Water Music

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!

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!

"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

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!

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!

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

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.