The Weekend Special

Pieces are given up to three Ellises (for fiction), McClellands (for essays), or Whitakers (for random picks). As with restaurant stars, even one Ellis, McClelland, or Whitaker indicates a generally positive review.

⏰ Fiction

“Light Secrets” by Joseph O’Neill. One Ellis. hand, halibut, harangued. Borderline self-pastiche: A divorced middle-aged guy who could pretty reasonably be read as either genuinely happy or seriously depressed, a New York City filled with well-meaning people at odds with each other, enigmatic secrets and surveillance states, gentle humor and eerie ambiguity. It may be par for the course, but it’s an excellent formula that no other writer harnesses as subtly and convincingly. Absurdism is almost invariably tied tightly to surrealism; that O’Neill manages the former without the latter is impressive, and the last line of the interview reveals that Simon Morgan, the presence hovering over the story, is real (or comparatively real, since O’Neill suggests he may be getting his name wrong). The concrete is confabulated but the spectral is honest; this paradox is at the heart of O’Neill’s fiction, and maybe storytelling more generally.

⏰ Weekend Essay

“When a Man Loves a Cello” by John Phipps. One McClelland. check, challenge, chamber. A lyrical human-interest story, sappier than this magazine almost ever gets, but charming and funny anyway. Ultra-expensive instruments require ridiculously careful care from the virtuosos who largely rent them from monied institutions: This, certainly, could be the hook for a short article or a Talk of the Town; but Isserlis’ anxious care for the cello is so overdetermined it’s hard not to think Phipps is writing with a smirk, which makes the apparent tonal sincerity (“There seemed to be an element of destiny at work”… “I felt grateful for the cumulative human effort that had produced this ether from horsehair, sheep gut, and wood”) ring a bit false. He wants to laugh at the obsessive cellist and cry with him, too.

⏰ Random Pick

“My Mother the Ziegfeld Girl” by John Lahr. Two Whitakers. trophy, trouble, triumphantly. Lahr’s ability to maintain a measure of distance from his mother, who was obviously highly invasive, is remarkable; nowadays, we’d expect Lahr to pivot back and forth from memoir to autobiography, but he keeps the frame tightly on his childhood view of his parents, without touching much at all on what it means to him now. This is an empathetic choice in the end, one that leavens what is ultimately an unforgiving portrait: though Bert Lahr, John’s father, an icon of stage and screen now most remembered as the Cowardly Lion, was wildly insecure and occasionally abusive; Lahr’s mom is a comparative natural at parenting, although, given her frequent infidelity, not quite a comparative saint. In the event, she got written up first, but he eventually got written up longest. Lahr’s ability to pick the most telling memories from his own childhood – and his later unpacking of that childhood with its primary characters – is remarkable; the scene where he pulls over so his mother will admit who she had an affair with tells us so much about her character, no exegesis required. Lahr’s prose is excellent throughout; he clearly learned from the best how to mask sadness with wit and tidy specificity. Looks aren’t everything, but looking is the only thing.

⏰ Something Extra

OK – long missive this time.

On Saturday I had one of the most amazing theatergoing days of my life in the city, seeing three superb shows in a row. (Everything I mention below has closed except for Try/Step/Trip, which runs through the 25th.) I’ll start with the middle one, which was the highlight and will surely be among the three or four best things I see all year: Friday Night Rat Catchers at New York Live Arts, a movement-theater comedy about the hideousness and awkwardness of mainstream cultural product – vaguely referencing the Lawrence Welk show in its creakiest late-70s era, but extending beyond it. Its form is basically a series of spoken monologues interspersed amid solo and duo “dances” that could also be described as skits; in one, a corporate-suited woman is wearing a trenchcoat filled with large and small rocks that drop from her body on what seem to be meticulous cues; in another, a Welkian host whose large bare belly – maybe from beer or pregnancy – and ear-height shoulders suggest a being of pure tension stumbles around as a disco ball swirls. Women suckle glowing funnels, teats attached to scrunched silver tubes; an adult two-year-old is kissed repeatedly then dances her meticulously numb solo. Ideas recur but remain fresh until the final beat (when a truly repellent wig comes into play). I squealed with laughter and horror throughout this fresh, twisted view of our malignant culture. (Part of both Live Artery and Under the Radar.)

Before that, I caught Try/Step/Trip, an original, autobiographical rap musical about first-generation Black male identity amidst the cruelty of our justice system. It’s tightly paced, clever, deeply felt but not even a little maudlin, and this extremely bare-bones production – apparently self-financed – suggests a show that could grow into a masterpiece with a little honing and, especially, an actual set. (Part of Under the Radar.)

And after both of those, I made my way (with great difficulty due to the L train’s weekend fucked-uppedness) to the awesome venue Life World, where, in a circle of folding chairs on a fuzzy green rug, the monotone but deceptively delirious i’m going to take my pants off now thoroughly enfolded me in the vibey, somewhat blinkered alienation of an obsessive mind. That’s an overwrought precis, though, as this is a show built of small, quiet moments; if some of them are uncomfortable, they pass without provoking much unease. The sadness, on the other hand, edges in below some extremely outré moments… especially the grand finale. (Part of Exponential Fest.)

Much of the other theater I’ve caught recently at Under the Radar has been very good, as well! Testo, a very British drag exploration of burgeoning trans identity, didn’t exactly provoke any new thoughts… but, from a purely directorial point of view, was so incredibly tight and finely honed I’d love to see its creator take on more conventional theatrical forms – for shits and giggles. Darkmatter, a mix of fantastic otherworldly movement and just so-so rap, was also wonderfully polished, somehow making its ninety-minute runtime seem reasonable despite a lack of conventional incident. One lighting effect that created an illusion of chromatic aberration is among the most inexplicable things I’ve seen onstage; some lengthy nude laughter work managed a tonal combination I can’t imagine words for. Mami was a sort of poetic-theatrical magic show, clearly the work of a young artist, and not always structured correctly, but its best moments absolutely breathtaking, and on the whole a sincere effort to expand the form. The Rest of our Lives combines some highly committed movement work with friendliness and audience participation; never quite kicks into gear but very hard to dislike. The poorly named Voyage Into Infinity is a punk reimagining of Fischli and Weiss’ The Way Things Go featuring three human dolls that set things into motion, as if puppeted by some canny giant invisible child with a burgeoning sense of sexuality. Though it doesn’t extend even an inch beyond that precis, it’s still a cool idea.

There are two more Under the Radar shows I am deliberately not mentioning here; use your imagination as to what I thought of those. Also… Hildegard (part of Prototype, which I never have good luck with) was such a mess – half-assing your anachronisms (around sexuality, religion, modes of speech, the literal order of events in von Bingen’s life… pretty much everything is wrong but not in ways that suggest confidence or even deliberation) is never a good plan; neither are hideous AI visuals – I left at intermission, a first for me. Best wishes to the cast, who seemed talented.

From there I went to GlobalFest at Lincoln Center, where I saw lots of good sets but one astonishing set by Nour Harkati, whose music combines North African instrumentation with more modern sounds; the great acoustics on the downstairs stage helped me go out of my mind, high on polyrhythms.

Also: Does anyone have any guesses as to what the fuck is with the unbelievable quantities of full-frontal nudity across all the theater festivals?! I mean, seriously, look at this: Darkmatter has full frontal + high boots, Voyage Into Infinity has full frontal, i’m going to take my pants off now has (surprisingly brief) full frontal + high boots, Friday Night Rat Catchers has full frontal (somehow no high boots, but it’d fit), Testo has two different kinds of full frontal despite being a one-person show + high boots, Mami has full frontal, and beyond the fests Bug and Initiative both have tons of nudity and require Yondrs. All these shows, individually, do good work justifying their nudity in all sorts of various ways, but as a trend it’s getting wearying – and also just kinda weird – fast!

Sunday Song:

Out for a while but still the best hit single in a minute: