Crash

Wednesday, 5:45 PM, heading north on Leavenworth, I give the throttle a little pull as I hit the green light at California. Coming down the small grade in the other direction, a white SUV. Into my mind comes a flash of denial, then the thought this isn't really happening. It's followed a nanosecond later by shit- this is going to happen. Crunch. Boom. That sickening bass-laden thud of two heavy things colliding. I feel the grill of the SUV hit my leg. I'm looking down and seeing the pavement coming toward my face. All I hear now is the sound of metal scraping asphalt. I feel the bike falling toward ground. My hands leave the handlebars to prepare for the impact. Is the SUV still moving? I don't know. I'm off the bike. I'm on the ground. Get up. Get out of the street. I'm surprised to find I can do just that. I stand up. It hurts, but I can stand up. I can move. Everything is still attached. People are out of their cars. Seconds have elapsed.

I text someone expecting me shortly and tell them I am going to be late, but I will be there. This is before I realize what's really happened and that I won't be going anywhere later but to a couch, where I will sit all night covering the bruises and bumps in ice packs and watch Dexter.

"Are you okay?"

"I saw everything."

A man gives me his card, saying he witnessed the entire thing- to call him.

A woman says she was right behind me and can be a witness.

I see my ridiculously expensive eyeglasses lying on the pavement in the middle of the intersection. I ask a man if he will get them for me and he does. People are being incredibly kind.

The family of tourists from the SUV come over to me and begin to speak in very refined Spanish. I can't follow what they are saying. I ask someone to please call the police.

I hear the sirens. I see a paramedic truck. I wonder if they are here for me. They are.

I'm examined. I can answer their questions. They ask me how I feel.

Lucky, I reply, incredibly lucky.

They take me into an ambulance and give me the once over twice.

The police arrive and a similar interview takes place.

I text Margarita and tell her I was just in an accident and I don't think I want to go to the movies later. The paramedics offer to take me to the hospital. I decline. I think I'm okay. Bruised, shaken, rumpled, bleeding a bit, but okay, and I realize how much worse this could have been.

I call my mechanic and ask him to send someone for the bike. The cops finish their report. Everyone leaves, the bike gets picked up, but I'm still standing on the corner, waiting for Margarita to come get me. A friend pulls up to the intersection, sees the glass and bits of plastic scattered across it, sees my mangled bike now at the corner, then sees me, and motions you?

I reply with a nod as he's rolling down the window. "Are you alright? Can I do anything for you?"

I decline, telling him help is on the way. A few minutes later she arrives, and a long night begins that could have been much different in so many ways. Worse in so many ways.

This morning I awoke after a what felt like a sound night's sleep, but it was hard to lift myself out of the bed. This afternoon I went to the see the mechanic. "The bike is totaled," he said.

I'm disappointed by the news, but happy I can receive it. After all, I'm still here. Sometimes I forget I am a Viking.

About last night- West Side Story

Arriving at my building after midnight, something I rarely do anymore, I entered the lobby and the night watchman said to me, "May I speak with you for a moment?"

"Sure, what about?" I replied.

"Your former girlfriend is in the building- the one who's not supposed to be here," he said, tapping the small list of people who've been banned from entering the 20-story former hotel, "she came in with another resident."

An especially nasty thought crossed my mind. This was so like her. Then I realized what was really going on. "Are you talking about Isabella or Thais?"

"I don't know- the one with the dark hair." That wasn't helpful- they both have dark hair. Most of them have had dark hair, including the insane one who actually moved into the building - a bouquet of black dahlias.

The physical resemblance between the two women is strong- they're the same height, build, both have black hair and striking eyes, though their eyes couldn't be more different. But to a casual observer or acquaintance it's only in talking with them one might get the sense of how different they actually are- one essentially kind, the other needlessly cruel.

The most obvious identifier is their hair- Isabella's is short, giving her a glamourous aura reminiscent of certain Italian film stars of the 50's and early 60's . Thais' hair is long, and as Penelope once said to me she looks "expensive." These marked differences aside, there were numerous times I would be out with one and could see the question on people's faces as they were trying figure out which one was present. That always made me uneasy.

But one of Isabella's best friends also lives in the building, so it wouldn't be at all unusual or unexpected for her to be here and I asked the night watchman if this was whom she had come in with and he affirmed this to be the case. Relieved, I went upstairs, though it always trips me out a little bit when I know Isabella is six floors directly beneath me.

The timing was ironic given that I was returning from my first date with Margarita, a woman I'd recently met, and I was quite pleased with how the evening had gone- it felt like I was finally moving on from the tumult of the past five years, only to arrive home and be told it was on my doorstep once again.

Margarita and I went to hear the San Francisco Symphony perform West Side Story, the final program of the season and one I've been looking forward to ever since I saw its appearance on the schedule. Ending the season with something large and theatrical has become something of an unofficial tradition of the Symphony's and it seems to me MTT keeps upping the ante- next year will be a semi-staged version of Britten's opera Peter Grimes, but this particular program held out special promise given the material and the conductor's relationship with the composer.

The entryway had signs announcing the performance was going to be recorded, and usually these ask the audience to be quiet for that reason. I didn't actually notice if the signs posted last night had that request on them, but the audience applauded after every number and there was much murmuring throughout- I think it just goes with the territory, as the audience had what appeared to be a significant contingent of people who were more likely to attend the theater rather than the concert hall (all in all I think this is a good thing).

The hall was packed, and distracted by Margarita, I ended up misreading our seat numbers, much to the apparent annoyance of Allan Ulrich, but when we did sit down and settle in I was surprised by the battery of percussion on the stage. I had never before thought about how much the percussion actually drives this score, but it does, and on this night at least (see Josh Kosman's review for another take), the percussion section kept the orchestra tightly reigned in when it should it have been driving them hard, which of course was most noticeable during the dance scene, during which the Mambo just didn't gel at all. It made me think back to the recent performance of Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue, featuring pianist Marc-Andre Hamelin and conducted by David Robertson, which I found wholly lacking the jazz elements vital to making it really succeed, and taking both performances into account I think the orchestra can play, but it doesn't swing. And that's a shame, because Bernstein's music, especially in the first half, really needs a certain swagger to launch it from great into extraordinary.

And it is an extraordinary score. I once read, I think in Sir Denis Forman's delightful book A Night at the Opera, that if you don't like La Boheme you don't like opera, and I think the same can be said for West Side Story and the American musical. Not only is the music superb throughout, but the 1-2-3 punch of three of the greatest songs ever written- "Maria"/"America"/"Tonight" makes me wonder how anyone can't like it. I once had the pleasure of introducing the movie to two little girls, and they ended up playing the "America" scene endlessly. One of my favorite memories is sitting with their mother in my kitchen listening to those two girls nail every part of that song from the living room, squeal with delight, then do it all over again.

Speaking of nailing the song, Cheyenne Jackson's turn as Tony didn't work for me- there were a couple of lower notes he just couldn't nail despite repeated attempts, made all the more apparent by having the singers [unfortunately] amplified (had they gone with opera singers rather than theater singers I wonder if this would have been necessary), and though he looked the part and sang his lines with conviction, there was a lack of passion in his delivery which caused me to notice his limited range and straightforward delivery.  Alexandra Silber's Maria was pleasing to hear, but she also lacked the ability to convey a deep connection with the character. I wonder how much this is due to having the singers perform from behind the orchestra rather than in front of it, which completely undermined last year's performance of Duke Bluebeard's Castle. From a singer's standpoint I can see how challenging it must be to connect with an audience separated by a small army of musicians in front of you, rather than beneath or behind.

Jessica Vosk's smoldering Anita, looking hot in a fitted red dress, looked like she wanted to really bust out during "America" but the song was unfortunately only minimally choreographed, and it was here that I found myself questioning if this work could be a complete success without the dancing, since so much of one's original experience with it is the fantastic work of Jerome Robbins, which was a part of the original design and not a secondary element to the score. For some, West Side Story is as much about the dancing as it is the music and without both it feels incomplete. For the most part the omission wasn't a bad decision, and likely a necessary one- MTT easily made a case for the music on its own merits, but at moments like this it definitely felt like watching Gone With The Wind in black and white.

The best vocal performance of the evening, actually the best moment of the entire concert, one so flawlessly delivered you could feel it resonate in the audience as it unfolded, was Julia Bullock's "Somewhere."  More of her please, at both Davies and across the street.

Refusing to be hobbled by the percussion section, the rest of the orchestra performed well (as was the case with the others singers and members of the chorus as Sharks and Jets) with an exceptional turn from the brass section led by Mark Inouye. MTT's pacing couldn't be faulted for drawing attention to nuances, but they came at the expense of delivering a vibrancy I for one would have appreciated. The audience clearly loved it- the performers received a sustained and exuberant standing ovation. There may be some tickets left for the remaining performances through Tuesday night and I recommend you get one if you can. Overall MTT, the orchestra, and the cast deliver handsomely even if they don't reach the heights one imagines they could and have before with similarly ambitious programs.

We hung around for a while afterwards for the final Davies After Hours event of the season, but spent most of it on the eastern 2nd tier balcony looking at City Hall, beautifully lit in rainbow colors while a steady stream of slow-moving headlights created a river of white light streaming in front of it. I really can't tell you much about what was going on inside. My attention was somewhere else.

A pastoral performed during an iterated prisoner's dilemma

I left my apartment at 7:30, thinking it really was over this time. After almost two years what more could she and I put each other through? It had passed the point of reason, of anything resembling sanity long ago, and now felt like the slow unraveling of the remaining threads which had held both of us trapped in a vicious web of our own design.

Maybe I was even resigned to it, probably for the first time. Not happy about it, not even angry really, but willing to accept that this was how it was going to end and that it had all been essentially for nothing- an iterated prisoner's dilemma with three other casualties left behind in a nasty, zero-sum, side game. Everyone's a loser.

After crossing Hyde I was a third of the way down the block when I heard the footsteps coming up quickly behind me. A woman's footsteps, taken at a run- I could tell by the sound of how the heels hit the sidewalk. I pulled my ear buds out, preparing to see something ugly coming up behind- some cracked-out whore running from someone she just ripped off or something like that. I turned to face it and the Femme Fatale came to a stop up behind me.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"To the Symphony," I replied.

We stood there, facing each other, like we were in one of those stand-offs from John Woo's Hong Kong-era films. Neither of us spoke. Words weren't necessary at the moment- her presence there on the sidewalk said it all.

We began walking toward Davies, down Polk Street, saying little along the way. She was walking much faster than I wanted to, seemingly in a hurry. When we arrived she asked whom I was meeting.

"No one. I knew you'd be busy. Want to join me? I have an extra ticket."

She declined, though I could see her weighing it all before doing so. I watched her walk through the door onto Grove Street and then went to my seat.

The small irony of the concert beginning with Mahler's Blumine wasn't lost on me, and checking the program I was surprised to learn it hasn't been performed by the orchestra since 1970. Somewhere I've heard this performed before, and now I couldn't recall where or when. The ten-minute piece, originally the second movement of his first symphony, is, to use Mahler's own description, "a sentimentally indulgent movement, a love episode." He pulled it from the work after its disastrous premiere. In the middle of it is a solo by the trumpet, effectively performed by Mark Inouye, as was Nadya Tichman's violin solo. The orchestra sounded lush and it was a gorgeous performance, but it's almost a given at this point that with MTT on the podium, any work by Mahler performed by this band is going to sound wonderful.

It was the rare presence of Schnittke's fourth violin concerto on the program that really drew me to this performance. Composed in 1984 and only performed in the house once before (2003), the soloist for these performances is SFS's own concertmaster Alexander Barantschik. Before they began, MTT commented that all the pieces on the program spoke to a sense of nostalgia. That tone is immediately set by the concerto's beginning- tolling bells, creating a sense of something past, an idyll which is interrupted by the harsh reality of the present when the violin enters with shocking discord. A kind of struggle between the two continues into the second movement, where the violinist engages the extensive percussion section in what looked like an agonizing and thankless duel, which the violin loses, finally sawing away silently against a battery of sound.

The third movement Adagio is very cinematic. The presence of an extra violinist performing above the terrace, a prominent harpsichord, and lovely moments from the cellos, all merged into a wonderful whole as it became a dance in the end. The fourth movement brings back the bells, different this time, suggesting a darker, different reality- a wake-up call to the futility of it all as it ends with a visual cadenza, in which Barantschik, after another furious round of soloing, goes down in a conflagration, his instrument is silenced despite his attempts to keep playing, to keep pushing back against what will be an inevitable surrender to larger forces.

Alfred Schnittke

Perhaps it was foolish of me to think of the presence of Beethoven's Sixth on the program as something to perhaps enjoy, but not necessarily get excited about. But my experiences with Beethoven in MTT's hands have run the gamut from extreme disappointment to pleased astonishment and after all these years I never quite know what to expect from him. This performance was really all one could want from this particular piece. The first movement had almost every string player swaying along to its buoyant melody, performed with a lightness that hearkened back to what MTT had previously said regarding nostalgia. It was incredibly expressive, reminding me of why I love Beethoven the way I do.

The second movement's scene by the brook had a languid capaciousness about it and at times it seemed it was going to come undone, but MTT was just pushing it toward the boundaries without ever letting loose of it, and Tim Day had an excellent solo. The last movement's Shepherd's Song was performed with an almost Furtwangler-like sense of pacing and deliberation, with the strings again swaying toward the end. In all, it was pretty damn good Beethoven, exquisite at times, and really, what more could you want than that? Well, maybe for the guy sitting in Row O, seat 9 to shut the fuck up for once, but I still managed to leave the hall feeling rejuvenated, calm, and looking forward to hearing the 9th which will be performed at the end of the season.

The following night I was at home, watching a movie when the phone rang. It was the Femme Fatale, who had read what I'd written about 1978 and wanted to tell me she didn't want to be just another part of "your story." What I didn't tell her then, but she'll know now when she reads this, is that I'd like to bring this story to an end. It's gone on for way too long and soon, very soon, it will indeed be finished.

The Revelator: Gatsby Part 2, and almost everything else...

It started unraveling a month ago at the Kronos Quartet concert in Berkeley. Isabella and I were seated in front of a very odd couple. Everything they said, all of which was spoken quite loudly, was just off. She asked banal questions and made silly observations in a whining, Queens accent, which he answered with great pronouncements, of which half had little if anything to do with what she had said or asked. After a few minutes of this I had to turn around to see what these two looked like. She was slumping in her seat, almost to the floor, with her eyes closed. He was a bear of a man who looked like there was a large spring from the axle of an automobile stuck in his ass. They both appeared to be close to 70 years of age.

I whispered in Isabella's ear, "Just kill me now. Seriously."

Isabella, who has a way of silently mocking me with a look she perfected at some other time and place in her life, smirked, which meant she was mocking me with empathy.

The lights went down, Kronos takes the stage, and began an unnecessarily amplified performance of Michael Gordon's Clouded Yellow- a work for string quartet that could be a pop song if someone loaded a drum track behind it. It was catchy, it was pleasant, it was a pop confection. For a string quartet. I was a bit confused.

Then came something truly awful: an arrangement by Phillip Glass of Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right," again amplified, with accompanying non-live accompaniment by a theremin, mandolin and harpsichord. The last time I heard something so completely dreadful in concept and execution was this.

That train wreck was followed by a piece called Oasis by Franghiz Ali-Zadeh, which yes, was amplified- in fact everything was amplified in a hall that doesn't need it- and it was an interesting piece except for the canned drips of water that plopped all the way through it, making it sound like a jingle by Enigma for bottled water.

Now, during all of these pieces the two behind us kept on chattering to the point where I turned around and asked them to cease talking. The woman replied,"we're not talking." And then she said something to him about Bob Dylan, to which he replied he didn't like Dylan. All of this took place during the performance.
Then the Alim Qasomov Ensemble came out to accompany Kronos in the Azeri traditional Mahur Hindi Destgahi. Led by father and daughter vocalists Alim and Fargana Qasimov, this piece was interesting for the first five of its twenty minutes and then felt like an endurance test for both the performers and the audience.

Intermission.

The man behind us had been making strange, squeaking and chirping sounds for the last ten minutes. No one else in the full house seems to be disturbed by this. Isabella turns to me and says, "let's go outside."

We sit down and she says, "I need to talk to you about something important."

Inwardly I release a sigh. She's going to want to go home. She's tired and this is terrible. This is actually perfect, because it's exactly what I'm thinking. But it's not what she's thinking.

She tells me something else entirely which has nothing to do with the concert and doesn't mention wanting to leave.

So we go back inside and there's screaming and shouting coming from inside the auditorium. People are saying "Call 911!" I enter the hall to take a look (she doesn't want to see whatever is happening) and there's the man who was sitting behind us being wrestled to the ground by four or five men, somewhat unsuccessfully, since he keeps kicking them and shouting obscenities. The woman is beside herself and I expect her to start keening any moment. We decide to call it a night after 20 minutes of this and no ambulance in sight. I have no idea if the rest of the concert was as dismal as the first half.

The next night, Monday, Isabella and I have a major row.

Tuesday and Wednesday disappeared into a blur of the past colliding into the present and a desire to obliterate it all.

On Thursday I attended the Leif Ove Andsnes concert with The Swede, who had just returned that afternoon from his vacation in Pakistan. That's right- The Swede's idea of a vacation is to travel to Pakistan. Actually, our fine ally, harborer of terrorists and fanatics, was his second choice for a vacation spot, but he couldn't get a visa for North Korea without agreeing to such a rigid itinerary the whole idea became unpalatable to him. Nevertheless, he had a marvelous time celebrating the Prophet's birthday and eating ice cream with young, horny men and told me all about it over dinner and Manhattans before the concert.

I'll admit now that I did enjoy making him spit out a good portion of his drink through his nose when I timed an anecdote about my last visit to this restaurant with the Femme Fatale just right, causing him to exclaim afterward, wiping the bourbon from his chin, "That's why I love you. I thought only gay guys did that shit!"

At intermission the Swede hit the wall and had to leave, which I understood, as I was already surprised and impressed that he even wanted to go in the first place, since he had just got of the plane hours earlier. After he left I spotted Patrick in his usual spot in the front row and went over to say hello. Patrick wrote a most brilliant post about the concert wherein he wonders at one point if he was coherent while we were talking, completely unaware that I was thinking exactly the same thing, but for different reasons.

On the walk home I noticed the Chevy's on Van Ness had called it quits, and this surprised me for some reason, though it probably shouldn't have- after all, who wants to eat at a Chevy's when you're in San Francisco?

The next night was Gatsby.

Now I must confess to a dilemma concerning how much of this story I want to reveal. On the one hand, I'd like to put it all out there in an effort to be done with it, as it's colored (and explains) so much of the last eighteen months. On the other hand, the last time I wrote something like I've intended to post here, it seemed to freak some people out- some actually stopped talking to me and I felt a frost for months afterward. Apparently I had crossed a line by revealing too much of the backstory of my relationships to the characters found here. And what I wrote back then is nothing compared to what I've detailed about what went on at the Gatsby performance, and other things I've considered writing and then thought better of it, realizing it belongs in a different blog, if not another medium entirely. Conflicted, I asked two people whose opinions I trust- Isabella and Lily Bart, if I should write it and they both said write it, but don't publish it. Isabella felt even more strongly about this after I let her read the finished piece. So what follows is only the beginning of what I originally wrote and intended to post, and that's all there's going to be.


Isabella and I had really been looking forward to attending this performance together but the row dashed that plan. CC couldn't make it, so I ended up going stag. I picked up my ticket and as I was making my way toward the door the I saw the Femme Fatale ahead of me in all of her carefully constructed glory- a sight I had come to expect, since it was recurring with an ever-increasing frequency. I quickly looked around for the Cuckold and spotted him ten feet ahead of her.

I came up behind her shoulder and said quietly into her ear,  "Why don't you just introduce us?"

She looked at me steadily, as if she had expected this to happen.

"Okay, I will," she said, with an unsettling coolness in her voice and expression- as if this was all going exactly according to her plan....

She caught up to him and turned him around by the shoulder,
"I want to introduce the two of you," she said...

Use your imagination to fill-in the gaps from there. Was it ugly? Yeah, it was. If you think about what happens in Gatsby, add a heavy dose of adulterous noir, you'll have a pretty accurate picture of what followed. At the conclusion of the show, they went one way and I went another- just as we have for the past year, except for the brief interludes when she left his house for mine.

The next day I went to see the broadcast of Gotterdammerung- another outing planned with Isabella which I was now doing solo. Afterward I ran into Jim, an old theater guy from New York whose niece I dated shortly after I first moved here in 1992 and for another stretch a dozen years ago. I expected to see him, as he had also attended the other three installments of the Met's Ring broadcasts, and I was glad he was there. He's full of amusing anecdotes and strong opinions. We went for coffee after the broadcast and chatted for a couple of hours. It was the first time in the nearly twenty years I've known him we didn't talk about opera or theater and on that afternoon I couldn't imagine better company than that 80 year old man.

At this point I'm beginning to feel like Corky Corcoran- not the musician, but the character in the Joyce Carol Oates novel (read it if you haven't- it's a marvelous book).

Two days later it was Valentine's Day and Isabella and I decided to stick with a slightly modified version of our original plan, which was to go hear the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, who were visiting town for the first time in over 20 years. The concert began with Arthur Honegger's Pacific 231, a six minute piece ostensibly about locomotives which was thoroughly delightful in its chugging glory, but when the train reached the station, the subtlety of the "locomotive" euphemism disappears completely into an orchestral orgasm more obvious than the trombone exhalation ending the rape scene in Shostakovich's Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. Some enterprising stripper should use the piece in a routine.

Next came Mason Bates' Alternative Energy. It's easy to be skeptical about seeing Bates as a serious composer. First, he comes off too easily as an orchestra's dream of who could lure in a younger audience- he's young, good-looking, and cool (lives in Oakland, and he's also a club DJ as well as a composer). Second, he incorporates electronic elements into most, if not all, of his compositions. But I really enjoyed his B-Sides, commissioned by SFS a couple of years ago and I was looking forward to hearing this new work, commissioned by Chicago, where he's currently one of two young composers-in-residence.

Don't let anyone tell you differently- Bates is the real thing. Alternative Energy turned out to be one of the most interesting and engaging contemporary works I've ever heard and if one were available, I would buy a recording of it tomorrow. The twenty-five minute, four movement piece was engaging from the first note, moving from Coplandesque hoedown to thumping beats that caused 70 year old conductor Ricarrdo Muti to show us his disco moves from the podium, baton in hand, as Bates' work stopped in four distinct places and times during an aural history of how things will fall apart in the future.

Sadly, Cesar Franck's Symphony in D didn't have the same impact after the intermission.

The next night I returned to see Chicago's next program, this one featuring Night Ferry, a work by their other composer-in-residence, Anna Clyne. Again, this proved to be the highlight of the evening. Clyne's work begins with the most evocative musical rendering of the sea I've ever heard and just grew more interesting as it went along. By turns hypnotic and violent, it ends with a gong being struck which dissipates into nothingness like a black sea left behind at night on a moonless night. I'd like to thank whoever decided to bring Bates and Clyne to Chicago- their works were wonderful to hear.

Again, as it was the night before, what followed was decidedly less interesting- Schubert's The Great Symphony, with its endless repeats, just felt tedious after Clyne's piece. This made it hard to really come to a conclusion about the Chicago orchestra- they gave excellent performances of works no had yet heard, but the familiar didn't leave much of an impression. I was seated next to Axel that second night, who marveled at what he described as their "blended" sound, but I found it more difficult to get an impression of what made the orchestra unique beyond the obviously high-caliber playing from every section.

Two nights later I was back at Davies, this time with Lily Bart, to hear former music director Edo de Waart conduct a program that proved to be much better in the house than it looked it on paper, which was a strange brew indeed.

It began with the Prelude of Franz Schreker's marvelous opera Die Gezeichneten (The Stigmatized), which in de Waart's hands sounded even lusher than I had remembered it when I saw it performed by LA Opera under James Conlon a couple of years ago. Schreker's music nods to Wagner, but the debts to Mahler and Strauss were what really came through in de Waart's hands. One can only hope the glory of this music encourages the company across the street to one day bring the whole thing to town.

This was followed by Simon Trpceski as the soloist for Rachmaninoff's fourth piano concerto. Trpceski gave a magnificent performance of a difficult but flawed piece- the fourth lacks almost everything which makes the second and third concertos so thrilling and absorbing- the decadent, lush melodies and over-the-top solos. Still, his jazz-influenced playing style was impressive and I look forward to his return. de Waart and the orchestra sounded fantastic alongside him.

The last piece was Saint-Saens Symphony No. 3, Organ, featuring Jonathan Dimmock as the soloist- an almost ridiculously over-stuffed work that was delightful to hear and played with serious earnestness. It worked remarkably well. de Waart hasn't been on the stage of Davies in a very long time, and I hope this strong performance, and the justly tremendous reception it received from the audience, causes the powers that be to bring him back again soon.

The next night Lily took me to a small salon out in the avenues, where we were part of a tiny audience watching two performers doing a spin on the theme of "Death the trickster"- one by a singer-songwriter whose cycle had a decidedly David Lynch-like quality to it, the other by a marvelously gifted magician with a flair for the dramatic and theatrical. The theme struck a chord with me, and a couple of days later, taking in everything that happened in those previous two weeks, and how it felt like the culmination of the past two years had just been bluntly pushed through the end of funnel lined with razor blades, something shifted inside my mind and I went undergound for awhile. But I'm back. And that's all there is.

A Hero is born: The Met's Siegfried

On the Intro page of Jay Hunter Morris' website he writes:

"... I don't have one of those voices, ya know, where I can just open up and be glorious. But I am stubborn and persistent and one of these days just maybe I will ... for me, there probably won't be some big break, some new production or role... that just brings it all together and I'll be a great tenor and in great demand and will possess a flawless technique and I will behave properly and have panache and be clever and artsy and thin and everyone will love me."

JMo, you may want to consider rewriting that page because I think all that's just changed for you, thanks to yesterday's Met Opera Broadcast of Siegfried. 

I was in the house (front row) for Morris's debut in the role at San Francisco Opera back in May. I liked the performance, especially his presence, but felt his voice lacked the necessary heft to truly own it. Furthermore, he was overshadowed by David Cangelosi's strong turn as Mime and undermined by Francesca Zambello's scatter shot direction. Still, Morris gave a memorable performance and I heard he got stronger as the run progressed.

Now, six months later he's living "a star is born" moment as the last-minute replacement for Gary Lehman (a replacement for Ben Heppner), who fell ill during late rehearsals. Morris was his understudy and just like in the movies, got his big break. And he killed it.

From the house my friend Brian tweeted to me that Morris still sounds "a tad underpowered," but in theaters across the world where the performance was shown to tens of thousands of people, he was simply fantastic on every level, giving new life to a Ring Cycle which had seemed somewhat adrift until now. Morris' presence, coupled with conductor Fabio Luisi's magnificent, transparent account of the music, seemed to ignite the entire cast to a heightened level of execution, easily making this the best part of director Robert LePage's Ring so far.

At least that's how it came across in the theater, where the perfect sound mix and well-executed camera angles greatly influence one's perception of what's actually taking place live in Lincoln Center, not to mention all of the backstage action shown to the audience- which also influences our perception- especially when you have someone as likable offstage as they are on it, such as Morris, who came across as one of the nicest guys in the world during the intermission segments. Yes, it's manipulative and designed to sell the Met and its performers to the audience, and yesterday it all worked exceedingly well. The only thing I'd like to quibble about is the camera lens they used for Renee Fleming's introduction, which wasn't very flattering to her.

As for the show itself, LePage's vision for the cycle has a confidence in Siegfried I found lacking in Walkure and Rheingold. The monolithic "Machine" doesn't distract from what's taking place onstage (the noise it makes was only noticeable in the first act and wasn't a serious intrusion), but finally works to serve the entire work and not just create set pieces. The use of it in the third act when Siegfried goes through the fire was a superb use of it, though I'm not sure Morris' stumble was choreographed. The opening video work by Pedro Pies was gorgeous, creating a vivid tableaux both mysterious and alluring.

Gerhard Siegel's Mime was well-acted, but more importantly, beautifully sung. He doesn't fall into the common habit of accompanying Mime's unattractive physical and personal qualities with a whining tone, as is often the case. Siegel sang Mime as if he himself were Siegfried, making the character more complex. While his interpretation doesn't make Mime sympathetic (which even if it was desired would likely be impossible), Siegel makes him interesting and for once, a pleasure to hear.

Morris was born to be on a movie screen- his good looks only added to his superb vocal and physical performance. There's nothing really likable about the character of Siegfried- he's a violent, insolent, self-absorbed teenager- an unpleasant hero if there ever was one. While few can sing the role, fewer still can make him truly a sympathetic hero onstage. Morris can do both- and does, giving Wagner's brat truly heroic dimensions and depth- especially in the second act. Amazingly, he seemed to gather strength as the afternoon progressed and it was only toward the very end, when he had to go up against the freshly awoken Brunnhilde, that anything resembling fatigue became evident in his voice. Still, it didn't effect his sound, which remained clear and bright- but his volume seemed to diminish slightly against Voigt's formidable strength. It's going to be difficult for anyone who saw this to think of someone better for the role. It's your now, JMo- run with it.

For the first time in the cycle I really enjoyed Bryn Terfel's Wotan/Wander. Looking like Rick Wakeman, Terfel's presence in Siegfried is infused with resigned authority. He possesses a confidence with the character at this junction I couldn't see in Rheingold or Walkure, which diminished the impact of his vocals in the earlier segments. The voice, as could be expected, was marvelous, but it was his characterization which left the biggest impact. His best moments came in the third act, where he gave powerful depth to Wotan's moment of doubt. For just a moment, Wotan seemed like he was about to refuse to yield to the future he himself created. His costume also served him to much greater effect here than it did in the earlier opera.

Speaking of costumes, Deborah Voigt looked radiant and visually the pairing of her with Morris turned out to be serendipitous to the production- they truly looked like they belong together. In fact they should have been placed closer together onstage- at points they seemed too far away from one another. Vocally, she impressed again and her greeting of the sun upon awakening was one of the most beautiful moments I've heard from her.

The rest of the cast were also strong- in fact everyone was "on" for this particular performance. Though Eric Owens' Alberich didn't have the ferocity he displayed in Rheingold, that only reflects the story arc, as Alberich is now a diminished presence, even if there's nothing diminished about the strength and power of Owens' formidable voice. Mojca Erdmann's Forest Bird was pleasing but with the character's presence represented by an animated bird (which didn't look great on the screen), it didn't create much of an impact. Neither did Hans-Peter Konigs turn as Fafner, at least until we got to watch him die, because the dragon was the only misfire of the entire production- essentially an inflatable snake, it looked wholly out of place and from an entirely different show- as if its creation was an afterthought. Patrica Bardon's Erda was well sung, but the interpretation of Erda in this Ring continues to confuse me- what exactly is she supposed to be? Her scene with Wotan makes no sense as staged here.

Finally, James Levine's absence from the podium isn't going to hurt this Ring in the least if yesterday was a hint of what's to come. Though Luisi's conducting felt restrained at times, he clearly was leading the orchestra in service to the singers and the score. The result was a transparency which revealed leitmotifs I've never noticed before and taken as a whole, the orchestra's performance was a major contribution to the success of yesterday's performance.

Encore dates for the screening have not been announced as of today.

10 1/2 weeks: the Fadista and the Femme Fatale

Ana Moura- the fadista

Knowing it was inevitable didn't make it any easier to see her face and in the back of my mind I often wondered during these last 10 1/2 weeks how I would react when it was finally in front of me. My imaginings of the moment lurked in the darker part of my consciousness like a beast in a jungle, waiting to devour me once I came upon it if only given a half chance. Though I certainly wasn't ready for it, I felt- no, I knew- it would happen at this performance. Some things you just know, and as she once told me, I possess a "Gypsy-like" way of knowing certain things. This prescience (for what else can you can call it?), saved my life on more than one occasion, the most memorable being when it kept me from sitting in the front seat of a car for no apparent reason (and much to my mother's protestations), only to avoid being there 10 minutes later when the entire passenger side was creamed by a car running a red light.  In retrospect it's more than odd I possess this "gift" yet there are so many things I willfully turned a blind eye toward for months on end- the things we choose to ignore, because the fantasy has much more appeal than the reality. Yet there we were, to hear music that was centered in the reality of matters of the heart, of life, the reality of what is- not the fantasies of people who pursue an illusion. Fado is a Portuguese version of the blues- or Greek rembetika- music which reflects life,  giving it a universal, indestructible appeal.


Scanning the orchestra section of the Herbst Theater, I didn't see them, which didn't surprise me because I know he likes to buy the cheap seats, so they were probably sitting upstairs in the balcony. It was only after the show, when I noticed the table in the lobby for the fadista to sign CDs that I knew that's where they would be. And then, as if on cue, there they were.

It was the first time I've ever seen them together, though I have seen him before. As a couple, they resembled a lemur and a panther placed in the same cage- as if proximity would erase the incongruity. It doesn't. She went off to do something (check her make-up, I presume, but perhaps to text her newest victim), while he dutifully took his place in line for an autograph, waiting for her to come join him. I knew she was the one who wanted the CD and the autograph. The things he's done for her astound me- he knows most of it, if not all, and yet he's still there.

Do you remember the Joe Jackson song "Is She Really Going Out With Him?" It's not quite the song I would use to describe how I felt at that moment, but it comes pretty close. If the song were to really mirror the reality it would have been called "Did She Really Go Back to Him?" When she returned to the line he took leave of her, most likely headed to the restroom, and there stood the Femme Fatale, alone in the queue with her back to me. I approached her from behind and touched her neck. Not a gentle touch, but certainly without the force with which not long ago I used to use at her request. She spun around. Our eyes met for a brief moment, less than a second it seemed, before I turned away from her and made my way into the night.

It was one of those moments you replay in your head, endlessly considering the myriad alternatives of what could have happened at that moment, now irretrievable.

Before all of this, the fadista- Ana Moura- closed out SFJazz's Spring Season with what was essentially a masterclass in the "less is more" school of divadom, from which Beyonce and Gaga might well take some lessons. Taking the stage under a single spotlight in the Fado tradition, dressed in a gown which stated in no uncertain terms she was unapologetic to show off a real woman's figure, Moura proceeded to entrance the assembled for a brief set (less than an hour and a 1/2) that covered a lot of ground and yet at the same time left us feeling as if we had just watched, been witness to, something unique and special.

Moving little more than her left shoulder in what could only be described as a half-shimmy and sometimes moving her hips to rhythm, Ana Moura simply owned the stage. Talent and presence trump flash every time, and she has enough of both to burn. Yet she never more than smoldered, and that was enough- her stage persona is warm and inviting, not distant nor aloof. She knows she's sexy. She knows she talented. She knows that's enough and the rest is just unnecessary when one possesses these gifts. Women like that can make any audience succumb, whether the audience constists of one or a thousand- and collectively, we did. Speaking in Portuguese, and sometimes in English, she led her three accomplished accompanists through a set that left me feeling like I was standing in a gentle rain on a beach during a warm evening. That's probably not what one associates with fado- more commonly found in dark clubs, preferably late at night, but Moura's voice and demeanor transport the listener to a gentler, sultrier place. It's no wonder both Prince and the Stones have wanted to work with her.


For me there was a distinct irony when she performed the Stones' "No Expectations," with its refrain "I got no expectations, to pass through here again" - toward the end the Femme and I were on a Stones jag, writing back and forth the songs we thought most appropriate to our situation like two kids in high school. I left the exchange with "Stupid Girl."

"Fado de Procura," from the album Para Além Da Saudade turned out to be another highlight- a lighter touch giving the musicians a chance to shine with some extra fancy fretwork. Moura's was a graceful, elegant performance. I wish I could say the same about the  myself and the Femme Fatale, but this was fado- the blues, and you and I know it sometimes just doesn't work out that way.


Leaving the Femme Fatale behind, without a word said between us, I made my way into the night, heightened in its usual craziness because it was Pink Saturday in San Francisco- a night when the air surges with electricity as gay people congregate from all over to celebrate in one of their few Meccas. Thankfully I had plans for afterward, so for awhile at least, the encounter I'd left behind was just that- behind me as I went to meet out Isabella. But some things leave a trace long after they've been left behind or abandoned.

To be continued- without a doubt.

Some more of this, no more of that...

Photo by Mark Brown

Back in March I wrote this post in a feeble attempt to explain the scatter shot nature of what's been going on here. Without going into the prurient details, in the two months since much has changed but A Beast is still a poorly-groomed, unruly animal. The "endgame" I wrote of at the time was in reality a game of a different sort in which I was completely played. I'm only now willing to cash in my chips and walk away from table after taking quite a beating.

In a couple of weeks I'm going disappear down south to read some books on a beach for a few days and enjoy a change of scenery.

Prior to that there are a slew of interesting performances coming up- the Mahler concerts at SFS, Druid's The Cripple of Inishmaan, Volti, some great shows from SFJazz and the Met's Walkure .

I'll return in time to catch SFO's Siegfried and Rickie Lee Jones at Davies. Then it will be June and time to take in the best month of the Symphony's schedule, a Ring Cycle right here in town, and more. The Coming Up page has links and information for all of these performances.

As of today, there isn't a link to the other performance, the tale of the game, but the thought has crossed my mind. To that end (and others), I've invited a new author to join me here who's better suited to such material, though that doesn't imply he's any less an unreliable narrator than yours truly. Meet Lambert Strether.

Smooth Operators

Saturday night I had the pleasure of seeing Max Raabe and the Palast Orchester perform for the first time. The dapper Raabe crooned his way through the two-hour set while the twelve piece orchestra dazzled the audience with exquisite renditions of songs from the 20s and 30s. The setting, Oakland's Paramount Theatre, added an aura of authenticity to it all and was buzzing with people in period dress. It was like taking a step back into a past most of us only know from the movies.

The set was comprised of Weimar- era and American songs sung in German or English. Raabe, a baritone who sang mostly in falsetto, introduced each song in a deadpan demeanor, often with a wry joke. His movements are minimal and when not at the microphone he would step back to lean against the piano and watch the others. All of the musicians played more than one instrument and some of the changes were quite surprising, for example when one the horn players pulled out a violin and and strode to center stage. While Raabe's a captivating center, the personalities of the musicians emerge throughout to make the show much more than a singer with a back-up band. It's truly a flawlessly choreographed show performed by 13 people. Among the many highlights were Weill's "Alabama Song" and Berlin's "Cheek to Cheek,"  which prompted the octogenarians seated next to us to sing along.

My only complaint was the lack of a dance floor for some foxtrotting, but that's a small quibble- this was one of the most delightful performances I've seen in recent memory.

After the show, the Minister's Rebellious Daughter, Chad Newsome, Axel Feldheim and I went around the corner for drinks at the very lively Flora, where we spotted Raabe at the bar.

The concert was presented by SFJazz.

Casting the remake of Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!

General Chang and Chad Newsome were over at the apartment tonight working off last night's adventures and keeping me company since I'm ill and indisposed. It was the General's first time over since he relocated last summer and he was admiring the fine Jenn Lloyd pen and ink art which hangs upon my wall:

I mentioned to him Jenn had started doing drawings for an eventual painting of Tura Satana for me, but I requested she stop because in my current situation I didn't want to be obligated for a painting I wasn't sure I could afford at the moment. The General and Chad were unfamiliar with the name Tura, which resulted in an immediate viewing of Russ Meyer's classic Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!

Jenn Lloyd's pen and ink of Tura

Chad seemed to deeply appreciate the art of it all, though its impact was perhaps not as deeply impressed upon the General's psyche. He is a tougher nut, truth be told. However, that led me to lead them into one of my favorite parlor games- "Whom to cast in the Tarantino remake of Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill!"?

The rumors of Tarantino wanting to do this remake have been around for years. Satana herself validated them before her recent death, but when I asked the director the question point blank a couple of years ago during a Q & A at the premiere of "Inglorious Basterds" at the Castro, he scoffed and dismissed the entire thing as poppycock. I thought his response disingenuous at the time and still do.

Too bad he feels this way about it, because it would be a cinematic match made in some sort of a perverted heaven.

The General and Chad are of a younger generation than I. In fact, they are young enough to be sons of mine though we never discuss such uncomfortable scenarios. Because of the age difference, playing this game with them, since they have a different perspective on who is "hot" as far as contemporary actresses goes, seemed like good sport to me. I didn't expect them to throw out the obvious choices for the Darla role that I would prefer- Rosario Dawson or Monica Bellucci being first and foremost. But perhaps you can understand my dismay and disappointment when I learned neither of them knew of Asia Argento, whom I think would make a perfect Darla for their generation, if not my own.

We bantered about a few names to fill the nasty, violent and sexy triumvirate of the lead Pussycats. Scarlett Johansson was mentioned, as was Eliza Dushku and Megan Fox, though the latter seemingly the most implausibly plastic and fake of the lot. I kept the idea of casting Britney Spears as Billie to myself, though I have to admit I think it would be the most brilliant casting ever.

Imagine my surprise when we settled upon a trio closer to my age than theirs: Christina Hendricks taking over from Satana as Darla; Kim Kardashian taking over for Haji as a whole lotta Rosie; and Battlestar Galactica's Tricia Helfer as Billie. In praise of older women? Absolutely. But then I could have told Chang and Newsome this would be the case all along, as long as one was looking for satisfaction- not cheap thrills.

And believe me, if a studio could get Tarantino to remake the film with this cast? The box office from the remakes of Charlie's Angels would look like chump change. Just sayin'.

Some of this, some of that....

A Beast has been anything but consistent lately, I know. A bunch of Prince posts, then suddenly out of the blue come these American Idol posts, the random classical concert or dance performance popping up for air in between all of this other stuff and some longer-than-usual silences. The crazy-quilt, who-knows-what's-coming-next state of this blog currently reflects my life at this moment in more ways than one.

Though I've been sick for the last week, I'm going to beast-up and go hear Kurt Masur conduct an all-Mendelssohn program with the San Francisco Symphony tonight. Tomorrow night Penelope and I are going to see "The World's Oldest Profession" at the Brava Theater, and then on Sunday I'm going over to Berkeley to hear Cal Performances present Jonas Kaufmann, the tenor currently taking the opera world by storm, in his local debut.

While I'm busy doing all of this, the contours and shape of my life may be changing in significant ways as something else plays out in a quiet house on a hill in San Francisco. Come Sunday morning, everything may be different. Then again, the song could very well remain the same as it has been these past couple of years. I'm a bit on pins and needles, waiting to see how this all plays out. An endgame has begun. In the meantime, thank goodness there's art, life, and the constancy of Penelope.

In the holiday Meat Grinder

Saturday night in the City. Holiday season is in full effect. Penelope is at the beach. The Femme is stuck in her castle. The Swede is on holiday in Syria, the Greek's gone MIA, the Minister's Rebellious Daughter is nowhere to be found and the only two people who would go see a nasty Thai flick about cannibalism ala Sweeney Todd are my next door neighbor who can't get out of a holiday party (perhaps she was just being kind) and la Divinavila, who is in L.A.. Fuck it, I'm still going, but the trek to the theater forces me to walk through the hordes downtown, tens of thousands of oblivious out-of-towners and tourists who move in slow, meandering packs weighed down by bags from Old Navy, a general sense of stupor and their obvious, oblivious awe and uncomfortableness at finding themselves in an actual City for a change. There are couples and groups and I'm consciously aware that I'm on my own, headed to see a movie called Meat Grinder. Ho ho ho.

I arrive at the venue. There's a big party going on downstairs. An usher asks me "Are you here for the Nutcracker?" I reply in the negative. I'm here to see the movie. It's supposed to start in 10 minutes.

She looks puzzled. She tells me the movie is upstairs but they haven't told her to let anyone up yet. She directs to someone who should have an answer. Turns out I'm the first one there. I get my ticket and a guy comes out and lets me into the upstairs theater. It's small, and completely empty. It stays empty, except for me, for at least another five minutes. I open up my package of Red Vines, bought at a Walgreen's on Market St.. I think I should be in a grindhouse. Why did the Strand Theater have to close? I'm a middle-aged white guy sitting alone in a theater with Red Vines and a flask on a Saturday night while there are thousands of people within a mile's radius who are shopping for loved ones, dressed up and on their way to holiday parties, celebrating "the season." It's okay- I'm in my natural element. Meat Grinder is part of series of films called Go to Hell for the Holidays and that's something I can appreciate. It's an idea I can get behind after a week where Obama completely punks out and then lets Bill Clinton stand in for him. Talk about disappointing.

Finally someone else walks into the theater, and wouldn't you know it- it's someone I know. Not well, but our jobs used to intersect and I seem to always see him at Patti Smith concerts. We have a mutual friend, Chad, who tipped me off to these screenings and I know it was this guy who told him about it. We chat for a bit about A Serbian Film, which I know via Chad he has a screener copy of which he sent via intercompany mail to a co-worker/friend and it got lost. Can you fucking imagine that? If you don't know what I mean, it's akin to accidentally forwarding a link to a kiddie porn or bestiality website to your friendly, born-again co-worker at a huge corporation via email. Some people have questionable judgement- I'm often one of them. A couple of other people filter in- a lone female who sits on the aisle (and bails about 15 minutes into the movie) and a fat bald guy and his bleach blonde female companion who look like their next stop after the movie is going to be the Power Exchange. The bald guy looks like one of Vukmir's goons in A Serbian Film. I feel like a scuzball just for being in the same place as these two.. A single white guy in his twenties shows up, looking self-conscious, and takes a seat. An Asian guy takes a seat in the row behind me and proceeds to constantly pull stuff from a paper bag loudly. Asshole. Then he proceeds to cough like he has TB. There are now eight of us. The lights go down. My mother had invited me to a family dinner and a boat parade with Christmas lights in Sausalito. I chose this instead. Like I said, my judgement is often questionable. The Asian guy keeps hacking and ruffling through his bag of tricks. I want to smack him, but I don't want TB, so I sit there passively hoping he'll shut the fuck up.

Meat Grinder turns out to be a near miss. The acting is good, the cinematography better, but the narrative of the movie is completely screwed. For horror to be effective, the audience has to undergo a sensation of mounting tension. This movie, which starts with dated footage suggesting the past ala Martyrs, goes back and forth to the point of incoherence. The audience is never really sure where we are in the story, as the idea of crafting a linear plot is anathema to director/writer/editor/cinematographer Tiwa Moeithaisong. It's too bad, because he knows how to create great individual scenes and images, but the whole is a jumbled mess that fails all litmus tests for what makes a great horror film. Or even a good one. At least that's how I saw it from my Western perspective. Perhaps there is something different in Thai culture that makes all of this not only palpable, but acceptable. It's entirely possible. Who am I to judge? I thought The Grudge and it's Japanese original, Ju-on to be barely watchable crap.

The film ends on a note of incoherence, or at least ridiculousness, and my acquaintance remains seated to watch the credits. I bail, wait a few minutes outside to hear his opinion, but decide enough is enough. I make my past the bums bedding down for the night in the doorway of the now vacant Virigin Megastore as shoppers and the bridge and tunnel crowd walk by them and pretend they don't exist. Past the Ferrari store which never has a soul in it but has manged to be there since last year, thinking I'll give my own souls a lift and look at the kittens and puppies in the windows of Macy's but there are just too many damn people there. It's a mob. I walk past the restaurants which are all packed, the couples dressed up for a once-a-year night on the town, the groups of Guidos who somehow manage to take up the entire 10 foot-wide sidewalks and I make my way back home, wondering what the fuck I'm going to eat for dinner. The Paki place across the street from my apartment is packed and I peek in the window see many tables without any food on them. Not an option.


I enter my building, where there is party going on in the lobby, which the HOA rents out for people who want to have a party in an art deco palace. It's not a party I can crash, otherwise I might out of sheer ennui and the desire to get this Bickle-esque taste out of my mouth. In the lobby is a relatively new resident I know and she has a certain hunger in her eyes as she's talking to the doorman/guard. I know that hunger like I know the back of the my hand. She looks at me, and I wonder to myself how many other men who live in this building have felt that weight, the palpable desire, of that particular, distinct gaze. It's too close to home. The elevator opens, I punch the button for my floor. it opens and I stride down the quiet hall to my apartment- the last one on the left. Entering, I'm met with complete indifference by the other occupant- a cat. Now we are current, and the tourists and shoppers should be gone, it's almost 11pm, and now it's time to get something to eat. Ho ho ho.

Update on Sunday morning: The Femme called me this and complained about the darkness of this post. It's really meant to be tongue in cheek- I mean who else but a Travis Bickle type would really go see this kind of stuff during the holiday season? Have a nice day and don't forget to smile.

Stephanie's Image

I've gotten to know Janis DeLucia Allen a little bit over the last year or so, but it still came as a surprise when she told me she was a filmmaker. She didn't say much about it, in a humble kind of way, but I did go home after she told me and looked up her production company, Coffee and Language. Janis runs the company with her husband JP Allen and they've had some real success with their independent films made in the Bay Area. I rented their most recent, Stephanie's Image, from Netflix and below is the review of it I recently posted on Blogcritics. What I didn't say on that site is that the ending of the film really freaked me out because I felt like I was watching Melissa Leo portraying Madame Merle. An uncomfortable but fascinating bit of art imitating life to be sure.

Stephanie’s Image (2009) features Academy Award nominee (Best Actress for Frozen River) Melissa Leo  as a woman looking for the perfect image of herself as a way to mitigate the toll time and life are taking on her appearance and body. It’s a 21st Century update of the Narcissus myth, spun through the lens of modern technology, in this case an obsession with cameras. Produced by Bay Area independent filmmakers JP Allen (screenplay) and Janis DeLucia Allen (producer and director), who both appear in prominent roles, this is a taut meditation on identity disguised as a murder mystery.

Stephanie’s been murdered. By all appearances it looks like her boyfriend Richard (Chris Butler) killed her in some kind of jealous rage, though no one appears to understand why. DeLucia Allen plays a photographer who interviews people who knew the couple in attempt to understand what happened. She has her own motives for being involved in the project. Ostensibly these interviews will become a documentary about Stephanie. The participants think it’s going to be a “tribute” video, but DeLucia, who’s character is unnamed, delves deep, making everyone she talks with angry and uncomfortable once she relentlessly starts peeling back the layers of their superficial stories. It seems everyone has a story about Stephanie they’d rather not discuss.

These puzzle pieces are neatly laid out, keeping the viewer engaged without feeling like they're being led to a foregone conclusion, which they’re not. The film’s resolution makes perfect sense without being obvious about its intentions. When it’s over, if you’re like me, this film is going to remind you of someone you know or knew, and it’s highly likely that person won’t be in your life anymore.

The Allens have a strong cast on hand including Mara Luthane, Richard Conti, Darren Bridgett and Douglas Rowe. Leo is seen mostly through photographs and video clips until she makes a fearless, devastating appearance in a monologue toward the end of the film. Shot in and around San Francisco, this small, fiercely independent movie deserves an audience. Buy it on Amazon or rent it on Netflix, and let’s put it on the radar.


This review originally appeared in a slightly different form on Blogcritics

He said, she said or: Lust and Loathing in LA

I'm sitting in a hotel room in downtown LA listening to Madame Merle complain about the audience at LA Opera (people in flip flops and incessant wrapper masturbation for the last hour of the performance) and compare a magnificent performance of Das Rheingold to Chinese opera. She says Chinese opera was worse. To my ears, that's akin to comparing a South Park cartoon to a Dix painting as equal representations of contemporary social commentary. I could probably come up with a better analogy for this, but when you (if you) get through this post you may understand why I'm not at the top of my game on this day. Oh, let me correct this as I am being heckled as I as write this. She's claiming it was as bad as an Air Supply concert.

Now, is this the most ludicrous thing you've ever read? Heathens.

Guest writer Madame Merle: first, I'm being completely misrepresented... in my defense, which obviously won't work here, i did mention i don't like opera, but i make a really good arm piece...
rheingold, the story could have been told in an hour and the action would not have been sped up in the least. and seriously who taught la-la land opera goers etiquette? here's an opportunity to have an event folks... try some heels! and yes it was 12 hours and 53 minutes at least but eat before or unwrap your candy before the show, you were at the last 10 minutes for goodness sake.
now the Chinese Opera, i was sure my ear drums would burst, who sings that high! and why??? though had about the same amount of action and had actually managed to repress that i had ever seen anything that horrific until about half way through last night's performance when i suddenly had the flashback as i was trying to figure out ways to quietly kill myself to not have to suffer further.
now SOUTHPARK, come on... the beginnings of each episode this season have been brilliant, i was not saying anything at all good about any opera, chinese, german, italian, or any such likes... though did like dix.
are all women in Opera weak? vain? manipulative? so afraid her man will leave her, cheat again, she's willing to do anything?
the lessons i learned last night, power over love, but wait, youth over everything.
and what, only 60 more hours to go... joy of all joys.

Marcher: Yes, everyone knows you like Dix. What to do, you try, try to spread the wonders of the art to those you know and then you end up afterwards sitting at the Omni's outdoor bar listening to how one woman lost her virginity to Walkure (a marathon performance she has never found anyone else could equal since) while the other two tried to convince me of the merits of REO Speedwagon. Really, is this my life? Not that I'm complaining, but it was rather surreal. I was at least relieved to learn the deflowering did not take place during the first act.

Apparently Madame Merle has more to say, since she has figured out a way to poison herself at dinner and thus miss Domingo in Walkure, the prospect of which is causing her to break out in hives while she furiously texts her mother about the faux paus committed by various audience members:

Madame Merle: (putting on her bedroom eyes)... though we were actually a little more passionate about depeche mode... and we all know my likes are why you are allowing me to be here arguing in bed right now...
this is a city where people go to whole foods in their pajamas, but was hoping at least there would be some decorum, style, class... have i been in new york too long... i need to go back to the Met, its only obvious, leaving him to his girls with their german sex tales. [this portion has had certain bitchy elements removed by Marcher, to Madame Merle's great and vociferous protestations].

Marcher: Depeche Mode is the 80's version of Journey and just as musically vapid.

When I return, I'm going to write a real post about last night, and there are still a few other things I need to catch up on, but for now I'm going to give Madame Merle one final shot at clarifying herself (she knows no one cares about this except herself). We are now listening to Rick James. Seriously. Now I feel as if I'm in a Hunter S. Thomson story. Lust and Loathing in Los Angeles. Except there are no drugs to be found anywhere in this room. Well, there is the mini-fridge, which I'm about to drink my breakfast from.

Madame Merle:THERE, THAT'S EXACTLY IT! i had to do that opera stone cold sober!!!! (was about to write iTunes on shuffle as some sort of defense, but the fact that very kinky girl is even on it is indefensible... so i have to stop)

Marcher: She is a pretty arm piece, and brought everything she saw lacking in the audience, but I didn't expect any less of her. Needless to say, the price I'm going to pay for subjecting a juke box girl to 5 1/2 hours of Walkure will probably destroy myriad other hopes and fantasies I may have been harboring about the rest of the stay here in LA, but that's the price one pays for art, no?

It's now 1:20. Anyone want a ticket to see Walkure tonight?

LA Opera's Potent Elixir

Once in awhile, and too rarely, life mirrors fiction and when it does the results can leave an impression destined to be ineluctably indelible. That was my thought when Mademoiselle MG emerged from her dressing room in a gorgeous beaded dress so perfectly fitted that I'm sure my face said something else entirely, which I won't reveal here. A lark became an adventure and off we went to attend the opening night of LA Opera and its production of Donizetti's L'Elisir D'Amore that held its promise in the casting.

Last year's opening, a Hollywood-director drenched weekend featuring Woody Allen, William Friedkin and David Cronenberg productions, flitted through my mind in intervals, as it marked the beginning of a downward spiral which took months to be free of. As Maria and I hit the promenade of the Music Center I could tell this was going to be a significantly less auspicious opening than last year's, though I couldn't decipher whether it was economic circumstances or the lack of star-power which determined the more subdued atmosphere. It certainly wasn't the heat, because while it was LA-in-September hot, it wasn't the scorching heat of the previous year. I retreated into an inner reverie as I watched Maria absorb the impact of being envied by women and desired by men as we walked about drinking wine before the show.

L'Elisir featured a cast high on sex appeal- the gorgeous Georgian soprano Nino Machaidze was making her American debut this evening among two handsome Italians new to LA and the return of the widely-desired Nathan Gunn. One really couldn't ask for more. Despite a production that added dark and heavy elements where none were needed, during the second act the cast took off once they were freed of the cumbersome set design and allowed to be set loose on a staged open field.

During the first act Nino reminded me of Maria Callas. That's not necessarily a compliment, as I've never been part of that cult, though Nino did have a distinct vocal quality similar to that of the ultimate diva and it was the first time I've ever had that connotation while listening to someone. Those in attendance now have the inevitable bragging rights to say they were there, as the night is likely to be remembered as the the beginning of Nino Machaidze's conquest of America, though the seduction didn't really begin until the second act.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. The rest of the cast was solid, with an especially great performance by Giuseppe Filianoti as Nemorino. Those who bought tickets hoping to see Rolando Villazon in the role couldn't have been too disappointed in his replacement. Filianoti is a true Italian tenor, and if his voice takes on a deeper hue as he matures he might well end up the Corelli for our time. Giorgio Caoduro stepped in at the last minute and did an admirable turn as the wily Dr. Dulcamara, by turns comedic and cavalier. Nathan Gunn was only a moderately successful Belcore, all the more puzzling because if anyone in the opera world could be assumed to easily pull off this role it should be opera's chief stud baritone. Valerie Vinzant's Giannetta also didn't have the light one may have expected, but it would take a lot to cut through the wattage generated by this Adina and Nemorino. However, I'll admit to being influenced by the superb SFO production of this opera last season, which was perfect in every detail, thus making comparisons inevitable and difficult.

It took Nino a while to hit her stride- perhaps it was opening night nerves, perhaps it was the inappropriately dark staging of the first act that conspired against this most effervescent of bel canto operas, but when the stage opened up during the second act the audience was able to hear and see what this woman could do- and she delivered "Prendi, per mi sei libero" with total mastery.

Filianoti, who was excellent in SF Opera's Lucia last year, was a Nemorino who didn't come across as a bumpkin, but rather as a man who is really hopelessly in love with Adina. When I saw Ramon Vargas in this role last year, it was a redemption from his lackluster years of coasting at the Met. Vargas was terrific, though more of the bumpkin- Filianoti sang and acted the role like Vargas might have in his hungrier, pre-Met days. That's a high compliment if you didn't see Vargas circa 1999. Filianoti's "una furtiva lagrima" was simply gorgeous and he owned the cavernous Dorothy Chandler by singing with emotion and pure tone. After this performance, either of these singers is worth seeing in any bel canto opera- together, they created an unexpected delight.

The staging, a revival first seen in LA in the 90's didn't do the cast any favors. A dark barn with high arches dominated the first act and didn't disappear until well into the second, undercutting the heart of the opera. Yes, there's always a dark side to comedy, and yes, there are darker elements lurking in Donizetti's music hinting at the sadness of love rejected or misplaced, but this opera isn't going to make that case with the first half of this production.

Better to open it up, onto a clear field under a full moon and when that happens, this is a potent brew. It starts to look like Millet's Gleaners come to life and once there, it becomes something special. I can only imagine it will get tastier as the run goes along. LA Opera has a number of must-see productions this year, especially the rest of Achim Freyers's Ring and The Stigmatized. Add this one to the list because of Nino.

After the performance Maria and I took a cab to dine outdoors at Cafe Pinot, home to excellent food, delicious Manhattans, generous service, a lovely setting and the most expensive vegetarian entree you can ever imagine.

From there, it was time to roam low and we headed to La Cita for dancing. I was initially dismayed by the DJ, but as the night wore on and the bar took on a decidedly different vibe, the place became a serious good time and the music followed suit. Eventually, two women's roller derby teams showed up and took the place over, transforming it into an estrogen-fueled hothouse of Sapphic desire. Maria was pulled onto the stage with little if any coercion by a bevy of heavily tattooed hot Latinas in tight black t-shirts and tighter jeans and from that point on I was simply a pleased observer of a scene I don't think I'll ever forget, regardless of the copious amount of bourbon consumed that evening.

The evening ended with brunch at Bottega Louie, where our waiter Rob, doing his best Keanu Reeves impersonation, proceeded to tell us his name three times without once asking us what we wanted. Thankfully Jamie, a professional waiter who wasn't on drugs, stepped in to save the day, and the we were served a most pleasant meal.

And then it was time to return. So we did. She to her town, and me to mine. Just like in the movies.