Showing posts with label pop culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pop culture. Show all posts

Friday, March 27, 2009

Battlestar Galactica as Apocalypse


A week has gone by now since the series finale of the SciFi Network’s Battlestar Galactica, an epic television saga that stretched over four years and held my imagination captive, sometimes to the point of obsession.

In the first couple of days after the final episode, I was hesitant to admit even to myself that I felt disappointed. As I thought backwards over the series, I had so many unanswered questions and was frustrated that some things didn’t appear to make much sense, and I worried that what had seemed like one of the most complex and brilliantly thought out television shows of all time (especially during the first two seasons, with competing theologies and prophecies as a major plot element) had been rather carelessly wrapped up.

However, it suddenly occurred to me that when considered as an apocalypse, the finale was infinitely richer and more interesting. Now, what do I mean by that?

In modern English, the word “apocalypse” has come to mean “disaster,” especially relating to a cataclysmic vision of the end of the world. But in its Greek origin, it’s the “vision” that’s the apocalypse, not the disaster; literally, it just means “unveiling” or “revealing” – hence, the ancient literary work originally entitled Apokalypsis in Greek was translated into English as The Book of Revelation. The story told in Revelation is not “the end of all things,” but the passing away of the current state and the transition to a new and better existence; this is an archetypal theme that recurs across time and culture in human history, and can be found even in modern popular culture: classic examples would be Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings, as well as Richard Wagner’s four opera cycle The Ring of the Nibelung, which partly inspired the Tolkien saga. Battlestar Galactica has much in common with all of these stories.

In his preface to The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien was careful to insist that his story was not allegorical, but rather “applicable,” meaning that it was intended to be flexible enough to allow readers to find meaning however the tale resonated for them; hence, at its first publication many thought it was about the rise of Hitler, and in 2001 when Peter Jackson’s films began to come out, some people thought Sauron was Saddam Hussein and others thought he was George W. Bush; other authors have asserted that it’s a highly symbolic Catholic re-telling of John’s Revelation. Wagner’s Ring Cycle has the same advantage: vast tomes have been written discussing the political, economic, psychological, philosophical and autobiographical interpretive possibilities of the work. Viewed this way, the fact that Battlestar Galactica left many questions unanswered enhances the opportunities for finding individual and multiple relevances.

Despite claims to the contrary by many so-called literalists, the Biblical Revelation also (and intentionally) leaves many questions unanswered; though many insist that “the Bible is very clear on [fill in the blank],” even the most casual backward glance across history shows that Revelation, in particular, has been understood many different ways; still, the basic gist (after much chaos, everything turns out for the best) is (almost) universally recognized.

Battlestar Galactica most definitely cannot be said to be “allegorical” to Revelation, but it is so frequently and so overtly referential – episode 4.12 was even called “Revelations” – that parallels are inevitable. There are angels and symbolic beasts and holocausts, plagues and resurrections, even visions of destroyed and rebuilt cities. The show quite literally featured “a new earth” (Rev. 21:1).

Yet it is – ironically – in its eschatology that Battlestar Galactica most closely resembles Revelation. This may sound startlingly odd, given that BSG had no obvious redemptive savior figure or Rome/Beast character and dealt largely with two religious groups at war with each other (the quasi-evangelical monotheistic free-will Cylons vs the polytheistic predestinarian humans, with a smattering of atheists on either side), especially since members of both “sides” end up in the new Eden.

There are no saints in Galactica’s universe, but there aren’t any villains, either. All of the characters have flaws, but none of them can be said to be “bad.” Even the unscrupulous Gaius Baltar, who helped to usher in the initial cataclysm by giving the Cylons access to the security mainframe did so inadvertently; he thought he was doing Number Six a favor and never intended the consequences.

Baltar is a particularly interesting case; in the last two seasons, he was unsubtly depicted as a Christ-like figure, complete with Jesus-y hair, beard and a cult of followers who believed in his teachings. And yet he is clearly not a Jesus stand-in, not least because he doesn’t believe in God; whereas the biblical Jesus sacrificed himself for others, Gaius Baltar is first and foremost about self-preservation. Every choice he makes in the series, and all the consequences that follow, stem from selfishness and cowardice. He is the first to throw principle out the air lock.

This is significant because it underscores the important point that this is not a Christian allegory; if it were, it would alienate many viewers and restrict its applicability. Instead, it uses certain familiar references as a framework on which to hang a larger point, much in the same way that Richard Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen has absolutely nothing at all to do with Nordic religion.

The other major BSG character who serves as a referential Jesus is Kara Thrace, better known as “Starbuck.” She literally dies, is resurrected and leads the people to salvation, though even she does not know it or understand her role. She is, in many ways, the anti-Baltar: though also obviously a flawed and broken person in many respects, she is deeply spiritual and militantly principled, willing to risk everything, her life included, in the pursuit of what she believes to be right; she goes on faith. But Kara Thrace is not a God stand-in, either; she’s a stand-in for us, as is Baltar. In the same way that humans and cylons and Wotan and Alberich and Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker are initially held up as opposites but are revealed to have much in common, they represent the inherent complexity of individual identity.

As an allegory Battlestar Galactica would make no sense because there are no direct correlations; yet the series derives many layers of meaning from overt references. Consider that, in their own ways, Starbuck, Baltar, Number Six, Roslin, Apollo and Hera are all referential Jesus figures. (Recall especially the episode where Apollo, the son of the top authority in the fleet (Apollo is also the son of Zeus), is floating in cruciform in a lake, that Roslin is a “dying leader” and Hera is a “miraculous birth” both foretold by prophecy, and that Number Six was given Jesus’ place in the famous “Last Supper” parody photo.)

So what to say about the finale itself? Bearing in mind that things can be referential without being allegorical, ultimately Battlestar Galactica presents us with a hopeful, redemptive vision akin to the 21st chapter of Revelation’s “new Jerusalem.”

Masterfully, BSG viewers were led to assume from the initial miniseries that the saga would end at Earth, and were then flabbergasted to arrive there half-way through the fourth season only to find an uninhabitable post-apocalyptic world. We stood with the characters on what appeared to be the Brooklyn waterfront, gazing at a ruined and deserted Manhattan skyline and wondered, now where?

Like many things in the biblical Revelation, it doesn’t seem to make literal sense that we stood in a nuked-out New York City two-thousand years gone and then a few weeks later arrived at a different place that is explicitly shown to be Earth, but 150,000 years before the present day. But Admiral Adama explains to us, “Earth isn’t a place, it’s an idea.” Similarly, I’m not sure we are meant to believe that the “new Jerusalem” is literally a city that will descend out of the clouds.

The “new earth” isn’t the spiritual end of the road, either. We know this because Anders says farewell to Starbuck with the words, “See you on the other side,” and because Laura Roslin finally dies upon reaching “the promised land.” (See, with “applicability” you can be both Moses and Jesus and simultaneously neither!)

Despite this emotional denouement, the overall mood of the final scenes is hope-filled. As in Revelation, where the tree that spans both banks of the river that flows from the throne of God grows leaves to be used “for the healing of the nations” (22:2), cylon and human have recognized their common origin, put aside the mutual injuries of the past, and committed to a new way of living. They, like the people of Nineveh, discover that prophecy doesn’t mean you throw up your hands and surrender to inevitability, it means that you respond. We are told over and over again in Battlestar Galactica that “all of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again.” In the final episode, the characters collectively decide to break the cycle, and thus achieve their redemption.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

Blasphemy on Several Different Levels

Wow, here's maybe the worst idea anyone's ever had. Paul McCartney and Jesus are both spinning in their graves.

Friday, November 28, 2008

Continuing Saga of the iTunes Genius Sidebar FAIL

I know I have taste in music that runs outside the mainstream, but seriously...what's going on at iTunes? Why is it that when my selection is "Il segreto per esser felice" from Donizetti's Lucrezia Borgia sung by Marilyn Horne that the iTunes "Genius" recommendation is "Con te partiro" as "sung" by Andrea Boccelli? This would be like me going into a restaurant and remarking that I like Veuve Clicquot and having the sommelier respond by suggesting a glass of Diet Pepsi. WTF, people?

Sunday, November 23, 2008

iTunes Genius Sidebar FAIL

Currently playing: the Benedictus from Mozart's Great Mass in C Minor.

iTunes: "We currently have no matches for this selection. Recommended: "Single Ladies" - Beyonce Knowles."

Ummm...?

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Department of Unintentional Irony

Anyone who knows me knows that I can't stand scary movies. My imagination is waaaayyyy too suggestive. Sometimes I had to turn off "The X-Files." I didn't sleep for a week after Congo.

And yet...? I looooooove The Shining.

So, Starbuck and I are watching it right now on A&E. (Rocky is cowering under the bed.)

Twice now, there's been a commercial for Pella Windows featuring a young boy riding around the house on a tricycle.

Nice.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Review: BSG "Revelations"

WARNING: SPOILERS

Well, I hate to say it, but I found last night's "cliffhanger" disappointing. Battlestar Galactica has an amazing track record of putting on thrilling, surprising, revelatory finales. Think back to "Kobol's Last Gleaming: Pt. 2" or Admiral Cain launching alert fighters or Baltar surrendering to the Cylon occupiers. I had high hopes for last night; maybe that was my problem.

Those great episodes all share two things: a breakneck, exhilarating pace and a last-minute plot twist that leaves you infuriated that you have to wait for months to see the resolution. Last night wasn't fast-paced so much as it was rushed. Moments they have been setting up for years passed by quite perfunctorily. Honestly, I was more moved when Aidan found out Carrie was smoking again than when Starbuck learned Anders was a Cylon.

I didn't buy Adama's reaction to Tigh's "coming out" scene, either; it looked like he'd gotten dumped. I would have had a lot more questions for the Colonel, and would have felt incredulity more than rage and grief. The idea that a battle-traumatized and grief-stricken old man was going cuckoo is far more plausible than, "I'm a 60 year old robot," and I would have pressed to be convinced. Starbuck should have had Adama's blow-up scene, and vice versa.

Poor Tyrol! No one even cared that he's a Cylon. You'd think Athena, at least, would have something to say about that. The whole fleet seemed to adjust pretty easily to the discovery that the XO, the deck chief, the Caprican Pyramid star and the president's aide-de-camp have been Cylon agents the entire time. For a moment I thought we were getting somewhere when Tory snapped at Roslin, but she, too, seemed to recover from her petulance quickly.

Admittedly, I have a bias in favor of religion, and a large part of what fascinated me in the early episodes was the overtly evangelical language of Number Six and the unfolding colonial prophecies. The writers tried to return to prophecy and religion this season, but it has been altogether less coherent and relevant. That whole Kobol/Arrow of Apollo/Map to Earth thing from Season 1 was wicked cool. Last night we got a Viper with a GPS system. Instead of unlikely coincidences that suddenly appear to have been preordained, we got maybe one of the laziest deus ex machina moments since baroque opera went out of fashion.

And, alas, the final plot twist? I'm afraid I saw that coming, and not because I was feeling particularly intuitive. It just seemed obvious that this wasn't going to be what they were expecting. Of course, questions remain: who did it? Did the other Cylons get there first, or did the 13th tribe annihilate itself, as we ourselves seem on the brink of doing? And what do they do now? And maybe more importantly, do I still care?

Friday, June 13, 2008

BSG: Will All Be Revealed?

Tonight is the last episode of Battlestar Galactica before the show goes on a "mid-season" hiatus until 2009. Will we learn the identity of the Last Cylon?

For a long time -- ever since her disappearance at the end of Season 3 -- I've been worried that Kara Thrace/Starbuck was the last Cylon, but that storyline seems to be going in a different direction. The hybrid's pronouncement that she is "the Harbinger of Death" notwithstanding, I recently remembered the Season 1 episode when Leoben told Roslin, "Adama is a Cylon." Hmm. So I've been watching Season 4 trying to figure out if I can determine whether it's Lee or Bill. For a long time I was convinced it was Lee, but...now I'm not sure, again.

While Googling around today looking for clues, I landed on a site with a complicated theory that there are clues in the Season 4 Galactica/Last Supper spoof, with a rumor that the final cylon is not depicted in the picture, which would rule out Starbuck, Baltar, both Adamas and Roslin. They draw parallels between each character's position in the photo and the apostle they stand in for, noting that in the BSG version, "Judas" is conspicuously absent, thus concluding the empty seat is for the Final Cylon.

But they lost me when they said Caprica Six is Jesus (even though she's in his place) "because she is the one who is telling Baltar to spread the word of the one true God." Well, that's faulty, because Jesus was the one true God, and Jesus wasn't harping on the monotheistic angle because he came from a one-God tradition, i.e., the Jewish apostles. If that's the explanation they're offering, Caprica Six would be Paul, bringing the notion of one God to the polytheistic Greeks and Romans (and, pointedly, those are the gods of the Colonials).

But then I realized I was probably putting too much thought into it.

Anyway, Season 4 has dragged in places for my taste, but I thought last week was one of the best ever and I can't wait for tonight!

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

The Changing Face of Gay Pride

In last week’s edition of Portland’s gay paper JustOut, friend and columnist SMB suggested that this year we demonstrate our pride by skipping the parade. He laments the crass commercialization of the event by mega-corporations hoping to cash in on our patronage. He recalls the cold, rainy night on which thousands of Oregonians (myself notably excluded, mea culpa) gathered downtown to protest the delay of the state’s brand-new domestic partnership law by a judge who agreed to hear a challenge from an out-of-state conservative activist group, and essentially asks of the marketers, drag-queens, glitter-smeared party boys and shirtless lesbians, “Where were you when it mattered?”

Good points, all.

However, I would propose that we take a step back and re-assess what the annual pride celebrations are all about these days.

Two years ago, I wrote a long, personal, provocative (and much commented-on) post about what pride meant to me, and while I think those points still resonate, I also think now we might be allowed to celebrate as well as protest.

Let’s take a look at where things stand in the present moment. John McCain may not be the LGBT community’s best friend, but just a few weeks ago he appeared on the Ellen DeGeneres Show and, while saying he believed marriage should be reserved for one man and one woman, expressed support for some limited forms of recognition for same-sex couples. Compare this to 2004, when Howard Dean was labeled a hopeless left-wing extremist because Vermont permitted civil unions. This is a massive shift in public attitudes, when what was radically progressive just four years ago has become the default stance of the Republican nominee. On the Libertarian ticket, nominee Bob Barr has declared that the odious 1996 Defense of Marriage Act should be repealed; and he wrote it!

While Barack Obama has publicly drawn the line at civil unions, he also supports the full repeal of DOMA and DADT. He and Senator Clinton actively courted the support of GLBT voters in their primary campaigns. We used to be ignored and invisible, and after that we were vilified and made scapegoats. Now we’re pandered to. I call that progress.

Portland’s Pride Festival is this Sunday; just two days after that, California – the nation’s most populous state and the fifth-largest economy in the world – will start issuing marriage licenses to same-sex couples, following a protracted court battle that ended in the groundbreaking recognition that gay people are a suspect class. The Republican governor openly opposes amending the state constitution to repeal that right. The proposed amendment faces an uphill battle: recent polls now show a slim majority of Californians in favor of marriage equality, and the November ballot includes a Republican candidate who is unpopular with the family-values crowd and a Democratic candidate with fervent support among younger voters, who are overwhelmingly in favor of marriage equality (68% of 18-29 year-olds).

Back here in Oregon, today’s breaking news is that the petition effort to put the new domestic partnership laws on the November ballot has failed. Meanwhile, New York has determined that nothing in state law prevents them from recognizing same-sex marriages performed in Massachusetts, California or other jurisdictions where they are legal.

Obviously, there are still battles to be fought, and we’re not home-free yet, but when Republican presidential candidates sit down for cordial chats with out-lesbian talk-show hosts, we're in a completely different world.

We should think of the June pride celebrations as a commemoration of the Declaration of Independence that was thrown down by a bunch of drag queens at the Stonewall Riot 39 years ago this month. Just as the 4th of July is now a celebration born in struggle, I see no harm in partying on Pride. Yes, let’s still gather in the rain to protest injustice as it arises, but let’s acknowledge the amazing victories that have been won through our collective hard work over the last several decades.

So grab your cha-cha heels, dust yourself liberally with glitter, throw away your bra and let's march!

Monday, June 02, 2008

Controversial Church

“Obama Resigns from Controversial Church” reads the headline on CNN today.

I’m not going to go into the article itself; I didn’t even read it. I’m just fascinated by the headline. I am struck by the subtle but clear implication that churches should not be “controversial.”

What would a “non-controversial” church look like? I imagine the closest we might come would be Joel Osteen’s Lakewood megachurch in Houston, where services come with insipid, saccharine Christian pop interspersed with neutered, vague messages of self-empowerment: embrace Jesus, and your life will get better. But even this is controversial; it may not be inflammatory, but within the broad Christian world, Osteen’s gentle pabulum is widely considered heresy because his “Prosperity Gospel Lite” message flatly contradicts Christ’s teachings.

Osteen, however, is not out there calling the Catholic Church “the Great Whore,” or insisting that Hitler was God’s messenger, herding the Jews into Israel so that we can get moving with Armageddon, or peddling a wildly re-imagined history wherein America was founded by literalist evangelicals intent on destroying Islam. He is not making an ass of himself protesting military funerals with ugly anti-gay language, or concocting conspiracy theories involving the U.S. government and AIDS. He’s soft-spoken and polite. He smiles. He’s the kind of pastor of which CNN might approve.

What we’re dancing around, though, is the indisputable fact that Jesus was and remains a pretty controversial guy. If I had to summarize the New Testament in a single theme, it might well be the overthrow of the established order, beginning with Mary’s thundering outburst at the Annunciation – “He has shown strength with his arm and has scattered the proud in their conceit, casting down the mighty from their thrones and lifting up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things and the rich he has sent away empty.”

Of course, there is comfort and solace to be found in the Holy Spirit, and churches and church communities have pastoral obligations to console the aggrieved, be companions to the lonely and encourage the frightened. But we are also called upon to stand up for the marginalized and the oppressed; we are called to be a voice for those who have none. It is, frankly, our Christian duty to be a little bit obnoxious. Shying away from controversy for the sake of appearance is not a Christian virtue, as convenient as it might be for a politician on the campaign trail.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

McCain Courts the Gay Vote




The sad thing is, the production values here far outstrip the original.

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Best Argument Against Same-Sex Marriage

Isaac Davis: I got a kid, he's being raised by two women at the moment.

Mary Wilke: Oh, y'know, I mean I think that works. Uh, they made some studies, I read in one of the psychoanalytic quarterlies. You don't need a male, I mean. Two mothers are absolutely fine.

Isaac Davis: Really? Because I always feel very few people survive one mother.

-- from Woody Allen's Manhattan (1979)

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

My Horoscope Says I'm Good with Leos

Did anyone watch American Idol last night?

Sigh. I'm in love. Not the most flattering picture of him, but this guy was adorable. He cried! Aw.

Let's hear it for corn-fed Iowa boys, whoo!

Thursday, January 03, 2008

Review: Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd

I like Tim Burton. I really like Johnny Depp. But I love Sweeney Todd, so my only option is to write two separate reviews.

The Film

I'm not good with scary movies; if I didn't know the show so well -- and, I know every line -- I don't think I could have tolerated the suspense and the violence. Even then, knowing full well who gets it, when and how, I spent a lot of the film cringing in my seat with my hands over my eyes. Sweeney Todd is a bloody story, and the great thing about a film version is that you can really show spraying, spurting, gushing, pooling blood (in which Burton here relishes) in ways that would be impossible or, at least, impractical on stage. Film also gives the viewer unique intimacies with the performers and the scene, access to shades and subtleties and inflections that get lost in the theatrical chasm between the lip of the stage and the first row of the audience, let alone the back row of the balcony. Two more things about the blood, and then I'll move on: I thought the opening sequence gave too much away, and the blood was too orange for my taste; I'd have preferred something darker.

Tim Burton was exactly the right director for the film version that has been crying out to be made of this stage masterpiece. His vision of early 19th century London was wholly appropriate, dark and gothic, splendidly squalid, filled to the brim with grimy decadence. Clearly he understood the characters and wanted to serve the original; this is an outstanding adaptation. He even successfully navigated the treacherous comic-relief bits, such as Mrs. Lovett's beach fantasy, which often bogs down the stage action.

It goes without saying that Johnny Depp is a formidable actor. The title role is an exceptional test: it's the rare artist who can summon the bloodlusty rage necessary to sustain the plot and yet communicate it in such a carefully restrained way as to maintain credibility and, therefore, terror. There are few who could approach what he as achieved in his interpretation of the role. Mrs. Lovett presents a wholly different yet similar challenge: how to convincingly portray a generally kind, hapless, hopeless romantic type who nonetheless cooks up (so to speak) the scheme to get rid of Mr. Todd's victims? And again, in Helena Bonham Carter we have an actor of rare ability; I found her performance deeply affecting.

I know I said I like Tim Burton and Johnny Depp; did I mention how much I like Alan Rickman? Talk about your luxury casting. Again, the same challenge presents itself: how to portray a nearly impossibly evil human being and make it both believable and, in a way, pathetic? In the case of Judge Turpin, the answer is simple: use Rickman.

The discovery of Ed Sanders, the young actor who takes on the tragic hero Tobias, is proof that God wanted this film made. Another gift of the film medium is that we can get an actor young enough to convincingly sell innocent, naive courage; in a stage production, where a voice has to carry over an orchestra and the actor has to be available for 8 shows a week, we often get a man in his early 20's who comes off, instead, as mildly retarded. Sacha Baron Cohen can do no wrong, and as Todd's tonsorial rival Pirelli gives a spirited, pitch perfect performance. In the other major roles, Timothy Spall was delectably oily (hmm...maybe I should get away from taste-oriented metaphors) as Beadle Bamford; Jayne Wisener and Jamie Campbell Bower made sincere efforts, but were both a trifle palid and young for their roles as Johanna and Anthony.

The Music


You have a major problem when the strongest voice in the cast belongs to a 14 year old boy.

I first came across this show when I was a junior in high school; my voice teacher suggested I take a look at the song "Johanna," written for the character of Anthony. It was a dark and stormy night -- no, really -- and I had just gotten home from Tower Records with my cassettes (hey, it was the early '90s). The musical opens with a distant pipe organ, but I didn't know it was supposed to be distant so I cranked up the volume to what seemed normal. Then the dirge was interrupted by the bloodcurdling shriek of the steam whistle, and I nearly leapt out of my skin and soiled myself. Welcome to the uniquely evocative power of Stephen Sondheim's soundworld for Sweeney Todd.

The new arrangement for the film version is marvelous; the recent Broadway revival was brilliant and clever in its reduced vision, yet sorely lacked the bursts of power provided by the original score. The movie reinstates the orchestral splendor to floor-vibrating effect, but I really missed the whistle.

I think they were right to axe the choral passages from the film version, even though "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd" was a major sacrifice. Todd is not Oklahoma!, where people suddenly and randomly burst into sweet, plot-collapsing melodies. Todd is operatic -- and indeed, has notably been produced by actual opera companies and was given in concert form by the New York Philharmonic -- and the singing and the bloodshed never stop. For some reason, I think solos and duets succeed in this format where large ensembles and choruses could not. There is no question in my mind that my exposure to Sweeney Todd in my impressionable teens led me inexorably toward real opera: once you learn the dramatic potential in the combination of great singing and great composition, you thirst for it.

Alas, great singing is what was completely lacking in the film version.

While many reviewers noted that Depp is not the traditional voice type called for by the score, at least one claimed his "rock-star tenor" was effective. I beg to differ, and I must say it is a sorry tenor indeed, of any variety, that struggles on notes within easy reach of any bass-baritone worthy of the name. His physical performance -- his eyes, his face, his hands, his overall body posture -- was perfection. His singing was painful; in fact, it was so bad, it significantly detracted from his acting. It was a distraction that ill-served a carefully considered performance.

People who know Sondheim know he wrote with unusual effectiveness for limited voices; one need only think of Elaine Stritch's raucous turn in Company. But he also knew how to write for gifted singers; think of the differences -- and yet seamless compatibility -- between the roles written for Hermione Gingold and Glynis Johns in A Little Night Music, and the music for Carl-Magnus in the same show. Sondheim knows voices, and Sweeney is a singer's role. Yes, it's the exceptionally rare singer who can do the music justice and also carry the part, but that's largely what makes the show so good when it's right. Burton gave us half a Sweeney. Depp's vocalism, while long on Cockney diction, was woefully short on phrasing, musicality, pitch, and the subtle but vibrant and varied shadings of a true singer.

Bonham Carter, with her breathy tone, came off better. Filling the impossibly large shoes of Angela Lansbury, whose voice was expressive and accurate if not oppulent, is a daunting task. Yet Bonham Carter managed to successfully navigate the chromatic complexities of her vocal lines.

I had high hopes for Alan Rickman, since his speaking voice is so resonant and marvelous, but alas, he, too, was underpowered and uncertain of pitch. Sacha Baron Cohen acquitted himself quite nicely of a role that is nearly impossible to sing well. Since he's playing a fraud, anyway, it rather worked well for him that he was faking the more operatic flourishes. What to say of Jamie Campbell Bower and Jayne Wisener? Any conservatory or university with a music school could field a good handful of good-looking, competent actors who could waltz through Anthony and Johanna's graceful music. What a disappointment to hear their glorious melodies given such short shrift.

At length we come to young Ed Sanders in the oft-under-appreciated role of Tobias. Here is a performer not only fluid as an actor, but innately musical. Every phrase had shape, every pitch had a center, and every tone had vibrancy; this is all the more miraculous considering his tender age. Without disrespect to his esteemed castmates, Sanders put Burton to shame for failing to recognize that there really are singers who can act in this world. And yet, what a near fiasco "Nothing's Going to Harm You" was: one of the few places in the score that cries out for tender, sotto-voce lyricism was sung as though Mrs. Lovett was in the next room, possibly watching television. I am certain this is not Sanders' fault.

Overall? Visual experience: A. Aural experience: C-.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

The 90 Days of Christmas

Ho, ho, hold on.

Last year a priest gently admonished me for having my Christmas tree up during Advent. “It’s a season of waiting and anticipation,” he explained, encouraging me to observe Anglican custom and decorate the tree on Christmas Eve. (Maybe that’s why the cats pulled it down: they’re traditionalists.)

I like Christmas. A lot. But this year, it has been made abundantly clear to me that there can definitely be too much of a good thing.

When I was 19, I took a semester off from college to earn money for my imminent transfer to New York, and spent the holiday season working at the Williams-Sonoma at Pioneer Place in downtown Portland. I recall that I had to work late on Thanksgiving in order to decorate the store in holiday fashion for Black Friday. That’s right, not a garland or bow or bauble or twinkly light or treacly carol until The Day After Thanksgiving, when suddenly the mall burst into yuletide splendor.

This year, the retail holiday season seems to have started around October 1. That’s about the time I noticed that my local Fred Meyer store had cleared out the patio furniture and replaced the tables and lounges with pre-lit trees, ornaments, and inflatable Santas. Seriously, October.

I recognize that this is largely due to the retail world’s anxiety about the economy. As I now work for a giant apparel company and my bonus next year depends on our sales figures, I’m not unsympathetic. It’s even worked to my advantage because I bought my new tree (7.5 feet! Yes, I am a Christmas Size Queen, which can be sung nicely to the tune of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer”) at a great price at the pre-season sale.

Still, it seems to me that the magic of the season is muted, and I suspect that’s largely because I’ve been seeing holiday displays in the stores for two months now. I thought stores changed from “Merry Christmas” to “Seasons’ Greetings” as an act of sensitivity, but now it’s appropriate because Christmas literally lasts for three months.

I am reminded of the exchange between Ebenezer Scrooge and his nephew: “You keep Christmas in your way, and let me keep it in mine.” “Keep it? But you don’t keep it!”

Exactly.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Sick Vick

After entering his guilty plea on federal charges relating to his illegal dogfighting operation today, Michael Vick apologized for his “immature acts.”

While he conceded that “dogfighting is a terrible thing” and took responsibility for his actions, I hardly think “immature” is the proper adjective, and his decision to characterize his crimes in this way causes me to wonder whether he really comprehends the nature of his actions.

Let’s review: Vick raised dogs and bred them to be aggressive; common tactics used to induce this behavior include starvation and a regular regimen of physical abuse. Vick and his friends enjoyed watching these dogs tear each other apart with their powerful jaws. Fights can last for hours; the losers usually die from loss of blood from a torn throat or virtual disembowelment and the victors hardly escape unscathed. Wounded survivors are not given veterinary care or allowed to “retire”; instead, in their weakened condition, they are simply recycled into the fray until eventually their number is up.

Some dogs, apparently, despite living in abusive care, just don’t display “sufficient” aptitude for the sport: they’re too docile. In Vick’s mind, a gentle dog was a worthless dog. Did he surrender them to a shelter or try to find or provide a loving home for these creatures he deemed too passive? No, he executed them (Vick concedes the death of “at least six”) using such methods as drowning, electrocution or slamming the dogs against the ground.

What a fate awaited these innocent creatures: rip each other to pieces to entertain their human masters or be killed in a heinous, painful manner.

To say someone is “immature” means that they are old enough to have outgrown behaviors we generally attribute to younger, less sophisticated people. But dogfighting isn’t childish or unsophisticated; it isn’t something one “outgrows.”

Fart jokes are immature. Torturing and killing animals for profit and pleasure is sick.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Friday, July 06, 2007

The Roll of a Lifetime

From CNN, "the most trusted name in news," the folks who brought us an hour of Paris Hilton on Larry King:

Britney Spears Makes Bizarre Apology

Apparently in February she attacked a paparazzo's car with an umbrella. On Wednesday she finally apologized, saying she was "preparing my character for a roll [sic] in a movie" and "got a little carried away."

I can't believe someone finally optioned Mary Poppins 2: The Revenge.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

What I Need is a Wormhole

I'm sure there are many hot, young, smart, ambitious and talented gay guys in New York City who get together with the same group of friends every Friday night. There just aren't very many of them who end up fully clothed in front of a 54-inch television in Harlem watching Stargate SG-1.

A couple of years ago, through random twists of fate and online flirting, I ended up becoming friends with an extraordinary group. What we shared was a fondness for vodka and a talent for viciously bitchy (but loving) insults. The standard routine was a Friday night happy hour (Therapy was the principal location, but we could also be found at XL, XES, Suite, Vlada or G) and then a schlepp up to a beautiful Harlem townhouse, where at the top of a narrow stairwell adorned with a portrait of an Afro-Jesus, one entered through a magical doorway into a comfortably suburban living room like one might find in Omaha, a genuine rip in the time/space continuum if ever there was one. There we would either watch a couple of movies or, if they were in season, set down to watch the SciFi channel's Friday line-up: Stargate SG-1, Stargate Atlantis and Battlestar Galactica.

Before I met them, I'd never even heard of Stargate. I had little initial interest in it, but I enjoyed hanging out with them, and so over time I learned all about the Jaffa and the Goa'uld and eventually got suckered in by the show's charming self-deprecation. Despite its corniness, there was also something intriguing about the epic sprawl of a decade-long space saga that somehow made up for the nearly invariable formula of the episodes: off-world civilization threatens Earth with annihilation; Stargate team comes up with longshot plan "that just might work"; plan doesn't work; then in the last seven minutes, Captain Carter or Daniel Jackson would figure out some way to use alien technology to thwart the plot, and the extinction of mankind would be delayed for another week.

Even here in my new home 3,000 miles away, I've been maintaining the tradition as a kind of sentimental link to my old friends. Last night was the SG-1 series finale.

[SPOILER ALERT] I had expected a two-hour cataclysmic extravaganza, featuring a grand alliance of earthlings, Jaffa and other alien beings to decisively destroy the Ori and declare the universe safe once and for all (except from the Wraith, who we need to have around in order to keep the Atlantis spin-off alive), or at the very least, a special guest appearance by Richard Dean Anderson. Instead, with a show appropriately titled "Unending," Stargate left the airwaves with a completely typical episode that had zero sense of finality. Indeed, the credits rolled as the SG-1 team headed once again through the Stargate to a new adventure, one we'll never get to see.

And so even though I was never really a big fan, I couldn't help feeling that my link to my friends just got a little bit weaker. I found myself missing them a lot, and wishing I could go back in time and watch this episode with them. I think I've found a way to do it.

Using technology gleaned from the Ancients, I've found a way to use parts of my microwave, dishwasher and vacuum cleaner to create a rough approximation of a zero point module, and then using a really long extension cord, I should be able to supercharge my '93 Mercury Sable to the point where it can propel me not just 3,000 miles eastward, but 24 hours back in time using a program I got from the Asgard which I've uploaded onto my iPod, which I can play through the tape deck. With any luck, in just about 18 minutes I'll find myself yesterday in Manhattan. I haven't quite figured out how to reverse the process so that I'm back in Portland in time for my temp job on Monday, especially since if I get the calculations wrong I could end up in a permanent time anomaly, like Indiana.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Wind Beneath the Pitch

I am hoping that my present temp assignment is the equivalent of employment purgatory. Cut off from all daylight, at the bottom of a corner cubicle with walls so high I feel like I've been dropped down a well, I'm sitting here counting the seconds until the day ends. My time here is truly agonizing. I think I'm rather hoping that I get "caught" blogging and dismissed. The potential repercussions are preferable to sitting here for another week in the headache-inducing fluorescent light of compensated solitary confinement.

I did two interviews this week, including one yesterday morning for a job that I think might be a very good fit indeed, so I am keeping my fingers crossed. They said they'd make a decision early next week.

The apartment continues to come together; I conducted what essentially amounted to raid on Target last night, picking up a new microwave and a cookware set, among other things. Finally I can stop doing take-out and live like a real suburban person. (Yes, tongue firmly in cheek there.) I also bought the most awesome cocktail shaker ever at Pier 1. You can take the gay boy out of Manhattan, but he's still going to make cosmopolitans.

After my extensive retail therapy session, I had time to catch the last hour of American Idol. I think the right person won. Memo to Randy Jackson: check it out, check it out, dawg, it's not "a singing competition." If it were, they'd compete behind a screen or just submit tapes. The "Idol factor" requires presence and charisma, in addition to singing ability. In pure terms of vocal endowments, Melinda Doolittle is a phenomenon. But in person, her star power is of lower wattage than the natural radiance of Jordin Sparks. Between Sparks and Blake Lewis it was not an easy choice, because he's clearly the more engaging entertainer. Still, I think Jordin's career trajectory is higher and farther than the two runners-up. She is not now nearly the artist I think she has the potential to become; the same cannot be said of Blake or Melinda.

Slate's Katherine Meizel wonders if there wasn't something technically amiss at the Kodak Theater that prevented performers from being able to find their pitch. Intonation was a disaster for most of what I saw, beginning with the adorable soloist from the African Children's Choir and culminating in the black leather catastrophe that was Bette Midler. As a gay man, it's hard for me to write this, but I had to get up and leave the room for a while. It was like a housewife who'd had one too many glasses of wine and found the courage to try karaoke; the tune was nowhere to be found. Surely execrable Idol contestants have been publicly ridiculed by Simon and tossed out on their ears for lesser offenses.

Because the temp job is a little slow, they're giving me the day off tomorrow. Hurray, four day weekend! Time to continue to put my new life together and also, hopefully, to relax a bit.