sovay | Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance

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Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance

Saturday: I spent the afternoon baking a birthday cake for

rushthatspeaks with three layers of chocolate meringue and chocolate mousse. Gladly accepted a ride from my mother because that was not a cake that would have survived public transit. Delivered cake to Rush-That-Speaks and

gaudior's refrigerator, where it would spend the next five and a half hours as we drove to Providence—making sure to pick up

jinian first—and celebrated Rush's birthday dinner at Julian's. Fun fact: scallop rangoons are exactly what they sound like, only really good; less cream cheese, more scallop mousse. The avocado-wasabi purée that came underneath the smoked duck was so good, I think I just need to make it as a regular condiment. I had a drink called the Bruce Banner. Cachaça, chartreuse, basil and bitters and one other ingredient I cannot remember; in the low light it glowed a pale radioactive green and tasted, as Rush correctly diagnosed, as though it could Hulk out on you at any moment. I liked it when it was angry. For dessert we all split the gummy bear sorbet, because we were curious; the weird thing was not that it tasted exactly as advertised, the weird thing was that it was delicious while tasting exactly as advertised. Afterward we drove back across the highway, parked I have no idea where because I find Providence both non-contiguous and non-Euclidean, and walked around WaterFire for maybe forty-five minutes. The bonfires burning on the river were beautiful, the music a pleasant and unexpected combination of folk-pop in multiple languages and opera, and the grove of memorial lanterns was really amazing. We saw a person in a Pierrot costume poling a boat on the river; later we saw them listening to a body-positive punk brass band that was covering "Killing Me Softly" with more trombone than that song usually sees. After that my tolerance for breathing woodsmoke ran out right around the same time Rush maxed out on crowds and we retraced our steps to the car thanks to Jinian's navigation skills and Gaudior drove us home. Cake was eaten. We ended up watching old Sesame Street songs off YouTube, mostly the ones scored by Philip Glass. I got home and looked at too many apartment listings and melted down, which was not the fault of anyone I spent the evening with, including the smoked duck.

Today: I was so exhausted that I got nothing done in the afternoon unless you think making a sandwich is serious business, but I still managed to leave the house with

derspatchel in time to catch the closing night of Maiden Phoenix's inaugural all-female production of The Winter's Tale. Staged outdoor at Powderhouse Park, using the powder house itself as the backdrop for Act I and the natural stage of the climbing rocks on the other side of the park for Act II. The sun set during the intermission. I keep forgetting the play is basically a Greek romance instead of a Ruritanian one, but there's the Delphic oracle just in case you weren't sure. All of the cast were good: most vivid to me were April Singley doubling as a frightened, steadfast Antigonus and an outrageously Mummerset Shepherd, Cassandra Meyer's grave Hermione with eyes like an inlaid statue giving way in the second act to a shepherd's son just clever enough to be a fool, Sarah Mass' ribbon-bedizened Autolycus alt-rocking out "Two Maids Wooing a Man" to the admiration of rustic groupies, and Juliet Bowler as a chilling and chastened Leontes. I have drunk and seen the spider. The exit-pursued-by-a-bear was done so ferally, it made me want to want to see this company take on the Bacchae. And they reconstructed the ending in two ways I agreed with, first by undoing the neatly tied loose ends of Leontes' last speech to more emotionally nuanced effect (I know it's a comedy if it ends with a wedding, Will, but not everyone needs to pair off like place settings) and by redistributing the messenger speech of the climax among the characters each set of lines pertained to, so that Leilani Ricardo's Perdita named the recognition tokens by which she was identified as her father's daughter and the ghost of Antigonus appeared for a moment to relay the long-lost story of his death and kiss his wife, Gail Shalan's staunch Paulina, once more before vanishing, like a shade from the Greek underworld. There was a dance to see all the characters out, some in the floating jackets of their costumes, some not. It was pretty great. I am looking forward to whatever this company does next.

(But I do think the Bacchae would be fun. I've never seen a female Pentheus before.)

Tonight: I am looking at this Colchian woman's diadem. That's Medea's jewelry. Or would be, if my visual template for Medea's jewelry was not the archaic golden coronets and chains worn by Maria Callas in Pasolini's amazing Medea (1969), but it's still an evocative object. This black-figure kantharos just mostly makes me think of the next door neighbors' obnoxious party two weeks ago.

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Becca and I saw The Winter's Tale last Saturday, and enjoyed it thoroughly. It was an excellent and creative production, I thought! (The messenger's speech summarizing the offscreen climax is an astonishingly thorough cop-out on Shakespeare's part, my goodness, but they did the best one could with it, I think. I liked the redistribution.) I've read the play, years ago, but never seen it performed, and I'd forgotten essentially everything about it. A strange play, but there's a lot of interesting stuff to do with it.

(The messenger's speech summarizing the offscreen climax is an astonishingly thorough cop-out on Shakespeare's part, my goodness, but they did the best one could with it, I think. I liked the redistribution.)

The RSC took a similar approach in the monumental eight-hour Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby—instead of translating all of Dickens' prose into dialogue, portions of it are retained to be spoken by the relevant characters, who are therefore sometimes narrating their own third-person lives through the fourth wall—and it worked very well for me there, too. It's a kind of collective narration I really enjoy. And here it gave the scene the resonance of a Greek chorus, which worked fine with all the confusingly classical references in the play.

A strange play, but there's a lot of interesting stuff to do with it.

Yes! I like that way of describing it.

I never used to much like The Winter's Tale particularly, but after seeing it a bunch of times it has grown on me tremendously. I very much lked the production in the park!

(Though thinking about it actually, I think the ideal way to stage a Winter's Tale outdoors would be at dawn -- first act before first light, and the sun rising at intermission -- except that is UNGODLY and NOBODY WOULD COME. But aesthetically it would be extremely apropos!)

I never used to much like The Winter's Tale particularly, but after seeing it a bunch of times it has grown on me tremendously.

I've seen it three times that I can remember: once at the Theater at Monmouth in Maine when I was fourteen, once at Theatre@First in 2009 (music by Mike Veloso, Ari Herbstman a brilliant Autolycus), and then this production by Maiden Phoenix. I think I'm actually quite fond of it, weird and nebulously supernatural as it is. To be fair, "weird and nebulously supernatural" are reasons I like a lot of things, so this is not entirely surprising.

(Though thinking about it actually, I think the ideal way to stage a Winter's Tale outdoors would be at dawn -- first act before first light, and the sun rising at intermission -- except that is UNGODLY and NOBODY WOULD COME. But aesthetically it would be extremely apropos!)

Double-feature it with Twelfth Night, which you have to stay up all night for?

The first time I saw it was another outdoor production last year in New York performed at, of all places, Grant's Tomb -- played more for high comedy, especially in the second half, but a really magnificent Paulina. Then I saw the Public Theater's musical version, which featured, among other things, half the cast of Sesame Street. (I love the Public's completely bizarre community-embracing pageant-style musical classical productions more than I can reasonably express.)

Hah, maybe! Or put it on somewhere very polar where they have very short days in the winter, and make it a real winter's production?

Then I saw the Public Theater's musical version, which featured, among other things, half the cast of Sesame Street.

That sounds totally confusing and great.

Or put it on somewhere very polar where they have very short days in the winter, and make it a real winter's production?

I have been disappointed my entire life that no theater company in my vicinity has ever performed Twelfth Night around the solstice, let alone actual Twelfth Night. I know I live in college towns and everyone goes home for the holidays, but seriously!

That cake sounds glorious, and the play wonderful. *^^*

That cake sounds glorious, and the play wonderful.

I was really happy with the cake: I had three hours to make it in and it came out as spectacularly as I had hoped; the birthday person was pleased with it. The play is currently my favorite version of The Winter's Tale.

The conga line. I suppose the Egyptians started it.

I thought they looked more like the Rockettes.

I thought they looked more like the Rockettes.

I am honestly willing to believe that the kick line has evolved spontaneously at many different points throughout human history, so long as there was enough alcohol involved.

What's with the saggy butts, do you know?

What's with the saggy butts, do you know?

By the sixth or eighth drunk guy, the painter was really tired of drawing butts?

I would also like to see an all-female Bacchae.

I would also like to see an all-female Bacchae.

Like, I can think of multiple instances of contemporary all-male casts: there was one quite recently that I really wanted to see despite what sounded like some unnecessary Apollonian restraint. I'm sure someone's done an all-female production, just because it's the natural experiment, but I've never seen one: and I think it could be amazing. It's a pretty obvious fact that people's perceptions of genderfluidity shift depending on whether you're starting from a male- or female-bodied side of things, and I want to see how a good director and cast could exploit that with both Dionysos and Pentheus. Also, those are both bravura roles, so why shouldn't women have them?

Edited 2015-08-31 20:56 (UTC)

My mental image of Medea will, I think, forever be this one: http://histoire-des-arts.spip.ac-rouen.fr/IMG/jpg/mucha_medee.jpg

(though I don't remember the original being that dark)

It helps that I adore Art Nouveau.

My Mom used to have a stained glass version of this!

My Mom used to have a stained glass version of this!

That's right out of Tanith Lee. [edit] I realize I made the assumption that the stained glass version was a window, in which case seriously Tanith Lee, but even if it was a portable suncatcher sort of thing, that's still really awesome.

Edited 2015-08-31 21:24 (UTC)

My mental image of Medea will, I think, forever be this one

That's fair; it's great! I always think Waterhouse's The Magic Circle should depict Medea, with a serpent round her throat and a crescent sickle at her side, but as far as I can tell it isn't. She's probably one of the Thessalian witches. His only Medea seems to have been this one, preparing a potion while Jason watches. Her expression always made me assume it was a poison. Jason is expectant; she knows the weight of what he's asking her to do.

I agree with your interpretation of the visuals. I am grasping for words to describe how I think of Medea - words like "dramatic" and "striking" are what I think of. I feel the Waterhouse image is almost too subdued for my mental profile.

Having now gone and looked I think it's interesting that Wikipedia shows both your iconic image and mine in its entry.

I am grasping for words to describe how I think of Medea - words like "dramatic" and "striking" are what I think of. I feel the Waterhouse image is almost too subdued for my mental profile.

If you haven't seen Pasolini's Medea, you might really like it. Callas is extraordinary.

Having now gone and looked I think it's interesting that Wikipedia shows both your iconic image and mine in its entry.

As well as several others! I'm not sure how I feel about Frederick Sandys' Medea (1868) as a depiction of the character, but the model—Keomi Gray, the internet tells me—has an amazing face.

The Keomi Gray image says "insanity" to me. Those eyes, and the clutching hand, if you see what I mean.

I once got into an argument with a director (which I lost because he was the director and I was just the jerk who did the lights) about Medea being insane. I never saw her that way. I saw her more as a Fury, an embodiment of almost pure emotion - in this case rage - not necessarily governed by reason. She was the granddaughter of gods, after all.

Interesting to think back on that now. He, a parent, couldn't conceive of how someone who WASN'T insane could murder her own children. I was then a non-parent and saw it more as her reaction to abandonment and terrible shame. Now that I'm a parent... well, I can see both sides. But I still don't buy her as a "crazy woman".

Just after reading this, I came across the following on Tumblr:

copperbadge:
Tony: I think people are hungry for flatbreads made with glow-in-the-dark pesto.
Bruce: Nobody is hungry specifically for phosphorescent pesto.
Tony: I think you will find tonight’s dinner guests beg to differ.

capt-spork:I am now hungry for phosphorescent pesto. Dammit.

copperbadge: Apparently tonic water makes things glow in the dark, so in theory you could dry the basil, reconstitute it in tonic water, and make pesto with the results. IDK how well it would work but I grow and dry my own basil so I’m willing to try.

Tony’s version probably involves more advanced chemicals (he probably isolates whatever is in the quinine that makes it glow) but then there’s a reason I’m not a molecular gastronomist….

I hope you don't mind that I sent copperbadge your description of the Bruce Banner cocktail.

I hope you don't mind that I sent copperbadge your description of the Bruce Banner cocktail.

I do not mind at all. I attributed its color to the chartreuse, which is one of my favorite liqueurs regardless, but it might well have had tonic in it; the flavor made it difficult to discern whether it was carbonated or not, so I just did the safe thing for my braces and drank it all through a straw.

(Tonic water fluoresces under blacklight, so you might have to eat the flatbread at a rave.)

I found what may well be a different version on Facebook, from a place in Portland, OR: gin, chartreuse, absinthe, maraschino, lime, and Peychaud's bitters.

I found what may well be a different version on Facebook, from a place in Portland, OR: gin, chartreuse, absinthe, maraschino, lime, and Peychaud's bitters.

Yeah, the only components in common seem to be the chartreuse and some kind of bitters, but I can't disagree with either of them!

undoing the neatly tied loose ends of Leontes' last speech to more emotionally nuanced effect

Could you expand on that?

---L.

Could you expand on that?

As far as I can tell, they entirely deleted Leontes' closing speech, so that Paulina does not get reward-married to Camillo and Leontes does not move from repentance instantly into and now about our kids' wedding. The last line I can remember being spoken was Paulina's "I, an old turtle, / Will wing me to some wither'd bough and there / My mate, that's never to be found again, / Lament till I am lost." Neither Camillo nor Polixenes was part of Hermione's return to life; at least one of the actors was playing a statue in Paulina's gallery, of which there were several scattered about the rocks in different attitudes, all important to Paulina in some way—one is of her lost husband. Leontes and Perdita alone witness the miracle, if that's what it is. The primary focus is the reunion of mother and daughter. Leontes gets to touch his wife's warm hand, but it's Perdita that Hermione weeps over and holds to her heart like a treasure. Paulina begins to go off alone from the chapel, leaving the happiness to the family while she remains solitary with her grief, but Hermione does not let her—if there's a natural explanation for this resurrection, then it's likely that Paulina has been Hermione's only companion and confidante these last sixteen years—and Perdita does not leave her mother's side. Three generations of women together start to exit stage right, laughing and crying, embracing one another; Leontes watches them go, but makes no move to follow them; he understands that Hermione was not brought back to life for him. At the last minute, Perdita looks back and sees her father sitting alone in the chapel, his face hidden by his hand. It takes him a moment to believe that she's come back for him; then he hugs her as fiercely and wonderingly as Hermione. That's the image the production closes on. It worked really well for me.

The momentary apparition of Antigonus was the other really striking touch for me. The first time I saw The Winter's Tale (1996, the Theater at Monmouth in Maine), the lingering ghost was the young prince Mamillius, the victim of Leontes' jealousy who does not come back to life: I remember him remaining onstage after all the rest of the company had departed, a little pale figure like the carving on a stele, trapped forever in the sadness of a winter's tale. In this production, after his death, he's nowhere to be seen. That's fair enough; the actor was doubling as Florizel. But it shifted the emphasis of loss toward the living and all the years that were wasted by Leontes' jealousy, and that was also satisfying to me. Paulina doesn't get her lost love back. If she's a magician, her powers don't extend to bear-gnawed bones on the Bohemian coast. Just that last echo of a slight fair-haired man with a worried look, telling his death and fading away again. It's a comedy, but it's also a problem play, and not all problems have solutions, supernatural or no.

Coo.

That Callas outfit is amazing.

That Callas outfit is amazing.

I love Pasolini's Medea so much.

rushthatspeaks actually writes about the costuming and what it signifies about the film's ancient world. That is another movie I don't know why I don't own; it can't be that hard to get hold of. We rented it off Netflix in 2012.

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Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance

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