Kicking High Down South

We dearly love both Charlotte Greenwood and Argentina. Put the two together with a dash of Nicholas Brothers, and it's heaven beyond heaven.

Aging, Paris, Kentridge, Basenjis, Revolution, Caffeine, Hemispheric Incongruence

Sometimes I bemoan the fact that I live in a cultural backwater that has the audacity to call itself the "Paris of the Pacific" (sorry, that's Santiago), but then I am sometimes surprised by the offerings right here in this little berg by the bay. This weekend has been a good example.

This morning I dashed down to be early in line for the SFMOMA presentation of William Kentridge - Five Themes that so many of my friends have been raving about. (And most of my friends are raving, raging or some unseemly combination of both). I had a good feeling about the show when, as I was Twittering on my TREO as I advanced in line, I looked to the right and saw a basenji walking by and looking up at me as if she knew she was peering into the eyes of one of the cult of guardians of the African dingos. The Kentridge show is worthy of all the hype -- a heady mix of drawrings, short films (that include homages of that superb Parisian George Melies and that benign German Lotte Reiniger), assemblages, puppet shows, constructions, musings on aging and other stuff).

It was a great show, but there was no time to doddle and I rushed off to MUNI to that charming arrondissement footsteps away from the Pacific, West Portal, where I ventured to catch the matinee of Faubourg '36. I went to get my ticket early and asked the agent if I should return quickly to ensure I got a seat. He rolled his eyes and said, "Uh, that's probably not going to be an issue." (Confirmed later when the lights went down on me and the three other people in the theater. I guess I over estimated the appeal of musical comedies about the clash of Fascists and Leftists in the first third of the 20th Century Paris.)

So I headed over to Fresca (which bills itself as Noveau Peruvian Cuisine) for a nice Peruvian crab salad. However, instead of Twittering, I got into a sort of nasty argument via IMing with one of my exes in Park Slope over my distaste of the clash of cultures at Fresca. Granted, the food and service were good, but they were playing salsa music and served me chips and salsa. Wrong hemisphere and continent. "Oh, it doesn't matter, it's still Latino," W___ in Park Slope texted back. "Would you say that if you were in a restaurant in Tokyo and got bruschetta while they played polka music but defended because it was all from the Northern Hemisphere?"

"Oh, GB, you obsess about things that just don't matter," W___ texted back.

"Oh, and by the way -- noveau Peruvian Cuisine? Excúseme, si no es: ¿el nuevo cocinar de los Peruvian?"

Well, at least Faubourg 36 (marketed in the U.S. as Paris '36 since apparently the distributors thing people in the U.S. are so dumb they barely know where Paris is, let alone being abl to locate one of its better known arrondissements) did not disappoint and was what it should have been: a sentimental two-hour tale of peasants occupying a theater taking it out of the clutches of a Fascist landlord. The number just kept getting bigger and loonier. And, like any self respecting musical, it had big number about going to the sea.
While its charming yet infirm middle-aged male stars were in long swim trunks and tank tops, they outfitted male (sexily Leftist) star Clovis Cornillac in a revealingly thin strip of brief beachwear. Only then did it connect of who he reminded me of -- gay porn legend Jeff Strykker.

Though Cornillac was cast as the "fetching young male lead" he is nearly 42. And it reminded me (going back to Kentridge's themes on aging and Melies) that the French have long had a history of allowing both male and female stars to play such roles into a time when, well by comparison in the U.S. , they'd have Cloris Leachman on Dancing with the stars. I could not help but think ofArletty at nearly 50 playing the "babe" in Les enfants du paradis. Or consider Mistinguett in this clip at 60 playing a young mother singing to her "baby". Perhaps they felt that by casting a nine-year-old girl as the baby, no one would notice that more than one spring had passed since her coming out debut.

These thoughts filled my had as I hopped on the K-train from West Portal (a neighborhood that is surreal to me like most western San Francisco Arrondissements because they feel so non-San Francisco) and then to the Balboa Park BART and then up to Ritual, where it has become a ritual for me to meet up with Friendatella Saturday afternoons to gossip and share insights on the meaning of life and culture. We've debated about the meaning of this roasterie's logo. Is it the flag of Turkey or the hammer and sickle or a gangland razor swung upon the throats of hypocrites. I used to despise this place because of the long lines, abundance of 20-something hipsters pecking away on their iMacs with the self-righteous grandeur of the cult of the Apple/Fuhrer Herr Jobs, and disdain for those of us with speckles of natural highlights in our hair. But Friendatella and I have discovered a row of three tables in the back near the bathrooms and with a scenic view of the burlap bags filled with the beans from Lago Atitlan and Vietnam where our elder faces will not diminish the views from the wall-to-wall windows in the front. Sitting their with my legs crossed in the European male way and nibbling my Madeleine, I felt the spirit of Mistinguett take over me the desire to put on one more show before the fogs of the summer return to Topeka on the Pacific.

Music! Revolution! Peasants! Paris!

I have the day off tomorrow and plan to see this. I'm getting a bit excited already.

Troubled Scottish Youth

The disturbing prologue to Sondheim's epic new opus Trainspotting: The Musical. This is why parents should be careful about allowing their sons to wear skirts.

Frida 'n' Reta

This was the night of 1,000 Frida's just around the block from me. Galeria de la Raza was sponsoring a Frida look-a-like contest of some sort and there were Fridas on cellphones, tiny Fridas, bigger than a barn full of hay 'n' more Fridas, feisty Fridas, frumpy Fridas eating tamales at the Roosevelt, Fridas smoking, Fridas spitting, Fridas talking to their homies in a white 1940s roadster, Fridas reading Proust, Fridas in 49ers jackets, Fridas named Fred, Cantonese Fridas, Yiddish Fridas, feline Fridas, and a duo-browed Frida named Lulu.

When I came home, I popped in The Pajama Game, a rare example of second generation Warner Brothers proletarian musical. Unions, large women, a Foy, a factory, and -- perhaps most importantly -- Reta Shaw. The fact that there ever was a Reta Shaw and that she was captured singing and dancing is one of the rare joys of life. I plan to write more about her soon.

Please feel free to talk about her among yourselves in the meantime as I prepare for a very early Sunday morning flight and raod trip.

!

While I continue to consider the ampersand to be one of the most brilliant forms of typography in human history, I think the worst member of the keyboard family (besides the option to use Comic Sans) is the exclamation point. There are times it and 120 point type are warranted -- end of times, new Scott Walker album, death of Jesse Helms -- but rarely in a movie title. Was it "Hello, Dolly!" or "Hello, Dolly! "?

Thus, I was pleased to see these quotes in Anthony Lane's review of Meryl Streep's latest outing in the current issue of The New Yorker which will help the rag be forgiven of any sins committed against the Obama campaign:

"Like many people, I was under the impression that the new Meryl Streep film was called 'Mamma Mia.' The correct title is, in fact, 'Mamma Mia!', and, in one keystroke, the exclamation mark tells you all you need to know about the movie. Billy Wilder tried the same trick with 'Avanti!', in 1972, but that felt like Chekov compared with this ferocious onslaught of obligatory good cheer.

And further:

"The legal definition of torture has been much aired in recent years, and I take 'Mamma Mia!' to be a useful contribution to that debate."

When a friend dragged me to this atrocity in its pre-Broadway staging a number of years back, I think it was being billed as some sort of feel good fest insured to blast people out of their post-9/11 funk. It only made me want to run to a cave in Central Asia, especially when there was an audience clap along encore in which the audience was expected to stand, an action I refused to participate by claiming my Constitutional rights to not be moved.

And then there is the ellipsis.

I'm going to go read some Chekov to get me out of this feel good funk.

Chalk and Cheese at the Roxie

As far as X-rated musicals with Milton Berle, George Jessel, Stubby Kaye and Joan (Mrs. Anthony Newley at the time) Collins go, Can Hieronymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? is one of the better ones. Here, after a Busby Berkleyesque zodiac number, Joan (playing Polyester Poontang) proves that it was a crime that she didn't go on to do more musicals as she sings to a naked Newley. It screens at the Roxie Wednesday at 9:15 p.m.

Loused Horizon: The Not Dead Kennedy

When I was a child, my father's best friend Harry considered the gauge of a movie's quality was whether or not it had George Kennedy in it. George, he felt, was the only male movie star that was a regular, level-headed guy, most notably as the ever practical Captain Patroni in the various Airport films. In 1973 Harry, his wife, my parents, my sister and I saw George in what may not be his only musical but certainly his only Himalayan musical. Not surprisingly, George was cast as solid engineer Sam Cornelius who designs a water system for the locals.

In the early 1980s, a friend of Harry's ran into George while in the VIP lounge at LAX and spotted him sporting a man purse. When Harry heard, he never went to a movie again for the rest of his 86 years.

In the meantime, here's a better follow-up of my earlier post from this classic musical. And, for Sally Kellerman fans, you might also enjoy this.

The Things I Will Not Miss

In the world of gloriously bad musicals, I think none can top Ross Hunter's 1973 Lost Horizon. Though sadly we don't get to see George Kennedy sing and dance (which would be up there with the thrill of Lee Marvin performing "Wandering Star" in Paint Your Wagon, we do get to see Liv Ullmann and Peter Finch do a few numbers). Why Liv didn't go on to star in more musicals is a mystery to me. In addition, we get to see John Gielgud and Olivia Hussey play Nepalis. Bacharach's "oriental" orchestral ornamentations make Flower Drum Song seem P.C. by comparison.

Did Larry Kramer's anger that led to founding ACT UP really stem from Reagan's HIV/AIDS non-response or from have co-written the screenplay to this wacky classic?

The pinnacle, however, for me is this little tune, "The Things I Will Not Miss", in the library with Olivia and Sally Kellerman long before she pursued her lucrative career as the voice of Hidden Valley salad dressing. Hidden Valley. Shangri-La. Is there a connection?

Taking Back V-Day

More often than not, Valentine’s Day has been a non-event for me. Even when I’ve been in a relationship, even a positive relationship, it’s really not been too significant. And there have been plenty where the day has ground in the pathos of my eternal solitude fostered by my hideous appearance, dysfunctional personality, advanced poverty, bad hair and general lack of marketing skills. Other years I disdain it with haughty superiority and resting content that there is no human male on earth worthy of my companionship, brilliant mind and earth-shattering good looks. One year, as a particularly disastrous relationship was in its infancy, we went to see Leaving Las Vegas and then had dinner at Denny’s. Me: Chicken Caesar; him: some fried/barbecued thing that got all over his face and light-colored pants.

This year I am unusually at peace with Valentine’s Day – neither resentful of it nor feeling that it is forever out of my reach.

For some reason, the song below has always made me think about the day – a song that celebrates something very concrete but just out of reach. It shines a light on the the revelation that despite having been boiled in anger and pickled in cynicism, there is still hope and, more importantly, desire.

I first saw this show during its original run in 1970 with my incredibly hip grandmother who during the eight years she was a widow – 1967 to 1975 – took me to Manhattan where we saw almost every major show of those seasons. Company was one that most resonated with me, one of the last shows in which the music and sensibility were firmly grounded in the times. Plenty of others have since attempted to do that with missteps, but this one felt like the final line of a tradition that began after World War I and fizzled in the Nixon Administration. Plenty of shows that followed would have their share of great moments and songs, but they would never be central to the American psyche the way those were.

The 1970 production of Company had the odd casting of Dean Jones – of countless Disney movies of my childhood – in the lead role of the swinging, sometimes half naked in bed, sexually ambiguous bachelor, which was very distracting and disconcerting.



Even odder was seeing the show 36 years later in 2006 with Raúl Esparza (I just love lisping on that “z” in his name) who was born the year of the original production and was a revelation in the lead role of Bobby. Some people felt he overdid this finale. (The couple in front of me whispered, “Any more vibrato and that poor queen is going to explode!) When he literally screams "mock me with praise", the dissenters and devotees definitely split. The song resonates with me the same way it did three and a half decades ago but with nuance and freshness that he brought to it, most importantly reminding me the amount of hope and fear that I harbor and balance in equal measures today. Once upon a time, when my grandmother took me to a string show that ran from Coco to Pippin to Chicago, the sound of musicals beat close with my heart. It has grown more distant, quaint and irrelevant over the past 20 to 25 years. After five years of dealing with illness, dying parents and others and the general dread of loss, I find I am at such a radically different spot than I was in 2003 when this all began. The thought of Being Alive resonates again this year, in which I can once again embrace that heady mix of ambiguity, fear, longing and optimism, that sound makes Valentine’s Day a holiday I want to celebrate.

Turkey Promises

For some reason, this ditty above from near the end of act one of Promises, Promises (not to be confused with my favorite Naked Eyes tune below) has been on heavy rotation since Wednesday. I also like Julie Klausner's tribute to the same holiday song. Not only does it feature an early career highlight of Donna McKechnie but also Margo Sappington before she went on to choreograph Oh, Calcutta!, but it is also the only song in a Broadway musical that I know of that features one character working in petty cash and another working in accounts receivable. I guess those gals in accounts payable and cost inventory were less inclined to such gyrations and singing.

Things, Want, Promises

I was digitalizing "Turkey Lurkey Time", but ultimately this lyric has been really speaking to me.

Tell me how long must I keep
WANTING THINGS,
Needing things, when I have so much.
There are many men who have much less than me,
Day by day they make their way.
And they find more in life thank I can see.
Tell me,
When will I learn to resist WANTING THINGS,
Touching things that say "do not touch."
People that I meet seem to think I am strong,
They don't see inside of me.
So they don't know I'm weak and often wrong.
Tell me,
Why must I keep
WANTING THINGS,
Needing things that just can't be mine!
(yes, WANTING THINGS, that just can't... be... mine...)

Mein Shtetl Ist Dein Shtetl

17 Emmy Nominations But No Lola Heatherton

Fully Restored and On Its Way

Oh, it is an automated response like the one that just popped up advising me that my two-disc Criterion edition reissue of G.W. Pabst's Dreigrossenoper has shipped and will be arriving just before my birthday that makes life worth living. This gets me more excited than a furry little guy under 5'9" with lots of attitude and style. Well, maybe equally excited. Send me him and the DVD and I'd be humming The Ballad of Immoral Earnings into the wee hours of the night.
UPDATE: Ah, leben ist gut. Leben ist sehr gut.

Junk Thief TV - Second Season Premier

Judy singing the words of Dory Previn that have been called the worst lyric ever written, a brief history of the shopping addiction movement, a 55 second musical tribute to Zasu Pitts, a Mothra sighiting. It's all here in the gala premier episode of the second season of Junk Thief TV. It starts somewhere in the 1950s and ends in Egypt in the year 2015. DISCLAIMER: The Vogue cover is not from the U.S. or French edition but the Finnish Vogue, circulation 385.

Twitchy, Bitchy -- and Manic

"Partly Jane Fonda and partly Jane Fonda!" Oh, JunkThief, what are you talking about, I've heard many a youngster ask. Well, back in 1971, my grammy took me to see this musical (complete with the Oh Calcutta! bare assed reference edited out of the CBS broadcast). Grammy P just loved the show and said she felt it embodied a world where I would one day reside and thrive. I pleaded to have her take me to THAT bar for a Shirley Temple, but she drew the line there. I did make it there eventually "It's just too groovy to believe!"

And you know what, Grammy P, I agree that it's dull to be too sane. Thank you for opening that first window all those years ago.