CONCERT REVIEW: FESTIVAL OF CAROLS

Los Angeles Master Chorale. Photo by Ken Hively.

Songs of the shopping spree

By Ed Rampell

You better watch out, you might want to shout, because the Los Angeles Master Chorale is in town, regaling listeners with its annual Festival of Carols. If you’re not in the Christmas spirit yet, experiencing this songfest at the Walt Disney Concert Hall may be just the ticket. The festive aural cascade of seasonal song includes around 20 numbers, ranging from the solemn to the celebratory, the traditional to the pop, in a variety of languages.

The show, which has one intermission, was kicked off by an acappella rendition of an English Wassail song. Other oldies but goodies were accompanied by Lisa Edwards on the piano and/or by John West on the organ. The ensemble of 50-ish male and female vocalists regaled the audience's ears with many of those beloved standards. They included zesty versions of "Deck the Hall," "Silent Night," "White Christmas" and "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" -- which were accompanied by a certain visitor who may have arrived via a reindeer-powered sled, who then slid down the Disney’s chimney. Before the Chorale belted out a rousing "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" conductor Grant Gershon invited the Angelenos to sing-a-long from their seats, the words provided in the show’s program.

A Hebrew Folk Tune enhanced the repertoire, as soprano soloist Ayana Haviv sang "Hiney Mah Tov." Noting that the Jewish Festival of Lights had already ended prior to the first concert, which was on Dec. 7, Gershon good-naturedly joshed that this was “the first Hanukkah carol of next year.”

Highlights of the second act included soprano saxophonist Doug Masek accompanying the Chorale during the German carol, "Lo, How a Rose E’er Blooming,"  which was arranged by Shawn Kirchner, composer in residence. Gershon, who provided wise and witty patter between songs, introduced the Kenyan folk song, "Wana Baraka," by dedicating it to that African giant we just lost, Nelson Mandela.

During Act II West returned to the stage and announced that there would be “an unscripted word” -- and never were truer words ever spoken, as the Hall’s high tech organ actually could not play. As West wrestled with what I suppose is a computerized musical instrument, I thought the organ was going to say, like HAL in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001:“I’m sorry Dave, but I can’t do that.” As the audience cooled its heels a technician was actually brought onstage and performed what I suppose was an, uh, organ transplant.

During the grand finale I thought I was at a Dodgers’ game for a moment as the organ swelled, resounding throughout the auditorium, accompanying a rousing rendition of "Joy to the World." No, rockers -- not Three Dog Night’s version with the “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” lyrics, but the one based on Psalm 98, composed by Isaac Watts in the 18^th century with the 'come let us adore thee' words. Truth be told, the Chorale’s rapturous singing so expressed what that immortal philosopher Linus van Pelt called “the true meaning of Christmas” that your atheistic reviewer actually experienced a few transcendent seconds of splendor and bliss, when for a moment all worldly woes and weariness dissolved in a dew and joy dwelleth in the heart. And that alone, dear reader, is worth the price of admission.

If you’re nice not naughty, Gershon and his musical “elves” just might perform an encore or two. Take someone you love to go see the melodic gospel according to Grant and the Chorale, which is celebrating its 50^th anniversary.

Fa-la-la-la-la, peace on Earth, goodwill to all men and women.

 

 

THEATER REVIEW: PARFUMERIE

Miss Amalia Balash (Deobrah Ann Woll) in Parfumerie.

ssss

By Ed Rampell

There are quite a few reasons to see Parfumerie, an adaptation of the 1936 romatic comedy Illatszertar by Budapest-born playwright Miklos Laszlo, written by his nephew, E.P. Dowdall.

First of all, audiences will get to watch two top TV thespians trod the boards in this live production. Deborah Ann Woll, who plays the crazy, sexy, redheaded vampire Jessica Hamby in HBO’s True Blood series, portrays Miss Amalia Balash, an employee of a posh Budapest perfume shop, from whence the play’s title comes. Amalia feuds with her fellow shop clerk, Mr. George Horvath (Eddie Kaye Thomas), while carrying on a torrid love affair via the mail with a correspondent whose identity is unknown to her.

Moreover, Richard Schiff, who played the conscience of Martin Sheen’s -- uh, I mean Pres. Josiah Bartlet’s -- White House in NBC’s West Wing series, co-stars as Mr. Miklos Hammerschmidt, the owner of the titular Hungarian perfumery.

The two-acter takes place during the holiday season, and amidst the seasonal hubbub of buying and selling scents the usually even-keeled Hammerschmidt is especially high strung. At first your reviewer thought this was due to hard times the business might be experiencing during the Depression (not the one we’re in now -- Parfumerie is set during the last one, the 1930s). But of course, as this period piece is being staged in Beverly Hills, personal woes trump the economic ones. (Given that the cast includes little screen vets I can see it now: A new “reality” TV series called Shopkeepers of Beverly Hills!)

Allen Moyer’s set design is truly stellar. His evocation of a pre-WWII East European perfumery, so rich in lavish detail (with snowflakes falling outside the windows!), is the most sumptuous set this critic has ever seen on an L.A. stage -- with the sole exception of some of L.A. Opera’s onstage marvels. Indeed, this Tony and Drama Desk-nominated scenic designer has wrought his marvels for the Metropolitan and other opera houses, as well as for numerous Broadway and Off-Broadway shows. Bravo, Mr. Moyer, and thanks for your feast for the eyes (and noses!).

In addition, Parfumierie is the first play produced at the brand new Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts, a beautiful new addition to the Angeleno stage scene. From its original artwork by the likes of Roy Lichtenstein to its lovely architecture, it is all, well, very Beverly Hills. The Wallis is a worthy way to celebrate the centennial of this enclave of wealth in our city, which is -- lest we forget -- so beset by poverty.

As for the play itself: Well, Parfumerie may be a bit played out, long in the tooth and overly familiar to audiences, as it was adapted for the screen three times. Ernst Lubitsch directed 1940’s The Shop Around the Corner, with James Stewart and Margaret Sullavan as the star-crossed lovers. Following the invention of that newfangled email, Laszlo’s concoction about correspondence gone terribly wrong was updated by co-writer/director Nora Ephron in 1998’s You’ve Got Mail, co-starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

Mistaken identities has long been a convention of theater and opera, from Shakespeare to Mozart and, alas, beyond. This old saw of a plot device rears its ugly head in this letter writing themed comedy-drama. Some ticket buyers may be tickled by the ruse, while others might find the plot and play to be contrived, creaky and old fashioned. The second act is far better and more entertaining than the first. But, oh that glorious set, which reminded me of the interiors of Confiserie Sprüngli, the exquisite 19^th century chocolate shop and café at Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse! Overall, although it’s not exactly letter-perfect, most theatergoers will be entertained by this holiday fluff at a gorgeous new showcase for live theater.


Parfumerie runs through Dec. 22 in the Bram Goldsmith Theater, Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts, 9390 N. Santa Monica Blvd., Beverly Hills, CA 90210. For info: 310-746-4000; www.thewaillis.org.

 

 

BOOK RELEASE: THE HAWAI'I MOVIE AND TELEVISION BOOK

The Hawai'i Movie and Television Book: Celebrating 100 Years of Film Production Throughout the Hawaiian Islands.

 

Aloha 24 X 100

 

Just in time for the holidays, Honolulu’s Mutual Publishing has released The Hawai'i Movie and Television Book: Celebrating 100 Years of Film Production Throughout the Hawaiian Islands, co-authored by this publication's prolific writer Ed Rampell.

The handsome, four-color 216-page volume celebrates 100 years of filmmaking throughout the Hawaiian Islands with the focus on Hollywood feature films and television production since 1995, when Rampell co-authored Made In Paradise: Hollywood’s Films of Hawaii and The South Seas.

 

The Hawai'i Movie and Television Book includes: The screen images of Polynesians and Asians; how South Seas Cinema more than any other film genre is obsessed with the theme of Utopia; where films/TV shows were shot on location in the Hawaiian Islands; a history of the present day Hawai’i Film/TV Industry; and iconic Hawai‘i crime fighters as portrayed on screen. Rampell also places in historic context and reevaluates important movies such as 1995’s Waterworld and 1998’s Godzilla, revealing how they are motion picture parables of global warming and nuclear testing.

 

The films and television programs are covered in detail, heavily illustrated with archival and contemporary photographs. A valuable reference for film aficionados, a treasure trove of memorabilia for Hawai‘i movie fans, and an important document of Hollywood’s cinematic history with Hawai‘i. Film trivia enthusiasts will have a blast and discover where to go to see the Island locations where popular productions such as From Here to Eternity, Jurassic Parkand The Descendants were made.

 

Hollywood directors brought their own unique vision of paradise to the screen which receives special treatment in a chapter on the South Sea film genre. There is also coverage of films about Hawaiian life made by Native Hawaiians and other local filmmakers.

 

Los Angeles-based film historian Ed Rampell, who formerly lived in Hawaii, Tahiti, Samoa and Micronesia, where he covered the Nuclear Free and Independent Pacific and Hawaiian Sovereignty movements for ABC’s “20/20”, Radio Australia, Radio New Zealand, Honolulu Weekly, etc., is now one of L.A.’s most prolific reviewers, covering film/theater/opera for JEstherEntertainment.com, as well as HollywoodProgressive.com, Legends and Legacies, The Daily Dissident, People’s World and The Progressive Magazine.

 

Rampell previously co-authored Made In Paradise: Hollywood’s Films of Hawaii and The South Seas and Pearl Harbor In The Movies with Luis I. Reyes, who also co-wrote Hispanics in Hollywood. Rampell is also a co-founder of the South Seas Cinema Society, an Oahu-based fan club/film society.  

For more information about The Hawai'i Movie and Television Book: Celebrating 100 Years of Film Production Throughout the Hawaiian Islands,including a rave review by Honolulu’s top entertainment reporter, or to order copies  see Hawai'i Movie Book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

FILM REVIEW: REACHING FOR THE MOON

Elizabeth Bishop (Miranda Otto) and Lota de Macedo Soares (Gloria Pires) in Reaching for the Moon.

Lunacy and love

By Ed Rampell

I really liked this movie, mainly because of its unusual characters based on actual historical figures. Directed by Brazilian Bruno Barreto, Reaching for the Moon is a biopic about the Pulitzer Prize winning poet Elizabeth Bishop (Miranda Otto). The film focuses on the long lasting affair between Bishop and Lota de Macedo Soares (Gloria Pires). As breakthroughs in same sex marriage continue to make headlines, this tale of a lesbian romance that began back in 1951 is especially timely.

The script by Matthew Chapman, Julie Sayres and Carolino Kotscho, inspired by Carmen Oliveira’s novel, Rare and Commonplace Flowers, has what this critic considers to be a hallmark of good writing: Lots of twists and turns the viewer doesn’t see coming. Succeeding sequences serve to explain previous scenes. The film opens at Central Park, but soon Bishop is on the road to Rio de Janeiro, where events conspire to keep her there for decades as she encounters Soares.

No frail lotus blossom, Soares is arguably the biopic’s most interesting, original character, and throughout this two-hour feature your mystified reviewer continued to change his evolving opinion of her as Soares' character developed. On the one hand, Soares' is an out of the closet lesbian in the Catholic, Portuguese-influenced, patriarchal Brazil of the 1950s. On the other, she is a charter member of the ruling class, so despite her sexual preference she is used to getting her way. After all, if wealth is our international language, then money talks -- regardless of one’s sexual preference.

It’s interesting that Soares' lesbianism is not made much of in Brazil, nor is her ensuing affair with the far more repressed, secretive Bishop. This seems true both when they are at Soares' modernist refuge in the Amazon jungle or staying at her posh penthouse in Rio. There is lush, sumptuous cinematography by Mauro Pinheiro Jr. of the tropics, Copacabana Beach, Sugarloaf, etc., and the  degree of acceptance of the screen couple’s Sapphic sexuality and same sex relationship from the 1950s through the 1960s is indeed eye opening, especially considering how they most likely would have been treated in the staid U.S.A.

It’s interesting to note that currently another great American writer -- Glenn Greenwald, that fierce champion of civil liberties who brought Edward Snowden’s revelations about NSA über-snooping to the world’s attention -- is an expat who has left America to live in Brazil with his male Brazilian lover. Perhaps Brazil is ahead of the supposedly “advanced” United States?

This critic has no idea how historically accurate this biopic is, but according to the movie Bishop chafes under the rule of the military junta that overthrows the democratically elected Brazilian government in 1964. As a charter member of the land owning elite Soares' position is different, and it’s interesting to see how political events shape the lovers’ lives.

Director Barreto helmed 1997’s fact-based Four Days in September, which starred Alan Arkin as a U.S. diplomat kidnapped by the MR-8 “terrorist” group, which supported armed resistance to Brazil’s brutal military dictatorship (which, BTW, tortured Brazil’s current President, Dilma Rousseff, a former Marxist guerrilla, who is currently fighting against the NSA surveillance of her, which Snowden revealed). Barreto also directed the popular 1976 erotic ghost comedy, Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands, and along with Otto attended the private screening for Reaching for the Moon. His pithy introductory remarks put his finger on Moon’s message, saying: “This is a love story.”

Indeed, straight, gay, trans or whutevah, love is what inspires the poet in all of us -- whether or not we’ve won Pulitzers -- and makes the world and moon go round. Reaching for the Moon is an absorbing, insightful psychological drama with political overtones which won an OutFest Audience Award and is one of the year’s best movies about the love.

 

THEATER REVIEW: THE MAGIC FLUTE

A scene from The Magic Flute.

Sigh-lenses and breath

By Ed Rampell

The current version of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s The Magic Flute presented by LA Opera raises two essential artistic questions (plus, perhaps, eyebrows). Pouring vintage works into new bottles can be problematic, and in this reviewer’s opinion, more often than not they are not successful. This year I saw three modern dress Greek tragedies and, sans togas, only the Getty Villa’s Prometheus Bound worked. Resetting the other two myths in modern times served solely to detract from the original intents of the creators, and did absolutely nothing to enhance the banal productions.

On the other hand, every once in a while, a Leonard Bernstein, Arthur Laurents, Jerome Robbins, Stephen Sondheim and company come along, updating Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, whipping up a whole new, relevant concoction like West Side Story. It was a stroke of genius to replace Juliet’s balcony with a Manhattan fire escape. So I’m happy to say that the British “1927” theatre company and Komische Oper Berlin rendition of Mozart’s 1791 Flute -- the planet’s most produced German-language opera -- falls into this latter category of reconfigured and re-jiggered classics.

The company’s artistic conceit is to draw upon the conventions and aesthetics of silent films in order to express the fairy tale by Mozart and librettist Schikaneder. As such, we have some Hollywood studio slapstick and German expressionist elements, with references from Clara Bow’s “It Girl” to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari to Fritz Lang’s Dr. Mabuse.

To be specific, the character Monostatos (tenor Rodell Rosel), who is identified (perhaps in a racist way?) as a “Moor” and chief of the slaves of the temple, is straight out of Nosferatu, F.W. Murnau’s 1922 creepy forerunner to Dracula. Pamina (soprano Janai Brugger) is suggestive of those Jazz Age sexually liberated flappers, such as Louise Brooks, the American-born actress who starred in G.W. Pabst’s 1920s German films, such as the daring Pandora’s Box -- one half expects her to burst out dancing the Charleston. Papageno (baritone Rodion Pogossov) is dressed like none other than that king of silent comedians, Buster Keaton (BTW, French Stewart is reviving the stellar bioplay Stoneface in June 2014 at the Pasadena Playhouse).

In addition to the innate artistry pertaining to and peculiar to silent movies, the 1927/Komische Oper Berlin production uses lots of 1927’s Paul Barritt-designed animation, which is the format the non-live action imagery is actually projected in, onto the wall Esther Bialas (who is also the costume designer) had constructed, in lieu of LA Opera’s usually lavish sets. This backdrop has elevated portals with sort of revolving doors out of which the various characters appear (strapped in harnesses, as they are on high). The visuals are often witty, and reminiscent of the type of animated images seen in the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine, Monty Python, Betty Boop Max Fleischer cartoons, and Dumbo -- although they never attain the polished perfection of works by Disney or Pixar.

This production is gloriously and very precisely, painstakingly co-directed by Suzanne Andrade, an Englishwoman, and Australian Barrie Kosky, who is the Intendant (chief administrator) of the Komische Oper Berlin. Viewer/listener beware: One misses it at his or her own peril, and an extra performance has been added. In our violent world, Mozart’s opera persuasively argues in favor of less Glocks -- and more glockenspiels. This rapturously imaginative Magic Flute is nothing less than -- well -- magical.

 

The Magic Flute runs through Dec. 13 at LA Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 135 N. Grand Ave. For more info: 213-972-8001; www.laopera.com.

FILM REVIEW: SAL

Sal Mineo (Val Lauren) in Sal.

He, we, were robbed

By Don Simpson

James Franco’s bio-pic of Sal Mineo (Val Lauren), the teen idol and co-star of Rebel Without a Causeand Exodus, Sal is most likely destined to suffer the same cultish fate as most films about gay protagonists (Howl being an all too perfect example). This is extremely unfortunate, because this beautiful, sexually ambiguous portrait of a gay film star’s final day of existence deserves a lot more attention than it is expected to get.

Making a film that takes place within the rigid confines of the final day of its protagonist’s life places one hell of a burden on a filmmaker — especially when the protagonist’s death is foretold on a title card — but it also adds a certain amount of, well, je ne sais quoi to the narrative. As much as I hate knowing how a film is going to end before it even begins, Franco’s narrative builds upon the fact Mineo had a happy, productive and fulfilling last day on earth. For one, Mineo finally secures a deal to direct his first feature film — an adaptation of Charles Gorham's McCaffery. He is also in the final days of rehearsal as a lead actor in a theatrical adaptation of James Kirkwood, Jr.’s P.S. Your Cat Is Dead at the Westwood Playhouse; under the direction of Milton Katselas (James Franco), the play is all but ready for an audience…despite Keir Dullea’s (Jim Parrack) inability to remember his lines.

Christina Voros’ handheld vérité camerawork ogles Mineo, observing every movement of his immaculately buff body as he tirelessly works out at a gym or as he lounges around his apartment in various states of undress. If Mineo loved one thing, it was his body, and Sal functions as a testament to that. With no trace of expository dialogue, we are never privy to what Mineo is thinking or feeling; our only insight into Mineo is what we can piece together from watching him. Mineo spends at least half of his screen time alone; since he does not talk to himself or to inanimate objects, this means his dialogue is very limited. Sure, there are a few phone conversations — of which we only hear his side — but they are not very revealing, other than Mineo really wants to get people out to attend the upcoming premiere of his play.

Sal is not an entry into the cannon of queer cinema; other than focusing on a prominent gay figure, there is absolutely nothing “gay” about Sal. Franco avoids social commentary and political activism. (By the way, Mineo's killer served less than half of his 57-year prison sentence.) Instead Franco opts for this project to be a scholarly exercise in authenticity and realism. Handcuffed by an unspoken pledge that seems to resemble the “Dogme 95 Manifesto”, Sal is stripped of any entertainment value, but it is quite a commendable testament to the contemporary neo-realism movement nonetheless.

AUSTIN FILM FESTIVAL 2013: ENZO AVITABILE MUSIC LIFE

Enzo Avitabile in Enzo Avitabile Music Life.

Still making sense

By Don Simpson

 

Somewhat similar in approach to Stop Making Sense and Storefront Hitchcock, Jonathan Demme focuses on the uniqueness of the performances of Enzo Avitabile’s music. A Neapolitan saxophonist and vocalist who creates intricate, multiethnic jazz compositions, Avitabile possesses a level of songwriting genius that exists on a comparable intellectual plane to David Byrne. Like Byrne, Avitabile’s greatest strength is in his ability to choose teams of collaborators from around the world, then fuse them together in the recording of a song. Avitabile is well known for his thorough knowledge of world music — specifically the instruments and rhythmic structures — and ability to use that information in the development of intriguing collaborations. Whether or not you recognize names such as Eliades Ochoa, Naseer Shamma, Daby Touré, Trilok Gurtu and Amal Murkus does not really matter, Avitabile is about the magic that happens when Avitabile creates music with these talented people.

 

After documenting songwriters such as Byrne, Robyn Hitchcock and Neil Young, Demme’s artistic attraction to Avitabile is obvious. Demme has repeatedly revealed a certain fondness for capturing unique creative processes in the act. He either assumes that we already know the backgrounds of these artists, or he does not think that matters when it comes to their genius. He makes a fleeting exception for Avitabile, however, considering his strong ties to his Naples. Though, interestingly enough, Demme opts to allow Avitabile the chance to revisit his past at the end of the documentary, practically as an afterthought.

 

What surprises me most about Envo Avitabile is Demme’s apparent disinterest in the visual elements of the film. This is an incredibly intimate production shot primarily with handheld cameras; there are no lighting rigs, it is all just point and shoot camerawork. Curbing his auteurism, Demme lets Avitabile provide all of the glitz and eccentricities of the film. Luckily, Avitabile possess more than enough charisma to distract from the gritty production.

AUSTIN FILM FESTIVAL 2013: HELLAWARE

A scene from Hellaware.

Nada dada

By Don Simpson

When Lexie (Kate Lyn Sheil) breaks up with Nate (Keith Poulson) for an untalented pastel artist in pigtails, Nate decides to try to [re]discover himself as an artist. Drowning in a world of “incestuous New York City socialite shit” where untalented hacks are deemed successful by the highbrow elite, Nate must find a way to carve out his own niche.

By cocaine-fueled happenstance, Nate stumbles upon a no-budget rap-rock video by Young Torture Killaz, a group of high school kids from rural Delaware. With outsider art still very much en vogue, Nate travels to Delaware to photograph the band in their natural element. In a half-hearted attempt to legitimize the endeavor, he approaches the excursion like an ethnographic study, striving to immerse himself into their culture.

Nate’s friend Bernadette (Sophia Takal) hesitantly goes along for the ride. Unlike her incredibly naive friend who thinks high school kids can do no harm, Bernadette is rightfully frightened about venturing into the basement hangout of a bunch of drug-addled teens donning psychotic clown make-up who have penned such violently shocking songs as “I’ll Cut Yo Dick Off.” Functioning as the film’s voice of reason, Bernadette sees right through Nate’s intentions even if Nate remains totally oblivious to everything that he is doing.

Distracted by the potential fame that a solo show could quickly provide him, Nate quickly evolves into just another selfish, pretentious and condescending New York City artist. Human relationships no longer matter to him since a successful show will provide him with all of the love and attention that he needs. As he sees it, everything hinges on this one show and establishing himself as an artist is much more important than any friendship.

Writer-director Michael Bilandic's Hellaware teeters the fine line between satire and caricatures, poking fun at art culture and white rap-rock, specifically the significant role that shock value has taken in the creative industry. Visual art and music focus so much on inciting a reaction and judgment rather than promoting creativity and talent. Even more embarrassing is the tendency in creative industries to reward bad art for being so bad it’s good.

FILM REVIEW: LET THE FIRE BURN

A scene from Let the Fire Burn.

Bloodhound cops

By Don Simpson

 

May 13, 1985 was a pivotal moment in my childhood. I remember watching the local Philadelphia news that evening, mesmerized that a city’s police force would drop two pounds of military explosives onto a city row house, knowing that innocent women and children were inside the building. This was before 24-hour cable television news channels were the norm, so the fact that all three local news stations were so fixated on this event for the evening was equally fascinating. News reporters were broadcasting live from the scene, giving their firsthand accounts of the events. I specifically recall that my 12-year-old self felt like I was watching war correspondents, as explosions, fire and gun fire erupted. There was an unreal level of urgency and mayhem. I had recently discovered the word, "anarchy," and on May 13, 1985, I finally understood what that word meant. This was total chaos, and it was all incredibly frightening to me; but what frightened me the most was, as far as I could tell, the local police force initiated the chaos and they had no control over the rapidly escalating situation.

 

It really was a war. Philadelphia police acknowledged firing over 10,000 rounds of ammunition. The leader of MOVE, John Africa, was one of six adults who died in the fire; but even more disheartening, five innocent children died. In the end, 65 West Philly homes were burned to the ground by the six-alarm fire. Even if the few men inside the MOVE compound were as dangerous as the police would lead us to believe, the working class people who lived in the other 64 homes were totally innocent. So, why did Mayor Wilson Goode authorize this bombing? More importantly, why did he give the infamous command to “let the fire burn”?

 

Admittedly, I was quite naive, especially in the realm of race and politics. Prior to that evening, I had no idea that MOVE even existed. It was not until years later that I began to learn more about MOVE; but the more I learned about MOVE, the more confused I became about the events of May 13, 1985.

 

Founded by John Africa in 1972, MOVE was a predominantly African-American communal Christian society that opposed science, medicine and technology; preferring a Neo-Luddite, hunter-gatherer lifestyle. The confrontations between these anarcho-primitivists and the police became legendary, mainly because it seemed as though no one would ever tell the real truth about any of the events.

 

The years of violent confrontations between MOVE and the police culminated on May 13, 1985, and even though a few local news affiliates were recording everything live, the information available to the public seemed inherently biased. This is where Jason Osder’s documentary, Let the Fire Burn, comes in. Twenty-eight years after Philadelphia became known as “The City that Bombed Itself,” Osder premiered an artfully-edited archival footage documentary about MOVE at the Tribeca Film Festival in New York City. Assembled primarily from news footage and video recordings collected by an mayor-appointed investigative commission, Let the Fire Burn avoids any heavy-handed narration or directorial voice. Instead, Osder presents the audience with a riveting 88-minutes of firsthand documentation and allows us to come to our own conclusions. Regardless, it is difficult to avoid the obvious roles that prejudice, intolerance and fear played in the decisions made by Mayor Goode and the Philadelphia Police on May 13, 1985.

 

This is a part of Philadelphia history that is rarely acknowledged. I hope the reverberations of Let the Fire Burn will haunt Goode for the rest of his life; but, first and foremost, I hope the truth behind these events continues to bubble towards the surface.

THEATER REVIEW: CIRQUE DU SOLEIL'S TOTEM

A scene from Cirque du Soleil's Totem.

Flying high on cultural reified

By Ed Rampell

Beholding Cirque du Soleil’s spectacle of the senses I had the sensation Dorothy had when, after being tornado-tossed from the black and white Midwest skyward, she crash lands and glimpsing the Technicolor land of Oz, gasps and says to her dog: “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

Totem is one of the most challenging shows I’ve ever had to review because Cirque’s out-of-this-world lollapalooza, now under the Big Top at San Pedro, staggers the imagination and defies description. I’ve simply never seen anything quite like this colorful combination of costumed acrobatics, aerial athleticism, aural expressionism, cinematic imagery, live stagecraft verging on witchcraft, derring-do, dance and daffiness. The closest facsimile I’ve encountered is the equestrian extravaganza Odysseo by Cavalia, the psychedelic circus/cabaret production Teatro ZinZanni and Philip Glass’ operatic Einstein on the Beach.

Totem’s theater in the three quarters round is beneath a blue and yellow 66-foot-high tent-like pavilion, 167 feet in diameter called the Big Top, or le Grand Chapiteau(Cirque was created by French Canadians), that seats 2,600 gobsmacked spectators. On the oval-shaped stage is a turtle-like pod with reeds in the rear, where singers and musicians playing string, woodwind and percussion instruments lurk in a jungle-y ambiance. Upside down, with arms outstretched, the Crystal Man, in a skin tight silvery outfit and suspended from a cable, languidly, lithely descends from the Big Top’s apex towards the turtle, and its “shell” is removed. From out of the turtle’s skeletal structure, like so many clowns emerging from a Volkswagen, springs much of the cast of up to 47 performers from 15 countries. Amphibian-like performers launch into a parallel bars act, and Totem is off and running.

Two hours-plus of jaw dropping, death defying agility and mirthfulness ensue, with one intermission (complimentary Cuppies’ cupcakes and popcorn were served on the nearly-sold out opening night). There is hand balancing by a sinewy yet rubbery man atop an hourglass framed platform. Female foot jugglers twirl swathes of glittering spinning material atop their tippy toes. A Mongolian quintet precariously balances atop five elongated unicycles, unerringly tossing and juggling metallic bowls precariously perched upon their skulls.

A male-female duet enact a kind of aerial eroticism, performing a stylized Kama Sutra of sorts on a trapeze, with the greatest of ease -- and tease --  as they give the term “swingers” a whole new meaning. Ten jumpers go Cape Canaveral as they nimbly launch upwards, ever upwards, from what are called Russian bars.

As the title Totem -- which can refer to an emblem invested with spiritual significance by “primitive” people -- indicates, the Cirque show references traditional tribal cultures. This includes comical Cro-Magnon male entertainers who, among other things, have a droll bit wherein they encounter a 21^st century man with a smart phone, and as culture clash ensues all hell breaks loose. My favorite acts featured Eric Hernandez of the Lumbee tribe who, clad in stylish aboriginal apparel and so-called “war paint,” performs a rousing, age-old Hoop Dance.

In another very sensual number, through a combination of projected imagery, special effects and stagecraft wizardry Hernandez arrives via canoe and woos Shandien Larance, a female Hopi Hoop Dancer. The duet perform a rollicking roller skating routine that involves a striptease wherein Ms. Larance sheds much of her buckskins. Totem’s troupe includes at least one other North American Native, lead singer Christian Laveau, of Canada’s Huron-Wendat tribe.

Given all the controversy about the name of Washington’s NFL team, the so-called “Redskins,” I’ll leave it to others more knowledgeable than I regarding tribal customs as to how culturally “correct” and accurate these Cirque numbers (one involving skates) are. But I will say that as a general rule it is up to the people who are being depicted and identified to determine whether or not a portrayal and identification is insulting -- not up to members of the dominant majority culture and other ethnic groups. Self determination is when the self -- not outsiders -- determines how it is portrayed in public. Call it totem and taboo.

In any case, another important element of Totem are its clowns, who warm up the crowd prior to show time and then enact a series of comic skits that involve motor boats, waterskiing and other visually inventive vignettes. Along with the free floating devil-may-care athleticism above and onstage the overall sensation is one of sheer playfulness. The phenomenal Cirque du Soleil pageant epitomizes the sensibility of what another Flying Circus -- Monty Python -- used to refer to as “And now for something completely different.” Indeed. A splendid time was had by all the ladies, gentlemen and children of all ages in the enthralled, enraptured audience. Bravo!


Cirque du Soleil’s Totem is playing through Nov. 10 at Berth 46, Miner Street, the Port of Los Angeles, San Pedro, CA 90731. For tickets see: Totem