FILM REVIEW: GORE VIDAL AND THE UNITED STATES OF AMNESIA

Gore Vidal in Gore Vidal and the United States of Amnesia. 

Thanks for the memory

By Don Simpson

In capturing the life of a man who deftly re-imagined how we approach history and politics, it is unfortunate that Gore Vidal: The United States of Amnesia relies so heavily upon such an uninventive documentary format. Combining direct interviews with archival footage, director Nicholas Wrathall is lucky to at least have Gore Vidal’s natural charisma as the heart and soul of this documentary.

For those who are unfamiliar with his uncanny knack for highly-intellectualized wit and humor, The United States of Amnesiapresents Vidal in stark contrast to the perpetual stream of verbal diarrhea that spews from modern day pundits. Even when pitted against his nemesis William F. Buckley, Jr. during ABC’s coverage of the 1968 Democratic National Convention, Vidal transcended the stuffy intellectualism and presented his arguments with a poetic panache that made his elegantly barbed jabs all the more entertaining. Unfortunately, Vidal’s high-minded style of political discourse died with him on July 31, 2012.

Vidal’s lack of intellectual equals becomes increasingly evident as all of the other interviewees sprinkled throughout The United States of Amnesia pale in comparison to him. Their unabashed hero-worship does very little to contribute to the discussion of Vidal’s life, instead everyone seems much more enamored by his vibrant social life — as if to suggest that his friendship with Paul Newman or notorious feuds with Truman Capote and Norman Mailer are more important than his intellectual prowess. Even Vidal’s criticisms of John F. Kennedy, Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush are reduced to comical soundbites that are primed for tabloid headlines. In this context, The United States of Amnesia seems to cheapen Vidal’s opinions and arguments, abbreviating the sound bites into petty and slanderous slurs; its just a shame that Wrathall does not allow him to justify the statements.

While many viewers might only know of Vidal from reading his historical novels such as Lincoln or Burr, Wrathall opts to present a very human portrait of Vidal; focusing on his personality, The United States of Amnesia avoids any scholarly analysis of Vidal’s work. Hearing Vidal’s friends and admirers speak about him, it becomes increasingly evident that he was an enigma to everyone. Vidal seemed to enjoy the mysterious nature of his public persona, especially when it came to his sexuality. His third novel, The City and the Pillar (1948), is recognized as one of the first major American novels to directly feature homosexuality, but Vidal was opposed to defining people in terms of being “homosexual” and “heterosexual.” Vidal wholeheartedly believed that sexuality is not as clear cut as those polarizing terms infer, suggesting that everyone is bisexual to some degree. This made Vidal’s purportedly asexual relationship with long-term partner Howard Austen all the more perplexing to those who knew him.

Our world may still need a more academic interpretation of Vidal’s work, but Wrathall’s documentary serves as an essential introduction to the man, the myth and the legend. The United States of Amnesia presents Vidal (who I share a birthday with) in such an approachable light that perhaps it will propel more people to become curious about his novels and essays.

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.

THEATER REVIEW: ALBERT HERRING

A scene from Albert Herring.

Sex sings

By Ed Rampell

Benjamin Britten’s comedy of manners, Albert Herring, premiered in 1947 at Glyndebourne, a grand country manor in the veddy British countryside near East Sussex. But this good fun opera about sexual repression unfortunately remains all-too-contemporary, what with Republican presidential candidates debating contraception and Rick Satan-orum running for witch-burner-in-chief and all.

When the prim and not so proper village of Loxford runs out of vestal virgins for its annual, traditional May Day Festival (no red flags, please -- this is Edwardian England, after all), they turn to the virginal and eponymous Albert Herring (tenor Alek Shrader). Like his nation’s future prime minister, Margaret Thatcher, Albert is the child of a green grocer (mezzo-soprano Jane Bunnell). Much as with today’s GOP buffoons, Loxford’s power players place a premium on chastity, as well as on greed.

The resident one percenter, Lady Billows (Scottish singer Janis Kelly alternates in the role with soprano Christine Brewer), is tended to by Florence Pike (mezzo-soprano Ronnita Nicole Miller), a domestic servant with airs, at her ladyship’s posh estate, beautifully evoked by scenic designer Kevin Knight. Lady Billows offers a handsome sum as reward for Albert’s virtue, while she presides over a retinue of comical sycophants. The festival committee includes those not so stellar pillars of the community: The Vicar Mr. Gedge (baritone Jonathan Michie); the Mayor Mr. Upfold (tenor Robert McPherson); the Superintendent of Police Budd (bass Richard Bernstein); and the teacher Miss Wordsworth, a sort of old maid, well-played by soprano Stacey Tappan.

Not all of the Loxforders pretend to be such goody two shoes. A trio of undomesticated youngsters add to levity. The drolly named Sid and Nancy may not be punk rockers like the Sex Pistols’ Sid Vicious and his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen, but as the youthful lovers baritone Liam Bonner and mezzo-soprano Daniela Mack add a devil-may-care ingredient to the simmering stew of social propriety. Ultimately, boys will be boys, and predictably, as Albert is quite publicly lauded for his moral uprightness, with a little help from the mischievous Sid and Lady Billows’ bounty, all hell breaks loose. Much to the constable’s consternation amidst several, uh, red herrings, he is no longer a Prince Albert in a can. Although Albert’s coming of age is couched in hetero camouflage, Britten was reportedly gay, and his lampooning of sexual repression may have been his encoded ripostes to homophobia.

Mr. Knight’ sets, with rather large models of various homes in the background, aesthetically evoke the English countryside, while his period costumes conjure up a highly class stratified and rarefied era. Whereas Lady Billows’ home is suggestive of manorial splendor (not unlike, one suspects, Glyndebourne), the Herrings’ claustrophobic grocery shop is realistically rendered. The scenic transitions, enhanced by Rick Fisher’s lights, are gems as the Shanghaied cast, apparently impressed into service as stagehands, seamlessly, fluidly move from one time and place to another. But the fact that part of the background is simply bare and black -- at least viewed from my angle -- distracted me from Samuel Coleridge’s willing suspension of disbelief.

James Conlon’s baton reigns over a 13-piece orchestra with a sprightly score and much recitative singing, although there is no breakout aria or solo number per se that shakes the rafters. Paul Curran adeptly directs his ensemble cast with a flair for the bawdy and vaudevillean. Herring’s libretto, by Eric Crozier, is based on the French writer Guy de Maupassant’s short story Le Rosier de Madame Husson. Although sung in English supertitles are projected in English throughout the performance. Rule Britannia!

Innocence -- or rather innocence lost -- is a recurring theme in Britten’s work; his operatic take on Herman Melville’s angelic but doomed sailor Billy Budd (the mariner has the same last name as Herring’s policeman) premiered in 1951. Undercurrents of angsty sexuality roiled Britten’s version of Henry James’ symbolically titled The Turn of the Screw, which debuted in 1954 and was staged by L.A. Opera last season. (The centennial of Britten’s birth is next year.) While Britten put the sex into East Sussex, the hanky-panky in Albert Herring is largely played for laughs, although beneath the surface Britten’s opera jabs the tyrannical puritanical busybody brigades of then and now. One wonders what opéras bouffes the current Republican presidential race will someday inspire?  


Albert Herring runs through 17  at L.A. Opera at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, 135 N. Grand Ave. For more info: 213/972-8001; www.laopera.com.