After nearly eight years in New York, it’s a joy that some things are still new not just to me but to the people I love. Watching friends work hard for years on their dreams and seeing them come true is a gift I feel privileged to have seen first hand, these past few weeks especially.
*
The last week of April, I get a text from SW. He is making his Broadway debut as a conductor the following week, and would I like to attend? YES OF COURSE springs from my fingertips and into my phone, because how could I ever say no to something like that? He had been working on the show Escape to Margaritaville, the Jimmy Buffett musical, for a few years by this point, from its early stages to its placement on the Great White Way. I saw this kid work his way through Music Composition courses at our university, to the music staffs of shows like Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen, and tonight he’d be in charge of an entire show’s orchestra. I wrote it down in my calendar in big letters: SW MARGARITAVILLE 8PM.
A few weeks earlier, he and I had dinner and drinks in Hell’s Kitchen to catch up; it had been a long time since just he and I had hung out. I heard about the work he had been doing at the show over guacamole and tequila, then the hopes he had for his career over whiskey. It’s like someone had heard him and then a few weeks later there all of us were in the audience of the show watching him.
In all manner of floral or beachy attire--Hawaiian shirts were requested as the show has a less formal atmosphere, to the point of having frozen margaritas at the concession, along with tiki torches and surfboards--we made our way up the escalator to the Marquis Theatre.
While the show was a bubbly ride of delightfully over-the-top song and dance, the best part by far was watching SW pop out from a tiki booth at the top of the stage at the end and wave to the audience in a bright aqua shirt printed with big pink flowers. I’m fairly certain I gasped and shouted YAY SW!!! much louder than one is actually supposed to do that while sitting on a red velvet seat in a theatre. My jaw fell open in wide-eyed amazement: that was my friend on the Broadway stage, whose compositions I had seen first in the student concert halls on campus and later in rehearsal spaces on 8th Avenue.
After the show, we all skittered over to the stage door and cheered wildly for SW, asking for autographs of our Playbills and beach balls while people stared, wondering who he was and taking pictures with their phones just in case. “HE CONDUCTED THE SHOW!!!” I said with glee to elderly women looking on next to us. A magical sparkly feeling ran through me, and I can only imagine how SW felt, having his parents and friends in the audience. I hope it’s the first of many Broadway appearances. And while I don’t wish I ever feel like his appearances aren’t special anymore, part of me hopes they happen often enough that hearing about them becomes old hat. Oh, SW’s conducting again? Well, that’s what he does, my friend the Broadway conductor.
*
While SC has been working in tech for a long time and is good at what he does, since I have known him he has had an artistic side that always lived in more of a hobby space. We met in college doing student theatre while he studied business, and once we moved to New York he worked with arts and gaming non-profits. In the last few years, however, he began taking playwriting classes, really pushing himself to sit in coffee shops and get writing done that he was proud of, thinking about unusual plots and nuanced characters and taking constructive criticism from his workshops.
I am not entirely sure how the play submission process works for workshopping in different theatres, but it happened that one of SC’s plays was accepted at Manhattan Repertory Theatre, a black box theatre in midtown. My jaw fell again with joy. When starting from scratch, everything is a little victory. Not to mention a few weeks earlier he had been granted a playwriting residency in Arkansas for the month of July. The big victories count too, of course…
So the night of the performance arrives, and up I go into a tiny elevator, into a tiny theatre stacked tall with rows of seats. SC’s play is the third of four plays that night, and the only comedy. Called “Et Tu, Padre?” it deals with polyamory and hypocrisy, but it really is funny. I knew SC could make me laugh, but writing comedy is so difficult that sometimes it can be like a game of telephone from the writer to the director to the actors. When the stars do align, though, it’s beautiful, as they do when watching SC’s play. It’s magnificent to see someone stretch their new and developing muscles in such a successful way, where they are nothing but potential. I shake my head again at the wonderfulness of being able to see such lives take shape. Even if something great happens or doesn’t happen in the long run, these are still the moments people look back at and think “I knew you when,” where you smiled and hugged your friends, their joy for the evening also yours. Later at the bar next to the theatre, I buy SC a beer in congratulation. Here's to many more, and may my bar tab runneth over.
Step 1: Move to New York. Step 2: Have experiences.
Showing posts with label theatre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label theatre. Show all posts
Monday, May 21, 2018
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Taylor Reynolds
Studio B at ART/NY is dimly lit with long fluorescent bulbs overhead. At just past 7 o’clock in the evening, two women, an actor and a director, sit at a small table chatting and nibbling homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, waiting for two other actors to arrive so rehearsal can begin. There are thick packets of scripts on the table, one which fills a big red binder belonging to Taylor Reynolds. Taylor is director of the show Think Before You Holla, which will next be performed this coming July at the Capital Fringe theatre festival in Washington, D.C.
Think Before You Holla is a show Taylor developed in 2014 for the Harlem Arts Festival as a response to street harassment, the way some men shout at, catcall, or actively force unwanted attentions onto women walking on the street. In a series of vignettes and scenes, it relays women’s true stories that Taylor culled from interviews, social media, and news. It looks to examine “the patriarchal roots of gender-based street harassment and its overall influence on women’s psyches.” In D.C., the show is part of the premiere season of the Ally Theatre Company.
Since graduating college with a BFA degree in Directing, Taylor has worked with Chicago and New York theatre companies like Victory Gardens, The 24 Hour Plays, Stage Left Theatre, UglyRhino, The United Solo Festival, and many others. She is also a member of the Lincoln Center Theatre Directors Lab, and is currently a Producing Artistic Leader of the Movement Theatre Company.
Soon all three actors are present and, since Holla is partly a movement piece, Taylor leads them in a warmup. Arms swing, legs are stretched, hips are swirled, necks are rolled, and jaws are loosened. Taylor explains to the actors, scripts in hands, what scenes they will work on that day. They go through blocking, or stage positioning and movement, and Taylor’s hands move as quick as her brain and her tongue, fluttering through the air like two butterflies attached to her wrists. Okay, move here. A little further. Great. Now come here. Yes. The actors move about the space, sharing with each other with these stories of men walking into glass doors while trying to speak to them, men coming up to them to ask about their thighs, doormen hitting on them, and others. Then they tackle a news story about street harassment gone violent, like a man who ran over a 14-year-old girl twice when she refused to get in his car and have sex with him. Say the lines like a news broadcaster, Taylor says. Now like you don’t believe street harassment is real. Now like you are the family of the victim. All of this conjures in my mind the oft-relayed Margaret Atwood quote: “Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them.”
“What can women do to make men uncomfortable?”, one of the actors wonders aloud.
Think Before You Holla is a show Taylor developed in 2014 for the Harlem Arts Festival as a response to street harassment, the way some men shout at, catcall, or actively force unwanted attentions onto women walking on the street. In a series of vignettes and scenes, it relays women’s true stories that Taylor culled from interviews, social media, and news. It looks to examine “the patriarchal roots of gender-based street harassment and its overall influence on women’s psyches.” In D.C., the show is part of the premiere season of the Ally Theatre Company.
Since graduating college with a BFA degree in Directing, Taylor has worked with Chicago and New York theatre companies like Victory Gardens, The 24 Hour Plays, Stage Left Theatre, UglyRhino, The United Solo Festival, and many others. She is also a member of the Lincoln Center Theatre Directors Lab, and is currently a Producing Artistic Leader of the Movement Theatre Company.
Soon all three actors are present and, since Holla is partly a movement piece, Taylor leads them in a warmup. Arms swing, legs are stretched, hips are swirled, necks are rolled, and jaws are loosened. Taylor explains to the actors, scripts in hands, what scenes they will work on that day. They go through blocking, or stage positioning and movement, and Taylor’s hands move as quick as her brain and her tongue, fluttering through the air like two butterflies attached to her wrists. Okay, move here. A little further. Great. Now come here. Yes. The actors move about the space, sharing with each other with these stories of men walking into glass doors while trying to speak to them, men coming up to them to ask about their thighs, doormen hitting on them, and others. Then they tackle a news story about street harassment gone violent, like a man who ran over a 14-year-old girl twice when she refused to get in his car and have sex with him. Say the lines like a news broadcaster, Taylor says. Now like you don’t believe street harassment is real. Now like you are the family of the victim. All of this conjures in my mind the oft-relayed Margaret Atwood quote: “Men are afraid women will laugh at them. Women are afraid men will kill them.”
“What can women do to make men uncomfortable?”, one of the actors wonders aloud.
“Girl,” Taylor says, “I have been wondering that since 2014.”
Follow Taylor on Twitter and Instagram.
Follow Taylor on Twitter and Instagram.
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Miss Manhattan Hangs Out...with Scott Wasserman
Walking down a coral pink hallway, I’d feel like I was in a tropical ‘80s motel were it not for the framed posters upon posters from Broadway shows lining the walls.
I’m at Ripley-Grier Studios, where performers of all stripes can rent practice space. I’m looking for Studio M, and I’ve made several
wrong turns already. Is this what it felt like to be in A Chorus Line? Someone is singing operatically as I walk past yet another door until I see the room I’m looking for, open with a lone black upright piano. I wait for Scott and Douglas—I’m early, as usual.
Scott Wasserman and I have known each other for over 10 years—a dear friend from college, he’s an extraordinarily talented musician and composer. In the past few years, he’s been on the music teams for Broadway shows like the incredibly successful Hamilton, Dear Evan Hansen, and The Great Comet of 1812, among many others. His friend is Douglas Waterbury-Tieman, an actor and fiddler most recently in the cast of Roundabout Theatre Company’s production of The Robber Bridegroom, who is working on a new bluegrass musical. They’ll have Studio M to themselves for one hour.
When Douglas writes the songs, Scott tells me later via email, he just writes melodies and lyrics, occasionally with fiddle accompaniment. Douglas then sends recordings of himself singing the songs to Scott, who makes sheet music of them, including ideas for additional musical accompaniment like piano and guitar parts, and more. Tonight, Scott will play the sheet music for Douglas’s newest song and help him edit songs they’ve already worked on.
Scott sits behind the piano and gets out his laptop. With a software called Finale, he’s able to have instruments playing the accompaniments he’s written as he plays the piano parts for Douglas, who is smiling in amazement, as am I. My brain does flips as I’m understanding everything Scott has done—notated by ear not just a song, but a number of things the song could potentially do in the future. Music theory is completely foreign to me and even though this is apparently a very necessary skill for musicians like Scott to have, I am totally blown away.
At one point, Douglas brings out his fiddle to play along. Made of strawberry blonde wood, its name is Chauncey and it belonged to his great-grandfather. He picks it up in his hands and begins to play, and I have the worst visions of myself accidentally knocking it and breaking it into a thousand pieces. Luckily that doesn’t happen.
The clock approaches 7 and the next residents of Studio M let themselves in and begin setting up. Studio time and space is precious around here, it seems. Scott and Douglas finish up in the hallway and say their goodbyes. I tell Scott later about my experience before, if this is what A Chorus Line is really like. “It is!” he smiles. “The cast of the Sunset Boulevard revival is rehearsing down the hall.”
Follow Scott on Twitter and Instagram.
I’m at Ripley-Grier Studios, where performers of all stripes can rent practice space. I’m looking for Studio M, and I’ve made several
wrong turns already. Is this what it felt like to be in A Chorus Line? Someone is singing operatically as I walk past yet another door until I see the room I’m looking for, open with a lone black upright piano. I wait for Scott and Douglas—I’m early, as usual.
Scott Wasserman and I have known each other for over 10 years—a dear friend from college, he’s an extraordinarily talented musician and composer. In the past few years, he’s been on the music teams for Broadway shows like the incredibly successful Hamilton, Dear Evan Hansen, and The Great Comet of 1812, among many others. His friend is Douglas Waterbury-Tieman, an actor and fiddler most recently in the cast of Roundabout Theatre Company’s production of The Robber Bridegroom, who is working on a new bluegrass musical. They’ll have Studio M to themselves for one hour.
When Douglas writes the songs, Scott tells me later via email, he just writes melodies and lyrics, occasionally with fiddle accompaniment. Douglas then sends recordings of himself singing the songs to Scott, who makes sheet music of them, including ideas for additional musical accompaniment like piano and guitar parts, and more. Tonight, Scott will play the sheet music for Douglas’s newest song and help him edit songs they’ve already worked on.
Scott sits behind the piano and gets out his laptop. With a software called Finale, he’s able to have instruments playing the accompaniments he’s written as he plays the piano parts for Douglas, who is smiling in amazement, as am I. My brain does flips as I’m understanding everything Scott has done—notated by ear not just a song, but a number of things the song could potentially do in the future. Music theory is completely foreign to me and even though this is apparently a very necessary skill for musicians like Scott to have, I am totally blown away.
At one point, Douglas brings out his fiddle to play along. Made of strawberry blonde wood, its name is Chauncey and it belonged to his great-grandfather. He picks it up in his hands and begins to play, and I have the worst visions of myself accidentally knocking it and breaking it into a thousand pieces. Luckily that doesn’t happen.
The clock approaches 7 and the next residents of Studio M let themselves in and begin setting up. Studio time and space is precious around here, it seems. Scott and Douglas finish up in the hallway and say their goodbyes. I tell Scott later about my experience before, if this is what A Chorus Line is really like. “It is!” he smiles. “The cast of the Sunset Boulevard revival is rehearsing down the hall.”
Follow Scott on Twitter and Instagram.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
New Quad City
The first time I was at the Quad Cinema was also my last. I love a good independent, arthouse -style movie theatre--I grew up enamored of the Gateway in Fort Lauderdale, its '50s style marquee still in use after decades, the films that ran through there that you wouldn't be able to find anywhere else alongside an occasional run of Rocky Horror.
My first time arthouse cinema in New York was the Quad. Based on my previous experiences at the Gateway, I was excited to go to another small theatre I imagined would be like it in New York, where the arthouse cinemas like Film Forum and the Angelika were (and still are) the stuff of legend. They were places where you know you can always find something good, be it a classic or an independent film or a new foreign film or an old foreign film or a documentary, or what have you.
But my experience was not exactly what I had thought it would be. I was there to write what ended up being not exactly a student film, but very much the film of a young person just out of college who had not yet, shall we say, found their way as a director. The theatre was fairly empty save for the maybe 8-10 people seeing this one movie. Ragged, dirty purple carpets dotted with red and yellow polka dots led from the entryway on W. 13th Street to the bored, pimply teenager working the concession stand at the back of the cinema. Fluorescent lights cast a strange, greenish/gray glow over the space. It was so...depressing. Even so, I thought I might come back one day--you never know what films might come in, and it may be a place worth going again. But whenever I looked up film listings, there wasn't anything that stood out to me there. I didn't go back for something like six years.
Until last night, that is.
In time for its 44th year of business, the Quad Cinemas got a total makeover. And not like Tai in Clueless makeover, where she was cute before but now she's stylish...this was like a facial reconstruction surgery, where there was something broken that needed to be fixed so a person could survive. There had been articles popping up about the new Quad, yes, but I didn't read any of them. What caught my eye, actually, was that they were doing a film series on a director I hadn't heard of, Italian filmmaker Lina Wertmüller. Suddenly, after years of having no reason to go to the Quad, I finally had one, where I'd be able to see her films over the course of two weeks if I really wanted to. Her film Seven Beauties, aka Pasqualino Settebellezze, would be showing on Friday. I asked if AR wanted to go with me and, always down for a new experience especially one involving film, he did.
We walked up to the cinema and I hardly recognized it. Now outside there was a sleek, metal and light sign bearing the letters QUAD in a slim, squarish font. We walked in through pristine glass doors to find a foyer of walls of red lacquer adorned with lighted movie posters, then a ticket counter of the same red lacquer where we walked up and bought our tickets. The entire transaction I was 'oooh' ing and 'aaah' ing, staring at the vintage movie posters like Breakfast at Tiffany's and The Fortune Cookie, but written in Italian, hung on a gray wall over plush leather seats, barely able to concentrate on paying for my ticket. The carpet was a clean black pattern, the lights were a bright, warm tone, the concession stand was now on the side of the theatre in the same red lacquer, and where it used to be there was a wall of square televisions all projecting images from films that would be shown in the space in the coming months. The place was swarming with people.
I kept looking around, agape, saying "Oh, look!" and "Look what they have!" Square tote bags and square mugs bearing the theatre's name. "Quaffee" for sale at the concession booth, alongside ice cream from the beloved Ample Hills Creamery in Brooklyn. An adjoining bar where you can go after the movies to, as the cinema says, "meet fellow cinephiles and argue about great cinema over a glass of great wine or beer."
It was like a totally new experience, a totally new theatre that was worthy of the films it would be showing--which, incidentally, I found out about by picking up its elegant yet modern brochure, also in a square, detailing all of their programming for the next month or so. The films of Lina Wertmüller and a new Maurizio Cattelan documentary, alongside other classics like The General, The Day of the Jackal, Quadrophenia, and an ongoing series where they'll have notable New Yorkers introducing classic art films they've never seen. For example, tonight Greta Gerwig is introducing David Lynch's Blue Velvet, and on Sunday night gallerist Jeffrey Deitch will screen Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars. In May there will be a program of Goldie Hawn movies, a retrospective of films by director Larry Cohen, and more.
I found out that tonight was actually the grand reopening of the theatre. It explained all the people, but I also hoped it would stay that way for the future. According to The New York Times, the theatre was purchased in 2014 by film distributor Charles Cohen, who felt there were too few art cinemas in the city, interestingly enough. He also perhaps wanted a place where he could ensure his own films--which include many foreign and older, restored films- would be screened. In its previous incarnation, it was a space where newer filmmakers (perhaps like the one whose film I was first there to see) could rent a theatre to screen their work. Less a curated art house than a pay-to-play gallery of sorts.
The Quad was actually the first multiplex in New York, and Cohen "wanted to return the space to its former glory," hiring not just a team for the renovation, but for the programming. On the staff at the Quad are now people who were once in charge of choosing films to show at the IFC Center and the Film Society of Lincoln Center. To celebrate the theatre in its new look and its 44th, almost 45th, year many films with "quad" or "four" in the title will be screened in the coming weeks (see the aforementioned Quadrophenia as well as The Four Feathers, Rocky IV, and Four Weddings and a Funeral, among others).
The film we were there to see began seating 10 minutes before it began, and we got in line for what ended up being "Theatre U"--each theatre now had a letter of QUAD as its title--I dug how the branding was clever yet ever present--and went up a short stairway where the same sleek, square letters of the theatre beamed back at us. We took our seats in a room painted red, in cushy chairs (apparently from Norway) that leaned back if you wanted them to. I have since learned that the number of chairs in the four theatres have actually been decreased--as opposed to the typical moneymaking tactic of increasing the number of seats and jamming them close together so more people can fit--from a total of 570 to 430 so patrons can be more comfortable and have better sight lines and actually enjoy seeing the films they've come there to watch.
We sit down and the seats are as comfortable as they look. Director Amy Heckerling (of Clueless and Fast Times at Ridgemont High fame) introduces the film and speaks shortly about Lina Wertmüller. I'm shocked I don't know more about this woman, the first woman director ever nominated for an Academy Award (whatever those awards mean these days, anyway) who is known for her signature white-frame glasses, but I also learn that I can find out more about her in a documentary that will be showing soon at the Quad. How about that. I will be back this time after all.
My first time arthouse cinema in New York was the Quad. Based on my previous experiences at the Gateway, I was excited to go to another small theatre I imagined would be like it in New York, where the arthouse cinemas like Film Forum and the Angelika were (and still are) the stuff of legend. They were places where you know you can always find something good, be it a classic or an independent film or a new foreign film or an old foreign film or a documentary, or what have you.
But my experience was not exactly what I had thought it would be. I was there to write what ended up being not exactly a student film, but very much the film of a young person just out of college who had not yet, shall we say, found their way as a director. The theatre was fairly empty save for the maybe 8-10 people seeing this one movie. Ragged, dirty purple carpets dotted with red and yellow polka dots led from the entryway on W. 13th Street to the bored, pimply teenager working the concession stand at the back of the cinema. Fluorescent lights cast a strange, greenish/gray glow over the space. It was so...depressing. Even so, I thought I might come back one day--you never know what films might come in, and it may be a place worth going again. But whenever I looked up film listings, there wasn't anything that stood out to me there. I didn't go back for something like six years.
Until last night, that is.
In time for its 44th year of business, the Quad Cinemas got a total makeover. And not like Tai in Clueless makeover, where she was cute before but now she's stylish...this was like a facial reconstruction surgery, where there was something broken that needed to be fixed so a person could survive. There had been articles popping up about the new Quad, yes, but I didn't read any of them. What caught my eye, actually, was that they were doing a film series on a director I hadn't heard of, Italian filmmaker Lina Wertmüller. Suddenly, after years of having no reason to go to the Quad, I finally had one, where I'd be able to see her films over the course of two weeks if I really wanted to. Her film Seven Beauties, aka Pasqualino Settebellezze, would be showing on Friday. I asked if AR wanted to go with me and, always down for a new experience especially one involving film, he did.
We walked up to the cinema and I hardly recognized it. Now outside there was a sleek, metal and light sign bearing the letters QUAD in a slim, squarish font. We walked in through pristine glass doors to find a foyer of walls of red lacquer adorned with lighted movie posters, then a ticket counter of the same red lacquer where we walked up and bought our tickets. The entire transaction I was 'oooh' ing and 'aaah' ing, staring at the vintage movie posters like Breakfast at Tiffany's and The Fortune Cookie, but written in Italian, hung on a gray wall over plush leather seats, barely able to concentrate on paying for my ticket. The carpet was a clean black pattern, the lights were a bright, warm tone, the concession stand was now on the side of the theatre in the same red lacquer, and where it used to be there was a wall of square televisions all projecting images from films that would be shown in the space in the coming months. The place was swarming with people.
I kept looking around, agape, saying "Oh, look!" and "Look what they have!" Square tote bags and square mugs bearing the theatre's name. "Quaffee" for sale at the concession booth, alongside ice cream from the beloved Ample Hills Creamery in Brooklyn. An adjoining bar where you can go after the movies to, as the cinema says, "meet fellow cinephiles and argue about great cinema over a glass of great wine or beer."
It was like a totally new experience, a totally new theatre that was worthy of the films it would be showing--which, incidentally, I found out about by picking up its elegant yet modern brochure, also in a square, detailing all of their programming for the next month or so. The films of Lina Wertmüller and a new Maurizio Cattelan documentary, alongside other classics like The General, The Day of the Jackal, Quadrophenia, and an ongoing series where they'll have notable New Yorkers introducing classic art films they've never seen. For example, tonight Greta Gerwig is introducing David Lynch's Blue Velvet, and on Sunday night gallerist Jeffrey Deitch will screen Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars. In May there will be a program of Goldie Hawn movies, a retrospective of films by director Larry Cohen, and more.
I found out that tonight was actually the grand reopening of the theatre. It explained all the people, but I also hoped it would stay that way for the future. According to The New York Times, the theatre was purchased in 2014 by film distributor Charles Cohen, who felt there were too few art cinemas in the city, interestingly enough. He also perhaps wanted a place where he could ensure his own films--which include many foreign and older, restored films- would be screened. In its previous incarnation, it was a space where newer filmmakers (perhaps like the one whose film I was first there to see) could rent a theatre to screen their work. Less a curated art house than a pay-to-play gallery of sorts.
The Quad was actually the first multiplex in New York, and Cohen "wanted to return the space to its former glory," hiring not just a team for the renovation, but for the programming. On the staff at the Quad are now people who were once in charge of choosing films to show at the IFC Center and the Film Society of Lincoln Center. To celebrate the theatre in its new look and its 44th, almost 45th, year many films with "quad" or "four" in the title will be screened in the coming weeks (see the aforementioned Quadrophenia as well as The Four Feathers, Rocky IV, and Four Weddings and a Funeral, among others).
The film we were there to see began seating 10 minutes before it began, and we got in line for what ended up being "Theatre U"--each theatre now had a letter of QUAD as its title--I dug how the branding was clever yet ever present--and went up a short stairway where the same sleek, square letters of the theatre beamed back at us. We took our seats in a room painted red, in cushy chairs (apparently from Norway) that leaned back if you wanted them to. I have since learned that the number of chairs in the four theatres have actually been decreased--as opposed to the typical moneymaking tactic of increasing the number of seats and jamming them close together so more people can fit--from a total of 570 to 430 so patrons can be more comfortable and have better sight lines and actually enjoy seeing the films they've come there to watch.
We sit down and the seats are as comfortable as they look. Director Amy Heckerling (of Clueless and Fast Times at Ridgemont High fame) introduces the film and speaks shortly about Lina Wertmüller. I'm shocked I don't know more about this woman, the first woman director ever nominated for an Academy Award (whatever those awards mean these days, anyway) who is known for her signature white-frame glasses, but I also learn that I can find out more about her in a documentary that will be showing soon at the Quad. How about that. I will be back this time after all.
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Good Dates, Part II
It seems to be that time of year where we are all doing our best to tide ourselves over with the drunken evenings or brunches that define our friendships before we're resigned to spending time with our families for the next week or two. Fine by me.
SJT
Having mistaken the time we were to meet for dinner by a full hour, I am a half-hour late to meet SJT and my brain is falling out of my head. I am many things but a flake is not one of them, so I am instantly forgiven. Nevertheless, we meet at a different restaurant than we originally intended, one closer to a train we'll need later in the evening, but it's just as lovely. We avail ourselves of Nepali soups (dal, a lentil soup, for me and chasha thang, a shredded chicken and corn soup, for me) and sha momo (beef and herb dumplings) at Cafe Himalaya on 1st Avenue and 1st Street and make it to our next destination, an opera house in Brooklyn, in plenty of time.
I have written this before, but perhaps one of my favorite things in the world is to go to the opera with SJT. A dramaturg, opera writer, and self-described "opera queen," he affords me deep insights into an arts field I'm not the most familiar with, so even if I don't particularly enjoy the opera, I've learned so much about it that the evening is never a waste. Such was the experience we had on this jaunt to the Gowanus-ish neighborhood in the wilds of Brooklyn, where we saw an opera in English of which I didn't understand a word. First I thought it was me, that perhaps I was so dense about opera and that my ears just didn't work. Thankfully, though, this was not the case--SJT shared with me there were incredible problems with the diction in the show and I was so happy when, during intermission, he shared with me the story of what was actually going on. I did like that the company featured performers with gorgeous voices who were our age--so often, SJT tells me, there are 50-some-odd year-olds who will play teenagers just because their voices are so much more well-developed and, well, they're stars so who wouldn't want to come see them. But the younger age of the cast I think lends itself to expanding the notion of who opera can be for. Next time they just need a better director, or maybe even a dramaturg like SJT.
On the train back, we are both feeling nibbly, so we stop into one of my favorite haunts, the Olive Tree Cafe on Macdougal Street in the West Village, for babaganush and chicken wings. By the end of the evening my eyelids are drooping, but that's how you know you've had a full, and fully marvelous evening.
MS
On a Wednesday night at around 8:45pm, I see a text from MS. "What are you doing tonight?" he says. Having just come back from yoga, I didn't really have any plans other than to shower and lope around the house in my sweatpants. I wrote this to him. It turns out his parents had tickets to a gala at the Neue Galerie, a museum of 20th century German and Austrian art. It ended at 9:30pm. Could I make it? he asked. I hemmed and hawed probably for a little too long before I said, Oh hell, I'll give it a shot. Worst comes to worst, I said to him, we'll just grab a bite and have to actually talk to each other. I threw on a cocktail dress, smeared some eyeliner on my face and raced a razor over my legs before hopping into first heels, then a coat, then a cab to hustle to the museum. I got there at 9:35 and the girls at the front door were like, "Uh, I guess you can come in..." Thanks, guys. People were in line for their coats and the bar had closed. And I didn't really care at all because I'd still get to spend time with my friend just the same. MS got his coat and we hobbled (rather, I, in heels, hobbled) over to Bocado on 87th and Lexington for late-night vittles. We dipped bread in olive oil and I tried valiantly to stab a brussel sprout with a fork but to no avail, while we chatted about dating and MS's potential move to Nashville. We ended up shutting the restaurant down, the lights turning from dim to bright as the clock reached a certain hour and we parted ways.
RaGo
"Wanna see a Broadway show with me?" RaGo asked.
There are few things that I will drop all planned activities for, perhaps none more than an activity like this. I was raised going to the theatre--when I was growing up, my mother got tickets to almost any show that came through South Florida: Fiddler on the Roof, Chicago, Cabaret, Cats, you name it--but strangely, now that I live in New York, mecca of theatre that it is, I hardly ever go. I simply cannot afford the ticket prices, so I usually only go when my parents come to town because that's one of their favorite activities. But RaGo had a gift certificate to the TKTS booth in Times Square that was soon to expire, and she had been kind enough to think of me to accompany her on her theatrical sojourn for the day. I of course agreed, and we met on the TKTS line at 10am on a Sunday morning. A line had in fact already formed though the booth would not open until 11am. We were in line with many a backpacked out-of-towner, their Midwestern or Australian accents giving them away. I realize now that I may have appeared as a city dweller, as the woman behind me began asking me for recommendations while I was waiting for RaGo. This fills me with pride as I write this, and a small smile crosses my face. Anyway, once Rachel arrives we gossip and then decide what our top shows would be. It's her birthday present, and her top choice is An American in Paris which as a huge dance nerd I am more than excited to see. We luck out with a crisp, 60-degree weather day, so waiting is not an issue; though I can't imagine what it would be like in the summer or in the depths of winter. Sheesh.
Once the booth opens, we are in and out in 15 minutes, with incredible orchestra seats to a Broadway show for a relative pittance. We squeal joyfully for about a minute, then RaGo says, "Now let's get out of this hellhole." It's true, Times Square is most definitely the bane of most New Yorkers' existence, but it also allowed us to get these amazing seats at unheardof prices, so it's a give and take.
We go for coffee at Kahve in Hell's Kitchen and then brunch at the ever-delightful BarBacon, where we stuff ourselves with mimosas and bacon-laced treats like a corn torta (she) and a BLT with sunny-side up egg and avocado (me). Pleasantly filled, we then head over to the theatre and our fantastic seats therein. The choreography, by Christopher Wheeldon, is so beautiful I well up several times watching it. After intermission we just look at each other. I squeal and she goes, "I KNOW!" We are having a blast watching dance together, a sheer delight I only rarely get to share with my friends. The second half is just as swoonworthy, and I well up again, not only loving what I'm seeing but feeling honored that RaGo wanted to share this day and her birthday present with me. We hug and part ways and, feeling particularly sappy, I listen to George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" as I walk down Fifth Avenue.
SJT
Having mistaken the time we were to meet for dinner by a full hour, I am a half-hour late to meet SJT and my brain is falling out of my head. I am many things but a flake is not one of them, so I am instantly forgiven. Nevertheless, we meet at a different restaurant than we originally intended, one closer to a train we'll need later in the evening, but it's just as lovely. We avail ourselves of Nepali soups (dal, a lentil soup, for me and chasha thang, a shredded chicken and corn soup, for me) and sha momo (beef and herb dumplings) at Cafe Himalaya on 1st Avenue and 1st Street and make it to our next destination, an opera house in Brooklyn, in plenty of time.
I have written this before, but perhaps one of my favorite things in the world is to go to the opera with SJT. A dramaturg, opera writer, and self-described "opera queen," he affords me deep insights into an arts field I'm not the most familiar with, so even if I don't particularly enjoy the opera, I've learned so much about it that the evening is never a waste. Such was the experience we had on this jaunt to the Gowanus-ish neighborhood in the wilds of Brooklyn, where we saw an opera in English of which I didn't understand a word. First I thought it was me, that perhaps I was so dense about opera and that my ears just didn't work. Thankfully, though, this was not the case--SJT shared with me there were incredible problems with the diction in the show and I was so happy when, during intermission, he shared with me the story of what was actually going on. I did like that the company featured performers with gorgeous voices who were our age--so often, SJT tells me, there are 50-some-odd year-olds who will play teenagers just because their voices are so much more well-developed and, well, they're stars so who wouldn't want to come see them. But the younger age of the cast I think lends itself to expanding the notion of who opera can be for. Next time they just need a better director, or maybe even a dramaturg like SJT.
On the train back, we are both feeling nibbly, so we stop into one of my favorite haunts, the Olive Tree Cafe on Macdougal Street in the West Village, for babaganush and chicken wings. By the end of the evening my eyelids are drooping, but that's how you know you've had a full, and fully marvelous evening.
MS
On a Wednesday night at around 8:45pm, I see a text from MS. "What are you doing tonight?" he says. Having just come back from yoga, I didn't really have any plans other than to shower and lope around the house in my sweatpants. I wrote this to him. It turns out his parents had tickets to a gala at the Neue Galerie, a museum of 20th century German and Austrian art. It ended at 9:30pm. Could I make it? he asked. I hemmed and hawed probably for a little too long before I said, Oh hell, I'll give it a shot. Worst comes to worst, I said to him, we'll just grab a bite and have to actually talk to each other. I threw on a cocktail dress, smeared some eyeliner on my face and raced a razor over my legs before hopping into first heels, then a coat, then a cab to hustle to the museum. I got there at 9:35 and the girls at the front door were like, "Uh, I guess you can come in..." Thanks, guys. People were in line for their coats and the bar had closed. And I didn't really care at all because I'd still get to spend time with my friend just the same. MS got his coat and we hobbled (rather, I, in heels, hobbled) over to Bocado on 87th and Lexington for late-night vittles. We dipped bread in olive oil and I tried valiantly to stab a brussel sprout with a fork but to no avail, while we chatted about dating and MS's potential move to Nashville. We ended up shutting the restaurant down, the lights turning from dim to bright as the clock reached a certain hour and we parted ways.
RaGo
"Wanna see a Broadway show with me?" RaGo asked.
There are few things that I will drop all planned activities for, perhaps none more than an activity like this. I was raised going to the theatre--when I was growing up, my mother got tickets to almost any show that came through South Florida: Fiddler on the Roof, Chicago, Cabaret, Cats, you name it--but strangely, now that I live in New York, mecca of theatre that it is, I hardly ever go. I simply cannot afford the ticket prices, so I usually only go when my parents come to town because that's one of their favorite activities. But RaGo had a gift certificate to the TKTS booth in Times Square that was soon to expire, and she had been kind enough to think of me to accompany her on her theatrical sojourn for the day. I of course agreed, and we met on the TKTS line at 10am on a Sunday morning. A line had in fact already formed though the booth would not open until 11am. We were in line with many a backpacked out-of-towner, their Midwestern or Australian accents giving them away. I realize now that I may have appeared as a city dweller, as the woman behind me began asking me for recommendations while I was waiting for RaGo. This fills me with pride as I write this, and a small smile crosses my face. Anyway, once Rachel arrives we gossip and then decide what our top shows would be. It's her birthday present, and her top choice is An American in Paris which as a huge dance nerd I am more than excited to see. We luck out with a crisp, 60-degree weather day, so waiting is not an issue; though I can't imagine what it would be like in the summer or in the depths of winter. Sheesh.
Once the booth opens, we are in and out in 15 minutes, with incredible orchestra seats to a Broadway show for a relative pittance. We squeal joyfully for about a minute, then RaGo says, "Now let's get out of this hellhole." It's true, Times Square is most definitely the bane of most New Yorkers' existence, but it also allowed us to get these amazing seats at unheardof prices, so it's a give and take.
We go for coffee at Kahve in Hell's Kitchen and then brunch at the ever-delightful BarBacon, where we stuff ourselves with mimosas and bacon-laced treats like a corn torta (she) and a BLT with sunny-side up egg and avocado (me). Pleasantly filled, we then head over to the theatre and our fantastic seats therein. The choreography, by Christopher Wheeldon, is so beautiful I well up several times watching it. After intermission we just look at each other. I squeal and she goes, "I KNOW!" We are having a blast watching dance together, a sheer delight I only rarely get to share with my friends. The second half is just as swoonworthy, and I well up again, not only loving what I'm seeing but feeling honored that RaGo wanted to share this day and her birthday present with me. We hug and part ways and, feeling particularly sappy, I listen to George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" as I walk down Fifth Avenue.
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