about what's best and sit back and accept what is. The dramatic tension in "The Soloist" centers around Lopez's struggle to do just that and Ayers' resistance to any attempts to "cure" him.

And of course, there's the music. If you've read my previous posts, you know I love the cello. "The Soloist" did not disappoint. Ayers' love of Beethoven adds a resonant bass line to the story and exposed me to cello music with which I was less familar--I've been missing out. And according to J, Foxx does a decent job of miming the playing. (I know from my one cello lesson with J that just holding the bow properly is a tremendous challenge to the uninitiated.)

I could have lived without the flashbacks to Ayers' childhood and young adulthood and felt they were edited into the narrative somewhat awkwardly. (Although I was intrigued by young Ayers' ingenious technique for practicing his cello in bed.)

I suppose one could look at "The Soloist" as yet another story in which the so-called redeemer becomes the one redeemed, but I think it narrowly misses taking that street. You're left wondering if Lopez has really learned anything and if Ayers will ever turn the dischordant voices in his head into a choir, but that's a good thing.

An interesting comment I've heard from more than one reviewer is that the film revels in the gory details of life on Skid Row and that those details are alarming and frightening. Revel it may, but no one who's ever read Victorian literature should be surprised by the Dickensian intensity of Ayers' life on the streets of LA. Like Victorian England, ours is not a pretty age, and "The Soloist" reminds the viewer of that every chance it gets.

I'm still trying to figure out the thematic need for the urine jokes, though.

Strangeness at Strathmore

Last night J and I went to Strathmore to hear Lynn Harrell with the Tokyo String Quartet. Or rather, the Tokyo String Quartet sort of with Lynn Harrell.

The world-famous four began the evening with Haydn's String Quartet in G, Op. 76, No. 1. This means nothing to me except that I like Haydn. (When I took the "What Famous Composer Are You?" quiz on Facebook, it said I was Haydn. So scientific.) But one thing I like about Haydn--and many composers of his day--is the almost mathematical precision of the interweaving of the different instrumental voices. In places in this quartet, the precision was lost, I think because the first violin and the cello had different ideas about tempo. This is baffling to me in a group of this renown. I was left with an uncomfortable feeling that I couldn't explain until the intermission, when J agreed that I wasn't crazy--they were off. It reminded me of the sportscaster on TV the other night who actually compared the Nats' moves that night to Little League action. It shocked me to hear it, but now I understand--with great repution comes great responsibility. The Tokyo String Quartet had let me down. (The Nats always let me down.)

They redeemed themselves somewhat with Beethoven's String Quartet in C Minor, op. 18, No. 4. I've always loved Beethoven's compositions for strings, and this was no exception. The tempo became a problem again at one point, but they resolved it quickly, and I was able to enjoy the piece.

Then, after the intermission, Lynn Harrell joined the group for the Schubert Quintet in C Major, D. 956. I've never been to hear Harrell live and was looking forward to it immensely. The cello is still probably my favorite instrument--it brought J and me together! What was odd to me was that Harrell took the easy cello part, leaving the lyrical lines to the Quartet's celloist, whose tone was higher, thinner, and reedy rather than woody. J thought this was a good choice because Harrell's instrument has a huge, resonant, woody sound that served the piece well by playing the second part. Nevertheless, we were both surprised because Harrell is such a draw.

A quick note about Strathmore: While this is a gorgeous hall, it might not be the place to hear chamber music. It's a beautiful, blonde-wood airplane hangar, and the four (or in the second half, five) instruments just didn't produce enough sound to do them justice in the stratosphere, where we sat. While we didn't have a problem with volume when we sat on Mars to hear little Joshie Bell, it was a problem last night. The Mansion would have been a much better venue, or even the Barns at Wolf Trap. I guess there's just not enough money in that.

And again, I'm really tired of being one of the youngest people at a classical music concert. I'm 45, for crying out loud! What will the audience be like when I'm one of the blue-haired ladies riding the golf cart to the concert hall from the parking deck? Will there even be an audience? Seriously, if you're under 65, please go support your local classical musicians. And expose your kids to this stuff while they're young. They'll say they hate it when they're teenagers, but they'll remember it fondly when they're adults. You owe them this experience.

Rant over.

The WInter's Tale on a Winter's Night

We almost thought we wouldn't get there. J and I each thought the other knew exactly how to get to the Folger, but it turns out memory--and J's GPS--failed us. A light snow was falling; J's blood pressure was rising. Miraculously, we made it to the box office to pick up our tickets with one minute to curtain.

Seeing plays at the Folger is one of my favorite things to do in this town. The productions are generally excellent, and I love the faux-Globe atmosphere, "this wooden O." But despite watching from the railing of the balcony, so close that I could see when the actors sprayed each other with spit, the Folger's staging of "The Winter's Tale" was, well, meh. Now, this is one of Shakespeare's oft-overlooked plays, and one of my favorites. It's a beautiful tale of jealousy and love regained--but not without extreme suffering.

But James Kronzer's set left me cold. It looked like an 80s black-laquered nightmare and threatened to fall down with every dramatic outburst. I'm not sure what the intention was here, but if it was to make me feel cold and hopeless but visually offended, then it worked. Although the designer employed some clever panels to switch the scene from Sicilia's bitter winter to Bohemia's eternal spring, the effect fell flat because the original shiny black panels that formed the set were still visible. Bleh.

Connon Morrissey's Hermione started off like my old Volkswagen--shaky and halting until it warmed to a purr by the third act. By then, it was almost too late, and forgiveness for the first two acts was hard to give. On the up side, Daniel Stewart as Leontes gave me the depth I wanted without falling prey to the temptation to chew the scenery. The same cannot be said for Anthony Cochrane's Autolychus, who came on as drunk, merry, and mischievous rather than witty but malevolent. And don't even get me started on Shakespeare's ingenues. I have seldom seen these roles played the way I think Shakespeare intended--with depth and innocence, but also with flavor and originality. This production was no exception--Perdita, and even her lover Florizel, simply irritated me.

But my biggest disappointment was the play's climax, which was...anti-climactic. The ending to The Winter's Tale is where a theatre company can really shine. The Royal Shakespeare Company's mid-90s production at the Kennedy Center is one of my favorite theatrical productions ever. Perhaps that's an unfair comparison. But the RSC was able to convey with great skill the pathos and bitterness that combine with joy and relief in an ending that could be read as straight comedy. The Folger, however, played it ham-handedly. Not only did they not effectively expressive the range of emotions these characters go through, but they also played it un-dramatic and un-funny. I could understand a director's choice to pick only one of the two but can't forgive the decision to chose neither.

Nevertheless, "The Winter's Tale" was not a waste of a winter's evening. I saw in the more expensive seats just below me an old boss of mine I lovingly nicknamed "Cruella DeVil." I pretended I didn't see her. I know she saw me.

Postscript: I began this blog after J and I saw the Shakespeare theatre put on Romeo and Juliet with an all-male cast. My problem with that production was not the Elizabethen casting but the screeching, hyperkinetic performances of Romeo and Juliet themselves. Honestly, J and I couldn't wait for them to off themselves.

The Word: Get 'Milk'

In "Milk," Director Gus Van Sant has presented us with the seemingly impossible: an almost flawless film. I could end this post here, actually, but you might want to know why I'm going out on a limb like this. I will attempt to explain myself.

I say "almost flawless" because my cynical and doubting 21-century brain can't wrap itself around the concept of perfection. But now I've seen a movie that's brilliantly written, directed, acted, filmed, and (gasp!) even researched.

To begin with, Dustin Lance Black's script avoids the odd awkward line, the out-of-character utterance, the things that make you go "Hmmm?" Everything each character says sounds as authentic as if Black had inhabited the character more completely than any "process" actor ever could. Of course, stellar performances such as Sean Penn's could make my grocery list compelling cinema. Even minor characters are portrayed as totally three-dimensional--no stereotypes here. The only performance that left me scratching my head was that of Josh Brolin as the warped and conflicted San Francisco Supervisor Dan White, and my confusion could well be due to the complexity and blatant insanity of the character himself and not the performance. This could be a flaw in the film, or it could be my own personal flaw in that I didn't completely get it.

One thing I did get is the fabulous period detail. While the surviving players in the story were consulted for the script, someone had to go out and find the costumes and decorate the set to reflect with eerie accuracy the hideous 70s. Portraying recent history is harder than you think. Plenty of filmgoers can remember that era well--including me--and it's hard to pull one over on them. That being said, filmmakers are often complacent about recent history and overlook that keen attention to detail that, if ignored, can lead to an error that could threaten the film's credibility and break that viewer's almost magical connection to the film as he or she watches it. (One possible anachronism: I don't recall the term "African-American" being used before Jesse Jackson uttered it in the 80s, but I haven't looked that one up.)

I also love how Van Sant wove film with historic footage--most filmmakers do this awkwardly, but Van Sant, along with the art director, set designer, and costumer, has managed to make the back-and-forth seamless.

But what struck me the most about this film is how timely it is. We think we've come so far, and then California's Proposition 8 slaps us in the face and takes us back to Milk's San Francisco and reminds us that there are still people out there who see homosexuality as a choice, and a sinful one at that. Do you have to know a homosexual to understand that choice plays no part in sexual orientation? If so, I have some news: You know someone. Maybe you are someone. "Milk" shakes you roughly by the shoulders and wakes you up, then strokes your cheek and gives you hope.

Breaking News: An Adult Sees 'Twilight'

I may have been the only adult in the theatre who wasn't accompanying a teen or preteen when I went to see "Twilight" over the holidays. I may be the only such adult who has ever seen that movie under such circumstances. But perhaps this makes me uniquely qualified to give this more-than-mediocre film a fair shot.

Admittedly, I read the entire series of books by Stephenie Meyer avidly between Thanksgiving and Christmas, as if I had nothing better to do. While I can't say they were well-written, I have to admit that I couldn't put them down. So I was particularly interested to see how the filmmakers would adapt the first installment for the screen and keep the kids happy.

I'm not sure they did. My daughter and her friends gave it mixed reviews. Their biggest complaint--and I hear this often about films adapted from books--is that they weren't faithful to the book. But books and movies are disparate things, and naturally they must be treated as such. In fact, I think this particular adaptation was rather elegant and judiciously executed. Sorry, kids--not every sigh is worth screen time.

Another complaint from the juvenile set (and some others) is that the pace of the film was too slow. Now, this may be a generational thing today. We all know that images come flying at today's teens far more rapidly than they did in my day. But I found the pace to be, well...accurate. Let me explain. This is the story of a powerful teen love. It's not a horror story. It's not really a story about vampires. It's a story about a girl in love with a boy who everyone else would see as bad, only he's not. A familiar story. And this film rolls out its story to play almost in real time. Don't we all recall the agonizing pace at which we felt our lives were crawling back then? How you hoped for what seemed a lifetime for him to ask you out? Then your first kiss seemed to be forever in coming. (It seemed to last forever, too, but that was a good thing.) And a romance that lasts six months has all the gravitas of a commitment of a lifetime. In "Twilight," this dynamic is played out through looks, sighs, and the ever-so-meaningful body language between two young people unsure of how close they can safely get.

Another complaint, this time from actual film critics as well as 13-year-olds (is there a difference?) is that the special effects were terrible. Yes and no. They were elementary, but I think the critics and the kids are missing the point. Whenever possible, the director tries to distract you from feeling any need for special effects. She wants you to focus on the story, and only when it's absolutely necessary does she include a shot where you can witness the vampires' incredible strength or speed. To get caught up in the specials would be, in my opinion, a distraction from what's central here, which is the intense feelings between the protagonists. We wouldn't want the teens to be exclaiming "Cool!" while some pretty subtle and wavering emotions are supposed to be the focus.

One of the best things about this film, however, is the estrogen level. The author, director, screenwriter, and editor are all women. This is unusual in Hollywood, even in our so-called enlightened century, and the movie definitely has the feminine touch. It's possibly subtler and more mature than it should be for its target audience, but it worked for me.

But please, in the sequel, don't make the vampires wear bright red lipstick. Kinda ruins my argument about subtlety.

Happiness and Bad Acoustics at the National Gallery

I have to say that I have never been unhappy for one moment at the National Gallery. Never. I could sit in the rotunda for 30 minutes, and months of career cares float out of my body and across the street to the East Building where they belong. I'm Holly Golightly at the NGA, and I can usually make it fun for those around me, too. My husband J., however, is capable of having a bad time there, which I confess I can't understand. Perhaps it's one of those things that will form the mystery that keeps our relationship interesting.

Last night, after viewing some pieces from the permanent collection (our emphasis this time was finding paintings with really pale people) and then having mediocre dessert and decent wine and coffee at the overpriced but darling cafe, we lined up with what felt like half the inhabitants of the District of Columbia to hear the weekly free chamber music concert in the West Garden Court.

Why this was so fabulously attended last night I can't be sure. The National Gallery String Quartet, with the addition of ancient pianist Menahem Pressler, was, well, nice. They played Mozart's Piano Quartet in G Minor and Schumann's Piano Quintet in E-flat Major in one of the worst places for acoustics I've ever encountered since my high school gym. I confess that I love coming here for concerts, but the room is so "live" that every note bounces from one granite pillar to the next and then back again until it sounds like a big, muddy mess. Nevertheless, the mess was Mozart and Schumann, and that can only be so bad. What's weird is my preferring the Schumann, but stranger things have happened.

Because of this unusual acoustical predicament--as well as the fact that I know squat about muscians' abilities--it's hard to break down the quality of the performances. J. tells me that the violist had some problems and was the cause of my unease in the Allegro. I could hear for myself that the cellist played lyrically, but I'm partial to the cello. As J. says, violinists are two for one on every street corner, but he tells me the two violinists we heard for the price of $0.00 were fine.

But I'm not really sure it's about the quality of the music. You can't beat looking at masterpieces, then eating or drinking them, and then listening to them. You're surrounded by marble, granite, lush plants, velvet drapes, and really old people who could actually afford to pay for a concert. And young people! At a free classical concert, there are always plenty of young people. This gladdens my heart, as I grow weary of always being, in my mid-forties, the third youngest person in the audience.