One night, while I was in the middle of my swing shift, I got a call on my cell phone from a close friend of mine. “Did you hear the news?” he asked me somberly. Immediately, I thought perhaps some tragedy befell a mutual acquaintance.
“What’s up?” I asked, bracing myself for anything.
“Disney,” he told me, “they bought out Star Wars.”
Yes, in fact, I had seen something about it on the internet, and had planned to do a bit of investigation before I got caught up in...well, work. I wondered if he was having nightmare visions of Mickey Mouse making an appearance in future films, or being digitally implanted into the existing films. I assured him that Disney has not interfered with Marvel since they bought them out. “But...wow,” I said. “And they own the Muppets, too.”
I remembered reading an article in old issue of the now folded magazine ToyFare, which described an episode of The Muppet Show I remembered from my childhood, one that featured Mark Hamill and several other characters from Star Wars. At the end of the show, the guests, along with the Muppets, sung a round of “When You Wish Upon a Star” before a backdrop of Disney’s Magic Kingdom (a concession, I assume, they had to make for the right to use the song.) The result, the article read, was nothing short of a pop culture meltdown. And now, thanks to a billions-dollar deal, that gaudy dream has been fully realized. Plus, they have Spider-Man, too.
Like most men my age, I was raised on Star Wars, and still love it. Yet as the years have worn on, I’ve come to look at the Star Wars phenomena with a touch of mirthful apprehension. Many of my fellow Gen-Xers, it seems, take it way too seriously. (Refer to certain episodes of the great BBC comedy Spaced to know what I mean.) Control of Star Wars being relinquished to one of the world’s biggest corporations could cause consternation among the fanbase, already jaded by their disappointment in the prequels, which, in their minds, was to be a Second Coming.
Okay, let me digress and elaborate on this a bit: somewhere in the 1990s, when the kids weaned on Star Wars in the early ’80s were growing up, they began confessing a deep love for the film franchise, even though by then the series was considered passe. Once we became aware that others shared our love, it became easy to envelop ourselves in a communal, nostalgic bliss. And why not? They are quality shows, among the best fantasy films ever released. New books, comics, and toys were released that, despite our age, we waited in line for. This built up to the re-release of the beloved films, followed by the inevitable new films.
Though we were blown away by the spectacle that was the long-awaited Episode I, something about it seemed, I dunno...not quite right. After some goading from the cynical press, we realized the film, which we assumed was destined to be a classic, just wasn’t that good. This forced the fans to acknowledge a fact that had beforehand been blasphemy: George Lucas was not God. For all his vision and innovation, he was a sub-par director and a lousy screenwriter. Did those fans ever bother to analyze what about the original films worked so well, or did they just bow and scrape at the nostalgic bliss that they induced? Didn’t they know that the brilliant stories that Lucas told were modern versions of ages-old, culture-crossing archetypes lectured about by Joseph Campbell, of whom Lucas was a number-one admirer? Or did they just think Boba Fett was a badass and Leia was hot when dressed up like a slave?
My generation seems to be one has trouble growing up (I’m certainly no exception.) We grew up in the golden years of awesome toys for boys: Star Wars, Transformers, G.I. Joe, Masters of the Universe, Thundercats, and so-forth. It’s no surprise that even the franchises created for toys have since turned into, or are planning to be turned into, blockbuster films that wow new boys and offer that old nostalgic bliss to we grown-ups. While the target audience is still children, publications like ToyFare and shows like Robot Chicken wouldn’t have existed without a substantial market for that kind of nostalgia.
Okay, I’m digressing a bit too far here, but the point is that these franchises, especially Star Wars, have become our pop culture religions. Is it any wonder that people considered Jar-Jar Binks to be the Anti-Christ? He, along with everything else people didn’t like about the prequels, rendered the Star Wars universe imperfect, and, when woken up from our crazed devotion, we saw that even the beloved originals ARE just movies. Alas, some couldn’t cope with that, and they lost themselves in venomous spite for the treacherous films, blights of their beloved childhood memories to be dismissed and, more satisfyingly, to be bitched about. The disappointment attached to those films persuade people to wrongly consider them among the worst movies ever made. They’re not just disappointments to those people, they’re betrayals. I guess that’s what people get for deifying something as earthly as a movie franchise, top-notch though it may be.
So after hearing the news of Disney’s purchase, I admit there was a disturbance in my force that has continues to linger. That they wasted no time in announcing Episode VII, long suggested by Lucas, shows that either they are more efficient, or that Star Wars has now become more of a product to churn out (if that’s even possible.) But while Star Wars itself has become an American empire over the past thirty years, Lucas had remained its emperor, and all creative choices came down to him. Though his choices were often questionable, this at least led to a unity of the vision. Back in the mid-70s, Lucas was doggedly determined not to cooperate with a corporation, as he knew his own creative freedom would suffer for it. Now, taking to heart the negative response generated by the prequels, Lucas has evidently said, “Fuck it,” and handed it over.
The good news is that, with other people helming sequels, chances are they’ll get better screenwriters and directors (consider: The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi were scripted and directed by people besides Lucas.) I only hope that, for the next three episodes, he writes the stories.
In the meantime, we still have the often excellent TV series, The Clone Wars, to keep it real. I’m honestly a little excited to see what Episode VII will look like: if it feels like an honest continuation, or just enjoyable product, like Marvel movies can sometimes be.
I’ll just be bothered by a Star Wars movie not opening with the 20th Century Fox fanfare, but rather opening with the sweeping pan over the Magic Kingdom. Now all we need is Kermit the Frog playing banjo in the river before the castle, and maybe Spider-Man swinging from the spire.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Movie review: "Brave"
When I first saw the posterboard for Pixar’s 13th feature, adorned by a young woman with fiery red hair against a green-gray woodland backdrop with round eyes watchful for oncoming danger, wielding a bow and arrow and standing under the embroidered stone block letters that read “BRAVE,” I was intrigued. Any new Pixar film is a cause for anticipation, especially the first non-franchise entry since 2009’s much renowned Up. But what got my attention was the promise of an adventure story focusing on a female lead, and the hope that it wouldn’t, as these stories tend to do, dissolve into a romance. Think of it: even Mulan, the first Disney heroine to actually save the day, still needed a man at the end to fulfill her journey. I wondered what Pixar, producers of some of the best-told stories in modern cinema, could do with such a premise.
When I saw the trailer for Brave, which revealed its plot, my hopes sank just a little. Not because I necessarily felt this movie would fall back to that tradition, but because the premise was a little too familiar. We have the headstrong Princess Merida (voiced by the always excellent Kelly Macdonald,) who takes more after her stout-hearted warrior father than the prim and proper queen. Merida, much to her hotheaded chagrin, is made to be wed to a prince of another clan in order to unite the nation. To do this, her mother tries to squeeze Merida into the princess mold. Seeing the trailer, I was already thinking of Mulan.
Seeing the movie itself, I was treated to the usual high quality of Pixar animation. The medieval Scotland setting offered a lushly-detailed and brightly-colored landscape for the characters to play on, and Merida’s head of unruly ginger curls was particularly impressive. After the setup, Merida offers to hold an archery contest for her hand. She then proceeds to best all of her suitors spectacularly to claim herself as an independent woman.
After running through some well-worn archetypes (the hyper-masculine and dumb herd of men, the silly-spooky old crone and so-forth), we arrive at the central plot point, which took me quite by surprise, as nothing in the trailer alluded to it. It’s probably okay to go into detail, but I’ll just be safe and say it makes a shift from Mulan to something more akin to Brother Bear (remember that one?)
What ensues is a hearty story of the new and the traditional reconciling with one another, rife with symbols, hitting the right emotional marks and delivering a thrilling (though brief and, maybe a little obligatory) climax. Directed by Mark Andrews, Steve Purcell and Brenda Chapman, it has the brisk pace of an action film and makes use of the 3D technology by having us slide around and run between characters and sets, giving us the sense of being plopped in the middle of a threatening forest, a Stonehenge-like monument or a dining-hall brawl. Humor is tossed in to lighten the tone and appease the kids: it’s childish and cheeky, though never particularly clever.
The story by Chapman offers the fairytale kind of quality intermixed with high adventure, but, like a great deal of today’s animated features, it treads on some very worn ground and doesn’t quite bring enough new qualities to make it as exciting a work is it should be.
Merida didn’t disappoint as a strong lead, but while the movie avoids centering on a woman’s dependence on men, her arc was still defined by a relationship. That it was with her mother, tough, did add a more poignant dimension than a conventional love story could. It’s a refreshing thing that this remains a woman’s movie, without resorting to sloppy and obligatory romance. (Incidentally, I noticed that there are no Brave action figures on the shelves, only plush toys and dress-up dolls. Discuss.)
Let’s face it: there’s no such thing (so far) as a bad Pixar movie. Even the oft-maligned Cars 2 is serviceable entertainment (okay, pun intended.) Brave plays like a better-than-good Disney animated feature, but that doesn’t say much of a film from Pixar, which raised the bar so high with the Toy Story movies, The Incredibles, Wall-E and Up. There’s a certain magic in those films that’s lacking here. Its warm heart and stunning visuals warrant a recommendation, but when held up to its pedigree, Brave doesn’t quite hit the mark.
When I saw the trailer for Brave, which revealed its plot, my hopes sank just a little. Not because I necessarily felt this movie would fall back to that tradition, but because the premise was a little too familiar. We have the headstrong Princess Merida (voiced by the always excellent Kelly Macdonald,) who takes more after her stout-hearted warrior father than the prim and proper queen. Merida, much to her hotheaded chagrin, is made to be wed to a prince of another clan in order to unite the nation. To do this, her mother tries to squeeze Merida into the princess mold. Seeing the trailer, I was already thinking of Mulan.
Seeing the movie itself, I was treated to the usual high quality of Pixar animation. The medieval Scotland setting offered a lushly-detailed and brightly-colored landscape for the characters to play on, and Merida’s head of unruly ginger curls was particularly impressive. After the setup, Merida offers to hold an archery contest for her hand. She then proceeds to best all of her suitors spectacularly to claim herself as an independent woman.
After running through some well-worn archetypes (the hyper-masculine and dumb herd of men, the silly-spooky old crone and so-forth), we arrive at the central plot point, which took me quite by surprise, as nothing in the trailer alluded to it. It’s probably okay to go into detail, but I’ll just be safe and say it makes a shift from Mulan to something more akin to Brother Bear (remember that one?)
What ensues is a hearty story of the new and the traditional reconciling with one another, rife with symbols, hitting the right emotional marks and delivering a thrilling (though brief and, maybe a little obligatory) climax. Directed by Mark Andrews, Steve Purcell and Brenda Chapman, it has the brisk pace of an action film and makes use of the 3D technology by having us slide around and run between characters and sets, giving us the sense of being plopped in the middle of a threatening forest, a Stonehenge-like monument or a dining-hall brawl. Humor is tossed in to lighten the tone and appease the kids: it’s childish and cheeky, though never particularly clever.
The story by Chapman offers the fairytale kind of quality intermixed with high adventure, but, like a great deal of today’s animated features, it treads on some very worn ground and doesn’t quite bring enough new qualities to make it as exciting a work is it should be.
Merida didn’t disappoint as a strong lead, but while the movie avoids centering on a woman’s dependence on men, her arc was still defined by a relationship. That it was with her mother, tough, did add a more poignant dimension than a conventional love story could. It’s a refreshing thing that this remains a woman’s movie, without resorting to sloppy and obligatory romance. (Incidentally, I noticed that there are no Brave action figures on the shelves, only plush toys and dress-up dolls. Discuss.)
Let’s face it: there’s no such thing (so far) as a bad Pixar movie. Even the oft-maligned Cars 2 is serviceable entertainment (okay, pun intended.) Brave plays like a better-than-good Disney animated feature, but that doesn’t say much of a film from Pixar, which raised the bar so high with the Toy Story movies, The Incredibles, Wall-E and Up. There’s a certain magic in those films that’s lacking here. Its warm heart and stunning visuals warrant a recommendation, but when held up to its pedigree, Brave doesn’t quite hit the mark.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Album review: "Little Broken Hearts" by Norah Jones
For better or worse, Norah Jones created her niche with her explosively popular debut in 2002, and, to some, this niche is not a good one. Her music has been held up next to Starbucks: posh, clean, hip, and unabashedly safe. This certainly doesn’t encapsulate Jones’s musical ambitions, and, over her past few albums and external musical collaborations, she has worked hard to prove it so.
Even after the success of her debut, she displayed this restlessness: her second album was more country than lounge jazz, and everything after that showed her as someone anxious to explore different musical avenues, but unwilling to truly alienate her adult contemporary audience. This time around, she’s partnered with Brian Burton (a.k.a. DJ Danger Mouse...you know the guy.) A renowned mix-master, Burton not only produces the record in his own imaginative way, but he co-wrote each of the songs with Jones.
We’ll recall how her previous LP, 2009’s The Fall, was touted as a radical departure for Jones, shedding the adult contemporary jazz that won her Grammys in favor of something edgier. As we learned with that album, Jones doesn’t convert her music into different genres as much as she allows them to influence her. (And that’s really for the better, isn’t it, because what rock fan would admit to rocking out to her music, and what Jones fan would want her to produce a genuine rock record?)
Once again, fans need not worry: like per past excursions, her new record is as sweetly listenable as the previous four, slyly blending its ambitious production with her comfortable songwriting in a less obvious way than if it was in sloppier hands. This is no club record, and despite the playfully sultry, kitschy cover (inspired by the one-sheet for the 1965 film Mudhoney) Little Broken Hearts is a steady, weighty record. That’s not to say “contemplative”: it’s a statement that wallows in emotion rather than merely considering them.
And the emotion is, you guessed it, heartbreak. Apparently Ms. Jones endured a difficult breakup since we last heard from her, and the best way for an artist to deal with the difficult is to spew it out in her art. And she does, and what we get is Jones’s most sincere musical statement to date. She moans and croons her way through the dreamy world of her heartache…sort of like she’s riding alone through an abandoned tunnel of love with Burton as the top-hatted ferryman.
As with 2007’s underrated Not Too Late, Little Broken Hearts opens with a gorgeously dark ballad. This time it’s “Good Morning,” which pits a lazy 4/4 acoustic strum against softly frantic piano triplets. As she coos out the verses and moves into a fragile falsetto for the chorus, singing “I’m folding my hand,” it’s clear that, vocally, this is a new kind of Norah Jones record.
As sweet and serviceable as her voice is, it had never been particularly emotional before this record. Here, she adopts the gently cracked voice often used by female folk-rock singers (think Cat Power or KT Tunstall.) That helps things along: emotion is certainly called for on this record, even if it does put Jones close to sounding like everyone else. It works in conveying the sense of loss and despair that often happens with something as potentially world-shattering as a breakup.
Burton’s treatment of her award-winning pipes is in contrast to the rendering by past producers Arif Mardin and Lee Alexander (the latter being a past songwriting collaborator and lover as well. I wonder if it stung that he didn’t get his own breakup record. Anyway....) They were always sure to put her voice far above everything else…and that didn’t always work. Songs like 2004’s “Creepin’ In” and 2007’s “Sinkin’ Soon” lacked the weight and the guts they wanted to have, stifling creative ambition in order to retain the inoffensive AC sheen.
Throughout this record, we get production-muffled drumming, dreamy background vocals, gently scorching country guitars, and prog-rock-like orchestral flourishes that recall St. Vincent (look her up). Most remarkable are the jaunty little hooks that contrast with the dense moodiness in an superbly ironic way. For instance, the lead-off single “Happy Pills” uses an easy groove and a sassy, almost unbearably catchy backing vocal hook as a backdrop for her heartbroken falsetto moan of “Please just let me go....”
This juxtaposition makes for an effective portrait of a mind in the throws of a breakup: constantly speculating, blaming, second-guessing, mind-changing, affirming, doubting, justifying, biting, and always sad. In “She’s 22” (ouch), we hear her beg, “Does she make you happy? I’d like to see you happy.” It sounds like Jones could take some breakup lessons from Alanis Morissette, but listen further to "Happy Pills," where she sings, "How does it feel to be you right now dear? You broke this apart, so pick up your piece and go away from here." On "Miriam," Jones sings, "Miriam, that's such a pretty name, and I'll keep saying it when I make you cry" and "I know he said it's not your fault but I don't believe that's true/I've punished him from ear to ear and now I've saved the best for you." Such pulpish violence pitted against such beautiful music (a dreamy, stately march) evokes something out of a David Lynch film.
Like most albums based on ambiance, it’s easy to lose track of each song by the end, even as brisk a record as this is. One feels there will be a strong number of people—probably mostly women— who will find themselves in a situation where this broken tunnel of love is just the record that they’ll want to lose themselves in, with Norah as their ferryperson. She has created a bed of sorrow for us to lie in when we need it.
What we also get with Little Broken Hearts is the musical truth about Norah Jones that open-eared listeners learned over her past few records: she’s not stuck in the coffee shop. She’s growing up, constantly, like all artists do, and sometimes growing pains make for the best art.
Even after the success of her debut, she displayed this restlessness: her second album was more country than lounge jazz, and everything after that showed her as someone anxious to explore different musical avenues, but unwilling to truly alienate her adult contemporary audience. This time around, she’s partnered with Brian Burton (a.k.a. DJ Danger Mouse...you know the guy.) A renowned mix-master, Burton not only produces the record in his own imaginative way, but he co-wrote each of the songs with Jones.
We’ll recall how her previous LP, 2009’s The Fall, was touted as a radical departure for Jones, shedding the adult contemporary jazz that won her Grammys in favor of something edgier. As we learned with that album, Jones doesn’t convert her music into different genres as much as she allows them to influence her. (And that’s really for the better, isn’t it, because what rock fan would admit to rocking out to her music, and what Jones fan would want her to produce a genuine rock record?)
Once again, fans need not worry: like per past excursions, her new record is as sweetly listenable as the previous four, slyly blending its ambitious production with her comfortable songwriting in a less obvious way than if it was in sloppier hands. This is no club record, and despite the playfully sultry, kitschy cover (inspired by the one-sheet for the 1965 film Mudhoney) Little Broken Hearts is a steady, weighty record. That’s not to say “contemplative”: it’s a statement that wallows in emotion rather than merely considering them.
And the emotion is, you guessed it, heartbreak. Apparently Ms. Jones endured a difficult breakup since we last heard from her, and the best way for an artist to deal with the difficult is to spew it out in her art. And she does, and what we get is Jones’s most sincere musical statement to date. She moans and croons her way through the dreamy world of her heartache…sort of like she’s riding alone through an abandoned tunnel of love with Burton as the top-hatted ferryman.
As with 2007’s underrated Not Too Late, Little Broken Hearts opens with a gorgeously dark ballad. This time it’s “Good Morning,” which pits a lazy 4/4 acoustic strum against softly frantic piano triplets. As she coos out the verses and moves into a fragile falsetto for the chorus, singing “I’m folding my hand,” it’s clear that, vocally, this is a new kind of Norah Jones record.
As sweet and serviceable as her voice is, it had never been particularly emotional before this record. Here, she adopts the gently cracked voice often used by female folk-rock singers (think Cat Power or KT Tunstall.) That helps things along: emotion is certainly called for on this record, even if it does put Jones close to sounding like everyone else. It works in conveying the sense of loss and despair that often happens with something as potentially world-shattering as a breakup.
Burton’s treatment of her award-winning pipes is in contrast to the rendering by past producers Arif Mardin and Lee Alexander (the latter being a past songwriting collaborator and lover as well. I wonder if it stung that he didn’t get his own breakup record. Anyway....) They were always sure to put her voice far above everything else…and that didn’t always work. Songs like 2004’s “Creepin’ In” and 2007’s “Sinkin’ Soon” lacked the weight and the guts they wanted to have, stifling creative ambition in order to retain the inoffensive AC sheen.
Throughout this record, we get production-muffled drumming, dreamy background vocals, gently scorching country guitars, and prog-rock-like orchestral flourishes that recall St. Vincent (look her up). Most remarkable are the jaunty little hooks that contrast with the dense moodiness in an superbly ironic way. For instance, the lead-off single “Happy Pills” uses an easy groove and a sassy, almost unbearably catchy backing vocal hook as a backdrop for her heartbroken falsetto moan of “Please just let me go....”
This juxtaposition makes for an effective portrait of a mind in the throws of a breakup: constantly speculating, blaming, second-guessing, mind-changing, affirming, doubting, justifying, biting, and always sad. In “She’s 22” (ouch), we hear her beg, “Does she make you happy? I’d like to see you happy.” It sounds like Jones could take some breakup lessons from Alanis Morissette, but listen further to "Happy Pills," where she sings, "How does it feel to be you right now dear? You broke this apart, so pick up your piece and go away from here." On "Miriam," Jones sings, "Miriam, that's such a pretty name, and I'll keep saying it when I make you cry" and "I know he said it's not your fault but I don't believe that's true/I've punished him from ear to ear and now I've saved the best for you." Such pulpish violence pitted against such beautiful music (a dreamy, stately march) evokes something out of a David Lynch film.
Like most albums based on ambiance, it’s easy to lose track of each song by the end, even as brisk a record as this is. One feels there will be a strong number of people—probably mostly women— who will find themselves in a situation where this broken tunnel of love is just the record that they’ll want to lose themselves in, with Norah as their ferryperson. She has created a bed of sorrow for us to lie in when we need it.
What we also get with Little Broken Hearts is the musical truth about Norah Jones that open-eared listeners learned over her past few records: she’s not stuck in the coffee shop. She’s growing up, constantly, like all artists do, and sometimes growing pains make for the best art.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
"To a Good Run"
Saturday night, March 10: for the first time since my tenure with the Vancouver Voice ended upon its folding, I ventured out to see a play at one of our local playhouses. I went alone to the Slocum House Theater in downtown Vancouver to catch their production of “Greater Tuna.” It would be the final production of the company at Slocum House, as, after more than 40 years, increased rent would force them to find a different venue.
It was a wet, indigo twilight as I parked along Block 10, the empty lot block just northeast of Esther Short Park. I had written a piece about it for my reporting class at Washington State University in Vancouver back in the fall of 2007, and early the next year I sold it to the Voice as my first contribution. For that story, I talked with people of the Southwest Washington Center For the Arts about a proposed performing arts center to occupy that space, designed to attract theater and modest concert tours to Vancouver. It was to help vitalize downtown Vancouver, making it a cultural force to compete with Portland. Now, more than four years later, the lot is still empty.
As I cut through Esther Short Park, I looked up to the impressive structure across the street from its south side. The building was built for, and briefly occupied by, The Columbian. Thanks to the tanking print journalism industry, it too had to be left vacant. Looking at it, I imagined what it would be like to have that building stand as an active host for Vancouver’s daily. And, at the same time, to have a performing arts center presenting plays and musical concerts just a block away. Esther Short would have been at the center of Vancouver’s burgeoning culture.
I had been to the Slocum House Theater many times in the past few years. When I wrote for the Voice, I had asked the editor if I could began writing reviews around the local theater scene. There were only a handful of small theater companies active, as compared to the considerably more massive and versatile scene in Portland. Ah, ever in the shadow.... Still, while I knew next to nothing about the art of theater going in, I enjoyed seeing the productions and giving it my best, meeting cool people, keeping my thumb on the pulse, and seeing good shows. Slocum presented the first show I saw and reviewed: “The Green Room.”
I arrived twenty minutes before curtain, and spoke with director Jim Fully at the box office. As I did, somebody raised a cup of wine to him and said, “To a good run.”
The house was packed, and I was lucky to have been secured a seat. Also, as a bonus, admission that night was free. Thanks to Jim and the good people at Slocum for both. “Greater Tuna” was good fun: a series of loosely-connected comedy vignettes centering around a redneck town in rural Texas. Only two, quite talented actors, took on several roles in different genders (ala Monty Python.) Before the show, I got to see/chat with some friends I had made during my tenure there. At the end of she show, I applauded, then hastened out of there so I wouldn’t have to say goodbye twice.
As I walked out of the theater, the first to leave, the twilight had given to night, and the rain was firm and steady. I’ve always been amazed at how quiet downtown Vancouver is at 10 p.m. on a Saturday. I walked past Tigers Garden and the Starbucks, and they looked like scenes from a Hopper painting. God, I thought, that dream of surging vitality had only been a few years ago! A year ago, in fact. As a writer for the Voice, I got to meet people through the theater, make friends with other staffers and figureheads in the growing cultural scene in Vancouver. I got to enjoy art shows, concerts, parties, the Da-Da. As I walked alone to my car that night, I wondered, was it now floundering, or am I just out of the loop?
A while ago I went to see a movie at the Kiggins (Raiders of the Lost Ark, I think it was) and while enjoying a pre-movie hard cider upstairs, I chatted with my esteemed friend, accomplished photographer and all around Ms. Vancouver Anni Becker, and we agreed that things aren’t quite what they were even a short while ago. I had never been the most comfortable at parties: it’s always been difficult for me to blend in and socialize, and I ended up pinballing between Anni and other friends of mine. Still, now, sitting along and typing this at home alone on a Saturday night, I miss writing for the Voice. Something was growing here, and I miss being a part of it, contributing to it in what little way I could. I had even founded a spoken-word reading session on Sunday evenings at an uptown coffee shop. Few people showed up, it was put on hiatus, and the shop was burnt out. Still, thinking about it now, I think, did I really do that? Mostly, though, I miss the people.
Of course, they’re still around (most of them, I assume), and so is the art. Only, now I don’t get paid to experience it. I guess I’ve found myself being pulled magnetically the way most people seem to have: it was fun, but unless you’re planning on making a living doing this, it’s time to move on. But...nah. These things come in surges, and as long as there are people putting out their art, sometimes a few, sometimes many, there will still be something wonderful in Vancouver. It continues to be a good run.
It was a wet, indigo twilight as I parked along Block 10, the empty lot block just northeast of Esther Short Park. I had written a piece about it for my reporting class at Washington State University in Vancouver back in the fall of 2007, and early the next year I sold it to the Voice as my first contribution. For that story, I talked with people of the Southwest Washington Center For the Arts about a proposed performing arts center to occupy that space, designed to attract theater and modest concert tours to Vancouver. It was to help vitalize downtown Vancouver, making it a cultural force to compete with Portland. Now, more than four years later, the lot is still empty.
As I cut through Esther Short Park, I looked up to the impressive structure across the street from its south side. The building was built for, and briefly occupied by, The Columbian. Thanks to the tanking print journalism industry, it too had to be left vacant. Looking at it, I imagined what it would be like to have that building stand as an active host for Vancouver’s daily. And, at the same time, to have a performing arts center presenting plays and musical concerts just a block away. Esther Short would have been at the center of Vancouver’s burgeoning culture.
I had been to the Slocum House Theater many times in the past few years. When I wrote for the Voice, I had asked the editor if I could began writing reviews around the local theater scene. There were only a handful of small theater companies active, as compared to the considerably more massive and versatile scene in Portland. Ah, ever in the shadow.... Still, while I knew next to nothing about the art of theater going in, I enjoyed seeing the productions and giving it my best, meeting cool people, keeping my thumb on the pulse, and seeing good shows. Slocum presented the first show I saw and reviewed: “The Green Room.”
I arrived twenty minutes before curtain, and spoke with director Jim Fully at the box office. As I did, somebody raised a cup of wine to him and said, “To a good run.”
The house was packed, and I was lucky to have been secured a seat. Also, as a bonus, admission that night was free. Thanks to Jim and the good people at Slocum for both. “Greater Tuna” was good fun: a series of loosely-connected comedy vignettes centering around a redneck town in rural Texas. Only two, quite talented actors, took on several roles in different genders (ala Monty Python.) Before the show, I got to see/chat with some friends I had made during my tenure there. At the end of she show, I applauded, then hastened out of there so I wouldn’t have to say goodbye twice.
As I walked out of the theater, the first to leave, the twilight had given to night, and the rain was firm and steady. I’ve always been amazed at how quiet downtown Vancouver is at 10 p.m. on a Saturday. I walked past Tigers Garden and the Starbucks, and they looked like scenes from a Hopper painting. God, I thought, that dream of surging vitality had only been a few years ago! A year ago, in fact. As a writer for the Voice, I got to meet people through the theater, make friends with other staffers and figureheads in the growing cultural scene in Vancouver. I got to enjoy art shows, concerts, parties, the Da-Da. As I walked alone to my car that night, I wondered, was it now floundering, or am I just out of the loop?
A while ago I went to see a movie at the Kiggins (Raiders of the Lost Ark, I think it was) and while enjoying a pre-movie hard cider upstairs, I chatted with my esteemed friend, accomplished photographer and all around Ms. Vancouver Anni Becker, and we agreed that things aren’t quite what they were even a short while ago. I had never been the most comfortable at parties: it’s always been difficult for me to blend in and socialize, and I ended up pinballing between Anni and other friends of mine. Still, now, sitting along and typing this at home alone on a Saturday night, I miss writing for the Voice. Something was growing here, and I miss being a part of it, contributing to it in what little way I could. I had even founded a spoken-word reading session on Sunday evenings at an uptown coffee shop. Few people showed up, it was put on hiatus, and the shop was burnt out. Still, thinking about it now, I think, did I really do that? Mostly, though, I miss the people.
Of course, they’re still around (most of them, I assume), and so is the art. Only, now I don’t get paid to experience it. I guess I’ve found myself being pulled magnetically the way most people seem to have: it was fun, but unless you’re planning on making a living doing this, it’s time to move on. But...nah. These things come in surges, and as long as there are people putting out their art, sometimes a few, sometimes many, there will still be something wonderful in Vancouver. It continues to be a good run.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Good morning.
Okay, it's about time I did one of these things because I need an outlet to compose on a regular basis. I might say something interesting, depending on who you are and what you consider interesting. Honestly, I don't consider my opinion to be significant to anybody besides myself, but maybe you'll see something you like. The point is, I need to have a place to rub one out occasionally (snicker) and don't expect postings with any regularity. For now, it is three in the morning and I must go before I get started so that I can make something of the day tomorrow before I go to work.
Here it is. Take it or leave it.
Here it is. Take it or leave it.
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