The Seagull is not an easy play. It’s about a group of artists who meet for a weekend retreat, and intense egotistical warfare ensues. It’s about a young writer trying to confirm himself, and the strange relationship he has with his mother. It’s about art and how it’s sometimes more a luxury and a necessity. At times, it’s a parody of art; it’s triviality. The difficult themes of Checkov's masterpiece are readdressed in a new, excellent, production at the Walter Kerr Theatre.

Christen Scott Thomas, though not the main character is the main attraction. She plays the role of, Arkadina, Konstantin’s beautiful, proud and arrogant mother. Arkadina is a character is so complex and intricate, and Thomas plays her with such ease, that it’s a wonder Thomas hasn’t gone mad doing so. Or who knows, maybe already she has? There’s still ten weeks left.

Mackenzie Crook, the gauntly cubicle worker from the British version of the Office, is gloriously redefined in the lead role of, Konstantin, the tortured young writer. And Peter Sarsgaard, though the weakest link because of his phasing American accent, plays the role of, Trigorin, the jaded writer genius nicely, with his deadpan butter face.

People say that you can judge the quality of a Seagull production, among other things, by its ending; if it gets your jaw to drop. Well these guys must have done it in spades.

For more information: http://www.seagulltheplay.com/

Labels: play, review, scott thomas, the seagull, theatre, walter kerr

It was a mash up. A triple bill of some of the most important indie bands of the 90’s: The Meat Puppets, Dinosaur Jr., and the headliner, Built To Spill, performing the entirety of their album, Perfect From Now On.

The Meat Puppets hadn’t aged well. Their legendary drug use had taken its toll, both the Kirkwood brothers looked haggard, especially Chris, the bassist, who looked like an old tree log. But they still managed to rock through their foot tapping country-tinged grunge with grace. They ended with an impressive jam that left behind a quiet audience in its quake.

The Meat Puppets were loud, but Dinosaur Jr. was a war machine. J. Mascis, their long white haired guitarist and front man, was like a towering Nordic God as he thrashed out angry riffs from within the confines of a Marshal Stack fortress.

Built To Spill played to a packed theatre. Part of front man Doug Marstch’s charm is that his face has a calm to it when it’s not whining melodies, but tonight it seemed that in many ways, he was genuinely tired. After performing the same album day after day for months on end, Marstch seemed weary.

When the band was finished, they were treated to a roaring applause. Amid the shouting and clapping Marstch’s strumming arm could be heard playing the introduction to “The Plan,” a song not on the album. Then they played “Center of the Universe.” And then in what seemed too good to be true, they jumped into their indie rock masterpiece, “Carry the Zero.” For the first time in the show Marstch seemed truly passionate. His face turned a violet red as his convulsing body banged on the strings of his guitar, and he sang with pure cold-blooded conviction about love as a failed math equation.

Labels: built to spill, concert, review, terminal five

The Roger Mapplethorpe Polaroid exhibit at the Whitney is a story of growth. Long before Mapplethorpe was an icon of shock and rebellion in the late 70’s and 80’s, he was learning his craft. His weapon of choice was the Polaroid camera and his subject matter ranged from the boring to explicit.

You can see his craft visually develop. From mind-numbingly dull photographs at the start of the first wall he moves onto interesting faces, alarming objects, and oddities by the end of it.

The second wall shows Mapplethorpe turning his camera onto the dark world pivotal to his life, his still ambivalent homosexuality, and he does so with hunger. His fanaticism is evident: his subjects are numerous, he has begun experimenting: using new lighting techniques to create moods and something that will become a trend, taking several photos to tell one story. His self-portraits are now bold and unsettling, a striking difference from the cool art school self-portrait that starts the exhibit.

On the third wall five years have passed since he started shooting. Mapplethorpe has found his voice. The work is mature and polished and the photos are artful and disarming. He has control over the camera and the pictures no longer reek of doubt and insecurity. Through these Polaroids we not only see an artist in his formative years, but a young man coming to terms with himself. His rapacious observative eyes will not go on unnoticed any longer.

Labels: formative, Mapplthorpe, museum, polaroid, review, Robert, Whitney

Dali still shocks: A man keeps laughing uneasily during Un Chien Andalou and an old woman has to turn around when “the eyes gets cut.”

Salvador Dali’s new exhibit at the Moma combines his passion for film with his paintings. Six of his surrealist films are scattered throughout the exhibit starting with his collaborations with Luis Bunuel, to a dream sequence scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s Spellbound, to a grainy psychedelic film about an expedition for overgrown hallucinogenic mushrooms in Mongolia.

Destino, Dali’s unfinished animated collaboration with Disney is in the third room. A princess runs across an endless Daliesque plain and enacts a love affair with a statue. It’s pure dreamscape of course, but gives viewers a chance to see what it might have been like inside this man's mind.

Some of his most famous paintings are on display: The Persistence of Memory, Metamophosis of Narcissus, and Illumined Pleasures.

Dali at any museum is an event. To be able to stand next to the paintings and works you’ve seen your whole life and witness the madness first hand is inspiring. He’s on display until September 15th, tread carefully.

Labels: dali, destino, moma, museum, review