Mobile Manhattanite

Ye Olde Matzo Ball

2012-02-08T10:20:00.000-08:00

Amusing restaurant review by Pete Wells in today’s Times. He’s covering Kutsher’s Tribeca, an homage to one of the best-known hotels from the heyday of the Catskill Mountains Borscht Belt, Kutsher’s Country Club. I was particularly struck by his comments regarding that sine qua non of Jewish cookery, the matzo ball:

“Take, for instance, his [chef Mark Spangenthal’s] matzo ball soup at Kutsher’s. Matzo ball preferences are deeply personal and beyond argument. Mr. Spangenthal aims for midrange fluffiness, so people who like a tightly compressed matzo ball that lands in the gut like a sock filled with pennies may not be satisfied.

"But they will certainly notice how flavorful these matzo balls are, and appreciate the rich broth, with its robust flavor and lip-smacking stickiness. The kitchen has been hard at work on that soup, but it has covered its tracks.”

The “deeply personal” tastes regarding this delicacy remind me of my Aunt Jeanne (pronounced “Jean” as in Jeanne Crain or Jeanne Eagels, not “zhan” as in Jeanne Moreau or Jeanne d’Arc), who, at Passover, would deliberately make both light, fluffy balls and hard-centered ones. When the soup was ladled out at the seder table, she would take requests for either hard or soft. I always asked for a mixture of both.

I also liked Wells’s calling Bob Dylan and Neil Diamond’s output “classic Jewish music.” Until I saw this, I could think only of either Ernest Bloch or klezmer:

“SOUND LEVEL Classic Jewish music (Dylan, Diamond) and pop hits of the ’70s and ’80s keep the place humming along.”

Have to mention that my favorite cuisines still run to north Italian and classic French, but I’m open to suggestions.

Here’s the piece from today’s Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/08/dining/reviews/kutshers-tribeca-nyc-restaurant-review.html?_r=1&ref=dining

Anna Who???

2012-02-06T11:34:00.000-08:00

“Anybody sellin’ tickets?” Patrons of most of the theatrical and artistic venues of NYC are used to being casually accosted by scruffy, nondescript men, usually in knitted watch caps and lumberjack-style jackets, standing at the steps leading up to the main Lincoln Center complex as well as at other theaters and performance spaces around town. These requests are not usually aimed at the cognoscenti, who are well aware that these guys are not interested in attending Alan Gilbert’s Mahler or that evening’s Madama Butterfly or Tosca. They hope to buy the tickets cheaply and resell them at a profit. So, after many years of doing this, they have become pretty familiar with the standard repertory even if they’ve never set foot inside the Met, e.g.

Last Saturday, when entering the theater to see the New York City Ballet, I heard one of these operators ask the other: “What’s the opera today?” This surprised me, since they usually know what’s on even if they don’t know much more about it than the title. The other guy replied, “Anna Bolena.” Good thing he didn’t have to pronounce Götterdämmerung, which is coming up soon, and for which there is a giant poster on the Met’s façade.

"Our Own Business Directory"

2012-02-01T12:37:00.000-08:00

Have spent a lifetime addicted to The New Yorker, frequently using it as my model for my own feeble literary/journalistic attempts. Although the magazine has necessarily changed over the years, I'm still a faithful reader. One small feature that seems to have disappeared—can't say exactly when— was one of their humorous column fillers, "Our Own Business Directory." I've compiled a very short list of my own favorites, all of which actually exist in New York. Or, perhaps, existed until recently.

Shredding service: Code Shred
Upper West Side shoe store (now closed): Scarpe Diem

Long Island City glaziers: Amazing Glazing

Provider of portable toilets: Call-a-Head
Sign in Fairway's canned fish section: Tuna Central

More TK!

King of Cabbages

2012-01-24T15:00:00.000-08:00

You can't make kimchee or sauerkraut out of it, but the monarch of the cabbage family is the beauteous ornamental kale which, possibly owing to our freakishly warm winter (so far), is brightening up many city streets, vest-pocket parks, and apartment house façades, even in late January. I fell in love with this plant some years back, and once even had one on a coffee table for a while. It resembles irradiated roses or peonies but has no scent. You can buy smaller ones at florists or corner Korean produce markets and add them to mixed bouquets, but the really beautiful large ones need to be planted outdoors. We have had one small snowfall and, regrettably, I didn't have my camera at the ready to snap the sight of these botanical lovelies poking their curly heads out of the snow.

Curtain Up (Soon)!

2011-12-24T09:31:00.000-08:00

In recent years, theatergoers in the main Broadway area have been obliged to line up outside the theater until the doors are opened. I just don't remember this "herding" style approach in my (many) former years of theatergoing. That said, it's certainly encouraging to see hordes of enthusiastic patrons queued up for, in my case, Hugh Jackman's one-man show and, behind us, going in the opposite direction, the continuing masses attending The Phantom of the Opera, "still crazy after all these years." Despite ever-higher admission prices (and no discounts for Mr. Jackman), theater seems not to be affected by the current recession, at least if the show is any good.

Hugh does not disappoint, having one of the most charming and magnetic personalities of a performer in any medium. And, although he can be funny, his humor is never biting or malicious. And his singing and dancing would grace any venue in which he cared to perform. Though thoroughly skilled and polished, he is able to project a lack of self-consciousness and can appear not to take himself too seriously. I guess you can tell that I enjoyed the show. And, normally, my idea of a great evening out is Wagner's Ring or any opera by Mozart! Nothing against popular entertainment, when it's this good.

O Tannenbaum!

2011-12-14T08:23:00.000-08:00

A classic New York City—particularly Manhattan—sight is the Christmas tree vendor, filling a good third of the sidewalk with his fragrant green wares. Here is a typical scene, right near my apartment, slightly blocking the entrance to a local Duane Reade. Many of these vendors come down from New England and Canada to do their yuletide business. An unusually warm late autumn or, if you will, early winter doesn't set the trees off as well as do snowy pavements. I remember being in Latin America one Christmas and finding their decorated evergreens (a different style, with droopy branches) somewhat incongruous in the semitropical climate.

A typical bit of Christmas New Yorkiana: When asked what I was doing for the Big Day, I told my Italian hairdresser, "Un natale ebreo" ("a Jewish Christmas"). Hip and au courant person that she is, she countered, "Oh, yeah—a movie and Chinese food!" Perfectly correct, of course. We haven't chosen the movie yet, and the food could possibly be Thai or Korean. Last year it was Thai.

An Experiment re The Mystery Office

2011-11-08T03:43:00.000-08:00

Sometime back, I published a very mild comment on an empty office space in a famous NYC landmark building. I was curious as to why this very desirable office space was always empty when I passed it on the way to my dentist. In September I received a notice that the commentary had to be taken down because it was found to be violating some law or other. Can't imagine what this was, except that I had used a stock photo I had found online, and perhaps that was copyrighted. There was no tag indicating such on the photo. Anyway, here is my entry again—not that it's such a literary masterpiece—with a couple of not wonderful photos I just took with my cherished new iPhone (Sprint finally offered it!).

Here I go again with one of my obsessions, the Chrysler Building. To get to my dentist's office there, you take the express elevator to the 57th floor and then walk around the corner to take the Tower Elevator to the 69th floor. But on the 57th floor, on the way to the next elevator, you will encounter what I have come to call the Mystery Office. As the possessor of an overactive imagination, I find that this office reminds me of something out of The Twilight Zone or perhaps a program on the Sci-Fi (recently renamed—wait for it—SyFy) Channel. Except for an occasionally visible young woman who appears to be a receptionist, there's never anybody in there! Is this a conference venue? Temporarily unrented space (no surprise here, with office rentals going begging in the recession)? Over several years, at whatever time I have my dentist appointment, there has never been anything taking place in this glossy, pristine space. Do covens congregate there late at night, gazing out over Manhattan from the 57th floor? Do Mafia dons occasionally plan whack jobs? Che cosa fanno li? Whatever the case may be, using this venue has got to be pricey. No one in the dentist's office seems to know anything. Have they been warned by underworld figures to keep their lips buttoned—observing omertà? Where is Mike Hammer when we need him? Or better, C. Auguste Dupin, Sherlock Holmes, or Hércule Poirot? Or, since it's a 30s Art Deco building, Philo Vance?

Sunny South Bank Sunday

2011-10-28T04:10:00.000-07:00

Not a remotely foggy day in London Town. Strolling toward the Design Museum near Tower Bridge on the South Bank, tourists and Londoners alike are basking in a glorious, sunny Sunday. Visitors from various countries stop us and ask us to take their photos, and we do the same. Your blogger (foreground in picture) and her sister are posed near the bridge in a favorite photographers' spot.

The London version of Mister Softee is Mr. Whippy. Being too cutesy for words prevails on both sides of The Pond.

Kicking the Can Under the Bus

2011-07-27T03:43:00.001-07:00

The following expressions don’t bear too much analysis; however…. Have complained before about over-used or incorrectly used catch phrases and words, but there are a couple that do amuse me, although I can’t recall using them myself. They are “Kick the can down the road” and “Throw him/her under the bus.” I believe the late William Safire dealt with one or both of these in his much-missed “On Language” columns in the Sunday New York Times Magazine.

A little online research reveals:

Definition of “kick the can down the road”

To procrastinate. "Kicking the can down the road" has been a favorite metaphor politicians have used to describe someone who is postponing a decision or avoiding an issue.

Definition of “throw under the bus”

One is thrown under the bus when made the scapegoat or blamed for something that wasn't one’s responsibility in the first place. A coverup for your mistake. You get thrown under the bus when someone (usually a co-worker) reports some wrongdoing or slacking off to a superior or other influential person. Sometimes used with the suffix "Vrooooom!" to simulate the noise the bus would make as it passes by at a high rate of speed.

Lately, there has been a veritable flood of “kick the can” usage in connection with legislative debates concerning national debt. How far that can will be kicked, no one knows. As for the bus, a lot of people are getting thrown under it these days.

Silfiden!

2011-06-21T14:29:00.001-07:00

Silfiden, Danish for La Sylphide, continues to exert its otherworldly magic as presented on June 18 by the Royal Danish Ballet on its first visit to New York City in many years. The charm and delicacy with which the mostly very youthful company presented this August Bournonville classic certainly captivated this audience member. And everyone else.

The delicate-seeming but actually very difficult choreography—oh, those precise finishes in fifth position!—is complemented by a real sense of fairy-tale fantasy, perfectly expressed by the two leads; they really seemed not quite of this world and could not survive in it.

Quaint nineteenth-century stage touches are managed deftly: the Sylphide whooshes up the chimney at the end of the first scene, so that our hero, James, isn't even sure she's been there at all. When she reappears on the windowsill, cf. the old Taglioni lithograph, she floats to the floor. When she meets her tragic end, her little gossamer wings drop off one by one, and, finally, her corpse is borne off aloft, on wires, accompanied by her fellow airy beings.

As an avid opera as well as ballet aficionada, I was also charmed by the lovely sets and costumes, totally in keeping with echt romanticism, that were designed by Mikael Melbye in one of the most successful career changes in the world of the arts. I heard him sing Papageno at the Met a number of years ago, and he was one of the most prominent Danish lyric baritones when he retired from singing in 1999. Also a painter, he has since become an internationally successful theatrical designer. (New York City Ballet could use him.)

"Bloody, Bold, and Resolute"

2011-06-15T12:58:00.000-07:00

The Royal Opera has climbed aboard the HD television bandwagon pioneered by the Metropolitan Opera's highly successful seasons of live matinee transmissions to theaters around the world. This week's live ROH offering was a stunning performance of Verdi's formerly underrated Macbeth, which has come to be appreciated in recent years. Perhaps English speakers and Shakespeare enthusiasts were put off in the past by characters addressed as "Macbetto," "Macduffo," "Banco," and "Il re Duncano." ("È morto e assassinato il re Duncano!") As someone fully conversant with the original text and fairly competent in Italian, I can admire Francesco Maria Piave's adaptation for the libretto, and I even enjoy a full chorus of witches instead of the original three. There were many imaginative touches in the staging, which was never over the top. One such was the delivery of Macbeth's letter to Lady M by one of the witches, who materialized and then vanished. Their supernatural, controlling powers were made evident.

A favorite artist, the extremely versatile and physically attractive Simon Keenlyside, is able to color the music with drama and emotion despite not having a typical Verdi voice. No one seems to have a typical Verdi voice these days, but here it didn't matter. The baritone's excellent Italian was also a help. The Ukrainian soprano Lyudmila Monastyrska sang "La Lady's" fiendish music with flair, seemingly tossing off the most difficult passages. The voice is rich and free of vibrato, and she even has the requisite trill. As an actress she was less effective, but it was a pleasure to hear the music so well sung. She did go against Verdi's original idea that Lady Macbeth should make an ugly sound; her voice is an extraordinarily beautiful one.

The dark, menacing, imaginative production and the fine conducting by Antonio Pappano made this British entry into the HD sweepstakes a success.

"An Isle of Joy"

2011-06-03T05:34:00.000-07:00

My friend with the great apartment in a great location snapped this late-day view of park and skyscrapers yesterday. Wow! The fact that the summer solstice is near may have something to do with the wonderful light phenomenon.

Thought that it might have had something to do with this, but not the case—a separate topic:

Manhattanhenge | Hayden Planetarium

Macy's—Art and Commerce at the Flower Show

2011-03-31T05:03:00.000-07:00

Despite economic difficulties common to almost all enterprises great and small, Macy’s has continued to delight citizens of New York and elsewhere, especially twice a year with its July 4 fireworks display and spring flower show. This year’s show was somewhat garish, but nevertheless delightful as usual. The ground-floor location, devoted mostly to beauty products and jewelry, is enhanced by the many lush floral and foliage arrangements that reflect the aesthetic intent of most of the merchandise. I saw lots of people like me with their tiny digital cameras, but not too many actually making purchases.

Despite numerous upgrades and its longstanding fame from the film Miracle on 34^th Street—and don’t forget the celebrated Christmas windows—Macy’s still isn’t a chic or even a really convenient place to shop. Still, they’ll always get me in there at least once a year to see the blooms.

Alice on Brrrroadway!

2011-03-23T05:16:00.001-07:00

Free-associating again, I was reminded of a childhood trip to New York City at Easter, long ago. The reason is that I was asked about current April weather, and what the visitor should wear. This made me think of how I nearly froze to death in my then-obligatory camel’s hair coat over what was probably a thin cotton dress. This, even though I wore the hat and gloves considered proper at the time. But the discomfort of the cold was more than offset by my very first Broadway show!

Long a fan of Alice in Wonderland—and long before I was really aware of the objects of Lewis Carroll’s satire (and his fondness for “children, except boys”)—I now realize that Mom had made a special effort for me to see this show, which I enjoyed unreservedly. Also, it starred a young dancer, Bambi Linn, who had received a lot of publicity for her talent and youthful success. A protégée of Agnes de Mille, she had already appeared in the dream ballet in Oklahoma! and as Louise in Carousel. An aspiring ballet dancer myself, I collected articles and pictures of Bambi and other dance notables, and she was one of my heroes.

The show itself used the Tenniel illustrations for its designs, which also made me happy. Although I don’t remember it all in detail, I do remember the great Eva LeGallienne, who also wrote the stage adaptation, flying in on a wire as the White Queen. I was fortunate enough to find this link, which describes the show in detail:

"Alice In Wonderland - The 1947 Broadway production starring Bambi Linn"

It's Supermoon!

2011-03-19T17:26:00.001-07:00

OTHELLO  
It is the very error of the moon;
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont,  
And makes men mad.

—Act V, scene ii

You can find something in Shakespeare for every occasion. Unlike the "birthers" who don't think President Obama was born in the U.S., or the doubters who don't think men have actually walked on the moon, I'm a believer that he was and they did. And also that the Bard wrote his own stuff, hardworking theater guy that he was.

I'm sorry that this photo of "supermoon" isn't mine; I cribbed it from an online Indian newspaper. My little Canon Powershot just couldn't deliver the goods this evening. I walked down to the end of East 52nd Street (where Garbo used to live, BTW) and joined a few other moongazers, a couple of whom were also trying for shots. Two families brought little children to see the phenomenon of a larger-than-usual full moon at its perigee, something that occurs only once every few years. A clear Manhattan night helped to make this view of la luna right over the landmark Pepsi-Cola sign on the East River especially memorable.

It's easier to worship the moon than it is the sun, because you can look right at the moon without damaging your eyes. And this one is certainly worth a long look.

A Classic New York Moment

2011-02-16T08:29:00.001-08:00

Owing to some ongoing dental work, I’m temporarily obliged to seek out mushy—or, as I somehow prefer to pronounce it—“mooshy” food until the implant is completed. It occurred to me that gefilte fish, which I enjoy from time to time but actually seldom eat, would be an acceptable choice, being suitably mooshy.

The selection today at my local Food Emporium was not vast: no Rokeach, Mother’s, or Manischewitz, e.g., but only Mrs. Adler’s Old Jerusalem. So, Mrs. Adler made it into my shopping cart. Shortly thereafter, I was accosted by a short, gravel-voiced woman straight out of NYC central casting, who screeched, “Where’d ya find the gefilte fish?” I informed her, and then she asked, “What kind?” I showed her, and she replied, “Oh, Mrs. Adler—I like the other kind.” She didn’t say which this was.

This incident reminded me of the wonderful moment in Woody Allen’s Bananas, where Woody brings the bakery box, correctly tied up with string, as a house gift to the Latin American dictator, played by the immortal Carlos “El Exigente” Montalban. The dictator looks inside and says, not batting an eyelash, “Oh, this is prunes; I like cherries.”

I then made the near-fatal mistake of mentioning my reason for buying gefilte fish, and our New York heroine assured me that once I tasted it I would “get to like it.” She then said that my teeth looked beautiful as they were.

"...covering Earth in forgetful snow..." (Eliot, "The Waste Land")

2011-01-27T06:49:00.000-08:00

You have to act quickly to enjoy snow-covered New York City, as the white stuff becomes grey and then black pretty quickly. Thank goodness for instant digital photography! The lovely grisaille-appearing view was taken by a friend from her kitchen window this morning, and the other two are my own.

For some reason, there was an "Absolutely No Photography" sign in the little neighborhood park near me, but I committed a mini-criminal act by sticking my camera through the bars on the gate and shooting anyway. I don't think anyone saw me.

Lapsi Memoriae

2011-01-10T10:41:00.000-08:00

Fortunately, most of my memory lapses concern trivia, usually movie titles. I’m ever grateful for the existence of imdb.com. (It also comes in handy when you absolutely can’t read the credits when the film is on TV.) Apparently sheer necessity enables me to remember credit card and bank account numbers, but not the name of the stage director husband of the actress I saw yesterday. And he directs a lot of opera, which means that I, especially, should remember his name! AARGH! This also goes for well-known musical selections. Sometimes the answers do finally float to the surface. I call this mental data retrieval.

I often have trouble remembering at least one of a list, e.g., the seventh dwarf or the ninth muse. For me, as a crossword addict, these are essential pieces of information. And, although I have hardly ever patronized any of them, I always forget one of the following three (not that it matters):

Callard and Bowser (former cookie company, now maker of Altoids)

Caswell-Massey (perfumes, soaps, toiletries)

Crabtree and Evelyn (same as above)

I mean, who cares anyway? I’d better make room in my overtaxed head for some really essential information. I guess all information is essential to me, though, relevant or not.

The Iconic and Legendary Santa Claus

2010-12-12T04:28:00.000-08:00

Three words that I would like to see retired—at least temporarily—from the American English vocabulary are iconic; legendary; and my longtime bugbear, arguably. At least retire them from journalism and broadcasting. They now simply jump out to irritate me.

But, arguably, the most legendary and iconic wintertime figure is appearing in multiples all around us for the rest of this month. A parade of Santas, all of them young and slender, was trooping up Eighth Avenue when I was on my way to attend the HD viewing of the Met's magnificent Don Carlo, and another one was on the northbound E train when I was on my way home.

Santa Claus - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Anyway, I'm trying to make this the last time I use those three words—for a while, anyway.

Conveying Cute Canine

2010-11-17T09:45:00.001-08:00

After an unpleasant transit experience—O.K., my wallet was recently stolen on the uptown #6 train—it was pleasant to encounter this little fellow on the downtown 104 Broadway bus. He was inquisitive, and very quiet until I started to get off at my stop. Then he let loose with the kind of yapping that only the smallest dogs seem capable of. I guess he resented the fact that someone, though not his master, was deserting him. For the record, this was "Change," a five-year-old Pomeranian.

P.S.: So far no identity theft re the wallet. And all credit and bank cards have now been replaced. I was the victim of a classic "light-fingered-Louie" on a very crowded train. Lesson learned.

Meleagris Gallopavo, to You!

2010-11-03T07:33:00.000-07:00

With the approach of Thanksgiving, one can’t help having turkey come to mind. Though the golden-bronze roasted bird surrounded by all of its traditional accompaniments certainly looks appetizing on the festive platter, in actual fact—dare I commit such sacrilege to print?—the bird is pretty tasteless in and of itself. This also puts me in mind of the celebrated Wild Turkey painting by John James (né Jean-Jacques) Audubon, an American pioneer whom I revere, not only for his naturalist artwork but also for his picaresque life. As a kid, I received a large-format edition of his Birds of America, which I am proud to say I still possess, having given it a place of honor on my bookshelves. The excellent PBS series American Masters recently repeated their program about this fascinating figure.

Just as actual turkey meat isn’t really that tasty, the actual wild turkey (meleagris gallopavo, FYI) isn’t nearly as handsome as Audubon’s rendering has led one to imagine. I’ve had a number of up-close-and-personal encounters with these fellows, as they were always visiting near the picture windows of my mother’s last place of residence. They’re pretty bold and, regrettably, surprisingly ugly. They certainly don’t appear to be an endangered species, though they should be protected anyway, if only because of their sheer American-ness, second only, perhaps, to the beloved bald eagle.

South Bank Scenes

2010-10-29T10:11:00.000-07:00

The South Bank house in London where Christopher Wren lived during the construction of St. Paul’s Cathedral has certainly been spruced up since I visited there briefly quite a few years back. Someone who rented a room on the top floor had to go down a couple of flights to use the single—at that time, anyway—bathroom. Perhaps, along with the sprucing, they have added at least one other. It’s right next door to the impressive Tate Modern museum, which was, at the time I paid my long-ago visit, the Bankside Power Station. And the picturesque Globe Theatre, which I have toured though have yet to see a performance in, on the other side of the Wren house, wasn’t there, either. You can arrive at these worthwhile sites by crossing the attractive, pedestrians-only Millennium Bridge. And while you’re on that side of the Thames, take a ride on the London Eye. It does not disappoint!

P.S.: Aha! Look what Googling can reveal! Apparently Christopher Wren never slept there, according to the BBC. (I guess George Washington never slept there, either.)

BBC NEWS | UK | Magazine | Christopher Wren never slept here

Some of Us Still Know "Who He"

2010-09-30T10:37:00.000-07:00

Attended a dance film event last evening in a beautiful building across the street from the fabled Algonquin Hotel, of Round Table fame. It’s nice that there’s a commemorative plaque on the hotel façade memorializing Parker, Benchley, Woollcott, et al. And the building where my optometrist is located, one block north, has its own plaque, letting passers-by know that it is the former home of The New Yorker’s original offices. Thus it was just a short walk (or stagger) from the magazine to the writers’ favorite hangout. It makes one muse on 1) whether or not anyone reads these plaques anymore and 2) how many are left who either remember or at least know about Harold Ross and/or the Algonquin Round Table. I still like to write the Rossian “Who he?” in margins when I get the chance. Most people won’t “get it” anymore, but I do it for my own satisfaction.

Fairway, Redux

2010-08-23T10:21:00.001-07:00

To quote the old cliché, more or less, no, we're not in Kansas. But the Sunflower State has nothing on this display in front of the famous and infamous Fairway supermarket on Broadway, an emporium with which New Yorkers have had a love/hate affair for many years. I've already written about the pluses and minuses of this venerable institution. To refresh the memory:

Mobile Manhattanite: Fairway! Oy veh!

But I couldn't resist taking this camera phone shot this morning because the flowers were particularly fresh-looking and massed so invitingly. There are as many stories of Fairway as there are of the entire Naked City. A while back, when, as a tall person, I was reaching for some oranges at the top of a pile, a friendly woman warned amusingly, "Don't cause an avalanche!" We then got into conversation about our Fairway experiences. I mentioned that I was frequently asked to get things down from high places for little old ladies, who always seem to think that they're the only ones who've ever asked me that. My shopping companion told me that once she had offered to do the same for a woman, who snarled at her, "What makes you think I need help?" Takes all kinds. As previously noted, Fairway doesn't always bring out the best in people. But it can be O.K. if you get in early enough, before the Thundering Herds are up and about.

When in Doubt, Wear BLACK!

2010-08-22T05:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday saw the off-Broadway show Love, Loss, and What I Wore, written by the ever-observant and satirical sisters, Nora and Delia Ephron and based on a book by Ilene Beckerman. One of their segments dealt with the continuing popularity—and fashion safety net—of wearing Good Old Black, at least in New York City. All five of the excellent actresses were wearing different versions of the fabled Little Black Dress.

This put me in mind of a tour I took to Sicily a few years back. In Palermo, in April, it was unusually cool for that part of the world at that time of year, and a couple of my fellow tourists felt that they needed something warmer to wear. The palermitane, or women of Palermo, were tastefully attired in British-style tweed or leather jackets and well-fitting trousers. One of our group eventually purchased an attractive, low-key black quilted jacket in one of the well-stocked clothing stores. But she said that she might not feel quite comfortable wearing black in her Kansas hometown, where the women didn't wear much black. Ah, cultural differences!

On the Street | The All-Black Uniform - Video Library - The New York Times

"Se non è vero...."*

2010-08-17T10:14:00.000-07:00

Last week, when crossing an ever-bustling Second Avenue with my niece, grandniece, and grandnephew, I asked the seven-year-old boy to hold my hand for safety reasons. Not only did he willingly take my hand, but, looking angelic as usual, he kissed it! I absolutely died, metaphorically speaking.

Then, I said that he was a gallant young gentleman and called him my little "Sir Walter Raleigh," referring to the legend about spreading a cloak over a puddle so that the Queen could keep her feet dry. Ever literal-minded, my grandnephew was quick to point out that there were no puddles. I agreed, adding that not only that, but he didn't have a cloak with him and that it wasn't even raining. Furthermore, I mentioned, the story may not even be true, but it's a good tale to tell.

*Well-known Italian proverb: "Se non è vero, è ben trovato." Freely translated: "Even if it isn't true, it's a good story."

The Kite Unraveler

2010-07-19T15:29:00.000-07:00

My faith in American youth is restored, at least temporarily! Maybe it helps to get out of New York City—although not that far out—and into small-town America. Driving near Hudson, New York with my sister and brother-in-law, we unavoidably ran over an abandoned kite in the middle of the road. Almost immediately thereafter we heard a very loud, gravelly scraping sound around

the rear wheels. Most fortunately, we were near a gas station/convenience store plaza and pulled into it. My brother-in-law got under the car to inspect the damage and discovered that the thin wire used in the kite's frame construction was tightly wound around the rear axle. Although at first he seemed able to unwind the wire himself, it proved stubborn. A couple of good samaritans emerged to kibbitz and gave various pieces of advice. The convenience store operator lent us a knife with which to cut the wire, but to no avail.

Then our savior materialized in the form of a fresh-faced youth, a total stranger, who, he said, was just returning from a wedding and was somewhat happily inebriated. He took off his jacket, slipped under the car, and, after several minutes of manly effort, managed to remove the wire. He emerged, smiling and none the worse for wear. We never learned his name, but he did tell us that he was a college student about to enter officer training school and the army. He seemed to take pleasure in just helping people. Must be almost the last of the breed. Or maybe not. My British brother-in-law, who slipped the youth some money, will get a good impression of us Yanks, at least for a while.

Bloomsday! James Joyce in Pula, Croatia and on the Upper West Side

2010-06-18T13:49:00.001-07:00

Last Wednesday, June 16, was Bloomsday, celebrated in NYC each year by loyal readers of Joyce's Ulysses. Had forgotten about it until bedtime, when I tuned in to my favorite radio station, WNYC-FM, which was broadcasting a special program from Symphony Space in Upper Manhattan. Instead of their traditional reading of the novel straight through—which takes all day—they were interspersing scenes from The Odyssey with long passages from the novel. The program was to conclude with Fionnuala Flanagan reading Molly Bloom's closing soliloquy. I settled myself comfortably with my bedside radio and awaited Ms. Flanagan's performance. My mistake was getting too comfortable. When I awoke about an hour and a half later, Molly was still soliloquizing. I anticipated the final sentences, but dozed off again. Yes...yes...yes....

It's gratifying that the residents of Pula, Croatia (not that far from Trieste, where Joyce spent some time teaching English and where there's a small museum devoted to him as well as a statue overlooking the harbor) had enough respect for the great Irish writer to erect this statue of him enjoying a drink at a local café. It was a pleasant surprise to encounter him there. Yes.

Maybe Not "Only in New York"

2010-06-16T07:01:00.001-07:00

Sorry that I couldn't find the exact baseball cap online, so this one will have to do. While waiting for a bus the other day, I was joined at the corner by a fairly nondescript woman wearing a a black baseball cap with BOTOX on it in rhinestones. Make of this what you will. Her face didn't appear to have the frozen look of some of those who submit themselves to Botox injections, but then I didn't want to stare. I understand that these treatments are not painless, so I doubt that I shall ever avail myself of same, horrified as I am by the physical signs of aging. Will just stay in Deep Denial without actually undergoing any so-called treatments.

"Beloved Ballet Mural" To Survive With Honor

2010-06-12T21:02:00.000-07:00

A Long Time Ago, I wrote an article for Dance Magazine (under its previous ownership) about the ballet dancers' mural in O'Neals' restaurant near Lincoln Center. Here's a link to the piece:

History of Oneals' Lincoln Center Restaurant - New York City Restaurant

Recently, Mike O'Neal, one of the proud and hospitable owners, has announced the closing of this restaurant, long an arts and showbiz favorite. Some of us wondered what would become of The Mural, but genial host Mike has allayed our fears with this, his latest e-mail, detailing the end of O'Neals' as we know it. A seafood restaurant is scheduled to open on the site come fall.

NEW YORK CITY BALLET TO GET DANCE MURAL

Dear Friends and Patrons,
I'm pleased to announce that Peter Martins has agreed to accept the "beloved Ballet Mural" on permanent loan to the New York City Ballet for the "O'Neal Family", the O'Neal family includes my late brother Patrick and his wife Cynthia, my wife Christine and all our children and me. the mural be on one wall in the Main Rehearsal Hall in the Koch Theater, I believe that all will be pleased.

The remainder of the artwork is being put up on a web site as we speak. You should go to the O'Neals' web page-www.onealsny.com-and link to "O'Neals' Art". Not all the pieces have prices yet. We've been meeting artists, dealers, appraisers and friends to try and establish fair rices on the art. This process may go on all summer, In the meantime you are welcome to make offers and we might be tempted. All the art is numbered so we can keep track of it. Be patient and keep checking the web site.

The Boat Basin Cafe is booming because the weather has been good. this Monday night we will have Flamenco Night again and the Citron Brothers will be back, The beginning of an exciting season.

the World Cup is in full swing at the Boat Basin Cafe and we are opening at 10AM each day for the events. Check the schedule and our web site www.boatbasincafe.com for all upcoming events.

Sadly we are coming close to the end at O'NEALS'. Our last weekend will be Saturday June 26 when we will have a "normal" Saturday Night and on the 27th, we will serve lunch and pre-theater and the close for a Private Event for the Lincoln Center Theater. On our Last Day June 28 we will open at 4PM and serve wine, champagne and some hors d'oeuvres, All are invited! Customers, employees and even ex-employees.

Don't forget the continue to help the economy and DINE OUT OFTEN.

Midtown Moods

2010-06-12T05:47:00.000-07:00

As an addict of the New York Times technology pages—though I'm far from an expert in that area—I keep reading that you can't get very good photos with most of the somewhat older cellphone cameras. Nevertheless, these were taken with my Samsung Instinct and aren't bad. Quite a few of my other blog photos were too, as I'm not always carrying my Canon Power Shot around with me. I would have liked the iPhone instead of the Instinct, which isn't terrible, but I was locked into a Sprint contract and didn't want to switch to AT&T, which doesn't always have great service, I hear.

Still can't decide if I like the chronological juxtaposition of Sir Norman Foster's addition to Joseph Urban's 1928 Hearst Building. I always enjoy looking at it, though, and I guess that answers that. So that's dramatic NYC; cosy-neighborhood NYC is represented by this particularly attractive produce stand (they're all over town) in the Lincoln Center area where I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time. I bought asparagus and should also have bought their great-looking blackberries. Was trying to get the color contrast with the woman in the chartreuse mesh sweater who's just ducking out of the frame as I snap.

"At the Ballet"

2010-06-05T07:32:00.000-07:00

Just saw again, on cable, the excellent documentary Every Little Step, which chronicles the exhaustive audition process for the most recent revival of the unique landmark musical A Chorus Line. The song "Everything is Beautiful at the Ballet" explains how many kids get hooked on the wonderful, if limited, world of ballet at an early age and never get over it. (I'm still taking class—not the jumps and other hard stuff—at the advanced age of XXX. But it is a professional-level class.) I've already blogged extensively about my obsession with The Red Shoes, which was shown recently, with its newly restored, fabulous Technicolor, on TCM.

Thus, it did my heart good today to see Ulanova as an answer in the Saturday New York Times crossword. They don't usually get beyond Pavlova's first name (Anna). And plié is about as far as they ever get in terminology. Of course, I get annoyed by all of the pop-culture and sports references, but I manage to figure them out anyway. (O.K., I had to Google a character on Lost today; at least I had heard of the program.) My revenge is that pop-culture mavens have to figure out Ulanova.

I took this photo a few years ago on a visit—my second—to Russia. Ulanova was Stalin's favorite ballerina. At least he had good taste in dancers, even if he ruined the careers of many other artists, writers, and composers.

I'll Be With You in Azalea Time

2010-05-05T06:42:00.000-07:00

The Free Online Dictionary, bless it, defines azalea as "any of the shrubs of the genus Rhododenron having showy, variously colored flowers." And we learn what we should always have known: the name comes from the feminine form of the Greek azeleos, meaning "dry," either because it grows in dry soil or because its woody stems are dry in texture. Well!

I guess not too many non-horticulturists care about this. What people really enjoy is the short-lived, delectable display of these flowers for a brief time in spring. At least we have something to enjoy now that the daffodils are finished. A number of places in the U.S. and abroad have azalea festivals, and a tribute to this plant is well deserved for all the pleasure provided. They're particularly big in Japan, where some of the main streets in downtown Tokyo, e.g., are lined with lush purple azaleas in full bloom. I'd better feast my eyes while I can.

Armida

2010-04-20T11:07:00.000-07:00

Like most literate English-speaking people, and probably most Italians too, I've never read Torquato Tasso's unwieldy epic Gerusalemme liberata ("Jerusalem Delivered"). I've seen plenty of artworks referring to it and am familiar with Monteverdi's Il combattimento di Tancredi e Clorinda, the best known of the many operas and musical works stemming from Tasso. The Tancredi and Clorinda story was the subject of a ballet, The Duel, by William Dollar. The late, great Melissa Hayden had a personal success in it in the earlier days of New York City Ballet. It was also known by its French title, Le Combat, when presented by Roland Petit's company. Here's a relatively recent excerpt performed by New York Theatre Ballet:

Le Combat – Steven Melendez

Michel Fokine was inspired to create Le Pavillon d'Armide by Alexandre Benois, who was interested in a painting depicting Rinaldo and Armida. Armida herself really got around in the world of the arts.

Which brings us to Rossini's Armida, presented for the very first time in its history by our own Metropolitan Opera.The work premiered in Naples in 1817. According the program notes by the redoubtable Rossini maven Philip Gossett, the twenty-five-year-old Rossini was provided with all possible advantages: first-rate orchestra and chorus, ample rehearsal time, and the finest soloists of the day. Among these was the young composer's inamorata and, later, wife, Isabella Colbran. For Colbran, he composed the demanding title role. Hearing the beautiful and expert Renée Fleming tackle this and almost, but not quite, nail it, made me think of the conditions under which singers of the early 19th century worked. Mainly, the theaters were considerably smaller. I haven't been in Naples's San Carlo, but La Scala and London's Royal Opera House, while good-sized, are not enormous caverns like our Met. Thus the fiorature, requiring filigree delicacy and yet a certain power, could probably be delivered more easily in those theaters. Furthermore, verismo had not developed, and Wagner and Strauss were yet to come. The singers were used to employing their vocal techniques in a manner different from what would be required later.

Thus, everyone, including the six tenors in this interesting cast, was a modern singer who had indeed studied earlier techniques and in some cases, such as that of the endearing and sweet-toned Lawrence Brownlee, specialized in the Rossini rep. Nevertheless, changes in musical styles as well as the gigantic size of the Met, worked against the pinpoint accuracy required (we imagine, since we've heard very little of it) of Rossini singing. We heard an approximation of what Rossini may have had in mind.

Something unforeseen in a thoroughly Italian opera was the elaborate ballet that occupies most of the second of the opera's three acts. French theaters expected this, but I didn't think it was the case for Italy. So this was an anomaly. I did not think that the ballet, as is usually the case with opera ballets, was a success. In fact, I found it downright ugly. I'm still trying to decide what style of choreography and presentation would have worked in its place.

Richard (The Lion King) Hudson's sets and costumes were imaginative and mostly beautiful. I am a fool for imaginative bugs and birds, and Armida's enchanted garden, conjured up through her sorcery, had a delightful dragonfly, red beetle, and macaw among other captivating creatures.

The opera ends with Armida, defeated by the Crusaders, raging at her loss. I thought it might be something like Medea, also a sorceress, riding away in her chariot drawn by dragons. Not quite; Armida didn't seem furious enough. A bit of online sleuthing reveals that, following the action depicted in the opera, Armida abjures her rough magic, becomes a Christian, and marries her beloved Rinaldo.

LEX AETERNA

2010-04-16T04:58:00.000-07:00

Boredom isn't the only hazard of jury duty. On a sunny April day, lunching on a bench under some pink-flowering cherry trees near the iconic 60 Centre Street courthouse, known to all for its starring role on my favorite TV show, Law and Order, I am accosted by a neatly dressed, overweight woman who wants to confide her sad story to me. I've already heard enough sad stories while waiting to be questioned in a voir dire for a medical malpractice suit upstairs in Room 345.

To hear her tell it, she suffered a brain tumor at an early age. This prevented her from fulfilling an engagement on the old Ed Sullivan TV show, arranged for her (she says) by Broadway's fabled Jule Styne. And she used to be thin, of course. Had it not been for a twist of fate, she would have rivaled Barbra Streisand. Und so weiter....

I pleaded the necessity of returning to the courtroom, although I actually had 20 minutes left before we were required to be back. I have a friend who's a psychologist. I wish she had been with me to give the poor soul the proper answers. I guess the woman found someone else with whom she could continue her lament, as there were other people sitting around there, some of whom looked as unthreatening as I apparently do.

Regarding the case, about which I am not supposed to talk but I'm not actually on it yet, the prosecuting attorney is the same articulate Irish-American who was the prosecuting attorney on the first case where I served as a juror. This has got to be at least twenty years back. It was your basic old-lady-hit-by-car situation. We didn't get to deliberate, as it was settled out of court. I remember his repeatedly addressing the plaintiff by name: "Mrs. Lugavoy." Somehow that name, being somewhat unusual, has stuck for all these years. Wonder if he himself remembers her?

Postscript: Was let go this afternoon after being questioned. I think it was because (1) one of my late uncles was a physician; (2) I have served on three juries, though none had deliberated to verdict; and (3) I'm Internet savvy, having mentioned that I edited a Web site when I worked for Dance Magazine. Those guys are not stupid; they may have surmised (correctly) that I had probably done some research on the case. Well, now I won't have to devote the next three weeks to the stuffy courtroom, Room 345, at 60 Centre! Free at last! Whee!

Water Music

2010-04-11T04:17:00.001-07:00

A chronic complainer I know—and I know quite a few—thinks that the new Lincoln Center fountain is badly designed and that water will shower over people on windy days. I replied that they can shut it off on windy days; just watch the weather forecasts. At the present time it's presenting different jeux d'eau, shooting streams upwards, outwards, and intertwining. I assume that its repertoire will increase as the renovation of the plaza is finally completed. It's certainly taking long enough!

Although I wasn't hearing the Water Music that evening, I was hearing Handel. His gorgeous opera Partenope (one of the Sirens or possibly an ancient princess, for whom Naples was originally named) was on at the David H. Koch (formerly the New York State) Theater, just out of the photo to the far left. The countertenors outnumber the tenor in this one, and all of the music is magnificent. A further treat was sitting in the third row and getting a good look at my favorite baroque instrument, the theorbo. I just like the name, as well as the beautiful shape. Pronounce it with the accent on the second syllable, please.

Vive la Différence!

2010-04-02T10:21:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's almost the same shot as the one from February 13, only with a different kind of "snow" on the tree branches. These blossoms have to be captured quickly, as they last only a few days before the leaves come out. It was a lovely April 1 appearance, quite a sudden one, and no fooling!

How (Mostly) Pleasant to Re-encounter Mr. Eliot!

2010-03-28T16:22:00.000-07:00

"I have heard the cellphones ringing, each to each—

I do not think that they will ring for me."

Today this announcement drew the expected giggles from a literate off-Broadway audience gathered for a performance of T.S. Eliot's seldom-performed The Cocktail Party (1949), effectively presented by New York's TACT/The Actors Company Theatre.

To some extent, Eliot has fallen out of fashion in the 21st century, but he was lauded and even revered in his heyday in the 20th. Even relatively recent revelations regarding his intense anti-Semitism have failed to diminish the importance of works such as "The Waste Land," "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," or Murder in the Cathedral, among several others. Many of his phrases and observations, such as the one parodied above, have become standard expressions. He even invaded popular culture with the musical Cats, based on his poems gathered as Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats, though he himself may (or may not, if he knew how much money it's made), have turned over in his grave.

Although I subscribe to the Richard Dawkins/Christopher Hitchens school regarding religion in general, I still find it fascinating that Eliot could transform what begins as a sophisticated British drawing-room comedy into an analysis of sin and redemption, what we can expect from the world, and how we should live our lives. What does seem quaint in 2010 is the sin that is redeemed only by the character's self-sacrifice, martyrdom, and death is merely that of having an affair with another woman's husband. The character becomes a nursing sister in a remote tropical country, where she is killed and perhaps cannibalized during civil uprisings which are, of course, Christian versus pagan (what else, since it's good old T.S.?). In spite of the religious flummery (IMHO), the play is sophisticated, diverting, and linguistically elegant. And we certainly need to be reminded of these artistic virtues at any time these days.

An Improvement

2010-02-13T07:10:00.000-08:00

This shot, also on my street, was taken on February 10, 2010, and somewhat mitigates the "ick factor" represented in the previous blog entry. Yes, even a midtown Manhattan street can look romantic, even poetic, for a least a few hours. And we can still go to Central Park, where there's enough snow to last a few days, to get another feel of how the city can look in winter, if we're lucky.

P.S.: Whee! The exterminator ad across the street has been taken down! Either: 1) Other neighborhood residents complained. Or: 2) There are no more bedbugs in Midtown East.

P.P.S.: March 26—It's back. Make of that what you will. I saw them in the act of rehanging it yesterday. I'll just have to avert my eyes. Clint, where are you when we need you?

And It's a Nice Neighborhood!

2010-02-04T10:11:00.000-08:00

The delightful crossword puzzle blogger Dr. Michael Sharp of Binghamton University, who posts under the nom de crossword as "Rex Parker," may be the one to have coined the phrase "to pass the breakfast test." "Rex" is referring to crossword fills that may have scatological, sexual, or other less than savory connotations that may be particularly unappetizing to those of us who like to do our crossword puzzles early in the day. Incidentally, it was "Rex," whose most amusing blog I discovered quite by accident, who inspired me to start blogging myself. I consider googling to find answers to be cheating at crosswords, but I was desperate one day and happened upon "Rex Parker."

Anyway, the sign pictured here, directly across from my midtown Manhattan apartment, certainly doesn't pass the aforementioned test. It gives me the creepy-crawlies every time I look out of my window. Oh, for the old Clint Eastwood movie poster that was there previously! There have been various news stories about the proliferation of bedbugs in NYC lately, even in so-called "good" buildings. And, as a traveler, I'm somewhat worried about bringing them in from various foreign destinations, although this doesn't appear to have been the case so far. Nevertheless, do I need to be reminded this way? Do other people around here have the problem? I wish that there could be "breakfast test" rules about the services that can be boldly advertised in some areas. Can massage parlors be far behind? It's bad enough that there's an OTB a block away. Yuck! I know: de gustibus, but still....

Beep, beep!

2010-01-28T13:52:00.000-08:00

Many enthusiastic theater, concert, opera, and film goers have their cellphone, hearing aid, plastic bag, candy wrapper, or other disturbance stories. It's hard to understand how people who have enough intelligence and interest to attend Verdi's rarely performed Stiffelio, which I enjoyed the other evening at the Met, couldn't have enough of that same intelligence to remember to turn off their phones. As they say, go figure. At least only one phone went off during that particular performance. Whistling hearing-aid batteries are another offender. A continual whistle during a lieder recital by the outstanding Belgian bass-baritone José Van Dam ruined an evening of serious music-making for me. In spite of that experience, I do remain thankful for my excellent hearing; my companion at Carnegie Hall didn't hear any superfluous noise.

Stories of interrupted recent performances abound. I wasn't present for Brian Dennehy's much-praised Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman, when he is reported to have stopped the show until the offending phone owners, who didn't seem to know how to turn their device off, left the theater. It happened again early in this season when both Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig broke character, each at a different performance of A Steady Rain—a huge, sellout hit, by the way—to shush offending ringers.

One of my favorite theaters is the highly inventive Irish Repertory Theatre, quietly squirreled away on an obscure block in Chelsea. They do amazingly creative work in a tiny space—even utterly charming versions of musicals. During a performance of Gaslight, a woman in the front row, which is inches from the stage, kept rummaging in a plastic bag. Highest praise to the leading actor, already giving a fine, villainous performance, who reached down, took the bag away from her, and placed it under a chair onstage. At the end of the performance, during the bows, he handed the bag back to her. I wish I could have seen her face!

Yesterday, the gremlins were at it again at Irish Rep. During Act I of a performance of the completely delightful musical Ernest in Love, an affectionate tribute to Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest, a periodic "beep" resounded throughout the little auditorium. No one seemed able to spot the culprit and give him/her the deserved punch in the nose. Whoever it was apparently finally got the idea, as the beep was not heard during Act II. If the actors heard it, they gave no sign and continued with their excellent performance.

Once at the movies, when two gabby matrons behind me were doing what may have been either a running commentary or simultaneous monologues, I turned around and hissed at them,"Why don't you go home and watch television?" What's with these people? I'm amazed that they can even cross the street without getting run over. And let's not forget those little rustling candy wrappers while we're at it. Aaaagghhh! Oh, and the wheezing breathing device a couple of seasons back at Lucia di Lammermoor? Well, you get the idea....

Fortnum and Mason

2010-01-04T05:22:00.000-08:00

The venerable purveyor of luxury groceries and gift items, Fortnum and Mason, is a Christmas tradition in London and, via the Internet, worldwide. Their delicately decorated windows, often featuring ballet scenes, are unmissable.

The Store - Fortnum & Mason - Fortnum & Mason

Always crowded at Christmas, especially on Boxing Day when the sales begin, Fortnum's, though thronged during the holidays, seemed somewhat less so this year, doubtless a symptom of the ongoing economic recession. Many foreign languages can be heard among the well-dressed patrons as they single-mindedly zero in on their favorite now-marked-down biscuits and sweets.

I also wasn't that impressed with this year's decorations which, in past years, have been spectacular. Perhaps another symptom of toning it all down. Nevertheless, dropping in at Fortnum's at Christmas is a tradition that should not be tampered with. Family members bought, among other things, mini mince pies. It's not a British Christmas without them.

There's Hope for Kids!

2009-12-14T14:20:00.000-08:00

Although not a fan of the 1960 show Bye Bye Birdie, currently in revival on Broadway (for some unknown reason), I've always enjoyed the song "Kids" from the score, music by Charles Strouse and lyrics by Lee Adams:

I don't know what's wrong with these kids today!

Kids!

Who can understand anything they say?

Kids!

They are disobedient, disrespectful oafs!

Noisy, crazy, dirty, lazy, loafers!

While we're on the subject:

Kids!

You can talk and talk till your face is blue!

Kids!

But they still just do what they want to do!

Why can't they be like we were,

Perfect in every way?

What's the matter with kids today?

Kids!

I've tried to raise him the best I could

Kids! Kids!

Laughing, singing, dancing, grinning, morons!

And while we're on the subject!

Kids! They are just impossible to control!

Kids! With their awful clothes and their rock an' roll!

Why can't they dance like we did

What's wrong with Sammy Kaye?

What's the matter with kids today!

But, although I used to sympathize with the song, I have a different opinion of at least some kids after attending the utterly delightful dress rehearsal of Humperdinck's Hansel and Gretel, sung in English, at the Metropolitan Opera last Friday. While the school groups who often attend Met dress rehearsals were certainly lively and voluble when entering the opera house, they were perfectly behaved, not only during the performance but also when eating their lunches sitting on the carpet of the Grand Tier and elsewhere. They must have had the Riot Act read to them ahead of time. Anyway, it worked.

Paying more attention to this delightful—and far from trivial—opera than I had in the past, I see and hear that this gorgeous, semi-Wagnerian work has quite a macabre side that is not stinted in this production. Some of the unfortunate children who had been baked into gingerbread by the Witch do not revive; their limbs can be snapped off. At least others are rescued in time to sing the joyous chorus of redemption at the end. Having the eminent and delightful British tenor Philip Langridge as the Witch in full panto-dame drag was totally appropriate and right. This Witch was somewhat more endearing than scary, even though her motives were as malevolent as ever. Two gorgeous voices from two beautiful women—Angelika Kirchschlager as Hansel and Miah Persson as Gretel—were, literally and figuratively, the frosting on the cookies and cakes. Am going to listen to the Met's webcast of it this evening.

Oliver!

2009-11-30T12:18:00.000-08:00

No, I mean neither Master Twist nor his incarnation in the popular Lionel Bart musical currently in revival yet again in London. Nor the Olivers Hardy nor Stone. But rather, that crisp, indescribably subtle English biscuit, the Bath Oliver, named for its 18th-century creator, Dr. William Oliver, in Bath.

Bath Oliver - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

I've been a fan of these biscuits—never call them crackers!—since first discovering them in adolescence—can't remember whether here or in their native Britain—and used to be able to find them on the shelves of the better NYC supermarkets. But no more. They have disappeared into the great maw of the specialty online grocery markets and are available only at very high prices. I'm about to make another visit to London and plan to scope out Sainsbury's, Tesco, and Marks and Spencer in hopes of squirreling away a few packets to take home. This all started because a friend, currently in Florida, who is also obsessed with these delightful tidbits, asked me to look for them. And the mouth-watering memory of their flakey crispness on my tongue was re-evoked.

B.O.s are good with or without cheese. I don't favor (favour?) jam on them, because its sweetness cancels out some of their delicate flavor (flavour?). At any rate, in addition to attending theater, ballet, and art exhibitions during my upcoming visit, I shall certainly make a market foray looking for the one and only Bath Oliver biscuits. Yum!

Life at Lincoln Center

2009-11-11T10:47:00.000-08:00

One wonders what the original production of Mozart’s Don Giovanni must have looked like onstage at the relatively tiny Estates Theater in Prague, where it received its premiere in 1787. One interesting fact that I’ve learned is that the protagonist was sung by a baritone only 24 years old.

One has learned to associate the role with someone perhaps in his early 40s, still hugely attractive, of course, who has actually had time for the 2,065 conquests enumerated by Leporello. I’ve heard many Dons, the most ideal interpreter being Cesare Siepi (pictured)—never heard Pinza live in the role, though I did hear him late in his career in Fanny on Broadway.

Last season the tall and charismatic Swede Peter Mattei made a suave, beautifully sung Don, more cruel than many, in Marthe Keller’s production at the Met. Last night, at the newly reconstituted New York City Opera, we had Christopher Alden’s take on the masterpiece, which looks as if it was influenced to some extent by G.W. Pabst’s Expressionist films of the 20s. For example, Elvira’s maid, who is given more of a walk-on than usual and who has been taken into the Don’s employ by the Supper Scene, is bewigged and made up to look like a plumper Louise Brooks. Our Don, clean-cut and well sung, looked a bit too scrubbed and wholesome as interpreted by the talented young Canadian bass-baritone Daniel Okulitch.

Musically, New York City Opera gave a generally satisfying performance. Among interesting details, the singers were permitted more ornamentation than I’ve heard at the Met, and the onstage orchestras for the ball and Supper Scene were still in the pit, with the Don occasionally gesturing toward the musicians. I did not object to the modernization, which didn’t come close to either various Eurotrash renderings or the Peter Sellars version set in gangland Harlem, except that people who don’t know the opera well may be confused. For us Don G. veterans (dare I say experts?), it’s an interesting take on one of the supreme achievements of any art in any era. And they do ignore many specifics of the libretto, including “spada al fianco” (“sword at his side”) and the fact that the “statua gentilissima” (“most gracious statue”) isn’t a statue at all, but a corpse who sits bolt upright in his coffin and sings.

My Obsession

2009-11-06T04:04:00.001-08:00

Well, here it comes again. Like many dancers, professional and amateur, I have been obsessed with The Red Shoes (1948) since the age of 13. I own both the VHS and DVD of it, and can quote large chunks of the dialogue. In other words, I'm a Red Shoes junkie. Also, unlike a lot of fans, I'm thoroughly familiar with the original Hans Christian Andersen tale, far more grisly than this admittedly tragic story. In Andersen, the heroine has to have her feet chopped off and replaced with wooden prosthetics in order to rid herself of the curse of eternal dancing.

About eleven years ago, I was able to vent my passion quite a bit by writing an article for Dance Magazine about the film on the 50th anniversary of its release. Sorry that the lovely stills from the film aren't included here:

50 Years After, THE RED SHOES Dance On and On . . . - Free Online Library

But apparently the film will never be out of my system. No less a film maven than the great Martin Scorsese is of a similar mind. Starting today, the Film Forum will be showing yet another restoration, concentrating on the magnificent use of Technicolor:

Powell & Pressburger’s THE RED SHOES at Film Forum in New York City

Since I haven't seen the movie on the Big Screen in many years, I'm looking forward to seeing it today and silently mouthing the lines along with Moira Shearer and Anton Walbrook.

Notable Venetians

2009-10-31T03:41:00.000-07:00

You can never see Venice too often. This was either my third or fourth visit, and the place continues to exert its fascination, despite construction around the Campanile marring some of the beauty of Piazza San Marco. (And not all of the milling tourists are gorgeous to look at.) I did learn that practically no one in Europe seems to be wearing jean jackets anymore—jeans, yes—and I may have to put my beloved Gap number, which has seen me through many travels, out to pasture. On my last day there, I had three projects: to take the tour of Teatro La Fenice, the fabled opera house; to take a boat ride through the canals, and to have a drink at the Caffè Florian. I managed only the third of these, as the Teatro was closed, probably due to the running of the Venice Marathon, though it didn't pass by the opera house; and some of the boat landings were closed, also owing to the marathon.

Florian, though picturesque, isn't that great, but I had to go there. They even have their own Web site:

Caffe Florian: a historical coffee bar in Venice - CAFFE' FLORIAN VENICE

And it's as good a spot as any to watch the passing parade.

Among legions of notable Venetians—especially, of course, great artists—are Marco Polo (though some claim that he was born in Croatia); Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia (1646–1678), the first woman college graduate ("la prima donna laureata nel mondo"); and, of course, Antonio Vivaldi, the Red Priest ("il prete rosso"). He was, like many from this area, a redhead, not a communist.

And Venice is wall-to-wall Vivaldi. The little bands and orchestras in Piazza San Marco seem to be stuck on The Four Seasons, which they mix with rock and show tunes and the Toreador Song, among other selections. Some fellow travelers and I also attended a concert by the Interpreti Veneziani at the deconsecrated church of San Vidal, where, naturalmente, Le Quattro Stagioni was also performed. And with more energy than I've ever heard, even if it was not note-perfect. The mostly young musicians raced down the church aisles to take their places and played with enough verve to dispel the notion that they could probably play this delightful set of violin concertos in their sleep. There are far worse fates than all-Vivaldi all the time.

What, No Wi-Fi?

2009-10-28T03:31:00.000-07:00

As a lover of technology, though far from an expert at it, I delight in the various modern marvels at our disposal. On my latest travels, to Croatia and Venice, I was equipped with two mobile phones—one for the U.S. and one for almost everywhere else—my iPod Touch equipped with Wi-Fi, my digital camera, and—reverting to a practically ancient standby—my beloved little Grundig AM-FM-short-wave radio. I have to give a shout for the quality of Grundig products, since I had spilled water on the last-named item, rendering it mute before departure, and was frantically searching the Radio Shack website for a replacement. However, the Grundig dried itself out overnight and resumed its excellent reception before I could buy another. Even if you don't always know the language, listening to the radio in other countries is a great travel enhancement that I find superior to hotel-room TV with the inevitable, repetitious CNN or BBC international channels. By the way, short-wave still exists in the Internet age. I picked up Radio Moscow's English-language hour, where they promised that we were going to hear "some interesting programs."

I found Croatia Radio 3 after a journey around the dial and was delighted to be able to make out, if barely, the announcements of classical selections and their interpreters. I surmised that the language, like Latin and Russian, e.g., has noun declensions, as composers all seemed to have an additional u or other vowel at the ends of their names. This was confirmed by our multilingual, delightful Slovenian guide, Maja. And on RAI, the Italian radio, I was pleased to learn that nerd has now been added to the Italian language. The Italians were also paying tribute to, of all writers, the late Jack Kerouac on the 40th anniversary of his death, and reading excerpts from Sulla Strada (On the Road).

The availability of Wi-Fi is inconsistent. One of the lesser hotels had free reception and a strong signal, while another quite luxurious establishment—O.K., the Hilton in Dubrovnik—made you pay for it. And fuhgeddabout Venice. Even at the overpriced, if historic, Caffè Florian you have to pay. Although in the overall cost of foreign travel, these charges are not significant, I didn't pay and only used the e-mail on the iPod Touch where I had free reception. My inner cheapskate surfaces in these situations, although if it had been truly necessary I would have paid. Back in Dubrovnik, though there wasn't free Wi-Fi at the Hilton, there was in the center of town, where you could have a bite at an outdoor cafe and log on free to Dubrovnik central. Very hospitable town.

Trapped in a Toilet in Split!

2009-10-27T05:37:00.000-07:00

No, not trapped in a split in a toilet, although after a lifetime of ballet training, this could probably also happen. The name of the city of Split in Croatia has nothing to do with division or acrobatics; it comes from the name of an indigenous plant. Except for the more than impressive palace of Roman emperor Diocletian, a native of what is now Croatia, Split is not a major tourist destination. Nevertheless, it has many attractions and beauties, and its inhabitants, like their neighbors the Italians, appear to enjoy life sitting in cafés along the Riva, or seaside promenade, pictured here.

After a pizza (what else?) lunch, I availed myself of the facilities at a local restaurant, the appropriately named Adriana, for one located on the Adriatic. A long-held nightmare finally came true. When I attempted to unlock the cubicle door, it wouldn't budge. Furthermore, as it was late in the midday lunch hour, I had been the only remaining customer in the restaurant, and there seemed to be few staff on duty. And on top of that, the cubicle door was flush to both floor and ceiling! I had a cell phone that works in Europe with me, but I didn't know how to call the Split equivalents of 911, information, or the restaurant itself. Thus, I started banging on the door, crying the usual "Help!" and, in the second language of the region, Italian, "Non posso aprire!" My Croatian is, shall we say, limited to "Hvala!" (Thank you!)

Hvala came in handy, as my cries for help were shortly answered by a tall, handsome employee of the establishment, who fiddled with the door catch, opened it, and also showed me the almost invisible place where one flushed the toilet. No apparent apparatus or chain to show the way. Also, one needed to be tall to reach it! This young man was typical of the local residents in his attractive appearance and height. Almost worth my getting stuck in that embarrassing situation! He said that I was the first person to get stuck in there, but not the first person to be unable to find the toilet flush. And at least, had I found it, I'm tall enough to reach it.

“Only in New York, Kids….”

2009-10-04T17:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve quoted the redoubtable Cindy Adams’s signoff to her gossip column before in these pages, but today merits quoting her again. Cheers, Cindy! There’s never a day in which A Lot isn’t going on in NYC, but today was a bit more frazzling than usual. At least the U.N. General Assembly members have packed up and gone home, which means that I can at least get around my own neighborhood a bit more easily. Today we had unbelievable autumn weather—bright sunshine, low humidity, and perfect temperatures. We also had the Polish Kosciuszko Day parade on Fifth Avenue, one of those infernal street fairs on Lexington Avenue, a Turkish parade somewhere else, and a book fair in Brooklyn, to name but a few.

Three friends and I had tickets to a revival of George S. Kaufman and Edna Ferber’s 1927 comedy The Royal Family, a gently satirical portrait of the great Barrymore acting clan. We never got to see the play, as the curtain came down about twenty minutes into the show to rise again only to have the stage manager tell us that the show had to be canceled because:

‘Royal Family’ Sunday Matinee Canceled After Tony Roberts Fell Ill - ArtsBeat Blog - NYTimes.com

We certainly wish popular actor Tony Roberts, whose work we have enjoyed often, a speedy recovery. I did get some entertainment—as usual—on the way to the theater, as I passed these two inflatable “athletes” in front of an Irish pub on Eighth Avenue. They remind me of the marvelous inflatable dummy pilot in one of my favorite movies, Airplane!

Star Wars Never Dies!

2009-09-13T06:14:00.000-07:00

More on the hazards of riding public transportation: Lately, for the most part, people seem to be toning down their mobile phone conversations. They must finally be getting the idea that strangers don’t want to know what they’re having for dinner. Nevertheless, “if you want to live in the Big City,” you have to put up with less than serene surroundings when traveling around town. The latest annoyance occurred the other day when a mountainous man got on the 104 downtown bus with John Williams’s Star Wars theme blaring from what seemed to be a portable radio, although I didn’t look closely. When the theme was repeated—loudly—over and over, I realized that it was his cell phone ringtone. Egad! And his answers to his calls were equally loud. Couldn’t wait for him to get off, which he finally did. Hard to understand the demand for attention that some people who use these devices seem to be displaying. Who wants the attention of total strangers, especially when you must be aware that you’re annoying them? It must be the frustrations of lack of recognition or love in one’s personal life. Or maybe the guy was just hard of hearing (from years of listening to hard rock at full volume, perhaps?).

Who Tawks Good These Days?

2009-08-03T06:40:00.000-07:00

Until recently—and maybe still—there was nothing funnier to the British than the mangling of the English language by “bloody foreigners.” I even have a gift book entitled Britain As She Is Visit, which, I confess, I once found reasonably hilarious. Now I find it merely xenophobic. And as a former English teacher and, now, editor, I can’t help noticing various linguistic gaffes, since it’s my business to do so. A favorite of the recent past was a menu poster in front of a luncheonette near my office, reading “Soup of the Day—Leak.” So, we Yanks can be pretty amused by these mistakes as well. But the time has come to be somewhat politically correct in these matters. After all, how many of us really speak a second, or third, or fourth, language truly fluently—“as she should be spoke”? If our vis-à-vis gets the meaning across somehow, that has to be sufficient in many cases.

Multiculturalism in both Britain and America—to name the most populous Anglophone countries—has to make us more tolerant of imperfect English, at least in everyday use. This does not discount the fact that for professional and literary purposes correct English is an absolute requirement. But this can be outsourced, or learned as needed. The only time I, who pride myself on being able to understand most foreign accents, was defeated occurred during an attempt to make a minor change in my telephone service and, of course, got someone in India. Totally unable to understand my phone contact there, I gave up and to this day continue to pay a small monthly sum for a service I never use. You can’t win ‘em all.

Privately, I still agree with Professor Higgins, but for day-to-day life, I’ll have to listen carefully and interpret as best I can. And this even applies to supposedly native speakers these days!

Stay 'Way From My Seat!

2009-07-25T07:27:00.000-07:00

Where Thin People Roam, and Sometimes Even Eat - NYTimes.com

Whenever some irritating factor of life in New York gets to me, I always give myself the advice: “If you want to live in the Big City and enjoy all that it has to offer, you have to put up with this!” And don’t insult minorities! Fortunately, it appears that, to some extent, political correctness is going out of style and, anyway, in this case I’m insulting a majority. The story, “Where Thin People Roam, and Sometimes Even Eat,” appearing in the Times on July 23, mentions that Manhattanites tend to be thinner than residents of other boroughs and, indeed, than in other parts of the U.S. Therefore, it may be safe to mention that being squashed by a fat person who attempts to sit next to you on one of the side-facing seats in the rear of the bus can be yet another downer in our great town. I’m always hoping that only a thin Asian teenager—they’re generally narrower than Westerners—will sit next to me, but this is not usually the case.

On a bus ride to my home on the East Side, I had one of those empty seats next to me when a well-dressed and well-groomed but extremely large man eased his more than hefty frame into the space. After making myself as narrow as possible and holding my breath, I capitulated and stood up. At the same moment, a seat next to a slim, handsome young man opened up across the aisle and I grabbed it. The (much younger) man and I happened to get off at the same stop. He commented, “I saw how uncomfortable you looked, and I was very amused. I really sympathized with you.” He was an acting student, going to class at the Neighborhood Playhouse and always observing people as fodder for his craft. We chatted while walking a couple of blocks to our respective destinations. Then he, obviously honing his technique for future use, said, “And you’re very pretty; I enjoyed our little talk.”

Even though that particular experience ended well, fat people, stay away from my seat!

Turtlemania—BTW I Happen to Live in Turtle Bay

2009-07-09T04:14:00.000-07:00

Having been fortunate enough to visit the Galápagos Islands some years ago, I've always been a fan of turtles and tortoises. I remember the huge, lumbering Galápagos tortoise, its head, legs, and tail pulled in when at rest or asleep, resembling an enormous WWII Nazi helmet. And in Costa Rica, a truly memorable event was seeing a giant sea turtle lay her eggs in the sand by moonlight. In fact, even before then, as a kid I was occasionally given those baby turtles with "Souvenir of Miami" or some such other legend cruelly painted on their shells. These poor critters never lasted long, of course. My present turtle collection consists of just these three: a hand-painted one from Russia, with mermaids, considered good luck in peasant cultures there; another from a Santa Fe pottery artist; and a third, a Chinese replica of a Murano glass design, from the Smithsonian shop. In the past, I would occasionally see box turtles along the roadside when driving in upstate New York, although I now read that these are pretty endangered and rare. A wildlife book I own states that they are frequently the victims of motorists when, like the ubiquitous—and very slow—groundhog, they try to cross a highway.

Thus, it was encouraging to read this morning that all is not lost in the turtle world. If a bunch of them can hold up flights at JFK, there's reason for hope!

Flight delays as JFK airport runway taken over by turtles!

Two favorite bits of verse by one of my heroes, Ogden Nash:

Come crown my brow with leaves of myrtle,

I know the tortoise is a turtle.

Come carve my name in stone immortal,

I know the turtoise is a tortle.

I know to my profound despair:

I bet on one to beat a hare.

And that is why I'm now a pauper,

Because of its tortly, turtly torpor.

—from The Carnival of the Animals

and

The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks

Which practically conceal its sex.

I think it clever of the turtle

In such a fix to be so fertile.

More Alma-Tadema

2009-07-07T10:42:00.000-07:00

Have the decorators no shame? Never paid any attention to the other Alma-Tadema in the little entry hallway to the ladies' dressing room. Inside the dressing room is the reproduction of A Favourite Custom (1909) that I blogged about on June 11. Happened to notice Unconscious Rivals today, and here are, top, the genuine article and, below, the pale copy on tile. Would still love to know if the dance studio ownership/management know what they have here or if they just think the pictures are pretty, which they are, of course. According to not-always-reliable-but-at-least-it's-there Wikipedia, in Unconscious Rivals, in the Bristol City Museum and Art Gallery in the U.K., "Alma-Tadema's female figures have a slightly bored, pleasure-seeking attitude, as if they were pampered courtesans. There is little action in Alma-Tadema's paintings; here two women are probably just waiting for a lover. The composition is balanced by the flowers in bloom." The same lover? Perhaps a hair-pulling match between those two carefully coiffed ladies might ensue. That would add some action!

I very much doubt if the (mostly) young innocents (ha!) who pass these pictures most days even notice them, let alone know what they are. Or care. Don't get me started on air-headedness. Actually, some of them are very bright; have responsible, professional jobs; or attend good colleges. So there.

Not Quite "The Last Rose of Summer"

2009-06-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

A friend and I missed the major part of the June rose display at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden through no fault of our own. Since it rained for most of the month, a lot of the blossoms were probably destroyed by heavy winds and rains. But here is one fresh beauty that survived, as it looked on June 24, 2009.

Had not been to the terrific Brooklyn Museum in many years. Finally got around to being overwhelmed by Judy Chicago's 1979 feminist assemblage, The Dinner Party, and to see a fine exhibit of Impressionist paintings by an artist I had not previously encountered, Gustave Caillebotte. He was born to great wealth; thus it's good that he used his time well as an outstanding yachtsman and important artist instead of just lounging about, as he could have done.

You can buy a ticket that combines visits to both the museum and garden. The ticket seller warned us that we couldn't get our money back for the garden part of the admission if it rained. Luckily, it didn't rain until we had just about finished our visit.

Is Cute Enough?

2009-06-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

Free-associating again! For some reason, an old New Yorker cartoon has come to mind, although I can't find it on the Cartoon Bank Web site. It depicts a huge, looming adult male looking down at a tiny, somewhat bewildered, shamefaced tot at his feet and exclaiming, "Cute is not enough!" Was reading about the varied wildlife in Central Park, in connection with the raccoon that apparently wandered onstage during a recent Shakespeare in the Park performance of Twelfth Night. From there, I segued into a memory of chipmunks, which I do find to be among nature's cutest. Raccoons, though destructive, are cute, too.

Then, my meandering consciousness evoked the memory of driving in the Hamptons behind a car that ran over, and squashed, a chipmunk. Of course, the driver didn't stop; probably didn't even know that he had murdered the tiny rodent. Then, since it was the countryside, my thoughts turned to:

British Hedgehog Preservation Society BHPS

I've always been amused by this group, which seems to be emblematic of the most endearing side of British eccentricity. And hedgehogs are cute, too. The hedgehog preservers try to prevent just the type of disaster I witnessed with the Hamptons chipmunk. They apparently patrol roadsides and try to rescue the little critters from heedless motorists. We don't have this creature in North America. What are we missing? British kids have hedgehog squeaky toys, e.g.

Pigeon Pros and Cons

2009-06-19T10:10:00.000-07:00

Former NYC Mayor Ed Koch, never at a loss for words, has been credited with referring to urban pigeons as "rats with wings," although he may not have originated the expression. Certainly they are a major player in city life, reviled by many and loved by little old ladies and others who feed them, whether they need to be fed or not. My experience with our avian friends has been mixed. In general I find them dirty and a nuisance, but there have been exceptions.

I was fortunate enough as a child to have a father who encouraged me to live side by side with our fellow creatures, even snakes (at least the harmless ones). In our upstate New York backyard, we were able to encounter all sorts of animals and birds, including gorgeous pheasants. One day a pigeon waddled up our driveway, and I decided to feed him/her/it a few breadcrumbs. I was only a kid; wouldn't dream of doing it now. The bird returned the next day, and for several days after that, at about the same time in the afternoon. One day I wasn't home, and my mother said that the pigeon had come again but that she hadn't fed it. It never returned. No grace period for me: "Ingratitude, more strong than traitor's arms...."

On the unpleasant side of pigeondom, I recall walking into my dormitory at Barnard College wearing a prized new Pringle cashmere cardigan. I heard a "plop!" on one shoulder, and there was pigeon poop. Ugh—even though there's an old wives' tale that it's good luck. I also see the birds ranged in rows on certain city lampposts, looking for all the world like the eponymous predators in Hitchcock's immortal The Birds. And then there's the smallish one that flew into an unscreened window of my apartment. Since, unlike Tippi Hedren in the film, I'm not afraid of birds, I was able to open the window wider and, after a short scuffle, shoo the unwelcome visitor out.

I have visited Venice a few times and have naturally enjoyed it to the hilt, not being fazed by the feathered inhabitants of Piazza San Marco. My traveling companion on my first visit there was afraid of birds and was obliged to keep to the perimeter of the plaza instead of walking straight across it. I don't see why anyone with a fear of birds (irrational, of course, despite Hitchcock) would even visit Venice in the first place. I guess the lure of this wonderful, fabled city is worth the risk.

So, the jury is still out on pigeons. Columba had just better not poop on me again.

Aha!

2009-06-11T14:47:00.000-07:00

Eureka! A little googling has helped me to find the source of the ladies'-room mural mentioned in the post below. It did look vaguely familiar. Would Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema turn over in his grave if he knew about this use of his painting? Anyway, here's the source, straight from the horse's mouth, i.e., the Tate Gallery:

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema 1836–1912

A Favourite Custom 1909

Oil on wood, presented by the Trustees of the Chantrey Bequest 1909

"This scene is set in the Stabian Baths of Pompeii. In the foreground one woman playfully splashes another in the 'frigidarium,' a cold bath. The artist based this work on photographs of the remains of the baths, revealed by archaeologists in 1824. He has made them more luxurious by adding a marble floor and walls which have usually been found in larger imperial baths. The Dutch-born artist Alma-Tadema achieved enormous success in Britain with carefully researched scenes like this of daily life in the ancient Roman world."

Well, I suspected as much. I wonder if anyone else is interested. Anyway, Eureka!

Gotta Dance!

2009-06-11T11:21:00.001-07:00

If you study or have studied ballet at all seriously, you know that "class" is a daily ritual and a world unto itself. I'm fortunate to be able to study where many top professionals do, and, ability and accomplishment (and, crucially, age) aside, we're all equal when we get into that studio for the satisfying ritual beginning with pliés and tendus and ending with a lot of toweling off and swigging from water bottles. It's a bonus when we have a really good pianist: I favor one who plays a lot of the Great American Songbook. Sondheim's "Broadway Baby" really gets me going. Maybe I would dance better if he played it all the time.

The social aspect is also important, even though the conversation tends to stay on the subjects of dance performances or one's physical problems such as sore metatarsals or shin splints. What's also enjoyable for a lot of us is the formality of a classical technique class. You really have to shut up and listen to the teacher. There is a certain order and regularity here that has disappeared from most other aspects of twenty-first-century life. And you still applaud the teacher at the end of class.

Some of us whose interests range widely beyond dance are also amused by the recently installed tile work in the ladies' dressing room. It appears to be a pre-Raphaelite type of scene with Victorian ladies decorously splashing in a Roman bath. I have always wanted to attach a cartoon balloon at the top with "Has everybody signed into class?" coming out of the mouth of the woman in the doorway.

L'Esprit d'escalier

2009-05-28T15:08:00.000-07:00

L'esprit d'escalier, the elegant French idiom attributed to Diderot that translates roughly as "I shoulda said," doesn't exactly apply to those little jokes I make to myself when there's no one around to hear (or sneer at) them, but it's a similar situation. The "wit of the staircase" refers to the realization of a wonderful retort that you've thought of after you leave the party or whatever and are descending the stairs, presumably to go home. It doesn't actually apply to the marvelous witticism that occurred to me one day, when a bus driver announced what seemed to sound like, "Next stop Lexginton Avenue." Regrettably, there was no one with me to whom I could say, "I think he means dysLexington Avenue." What a loss. Today wasn't quite as good. The driver just sang out, "Lex is nex'." Better than nothing.

Rosaline, or, When I'm Right, I'm Right!

2009-05-19T12:39:00.000-07:00

Perhaps one of the hallmarks of maturity is to realize that the person who is wrong needn't always be told he's wrong. Experience as a copy editor has made it a habit with me to insure correctness, but the other person in an unwritten discussion doesn't always have to know that he was wrong, wrong, dead wrong!

Yesterday, shortly before my ballet class, a fellow student and I were discussing the ill-advised—at least I think so—New York City Ballet production of yet another Romeo and Juliet. To make matters worse, they insist on calling it Romeo+Juliet, perhaps to distinguish it from other (better) versions. Among other infelicities of the production, the hideous scenery displays a house that an astute New York Times critic likened to Fred Flintstone's cave. Anyway, the subject of Romeo's infatuation with the usually unseen Rosaline came up. My classmate, who claims to have a PhD in theater, mentioned that Romeo has been having sex with Rosaline, and that she appears onstage and has some lines. As a former English teacher, I did not recall either the appearance of Rosaline or any lines attributed to her. I checked my copy of the play when I got home, and saw that I was right. A little googling also revealed that the only dramatic version in which she makes a physical appearance is the Zeffirelli film, although some directors of the staged play or the ballet may put her in as an aloof walk-on or walk-by.

Romeo specifically comments that the unseen Rosaline is guarding her chastity as if she were a disciple of the goddess Diana. At most, he has been stalking her. And, as we all know, he immediately forgets about her when he catches sight of you-know-who at the Capulets' ball, which he, masked, has crashed. I was reverting to type, ready to correct my classmate today, but he didn't show up, and I thought better of it anyway. He seemed so positive that he was right. Better to leave him with his illusions and not make yet another enemy.

Rosaline is mentioned by name as "fair niece Rosaline" in the invitation to the Capulet ball (I, ii, 81) and shortly thereafter by Benvolio, who, urging Romeo to go to the ball, states: "At this same ancient feast of Capulet's / Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lovest, /

With all the admired beauties of Verona. / Go thither and with unattainted eye / Compare her face with some that I shall show / And I will make thee think thy swan a crow." (I, ii, 86-92) She is mentioned in the Act II scene with Friar Laurence. When the Friar questions Romeo about her, he says, "I have forgot that name and that name's woe." At the beginning of Scene iv of Act II, Mercutio, not knowing of Romeo's change of affections, refers to: "...that same pale, hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, / Torments him so that he will sure run mad." And that's the last we hear of this lady.

There, I got it off my chest without humiliating anyone. Doubt that Mr. Wrong (or anyone else) will even read this, or even care. Trivia is my middle name.

The Miraculous Mac

2009-05-15T06:05:00.001-07:00

Like most Apple aficionados, I'm just crazy about my Macintosh. I kept my past two Macs for about five years apiece before they gave any trouble. Four to five years seems to be the life of most computers if you want to keep up with the moment-to-moment changing world of technology. My present Mac is now five; thus, I tremble with every little quirk that it might show—very few though they are. I'm at the ready to buy a new one, but so far so good.

When updates automatically arrive, I dutifully install them. Sometimes, when they take a longish time, I start to worry if this is the end of my Mac's life as I know it. But the computer (not to mention all of those brilliant geeks out in Cupertino) is much smarter than I am. Everything always comes out all right in the end. At least it has so far.

This morning I was notified that my "Time Machine" backup hadn't backed up in a week! Disaster! I clicked on the TM icon to back up and received info that (a) it wasn't backing up and (b) I needed to install new items including the latest OS X update. I dutifully installed all updates. Having been warned that it would take some time, I waited patiently. When it took a really long time, I began to wonder. I know that the Blue Screen of Death is primarily the prerogative of P.C. users, but when my screen turned an unusual shade of bright blue I began to tremble. Not to worry, the "regular" blue finally appeared and then—sigh of relief—the comforting old Aurora Borealis screen saver appeared with all of my friendly old icons. Whew! At this moment, Time Machine is still backing up, not that there was anything really important to back up. My great unwritten American novel takes up no space at all.

As far as Time Machine not backing up for a week, I tried the commonest, and least practiced, DIY routine. I unplugged it and plugged it in again. Success! Its little blue light went on, and all is serene once again. At least for a while.

Siegfried by the River (Not the Rhine)

2009-04-19T08:32:00.000-07:00

It would have been criminal not to have gone down to one of my neighborhood's little parks near the East River on this gorgeous Saturday, particularly since the river is only a block away from my apartment. Thus, I combined listening to the Met's Siegfried broadcast—Act II anyway—on my handy Grundig portable (with Apple headphones), taking a photo or two, and following the libretto from a riverside bench. A sort of multitasking. The traffic noises from the FDR Drive did impede the sound slightly, but the balmy day compensated. Had enjoyed Das Rheingold and Die Walküre in the opera house, but was unable to secure tickets for the final two Ring operas. The Metropolitan Opera is retiring the romantic, traditional Otto Schenk production after this season to replace it in a couple of years with an avant-garde Robert Lepage concept. People come from all over the world to hear and see a traditional Ring, and they'll miss it. However, the great Wotan, James Morris, hinted during an intermission interview that the current production will be stored, and not scrapped. Hedging their bets, I guess. No Rhine Maidens in the East River today. Maybe some other day.

Yes, We Have Spring in Manhattan Too!

2009-04-05T12:14:00.001-07:00

Since neither daffodils nor magnolias last very long, it's important to preserve them digitally! Manhattan dafs and magnolias sprout up in unlikely places, especially since I always associate the latter with an Old South that probably never existed, Gone With the Wind notwithstanding. And "Curb Your Dog" signs do serve to urbanize the ubiquitous daffodil.

As for the Citi Tower in Queens, I think it may be that borough's only true skyscraper. I remember that my niece, who worked there briefly, said that you could feel the building sway on windy days. Think I'll stay on this side of the East River. We also get a good view over here of the Pepsi-Cola sign, practically an antique. People are sentimental about it. I think that at one time there was some attempt to dismantle it, but a public protest saved it.

This was a day to enjoy because it's predicted that we'll be back to wintry-type spring tomorrow. I'm always wary of weather in April: As a kid, I was brought to New York for Easter for various treats that included a Broadway show. In those long-ago days we wore rather elegant little camel's-hair coats that weren't, however, very warm. I recall freezing at Easter in NYC, so I'm always careful not to store my warm coats and jackets too early.

April Foolishness

2009-04-03T15:00:00.000-07:00

National Public Radio and, this year, American Public Media, have taken a cue from the BBC and presented "news stories" on April 1st that turn out to be April Fool's jokes. Years ago, the BBC did a deadpan "news report" about the spaghetti tree harvests in northern Italy. And a few years back, one of NPR's April Fool stories dealt with an underground pipeline, being constructed between Seattle and New York, through which people could receive lattes and cappuccinos through spigots in their homes. I always look forward to these diversions, and last Wednesday awaited the annual presentations with great anticipation.

I was not disappointed. This year's April 1 story, on NPR's All Things Considered, reported a burgeoning whale-farming industry, with a sidebar telling us how groups of whales were being taught to sing in barbershop harmony. One of the "whale farmers" had even managed to construct an entire back porch out of whalebone! There also followed a reference, with no further explanation, to a lawsuit that some people were planning against the makers of the Kindle reader, claiming eye injuries from pop-up 3-D books. Maybe this was for real? No follow-up.

The program following ATC, American Public Media's Marketplace, also did itself proud with a piece about the current real estate market. They claimed that some realtors, attempting to sell houses in neighborhoods that had been largely vacated owing to foreclosures or various other misfortunes, hired actors to play fake neighbors and dog walkers, bake cookies, and hold barbecues to make the area look occupied. They also staged church services and Little League baseball games, hiring teams from other towns to pretend that they were local players. They did a pretty good job of making it sound like a real news item at first, but my suspicions were finally aroused by the church and baseball references.

The photo accompanying this is totally irrelevant. April Fool!

Music Under the Stairs

2009-03-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

Most kinds of music are terrific, and the joint was jumping in the subway station under Union Square just now as a brass jazz combo brought a lot of smiles and cellphone cameras out on this pleasant second-day-of-spring Saturday. It presented a particular contrast for me, as a friend and I were just coming home from one of the terrific Metropolitan Opera HD live telecasts at the Regal Union Square movie theater. This time it was the controversial Mary Zimmerman production of Bellini's La sonnambula. One may disagree with her concept—a Pirandellian story of a production of the opera overlaid with an intra-cast love story—but today's playing and singing would rival, I daresay, the great interpreters of the past. The incredibly gifted Natalie Dessay and Juan Diego Flórez can stand comparison with anyone. Memorable performances from this attractive duo, who have major stage chemistry together. But hearing the enthusiastic jazz musicians afterward, amid the roar of the trains and the travelers, had its own rewards.

Où sont les neiges?

2009-03-14T05:42:00.000-07:00

Whenever we New Yorkers thought that winter had to be over, a friend used to remind me that "The Blizzard of [18] '88 was in March!" But the great Snows of Yesteryear seem to have gone the way of global warming, with a few brief exceptions. I do read that ski resorts in the Northeast have been doing very well this year, but NYC seems relatively immune to the white stuff. We did have a couple of March snowfalls, as this March 3, 2009 shot of Bryant Park and the back of the Public Library demonstrates. It was one of the few days that I got to wear the very nice winter boots that I bought last season and wore only a couple of times then. You have to photograph snow pretty quickly here before it turns grey, and then black.

Tomorrow will be the Ides of March, but only Shakespeare buffs will take note, I suppose. I just wish that someone, some day, will say to me on that date, "The Ides of March are come" just so that I can answer, "Aye, Caesar, but not gone!"

The Met Gets It Right

2009-02-17T04:22:00.000-08:00

Film comments regarding the Marx Brothers' A Night at the Opera have stated that the movie "does to Il trovatore what should be done to Il trovatore." But what really should be done to this middle-period Verdi blockbuster is give it a fine production. Scottish director David McVicar did just that last evening and gave us another good night at the Metropolitan Opera. Updating opera productions sometimes becomes laughable, such as a New York City Opera La traviata ending up in an AIDS ward, but moving the medieval setting to Napoleonic-era Spain works beautifully this time. The drop curtain, inspired by a detail from Francisco Goya's Pilgrimage to San Isidro, sets the tone when one enters the auditorium. (And, yes, I was a bad citizen; I took a photo. But it was during intermission as the audience returned to their seats for the second half.)

A cast that was strong down the line and an excellent conductor also helped to make this a memorable evening. The Goyaesque mood was sustained throughout, with later scenes evoking such masterworks as The Disasters of War and The Third of May 1808. Gloom and doom prevailed, as well they should, despite the upbeat nature of much of the music. The strong cast, with Dolora Zajick's Azucena perhaps first among equals, were team players. Good audience behavior, on the whole. Only one cellphone went off.

Vulpine and Other Considerations

2009-01-28T04:08:00.000-08:00

As noted in my last post, I had a good time visiting London. Both my town, NYC, and London have so much to offer that it's pointless to compare the two. But, for us wildlife fanciers, London does seem to have an additional attribute: foxes!

10,000 Foxes Roam London

At my sister's London house, where I was staying, there is a pleasant garden. One morning, my brother-in-law called to me that there was a fox outside, a not uncommon occurrence. I raced downstairs, but too late to see the bushy-tailed visitor. Apparently, that's one creature we don't have in NYC, even in Central Park, although raccoons and other critters have been spotted there. And the occasional zoo escapee. I think they even found a coyote there once.

Here's what Wikipedia says about Oscar Wilde's oft-quoted "the unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable":

Fox hunting legislation - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The Red Fox

A.A. Milne The Three Foxes

Still on the subject of bushy tails, have noted the British complaint that the American grey squirrel, imported there, has begun to overtake the indigenous red squirrel, immortalized by Beatrix Potter as Squirrel Nutkin. Too bad that both can't exist happily side by side. But why do little old ladies, and others, continue to feed them? Get a life, little old ladies!

A Capraesque Moment or Two in Trafalgar Square

2008-12-31T01:18:00.000-08:00

The Mobile Manhattanite is more mobile than usual this holiday season, spending a couple of weeks in London. Yesterday, passing through tourist-clogged Leicester Square and helpfully taking some photos at the requests of two sets of appreciative Japanese teenagers, I was delighted to see the square's annual holiday fun fair in full swing.

Later, on the way to the National Gallery, I heard martial music and saw, over the heads of a moderately large crowd in Trafalgar Square, some white plumes on black Stetsons. Drawing closer, I heard strains of a Beatles song and then saw the spiffily garbed members of the Santa Monica High School Vikings Marching Band, visiting from California to take part in the London Parade for the New Year. Nearby, waiting in the wings, so to speak, was the Cedarburg, Wisconsin High School Marching Band, resplendent in black and orange. The two bands represented, for me, an America of a more innocent time. Maybe this America still exists, to some extent. The Cedarburg contingent later got their chance with, after an extended percussion flourish, a rather stately rendering of "St. Louis Blues." Perhaps I had to come to London to be reminded of this Capraesque vision of the U.S.A. For these kids it may still be A Wonderful Life, at least for a while. Afterwards, the splendors of the National Gallery provided a true contrast. Is this what the pundits mean by the "culture wars"?

http://www.samohiband.org/

http://www.londonparade.co.uk/event/participants/details.asp?id=1971

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=lQr6hg0NozQ

http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/

Eastwood Rides Again!

2008-12-09T07:26:00.000-08:00

Had always idly wondered about the super-smooth artwork on those ads plastered on the sides of NYC buildings. How exactly does it get there? There happens to be a space right across the street from me, just over the East River Deli, where various ads, mostly for movies, have appeared over the years. This morning I happened to be looking out of the window and had my question answered: How do they get those nice-looking pictures up? A hard-working guy in a cherry picker is the answer. Here's the latest, for the newest Clint Eastwood opus, Gran Torino. Guess it must be about cars! Duh.

Speaking of American Icon Eastwood, I remember that a former colleague's Spanish-born ex-husband (note how everything seems to be in the past), whose English was otherwise excellent, just couldn't get this star's name right at first, referring to him as "East Cleentswood."

Update: Apparently a car does figure in the film, which just received excellent reviews BTW, but it's really about a bigot learning to tolerate immigrant neighbors. Haven't seen it yet.

Chanukah, Saturnalia, Kwanzaa, and—Oh, Yes—Christmas

2008-12-02T04:32:00.000-08:00

O.K., the season that 'tis has arrived again. The forced gaiety can be oppressive. It's handy to be Jewish at Christmas, as one can safely ignore a lot of the pressure, although they've inflated Chanukah to an alarming degree. And the Feast of Lights lasts eight days, yet. Well, anyway....

However, I'm happy to see that the venerable advertising agency Ogilvy and Mather has once again delighted those of us who discovered its teddy-bear Christmas tree. It's on a comparatively obscure block of West 49th Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, as well as being located slightly off the street. Found it two years ago, and the bears were red. Last year they decided to make it with black-and-white pandas which, while attractive, couldn't compete with the red teddies. So I'm glad to see that they're back to Square One this year.

A couple of years ago, someone thoughtfully videoed the tree for YouTube:

YouTube - Ogilvy Holiday Bear Tree

Minetta Lane, Old and New

2008-11-16T14:02:00.000-08:00

Just returned from the Minetta Lane Theater, where I saw a remarkable performance of Martha Clarke's dance-theater piece The Garden of Earthly Delights. It's based on the famed Hieronymus Bosch triptych that I've seen in Madrid at the Prado and in many reproductions, but, to me, it also had references to Dante's Inferno and the Dance of Death scene at the end of Ingmar Bergman's marvelous The Seventh Seal. At any rate, it's an hour and ten minutes well spent. Also in the show I saw a dancer I know from my own ballet class. Will congratulate her when I see her in class, not only on her performance but on her courage in taking part in a lot of Flying by Foy and aerial acrobatics. I missed this work when it was first done and am glad to have caught it at last.

I don't know if the charming Minetta Lane 1928 painting by Glenn O. Coleman (1884–1932) is the same one I remember being shown in a college class in American art many years ago. This one is now housed in the Musée de la Coöperation Franco-Américaine in Blérancourt, France. Probably many artists painted this quaint Greenwich Village street in the days when this location was full of artistic ferment of all kinds. At least there's still an active theater here. I was taken with the white house with all the greenery, even though it doesn't have an old Village look.

Moose Matters

2008-11-02T05:07:00.000-08:00

Since moose have been much in the news lately, I was reminded that I own this potholder. It was a gift that came, I think, from a family visit to the Adirondacks some years ago. I always wanted to see a live moose in the wild but have not had that pleasure. I saw a couple of them in a modest game reserve on a recent visit to Russia. I guess they couldn't see Alaska from their vantage point, though.

An October Afternoon in DUMBO

2008-10-15T03:13:00.000-07:00

It's been a year or so since I visited DUMBO—one of our numerous city acronyms, this one for for "Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass"—in Brooklyn to see the work of artists living and working there. They open their studios, concentrated in this formerly industrial area, to visitors. As a nearly lifelong New Yorker, I am ashamed to say that visits to Brooklyn have been sparse and mostly confined to attending performances at BAM, the Brooklyn Academy of Music, that hosts many of the world's great performing arts groups. DUMBO was a revelation, combining Greenwich Village–like conviviality and charm with marvelous water views and vistas of Manhattan. And there's the gorgeous Brooklyn Bridge, too. Like many beauties, this bridge doesn't have a bad angle, as this quickly taken camera-phone shot from Water Street, in front of St. Ann's Warehouse, attests.

My purpose in visiting DUMBO this time was to see a performance of the much-admired National Theatre of Scotland production of Black Watch, and this totally original piece of theater certainly lived up to its reputation. Here's Ben Brantley's reprise of his review from last year, when they first brought the show to Brooklyn:

Theater Review - 'Black Watch' - From National Theater of Scotland, a Unit Back From War but Without Peace, Returning to St. Ann’s Warehouse - NYTimes.com

In ‘Black Watch,’ a Band of Brothers With Camaraderie Forged on the Boards - NYTimes.com

So, Black Watch was a thrill, but I also encountered, inadvertently, a bonus. Practically next door to St. Ann's Warehouse is Jane's Carousel, also pictured above, which is a treat indeed. You can't ride on it, only look at it, but this is quite enough for me, as readers—if there are any—of this blog note that I love the Bryant Park carousel as well but am too embarrassed actually to get on it. More info about Jane's Carousel, which was also featured on CBS Sunday Morning, can be found on its own Web site:

(- JANE'S CAROUSEL -)

Make sure to click on "About Us" on the site in order to see other great shots (better than mine) of the carousel. Now I have to see how the one in Central Park is looking these days. I hope it's still in operation and that they still have that good, old-fashioned merry-go-round music.

Update: It is still in operation, and they have music from the original Wurlitzer! Must check in while the weather is still nice!

Hearing Air(s) at the Opera

2008-10-09T12:58:00.000-07:00

Last night's Metropolitan Opera performance of that lovely old chestnut, Donizetti's wonderful Lucia di Lammermoor, was a revelation. I thought I'd heard enough performances of Mad Lucy by most of the major interpreters of the 20th century to last the rest of my life, but I was wrong. The incredibly talented young German soprano Diana Damrau had absolutely everything in the role: vocal beauty and accuracy spiced with expressive variety, theater-worthy acting ability, grace, and personal charisma. She was ably seconded by the fine Polish tenor Piotr Beczala who, unlike most Edgardos, received almost equal kudos after the Tomb Scene. And people stayed around after the Mad Scene to hear him, too! We were given a bonus view of Lucia herself, as, in Mary Zimmerman's extremely creative Victorian-style production, her ghost appears to embrace the dying Edgardo. Bravi tutti!

An otherwise nearly perfect evening at the opera (where everything is almost as beautiful as at the ballet) poses a question worthy of Randy Cohen, who writes "The Ethicist" column in the Sunday New York Times Magazine: What do you do about an elderly gentleman sitting behind you who is apparently wearing some kind of breathing apparatus (not visible) that makes a steady hissing on-and-off sound during the entire evening? You can't ask the old guy to stop breathing, can you? Does such a person have the right to attend the theater at all and disturb others as much as does the ringing of cellphones or the whistling of improperly adjusted hearing aids? At least those can finally be silenced (after much effort on the part of audience members and theater staff). Well, my solution, and the solution of a neighboring couple, was to find other seats. I had to wait until after (hiss, hiss) Act I, although they, sitting on an aisle, were able to do so directly after the prelude. Lucky that there were a few empty seats (your loss, absentees!), perhaps because it was Yom Kippur eve. Some years ago a Carnegie Hall lieder recital by the great Belgian bass-baritone José Van Dam was marred by someone's whistling hearing aid. And there was no way to tell where the noise was coming from; there was no escape. I was more fortunate last evening.

I feel sorry for the poor breather and suppose he should be allowed out at public events, but maybe not at straight plays or classical music performances. What is to be done? With the advent of podcasts, DVDs, and DVRs, perhaps he can find it in his heart to stay at home. I wonder what Randy would say? But I'm not going to ask him, because his answer would probably be the same as mine.

Seventh Avenue Bizarre

2008-10-05T20:01:00.000-07:00

As a teenager, I had a temporary summer job selling handbags in a department store in my hometown. It always amazed me that even the ugliest bag could find a buyer. I know that one cannot legislate taste, but it was still frightening to think that anyone could find certain items attractive. In an issue of The New Yorker, some years ago, there was a cartoon by the wonderfully wry Roz Chast that showed a shop window that was typical of some small stores around town. The displays were of the most hideous dresses and accessories imaginable, and the caption read something like, "Who shops in these places?" On my way along Seventh Avenue to experience beautiful ballet at City Center, I frequently pass tourist shops like the ones pictured here and wonder the same thing: Who buys this stuff anyway? Especially in these parlous economic times, who is going to spend money on tchotchkes? And yet they do. These places have been in business a long time. It remains to be seen if they'll stay alive in the coming months and remain an endless source of amusement, at least to me.

Bryant Park Charms

2008-09-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

A touch of Paris can be found in Bryant Park behind the Public Library. I suppose there was a touch of Paris anyway over the past couple of weeks because it was Fashion Week, and there were tents and runway shows galore obscuring the attractions of this charming space and depriving happy lunch goers of room to open their brown bags and log on to wi-fi with their laptops or iPods. Anyway, since they installed the carousel in 2005, I have been a happier person, even though I'm too self-conscious actually to ride on it myself. I'm especially delighted that "Le Carrousel," as its sign proudly proclaims, was built in Brooklyn, also on the sign. It's quite captivating to see "Le Carrousel—Brooklyn, New York."

Was going to be a Lady Who Lunches with a couple of friends today at nearby Lord & Taylor and had some time to kill, so I sat near Le Carrousel and listened to the music, which, while I was there, consisted of something by Kurt Weill (I think) and then some French chansons aimed at children. It's just a small-size carousel, but utterly charming, even if the horses are of fiberglass instead of wood.

Belle Viste, NYC Style

2008-08-26T07:51:00.000-07:00

I've blogged a bit before about the wonderful Chrysler Building, where my dentist has his office in the Tower Suite. Unlike the Empire State Building or the Top of the Rock, one can't go up there as a tourist, so the fabulous views on clear days are a special treat for those having business in the tower. So here's what New York Harbor and a bit of New Jersey looked like on August 26, 2008.

Chrysler Building - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

But great views aren't found only from skyscrapers. I got a nice shot of Union Square from Filene's Basement's big windows. Actually, I had better luck that day taking a picture than I did finding anything to wear at Filene's. The "basement" is a misnomer, dating from the original historic Filene's in Boston. The name was sold some time ago, and this "basement" actually is on the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors of a building on Union Square South.

In another part of town, Shakespeare in the Park, after an unsuccessful Hamlet, at least according to all the reviews, has a winner in the Public Theater's spectacular revival of Hair. Wonderful how good the songs are; had forgotten how good. People wait in line for hours to obtain free tickets. This year, though, the Public has a new idea as well: A very limited number of tickets are put into an online lottery, which they call their "virtual ticket line." And, amazingly enough, after trying my luck for a week or so, I obtained two tickets for last Saturday evening. Not only were the seats fine; it was a gorgeous New York City summer night—neither too warm nor too cold. At the end of the show, the audience is invited onstage to dance with the performers. They are hoping to move it to Broadway in the fall. Guess they'll have to put ramps from the apron of the stage down to the orchestra floor. But it won't be the same. Hair is supposed to be taking place on the Great Lawn in Central Park, and it really almost does in the present production. It won't have quite the authenticity indoors, but it's still a great show. Incidentally, although Hair itself is not by the Bard, of course, one of the songs, "What a Piece of Work Is Man," is a setting of one of Hamlet's great soliloquies. So the show does qualify to be performed under the banner of "Shakespeare in the Park"!

Theater Review - 'Hair' - ‘Hair’ - Letting the Sunshine In, and the Shadows - Review - NYTimes.com

Balzac? Dvorák?

2008-08-03T11:52:00.000-07:00

On my way downtown this afternoon, I passed this street sign. We have a lot of these on various corners, commemorating notables who have lived or worked in a specific neighborhood. One of my favorites is "Señor Wences Way" in the theater district. (If you don't know who Señor Wences was, you can Google him.) I also like "Leonard Bernstein Way" at Lincoln Center and "Thelonious Sphere Monk Place" on the far West Side. It reminded me of a casual date I once had—and I guess it was our one and only date—in this East 17th St. neighborhood. The young man and I were walking around, and he remarked, "I think Balzac once lived around here." "Balzac?" I wondered, "I didn't know he ever came to America." "Well, it was someone like that," said my friend. Suddenly I realized, and then commented, that Antonín Dvorák had lived and worked in New York and later, famously, in Spillville, Iowa. The house where he was in residence had been on the East 17th St. block between First Avenue and Avenue A, and the building is now an AIDS hospice. There is a plaque on it, commemorating the great composer. Not wishing to sneer at my date's lack of cultural awareness, I blithely tossed off, "Well, Balzac, Dvorák—what's the difference?"

Honoré de Balzac - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Antonín Dvořák - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Free-associating, as is my wont, I was reminded of my own lack of cultural awareness, though I was only a college undergraduate at the time. A revered English professor, in a class on Victorian literature, mentioned that some prominent Victorian or other had some sort of association with the House of Domecq sherry company. No one in the class had ever heard of Domecq—or probably any other brand of sherry. He sniffed and remarked, "Insufficiently worldly, all of you!"

Wine: A Profile of The House of Domecq Sherry, on StarChefs

Le Quatorze Juillet dans la rue Soixantième

2008-07-13T14:23:00.000-07:00

O.K., so it's only the thirteenth, not "le quatorze," but there is a Bastille Day street festival on East 60th Street between Lexington and Fifth Avenues, passing, not surprisingly, right in front of the French Institute. And people are having a Great Time! Sure, not everything is French; I saw one stand selling knockwurst in addition to French délices, and there were also Belgian waffles (or, as they spell it, wafel), though I suppose that's close enough. There's even someone playing an accordion! Shades of the Funny Face era. Good spirits abound; it's hot out, but not unbearable, and people seem in a merry mood.

The happy crowds on East 6oth are much more enthusiastic than the dutiful strollers at another nearby street festival, on Madison Avenue between 42nd and 57th Streets. This is the type of project that drives me nuts most weekends, three seasons of the year. They all sell the same T-shirts, souvlaki, sunglasses, tube socks, and suchlike. I hope that the City gets a decent fee for permission to sell stuff at these fairs because they are a huge nuisance to us residents who try to get somewhere. It's of some help that Time Out New York publishes a list of street fairs and festivals each week so that one can plan one's moves. Taking the subway helps, though I don't like to go down there in the hot weather. But anyway, the Bastille Day celebration is fun, even if we already had our own fireworks on a somewhat rainy Fourth.

Ah, Giselle!

2008-07-12T06:50:00.000-07:00

Please, please, please look at this wonderful series of photos of American Ballet Theatre's Giselle, performed this week at the Metropolitan Opera House:

‘Giselle’ - The New York Times > Arts > Slide Show > Slide 1 of 15

The great ballerina Nina Ananiashvili, who has a lot on her professional and personal plates, showed us what talent, sensitivity, technique, and long experience can bring to the iconic role of Giselle. Now in her forties, she can still, as do the best of them, convey the ardor and naïveté of a young girl in love. She looks great, too. This from a dancer who is a national hero in her native republic of Georgia, director of the newly re-formed Georgian State Ballet, and a wife and mother to boot.

Mme. Ananiashvili (this traditional honorific is still used for divas and major ballerinas) was fortunate in her leading man. José Manuel Carreño, one of Cuba's gifts to us and surely one of the world's handsomest men, was her partner last evening. With José Manuel, one always has the feeling that the ballerina is in the safest and most considerate of hands. And he nailed every dance aspect as well, with seeming effortlessness. He makes every ballerina look good, whether she needs extra help or not. (The photos in the slide show depict the equally talented and handsome Angel Corella, who did the first performance. ABT is particularly rich in great male dancers.)

Ananiashvili's technique remains solid. I have never really cared for the famous series of sautés on one pointe in Giselle's Act I solo—to me, it's a stunt step that doesn't really belong in a Romantic ballet— but she makes them look as good as they possibly can. Mainly, this dancer goes far beyond technique, and the memory that lingers is the wonderfully fluid, supernatural-looking use of her upper torso, shoulders and arms. But look at the photos. The photographer Erin Baiano, a new name to me, has really captured the salient moments of this great and charming old ballet.

Gillian Murphy, as the icy Queen of the Wilis, Myrtha, turned in her usual fine and serious work. (I wrote a profile of Gillian, a lovely and modest young woman, for Dance Magazine some time ago.) She can meet any challenge that almost any ballet throws at her.

Giselle is one old chestnut that fully lives up to the number from A Chorus Line, "Everything Is Beautiful at the Ballet." It stands the test of time better than any older classic ballet, having the most felicitous combination of subject, scenario, music, and choreography (as much as we can know of the original, dance being such an ephemeral art and no video recording available in the 1840s). Certainly, everything was beautiful last evening. Old lithographs came to life. The legendary 19th-century ballerina Carlotta Grisi, the original Giselle, is shown at the top in an 1844 lithograph by Challamel.

Further re Giselle, I'm reminded of a puckish friend who decided that if Giselle were an opera (actually, there is one based on the same material—Puccini's early Le villi), one of the arias, set to the famous "daisy-petal" theme, would go: "I'm Giselle (la di da); I'm not well...."

Whatever became of...?

2008-07-10T08:10:00.000-07:00

It's been about four years now since I took this photo of a lovely little girl playing violin extremely well in front of the Catherine Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, outside of St. Petersburg. I still regret not slipping her a few coins, which was, natually, the reason she was out there playing. At least it was a beautful early-summer day. One of many regrets. Did slip a few coins to other pretty little Russian children on this trip, which was part of an excellently organized "Russia by River" tour from Moscow to St. Petersburg. I still wonder what will become of this obviously talented child. Would she receive scholarship help to study at one of Russia's many excellent music conservatories? (Even in the darkest and most repressive years of the Soviet era, Russia still produced world-class players; they have one of the truly great musical cultures.) Would she meet the right mentors who could set her on the path to a professional career? At least she was already accomplished enough to be able to play for her own pleasure for the rest of her life.

Having worked as an editor at a prominent music conservatory, I'm aware of the great numbers of talented and accomplished musicians who are not able to make careers as performers. Fortunately, this school also has courses to prepare students for other aspects of music, e.g., the business and managerial areas. You have to want a musical career "so badly you can taste it" and be willing to slave at relatively menial jobs until you get a break. If you get a break.

This little Russian girl put the finishing touch to a lovely day for a tourist in Russia. I think that she was playing Tchaikovsky. A safe bet, anyway.

Overheard at the Turner Show

2008-07-06T05:23:00.000-07:00

A very extensive show of J.M.W. Turner's paintings is now on view at New York's Metropolitan Museum. I've had the good fortune to see many of these previously, at the Tate Britain, the National Gallery, and the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. The show is too large to take in on one visit, and I plan to return. To cite just one painting, you can't look at the masterpiece The Shipwreck too often; it's an experience comparable to listening to Beethoven.

Tate Collection | The Shipwreck by Joseph Mallord William Turner

When contemplating the painting shown above, I could not, of course, help thinking of Sherlock Holmes's final struggle with Professor Moriarty at the top of the Reichenbach Falls. Though not a Baker Street Irregular, I am just as saturated with Holmesiana as most literate English speakers. As I was standing there, I heard a voice behind me murmur, "Moriarty." Amused, I turned around and said, "I was thinking the same thing. You can never hear the name 'Reichenbach' without Holmes and Moriarty coming to mind." The speaker and his companions smiled broadly.

It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood(s)

2008-06-26T05:09:00.000-07:00

When it's a nice day in New York City, it's a Nice Day in New York City! Here's the fabled Chrysler Building (also immortalized once again in today's New York Times crossword puzzle) as it looked on the morning of June 25, 2008. Note the totally cloudless sky, not normally the case in NYC. As regards the building, my dentist, the unofficial mayor and biggest fan of the building, has his offices in the Tower Suite. Thus, when one sits in his chair, one usually has a sweeping view of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, et al. It's too bad to have to visit him on a cloudy day. I'm also fortunate not to have had any real dental problems, making visits both painless and pleasant, as a rule.

Now, what better activity on such a day than to pay a visit to the "Moore in America" display of 20 Henry Moore sculptures at the wonderful Botanical Gardens in the Bronx? Just a 20-minute ride on Metro North, and there you are. The sculpture shown above is one of the artist's renderings of a favorite theme: mother and child. The setting is absolutely perfect for large sculptures, and the art and venue enhance each other. You can read about a similar exhibition, including all of the same works and then some, held recently at England's equally magnificent Kew Gardens:

http://www.abbycronin.co.uk/pdfs/1202777470.pdf

And, of course, there are the botanical treasures to be savored. The conifer collection and, as seen above, the Rockefeller Rose Garden, are only two of the delights to be found in the Bronx. Don't agree with Ogden Nash's

The Bronx,

No thonx.

at all on this score. And then there are the lemurs, newly housed at the Bronx Zoo. Gotta see these babies! Their name, once used as the title of a PBS documentary, means "spirits of the forest."

Bronx Zoo

"When a ghost and a prince meet...."

2008-06-18T18:47:00.001-07:00

The reviews of this year's Shakespeare in the Park production of Hamlet have not been favorable. I was thinking about the many interpreters of the Dane I've seen—certainly many of the world's greats. Truly memorable were Richard Burton in the "rehearsal" production directed by John Gielgud; Ralph Fiennes a few years back; and, more recently, the beautifully voiced and profoundly artistic work of Simon Russell Beale. Mr. Russell Beale overcame his unlikely physique, drawing in and moving the audience at Britain's Royal National Theatre as much as if not more than any Hollywood-handsome type could. Although—I certainly enjoyed seeing the marvelous-looking Mr. Fiennes—those eyes!—who also has the talent and voice for the part. And no one is better at sheer vulnerability than he is.

So, I was hoping that the latest outing might be worth a visit, though I'm really not up for standing in line for anything. There are too many great presentations in NYC for which you don't have to queue up. This year, the Public Theater is offering an online lottery for some of the tickets, and I thought it might be fun to register and try to get a pair, but now I'm not sure I want to bother. I guess my favorite curmudgeon, John Simon, has warned me off:

John Simon Bloomberg Hamlet

I've been to other Shakespeare in the Park Hamlets over the years. Quite a number of years back, Stacy Keach essayed the part. I don't remember too much about his performance, but at one time I remember he was quite a respected classicist before his British drug bust and apparent fall from grace. At any rate, what I liked most about the performance was the enjoyment conveyed by two giggly teenage girls sitting behind me. They proved the real purpose of Shakespeare or any other fine theater, when one burst out at the end of an act: "I can't wait to see what happens!"

I was also reminded of Howard Dietz's wonderfully clever lyrics to Arthur Schwartz's delightful melody "That's Entertainment" from the movie version of their show The Band Wagon. The magazine Time Out New York quoted it without attribution last week when listing the current production. And then, just by chance, last Sunday afternoon Schwartz's son, Jonathan, the doyen of the Great American Song Book, played Judy Garland's wonderful rendition on his weekend public and satellite radio show. What a voice! What diction!

"When a ghost and a prince meet/And everyone ends in mincemeat."

A&P Heir and Me—and Many Others

2008-05-21T11:23:00.001-07:00

The "good grey" New York Times almost always has something to spark one's imagination or memory—in addition to the important news of the day, of course. In yesterday's edition there was an obituary of the A&P heir Huntington Hartford, who managed to squander the family millions most efficiently while probably having a lot of fun doing so:

Huntington Hartford, A. & P. Heir, Dies at 97 - New York Times

The obit reminded me of an experience, evidently common among my young female contemporaries, in my college days. HH had built his hideous Gallery of Modern Art, one of Edward Durrell Stone's more unfortunate creations, on the south rim of Columbus Circle. The art in there was pretty bad, since HH, as you can read in the Times piece, eschewed any of the then currently respected trends. I paid a visit to the windowless gallery one day and was accosted by an older, well-dressed man who asked me how I liked the pictures. I don't remember my reply, but he then confessed that he was the owner of the gallery and tried to pick me up. I managed to scoot away and later had an amusing anecdote to tell my girlfriends: "Huntington Hartford tried to pick me up! Ha ha!" Sometime later, my mother informed me that a friend of hers had actually bragged (the woman was a rather naïve provincial) that HH had tried to pick her daughter up in his gallery. My mother, highly amused and slightly more worldly, said, "My daughter, too!" Apparently every reasonably attractive young woman of the era was fair game. Perhaps HH had even built the gallery to attract new feminine possibilities. Certainly a classier joint than a pickup bar at any rate, windows or no.

Epilogue: In September 2008, after a reported $90 million renovation, the building is scheduled to reopen as The Museum of Arts & Design. I think it's supposed to have windows this time.

PDA in the NYT

2008-05-08T10:23:00.001-07:00

The clever theme of today's New York Times crossword puzzle was "PDA," which appeared in the middle of the grid. The two PDAs in question were "public display of affection" and "personal digital (or data, which didn't fit) assistant." I'm definitely not a fan of the former, but love anything to do with the latter, being a technophile. (I always say that my life didn't really begin until I went online.)

Well, despite my aversion to this rather icky type of display, I remember that I was, admittedly, quite enchanted by same on my first visit to Paris, many years ago and counting. Weaned on various nouvelle vague films featuring Jeanne Moreau and/or the late Gérard (sigh) Philipe, but coming from the basically puritanical U.S., I was thrilled by my various glimpses of couples embracing and locking lips on virtually every street corner or under every tree in the various parcs. It was indeed "just like the movies." My romantic phase could last only just so long, however. What looked—or maybe even still looks—great in Paris or Rome just doesn't cut it here in NYC, especially if you're doing it while sitting in front of me at the theater. Like many another bodily function, it just doesn't translate into public behavior. I'm allowing for the greeting of a loved one at an airport or similar situation, but keep it short or get a room!

A couple of people who post on "Rex Parker's" delightful NYT crossword blog seem to agree with me. It's like a lot of other behavior that pays no attention to the sensibilities of others, e.g., not cleaning up your dog's poop or discarding rubbish in the street instead of in a bin. In the subway the other evening, a person (who looked out of it anyway) threw rubbish on the train tracks even though he was sitting right next to a rubbish bin. Well, if you want to live in the Big City, you have to put up with a certain amount of unattractive—or even illegal—behavior, but I do draw the line at PDA.

As far as Paris is concerned, it does have its reputation to live up to. I'm reminded of a scene in Cyrano de Bergerac in the Brian Hooker translation. Cyrano is trying to detain the Comte de Guiche from entering Roxane's house while she and Christian are being married. Cyrano claims to have recently fallen from the moon and not to know where he is. The Comte, after many attempts to get past Cyrano, blurts out: "A lady is waiting!" Cyrano replies: "Ah! So this is Paris!"

Thai Time

2008-04-25T10:20:00.000-07:00

Once, again, right in one's own backyard! Or, at any rate, across the street in front of my apartment house. The Thai Embassy is directly across from me, as I, fortunately, face the front of my building. I understand that the building across the way, after the Thais renovated it, was dedicated by a Buddhist priest, but I missed that event. They work in there industriously, from fairly early in the morning until quite late in the evening. Maybe they take long lunch hours, but I'm not usually around to notice. Just now, on my normally quiet residential block, I heard a voice speaking through a bullhorn. Did not recognize the language, but then one hears so many different tongues here in Gotham-on-the-Hudson. Looking out of the window, what do I see but an actual demonstration! This happens from time to time, making life all that much more interesting here in dignified, decorous Turtle Bay. Our last big "happening" was the fatal crane collapse a few weeks ago. Now it's Thai protesters. Never a dull moment. I'm not exactly sure what they're protesting; it seems to be that they don't want certain people sent to China. Maybe it has something to do with the Olympics. Their placards read "Free Chen Guan" and "Thai Human Rights Abusers." Maybe there'll be something in the papers tomorrow. Or on our "little channel that could," NY1.

"Cupcake"

2008-04-24T05:06:00.000-07:00

From time to time I have occasion to visit the Columbia University campus in northern Manhattan. As an alumna of the University's noted women's college, Barnard, I frequently experience what is sometimes termed "recovered memory syndrome," if this phenomenon actually exists. After attending an event at Columbia's School of Journalism last evening—sat a couple of rows behind the great-looking Paul Auster!—and passing my old dorm, Brooks Hall, I was reminded of our then mascot, whom we named "Cupcake" for unknown reasons.

My room, a single in those long-ago days, was tiny, but, as the Bard has it, "an ill-favoured thing but mine own."* It, and my friends' adjoining room, looked across 116th Street to a large apartment house. In one brightly lighted window, a middle-aged man in a white bathrobe would appear and, for our delectation, open his robe to reveal—not much of anything. This happened on a fairly regular basis. I don't know why we were not more appalled, especially in those more repressive years, but mainly we found him funny and dubbed the offender "Cupcake."

Now long awakened to the feminist cause, with many battles largely won but still a few more to fight—go, Hillary!—I realize that the man's behavior was at least headed in the direction of criminal. He knew that there were young, nubile women across the street. For him, it was better than the subway, as he couldn't have opened his bathrobe—only a dirty raincoat if he had one—there. The girls' dormitory directly across the street from his apartment was a veritable candy store. It would need a trained psychology professional to explain the exhibitionist mentality, and I don't know if anyone ever reported Cupcake's behavior. He was probably one of millions out there in the Big City and elsewhere. I'm more disturbed thinking about his behavior now than I was at the time it occurred. I was too naïve and bewildered at the time, I guess. Yuck.

*Touchstone in As You Like It, Act V, iv, 57-8

Bloomingdale's, etc.

2008-04-13T08:05:00.000-07:00

I suffer from a malady which may or may not be shared by others: Whenever I enter a store, I am overcome by exhaustion as soon as I cross the threshold. The symptoms are particularly acute with major department stores such as Bloomingdale's, which is probably the prime offender. The big B presents a brilliantly lighted, dizzying kaleidoscope of displays that can easily cause vertigo or even mal de mer. In general, I make a beeline for the escalator to the third floor, home of the so-called "bridge collections." These are generally quality, mass-produced garments which, while not inexpensive, do not fall into the rarefied categories displayed on the fourth, or designer, floor. I zoom past the sale racks, only then heading for the few designers appropriate to my age, height, and lifestyle. But I can't spend more than 15 or 20 minutes before virtual collapse is imminent. I know others who can go on with this for hours. Unbelievable.

Another phenomenon absolutely incomprehensible to me is the usually cowed-looking husbands or boyfriends, who either accompany women shoppers or sit dejectedly on the (very) few seats scattered about the store. I can't imagine any man doing this, unless he's footing the bill, and as a totally independent, self-supporting woman, I can't imagine that, either.

At least, wandering employees have stopped spraying passing shoppers with unwanted scents; apparently some people were allergic and potential lawsuits loomed. I am only psychologically allergic; glad this practice appears to have ceased. The general din and confusion of major department stores and, from my limited observation, shopping malls in general are probably designed to confuse people so much that they spend more than they intended. Of course, at this moment, we do need to keep money in circulation, as various old family members used to say.

And yet, and yet...I may drop into Bloomy's today on my way to a dance concert, as I need some household items which may possibly be on sale there. Haven't been in there in months, so if I'm never heard from again, you'll know that I was eaten alive or trampled to death.

Later: Interesting fact: Bloomingdale's no longer carries 50 percent cotton/50 percent poly bed sheets—only 100 percent cotton, and luxury labels at that. A salesgirl informed me that if I wanted the more plebeian type of sheets I would have to go to Macy's. I asked, "Who wants to iron sheets?" She replied, "They have maids." Well! Bloomingdale's was not the zoo it usually is on a Sunday; relatively few shoppers. I guess the reports about declining retail sales are indeed a fact. Next stop: Macy's, but not today.

"Le violette"

2008-04-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

As one of the champions of free association, I started to hear in my head Alessandro Scarlatti's well-known aria antica "Le violette" when I bought a couple of new African violets the other day. Although I privately consider collecting these particular flowers a sign of old-ladyhood, I can't help it. I love them even though I don't have tremendous luck in growing them. But they're inexpensive, and there's a rather grumpy florist across the street who keeps me supplied. I've finally learned to water them from the bottom only (duh—I guess most people know this already), and they're doing better. Anyway, back to arie antiche: Among those in the know, "Le violette" is practically a cliché in the vocal world; it's one of the songs beginning vocal students often work on. But its delicacy and loveliness prevent its ever becoming stale. Here's a favorite tenor from the recent past, Alfredo Kraus:

YouTube - Alfredo Kraus canta "LE VIOLETTE" (Scarlatti)

Violets have long been a metaphor for shyness because their little buds stay hidden beneath their velvety leaves, only gradually peeping out as they mature. The utterly charming words—conveniently repeated ad infinitum in songs and arias of the period—delightfully reflect the shyness of this little flower:

Rugiadose

Odorose

Violette

Graziose,

Voi vi state vergognose

Mezzo ascose

Fra le foglie,

E sgridate

Le mie voglie,

Che son troppo ambiziose.

Music by Alessandro Scarlatti (1660-1725) from the opera Pirro e Demetrio

Words by Adriano Morselli (fl. 1674-1691)

Dewy, fragrant, graceful little violets,

You stay, shamefaced, half-hidden among the leaves,

And mock my desires that are too ambitious.

So charming it brings a tear to the eye! (Sniff!)

Who Needs to Go Anywhere Else?

2008-04-05T15:04:00.001-07:00

"Only in New York, kids, only in New York."*

I just took this in front of one of the several Irish pubs in my neighborhood: Second Avenue between 52nd and 51st Streets. What a great town!

Just when you think it's a routine, if pleasant, Saturday afternoon, you run into a bunch of bagpipers. And right near your apartment! How great is that?

*Cindy Adams's sign-off to her gossip column in the New York Post. Yes, I confess to reading the Post on occasion, mostly online. Where else does one get the salacious stuff that's too lowbrow for the Times?

South Pacific 2008

2008-04-03T15:14:00.000-07:00

I may be one of the few people of my generation who never saw any staged production, be it in summer stock or a high school musical, of the wonderful landmark 1949 show South Pacific. I have seen the not-very-good 1958 movie (given two and a half reluctant stars in Leonard Maltin's movie guide) and the even less successful 2001 TV version with a miscast Glenn Close. I thoroughly enjoyed the semi-staged concert performance from Avery Fisher Hall that PBS telecast last year. Brian Stokes Mitchell and Reba MacIntyre were wonderful, but they did not repeat their roles for this Lincoln Center Theater production. Oh, yes, I did grow up with the original cast album, an early LP (remember

them?) featuring the two and only Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza.

Last night, I remedied this deficiency and came out singing—and even weeping a bit from Brazilian baritone Paulo Szot's magnificent performance of "This Nearly Was Mine." Mr. Szot is a real find: a matinee idol who has the voice, looks, grace, and above all charisma of the old-time Broadway leading men. And his final song is the equal of many an opera aria. Although he's onstage in only a few scenes, he walks away with the solo honors. Second, or perhaps equal, to Szot is the 30-piece orchestra playing Robert Russell Bennett's original orchestrations. And we have a real overture, and an entr'acte: much-missed relics of an earlier Broadway era, before the invention of the synthesizer.

Later: Kelli O'Hara, roundly praised by the critics whom I have just been reading, is indeed fresh, lovely, and highly accomplished as Nellie Forbush. But for me, she lacked the real star charisma that Paulo Szot projects. This does not spoil a wonderful evening, though. The likeable and gifted Matthew Morrison (I've seen him in Hairspray and The Light in the Piazza) was a highly sympathetic and well sung Lt. Cable, the doomed marine who loves the Tonkinese girl Liat. But the main thing about South Pacific is its evocation of a more optimistic America, as we pulled together to win the last "just" war in which we've been involved. The show dared to bring racial prejudice out into the open at a time when it was seldom alluded to on the stage, and the characters are all realistic, believable human beings rather than the exaggerated stereotypes then common in the musical theater. It ends quietly instead of with a rip-roaring finale, although as we leave the theater, the excellent orchestra plays us out with those unforgettable melodies.

And here's Ben Brantley's review from the April 4, 2008 New York Times:

South Pacific - Theater - Review - New York Times

It will be a hot ticket and could run as long as the original did. I wouldn't be surprised if they moved it to a regular Broadway house after its Lincoln Center run. But only if they can afford to keep that orchestra!

Update: It is indeed a hot ticket. I now read that the run has been extended indefinitely. The original ran for five years.

Lingua Americana

2008-03-20T09:22:00.000-07:00

When it comes to additions, subtractions, or incorrect usages of American English, I have often likened myself to the legendary boy with his finger in the dike. I know that language changes, and words and expressions that used to be incorrect are now ones I frequently use myself. My rule is: If I like it, then it's O.K. Certain vogue expressions past and present amuse me, but others I find insupportable. One that I like is "deal breaker." One of many deal breakers for me is the inability to distinguish between "lie" and "lay." I really tune out when I hear this one misused. To me it exemplifies one's educational level and the inability to speak American English correctly. I've also heard it misused in Britain; they probably caught the virus from us.

I grew up with the delightful military acronym "snafu" (situation normal—all f****d up), which was always sanitized to "fouled up," as I recall. But only after the terrible occurrence, right in my East Side Manhattan neighborhood, of the building crane accident that destroyed a local hangout called Fubar, along with much else, did I learn that the bar's name was a relative of snafu, and also a military slang acronym—perhaps more recent—meaning "f****d up beyond all recognition." Wonderful. Love it. Since we also had, for a while, an Asian fusion restaurant called Fu's in the neighborhood, I thought that the name was just an Asian one. But the bar owner set people straight when he was interviewed after, sadly, losing his business.

A word that I've never been able to prove incorrect is "arguably." I simply refuse to employ this unnecessary adverb. None of the writers' manuals mentions it, but I did find one bit of advice online which suggests that it smacks too much of journalese and should be avoided. I wish others had happened upon this warning. Another offender, often cited, is "hopefully." However, it's now so widespread that I just throw up my hands. I won't use it myself, though.

arguably, arguable. The Columbia Guide to Standard American English. 1993

And please, please, please deliver us from "awesome" and "like" except when absolutely necessary in their original meanings. I know I'm not getting anywhere with this, but blogging about it gives me a chance to vent my spleen (another good old, if clichéd, idiom).

Still will not accept:

"criteria" as a singular; it's "criterion."

Same for "media."

OTOH, (Look! I'm so trendy!), I've been saying "candelabra" for years, when I mean only one candelabrum. I've never heard anyone say "candelabrum." Maybe in ancient Rome. But, believe it or not, I wasn't around then.

Update: This week I heard a military type being interviewed on Terry Gross's Fresh Air on NPR use the word "fubar" just as a matter of course. I guess it's been around longer than I thought, according to Wikipedia. Must have been living in a cave. Apparently it's of nearly the same vintage as "snafu."

More on Movies: John Waters, etc.

2008-03-19T05:43:00.000-07:00

That delightfully naughty John Waters, of Hairspray fame and much else, is doing a promo on TCM for yet another showing of The Wizard of Oz, which I guess can never be shown too often, at least for some people. I love his take on Dorothy's wish to go home to Kansas. He wonders why anyone would want to go back to Kansas: "She'll probably end up working in a 7-Eleven, or something like that." Why would anyone want to leave Oz? Good question. He appears to have remained in Oz himself, lucky guy.

Speaking of old movies, Oz reminds me that the Wicked Witch of the West frightened my cousin greatly and gave her nightmares for a long time. Hope she's over it now; it's been about 50 years. What frightened me as a kid was the excellent The Picture of Dorian Gray (1945), starring George Sanders and Hurd Hatfield, not generally thought of as a scary movie. I was frightened by the color insert of the final view of the portrait, showing Dorian as a terrifyingly ravaged old sinner, marked by all his crimes. Perhaps it was the timing of the way the color inserts in this otherwise black-and-white film were flashed on the screen. On viewing the film later in life, I could never recapture that initial frisson. But I could enjoy the sophistication of the film, particularly Sanders as Lord Henry, uttering all of those Wildean bons mots. I understand that they're doing yet another remake. Why bother?

Dogged Doggerel

2008-03-10T11:39:00.000-07:00

Since blogs are mostly ego trips anyway, I have the temerity to publish a bit of doggerel that occurred to me some time ago. A tidbit of genius by John Updike, at whose feet I grovel, appeared in The New Yorker quite a few years ago, has remained with me, and, along with the late great Ogden Nash, inspired me. Here's the Updike. I love the way his mind worked when he saw the little music performance notice:

Recital

Headline in the Times:

ROGER BOBO GIVES RECITAL ON TUBA

Eskimos in Manitoba

Barracuda off Aruba

Cock an ear when Roger Bobo

Starts to solo on the tuba.

Men of every station—Pooh-Bah,

Nabob, bozo, toff and hobo—

Cry in unison, "Indubi-

Tably, there is simply nobo-

Dy who oompahs on the tubo

Solo, quite like Roger Bubo!"

John Updike

My more feeble attempt came to me after I had recently attended a number of modern dance performances and was daydreaming in the dentist's chair. It was also the result of having had to proofread and edit numerous reviews of and articles about dance performances:

Alfred, Henryk, and Arvo

(With apologies to all concerned)

Schnittke, Górecki, and Pärt

Are keeping us on the alërt:

The Russian, the Pole, the Estonian

Are so in demand we are moanian.

Two Ts in A. Schnittke, an umlaut for P.,

And Ó's not the syllable stressed in H.G.

Even dear Philip Glass is just left in the dust;

Neither accents nor umlauts—so him we don't trust.

If you're making a dance and must genius assërt,

You've got to use Schnittke, Górecki, or Pärt!

Döris

Thunder Rock

2008-03-09T17:40:00.000-07:00

My favorite cable channel, TCM (Turner Classic Movies), listed Thunder Rock (1942) the other day. Assuming it to be a western, a genre to which I'm not especially partial—with exceptions such as No Country for Old Men, I was about to click past it, when whom should I see on my screen in 1940s black and white but James Mason, a favorite, and Sir Michael Redgrave? He wasn't "sir" then, of course. Had never heard of this film at all, so turned to The Internet Movie Database (IMDb) and to my Leonard Maltin guide. It's based on a play that I'd also never heard of, by Robert Ardrey, and concerns Charleston (Redgrave), a disillusioned author and newspaper correspondent in 1930s Europe who tries to convince his British editor of the world dangers that are fulminating in Spain, Italy, and Germany. His editor keeps pooh-poohing Charleston's warnings and prunes all of the essential meaning from his copy.

Charleston, in despair over his ineffectiveness, decamps to America and takes a job as, of all things, a lighthouse keeper on a rocky island in the middle of Lake Michigan. Yes, it is far-fetched, but those who are fond of the likes of Outward Bound or, more recently, The Sixth Sense, may be as intrigued as I was. We get to see dead people! Walking and talking!

Charleston's friend, played by Mason, arrives and tries to convince him that his self-imposed isolation from a world on the brink of war is a mistake and that he needs to continue his crusading stand, but Charleston drives him away. Mason actually has quite a small part and disappears about a quarter of the way into the film.

There is a plaque on the wall of the lighthouse, commemorating the victims of a Great Lakes ferry that sank in 1849. As Charleston muses on this, a grizzled ship's captain makes an appearance, followed shortly by a poor British workman and his pregnant wife; a determined spinster headed for Salt Lake City; and a distinguished Viennese doctor, his wife, and his adult daughter played by a very young and beautiful Lilli Palmer. These are all the ghosts of some of the shipwreck victims, and Charleston has conjured them up in his mind. The poor workman has left several children with friends in Britain in hopes of making it to California—remember, it's now 1849—where he hopes to strike it rich. The spinster, who has spent time in prison in Britain for disturbing the peace in her crusade for women's rights, has resigned herself to entering into a polygamous marriage in Utah, merely for security. The doctor was ostracized in Vienna for using a powerful anesthetic to relieve the pain of a dying patient and may have been thought guilty of euthanasia. Thus, he had to get outta town.

Charleston gradually realizes that each of these disparate characters had given up instead of trying to soldier through and improve conditions at home. When his head clears, the ghosts have gone and he stands silhouetted against the waves breaking on the rocky island, wind blowing artistically through his hair, looking hopeful and heroic. We assume that he's going back to Britain to stir things up once again. It's possible that this film was directed to some extent at expatriate Britons or other Europeans who went to America when they realized that World War II was about to break out. People should not abandon their ideals or allegiances in the face of danger, although the Viennese doctor may have stood in for the Jews who were fortunate to get out of Austria and Germany at the end of the 1930s while escape was still possible. This, of course, was a different matter altogether; I'm not sure that the film intended this particular parallel.

Anyway, for special tastes, this is a choice bit of 1940s British wartime moviemaking, worth a look.

Thunder Rock (1942)

Fairway! Oy veh!

2008-03-09T07:27:00.000-07:00

In the August 12, 2007 Times, John Kifner wrote a piece for the real estate section, "My Neighborhood: Life With Zabar's at the Epicenter," in which he referred to the fabled West Side supermarket Fairway as "the home of combat shopping." Boy, was he right! The sage bit of advice to pick one's battles certainly applies to buying groceries here. Kifner's phrase springs to mind every time I enter the place. You really have to gird your loins to shop at Fairway. Little old ladies who have chips on their shoulders and mothers with twin-size baby strollers seem to be the worst offenders. I never try to use a shopping cart. I buy only what will fit into a handbasket (the phrase about going to hell in one certainly applies here). When I see a blocked aisle, I nimbly sprint to what I hope is a less crowded passageway, if such exists. This is not even to mention the hapless shelf stockers, shouting at one another—usually in Spanish, who have to do their jobs, after all. The checkout system is surprisingly speedy, given the crowds.

The advantages of Fairway are well known. Prices are surprisingly moderate, the selection of cheeses and fresh produce is top-notch, and the variety is enormous. I once read that the owner has never remodeled to give his store the glossy look of the typical American supermarket because he can keep his prices lower that way. A quaint touch is the spreading of—wait for it—sawdust on the floor on rainy, snowy, or icy days. No, there's no pickle barrel. However, you do have to be prepared for a fight every time you enter. Some days I just give up after looking in, and return to my East Side neighborhood, where I have a D'Agostino's, a Food Emporium, and an Associated close at hand, not to mention numerous specialty grocers. But it's just not the same.

Fairway happens to be on the ground floor of the building that houses the ballet studio where I take class several time a week; thus, its proximity is both an advantage and a disadvantage. Buying all that lovely food may undo some of the good done by a sweaty ballet class. And I do have to schlep my purchases across town afterwards. Nevertheless, when one's favorite jam is more than a dollar less per jar, e.g., the temptation to patronize "the home of combat shopping" is great indeed.

P.S.: The New York Times's Metropolitan Diary (of which I am an alumna; see very first blog entry, January 31, 2008) confirmed the above observations in its column of March 17, 2008. The last item in the column tells the tale:

Metropolitan Diary - New York Times