Playin’ the Blues (a response to Jon Pareles’s review “Finding Their Way Home, Or At Least To The Garden”)

By James Spica

Legendary rock groups of yesterday, at some point many years after their breakup, will almost certainly re-unite to play the hits once again, setting all differences aside to please an eager audience. Almost every band does this at some point, from the Rolling Stones’ comeback to Billy Corgan’s re-joining the Smashing Pumpkins. The more celebrated half of Blind Faith, Eric Clapton and Steve Winwood, , paid homage to their roots and their short lived partnership in a concert at Madison Square Garden this past Monday.

Jon Pareles, in his New York Times review of the concert notes that whereas most post-band single artists such as Clapton and Winwood would pepper their sets with their big radio hits, the two instead spent their time “cherishing old Americana”, in other words, playing the blues.

The musicians were, Pareles says “just doing their job”, not preoccupied with stardom and showing off. Such modest behavior is in the spirit of the blues in all possible ways.

Pareles also notes that “It was, despite all the musicians’ previous experience, the first full length set together in decades.” This is also different from most reunions—the re-forming of a band isn’t usually more than two decades after the last album.

No Country For Old Ceremonies?

by James Spica

When hosting the 2008 Academy Awards, John Stewart continually referred to the year’s being a time of change. He blatantly and frequently infused his speeches with examples of political change, especially critiques of party platforms. At one point, he, in speaking of the un-popularity of Iraq war documentaries, suggested that war documentary film makers must “stay the course [in spite of the low interest in their films]” or else “the audience wins,” a blatant jest at Republican view of the war. He spoke of the extreme importance of the next election. This political humor, Stewart’s staple and the theme of his Daily Show, about the changing world, contrasted greatly with the fact that the Oscars have not changed in quite a while.

The 80^th Academy Awards ceremony was almost identical to the previous few. Elaborate sets (this year’s included rising pillars) in sparkly colors (especially gold, as usual), red carpet introductions (Regis Philbin conducting most of the impromptu interviews this year), the fashion show aspect of the red carpet (Versace, etc) among female stars, and of course, the movie awards honoring those actors that truly deserve them and the production crews who never seem to.

Daniel Day Lewis, an actor with incredible scope and depth, received the award for Best Actor in a Leading Role, which was a predictable (though deserved) outcome. The Best Picture went to No Country for Old Men, another predictable choice considering its revolutionary quality (among aspects, this film has almost no music at all) and seasoned acting and directing (the Cohen Brothers received Best Director as well). This was much the same as last year, with seasoned and clever director Martin Scorsese receiving both Best Director and Best Picture (for The Departed, a stylistically brilliant film). Best Female Actress in a Leading Role was awarded to Marion Cotillard who played the moving role of famous French Singer Edith Piaf. Best Supporting Actor went to Javier Bardem for his role as a bizarre assassin in No Country. In short, there were no surprises.

The sound production awards went, in large part, to the third film in the Bourne series, the Bourne Ultimatum. The award seemed, as always, rather arbitrary, because proficient sound mixing, editing, and recording, in the days of glossy effects-laden movies, are both fairly guaranteed. The Ultimatum also won Best Film Editing. The costume design award went to Elizabeth: the Golden Age, as the award always goes to the most elaborate period piece (last year’s went to Marie Antoinette).

The documentary, foreign film, short film, and animation awards, though clearly known to the Academy, was probably a little lost on the general TV audience, as these movies are oftentimes difficult to see if one is not in the right city (or country). This, as those who have seen many Oscars ceremonies will attest, is old hat.

The Academy Awards hardly change from year to year, as seemingly every other aspect of American life fluctuates. Perhaps this is some of the appeal—tradition can be comforting and welcomed.

“Oddly Delightful”

The amount of Les Pauls that are thrown about today is depressing—a guitar that beautiful and playable should be reserved for the few that can play them well, such as Jeff Beck or Jimmy Page. But nowadays, anyone and everyone plays one, including guitarists for pop-punk bands such as the new German phenomenon Tokio Hotel.

Kelefa Sanneh, in Wednesday’s New York Times, reviews the band’s American debut at the Fillmore last Monday. Much like A.O. Scott’s review of “Rambo”, she wants to crush the band on any number of it’s absurd and ridiculous aspects, but in the end concedes that the concert was good—describing it as “oddly delightful.”

Most of this “odd delight”, according to Sanneh, comes from the antics of the “gender-bending” frontman and the “surprisingly restrained” songs. Goofy as the band may sound, it seems that the concert was rather a success.

In the day when “teen-pop… …goth-punk boy bands” play Les Pauls, anything is possible.

Almost There, but Not Quite

A Review of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf”

By James Spica

It is considerably difficult to find good local art. By local art one means visual art in small town galleries; performances in hole-in-the-wall theatres on Main St; art made for locals by locals. Most of the difficulty comes of lack of true culture—many towns are far away from the established cultural influence of large cities such as Chicago or New York. Budgets are smaller, as the size of classic fine arts grants dwindles along with public appreciation. The Whole-Art Theatre’s production of “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” is a great example of bad local art.

This play is a rather long piece (at 3 hours or so), with absurdist, almost existentialist undertones. The hopelessness of the situation of the older couple (George (played by Richard Philpot ) and Martha (played by Martie Philpot ) spend most of their time bickering with each other, jabbing at each other with names like “snake” and “monkey” in a belittling but childish manner) is reminiscent of Samuel Beckett plays. Many of Beckett’s works are set in single rooms, in which two or four people spend the entire play saying absolutely nothing (they speak, but their conversation goes nowhere). Do not for a moment assume that this play or the performance thereof is in any other way like Beckett, who is quite clever with language. The message does remain similar, though—the absurdity of everyday life is constant.

The acting in this piece left a great deal to be desired—the performances of the younger couple (played by Carol Zombro and Trevor Maher) especially. They overacted their parts in a way that suggested a combination of overexcitement at being cast in a non-school play and inexperience. The girl, in her shrieking and weaving was too goofy for believable intoxication, and the boy, in his drunken bravado and intellectuality, were both rather painful to watch. Also, the pair fell into the trend of budding actors to raise their voices more frequently. This piece was rife with this—too frequently for feigning-drunk to allow.

The older couple, though comparatively adequate actors, were rather boring. This is probably attributable to the play itself—the characters are meant to be very boring people. All the same, during the first act, George was a delight to watch–he did a great job of portraying a man driven to the brink of insanity by a dreadful woman (and a little help from a Mr. Johnny Walker). During the second and third acts, by contrast, he just seemed to drone on incessantly. Again, the play may be at fault here. Whether or not that is the case, the impression doesn’t change.

In short, the performance was brought down in part by the play itself and in part by the actor and actress playing the younger couple. It is not the type of play that leaves a lasting impression—it lacks depth and good acting in a way that deprives one of the desire to see it again. This, unfortunately, is the usual situation with local art.

Critical Response to “You Want To Be A What?”, a review of the theatre production “Grace”

Response by James Spica

Art revolves around current issues, and the debate between religion and science over the origins of earth, as a current issue, makes a good topic for art. This quality about art will ingrain the viewers’ attentions make the art more comprehensible, as well as being a good vehicle for exasperation with current affairs.

“Grace” is a theatre piece about a Science teacher who, believing strongly in evolution, is appalled to discover her son’s dream of becoming an Episcopal priest. The play, according to Charles Isherwood, who wrote a review of the play for Tuesday’s New York Times, is a dismal failure.

This review is a blatant pan. At no point does Isherwood take the play seriously, though he often describes it in an almost serious manner to supplement his sarcastic view of a play which he finds ridiculous at every turn. He describes how the characters are played “with crusty dryness” or lack of “nuance”. His degree of summarization, which comprises a good half of the review, suggests that he thinks, and perhaps rightly so, that the absurdity of this play speaks for itself. He expresses the notion, at the end, that “it is not easy to take entirely seriously the idea of a personal revelation explained by way of a Keanu Reeves movie”, in describing the “mystery of his [Tom’s] calling” as being apparently “borrowed from the Matrix.”

‘Help—My Eyes are Bleeding Out of My Skull and My Brain is Seeping Out My Ears!’: a review of the HBO series “In Treatment”

By James Spica

I have never been to a psychologist and indeed hope the need never arises, but it mustn’t be said I harbor any acute dislike for them. I wouldn’t have any occasion for such dislike. So when I suggest that “In Treatment” might be more boring than the “Angel” series (a show intertwined with “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”, following a group of ghost-buster-private-detectives), which to those who have witnessed “Angel” might seem a strong statement, it is not out of any dislike for psychology or psychologists. Nor do I think that my disgust of this show is born of ignorance of the profession. It is just plain bad.

In Treatment is a dramatic series composed completely around the conflicts between a psychiatrist, Paul, and a slew of his patients. It was originally adapted from a very similar Israeli show, which was evidently quite popular (which may come as a mystery to many, certainly to me).

This show lacks excitement in a most painful manner. It is difficult to comprehend why anyone, save those in a psychological career, would find it interesting. The show is comprised of half-hour-long psychoanalytical dialogues and nothing more. There is rarely even a change of venue (setting—Paul’s office and home are the two main locations). The only variety, in fact, is that of specific problems and emotions of each patient, ranging from a cocky Navy pilot to a wounded young gymnast. Beyond that? No variety of camera-work, no solid plot. In short, an enormous, stifling void that swallows the soul of the viewer.

Much of the point of viewing art is to find a connection with it: viewers choose art that they can relate to. I am sure this is where any appeal for this show comes from. But that being said, there is a stronger concern—everybody has problems. Everybody is aware of this fact (at least most people are), so simply relating to the audience on such a basis is ennui incarnate. Many people can relate to the Laura’s (the young woman who is in love with Paul) predicament. I’m sure some can relate to the other conflicts, and many people can most certainly relate to Paul’s myriad of troubles such as relationship decay and dissolution with work. But there needs to be something more. Heaven knows what this is, but the reliance of a show’s intrigue solely upon the audience’s ability to relate is a boring series.

The saddest thing is that, because of its regularity (it is aired Monday through Friday in keeping with the patients’ appointment schedules, as if we’re seeing it directly out of Paul’s palm-pilot) and relate-ability, the show seems to be meant as some strange sort of psychiatric treatment in itself. Perhaps it is meant only to give satisfaction on the same basis as that of a session with Paul. Whatever the case, this fact is a frightening prospect for our culture and the television’s grip on us. The Reading of books is therapeutic, folks—give it a try.

Art’s Conception at the Hands of Others (critical response to Oscar Wilde’s “The Critic as Artist”)

By James Spica

During a time of artistic redefinition in larger proportion than had ever been seen in such a short period, Oscar Wilde, at the forefront of intellectual thought, was responsible for multiple crucial points upon which fine art hinged. In his “The Critic as Artist”, he not only elevates critics, but explains the emergence of ‘new art’, a subject of much upheaval during a decade (the 1890s) which saw the middle of absurdism and impressionism and emergence of existentialism and fauvism. Such art-theorizing was quite necessary and merited at such a moment.

He makes abundantly clear in this piece that the appearance of ‘new art’ (genres, forms, schools etc.) is born of the conflict between the critic and the artist. He writes; “Each new school, as it appears, cries out against criticism, but it is to the critical faculty in man that it owes its origin. (p.902).” He goes on to expound upon the way in which the critic, in individual (and indeed personal) discovery of meaning (“[finding that] the picture becomes more beautiful than it really is (p.906)… …[via] understanding of others [by way of] intensifying [one’s] own individualism (p.910)”), elevates the art far beyond its maker’s intentions.

This confirms the fact that art cannot survive without the critical spirit, and the critical spirit is likewise dependant upon art as food. It also defines the surfacing of new schools of art and indeed thought. But it raises a fundamental question—who creates the art? This is currently a point of major disagreement and discussion. By Wilde’s theory, the critic may be as pivotal in the creation of the art as the artist himself, because it is the critic that elevates the art, in his “revealing to us a secret of which [the art and artist] know nothing (p.910)”, to a fully artistic status. The late contemporary art theorist Allan Kaprow suggests that the museum curator makes the art art, as it is his word that puts it in the museum, and that which is in an art museum, to the minds of most museum-goers, is art.

Theory Criticism and Criticizing Theory

As art is constantly being redefined by artists and viewers both, and those who can follow it, theorize with it, predict it and chronicle it are generally on the cutting edge of intellectual thought and writing. Writers such as Allan Kaprow (I) come to mind. Pauline Kael is a perfect example of this phenomenon. She makes sure to write about something interesting—if this cannot be the movie, then it must be something else. If this makes her a lesser critic, it also makes her a greater writer.
Kael has no qualms about avoiding the expected critical discussion of a movie— “writing about everything but the movie” was an “accusation” made by those who believe a review must be ‘to-the-point’. Her desire to always write about something interesting, even if it is at the expense of adherence to common critical form, makes her a good writer. Her injection of social commentary into her pieces, as in “Excerpt From Fantasies Of the Art-house Audience—Hiroshima Mon Amour” is a fine example. Writing a review of a film (which isn’t even too abysmal) would nevertheless be less interesting than ideas like “the educated audience often uses ‘art’ films… …for finding wish fulfillment in the form of cheap and easy congratulation on their sensitivities and their liberalism (1).” When one can be writing art & social theory, if one is intelligent, they should be doing so, and Kael is no exception. Her art-theory-oriented thinking can be noted in her view of pop art: “movies… …can combine the energy of a popular art with the possibilities of high art (2).” This art theory may be applicable to the films in question, but the theory can stand on its own. The typical role of a critic is irrelevant to Pauline Kael, and her diversion there-from should be likewise irrelevant to her readers.
Kael does not pander to critical mediocrity. Conversely, she is intrigued by the mediocrity of audience and their artistic-merit-stipulations and opinions (e.g. “…one of the reasons we love movies [is] the pop element (3)”). She is as interested in the audience as in the movie, and seemingly writes just as much about the former as the latter. These attributes make her more than a critic but a theorist and a skillful writer. She goes above and beyond the typical movie critic.
Though Kael does stay on topic in many of her reviews, such as that of “My Left Foot” or of “Top Gun”, but even then has is sharp as a knife. Even then she makes artistic conjectures such as “the result is a new art form: the self referential commercial (4).” Her constant thinking about the re-definition of the film medium and its many different degrees of artistry comes through in her writing, and though some seem to think this dilutes it, in all intelligent and scholarly senses it is infinitely superior to the common critical form.

I-Kaprow is a contemporary artist and professor at the University of California, San Diego.
1. KPFA broadcast review of “Excerpt From Fantasies Of the Art-house Audience—Hiroshima Mon Amour”, 1961
2. Davis, Francis: Afterglow—a Last Conversation with Pauline Kael; De
Capo Press, 2002 (p. 32)
3.) Davis, Francis: Afterglow—a Last Conversation with Pauline Kael; De
Capo Press, 2002 (p. 91)
4.) New Yorker review of “Top Gun”, June 16 1986