Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Getting forensic on Spoleto 2007

Posted by Patrick Sharbaugh on Wed, Jun 13, 2007 at 4:02 PM

The 31st Spoleto Festival USA is officially in the past tense. It’s now time to get forensic on the thing. But that’s less easy than it sounds. Part of the difficulty in summing up the festival after the fact lies in its nature; as Mayor Riley noted during the mid-festival tribute to founder Gian Carlo Menotti, the composer knew that, to be truly successful, Spoleto must be much more than merely a series of concerts. “For Menotti, the word ‘festival’ was not a throwaway term,” hizonner observed in his memoriam. “Everything and everyone must be touched by it. Menotti knew that Spoleto must become the life and the patina of the city for 17 days.” If you’ll glance at a festival calendar, it’s obvious organizers take Menotti’s mission seriously. Toss Piccolo Spoleto’s hundreds of separate events and the scores of chance encounters and random pearls of unpredictability the twin festivals generate into the mix, and you’ve got a whole that’s much greater than the sum of its parts.

This all renders the greater impact of the shebang essentially unsumuppable. Still, here goes.

Philip Glass. The commentators can harangue all they want over how the 2007 festival will be remembered going forward. 2007 will hereafter be the year of Philip Glass. It’s guaranteed by the double-whammy of the minimalist composer’s new American premiere here and the fact that his 50-foot face bookended the Gaillard Auditorium, to say nothing of the umptillions of posters, storefronts, program guides, bookmarks, T-shirts, and coffee mugs all with his own mug on or in them. Spoleto ’07 was Glass’ Being John Malkovich moment, and it’ll always be remembered that way, no matter that people thought it was Bruce Springsteen on the posters.

Blogging. It may seem like an insider’s observation, just shameless navel gazing, but the stats argue otherwise. There were five professional, local blogs keeping hourly tabs on the festivals this year, not including the occasional posts from The State and The New York Times. And people were reading — and watching, and listening to — them. Our three blogs had 308,967 hits over the three

weeks of the festival, and the streaming audio clips on the Spoleto Buzz blog were played 1,056 times. Anyone with a connection to the web was awash in commentary and reviews, random observations, last-minute schedule changes, and endless gigabytes of multimedia. The P&C’s self-appointed blogging team lugged a videocamera everywhere they went and techies Dan Conover and Geoff Marshall recorded a passel of podcasts in an ersatz studio in the newsroom there. Less inclined to the production and editing demands of video, I captured audio clips of dozens of festival performances, posted scads of field interviews, and recorded another dozen Spoleto Buzz podcasts with festival artists, as I did last year. The upshot: the way media outlets cover the festival — and the way people in the city experience it (and, to some inevitable degree, the way festival organizers promote it) — changed forever this year.

Spoleto, Italy. There were whisperings of a possible reunion with the festival’s Umbrian birth mother immediately following Gian Carlo Menotti’s death in February. This year’s opening ceremony, where both Spoleto, Italy, Mayor Massimo Brunini and our own Little Joe pitched for a patchup between the two festivals, confirmed the rumors. For the moment, reestablishing old ties is complicated by the fact that Menotti’s son, Chip is still in charge of the programming and purse strings at our European counterpart, if just barely. Barring his resignation (not as unlikely as it sounds, given that festival’s financial situation), talk of getting into bed together again is just that: talk.

The weather. Things were fine, even splendid, weather-wise until the middle of the festival’s second weekend, when tropical storm Barry swept inland south of us and pummeled the city (and Dock Street Theatre opera L’ile de Merlin) with a soaking, windblown welcome to the first day of hurricane season. No sooner had we squeegeed ourselves off than we were reminded it was also high summer, with 90-plus-degree heat through the end of the festival.

Ticketmaster. This company belongs on the same shit list as Wal-Mart and Enron. The City of Charleston needs to kill Piccolo’s contract with these West Hollywood hoodlums and handicap regional guys Etix’s bid next year. The opening weekend ticketing snafu ought to give the Office of Cultural Affairs more than enough leverage to wriggle out of a ROFR.

Left-leaning political commentary. There was no shortage in either of this year’s festivals. At the Village Playhouse, they sang, “What is Urinetown? Urinetown’s a lie, a means to keep the poor

in check until the day they die. Urinetown is here. It’s the town wherever people learn to live in fear.” (But with klezmer music.) Rise and Fall of the City of Mahagonny skewered unchecked materialism, and historical slave revolt leader Denmark Vesey might as well have been called an “enemy combatant” at the American. L’ile de Merlin satirized hubristic notions of utopianism (some wondered if the island was in the Red Sea), Major Bang: or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Dirty Bomb was a Dr. Strangelove-schitzophrenic satire of post-9/11 national insecurity, and new music concert Katrina Ballads made mincemeat of Bush & Co.’s own words.

Costumes. Women swooned over the duds in the Gate Theatre’s Constant Wife — the shoes, the hats, the dresses, the handbags, even the gloves — but the rest of the ’07 festival had some notable couture, too. The multicolored day-glo suits in Mahagonny were safely observed only through s

moked glass. Mephistopheles and his angelic counterpart in Faustus were … well, indescribable (see the picture below left), and few who saw Merlin will ever forget Richard Troxell’s full-body smiley-face outfit as the “badass philosopher” (or the dance that went with it). Closer’s Pelham Spong was radiant in fuck-me heels, bra, and fishnets, bending over during a theatrical pole dance, and Julie Ziff’s inventive costuming for Urinetown was a little bit Oz and little bit Third Reich. Aurélia Thierrée’s last outfit, which opened up and allowed a model train to pass on a track through her torso, was one for the history books.

Rotting innards. I may have been the only person who didn’t care for Sekou Sundiata’s

healthcare-meets-spoken-word rumination on struggling with kidney failure, blessing the boats. Sundiata’s gifts as a performer were unmistakable, and I said as much, but the subject matter left me cold. According to several readers, though, my distaste for the theatre piece proved that I hate the organ transplant system and every person who’s ever had one. Here’s hoping I never need a kidney come Spoleto season.

Parking. It was a quick way to give yourself an ulcer last year, if your destination was anywhere near the CofC’s Simons Center for the Arts — or the Cistern, or Theatre 220, or the Sottile Theatre. And it was just as bad this year, with the formerly spacious parking garage at St. Philip and George streets now a faded memory and whatever’s going up there still under construction. And that damned bicycle-riding CofC parking cop was the bane of my existence. God forbit any of those spaces actually be used by anyone at night, while school’s out…

Charles Wadsworth. The 78-year-old host of Spoleto’s Chamber Music is as much a fixture of the Big Festival as the Dock Street itself, but his brand of suggestive, self-deprecating humor — or “corny palaver,” as New York Times blogger James Oestreich put it mid-festival — isn’t for everyone. His age makes him mostly immune to criticism. But any man 20 years younger letting loose with the same off-color remarks about the female musicians in his employ would be sued to within an inch of his innuendo.

Theatre 99’s Piccolo Fringe. They’re going to have to start their own festival soon. Waitaminnit, they already have. (See the Charleston Comedy Festival.) Point is, the inventory of top sketch, improv, musical, and other comedy-esque acts in Theatre 99’s ginormous Piccolo Fringe could have occupied their own zip code this year. Funniest material: Upright Citizens Brigade, as per usual. Biggest surprise hit: a tie between the surrealistic sketches of the Cody Rivers Show and the whip-smart Harvard Sailing Team, none of whom went to Harvard. Biggest letdown: Human Giant, who phoned in a show that was more an appearance than a performance, little more than clips from their show and back-patting banter about being semi-celebrities in Charleston.

Cellphones. Are people whose cellphones ring in the middle of performances evil, stupid, thoughtless, or simply minions of the Devil? And for punishment, should they be a) forced to eat their phones, b) drawn and quartered, c) buried alive with a phone whose ringtone is Beyonce’s “Irreplacable”? My solution: pack ’em off to Urinetown.

Magic. Between the wonderfully unpredictable Major Bang: or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Dirty Bomb and Aurélia’s Oratorio, there was more illusion on the Emmett Robinson stage this year than at a David Copperfield fan club convention.

Festival foxes. I worried that my “Most Boinkable Artist” category in last year’s wrap was too, shall we say, indelicate. But a conversation with Spoleto admins and organizers at the festival finale convinced me it had to go in again. The top honors went to:

1) Heather Buck. The angel in Faustus was indeed a hottie, and a sweetheart to boot. Plus she exploded and burst into flames at the end of the opera. That’s just badass.

2) Keith Phares, who played Pierrot in L’ile de Merlin (and appeared in both of the two recent Don Giovannis here). It must have been the Keanu Reeves Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure impression.

3. Rubberbandance’s Lila-Mae Talbot. Cute as a button, limber, and with a French accent. What more need be said?

4. Andrew von Oeyen. Youthful blond virtuoso pianist von Oeyen is a veteran of last year’s list, and if he seems a little too fond of his own picture, where’s the harm in that?

5. The Constant Wife’s Jade Yourell. As Constance’s best friend Marie-Louise, who’s not so secretly knocking boots with Constance’s husband John, Jade was a beautiful, brainless bonbon. As a beautiful, brainy actress, she’s even better.

Nihilism. This $20 word got bandied about a lot in the wake of the premiere of Pascal Dusapin’s Faustus, the Last Night. Unless you’re a fan of either Neitzsche, Heidegger, or The Big Lebowski, you may be unfamiliar with its philosophical ramifications for that opera. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, though. It’s probably nothing.

Kudu. That’s Kudu Coffee, for those of you who missed finding this urban slice of the African subcontinent — and the unofficial watering hole and sunning spot for herds of Spoleto Festival artists — on Vanderhorst Street across from St. Matthew’s Church. Great coffee, free wireless, plenty of comfy seats, live entertainment, a spacious enclosed courtyard, and within spitting distance of a handful of festival venues, Kudu was the place to go if you wanted to hang with the festival in-crowd.

Underground art. At the last minute, after much urging on my part — and coming just one week

after the city’s Very Important Announcement of a renewed crackdown on graffiti — graphic artist Johnny Pundt sent me this year’s best subversive slant on the festivals, taking down Spoleto and the graffiti crackdown in one fell swoop. Keep Charleston Beautiful, Motherf#@cker!” it read, around a stencil of the mayor. “Spoleto 2007: Say ‘No’ To Unapproved Art!” I didn’t see many around town, but it’s the thought that counts.

Controversy. Spoleto wouldn’t be Spoleto unless it chapped a few asses with its programming, and so it was. Most of the debate, however, took place within the rarified circles of music theorists and connoisseurs, not among the plebeian masses, sad to say. Faustus, the Last Night was either groundbreaking genius or unlistenable tripe, depending on which critic you asked. Glass’ Book of Longing was either a delightful melding of music and literature or a nose-dive into shlocky, saccharine pap. L’ile de Merlin was a gut-bustingly sharp satirical updating of an otherwise unremarkable opera to some, a crass, unsubtle piece of pandering that sacrificed music to silly spectacle for others. Neither did Dood Paard’s spare, postmodern medEia do anything to mollify the unquiet gripers. It was a banner year for “challenging” art at the festival. Menotti, rest his soul, would be proud.

Thursday, May 31, 2007

How to make sure you’re never invited to guest star on 30 Rock

Posted by Patrick Sharbaugh on Thu, May 31, 2007 at 5:59 PM

This Spoleto Buzz blogger, having in recent days created a permanent indentation in his computer chair the size and shape of his backside, spent yesterday evening on the Piccolo trail, specifically that section of it carved out by Theatre 99 and their lunatic Fringe. At 7pm I was at Theatre 99 for a nearly sold out show from the Harvard Sailing Team, which is just as good as you’ve heard it is.

These nine kids from New York’s People’s Improv Theatre (home also to last year’s Piccolo Fringe faves Elephant Larry) create masterful sketch comedy that sneaks up on you and swats you in the face with its cleverness before you know you’ve even been had. It’s not character-driven sketch stuff – the kind of broad joe-six-pack humor the SNL loves to deliver – but deeply creative vignettes that are as often self-referencing (i.e. about the Harvard Sailing Team) as they are reflective of pop culture stalwarts like American Idol, Coldplay, indie rockers, West Side Story, and the loathesome, mindless wasteland known as The Bachelor. Best sketch, hands down: a pair of players stand on chairs and manipulate actors in seats before them as if they are schoolgirls playing with marionette puppets, whose convincing physics as string-actioned objects was nearly perfect. Naturally, big brother comes in with uzi-weilding G.I. Joe and guns everyone down.

Later, at Charleston Ballet Theatre, I saw the very definition of “starstruck” when City Paper editor Stephanie Barna’s eight

year old son Jack walked in to the lobby and saw Jack McBrayer, of NBC’s 30 Rock – a Jack Barna must-see – standing in front of him. I’m talking paralyzed, eyes like saucers, jaw-on-the-floor stuff. The big Jack was almost as self-conscious as the little one about it. Later, McBrayer and I sat together inside for the Caeti & Bills show we’d come to see.

Old Second City hands (whom many will recognize from previous Piccolo gigs at Physicians Auditorium) Frank Caeti and Jen Bills go way back with McBrayer, and when they spotted him in the audience they decided to have a bit of fun. They’re show runs heavy on audience participation – and not just the kind where they ask for a single-word suggestion. They want improvisers, or at least those who can fake it. The Lowbrow has never taken an improv class in his life, and if he ever manages to be clever with words, it’s only after expending deep thought and a lot of sweat and time at the keyboard. So when the two called on yours truly to stand up and say a few words about their fictional colleague, Jack McBrayer – a sales rep for ABC who’d recently died after falling from a ropes course – I stood and, with the star 30 Rock star sitting beside me, eulogized him with one of the lamest improvisational efforts possibly in the history of the art form. Dell Close would have cried. Afterward, I sat down and immediately retreated to my secret place inside, where I cut myself with sharp things and whimpered.

Naturally, McBrayer was friendly afterward, pretending it had all been just peachy. But I think in his secret place, he wanted to slug me.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

Vive la revolution! Power to the people!

Posted by Patrick Sharbaugh on Wed, May 30, 2007 at 1:14 PM

Ticketmaster seems to have cleared up the problems last weekend that were leading it to tell hopeful Piccolo-goers that a variety of shows were sold out when in fact there were plenty of seats still available. The snafu was, understandably, sending show producers across the festival program into apoplectic fits. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that Piccolo's box office folks weren’t able to reach anyone at the online ticket seller until the holiday weekend was over and its administrative offices opened again.

But even apart from that foul-up, Ticketmaster is not winning points with festival producers. Piccolo prides itself on providing a less pricey (in many cases free) alternative to the Big Festival, with ticketed events generally in the $10-$25 range. One producer, though, tells me that when purchased online via Ticketmaster, a single $15 ticket to a typical Piccolo show becomes a $23.50 investment, once you fork over a $4.40 per ticket service charge and an additional $3.60 “processing” fee for each order. Buying seats for you and three friends to see Human Giant or Closer? Prepare to part with $81.60 of your hard-earned lucre.

They call that convenience? I can think of a few other choice words for it. If you’re planning to see a Piccolo show – and you should – for god’s sake don’t give these corporate extortionists any of your money. Get in your car, park behind Gaillard Auditorium, put a dime in the meter, and pay face value for your seats at the Piccolo box office inside. Save the extra money for drinks afterward.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

Blogging the old-fashioned way

Posted by Patrick Sharbaugh on Wed, May 23, 2007 at 10:50 AM

If you’ve noticed the most recent issue of the City Paper, which hit the streets this morning – and it’s hard not to notice; our annual Spoleto kickoff Buzz-O-Meter issue has roughly the heft of a telephone book – then you’ll hopefully understand why the Lowbrow has been a little preoccupied lately. But with that issue out, this Spoleto blogger can devote himself almost exclusively to the two festivals for the next two weeks. The Lowbrow’s working pretty much alone on this adventure, apart from a lot of technical help from webmaster Joshua Curry and new photography intern Jordan Crossingham. So cut us some slack, wouldja?

We actually have a third podcast ready wing its way into the wild digital yonder of cyberspace – a conversation with Charleston Stage Company’s Julian Wiles, whose original new play Denmark Vescey: Insurrection premieres at the American Theater Thursday night. Unfortunately, our blogging platform, WordPress, seems to have been hit by a denial-of-service attack yesterday. We’re assured that “technicians at the datacenter are currently working to resolve this,” but until said technicians work their magic, the Lowbrow is unable to upload anything at all – podcasts, audio, photos, etc. – to this site. In other words, all you’re getting from me are words, without a bell or whistle in sight. It’s blogging the old-fashioned way, old-school, just like our grandparents did.

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

Wanted: Big Brother buffoonery

Posted by Patrick Sharbaugh on Tue, May 8, 2007 at 4:01 PM

One of my favorite things about Charleston has always been the willingness of its artists to take subversive swipes at the establishment. Taggers, street artists, guerrilla designers, practical jokers, whatever you want to call them, they make things interesting. This, after all, is the city where Shephard Fairey, of OBEY fame, grew up and cut his satirical teeth. But with the 2007 festival just two and a half weeks away, I’ve yet to see or hear of a single underground, unofficial, unauthorized, or unsanctioned work of any kind that could present a needed commentary on the Oh So Very Establishment Spoleto and Piccolo Spoleto festivals. (Actually, I have heard of one.)

I’m not giving up, though. Last year, not long after Spoleto revealed the festival’s official poster image — a merch-friendly watercolor of a heart — local printmaker and graphic artist Johnny Pundt revealed his own Spoleto poster parody. (Note the tagline at the bottom: “I’m Lovin’ It.” If that sounds like a comment on the hegemony of corporate-owned and sanctioned art — can anyone say “the Ginn Clubs & Resorts Spoleto Festival Orchestra”? — congratulations, you get a gold star.) The posters were plastered onto windows across the peninsula for all of 24 hours (in flagrant violation of the City’s draconian anti-sniping regulations) before Spoleto’s merch machine caught wind of the parody and swept the city clean of them. As I noted then, I bet that predictable response was as much a part of Pundt’s meta-commentary as the poster itself.

Won’t somebody step up and do something wrong? Don’t make me beg.

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