FILM REVIEW: THIS IS 40



Desi (Meagen Fox) and Debbie (Leslie Mann) in This is 40.

 Age or IQ?

By Ed Rampell

I’m not a Judd Apatow fan and, like many moviegoers who’ve already reached puberty, I find much of his work to be puerile, juvenile, etc. I shudder to apply the term “auteur” to this over-the-top writer-director-producer, just as calling Tyler Perry one likewise induces nausea. So I was surprised at how much I enjoyed This is 40. Yes, it has the usual Apatowian obsession with body parts and bodily functions, but since This is 40 deals with an older generation instead of teens, Apatow has graduated and moved up to Viagra and hemorrhoid jokes.

This is 40 is being hyped as a sorta sequel to 2007’s Knocked Up, wherein Apatow’s usual immaturity reduces sexuality to an act that leads to childbirth and the hyper-responsibility of parenthood that more or less precludes recreational sex. Fortunately, This is 40 does not focus on the annoying Seth Rogen and cloying Katherine Heigl, who, like bad needles stuck in the groove of damaged LPs, both seem to play the same role over and over again (give or take a Green Hornet or two). Luckily, this dull duo are not in This is 40, which features Knocked Up’s other couple, Pete and Debbie, who are played by Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann.

As the title suggests, This is 40 deals with these married non-virgins as they hit the Big Four-0. Since we met Pete and Debbie last, in just five years they somehow managed to spawn a teenager, Sadie, plus another daughter, Charlotte, who is older than five -- but never mind, this is the movies. (BTW, both girls are portrayed by Apatows real life daughters, Iris and Maude.) Nevertheless, one of the best things about This is 40 is that it kind of unspools like real life. As both Pete and Debbie turn 40 in the same week they’re faced with not only the anxieties of aging -- at first, Deb is in a state of denial -- but problems with their own parents/in-laws, raising their own kids and perhaps most tellingly, financial problems. Depression, after all, is an economic as well as psychological term.

This is the strongest element of This is 40, which joins the ranks of recent features such as Up in the Air and The Company Men in rather realistically relating how today’s bad economy is negatively affecting people’s lives. In addition to the financial meltdown, Pete has to contend with changes brought on by technology. The Internet has wrought wonders, but in its wake New Media has devastated much of  the old, especially in book/magazine/newspaper publishing and in the music industry. Pete has chosen this moment in time to open an independent record label and his efforts to launch the 60-something artist he’s signed  (Graham Parker) runs into the head winds of the new realities of the digital world, with its free downloads, intellectual property theft, et al. Meanwhile, Debbie’s boutique is beset by an unaccountable theft of merchandise and loss of income.

Along with the dire needs of Pete and Debbie to downsize their entire lifestyle, the other really good thing about This is 40 is its cast. Parker, who had a hit album back in 1975, plays himself as the aforementioned British rocker, who today suffers from gout. This musician is joined by Albert Brooks as Larry, Pete’s Minnie the Moocher dad, a failed businessman. It’s curtains for this curtains salesman, who is reduced to panhandling and taking handouts from his son, especially to keep his second, much younger family afloat amidst the flotsam and jetsam of our collapsing capitalist economy. It’s always a joy to see Brooks onscreen, and he is a sight for sore eyes as he kibitzes with his son and quibbles with his daughter-in-law.

As Debbie’s absentee dad, the highly paid, surgeon Oliver, John Lithgow provides a stark counterpoint to Larry. Is it better to have a broke ass dad who always has his hand out or a well-to-do father who’s never around? At least Oliver’s making an effort in this film.

As the boutique saleswomen Desi and Jodi, Megan Fox and comedian Charlyne Yi also add to the overall merriment. Which of them have been stealing from Debbie’s shop? The hot Desi screws a customer on the boutique’s counter and has a deep, dark secret of her own. Yi gods -- this comedian is nuts! Yi played a character named Jodi in Knocked Up and starred in and co-wrote her own skewed take on love in 2009’s Paper Heart, so it's good fun to see this quirky, goofy comic back on the big screen.

Meanwhile, as the story unfolds -- kind of horizontally instead of vertically, as many lives do -- Pete and Debbie alternately argue, have a charming romantic interlude, fret over finances, try to raise their daughters in this troubled age, and somehow keep themselves afloat as they turn 40 and face uncertainty plus the prospect of middle age. Unfortunately, unlike most of us treading water in this economy that forces more and more of us to join the ranks of les miserables, Pete and Debbie have escape hatches unavailable to most of us. But aside from this -- after all, Apatow isn’t exactly a message moviemaker like Michael Moore -- This is 40 is a pretty realistic, highly enjoyable look at a modern couple and their very contemporary, daunting woes, as they try to keep their heads, and the heads of their relatives, above water.                       

 

 

 

 

 

FILM REVIEW: THE GUILT TRIP

Andy (Seth Rogan) and Joyce (Barbara Steisand) in The Guilt Trip.

 

 

Aged and never green

By Miranda Inganni

While visiting his mom, Joyce (Barbara Streisand), in New Jersey, Andy Brewster (Seth Rogan), learns that he was named after his widowed mother’s first love. Believing that he has tracked this man down, and trying to cheer up his mother -- who, by the by, seems perfectly content with how her life is, aside from her son living 3,000 miles away -- Andy impulsively invites her to join him on his cross country road trip. Andy has business meetings set up along the way to try to sell his invention: an organic cleaning product that is safe enough to drink. While Andy’s product may be a best seller, Andy is not the best salesman. His pitch is hard to swallow even if his product is not.

Directed by Anne Fletcher (27 Dresses) and written by Dan Fogelman (Crazy, Stupid, Love) The Guilt Trip is a tepid, mediocre comedy set mostly in a car. I chuckled once. maybe twice. The idea that Joyce would be happier with a man in her life is boring and absurd. While she admits that her biggest thrill is shopping at Gap (decidedly boring), the only man she wants more of in her life is her son.

Streisand’s Joyce is a stereotypical, overbearing mom to Rogan’s underachieving son. As predictable as any movie can be, The Guilt Trip offers little more than a few chuckles. Considering the talent Rogan and Streisand possess, both actors deserve better material -- and so do discerning viewers.

FILM REVIEW: JACK REACHER

Jack Reacher (Tom Cruise) in Jack Reacher.

A bit of a stretch

By John Esther

Released one week after the shooting massacre in Newtown, CT, writer-director Christopher McQuarrie's Jack Reacher opens up with Charlie (Jai Courtney) aiming his high-powered rifle at several people going about his or her day in Pittsburgh, PA. Amongst the possible targets is a young girl (Sophie Guest).

One can feel the tension in the theater. It may be too soon to show such images, but studios have to follow their release schedule. 

Then Jai starts shooting, killing strangers from thousands of feet away.

Given the recent tragedy that took 26 lives at one elementary school, there is a haunting element to the movie. Fortunately, in this movieland the police move in and immediately apprehend the suspect, Army sniper James Barr (Joseph Sikora). Blatantly guilty to the powers that be, DA Rodin (Richard Jenkins) will seek the death penalty for James Barr. On another hand, the DA's daughter, Helen (Rosamund Pike) will defend the mass murderer. Before he gets beat up in custody, all James Barr has to say is: "Get Jack Reacher."

A sort of modern-day Malpaso Man, Jack Reacher (Tom Cruise) lives, breathes and sleuths on the peripheries of society. No bank account. No drivers liscense. No address. You do not find Jack Reacher; Jack Reacher finds you.

As a fellow vet who encountered Barr before, Jack Reacher joins forces with Helen to help James Barr, promising to help her if she does the "unorthodox" thing -- as an attorney for the defendant -- by talking to the families of the victims. As a result, certainty commences to unravel.

Clearly Helen is out of her league while nobody is in league with Jack Reacher. Helen becomes bait while Jack Reacher swears to drink a bad guy's blood out of a boot. We all know it will be drinking time real soon.

Based on the character created by Lee Child the film is a bit confused on where it stands on issues of brutality and revenge, but not where it stands on government efficiency.

In the beginning it is a fairly clearcut case of guilt for the DA (although the audience knows Jack Barr did not pull the trigger from the beginning) and there is no reason for a DA, one who has never lost a death penalty case, not to seek the death penalty for someone who appears to be blatantly guilty of killing six random people in cold blood. Do we even have to go through with a trial? Can we just hang him in the town square?

Well, the city officials may have been too hasty in their judgement, but, later on, Jack Reacher and the audience are certain he has the right people, so he will do the executing. Has he/we learned nothing? (There is an accompanying "Take the Law Into Your Own Hands" game to the movie.)

Then there is strange conclusion to a car chase scene where citizens in the street feel compelled to sheild Jack Reacher after he steps out of a moving car heading toward a police barricade. Maybe it is different in Pittsburgh, but if you cause a wild cop car chase in Los Angeles, you better hope the cops get a hold of you before the people do. That crap just pisses us off. But I guess cops are government, too (public union!), and are not to be trusted more than the sweaty, white male being chased by them.

One could also talk about the film's questionable racial narrative and the way it just turns a smart, passionate, professional woman like Helen into in increasing sexual object (her cleavage comes out for the third act) and the way other women in the film are portrayed -- "slut"; "addict"; and "adulteress" -- or how someone like Jack Reacher could get away with so many murders -- justified or not -- with impunity.

But why let things like the law, ethics and logic get in the way of yet another American tale of violence and retribution? It does not seem to off-screen.



 

CONCERT REVIEW: VESPERS OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN

The Los Angeles Master Chorale at WDCH.

Hymm to her

By Ed Rampell

Downtown Los Angeles is certainly an epicenter for 21^st century hustle and bustle. But inside of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, with its futuristic façade, one can find an acoustical oasis from the dissonant sounds of traffic, construction, boom boxes and the like, far from the madding crowd. To paraphrase Max Ehrmann’s splendiferous poem, Desiderata, within this vestibule of a more genteel culture one can “Flow placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in sacred music.”

With its performance of four century old vocal and instrumental compositions, WDCH became a sort of time machine on Nov. 18, as the Los Angeles Master Chorale (LAMC) and Musica Angelica Baroque Orchestra (MABO) presented the Italian composer Claudio Monteverdi’s seldom played 1610 Vespers of the Blessed Virgin. Vespers is a form of religious music derived from Catholic prayers and Monteverdi’s scarcely heard hymns were serenely sung by the aptly named Master Chorale’s 40-ish sopranos, altos, tenors and basses, stylishly clad in gowns and tuxedos, conducted by music director Grant Gershon. Eight soloists alternated with groups of singers, males with females, moving on and off the stage and around the interior of WDCH, even climbing up beside the organ in the nosebleed seats, as if to be closer to the god they were praising in Latin. The Vespers’texts were translated in Performances Magazine, a program guide given to each ticket buyer.

The LAMC was accompanied by the MABO, which likewise varied in size over the course of the 90-ish minute Vespers of the Blessed Virgin, ranging up to 13 musicians. The baroque band leaned towards the strings, with two violinists, a violone-ist and a cellist, and most intriguingly and entrancingly for one accustomed to 21^st century instrumentation, an arch-lute and a theorbo, played by John Schneiderman and Daniel Zuluaga. The latter two are long necked plucked stringed instruments; with their round deep backs, lutes were all the rage during the Renaissance, while theorbos were popularized in the late 16^th century.

MABO also includes a portative organ (Ian Pritchard tickled the proverbial ivories) and a brass section consisting of three cornetto plus three sackbut players. The latter is a Renaissance/Baroque era trombone with a telescopic slide that allows for a more chromatic range of notes.

The combination of LAMC and BAMO produced a mellifluous, transcendent, soaring, sublime sound. The tranquil tonalities and harmonies transported one’s soul either back in time, before modernism’s harsh sound and fury, or even towards the heavens. Mezzo Soprano Janelle DeStafano’s solos were particularly lovely. Indeed, the music’s delicate beauty made one feel that the “house of the lord” they sang about was right there in WDCH -- that is, if one believes music is the laughter of the lord.

Interestingly, some of the Vespers of the Blessed Virgin's lyrics are sexually suggestive. For instance, in "Nigra Sum" the sensuous words translate as: “I am a black but beautiful daughter of Jerusalem, So the king loved me and led me into his bedroom and said to me: ‘Arise, my love, and come away… the time of pruning has come.’”

Well, who’s to say what’s sacred and what’s profane? No “ifs,” “ands” or “buts” about it: How splendid to hear this all too rare rendition, with sackbuts, a lute and theorbo played about 400 years after their heydays, long after heavy metal rockers and hip-hoppers have replaced strolling minstrels and troubadours. As Desiderata counsels: “Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.” These age old instruments, along with Monteverdi, still offer repose and solace in order to soothe the seething souls of our high anxiety age.


For information: (213) 972-7282; www.laphil.org  

 

 

THEATER REVIEW: OTHER DESERT CITIES

Elephant

By Ed Rampell

Sometimes, agitprop plays come across like pamphlets and onstage screeds. On the other hand, “interior” dramas solely dealing with their characters’ inner lives seem devoid of a social context. However, the great thing about Jon Robin Baitz’s Other Desert Cities is how the playwright adroitly interweaves the play’s political background and subtext with a very realistic family drama, with all the agility of a playwriting Spiderman, who pins tales as well as webs. Traversing a tightrope between two genres, it’s as if Other Desert Cities' dramatist has found a happy medium between, or even perhaps united, the best of the Clifford Odets of Waiting for Lefty with the Eugene O’Neill of The Iceman Cometh. Baitz combines the generation gap, antiwar protest from Vietnam to Iraq, the Reagan era and more with a conflict between a daughter and her parents that would not have been unfamiliar to ancient audiences attending Greek amphitheatres.

Baitz’s skillfully brewed concoction -- decidedly shaken, not stirred -- works exceedingly well in this two-acter, especially as the complex story is brought to life by an ensemble of gifted veteran thespians. The plot concerns Brooke (Robin Weigert), a troubled author who has relocated to the East Coast, who visits her doting parents in their Palm Springs home -- stylishly rendered with desert background by set designer Takeshi Kata -- during the holidays following George W. Bush’s 2004 reelection. At first, the sixtyish Lyman (Robert Foxworth) and Polly Wyeth (JoBeth Williams) are thrilled to see their errant writer of a daughter, as well as their son Trip (Michael Weston), a reality TV producer.

But tensions soon flare, enflamed by politics: Staunch Reaganites who defend Bush’s imperial misadventures in Iraq and Afghanistan, Lyman and Polly quickly clash with the lefty Brooke. Polly’s substance abusing sister ,Silda Grauman (Jeannie Berlin), enters the combustible fray with pithy critiques of Polly, an ex-screenwriter, and of Lyman, a former B-actor who went on to become GOP chairman.

Just as George and Martha purported to have an offstage son in Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? the Wyeths’ son/ brother/nephew is similarly an unseen presence in Other Desert Cities who casts a long shadow. It turns out that during the 1970s Henry joined a Weathermen-like extremist antiwar group of domestic terrorists who, we are told, after a “propaganda of the deed” to protest Vietnam goes terribly wrong, dies -- probably in a self-inflicted way. The loss of Henry seems to weigh especially heavily on Brooke’s shoulders, causing her to become depressed and institutionalized. But she has come out of her catatonic state by writing a tell-all confessional about her long lamented older brother -- which also threatens to shatter her already polarized family. Brooke’s Republican parents appear to be trying to live down the legacy of their wayward radical son and vociferously object to publication of the book and the ensuing nightmare, presumably because they will have to relive the worst moment of their lives, one which they have been trying to leave behind in the rear view mirror for decades.

The really delicious thing about this play is how its storyline and characters wander about the desert in unexpected ways. There’s nothing worse than seeing a show and correctly guessing the lines of dialogue and figuring out its denouement well in advance. But as the name of this work -- which refers to a road sign -- indicates, Other Desert Cities heads in unforeseen directions, with unexpected plot twists and turns. Act I is a dramedy, with plenty of pithy one-liners and zingers hurled back and forth, often with then-topical references about WMDs, Colin Powell and “whining lefties.” Act II is decidedly more of a drama, with the chickens coming home to roost for the dysfunctional Wyeths.

The ensemble is superbly directed by Robert Egan; well-versed in all things Baitz he has repeatedly collaborated with the playwright, who also created the ABC family series, Brothers & Sisters. The cast is simply stellar.


Other Desert Cities runs through Jan. 6, 2013 at the Mark Taper Forum, 135 N. Grand Ave. LA, CA. 90012. For more information: www.centertheatregroup.org;213/628-2772

    

FILM REVIEW: RUST AND BONE

Stéfanie (Marion Cotillard) in Rust and Bone.

Beds, buddies and bodies

By John Esther

By hook, crook and "booking it," Ali (Matthias Schoenaerts) and his five-year-old son, Sam (Armand Verdure), have made it to Antibes to live with his sister, Anna (Corinne Masiero), who he has not seen in five years. Anna gives her brother and nephew a couple of beds and shares her small refrigerator filled with the outdated food she brings home from her work, organized by the expiration date.

A husky man with emotional disabilities, Ali takes on many jobs throughout director/co-writer Jacques Audiard's Rust and Bone (De rouille et d'os). The first one is as a bouncer at a nightclub called Annex (the name of the club gets some legroom as the film goes on). A fight breaks out between two men with Stéfanie (Marion Cotillard) getting injured in the process.

Ali gives Stéfanie a ride home, making his share of machismo remarks along the way. Stéfanie is not really going for him but she lets Ali in the house where her significant other, Simon (Yannick Choirat), is waiting. Ready to play the tough guy, Simon cowers before Ali. Stéfanie likes that.

However, Stéfanie will not be too happy for long. During a show at Marineland Stéfanie suffers a horrific accident at the mouth of a killer whale. Thankfully, without all the gore.

Physically disabled, Stéfanie and the emotionally crippled Ali forge a meaningful relationship. He takes her to the beach, she supports his illegal fighting matches, and they occasionally have sex. Yet, Ali continues to screw up.

There is a lot going for Rust and Bone. Featuring quite a few scenes of great direction -- the accident scene is a tour-de-force; the digital composition is flawless -- Stéfanie, Ali and the others, are also some of of the best written characters this year. They are extremely flawed, barely likable people at times, yet they are genuine. One does not have to like Ali and Stéfanie to understand them. (It is no wonder France did not submit this film as its Oscar submission; Ali and Stéfanie are not heroic enough for the reactionary Academy.)

Along those lines the film offers an honest portrayal of working class struggles, where everybody scrapes by, often working two or more jobs just to live.

The acting is superb, too.

Moreover, it takes great strengths and lengths to show the value of friendship during life. Audiard and cinematrographer, Stéphane Fontaine repectfully guide the camera across the people who make up the lives of the film's two primary protagonists. Stéfanie's friend and co-worker, Louise (Celine Sallette), has a relatively small part, but she is memorable for just being there for Stéfanie. Anna is an interesting, sympathetic charcater in her own right. She deserves her own film.The depth of humanity here is worthy of the filmmaker Akira Kurosawa (High and Low; Red Beard; Ikuru).

And though it is one of the better films of the year, Rust and Bone has its faults. Based on Rust and Bone a collection of short stories of Canadian writer Craig Davidson, the film is rife with hyper dramatic scenes: near-deaths; fights; numerous confrontations. It is also way too conservative with the sex scenes. Considering Ali's strength and Stéfanie's size, the sex is uneventful.

Yet despite its dramatic hyper realization and sexual reservation, there are few films this year are as humane, human, complex and sophisticated as Rust and Bone.


 

FILM REVIEW: THE CLOWN

A scene from The Clown.

Go with what you know

By Miranda Inganni

Brazil’s submission to the 85^th Academy Awards is a sweet and thoughtful, almost quiet film.  Unlike many Brazilian usually arriving on these shores -- i.e, City of God, Elite Squad, Manda Bala, -- there is no violence, no sex, no drugs, no gangs or guns here. The Clown (O Palhaço) tells the story of a clown comedy duo of father, Valdemar (Paulo José), and grown son, Benjamin (Mello), as they lead their travelling circus troupe to villages to entertain the locals.

Directed and co-written by Selton Mello, The Clown also stars Mello as Benjamin, a clown unsure of his identity, figuratively and literally (he has no social security number or proof of residence) and he cannot find anyone who makes him laugh. Feeling that his talents may lie outside of their Circus Esperanza (Circus of Hope), sad clown Benjamin sets off in search of another life.

Mello is an accomplished actor, writer and director and his performance in The Clown is understated and sincere. Additionally, he has surrounded himself with a superb cast, including José as his father and Larissa Manoela as the precociously tuned-in Guilhermina.

While the movie takes its time introducing the audience to the players and then resolves the film a little too abruptly at the end, the journey is worth taking with Benjamin and his friends.

 

FILM REVIEW: CALIFORNIA SOLO

Lachlan MacAldonich (Robert Carlyle) in California Solo.

These days

By John Esther

Lachlan MacAldonich (Robert Carlyle) has seen better days. A brief rocker sensation in the 1990s, Lachlan now spends his days working and managing an organic farm and his nights doing a less-than-organic podcast show called "Flame-Outs," where he talks about young musicians who died too early.

Once a week Lachlan leaves his Antelope Valley and heads south to the Silver Lake farmers market where he charms customers into buying his organic wares at laughably cheap prices. His favorite customer is the oh-so-hipsterly named Beau (Alexia Rasmussen), a sort of humdrum, typical, wannabe actor commonly found throughout Los Angeles. Lachlan is obviously smitten with her, but she has no clue of his affections or, for that matter, is infamous past as a member of the Cranks, the UK's answer to Nirvana.

Perhaps due to the introduction of Beau's beau, Paul (Danny Masterson), or perhaps because his luck is running out, Lachlan goes on another drinking spree that night -- only this time he is pulled over for drunk driving.

Because a drunk driving conviction could get him deported backed to Scotlan, Lachlan makes efforts to reconnect with his Catherine (Kathleen Wilhoite) and their daughter Arianwen (Savannah Lathem), but may be too little to late to save him.

Beyond a very strong performance by Carlyle and supported by some strong supporting performances, notably by Masterson, Wilhoite and Michael Des Barres as the Cranks ex-manager, and a bit of quality dialogue during a few scenes, writer-director Marshall Lewy's California Solo has very little going for it. It is not that the film is bad or boring so much as it is forgettable. It is the kind of film one sees and forgets until coming across it a video store. A fleeing moment of recognition, only to be forgotten, again -- I guess just like Lachlan MacAldonich.

DVD REVIEW: INSPIRED THE VOICES AGAINST PROP 8

A scene from Inspired: The Voices Against Prop. 8.

Frogs out of hot water

By John Esther

Exactly four years and one month ago, a majority of California voters passed Proposition 8, thus revoking the short-lived marriage rights for same sex couples. As a result, members of the GLBT community who, often, widely overestimated the intelligence of the California voter, were galvanized to action.

Days and weeks later, the community, along with their non-gay allies, took to the streets throughout Los Angeles County -- from Long Beach, Pasadena, East Los Angeles, West Hollywood -- and beyond to protest this dismantling of civil rights.

Capturing the lives of these activists -- both old and new -- in the wake of Prop 8., director Charlie Gage's Inspired: The Voices Against Prop 8 is a sweet and speedy jaunt through a small piece of California history pro-civil rights viewers will enjoy.

Although unified in their opposition of "Prop H8" different factions along geopolitical grounds took different approaches. West of downtown Los Angeles, protests consisted of predominately white people occupying the streets of largely GLBT-friendly communities or stayed indoors to do a little phone banking. Meanwhile, the predominately "Sí, se puede" pro-GLBT Latino elements east of Los Angeles took on a different approach in considerably more difficult terrain where race played a factor, albeit not the way mainstream media reported. (Fox commentator Bill O'Reilly, as usual, comes of as ill-informed jerk in one segment.)

These different approaches caused quite a bit of friction amongst like-minded people. There is also a segment where people debate whether the boycott against El Coyote restaurant in Los Angeles was a good thing (it was), thus illustrating that the GLBT community is not some monolithic entity but consists of people with various points of views.

Featuring talking heads mixed with foot-age footage, the film interviews several important Los Angeles activists, such as noted protester Jimmy Chen, political whiz Sergio Carrillo, L.A. Gay and Lesbian Center Activities Coordinator Dahlia Ferlito, Los Angeles attorney Tim Lykowski, and Vanessa Romain of Long Beach Lesbian & Gay Pride Inc., today's release of the DVD and VOD of Inspired: The Voices Against Prop 8 coincides with many Californians (and Americans) waiting to hear if the United States Supreme Court will hear arguments on Prop. 8.

FILM REVIEW: GOTTFRIED HELNWEIN AND THE DREAMING CHILD

A scene from Gottfried Helnwein and the Dreaming Child.

What is a kid suppose to do?

By Miranda Inganni

Near the beginning of Lisa Kirk Colburn’s documentary, Gottfried Helnwein and the Dreaming Child, Austrian-born artist Gottfried Helnwein states that there is far too much child abuse in the world. He emphasizes that child abuse includes child labor. This point becomes relevant later on in the film when we learn that Helnwein feels strongly that an actual child should play the titular character in the Israeli Opera’s 2010 production of the opera, The Child Dream, for which Helnwein is the production designer. Unfortunately for Helnwein, there are pesky rules and regulations regarding child labor in Israel which prevent him from being able to take advantage of the very thing he rails against.

Feeling more like the “extras” you would get on a DVD, Gottfried Helnwein and the Dreaming Child is missing focus and the foundation of basic story telling: a beginning, middle and an ending. We see Helnwein at work in his studio (he lives in Los Angeles, CA and in Ireland) on his photo-realistic paintings of children (often depicted as bloodied and/or ghostly white), describing what life was like for him growing up in post-World War II Austria and slopping blood-red paint on the costumes of some of the (allowed children) actresses in The Child Dream. Additionally, there are interviews with various Israeli Opera members, The Child Dream’s director Omri Nitzan and the opera’s composer Gil Shohat. While Colburn’s film never reveals what the opera is actually about (it is based on the play of the same name by Hanoch Levin), we do learn that almost everyone involved was excited to have Helnwein join the crew.

Branding himself as I-don’t-know-what exactly, Helnwein wears sunglasses through the film and his creative process (how does this not impinge on his ability to see light and darkness as those without light-dimming glasses?), all-black clothing and brow-banishing bandanas. I can’t help but wonder if he is more concerned about presenting a certain image than he is about his work as an artist. He explains that children represent innocence and the betrayal of that innocence -- this theme is repeated in his work –--and is what he (and others) believes the opera is about.

Rather than look at the seemingly contradicatory work of Helnwein's art, Colburn’s film is a homage to Helnwein and while the documentary doesn’t necessarily raise questions, disappointingly, it doesn’t answer any that the average viewer might be inclined to ask.

 

 

THEATER REVIEW: MADAME BUTTERFLY

A scene from Madame Butterfly.

On the wings of lust

By Ed Rampell

Giacomo Puccini’s 1904 Madame Butterfly is among the most beloved operas of all time, and rightfully so. From our 21^stcentury “post-racial” (as if!) perch it’s easy to get up on our high horses and dismiss this early stab (no pun intended) at depicting interracial romance as being stereotypical, even racist. For instance, in commentary accompanying a Turner Classic Movies screening of Son of the Gods, Robert Osborne criticized this 1930 pre-Code film about racism -- sexual and otherwise -- against Asians in America as “cringe-worthy” and “creaky.” The usually circumspect Osborne went on to disparage D.W. Griffith’s 1919 classic Broken Blossoms, which was actually a plea for understanding and tolerance that likewise starred Richard Barthelmess.

In the same vein some may deride Ukrainian soprano Oksana Dyka’s turn as the title character in Madame Butterfly as “Yellowface” -- a white person impersonating a character of Asian ancestry through cosmetics, costuming, mannerisms, etc., which is also true for other “Oriental” roles performed by Caucasians in this production. Perhaps. Racism is certainly America’s original sin and disg-race-ful, and should always be exposed, wherever it rears its proverbially ugly head. But at the same time, in hindsight, we must not throw out the baby with the bathwater. Griffith richly deserved to be protested and picketed for his vile racism in 1915’s The Birth of a Nation, but his subsequent Broken Blossoms, like his 1916 masterpiece, Intolerance, are motion picture pleas against man’s inhumanity to man, and can be viewed as attempts to make up for the harm he did with his racially despicable Civil War epic. Again, I don’t mean for a second to excuse racism and stereotyping, but I am arguing that we must view works of art within the context of their times. Having said all that --

Meanwhile, back at the review:

The splendid first act of Madame Butterfly ranks with the very best work in all of the L.A. Opera productions I’ve covered. Michael Yeargan’s scenery and costuming are evocative of turn of the last century Japan. The libretto by Giuseppe Giacosa and Luigi Illica quickly reveals B.F. Pinkerton’s (Montana-born tenor Brandon Jovanovich) perfidy and opportunistic streak, as he likens the 99-year lease on his home -- which he has a monthly annullment option -- to his marital vows to eponymous character, Cio-Cio-San. Like the shoji panels at his hilltop house overlooking the harbor, he views his marriage -- arranged by matrimonial broker Goro (Manila-born tenor Rodell Rosel) -- as sliding, lasting only during his brief Naval deployment to Japan, until he makes “real” nuptials with, shall we say, “one of his own kind.” 

The thoughtless Pinkerton confides his treachery to U.S. Consul Sharpless (Philadelphia-born bass baritone Eric Owens -- and BTW, since we’re discussing race specific casting, would the U.S. diplomatic corps have had an African American represent U.S. interests overseas in 1904?).

The unfortunate Cio-Cio-San has had to support herself and her family since her father’s hara-kiri death (her revealing of the blade that did the suicidal deed early in Act I foreshadows what is to happen) by becoming a geisha. Pinkerton is clearly smitten by the charming Cio-Cio-San, and likens the kimono-clad beauty to art, flowers and insects; she refers to herself as a “goddess.” It never seems to occur to either of them (in particular to Pinkerton) that this “Butterfly” is merely human, a flesh and blood being with heart, soul and psyche. Indeed, it turns out Cio-Cio-San is only 15 years old, so by today’s standards, Pinkerton is arguably a child molester, if not a child rapist.

Cio-Cio-San is described as having profound feelings for her white “husband”; perhaps because of her father’s fate, and the limited options available to a young lady in early 20^th century Japan, she seeks to escape social restrictions by “marrying” an American and elevating her status. Cio-Cio-San turns her back on her ancestral religion, incurring the wrath of the Bonze (New York-born bass Stefan Szkafarowsky), who disrupts her “wedding” ceremony, and casts a sort of fatwa upon the two star crossed lovers.

Nevertheless, afterward, when its bedtime without Bonze, lighting designer Stephen Strawbridge illumines the lovers’ marital bed with the constellations in a dazzlingly romantic expression of their passion. The scene captures what, to paraphrase Spike Lee, could be called “bamboo fever,” as East meets West in sexual bliss.

But alas, as Rudyard Kipling put it, “never the twain shall meet.” Act II greatly encapsulates the action, as Pinkerton ships out, leaving behind Cio-Cio-San and, unbeknownst to Pinkerton, a love child. And unbeknownst to Butterfly, her American has flitted away and wed a fellow Yankee Doodle Dandy. As Butterfly pines away for her feckless gaijin (Caucasian), she sings the breathtakingly beautiful aria "Un bel di" ("One Fine Day"), which Dyka delivers flawlessly and movingly (even if it may be politically incorrect for a Ukrainian to portray an Asian, and anatomically incorrect for a hefty 34 year old to depict a slender teen). Well, when that not so mighty fine day does arrive -- and with it, Mrs. Pinkerton -- let’s just say it’s “ciao,” Cio-Cio-San.

What was Puccini getting at 108 years ago? Madame Butterfly is much more than a mere Mikado minstrel show. (Indeed, from 1915 to 1920 Japanese opera singer Tamaki Miura played the part in America and Europe.) Pinkerton’s rank is relatively low; he’s only a lieutenant, after all. It’s as if the color of his skin and racial pedigree was such that it bestowed a social status that outshone that of another suitor, the wealthy aristocrat Prince Yamadori (Korean-born baritone Museop Kim), who tries to woo Butterfly while her unfaithful “husband” sails the seven seas. His American-ness seems to be the allure for the outcast geisha Cio-Cio-San, who has been spurned by her own people and their cultural codes. Madame Butterfly is subject to interpretation, but I suspect Puccini, who so sympathized with countercultural artistes in La Boheme and political prisoners in Tosca, was criticizing racial intolerance, and not interracial love.

Ron Daniels ably directs the production which has some complex mass scenes, and Grant Gershon wields his baton with all the finesse of a musical samurai, conducting Puccini’s effervescent score.


Madame Butterfly runs through Dec. 9 at LA Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 135 N. Grand Ave. For more info: (213)972-8001; www.laopera.com.

 

THEATER REVIEW: FAITH

A scene from Faith.

Belief in the future

By Ed Rampell

Faith is the first part of playwright Evelina Fernandez’s Mexican Trilogy, although it’s the final installment to be produced in her three generational saga that follows the Garcia family, who migrated North of the border to, among other things, avoid the upheaval of the Mexican Revolution. The Latino Theater Company already presented parts II and III, Hope and Charity, last June and in 2011, and Faith continues the thread with much the same plot elements and themes.

As strangers in a strange land the Garcias struggle to survive in El Norte. The play opens in an Arizona mining town, with the Garcias leading a hardscrabble existence as members of a minority group who alternately try to adjust, fit in and maintain their roots. Perpetuating a sense of ethnic identity in an unbroken chain of ancestry persists as one of Fernandez’s primary preoccupations. Are the three U.S.-born daughters -- the eponymous Faith (Esperanza America), Charity (Alexis de la Rocha) and Elena (Olivia Delgado) -- Americans or Mexicans? Or something else, a hybrid, Chicanos?

The popular music in the trilogy’s other installments is back to liven things up and express underlying moods and notions. So is a significant world historical figure who looms large in the background, here in the personage of a Pres. Roosevelt heard via fireside chats on the radio. The playwright’s antiwar obsession returns too, as WWII sweeps the land and Freddie (Matias Ponce, who in a double role also plays a Priest) questions military service. Many may consider it heresy to doubt the so-called “good fight,” but Fernandez, who is nothing if not a writer of deep convictions, remains true to her pacifistic creed.

Speaking about Fernandez, she is cast against type as the lovelorn Lupe; in real life Evelina is far more attractive than her character, and kudos to her for glamming herself down for the plain Jane (or Juanita?) role. As an amiga of the Garcias, Lupe tries to mitigate the ironfisted rule over the household by Esperanza (Lucy Rodriguez). In one of the play’s several plot twists, it turns out Esperanza’s trying to prevent her daughters from repeating her own youthful indiscretions, but in the process, the overbearing parent forces them over the edge instead. Despite the biblical titles of Fernandez’s trilogy, she continues to wage her own holy war with Mother Church’s repression in Faith.

The local Latino radio celeb Ricardo Flores, aka “Ricky Flowers” (Geoffrey Rivas), has a surprise of his own. Xavi Moreno as the bumbling wannabe suitor and less than brave Charlie provides comic relief in a play that suffers from too many fart jokes.

The real standout of the ensemble cast, which is imaginatively directed by Jose Luis Valenzuela, is Sal Lopez, that stalwart of stage and screen who has appeared in movies such as Stanley Kubrick’s anti-Vietnam classic Full Metal Jacket. Talk about plot twists and turns: As Lupe’s husband Silvestre, he’s full of New Deal fervor, trying to organize Latino miners to receive equal pay for equal work. Instead of using economic arguments, Silvestre advances moral reasons to make his case to his fellow workers. Once his surprising back story is revealed, auds understand why. It seems that the Christianity Fernandez abides by is that of Liberation Theology. In any case, bravo Mr. Lopez, for bringing to life one of the best Latino characters since that 1950s classic with its similarly biblical title, Salt of the Earth.

The direction of Faith is up to Valenzuela’s habitual excellence -- even more so. With the help of scenic and lighting director Cameron Mock Valenzuela makes creative use of LATC’s rather large downstairs Theatre 3’s extensive space, staging the action on multi-levels. Which is only appropriate, as Faithis a multi-dimensional work.

Faith can be a standalone work; one need not have necessarily seen Hope and Charity to enjoy it, although having done so will enhance a fuller understanding of this Latino triptych. For those who did, like this head scratching reviewer, it is however frankly disjointing to have seen the plays out of order, which makes it hard to follow the peregrinations of the characters as they search for the Promised Land in los Estados Unidos. Hopefully, some producer and/or entity will have the faith to present the trilogy in chronological order. BTW, this would not be an act of charity, as such an undertaking is sure to be a surefire hit. Another suggestion is that the multi-talented Fernandez set her hand at writing a musical with original music composed specifically for such a work. Who knows? Evelina just might add “lyricist” to her job title.

In any case, this is the last week theatre-lovers can take an act of Faith at the LATC -- at least for the time being.


Faith runs through Nov. 11 in Theatre 3 of the Los Angeles Theatre Centre, 514 S. Spring St., CA 90013. For more info: 866/811-4111; www.thelatc.org.

 

AFI 2012: THE CENTRAL PARK FIVE

A scene from The Central Park Five

Burns, New York, Burns

By Ed Rampell

In the nonfiction films of Ken Burns, from The Civil War to The Central Park Five, race is a recurring theme, . The latter is the latest and perhaps most contemporary of the history obsessed filmmaker, and it is all about race and racism. As a “Native” New Yorker, of course I was aware of 1989’s Central Park Jogger case, wherein five Black and Latino teens were charged with being part of a “wolf pack” that went on a “wilding” rampage -- as the racist media put it -- brutally assaulting and gang raping a white woman jogging in the Park. The quintet of Harlem teenagers were convicted and served prison time.

Although I moved from N.Y. decades ago, I visited from time to time and stayed in touch with City residents, but somehow I never knew about what eventually happened regarding this case and to the five Harlemites, who are now grown men. Leave it to Ken Burns, America’s TV documentarian par excellence, to bring us up to date with the startling revelations regarding what reallyhappened and what the Central Park Five are currently up to. It’s genuinely astonishing and horrifying. The outcome is one of the worst examples of the press burying, instead of reporting, the news. While the front page stories about rape and mayhem were front page news, subsequent events are submerged on page 12 -- if at all.

Leave it to Burns and his co-creators, David McMahon and Sarah Burns, to exhume this riveting story with a riveting feature length documentary that will have viewers sitting on the edges of their seats, filled with outrage and unable to take their reddened eyes off of the screen. After watching this must see movie, audiences may join the young Rev. Al Sharpton in chanting: “No justice, no peace!” Hopefully, Burns’ doc will help render both justice and peace for the Central Park Five who are, in that ultimate Alfred Hitchcock tradition, literally “the wrong men.”

If you see only one film at AFI Film Festival this year, don’t miss Burns’ bravura The Central Park Five!


The Central Park Five screens: Monday, Nov. 5, 1:15 p.m. at the Chinese 2.