View Article  OUR TOWN


David Cromer's Off-Broadway production of Our Town, at the Barrow Street Theatre in Manhattan, has been getting lots of press attention and some extraordinary reviews.  Frank Rich in The New York Times devoted a very insightful column to it, relating the play and this production to the profound crisis of spirit currently afflicting the nation.

mardecortesbaja is happy to offer this equally insightful report on the production by Paul Zahl, who was lucky enough to see it last week.  Cromer's staging ends with a startling coup de theatre which Paul discusses in his report and which you might not want to know about if you're planning to see the show, so I've segregated that passage on a separate linked page.

If you weren't planning to see the show, and if you're within striking distance of New York City, I think Paul's report, and Rich's thoughts, might get you to reconsider:


                                                                                   [Image©Scott Prior]

PILGRIMAGE

by Paul Zahl

Wednesday afternoon I took the Vamoose bus from Bethesda, Maryland to the Port Authority in Manhattan and arrived basically in time to take the subway down to Christopher Street for the 7:30 performance of Our Town at the Barrow Street Theatre.  It was a pilgrimage for me, because I am influenced just now by the wisdom of Thornton Wilder (below) and had heard a lot about this particular production.


 
Charles Isherwood had written in
The New York Times of a ". . . surprise Mr. Cromer springs -- a beautiful feat of stagecraft that transmits the essence of Wilder's philosophy with an overwhelming sensory immediacy."

Terry Teachout had written in
The Wall Street Journal, "I don't use the word 'genius' casually, but Mr. Cromer may fill the bill."

Moreover, Tappan Wilder, Thornton Wilder's literary executor who is a friend here in the Washington area, had blessed the production.  'Tappy' has seen almost every production there is or ever shall be.


 
So . . . a brief stop by a West Village video store that specializes in movies like
From Hell It Came and The Black Sleep (which has the only discussion of the difference between Presbyterianism and Anglicanism to occur in a 1950s "B" horror movie -- no kidding) and then straight into the theater.
 
I don't want to talk about the initial staging -- in which the actors are set within the audience, in and through the side and transverse aisles, and at one point are even asked to read lines of the play.  I had seen this before.
 
But I would like to reflect on the meaning of the play, as a pilgrimage to me, which the staging finally makes possible.  Act One of
Our Town is full of the gossip and interplay of the people of Grovers Corners, New Hampshire.  It presents two families, the Webbs and the Gibbses, as they are in mid-career, going about their business with what we today call "decency", love for one's immediate family, and some elements of Christian sympathy.   The "theme song" of the play is established in Wilder's use of the hymn, "Blest be the tie that binds/Our hearts in Christian love". There is also a tragic character, Mr. Stimson, the defeated alcoholic choirmaster of the First Congregational Church.

Director David Cromer ups the emotion of Act One by universalizing the characters through their everyday 2009 casual clothing and by getting the actors to show their inward lives through concentrated facial expressions and some intense action in pantomime.  Thus Mrs. Webb and Mrs. Gibbs reveal their inner drives through stylized, driven work in their kitchens.

You know you're being gotten to when young George Gibbs breaks down as the result of his father's oblique and rather mild scolding of his son for neglecting his chores at home, at the expense of his mother.  George goes completely to pieces with remorse, and it is so like an adolescent boy!  What I am trying to say is that Act One goes for the inward life of the characters and is not content with the outward words and situations.  There is no sense of our being in the year 1910.  We are rather in 2009, with every family's unhappiness and missed opportunities in the field of love.


                                                                                                
[Image©James Estrin for the NYT]
 
The text of Act Two goes a big step further as the inwardness of Emily and George's wedding is brought out in their tortured recriminations with their parents in the church.  It's Wilder writ large.  This is to say that Emily's entrance into the church is her "inner" entrance, and George and his mother , perfectly portrayed by Lori Myers, act out his resistance with no mediation between thought and act.  This is absolutely wrenching -- the unhappiness and also the initial nobility of every marriage that has ever taken place.  The blistering Stage Manager, played by Scott Parkinson, 'preaches' here a little, and that is correct, as he is now playing the Minister.  Again, everyone is in street clothes of the year 2009 so there is nothing local or 'contextual' to draw the audience away from the universal situation.  If I had any criticism at all of the direction, I would lodge it only and solely at the conclusion of Act Two, where Mrs. Soames' comments about happiness are underscored a little too much.
 
Now for Act Three, the famous Act Three, the Tibetan book of the dead.  I never liked this act, speaking personally, because it seemed too bleak, as if there were no real or warm heaven.  (Note that William Cameron Menzies, director of the later
Invaders from Mars, designed the canvass of the dead in the Hollywood version of Our Town, with William Holden and Martha Scott.   It is the high point of that film, the dead standing, not sitting, on an autumn hillside.  The hillside looks like the one Menzies designed for Invaders, and that's an organic connection in the history of film.)
 
In any event, I was now beginning to anticipate a "surprise", about which all the reviewers had written.  I assumed that it would probably have to do with George's grieving gesture at the end of the Act, which has been staged in many different ways since the play's first performance in 1938.  Was George going to assume a crucified position as Alec Guinness did at the end of the original Broadway production of
The Cocktail Party, which my mother saw and has never forgotten?  Or might Emily come back from the dead, as she did in the filmed version of the play -- a change that Thornton Wilder himself approved?  What was going to happen?

[Click here to find out what does happen in Cromer's production -- those of you who might see it and don't want to be forewarned of the surprise are advised to skip this section and just read Paul's conclusion below.]
 

I have sometimes said in talks and sermons that psychology explains everything, and psychology explains nothing. 
Our Town embodies this view of life, that the inwardness of the characters explains everything, that the outwardness of life escapes everyone, and that we are all actually waiting for a time when, to quote the title of an early 'compressed play' by Wilder, The Sea Shall Give Up Its Dead.  "And tell me about your identity then, Mrs. Smith," the Stage Manager says in Act Three.
 
The Barrow Street Theater production of
Our Town, performed in the late Winter and Spring of 2009, is a religious masterpiece.  I wish I could preach this message.  I have tried to do it, and failed almost completely.  I am trying to do so still.  It is a theme that can never be exhausted.

Paul Zahl is a preacher and theologian, and dedicates the above essay to
Mary McLean Cappleman.
View Article  SERUM TO CODFISH COVE (PAGE SIX)


The sixth page of "Serum To Codfish Cove" by the legendary Carl Barks, found on Rodney Bowcock's Comics and Stories blog, which Mr. Bowcock has sadly just abandoned.

More thrills and spills for Donald as Barks introduces a third line into his hurtling narrative.

I'll be posting the whole thing (ten pages in all) as a tribute to Barks and to Mr. Bowcock, whose blog will be missed.
View Article  CASINO CARPET GALLERY

                                                                                                                               © David Schwartz

David Schwartz, professor of gaming studies at UNLV and author of Suburban Xanadu, has posted a section on his web site devoted to photographs of casino carpets. For those who love casinos, the images can be strangely evocative, since these are the magic carpets that transport one to realms of hope and desire and degradation, silently and largely unobserved. They are busy, silly, slightly insane -- as befits the places they adorn.


I have never consciously noticed the design of the carpet from the El Cortez pictured above, but I know it subliminally -- it brings back the smells of stale cigarette smoke and beer and well-handled coins that pervade the place, a place that always makes me sad . . . but in a good way.

The mere image of the carpet almost brings a tear to my eye -- and the very idea of a casino carpet gallery is just unspeakably cool.

Check it out here:

Casino Carpet Gallery
View Article  SERUM TO CODFISH COVE (PAGE FIVE)


The fifth page of "Serum To Codfish Cove" by the legendary Carl Barks, found on Rodney Bowcock's Comics and Stories blog, which Mr. Bowcock has sadly just abandoned.

Nice transition into the dynamic action sequence above, in which the panel borders get bent out of shape along with Donald.

I'll be posting the whole thing (ten pages in all) as a tribute to Barks and to Mr. Bowcock, whose blog will be missed.
View Article  D. H. LAWRENCE ON MOBY DICK


A hunt. The last great hunt.


For what ?

For Moby Dick, the huge white sperm whale: who is old, hoary, monstrous, and swims alone; who is unspeakably terrible in his wrath, having so often been attacked; and snow-white.

Of course he is a symbol.

Of what ?

I doubt if even Melville knew exactly. That's the best of it.


                                                                                    -- from Studies In Classic American Literature

Image by Rockwell Kent.

View Article  SERUM TO CODFISH COVE (PAGE FOUR)


The fourth page of "Serum To Codfish Cove" by the legendary Carl Barks, found on Rodney Bowcock's Comics and Stories blog, which Mr. Bowcock has sadly just abandoned.

I'll be posting the whole thing (ten pages in all) as a tribute to Barks and to Mr. Bowcock, whose blog will be missed.
View Article  MEMORIAL DAY: THEY ALSO SERVED


General Grant's horse Cincinnati, photographed at City Point, Virginia in 1865.  A fine looking animal -- one of the unsung heroes of America's wars, from the Revolution to Afghanistan, who worked and suffered and died in service to the nation.

Remember them, too.

The image comes from Shorpy, an extraordinary site that presents vintage photographs in high resolution.
View Article  THE LIFE OF THE MIND: CEILING ZERO


Check out Tom Sutpen's Illusion Travels By Streetcar for a brilliant, though ultimately depressing, parody of academic film writing.  Sutpen channels the voice of
Prof. Thomas Marlowe, "chair of Film and Media Studies at Tait College in Culver City, CA, and author of the groundbreaking 2003 study If I Were King: Identity Politics, American Cinema and the Emerging Framework of Global Patriarchy, Ur-Fascism and the Foundations of Radical Monetarism and Ideological Order in the Era of the Hollywood Studio System: 1935-1937 (published by Produit d'appel Press)."

The professor offers some comments on Howard Hawks's Ceiling Zero.

Sutpen's parody is depressing because it's harrowingly close to actual academic film writing.  Prof. Marlowe's work could get published by any number of academic presses today, who would not read it, of course, because like much academic prose it is unreadable -- some editor would simply note the phrase "Global Patriarchy" and think, "This Prof. Marlowe is one of us".

The blogosphere is creating its own style of bloviation about film -- a combination of Augustine's Confessions and the Cahiers du Cinéma style at its most antic -- but one can still detect a human presence behind most of it.  The academic style could be created with a not-very-sophisticated computer program, one that generated ideological catchphrases and embedded them in barely grammatical English sentences unconnected to each other by either logic or common sense.  Prof. Marlowe has got the method down pat:

For any transformative reading of Hawks that is sufficiently diversified in application to be of critical interest in the context of Ceiling Zero, his systemic use of patriarchal symbology can be defined by film theorists in such a way as to oppose the capacity of any underlying conclusion. I suggested in my book that these results would naturally follow from an assumption that the descriptive power of images is, apparently, determined by a system of neural sensation exclusive to genres. One consequence of this approach, which I outlined, is that a critical intuition is necessary to impose an interpretation on seemingly irrelevant contexts. Comparing the theoretical usefulness of Ceiling Zero in comparison to Red Line 7000 and The Crowd Roars, we see that the critical foundations developed earlier suffice to account for that conclusion as it applies to any rational understanding of cinema.
View Article  SERUM TO CODFISH COVE (PAGE THREE)


The plot thickens in this third page of "Serum To Codfish Cove" by the legendary Carl Barks, found on Rodney Bowcock's Comics and Stories blog, which Mr. Bowcock has sadly just abandoned.

I'll be posting the whole thing (ten pages in all) as a tribute to Barks and to Mr. Bowcock, whose blog will be missed.
View Article  THE GREAT EAST RIVER SUSPENSION BRIDGE


The one New York landmark that never failed to astonish and delight me, however many times it presented itself to my view in all the years I lived on the island of Manhattan, was the Brooklyn Bridge.

It's one of the most beautiful and dramatic structures ever created.  Writing
in Harper's Weekly on the occasion of its opening, in 1893, architecture critic Montgomery Schuyler said:

It so happens that the work which is likely to be our most durable monument, and to convey some knowledge of us to the most remote posterity, is a work of bare utility; not a shrine, not a fortress, not a palace, but a bridge.

The image above is by Currier and Ives.
View Article  SERUM TO CODFISH COVE (PAGE TWO)


The second page of a story published in 1950 called "Serum To Codfish Cove", by the legendary Carl Barks, found on Rodney Bowcock's Comics and Stories blog, which Mr. Bowcock has sadly just abandoned.

I'll be posting the whole thing (ten pages in all) as a tribute to Barks and to Mr. Bowcock, whose blog will be missed.
View Article  A CHARLES BUKOWSKI QUOTE FOR TODAY


Show me a man who lives alone and has a perpetually clean kitchen, and eight times out of nine I'll show you a man with detestable spiritual qualities.

View Article  SERUM TO CODFISH COVE (PAGE ONE)


The legendary Carl Barks drew Donald Duck comics for about 25 years starting in 1942.  He didn't have a spectacular graphic style -- what he did have was a stunning narrative efficiency, great imagination and irresistible charm.

This is the first page of a story published in 1950 called "Serum To Codfish Cove".  I found it on Rodney Bowcock's Comics and Stories blog, which Mr. Bowcock has sadly just abandoned.  It was a great site.  In his introduction to this story, Mr. Bowcock observed that it would have taken another comic-book artist at least twice as many images to tell the same tale.  In Barks' hands it just flies along, without ever seeming rushed or abbreviated.  It's also great fun.

I'll be posting the whole thing (ten pages in all) as a tribute to Barks and to Mr. Bowcock, whose blog will be missed.  I wish I'd taken the time, back when I had the chance, to tell him how much I enjoyed it.
View Article  VAN ALLSBURG AND PARRISH


I'd never really noticed it before but Chris Van Allsburg's illustrations seem to owe something to the black-and-white illustrations of Maxfield Parrish:



Same diffusion in the surface treatment, same bold modeling of solid forms beneath it.  In terms of composition, Parrish was attracted to tableaux, which gives his images a flavor of the theater, while Van Allsburg uses more dynamic angles emphasizing spatial depth, which feels more cinematic.
View Article  MARX WAS RIGHT?


It's absurd to see the current economic crisis as a failure of market capitalism, as some sort of vindication of the writings of Karl Marx -- though this is a theme of much commentary on the subject from the radical (and not so radical) left.  The financial shenanigans of the Wall Street hustlers in recent years resembled no "market" in the history of human civilization.  Markets are cruel at times, unfair at times, manipulable to a degree, but essentially, in the long term, logical.

In the Middle Ages, if you sold cow-dung pies at the fair by telling people they were mince pies, one of several things would certainly have happened to you.  Most probably you would have been taken out back of the cathedral and beaten to a pulp.  You might have been fined or imprisoned by the local authorities for your temerity and mendacity.  At the very least you would have forever ended your ability to sell pies at any fair within the reach of gossip emanating from the fair where you got busted -- and that reach would have been very far, even in the days before the rise of sophisticated communication technologies.

In short, the market would have disciplined you for your fraud.



There has been no such market discipline at work on Wall Street in recent years.  People sold cow-dung pies as mince pies with no thought that they would ever have to pay a price for getting caught.  They knew that the government, through corrupted legislators and regulators, would rescue the pie company they worked for if it failed, that they would be allowed to keep any money they might make in the short term from selling shit as mince, and that they would in all likelihood be given a bonus for their efforts.

This bears no relationship whatsoever to market capitalism, even at its most ruthless and brutal.  This is a form of plutocracy in which certain wealthy individuals are given a license to steal and immunity from any consequences that might arise from the theft.

The confusion about this basic truth arises from an unquestioning acceptance of the definition of "the market" propounded by the plutocrats.  The plutocrats have never had the slightest faith in any true kind of market, because in such a market they might fail, they might lose money, they might be prosecuted for fraud.  To the plutocrats, "market" means "shell game" conducted under the protection of a corrupt local sheriff.

Capitalism becomes plutocracy, the market becomes a shell game, only when the defrauded, the "marks", are unwilling to remove the corrupt sheriff and discipline those he's protecting.

It's time to take the folks selling the cow-dung pies out back of the cathedral and beat them to a pulp -- if only to make them think twice about ever showing their faces in our town again.