What's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me

So, yesterday, Annie Lennox showed up on my Twitterfeed. (Yes, I'm still following Twitter; what's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me.)

Wowza!! I just saw this incredible interpretation of SWEET DREAMS…
Gentlemen..You’re AMAZING!!!
Thanks for choosing our song!
ps.. Who ARE you???? pic.twitter.com/uQFLUYZ5iI

— Annie Lennox (@AnnieLennox) December 10, 2022

And I had to look, because what's good enough for Annie Lennox is good enough for me - I suggest you play the video, too. The trees and pavement looked very Vancouver Island to me, and sure enough, someone responded in the comments that the dancers were Canadian. I quickly looked them up.

They call themselves Funkanometry, and the shorter one is Jacksun (yes, that's how he spells it) Fryer, and the blond guy is Carlow Rush.  I think they're based in Nanaimo, where they clearly film a lot of their videos. I think Carlow may be from Duncan, which is midway between Victoria and Nanaimo, but it's safe to say they are Cowichan Valley boys.

In the comments in response to Annie Lennox, someone remarked, not quite sardonically, that the guys were finally responding after an hour or so (with a very Canadian graciousness, of course).  I thought, given the time difference, that this was a little harsh.

I soon found out, with local news coverage, that the reason for the delay was that, just as Annie Lennox had never heard of them, neither boy knew who Annie Lennox was.  Carlow was born in 2002, and Jacksun in 2003.  I guess neither of them caught the Eurythmics' induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year.

Their respective parents had to explain to them why this tweet was so significant. (Sadly, what appears to have really clued the boys in was the fact that Jennifer Aniston "liked" the tweet. They know who she is.)

Their videos are generally clips, for a generation with a short attention span, I guess.  Still very clever and entertaining, with good production values, a lot of skill, and superb synchronization . They remind me a bit of Hall and Oates, not that Funkanometry would recognize them, either. 

I particularly like this one, mainly because, being a dinosaur, I know who Roland Orzabal is.

(Update: Apparently Tears for Fears also responded promptly to this video.)

I don't do that dance no more

One cool thing about living in Victoria is that I don't have to stay up until 11:30 to watch Saturday Night Live.

Mind you, if I PVR it, I also don't have to sit through interminable commercial breaks.

There is a certain thrill, though, in knowing what you're watching is going on at that very moment. Or with a two-second delay for bad language...

Last Saturday's thrill was seeing David Byrne, in an impeccable grey suit, and bare feet, performing with a large group of musicians/dancers/singers -- all in impeccable grey suits and bare feet.

This song was written in 2008, I think.


It was the second song they performed, and I understand that, on Saturday Night Live, the second song is the one the musical guest artist actually wants to perform. The first one is usually a big hit.

This one certainly is. It's from 1980.

Just for the record, David Byrne is 67.

Danced to distraction

Given the news lately, any distraction is welcome, and this is a dandy. About eight months ago, I was talking about interpretations and possible inspirations for Uptown Funk. Well, someone with some talent for editing, access to some of the best dance routines of the first half of the twentieth century, and a helluva lot of time has pulled together this very clever collage.

Oh. And if you'd like the movie titles and years, hit the "CC" button.


It certainly has cheered me up!

*Not* the Merry Widow

The "Gold and Silver Waltz" by Franz Lehar has always been my very favourite waltz, so tonight, when I stumbled across this George Balanchine version from his 1977 ballet Viennese Waltzes, I couldn't believe my luck.  This is, I think, a 1983 performance, judging from the youthful appearance of  Peter Martins, here partnering Karin von Aroldingen.

Real cool

It was beginning to seem like a dangerous way to skip the first Hockey Night in Canada in many months. The Resident Fan Boy, younger daughter and I penguin-walked and skidded down the icy sidewalks between walls of snow. Fifteen centimetres of snow in one morning had given away to rain by evening, freezing into silver chutes. However, we had purchased rush tickets earlier in the day for a screening of West Side Story, with the instrumental soundtrack provided live by the National Arts Centre Orchestra and for the sake of younger daughter, who adores this musical, we were going - come Hades or high water (or frozen sidewalk).

Our rush seats, a wonderful bargain courtesy of younger daughter's student status, were in the mezzanine this time, almost dead centre. We had a beautiful view of most of the NACO, although the horn section was obscured by the movie screen because of our height above the stage. The conductor, who normally opens with a humourous banter, took the stage, bowed and immediately sat in front of what appeared to be a screen the size of a large laptop. We've been to Pops concerts where the musicians played live soundtracks before -- an evening of selections from films based on Rogers and Hammerstein musicals and a showing of Bugs Bunny cartoons years ago. I'd never seen how the conductor synchronized the live musicians with the soundtrack either of those times and now rather wished I'd brought my binoculars.

As the MGM lion roared and the three eerie whistles signalled the beginning of the film, I was astonished to feel my chest constrict with excitement. I mean, I've seen this movie dozens, if not scores of times. However, I don't think I've ever seen it on a big screen in a packed auditorium -- and Southam Hall in the NAC complex is a large venue. Three large green vertical columns moved from left to right across the monitor in front of the conductor who raised his baton and brought the musicians in.

The images and music were almost as familiar as the back of my hand, but I found myself concentrating in a way I'd never done before, marvelling at the beauty of the dancing, even in the fight scenes, noticing tiny things for the first time: how Riff controls his gang with a wordless jerk of the head; the playground where Tony begins singing "Maria" is the place where he will die at the end; the foreshadowing hint of "There's a Place For Us" at the end of the rapturous lovers' duet "Tonight".

Something else I'd never noted properly - the fabulous dancing of the Jets' girlfriends, both at the fateful gymnasium dance where Tony and Maria first meet and later in the edge-of-hysteria dance number "Cool" where the remaining Jets try to come to grips with the deaths of the rival gang-leaders Riff and Bernardo.
Watch those girls dance! They're doing most of the same moves the male dancers are, and they're doing it in skirts and heels. ('Twas ever thus.) Most of the dancers you see here were in the original Broadway production, although not necessarily in the same roles. The blonde girl is Carole Andreas, the original "Velma" on Broadway and also the wife (now ex) of Robert Morse who created the role a J. Pierpont Finch in How to Succeed in Business Without Even Trying.

More than fifty years later, some of the lingo is dated, but the dancing isn't. I was a bit taken aback when at intermission, an acquaintance of the RFB told me that she wasn't prepared for how skinny the dancers were. She meant she didn't think they looked substantial enough to be in a street gang, perhaps being more used to the six-packed footballish image of the present-day tough guy. We had just watched this men scramble over fences, hurdle horizontal bars, dance with girl on one shoulder. I told this woman that I wouldn't want to pick a fight with a Shark or a Jet: "They could dance circles around me."

For a great deal of the film, I simply forgot to watch the musicians as they played along, which is probably a testament to how good they were. The NACO, after all, is a world-class orchestra. I watched as younger daughter sat forward in her seat for the entire three hours, rapt. The Resident Fan Boy and I felt the same. It was almost like seeing the film for the first time.

One more thing: I never felt this way for one second during my first and only viewing of Les Miserables. West Side Story has heart-break and passion, but it's also got dancing and humour, all conveyed through the varied (let's emphasize this - varied), intricate music of Leonard Bernstein, the clever lyrics of Stephen Sondheim, and the fluid choreography of Jerome Robbins, to say nothing of the performances by the cast.

West Side Story dances circles around Les Miz. Simple as that. It was worth the skid.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Melisma

I have a Twitter account even though I know a grand total of four people on Twitter. (These are the kind of cutting-edge friends I have.) Since these four people have composed about half a dozen tweets between them over the past three years, I don't actually use Twitter for communication.

I use it for stalking.

One of the people I stalk is Colin Mochrie, our very own Scottish-Canadian improv wiz. Recently, he shared this celebration of Mariah "Have Yourself a Merry Little Melisma" Carey, and I can't resist either:
Rather a shame that the still image gives away the surprise, robbing us of the slow reveal of that perfect Christmas look: rose-coloured leotards and striped knee socks. Particularly on a fella.

I guess this illustrates what pop music has known for decades: what a girl really wants is a sexually-ambiguous boyfriend. Or a gay BFF.

The dancers/choreographers here are Alex Karigan and Zac Hammer of the Amy Marshall Dance Company. And I do think they're rather good.

Dancing before falling down

I spent the last day of this particular NaBloPoMo baking pies. For some reason, there appears to be a pool of cooking oil in the bottom of the oven, and by the time I put the third pie in, smoke was seeping out and our smoke detector went off. The Resident Fan Boy reports that this is the first time the Accent Snob was actually quite eager to go out for a walk. The pies taste fine, but I'm stopping at four. (Bake sale at younger daughter's school tomorrow.)

This completes my eighth NaBloPoMo month. For the record, I've done February and September 2009; March, August and November 2010; April and October 2011; and now May 2012. For my next feat, now that I've acquired a laptop, I will attempt to NaBloPoMo July 2012 while travelling to Victoria, BC and house-sitting a place with a 1980s computer. This should be fun...

As my May swan-song, I'm dredging up a video I was originally going to use for a review of La La La Human Steps, a modern dance troupe from Montreal. Unfortunately, I saw them a year ago, so I'll skip the review (the evening was disappointing anyway, from what I vaguely recall), and share the video which is from the glory days of the company when Louise Lecavalier was still their lead dancer and Edouard Lock was in his prime.  You'll see them both dancing here in this video which features Quebecoise actor Carole Laure singing "Danse avant de tomber", the French version of "Save the Last Dance for Me".  I chiefly remember Ms Laure for her role in the deeply weird 1978 film that actually won Best Foreign Language Film:   Préparez vos mouchoirs (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs)
(I doubt it would even get made these days.  It involves a woman not coming out of her depression until she takes up with a thirteen-year-old boy -- it was billed as a romantic comedy... )

(2015 update: The French language version got yanked off YouTube, so I'm linking to the English version which doesn't have quite the same feel, although the dancing is identical.)

I think what I love best about this is how the rather dangerous and hostile feel of most of the video is contrasted with the safe and tender dance of Laure and her mother. That's probably just me.

And this is also just me, signing off. I hope to get a few posts in during June before recklessly trying to NaBloPoMo July. Wish me luck.

Terpsichore loved these guys

A few days back, I posted the Nicholas Brothers dancing to Glenn Miller's "I Got a Gal in Kalamazoo" because I adore the song and I adore the Nicholas Brothers. JoeinVegas sent me a link to this Nicholas number from the movie Stormy Weather with the incomparable Cab Calloway. I'd seen the last minute of it many times, but had never seen the entire number, where Mr Calloway makes way for Fayard and Harold. Hold on to your hats:


If we can trust Wikipedia, Fred Astaire himself told the Harold and Fayard that this number was the greatest movie musical sequence he had ever seen. Well, he would know. Here's my absolute favourite Astaire/Rogers moment from the movie Swingtime:


Gee, those final climactic few seconds are among the most exhilarating in movies and dance. Think I'll float off to bed now and try to dream I can move like that....

They had us until the fish

I wasn't sure if it was hair dye or a forest green fascinator.

There I was, passing the minutes before the ballet, training my bird binoculars on the audience below. If you're in the loges at the National Arts centre, it's always fun to do a crowd comparison. The kind of audience that shows up for a symphony concert (reserved and dressy) versus those coming to see a musical (mixture of jeans and flamboyance) versus the Vinyl Cafe aficionados (pullovers). The ballet brings out a distinctive crowd. Oh, you have the usual bun-heads, those humourless and skinny young girls accompanied by their equally skinny and usually blond mothers, but you see some pretty unusual garb in the ladies room, and some head-turning male fashions as well.

You can also pick out the boyfriends and husbands who came along; some sons too, I noted as I scanned the first row where you usually see the more rabid balletomanes. Someone had brought two preteen boys, decked out in plaid baggy shirts. They were in full slump, propping their sneakered feet on the edge of the stage.
"I'll bet their parents are francophone," I muttered to the Resident Fan Boy (who, to confuse other ballet-goers, turns up at performances in a pullover). Anglophone families, in our experience, don't bring their sons to watch dance.

Directly below our loge, I could see a rather ungainly girl taking her seat in the front row. Well, I could see the top of her head anyway, and the front part of her head looked forest-green and feathery. I watched her with interest as I tried to decide, peering through my binoculars, whether she'd dyed half her head, or was wearing those fascinators that young Royals seem to think are nifty. She appeared to be clad in a rather shapeless dress with short sleeves and as she fidgeted with a sheer scarf which she kept smoothing out over her knees, I noticed she was wearing over-sized beige gloves. Well, I thought. It's for a Pina Bausch, after all.

We included this performance of Danzon in our subscription because I recognized the name. It turns out that these two Ottawa performances by Tanztheater Wuppertal were the only Canadian ones on this tour, and we had something of a hot ticket. I've seen bits and pieces of Pina Bausch works on television, so I was prepared for quite a bit of surrealism.

No disappointments there. We started with two women in white shifts struggling on their backs like overturned beetles while a man in an large diaper rolled stones at them, then, like a child, experimented with pinning them down with the rocks. Then a lady in an elegant swirly summer dress strolled across the stage ("I am here and you are there!") and plucked someone from the audience to share the view. It was, of course, the fascinator-lady I'd been studying earlier, and she turned out to be a man and clearly a member of the troupe.

Things got weirder from there. It was rather relaxing, as I learned long ago not to labour on attaching meaning to modern dance performances. It usually emerges on its own, and if not, so what? We saw naked women in bathtubs being slowly removed, one by one, by a blindfolded man. Couples literally rolled in the hay. A cross-dresser in an evening gown and full-blown Bette Davis mode, drawled through a meandering monologue. Tents were set up and campers listened to excerpts of Bambi and long jokes, roaring with laughter. Nude people behind a translucent screen showing flowers and crashing surf, chased each other, piggy-backed each other, and appeared to frolic in the waves. (The Resident Fan Boy told me later that younger daughter shielded her face behind her programme during that bit, but as you can see from the photo, we couldn't see much. I bet those preteen boys in the front row were straining their eyes.)

It was, as elder daughter might say, random, but in this small company with a pleasing family mix of young and old dancers, it felt as we were getting to know each individual character.

Then, out of nowhere, we were confronted with a large screen featuring close-ups of schools of various tropical fish. In front, a very young man in black, whom we'd not seen before, stood and fluttered his hands. This seemed to go on for a good ten minutes. That's the first time during the evening that I found myself trying to see my watch in the darkness. The other dancers returned and did various odd things with dirt, but it felt as if the spell had been broken.

At the end, the company came out for their curtain calls to rapturous applause. (The preteen boys in the front row were in a non-clapping slump.) The dancers clung to each other in a long line, with the young man who had been fluttering with the fish looking closed down and rather out-of-place.

As we descended from the upper levels to find the exit, the Resident Fan Boy commented: "I was fine until the fish." I giggled. I had been thinking almost the exact same thing. Younger daughter, however, declared she had liked the part with the fish, especially the one which reminded her of Dorey from Finding Nemo. So I guess it was a win-win, seeing as we had enjoyed the rest of the performance.

It being the one Canadian venue of the tour, there were detailed reviews from both the Ottawa Citizen and The Globe and Mail, both reviewers singling out the moving tribute to the late Pina Bausch. Apparently, she had choreographed the fish solo for herself.

I guess, then, if you were "in the know", that would be your reward. I think, though, that being unknowing isn't always a bad thing when watching dance. I'm certainly glad we didn't miss this.

Art therapy

So, last night I was lying in a foetal position on my bed. It was 6:15 and we had to leave the house in an hour to attend a ballet at the National Arts Centre. I didn't want to go. I was exhausted, foot-sore, periodical, miserable. The performance in question was Éonnagata. All I knew about it was that it featured Robert Lepage, a man who personifies the terms "enigmatic" and "eccentric". I knew he's famous for ground-breaking works and for being an artistic visionary and that he's extremely well-known in his native Québec. I knew him from his participation in one of my absolute favourite movies Jésus de Montréal in which he plays an enigmatic and eccentric actor who asks to perform the "to be or not to be" soliloquy from Hamlet in a passion play -- and does without a flicker of irony. Lying there, all I could think of was The Great Gonzo tap-dancing in oatmeal on The Muppet Show, bellowing, "Art! Art!" I was way too tired for this.

Well, I managed to pull myself together and plod out into the night with the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter. And by golly, I'm glad I did!

Éonnagata is the story of Le Chevalier D'Éon, born (take a deep breath) Charles-Geneviève-Louis-Auguste-André-Timothée d'Éon de Beaumont in 1728. The ambiguity of her/his name carried on throughout his/her life. S/he spent the first part of it as a man and the second part as a woman.

The story is told in ballet/acrobatics/martial arts/ by three actors/dancers/performers: the ballet dancer Sylvie Guillem, the independent dancer/choreographer Russell Maliphant (actually born in Ottawa, but associated with British dance) and Lepage who is kind of Canada's answer to Jonathan Miller. If you look these people up, you'll understand we were watching a kind of "dream team" cast.

The music moves from soundscapes to Rococo to driving drums. All three performers dress in sort of tunics which suggest breasts on the men and tights which suggests a bulge on Ms Guillem. The Resident Fan Boy told me he had some difficulty distinguishing between them, but I didn't and I found this delightful. Sylvie Guillem, who is a superb dancer, moved with feminine grace and form, and I found the two men who moved with equal grace, unmistakeably male in their movement. There was another bonus in being able to watch three mature artists at work: Guillem is 45, Malifant is 49, and Lepage is nearly 53. The only times I felt pulled out of the story, which follows the Chevalier's life as set out in a brief poetic narrative at the beginning of the piece, were in the sections where Robert Lepage is dressed as a woman. He's taller and broader than the other two who are similarly built, so these moments had a "Dame Edna Everage" quality.

No matter. I was mesmerized. I also noticed that younger daughter, who stimmed and fidgeted quite a bit at the National Ballet's evening of short works two weeks earlier, was quite relaxed through the ninety-minute ballet, only stirring toward the end. After applauding enthusiastically, I asked younger daughter what she thought. "It was very good," she said gravely. The Resident Fan Boy informed me that it was like counting sheep.

Philistine.

An Ottawan October full moon

Another full moon in Taurus in Ottawa. This October evening found us scurrying down the dark street toward the bus stop, the impossibly round orb peering at us between the houses.

The National Ballet of Canada was performing a rarity in Ottawa: a mixed programme which, to tell the truth, I prefer to the full-length ballets that usually visit The Nation's Capital, having grown up with the smaller stages of Victoria. My short attention span could be a factor as well.

I had decided to dress up a little for once, donning a long black linen jumper and by the time I'd worked out the accessories --- I looked exactly like a dour church lady. The Resident Fan Boy was amused to note I'd tried to offset the effect with a pewter Unitarian pendant, but a church lady is a church lady, regardless of denomination. (Unitarian church ladies look marginally more hippyish.) Ah well. I'm too fond of my bodily comfort to attempt something flashier.

We have the three front seats of a six-seat loge for this particular subscription. This evening, there was a couple and a single lady seated behind us. The couple decided to make a break for the empty loge ahead of us as the lights went down, a risky move, as we know Torontonian balletomanes never make a move for the better seats until after the second intermission. Why became clear when a family of six showed up to claim their loge. Sneaky couple apologetically slipped back into our loge where single lady had to slide back to her less desirable seat.

This little dance was going on during the opening moments of Serenade. The National Ballet of Canada started sort of specializing in Balanchine in the eighties, carefully preserving every nuance of the choreography. I think I've said this before, but I always feel a bit aggrieved when watching a Balanchine ballet because I can't help but hold him personally responsible for the prevalence of anorexia in the dance world. This may be massively unfair, but it seems from film footage that short plump ballerinas were the norm pre-Balanchine, who preferred an idealized long leggy uniform look in his women dancers, making the New York City Ballet the classy equivalent of the Rockettes. Serenade, one of his best known works, is glorious, abstract precision with only a hint of a story. It's a series of beautiful tableaux that depend heavily on the dancers having the same proportions. I have a feeling old George would have complained about the bouncing boobs of a couple of the better endowed dancers which was quite evident in those linked bourrées of which GB was so fond.

Still, it was difficult stuff impeccably performed. The only bobble (aside from the breasts) occurred when one of the leads sprawls gracefully, loosening her hair with a deft movement. This poor lass spent several seconds trying to unobtrusively free her very thick and springy hair from its bun while lying on her side as two others danced and posed around her.

I've seen this ballet many times, but was struck this time by how modern Tchaikovsky sounds in this piece, premonitions of Copland.

During the ballet, younger daughter was stimming somewhat, taking her hairband on and off, leaning into the railing of the loge. Normally we have a four-person loge, so if this happens, I don't worry so much, but I was very aware of the people behind us, especially after their break for freedom. Meanwhile, the four young preteens-to-teenagers in the loge ahead were providing a distraction for the Resident Fan Boy, who reported that the youngest boy, who might have been eleven, was working hard at blocking his brothers' view and, as it happened, the RFB's line of vision as well.

The RFB observed that the boys' interest was piqued considerably during the next ballet, a very modern piece set to Chopin's 24 Preludes by Marie Chouinard, a Québecoise with an Order of Canada. (That's Canada's equivalent of an Order of the British Empire, for you non-Canucks.) I, for one, would like to see the National Ballet's waxing bill. The costumes consisted of black see-through body stockings (for the girls) and dance belts (for the boys) with duct tape strategically set over the naughty bits. Among other things, it made the dancers appear to have enormous cracks.

The piece was sort of Degrassi High meets Mad Max. Towards the end, younger daughter gave audible groans as each new prelude began. I don't blame her, really. It was beautifully danced and the choreography was intriguing, especially juxtaposed to the civilized sounds of Chopin, but still, it was forty-five long minutes.

The evening ended with Crystal Pite's Emergence. I happen to know two of her cousins (Victoria's like that), and I've always rather enjoyed her stuff. The Resident Fan Boy watched as the body language of young boys ahead got extremely agitated. Two of the lead female dancers wore diaphanous tops with no duct tape.

As with the previous ballet, I'd purposefully not read the synopsis, just to see what I'd pick up.
"So," said the Resident Fan Boy as we applauded. "What was that about?"
"Insects," I responded promptly. I was right. Bees, apparently. According to the programme, Pite thinks bee colonies and dance companies are similar as they seem to operate in a egalitarian fashion, but are strictly based on hierarchy. Personally, I wonder how anyone could possibly mistake a ballet company for an equal opportunity enterprise. It's all about hierarchy.

Off into the special Hades that is Ottawa on a Saturday night. Younger daughter hesitated a fraction of a second before boarding a crowded bus at 11 pm and a young blond teetering in a miniskirt and stilettos shrieked at her: "Come on, come on! Make it snappy!" The bus driver (whose ear she was teetering beside) looked up at her in appalled wonder.
"She really needs to pee," explained her equally blond, mini-skirted and high-heeled companion, semi-apologetically. They and the horde of tipsy students in their company alighted (okay, descended heavily) at the Rideau Centre, and the driver, as if fearful he'd pick up more, lead-footed the bus through Lowertown past the cruising paddy wagons.

Full moons. Gotta love 'em...

Is this as neat as it appears to look?

The frustrating thing about working at a computer with very little RAM is that I can't see a lot of videos posted online properly. I'll probably have to wait until I get home to see the images from this "flash mob" by the National Ballet School at the Eaton Centre in Toronto without jerkiness or pauses and actually in sync to the snappy song by Feist.

Can you see it? How is it?

Oh well. Can't win 'em all...

Last week, I turned to the Resident Fan Boy after viewing the second episode of Matt Smith's Doctor (illegally on the computer -- it started legally in Canada yesterday on Space and you can watch it online) and said, "You don't suppose they're all going to be this good, do you?"

Apparently not. I won't go into too much detail for those who won't see this episode for a couple of weeks, but it's written by Mark Gatiss and I wasn't that crazy about The Idiot's Lantern in the New Who Season Two. Although that was better than this.

Maybe I don't like Daleks. I was watching this with elder daughter who had just downloaded it and I asked her: "Do you think I'm just a faux-Who-fan?"
"Yep," she said.
Well, she's seventeen. What does she know? Of the Dalek-episodes so far, I disliked The Daleks in Manhatten double feature and mostly loathed The Stolen Earth double finale (except for the Donna bit). I wasn't crazy about Dalek, but quite liked Doomsday and The Parting of the Ways, so maybe it wasn't the Daleks.

Just maybe it was the awkward, clunky, stupid story. The major thing I notice about the Steven Moffat stories (and the Paul Cornell stories Father's Day and Human Nature, the latter of which gets my vote of Best Doctor Who Story Ever) is that the narrative is all. You're safe to get as scared as all get-out, because you're in the hands of a master story-teller and don't need to waste energy on worrying about ridiculous details.

Last night, I spent the entire episode going: "Whaaaah?" or "Hang on a minute.." or "Excuse me?" There was one clumsy attempt to demonstrate that the Doctor knows all about Loss, but that Amy, being human, understands Love. It came across as an ham-handed amateur psychological encounter group kneeling on a laboratory floor. Amy, to be frank, just ended up sounding a wee bit tawdry and creepy. In short, the whole plot flowed with all the grace of a graphic novel. The only graphic novel I've been able to stand is Maus.

It didn't help that I'd just come in from the Royal Winnipeg Ballet's version of Moulin Rouge. I didn't like the movie, but I figured this wouldn't have Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor warbling Come What May. It didn't, but once again it was the insipid story that had me dozing off in the second act. Pretty sets and costumes and competent dancing simply can't save a limp plot, even in the ballet.

That night, I kept dreaming I had made fatal errors in judgment and awoke several times with overwhelming feelings of doom, futility and a sense that someone else was in the room, aside from the Resident Fan Boy. I blame noxious narratives.

Oh well, as others have said: "Bad Doctor Who is better than no Doctor Who", and less-than-wonderful art helps us recognise and appreciate what wonderful art is. Thank goodness it will be another Steven Moffat story on Doctor Who next week, complete with Weeping Angels and River Song. That should get the bad taste out of my mouth.

Persephone versus the twenty-first century

We're nearly ten years into the new century (yes, nearly - the century began January 1st, 2001 for those of you who can't count), and somehow, I feel I'm failing to get the hang of it.

Take last weekend. On Saturday, we went to see the Boston Ballet on its very first trip to Ottawa. This was a mixed shorts evening, unusual for Ottawa which, being The Nation's Capital, usually gets full-length ballets. This is a pity, because an evening of shorter pieces usually gives you a much better idea of the range of the company. The range of this company was considerable, featuring the usual Balanchine offering (a stage full of ballerinas with one lone male to carry them about), two modern pieces, a Fokine and a Nijinsky.

The Nijinsky was, of course, L'après-midi d'un faune with the costumes pretty well exactly the same as when Nijinsky and his lot scandalized Paris in 1912. Debussy. Dancers dancing like two dimensional figures on a Greek vase. Win.

We got another taste of post-Victorian eroticism in Le Spectre de la Rose, Michael Fokine's romantic mini-ballet of a girl returning from a ball and having a rather hot dream about the rose she's brought home. Win.

My favourite was ein von viel, actually a Canadian piece choreographed by Toronto's Sabrina Matthews, set to Bach with two male dancers “fugue-ing” along with the magnificent pianist on the stage, echoing each other’s movements, then freezing as the pianist turned the page for the next movement. The audience wanted to clap after each movement, but I sat on my hands and applauded hard at the end. I don't know if that was right, but it was how I felt. Big win.

The other modern piece was Brake the Eyes by Boston Ballet's resident choreographer Jorma Elo, really odd and rather nightmarish with Mozart and soundscapes, plus the mutterings and giggles of the lead ballerina. I couldn’t tell if her voice-track had been pre-recorded or if somehow she was miked, as the light fixtures changed with each movement, highlighting the tension and muscles of the bare legs. I thought it was pretty cool.

Twentieth century: three (even though I'm not that crazy about Balanchine)
Twenty-first century: two.

Then, on Sunday, as if to contrast with what we'd seen Saturday, we were confronted with...The Grammies...

I think I made it through the first four overwrought overproduced extravaganzas before I finally reached for the clicker.
We had Lady Gaga. ('Nuff said.)
We had Green Day with the cast of (wait for it) their Broadway show. (Hunh?)
We had Beyoncé, complete with gladiator garb; trademark cross-over runway strut, belting out one of her songs meshed with, inexplicably, Alanis Morrissette's "You Oughta Know".

Then, most baffling of all, Pink (whose lyrics are usually quite literate) stripped down to a strategically wound bandage, threaded herself in a sling, and while dangling below a circle of three spread-eagled acrobats in gold bikinis and body paint and high above the audience, turned herself into a spinning human sprinkler head in six-inch heels. Oh, for Pete's sake, Pink. Get off my lawn. What I wanna know (aside from "Why???") is how the people below felt about getting their expensive evening wear and leather jackets sploshed with what appeared to be a helluva lot of water. Also, how Pink returned to a no-doubt very wet platform and didn't fall on her butt.

Faced with a prospect of Michael Jackson and Céline Dion in 3D, country singers ripping off the Alex Parsons Project, Taylor Swift, and hip-hop and rappers, I searched for something else to watch, feeling very old.

Twenty-first century: zero.
Persephone: zero.

On the bright side, I'm getting the hang of my new iPod, finally figuring out this week how to download podcasts. It took several more days to learn how to actually get them on to my iPod, but let's just rejoice in the moment, okay? I've been listening to CBC Radio Two on the hour's return bus journey after delivering younger daughter to school. I've been rather startled to discover that I rather like what I've heard of a Somalian-Canadian rapper K'naan. This week, I was listening happily to a song of his called "Fatima" which, during the first verses, sounds like a wry ditty about a lost adolescent love:
Fatima,
What did the Young Man say
Before he stole you away....

As the song continues, a sadder story emerges and my heart sank. Fatima didn't go away willingly:

Persephone: one
Twenty-first century: ?

Cheating, but we need some joy, don't we?

I'm considering signing up for NaBloPoMo this month, but I'm running into trouble already, so I'm taking the cheater's way out --- posting a YouTube video. No doubt everyone has seen this by now, but gosh, wouldn't you want your wedding (to say nothing of your marriage) to start this way?

Spot the annie

Frozen dancers at Luce
Originally uploaded by pearl_ady

I have blogged before on my troubled conscience in being a balletomane. This feeling came back in spades earlier this week when I purchased tickets to see "Ballet Under the Stars", two short ballets performed by local company Canadian Pacific Ballet. Economic times being what they are, this is a tiny company, in fact all of the costumes are designed by one of the danseurs. The technique, however, is good. A lot of the younger dancers had that smile-held-in-place-by-pins expression, but one of the leads had that air of control and calm that allowed me to just relax and watch her.

It wasn't long before my gaze drifted to the bone-white limbs of one of the other dancers. And I do mean bone. As she turned, I saw the sinews in her neck, and where her shoulders met her upper arm in a startling knob. Mentally, I gauged how my fingers could easily encircle her humerus, and I have really short fingers...

At the intermission, I stole over to greet someone from church who is, believe it or not, writing a Unitarian Latin mass with the aid of a composer who used to accompany the music activities at elder daughter's preschool. (Victoria's like that; everyone is separated by three degrees, rather than the more usual six.)

"What did you think?" I asked.
"Well," she sighed. "It doesn't take much to pick out the two "annies" in the company, does it?"

I had noticed the rather skinny limbs of another dancer as well. My acquaintance has apparently attended workshops with members of the company and has learned that two of the artists dance under a doctor's supervision, and that their reward for keeping above a certain weight is permission to perform. In the meantime, it is suggested, they have a community of support.

So, maybe you see my dilemma. In purchasing tickets, am I in fact supporting something that keeps these skeletal young women going, or am I part of the problem?

The second ballet was a truncated version of Midsummer Night's Dream. The hollow young woman I'd first noticed before the interval had the lead role of Titania with a flowing empire-waist shift that concealed the shadows beneath.

All that jazz (part one)

Last week....stunk. I don't know if I'll ever get the courage to blog about it; besides, it will just end up being a long self-pitying rant about younger daughter's school. Suffice it to say, I couldn't bring myself to give the staff my usual end-of-year gifts, and I hustled younger daughter out the back to avoid goodbyes.

We bought tickets for the Broadway Across Canada tour of Chicago months ago, planning it for the night before elder daughter's last night in Hades before a brief trip to Scotland. This ended up being on the same day as younger daughter's leaving ceremony, but there's an irritating tale hanging here with which I won't burden you and it may have been a lucky escape anyway.

We've been to about four or five B.A.C. productions in the past year. The casts are Broadway-calibre, but not famous. Chicago is a favourite of elder daughter; jazz is a recent interest of younger daughter (she did a classroom speech on the subject the week before last); I like most things to do with Bob Fosse; and the Resident Fan Boy is usually pleased to have any outing surrounded by his women. However, this evening, there was an unanticipated treat for the RFB -- our Roxie Hart was none other than Bonnie Langford! "Not the Bonnie Langford?" I gasped flipping through the programme for confirmation. Yep. Bonnie Langford as in Mel, assistant to the Seventh and Eighth Doctors in Doctor Who.

Now, for some of you spring chickens who are only familiar with Renée Zellweger and Catherine Zeta-Jones in the movie version, the original Chicago was choreographed and directed (and partially written) by Bob Fosse for his by-then-ex-wife Gwen Verdon who co-starred with Chita Rivera. Neither of the women were spring chickens themselves even in 1975: Verdon was fifty and Rivera in her late forties, though both were still dynamite dancers. So, it was kinda great to see a forty-five-year-old Bonnie Langford in the role of Roxie with Terra C. McLeod as Velma Kelly (she's described as a Montrealer, but I think was born in Oz), Brent Barrett as the slippery attorney Billy Flynn, and Ron Orbach as the pitiable Amos Hart. (Orbach is a cousin of the late Jerry Orbach who was the original Billy Flynn, trivia fans.) Incidentally, I wish you could hear younger daughter's rendition of "Mr. Cellophane". She learned it off the Muppet Show and does it really well, and rather convincingly...

The whole cast was fine, full of those triple-threat types - dancing actors who can also sing. The one distraction is that Bonnie Langford is tiny, and the rest of the cast towered over her. It was particularly interesting to see how they handled the grand Nowadays/Hot Honey Rag duet that comes almost at the close of the show. I don't know if Terra C. McLeod is particularly tall, but Langford barely came up to her shoulder, so the duet was carefully choreographed to minimize this. I think McLeod bent her knees more and the two were often placed not quite in line with each other. It was quite effective. This production is based on Ann Reinking's (another Fosse partner on-stage and off) revival, so the one remaining bit of pure Fosse choreography is the Hot Honey Rag. Now, anyone who has seen footage of Gwen Verdon and Chita Rivera performing it, and especially Karen Ziemba paired up with Bebe Neurith, knows that this choreography is a real litmus test for dancers. Bonnie Langford and Terra C. McLeod did fine, and even executed the cartwheels with panache, but if you want to see Fosse precision and have six minutes, please take a look at this:

We were razzle-dazzled anyway and set off into the warm Ottawa night to dream of mayhem, before younger daughter sat out her last day of elementary school in a humidex of 38. Hot honey rag indeed.

Giselle: the mysterious case of the unidentified ballerina

The Resident Fan Boy got into our good books by negotiating loge seats at the matinée of the American Ballet Theatre's production of Giselle. (Dance matinées are a scarce as hens' teeth in Ottawa, and usually only available for The Nutcracker.) As we settled in and perused our programmes, we discovered that the only dancers listed were those performing the principal roles of Giselle, Albrecht, and Myrta (Queen of the Wilis). Three Albrechts were listed, ours was to be David Hallberg, but no Giselle was noted for the February 28th matinée!

Here's what I can tell you about Magical Mystery Giselle: petite, brown hair, very long arms and legs, looked really, really young. I realize that this is hardly a distinctive description of a ballerina. They all look like that. (Some of them are blond.) Okay, she didn't look like the pictures I found on the ABT website of the two Giselles who were listed. The Resident Fan Boy and I figured she must be a first soloist debuting in a principal role, which is not an unusual thing for a matinée performance. (I'm not sure why; are matinée audiences less snarky or something?) Stella Abrera seems the most likely candidate as she is performing in Giselle with David Hallberg in June; but it didn't look like her photo, either. So I spent the afternoon enjoying this mystery performance, then restrained myself from bellowing "Who are you?" during the bows.

There are other distractions that result from sitting in a loge. We were on the right side of the theatre so had a superb view of Giselle's mother's cottage in the first act, and Giselle's grave in the second act. While I could nearly see into the wings on the left, I had a very limited view of the right side. It helped that I'm familiar with the plot, otherwise I might have been seriously creeped out by the closing of the ballet. As the spirit of Giselle, having rescued Albrecht from being danced to death by the vengeful Wilis (trust me, if you don't know the story, you should look it up), prepares to return to her grave, she gives a flower, a token of her love and forgiveness, to Albrecht. I watched in fascination as a hand, clad in a pink sleeve, appeared from low down in the wings and passed the flower to Giselle. This gave the impression of a Carrie-like hand reaching from Giselle's grave, and moments later, reaching out to catch Giselle as she gracefully fell backwards and appeared (to the rest of the audience) to float headfirst off-stage. I knew it was the dancer who portrayed Hilarion assisting in the hocus-pocus, but someone watching this for the first time might have wondered why Giselle was being whisked away in such a sinister manner.

We also had a clear view of the orchestra pit, filled with musicians who appeared to be drinking coffee when not playing their instruments, and who also packed up and left during the curtain calls, leaving the conductor, when he was called onstage for his bow, to gesture magnanimously to an empty pit.

I'm giving the erroneous impression that this was not a top-notch performance. It was actually very beautifully performed, and given the far-fetched nature of the plot (no, seriously, go look it up; it's too convoluted for me to retell here), every motivation was clearly illustrated. It was ably demonstrated from the beginning that Albrecht is a noble, albeit in disguise, and very used to getting his way. There's a lovely moment early on when the jealous Hilarion draws his dagger and Albrecht instinctively reaches for his absent sword, thus betraying himself. Every opportunity was taken to show that Giselle, however she may love to dance, is a fragile creature with a heart problem, so we are not puzzled when she suddenly drops dead during the famous mad scene. The entire performance was filled with this tiny, clarifying details. What could have been Victorian melodrama (which, essentially it is, early 16th century costumes aside) is transformed into a very moving story of a very young naïve girl and the ethereal spirit of transcending love she becomes.

The real challenge of Giselle is that the first act and the second act are like two completely different ballets. Again, these are enormously talented dancers right down to the corps who deftly handle the transition from the earthy pastoral of the beginning to the spooky yet moving ghost story of the second.

Younger daughter seemed to thoroughly enjoy herself, particularly the bonus of having two real live Borzoi hounds enter with the hunting party in the first act. Too bad they sat on the right. Resident Fan Boy had a lot to say about the beige tights of the male soloist in Act One. He was right. Several shades darker would have helped us concentrate on his dancing.

Update: The Resident Fan Boy and I went through the pictures of the soloists at American Ballet Theatre and the mystery is solved! Our Giselle was first soloist Maria Riccetto. And I forgot to wish you all: Dydd Gwyl Dewi Hapus!

Ballet with Balls

When I first saw Les Ballets Trockaderos de Monte Carlo in Toronto during the first winter of my marriage, the programme notes alone were worth the price of admission (I'm quoting from memory): Giselle Act Two - Synopsis - Hilarian, a gamekeeper (probably a poacher) comes to lay flowers at Giselle's grave, but is frightened away by what appear to be dangerously large pests...."

The performance was memorable too: Albrecht doing laps around the stage, looking wildly about him, then doing a couple more; Giselle emerging from a coffin like Dracula; Hilarion being tossed off (one...two...three!) the stage by ticked-off Wilis. The programme also featured a well-aimed kick (in simply enormous dance slippers) at Agnes de Mille.

When I saw them for the second time, about five years ago, most of the original dancers were gone. AIDS had decimated the original company. (I don't know if it's a requirement that to be in the "Trocks" you have to be gay; but it's evident that most, if not all, of these guys are.) I enjoyed a programme that featured their take on Swan Lake and The Dying Swan, along with a Spanish solo and some mean Balanchine. The next day, the dance critic gave a lukewarm review and described The Dying Swan as the final act of Swan Lake. The awful thing is, I don't think she was joking.

So last night, we went to see "The Trocks" for the third time and brought younger daughter along. The guys really were in top form, offering once again the second act of Swan Lake and The Dying Swan, plus Pas de Quatre (the showcase number for Marie Taglioni and her three most famous rivals back in 1845), the pas de deux from Le Corsaire and another Spanish number called Majisima (from the 1885 opera El Cid). I was very intrigued this time to note that, while Swan Lake, Pas de Quatre, and The Dying Swan were done for laughs in all their campy glory, Le Corsaire and Majisma were almost entirely played straight, if you'll pardon the expression, rather like the singers performing in a drag club. I guess The Trocks have picked up on a sad fact of life: comedy is seen as a lesser expression of the arts. Funny books are perceived as being not as well-written as serious books; people are astonished to discover comedians can actually act; and men with hairy chests and pits, huge toe-shoes, and packages under their tutus are not seen for being the remarkably gifted dancers that they are. I have never understood this. The old adage is so true: comedy is hard.

I had brought along two sets of bird binoculars because we were in the third level of the loges, because although The Trocks body-language is clear as a bell (piqued, imperious and remarkably feminine), a great part of the fun is in the facial expressions. Younger daughter seemed to be having a splendid time, but the second intermission was a bit of a hiccup. She returned to our box and sighed: "Why are we staying here?" This was her first two-intermission evening, you see. While the Resident Fan Boy and I debated whether to make a break for it, the house lights dimmed for Majisima, and we were very glad we stayed, not only for the quality of the dancing (although I had to struggle with keep my mind clear of The New Pornographers), but for the joyous jitterbug encore to "Sing Sing Sing" in response to the rapturous audience ovation, as danseur danced with danseur, and ballerina with ballerina, all decked out in their Spanish garb, grooving to Benny Goodman. They weren't playing it for laughs, then, either.

The fourth day of Christmas (as Joseph trod and Mary rode and Matt danced)

Today is one of the traditional Feast Days for the Holy Innocents (the other days being the 27th and the 29th). Such a strange feast commemorating a massacre of children which is also an event that cannot be confirmed in any historical record outside the Bible. Not that it matters, children are being massacred on a depressingly regular basis around the world. Now is the time to sing The Coventry Carol and feel the helpless sorrow. However, one of my very favourite, favourite carols is "The Band of Children", words by Frank Samuel Herbert Kendon, the tune an ancient French carol Laissez paître vos bêtes. I first heard it years ago during one of those strange gem-like Christmas specials which I've never seen again and can't find any reference on the Internet for. It was an animated special in which six carols were illustrated while an actor read the lyrics with the tune playing in the background:

The stars shall light your journey, your mother holds you close and warm;
The donkey's pace shall rock you, sleep baby, dream no harm.

What songs are these, faint heard and far?
The wind maybe in palm trees tall, or running stream or nightbird's call;
The dark lies deep on the desert where Joseph and Mary rode,
The dark lies deep on the desert, sleep well, thou child of God.

What songs are these, faint heard and far?
'Tis neither wind in palm trees tall, nor waterbrook, nor nightbird's call,
It is the voice of children where Joseph walked and Mary rode,
The fierce wild beasts are friendly, sleep well, thou child of God.

What forms are these, clear on the dark,
That shine and yet are flesh and blood, that laugh and sing along the road?
It is a crowd of children where Joseph walked and Mary rode,
A singing band of children, sleep well, thou child of God.

O, never was seen so strange a guard:
About the footsore travellers they in lovely circles moved, till day,
Until the baby awakened, while Joseph trudged and Mary rode.
Such lullaby be all men's, sleep well, thou child of God.

I searched far and wide through YouTube for this song which I have in front of me in The Oxford Book of Carols, but it's not under "Band of Children", "Laissez paître vos bêtes" nor any combination of the lyrics or its author that I've tried. I did have limited success in finding an Advent version of the carol, Venez, divin Messie. The tune is not quite right, but it might give you a faint idea: Now, it occurs to me that this does give the rather spooky impression that it's the spirits of all those slaughtered children circling and protecting baby Jesus, but there it is.

And if the Holy Innocents sing, how about if they dance? About a week before Christmas, my Friend of the Right Hand sent a video link which I did not open. (It was, I repeat, the week before Christmas.) Yesterday, I finally got around to it and was at first bewildered. It's a video with a bunch of comments posted beneath, a recent one from a woman who lost her soldier son in Iraq and says she was able to sleep through the night for the first time. What the dickens? I started playing it. A tall, teddy-bear kind of guy gives directions to whoever is holding the camcorder and begins a strange loping short of dance in the middle of a Mumbai street. The background changes; he's doing the same odd dance in various places around the world, in the desert, on a beach, in a market. Then, oh my God, the music builds and he's not alone. And to my utter astonishment, I burst into tears. I now know this has received a great deal of media attention, but it was new to me and if it's new to you, I beg you to watch it. I'll wait....
Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo. So tell me, am I a blubbering sentimental idiot? My favourite bits are his stately variation with the Indian dancers in Gurgaon and the poignant lonely little dance in the demilitarized zone in Korea. And of course, the dances in the three largest Canadian cities: Toronto, Vancouver, and Montreal. (Toronto is not labeled, but they're the first group that rushes in to join Matt. And yes, it does rain that hard in Montreal. Ottawa is a two-hour drive west; a downpour will fill your shoes in seconds.)

Matt Harding apparently used to design computer games, got put off by the violence, and set off to travel the world. Somewhere in there, he got funding from Cadbury's, and the rest is internet history. Dance well, thou children of God.