Bridge Art Fair and "The Crack"

Thursday night, I randomly ended up at the Trafalgar Hotel after work with my pal Lindsay, who had tickets to the Bridge Art Fair -- a coming together of art galleries from around the world that set up shop in more than 80 nicely-curated rooms at the Trafalgar.

After having a few cocktails downstairs in the bar, we began our wander around 9pm. It's a cool concept. In some rooms the beds have been removed, in others, not, but each room boasts it's own collection (by gallery), and you can chat with the gallery owners/managers, and in some cases, the artists. I really liked much of what I saw, and surprisingly, a lot of the work (mostly all for sale) was relatively affordable, so it was nice to look at so many great pieces that you could actually consider buying (I did, however, walk away empty-handed).

I only made it through 2.5 floors before I had to call it a night, as my 3.5 inch heels were not feeling so friendly and I was shaking off the last of my Tokyo jetlag. But the fair is a clever idea, one that will also manifest itself in New York and Miami. For more information, you can visit www.bridgeartfair.com.

Saturday, my friend Carmen and I went to the Tate Modern to see Doris Salcedo's new work commissioned for the Tate's massive Turbine Hall. Titled "Shibboleth," it is a crack in the smooth concrete floor that starts as a hairline and runs the full length of the hall, going a few feet deep and wide in some areas. Despite much speculation, the Tate will not reveal if the crack was actually drilled into the floor of the museum, or if it was created on a "false" floor laid on top. From what I can tell, it looks like the real floor.

What's it all about? Here's the short of it: The work is supposed to "ask questions about the interaction of sculpture and space, about architecture and the values it enshrines, and about the shaky ideological foundations on which Western notions of modernity are built. In particular, Salcedo is addressing a long legacy of racism and colonialism that underlies the modern world. ‘The history of racism’, Salcedo writes, ‘runs parallel to the history of modernity, and is its untold dark side’. For hundreds of years, Western ideas of progress and prosperity have been underpinned by colonial exploitation and the withdrawal of basic rights from others. In breaking open the floor of the museum, Salcedo is exposing a fracture in modernity itself. Her work encourages us to confront uncomfortable truths about our history and about ourselves with absolute candidness, and without self-deception."

Pretty deep, huh? Well, despite the debates I have had with certain friends over this (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE. OLLY.) and all the cheap jokes made at its expense (MOMA in NYC really deserved it, not these overly-practical Brits) I could totally buy what Ms. Salcedo is selling. I get it. But what I REALLY found compelling about it was the interaction people were having with it. In my opinion, art is ultimately successful if it makes people curious and starts them talking, and if it engages a large cross-section of people. The crack certainly delivers on that. The place was overrun with adults and children alike. Kids were down on their knees peering into the crack, some with small binoculars examing the crevices and the wire intermeshed with the concrete inside. Adults were straddling it and posing with it for photos. People were comparing it to other things, like the Grand Canyon (ok, that was me) and Georgia O'Keefe paintings (ok, that was me too, but there were other people doing it as well). People were trying to keep their kids from stepping into it. Other people were purposely stepping in it. At the end of the hall, the crack seems to continue, underneath the wall....so people were down on their knees, positioned with their heads upside down, trying to see where the crack went. There was lots of talk and hypothesising over how the crack was made. Was it real? How did they do it? How will they put the floor back right?

To see my very own personal pictures of Shibboleth/"the crack," click here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/catsview/sets/72157602421460316/

Die Hard 4.0

It's not summer until you've paid your hard-earned cash on a really bad Hollywood blockbuster which, after watching, makes you want to go back and slap the ticket lady until she gives you your money back.

Tonight, Olly and I saw the stupidity that is "Die Hard 4.0," so despite the fact that it is late July and only 50-60 degrees in England, I guess summertime is here!

You often hear about "gratuitous" violence and/or sex in movies, but this movie boasts gratuitous....action. It's a 2.5 hour armageddon that very badly ties together car crashes, massive explosions, SUVs crashing down fiery elevator shafts, nation-wide blackouts, a fake exploding U.S. capitol, endless shootouts, the token hot Asian chick kung-fu fighting and killing her way through an ocean of men, an airborne police car (containing Bruce Willis) that crashes mid-air into the bad guy's helocopter (that's the best stunt of the film), a wild tractor trailer chase, computer hacking at gunpoint, and finally, some madness that culminates with an F-35 Joint Strike Fighter jet hovering and weaving its way through a maze of urban highway overpasses as they crumble like a mile of toppling dominoes. And LOTS of blood all the while. And I'm sure I've left a whole lot out.

And now a word about the horrific acting. I am serious when I say there were kids in my neice's 3rd grade play that could have out-acted the stone-faced and monotone-voiced mokeys in this movie. And the writing...I don't think mass cringing after one-liners like, "John, you're a Timex watch in a digital age" was the desired response.

There were many questions in the "storyline" that really threw me. Especially at the end: Bruce Willis kills the bad guy and the world is safe from a complete computer-programmed infrastructure shut down. But last I had heard, the bad guy was the only person on earth who could undo the damage. I wonder what happened to the world after the credits rolled...

Finally, I beleive a hallmark of the Die Hard franchise must be geographical idiocy and bad editing. The first movie was supposed to take place in the Washington, DC area...a detail that was foiled by the frequent calls Bruce Willis made from pay phones clearly labeled "Pac Bell" -- the California phone system. Though this film is again supposed to be set in the DC area, I could not identify any streets that remotely resembled DC, even with the super-imposed Washington Monument and Old Post Office Building in almost every car chase scene. Oh, and DC does NOT have yellow cabs or skyscrapers. And there was a very dubious toll tunnel that I had never encountered in my 6+ years in DC. But it's clearly the tunnel that connects DC to New Jersey and Baltimore in a matter of minutes. My favorite geo detail, however, was at the end when the helocopter, car explosion and firearm spectacular spectacular ended in a sunny blue harbor surrounded by mountains. Um, where is THAT in the DC area? (It sure looked a lot like southern CA to me.)

By the end of the film, I could only smack my forhead and groan. I didn't quite recover until afterwards when Olly and I had a pint at the pub and talked about something else.

A Night With the History Boys

My friend Olly and I saw the play “History Boys” (which was recently made into a movie). After debuting a massive stage success, it recently moved from the National Theatre to the West End -- although that was news to Olly, who mistakenly went to the National first, arriving at the correct theatre just minutes before curtain.

Our seats were crap (my fault), but it was a good play, although it tried a bit too hard at times…most notably in the first act when the boys enact an unnecessarily long scene in French, which I found to be a bit gratuitous and pretentious…I suppose if you don’t understand French, Alan Bennett does not deem you intellectual enough to enjoy his play. The idea of the scene was very funny, it just droned on too long.

My criticism overall is that it reeked a bit “Dead Poets Society” wanna-be (I think I just dated myself to all the high-schoolers that were in the audience….”Dead Poet who??”). But for all you TRUE GenXrs out there, let’s face it, nothing can really match that. BUT, in it’s favour, I will say that the acting/casting is really brilliant, there are many funny moments, and the scene changes are filled with a series of punchy black and white film sequences set to catchy music showing the boys going about their days and bringing bits of the storyline to life…that was a nice touch.

While I was not left pondering it (ok, ok, I am a theatre snob, I know), it was an evening well spent and certainly one of the better plays I have seen lately…it’s modern take on the competitive education environment in England was timely and topical, though it probably would have been more compelling to me if it were a system I knew anything about. I mean, the fact that “public” school is a more elite level of education here in the U.K. is still a regular point of confusion for me given that in the U.S. it means everyman education for the masses (I am a proud public school girl).

After the show, Ollie and I had a lovely dinner at Palais du Jardin near the theatre. Very good…my favourite part being the exceptional crème brulee that capped off the night. Oh, and Olly’s consistently captivating conversation, of course (he reads this blog). ☺

I Speaka French!

Ok, well, not exactly yet, but tonight was my first class of a 20-week beginners French course. I figure since I go to Paris just about every month these days, I should learn to say something in the language. Someone once told me (actually, several people have told me) that because I know some Spanish, French will be a zip. But guess what -- that is complete crap. French is totally hard. And despite my weak attempts to learn some vocabulary and verb conjugations before visits, whenever I try to put it to use in France I am stared down coldly for several uncomfortable minutes before the highly annoyed and insulted French person I am speaking to begins shouting English back at me until I slink away. But not for long!

So, my company has graciously brought in an instructor from the Institut Francais here in London to teach us the basics at a pleasantly discounted rate. There are 8 of us in the class, which will meet every Monday here at the office. Our instructor's name is Alexi. He is a very nice and patient man with gray hair. Oh, and we have workbooks...I love workbooks.

About 5 minutes into the class, after being spoken to (in French) and having not understood one single thing, I was signalled out as the first person to speak (in French). I had to say "My name is Catherine." When I tried to repeat after Mr. Alexi and say it, everyone laughed at me. It's really funny how I think I'm really cool, but after a small incident like this, I want to cry, kick the teacher and run away and hide (like I did in tap class once when I was 6). Very humbling these language classes.

So, an hour and a half later, I can now sort of tell someone what my name is and say "hello" and some other basic greetings. I can't spell, write or read any of it, but I can sort of say it. I also learned the verb "to be" (Être) and am now familiar with the alphabet, although I cannot pronounce my Es and Us properly ("oooh" and "eeew," or something like that). But I have a whole week to practice and perfect before advancing to the next level.

I figure it's probably another 2-3 weeks before I'm dreaming in French and forgetting my English. I will conquer this language -- with an espresso in one hand and a pain au chocolat in the other! And then, the French people will love and adore me. France will make me their goodwill ambassador. I'll arrive at the Gar du Nord to cheering crowds. I will make the poets cry with my perfect accent. The Musee D'Orsay will give me a Renoir as a gesture of gratitude for learning to speak their language so well. They'll name a street after me in Saint Germain des Pres...my efforts will not be in vain!

Au revoir.

A Week in the Life of British Telly

I’m too lazy to make the effort to get satellite TV, so I’m at the mercy of the five basic “terrestrial” channels here in the U.K. (though I do abide by the law and pay the 100+GBP/year TV License fee that I still don’t totally understand the purpose of). That gets me BBC1, BBC2, ITV1, Channel 4 and Five….five glorious channels of complete and utter crap.

British TV is mostly composed of a slew of property-buying shows in the morning and daytime (seems the only way for the middle class to make any real money here or feel they have investments is through real estate or selling the contents of their attics…getting on the “property ladder” as they call it is everything), a few really trashy daytime talk shows (think Jerry Springer back in the 80s but not as entertaining, just depressing), the soaps (East Enders, Coronation Street, Hollyoaks and Emmerdale), a smattering of cooking shows (I do love that Gordon Ramsay, he’s cool), and of course, many fine American exports, including “Everyone Loves Raymond,” “Friends,” “Prison Break,” “ER,” “The Sopranos,” and “Grey’s Anatomy.” Oh, there’s the news too – although I have to say unless it’s international, the domestic stuff bores me to sleep. Late night talk shows include Jonathan Ross and Graham Norton – both of which are pretty good. And then there is the Charlotte Church Show – perhaps the most annoying show and person on the planet. In terms of morning shows, there is BBC Breakfast (puts me right back to sleep after waking up) and GMTV (Good Morning TV), which is my preferred choice -- I like Lorraine Kelly’s lifestyle segment at the very end, which, if I’m watching it, means I’m totally late for work. Oh, and how can I forget “Big Brother” – it’s a national treasure.

But then there’s the handful of oddities and one-offs that really give me a giggle. Following is a sampling of my favourite titles from just the past week. I am NOT making these up:

• Help! My Dog’s as Fat as Me
If you can’t get enough TV about obese people, you can upgrade to obese pets.

• Why is There so Much Rubbish on Telly?
I think the show further supports the premise…vicious circle.

• WAGs Boutique
WAGs are “wives and girlfriends” of football stars (and in many cases, the role models to young British girls everywhere). In this show, two teams of WAGs run boutiques and compete to see which is the most successful. Think “The Apprentice,” but starring bimbos with no brains. Time Out London describes the show in its TV listings as “The bitchy nonsense continues.”

• The Madness of Modern Families
At least this show can never run out of content.

• What’s Under Your House? Checking Foundations
Um…I’d seriously rather chew broken glass than watch this. Tedious gets taken to a whole new level here…

• Loose Women
I don’t need to watch this on TV. I live on Maiden Lane in Covent Garden - I can just sit on my doorstep, open a bottle of wine and watch the real thing.

• Gay to Z
In case you’re looking for an instructional…

• Arrange Me a Marriage
Hmmm…perhaps I should be watching this one.

• How to Dump Your Mates
I like this one. It shows you how to divorce your friends. Uses real people/scenarios too and catches the whole ordeal on camera. I needed this my first year of college.

• My Big Gay Prom
For all those poor people who had to take members of the opposite sex to the prom and are still suffering post-traumatic syndrome from it. Ah, thank heavens for a second chance to make it all right.

• The Conman with 14 Wives
This is the stuff that makes up for not getting “Lifetime for Women” here.

• Bodyshock: Born with Two Heads
And this makes up for not getting “Ripley’s Believe it or Not.”

• What? When? Where? Why?
I think that pretty much says it all….

With all that said, I actually don’t miss American TV that much, except Conan O’Brien (the love of my life), David Letterman, Meet the Press, Good Morning America, Saturday Night Live, and a few Food Network shows. Really, the rest is just background noise when I’m doing laundry -- real life is so much more interesting…

Modigliani and His Models

A couple Fridays ago, I spent the evening at the Royal Academy of Arts (my new favourite hangout) to see the "Modigliani and His Models" exhibition. It is so beautiful. I love (Amedeo) Modigliani (1884-1920), and this collection of some of his most famous portraits is really something to behold. The attached picture is my favourite of his. That's Jeanne Hebuterne, his last lover, who he often painted. She jumped out a window, 9 months pregnant, to her death at the age of 21 a few days after he died (they already had a daughter together). Ok, NOT a happy story, but his paintings are so lovely. Soft colours....cornflower blues, warms reds, rich golds. The people he particularly liked were painted with a warmth and tenderness about them. The people he wasn't so fond of always seem to have empty, hollow and vacant eyes, but are nonetheless pretty.

Modigliani was a maniac though...your basic drug abusing, alcoholic, crazy, schitzophrenic, angry, jealous, insecure, woman-beating guy. Unfortunately, most great artists seemed to be tormented and tainted. Why is that? Where are all the HAPPY, well-adjusted artists?

Random Modigliani story: When I moved into my London flat, I was immediately taken by the print of Jeanne hanging over my sofa (the one above). I did not realise at the time it was a Modigliani and I would often tell guests that I loved the picture because it "looked like a Modigliani." Many made the same comment or agreed. It never occured to me, for about the first 7 months looking at this painting hanging in my living room, to take a closer look at the clearly scribed signature in the top corner, becuase it WAS a Modigliani. After a few cocktails one evening with friends, I climbed up on the sofa and (loudly) made the discovery (there were laughs). I was excited to see the original at the exhibition -- it's even prettier than the print on my wall...much warmer colours.

Anyway, the pictures themselves are a treat to take in, but the stories behind his subjects (friends, prostitutes, art dealers, lovers, strangers), told on the audio tour are equally interesting and some, sadly amusing. For example, one painting is of ex-lover and art critic, Beatrice Hastings (pictured below right). She was wealthy and many years his senior. She also had a violent temper and was jealous. Apparently, she would ocassionally find him out with another woman and throw bottles and such.

The collection is nice becuase it is not too big and is all quality so you can really enjoy and savour it. You get a very intimate feel for the subjects and their stories. With the exception of one or two portraits, I honestly loved almost EVERYTHING on the walls....even the nudes which some critics at the time considered to be soft porn (which I don't agree with, by the way).

Anyway, I joined the RAA as a "friend" and expect I'll spend many other lunches and late evenings there (it is right around the corner from my office on Picadilly so I can get there quick when an art fix is needed). I plan to go back for one more visit to Modigliani before the exhibition departs.

Oh, there's also a new book by Jeffery Myers that just came out called Modigliani: A Life. If you're interested, click here.

Crying at the Movies, Alone. Again.

Happy Fourth of July to my American peeps!

So, I had big plans tonight to celebrate America's birthday by going to a concert at St. Martins in the Fields Church near my flat for a patriotic chorale concert of uplifting American music. But by the time I was about to leave work, I wasn't feeling it anymore, so I went to the movies instead.

I saw "The Lake House" starring Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock. The movie is getting seriously ripped to shreds by the critics but I LOVED IT. If you just simply accept that much of the plot is illogical and makes no sense and stop trying to figure it out, it is a lovely, romantic, emotionally touching and beautiful piece of filmography. I was by myself, sharing the theatre with just three old ladies. At the finish, hand clutching heart and awash in tears, I turned to them and blurted "That was SO beautiful!" To which they just looked at me like I was nuts and one coldly replied, "It was filmmed very well dear but I couldn't make heads or tales of it." What a buzzkill! It was all good by me though, it was really a sweet movie. I can't imagine why it's getting such bad remarks -- people have no imagination for fantasy anymore...hmph!

It's a magical story about two people who fall in love and correspond, however, they are living two years apart...he in 2004 and she in 2006. But they inhabited the same glass lake house (hence the title) and the mailbox is the magical portal through which they exchange letters. And they have the same dog. And are trying to meet up. What's not to like about that??? I loved it loved it loved it. And I don't care what anyone says. You should see it too!

But I need to get a grip on the emotional crying outbursts. Before the movie, there was a trailer for a movie called "Paper Clips" about teaching kids in some backwater town about the Holocaust. It took me 10 minutes to stop bawling from that. Might have to put some recovery space in between before going to see that one.

The Crucible: My Faith in Theatre is Officially Restored

What's in a name, you ask? Well, if you're John Proctor from "The Crucible," it's absolutely everything ("because I cannot have another in my life!") By the curtain call of the Royal Shakespeare Company's production on the West End, I found myself on the verge of tears...not just fom the emotion of the play's final scene, but from the sheer mastery of the whole production. The acting, set and direction were flawless. There was not one weak link...all elements lived up to the stellar quality and genius that is Arthur Miller. No wonder the production was awarded 5 stars by TimeOut magazine -- something that hardly ever happens. Let's just say that after seeing a few flops here in London, this production has completely restored my faith in the theatre (oh ya, and the lead, Iain Glen, is totally hot).

The implications of the story reverberate today. A story about the Salem with trials of 1692, it was meant to be an allegory for the McCarthy hearings of the 1950s, of which Miller himself was put on trial 3 years after the play was staged. It still warns against the power of extremism when suspicion alone serves as evidence, and when it becomes more comfortable for a community to buy into hype and hearsay instead of facts and reason.

For some perspective from Arthur Miller himself on why he wrote "The Crucible," check out this essay from a 2002 issue of The New Yorker: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/content/?020422fr_archive02

Bravo!

Dan Flavin Retrospective

My friend Stefan and I saw the Dan Flavin Retrospective at the Hayward Gallery. It was REALLY great. Dan Flavin (1933-1996) is known for his light installations using industrial flourescent lighting in a variety of colours. You might think, "Whoa, flourescent ligts, big deal." But to see fifty of his best works all in the same place is really a magical and inspiring thing. The whole gallery is illuminated by his work, which I found mesmerising and whimsical and fantastic!

You're not supposed to take pictures in the exhibit, but that didn't stop Stefan the stealth photographer...he totaly has a paparazzi job waiting for him if his software design career doesn't work out. ;) Anyway, these are all shots he managed to take -- as I provided cover.

(I call this one the Star Wars Light Saber)

If you're interested in learning more aout Dan Flavin and the exhibition, check out the gallery microsite at http://www.hayward.org.uk/flavin/

There is also a super-cool game where you can design your own Flavin-like work of art, it's guaranteed to provide hours of artistic inspiration...here is the link: http://www.hayward.org.uk/flavin-dedications/create.html -- click on "Create a Dedication" and have fun!

The British Museum of Non-British Stuff

Um, how is there anything left in the Middle East, Greece, and Egypt (among other places) when the British took it all? For some reason, I thought “The British Museum” would have British stuff (silly rabbit!), when in fact it is a giant trophy case for everything they have swiped from all over the globe. I know, I know….the Met in NYC has lots of Egyptian goodies too (although in their defense, they purchased their Egyptian temple after the government decided to let it fall to the bottom of a river valley they were flooding). But the British Museum -- holy crap. I only made it through one small wing of the place in an entire afternoon before I suddenly got a severe case of “museum head” and had to run out screaming. (For those of you who don’t know, “museum head” is a very real condition, diagnosed by Elaine on a particularly hilarious episode of Seinfeld.)

Where to start? Well, the Rosetta Stone is the marquee attraction, so I got that out of the way at the beginning. I think my favourite thing was sculpture from the Assyrian Empire….especially the beautiful friezes that once adorned palace walls with the sacred tree and the eagle headed guardian spirits. The Egyptian mummy showcase is pretty impressive (if you are into that sort of thing). The Portland Vase is exquisite -- it's a dark blue Roman glass vase with white detail -- and the inspiration for Wedgewood!

Actually, I was ok with all of this stuff, but then I wandered into “The Parthenon Galleries,” and it all started to seem uncomfortably wrong. On display is a large variety of sculpture from the East and West pediments of the Parthenon in Athens. Seriously, shouldn’t they put that back where it belongs?? The place is still standing for God’s sake…people go there to see it, give it back already! I find it odd that if you want a comprehensive idea of the Parthenon, you have to go to Athens AND London to see it. I want to know a few things: Who the heck just walked up and carried that stuff out, and why has no one demanded it back??

Anyway, the place is choc-full of amazingly beautiful things that completely blew my mind -- jewellery, crowns, tombs, vases, coins, sculpture, art, paintings – stuff from literally every corner of the globe. Another one of my personal favourites is a tiny hippopotamus figurine carved out of blue stone, from Egypt. In itself the place is a free-standing world history lesson, and walking through it feels like a tour through the spoils of a massive treasure hunt (probably becuase it IS). The Reading Room is also extremely beautiful and impressive, as is the main atrium space that gives you the feeling of being outdoors.

I need another full day to skim through the rest of it and enjoy more audio tours. But you can check it out too! Visit the website for a “virtual” tour: http://www.thebritishmuseum.ac.uk/.

The Last Supper (and my most recent supper)

I’ve been in Milan for work the past two days, so after work tonight, I went to the church of Santa Maria della Grazie to see DaVinci’s masterpiece “The Last Supper.” I wasn’t sure what to expect, being that I’ve only seen it in pictures, but upon walking in the room, I was taken aback by how big it is. It takes up the entire wall of an otherwise bare chapel. The size of a movie screen, I started in close, and almost had that sensation of being part of the picture. The colours are rich, soft and lovely, all blending together harmoniously. The action taking place in the picture is palpable to the point where you can almost sense the movement and emotional tension resulting from what has just taken place. The lighting and dimension of the thing are truly compelling…it’s mesmerising. I went at 6:15 pm, so seeing it at night was enchanting. They only allow you 15 minutes with the painting though, so you have to study quick – it’s definitely not the 1.5 hour experience I had straining my neck at the Sistine Chapel to take in every detail.

“John” as he is called in the painting is DEFINITELY a woman, anyone can see that. But for all those “DaVinci Code” freaks out there, let’s just keep our heads about us and remember that DaVinci painted this personal interpretation of the scene over 1,400 years after Christ died. He was not actually at the dinner, peeping through a keyhole. It is not a photograph or a first-hand account. Perhaps DaVinci knew some other secret that hasn’t made it out yet – maybe that John had a tendency to dress in drag on occasion (and very inappropriate occasions at that)…who knows. You know artists, they’re eccentric people who get famous long after they’re dead for seeing things differently – that’s what we dig about them.

Of particular interest is the thing you don’t typically see in the photographs and textbooks….the large doorway that cuts into the painting, completely wiping out Jesus’ legs and feet under the table. You can see the rest of the disciples’ feet, but not the main man’s. Apparently, in the 1600s, some rocket scientist (or maybe it was one of those Christ Scientists like Tom Cruise) decided that the door underneath the painting should be enlarged, so he made it taller, cutting out Jesus’ legs and feet, which apparently were originally crossed, one over the other, symbolic of what was to come. Something we obviously can’t see now. I was also interested to hear (I got the audio tour, of course) that the painting had at one time been completely covered over by something else and had to be uncovered. Huh. I can hear the guy now who painted over it, muttering the whole time with snide grin on face: “DaVinci, SchmaVinci – What a has-been! Wait til they get a load of MY new painting – ‘The Last Breakfast’ – it’s gonna rock the world!”

But my laugh-out-loud moment (FYI: Laugh-out-loud moments NOT appreciated in the chapel) came as I turned to leave. There is another large painting on the wall opposite DaVinci’s, of the crucifixion, by Giovanni somebody-or-other (don’t worry, the crucifixion is NOT what made me laugh). You never hear about this painting, even though it is just as large in scale and in the very same room. The audio tour lady instructs you to look at that painting in contrast to DaVinci’s while on your way out. The narrative (which gets about 1 minute airtime as you’re being shoved out the door) goes something like this: “Now you will see that this painting lacks any depth or emotion or beauty like DaVinci’s. It is very flat with no feeling and no movement and no texture. It is very static and boring and ugly. Extremely ugly. Horrid, actually. We see what he was trying to do, but he failed. Miserably.” Ok, it didn’t say those very words, but that was the gist. Poor Giovanni. Had he just painted his mural in another church across town, it probably would have gotten a much warmer reception. What a bad career move.

In the spirit of “The Last Supper,” let me tell you about MY last (or most recent) supper. If I lived in Italy, I wouldn’t care about gaining weight because at least I’d enjoy doing it. Last night, my colleague Donatella took me out to a cosy enoteca called Barabba. We started off with some sweet Parma ham and a selection of Italian vegetable antipasti. Then, I had a magnificent fresh orechiette pasta with broccoli and cauliflower, which melted blissfully in the mouth – pure pleasure for the belly and soul. I was stuffed after eating less than half the plate, but I couldn’t help but finish it just for the taste. Donatella had something I’d never seen before. She ordered a piece of very tender beef, served raw, along with a square, slate-like (and very, very hot) stone that the waiter ground some fresh sea salt over. Then, she cut the meat up into small pieces and cooked it herself on the stone, which sizzled away for much longer than I would have expected. Kinda like fondue, but grilling on hot stone vs. frying in oil. I have no idea what you call that, but it was really neat. For dessert, Donatella had a strudel and I had yogurt gelato, drizzled with honey and walnuts. It was heaven. Then we each had a glass of ‘Montenegro’ per Donatella’s suggestion -- a herbal aperitif with a citrus-like finish. It was very tasty. I plan to have one again sometime soon. Like, tomorrow.

So, that is my complete “Last Supper” experience. I could make a wisecrack about DaVinci painting Jesus and the disciples enjoying a last supper of antipasti, self-cooked beef on a hot stone with some pasta, finished off with a scoop of gelato and a nice aperitif -- but I won’t because some might see that as wrong. But c’mon, if he can blatantly paint “Paul” as a woman and insinuate it is Jesus’ wife as an inside joke for his buddies back at the Masonic lodge, then why can’t I do a little food styling? After all, it was painted in Italy, the gastronomic capitol of the universe, it would only be right.

Panto

Last Friday I got to experience something quintessentially British: The Panto. Short for Pantomime, the Panto is what we consider a "melodrama" in the U.S. Built for audience interaction and tailored for kids, there is plenty of opportunity for the audience to interact and be recognised by the players.

The production was "Jack and the Beanstalk." My friend Gary works for Price Waterhouse Coopers, who stages an elaborate Panto each year for kids all around the London area. So Gary and his partner Ed invited me to come along. I also brought my friend Stefan, who took these pictures (he's a great photographer). He is Belgian, so as British outsiders, we were both curious about the whole Panto phenomenon.

I must say, the full-length performance was pretty engaging. The production took place at the Peacock Theatre, near Covent Garden. It featured a large cast of about 40 people, had a very colourful and elaborate set, bright costumes, and a full orchestra.

It is apparently Panto tradition that the lead male character is played by a female actress and vice versa, so Jack was a girl and his Mom was a man, basically in drag (the mother was the most entertaining role). I have no idea why this is tradition, nor do I have the inclination to look it up on Google right now to prove what a know-it-all I am, so we'll just accept it for what it is.

Pop songs and dance numbers were regularly intersperesed into the plotline, done with a lot of wit and humour. For example, as Jack was preparing to sell Buttercup, his cow, the cast was cleaning/gussying her up for market while singing 70s tune (?) "At the Carwash." After selling the cow for a sack of gold that turned into a bag of beans, Jack sang Britney Spears song, "Oops I Did it Again," only the words were changed slightly to say "Ooops I did it again, I sold your cow..." Another favourite was the all-cast number "Show me the Way to Cloudarillo" (instead of "Amarillo"), and the beanstalk's own rendition of Madonna's "Like a Virgin" with changed words to "I'm a beanstalk."

I was also quite amused when the Giant (or the Giant's giant leg, I should say) thundered onto the stage with his big, booming voice, only for the actual Giant to eventually pop out of a little door on the shoe -- a tiny little man in lederhosen yelling through a megaphone ala The Wizard of Oz. I screamed laughing.

But the classic appeal of the Panto still lies with audience interaction, as kids cheer the heros, boo the villains, and help the actors by yelling, "HE WENT THAT WAY!!!" and "WHAT'S UP JACK?! DOWN WITH GIANTS!" and "OH NO YOU CAN'T!" (Villain: "Oh yes I can!") "OH NO YOU CANT!!!!"

The show ended with a mass musical review of all the song and dance numbers squished together into a medley, and that was followed by a four-round singalong of "Old Mac Donald." After all, you can never ever have too much of a good thing like a sing along -- especially when you're 7 years old. But even at 33, I couldn't help leaving there with a pretty big smile on my face. As I like to say when the occassion warrants it, "good times."

Edward, For the Love of God, Please Stop Dancing With Those Scissorhands!

As a New Year's gift, my boss Mitch (and his partner Anno) treated my colleague Rory and I to the new dance production of "Edward Scissorhands" at Sadler Wells -- directed by cool choreographer Matthew Bourne.

Yes, this is the same, dark and creepy Edward Scissorhands based on the Tim Burton film starring Johnny Depp.

It was very unique and artistic, although I'd say it was more pantomime than true dance performance -- a collection of musical theatre performers acting out/interpreting the movie to some very nice music.

The set was whimsical and the performance very well staged. The costumes were fantastic -- my favourite scene involved a stage full of people dressed as topiaries, dancing their hearts out. I also particularly liked the snow effects that took place throughout the play, they did a good job making it (and marketing it) as a holiday "spectacular." At the end, the whole audience was showered in fake snow (and what's not to love about that?!).

At first it made me cringe to see Edward dancing and leaping around the stage with those crazy scissorhands...I mean, the very idea that they turned this particular story into a DANCE performance makes you want to giggle, it goes against everything your mother ever told you about running and playing with scissors. But even though it took a few minutes at the opening to remove my hands from my eyes out of fear he'd take a tumble on those shiny blades, it was a giddy and fun night out.

Now I'm waiting for "I Know What You Did Last Summer -- the Ballet."

Cat's Book Club UPDATED (I hear it's as good as Oprah's)

Following are some good books I've read recently that I'd recommend. I'll keep the list updated -- provided I continue to find time to read!
UPDATE to the above statement, Jan. 8th: Cat's book club won't just include "good" books I've read, because if that is the case, I shouldn't be writing about the next one. But it proves that I do read, even if I don't particularly enjoy it each and every book...

On The Road
by Jack Kerouac
Oh my God, WHY do people love this book so much? HELLO!! What a bunch of L-O-S-E-R-S! Hey boys, get a life! Look, I had a little backpacking/hitchhiking fun myself in Central America back in the days after college. But, seriously people, have some fun and then get a job already! Maybe I've been sucked up into corporate America for too long, but I'll be the first to say I missed the boat on this one. Or, err, the car.

For those who have it waiting in your "to-read" pile, let me spare you some time: It's 1940s America. Hobos are all the rage. This wanna-be loser guy (Sal) meets up with a bunch of other losers (the biggest being this certifiable moron named Dean who Sal is stupid enough to idolise for reasons unknown), and they spend the next God knows how many years of their life driving back and forth across the United States for no apparent reason, drinking, doing drugs, smoking pot, marrying multiple women, getting them pregnant and leaving them, sleeping around (often with prostitutes), stealing, scamming, leaving friends behind, picking up hitchhikers, talking a WHOLE lot of crap ALL the time, and on occasion, listening to some jazz (the only part of the book I remotely enjoyed were the jazz bar stories).

Frankly, I do not find this 'beat' generation to be one worth emulating. Each time they got stopped by the cops I prayed they'd get thrown in prison and stay there so the book would end already and put me out of my misery. Each time they zigzagged across the country, they would go to the same tedious places and meet up with the same tedious people. I got over it all the THIRD time they were in Denver...

It's a pathetic story about sad, lost people (the last, delirious, mud-caked chapter with the boys floundering in Mexico really drives this point home). I see how Mr. Kerouac's writing is very lyrical, and that's fab -- but imagine how great his prose might have been had he picked better subject matter!

So, in sumary, I must say, "Hit the road, Jack!" I'll get on a jet plane to cross the country any day vs. doing it your way!

The Hungry Years
by William Leith
This is a book about people who overeat, overdrink, overdrug, and basically can't do anything in moderation. Written by self-diagnosed compulsive overeater, English journalist William Leith, he tries to get to the bottom of his "hunger" that he just can't satisfy.

It was at times an entertaining little read (I must admit, I liked the picture of the doughnut on the cover) -- I'm always intrigued by people's battles with food and other binges. However, after he jumps around sporatically between the premise of the Atkins Diet (which is the first half of the book), to his excesses with food (he once ate an entire apple pie when he was 7!), and his many drug and alcohol binges (which he tells with an air of pride), he goes to a therapist and -- would you beleive it -- figures out all of his problems are becuase of his parents!! Of course!

And that's really the end of the book. He never figures out how to totally satisfy his hunger. But, he does go on a twenty-mile hike with his girlfriend at the end, eats a good dinner after, has some wine, and pretty much sums it up by saying it's all about moderation. Wow -- ya think? That's the part of the book where I felt rather cheated, I was hoping for just a little more resolution and insight than that. But hey, I guess it really is just that simple.

But if that's what publishers go for these days, I have a great story about how I ate an entire bag of Harry & David's Moose Munch in one sitting last Friday night in front of the tele, followed by a package of snowman Peeps and then chased the sugary delight with two glasses of wine. Some people may call that a binge. I call it dinner. And I know that's totally my parent's fault, because THEY gave me the snacks in my Christmas stocking. But I didn't have to pay a therapist to help me figure it out, because Moose Munch, Peeps and wine ARE my therapy. And if you don't count the small stomach ache that followed (totally worth it), I felt pretty darn good after...and I definitely wasn't still hungry. ;)

The Art of Travel
by Alain De Botton
This is a book I will read again and again. Botton's writing comes across like simple poetry that rings true in crystalized and gratifying ways. Anyone who is intrigued by travel -- be it in a plane, car or armchair -- will love this cleverly written book. He shares stories that illuminate different perspectives on traveling with the help of historically significant travel "guides" and classic art to add color and context. (Pretty cover too.)

Empire Falls
by Richard Russo
Anyone who knows me knows I'm a sucker for a good family drama with strong characters and real people at the center -- especially if it's mixed in with some laugh-out-loud comedy. After all, aren't many real-life family dramas funny to some degree, even if they are yours? Empire Falls is warm, smart and poignant. It was a good read all the way through and left me very satisfied and content at the end. Russo's ability to make you connect with and care for his characters is a true talent, and the dynamic portrait he paints of Empire Falls makes the town and its people come to life and jump off the page....I felt like I had said goodbye to people I knew and liked when I finished the book.

The Opposite of Fate
by Amy Tan
I must confess, I am one of the 3 people in the world who have not read The Joy Luck Club (I think my New Yorker subscription can be revoked for that), but this book of essays by Amy Tan will likely prompt me to do so. A few chapters were not compelling (some a little too self-congratulatory and others pure, neurotic hypochondria), but becuase it's a book of independently written shorts, you can just skim past any that don't hold your attention. But for the most part, I really enjoyed the book and Tan's writing. The stories are mostly based on her (twisted) relationship with her mother, her mother's family history, and other impactful moments in her life. It was a smooth, easy read, and did leave me pondering whether some things in my own life have been fate or circumstance. I actually got this book free with a newspaper while traveling through Heathrow airport and was surprised when I had finished it cover to cover by the end of my 2-day trip.

Madam Butterfly: Take Two Prozac and Call Me in the Morning.

Madam Butterfly. What a beautifully sad opera.

I know, trite. I've seen it before and know the story, but considering the ticket price, sold-out run, and swanky Hollywood director, I was hoping maybe they'd throw in a "new and improved" happy ending. No such luck.

Despite the crying I couldn't stop long after the curtain call (I blame the champagne at the first interval), it was well worth it. Staged by the English National Opera at the London Coliseum, and directed by Hollywood filmmaker Anthony Minghella (of "Cold Mountain," "The English Patient," and "The Talented Mr. Ripley" fame), the new twist on Puccini's classic was everything the reviews promised: Visualy stunning, creative, beautiful, mesmerizing...making it all that much more painful at the end. It was almost as good as Baz Luhrmann's production of "La Boheme" on Broadway. I'm a huge fan of this Hollywood director/opera trend -- opera snobs be damned....keep these hits coming!

The opera opens in silence, as a "letterbox"-style rectangle opens at the back of the stage (you know, like the letterbox/widescreen format on DVDs), creating an "epic" tone and feel as if you're about to watch a great, classic movie. The box is lit from behind and takes on many different colours and hues, reflecting the mood as the production wears on. It also serves as the entrance and exit for all cast members. Above this box is a huge mirror which provides interesting perspective on what's happening on stage. Below the box is a broad, sloping black ramp. This probably makes no sense to you (I clearly have no future as one of those people that describe what's happening on stage for the visually impaired through the little headphones) -- but suffice it to say the set was extremely well-designed, framing the cast in a magical and mesmerizing way. It was as much a part of the opera as the music.

So the letterbox opens in silence at the opera's start, backlit in red, and M. Butterfly slowly climbs up into the entrance and descends down the long ramp in silence. She is wearing a white dress, and as she walks, four long trains of red fabric follow her and stretch out in all directions, as an introduction and precursor of what's to come (as if we don't already know).

At the end of the first act, when Cio-Cio San (M. Butterfly) and Lt. Pinkney are in the throws of love, pale cherry blossom petals flutter down from the cieling for at least 20 minutes, culminating with a curtain of pink blossoms streaming down from the rafters. Ensemble members dressed all in black move a series of white lanterns around the couple amongst the blossoms, creating the effect of lanterns and stars floating on the water at night.

M. Butterfly's toddler son is played by a puppet (manned by three people dressed all in black). Which at first was freaky and kind of creeped me out. But the puppeteering (based on an ancient Japanese artform) was actually pretty stellar, and by the end of the opera I had become completely emotionally attached to that crazy little puppet! He even got a bow at curtain call, which, I thought, overstepped the boundaries a tad, but the crowd went wild. Including me. I cried even harder.

Another memorable scene involved white paper cranes flying overhead as Cio-Cio San sings with her son in an embrace, as he reaches up to try and touch the birds.

The final death scene: Completely wrecked and broken hearted by her husband's rejection (men are such pigs), she commits suicide, samaurai style, with the same sword her father used to kill himself (I told you, NOT HAPPY). Plunging the sword into her throat, with her blindfolded puppet-baby standing by (American flag in hand), red sashes unfurl from her dress. Lt. Pinkney rushes in, sees her dead, and falls to his knees in remorse. Blackout. The curtain comes down, Japanese characters scroll across it in white light. I have no idea what they said, but who cares, it was ultimate, gorgeous drama!

It was really great. Really fabulous. The singing may have been a tad weak at times, but it was still pretty good and the visual payoffs certainly made up for it. M. Butterfly was extremely talented (and oh, the glory of an opera diva's curtain call! They get SO much love, it's awesome!) I'd see it again, if there were any tickets left -- I actually had to go alone becuase I couldn't get two tickets! And can I just say, NOT a good "alone" show?

The London Coliseum is a fantastic venue, and only two blocks from my flat which made the walk home much easier. Nothing says "great night out" like a girl stumbling home alone crying in the street. ;)

"A Few Good Men" in Need of a Few Good Actors. And Maybe a Good Director Too.

"I WANT THE TRUTH!"

"YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!"

Ok, the truth is that the production of "A Few Good Men" currently playing on the West End is perhaps one of the worst acted and directed plays I have ever seen. My friend Kim was slightly kinder -- she thought it rated with a somewhat decent high school performance.

The only redeeming quality is that it was SO bad, it was laugh-out-loud funny, thereby making the ticket price almost worth it for the giggles after a rough day at work. And from the groans and outbursts of laugher from fellow audience members (at highly inapropriate moments, I might add), I was not alone in my opinion.

Where to start....

First of all, many people do not know that "A Few Good Men" was a play before it was a movie. And it's a gripping, well-written play at that. Then the movie came along with stellar direction and blockbuster performances by Jack Nicholson, Tom Cruise, Demi Moore, and Kevin Bacon. Right there, it probably should have been retired from the stage forever, because once a movie is made word-for-word from a play and turns out that well, every production thereafter will be unfairly compared and criticised.

The first fatal mistake was that they obviously tried to cast the play with actors that looked like the stars from the movie -- the director clearly had no faith that the audience would appreciate other interpretations. Worse than that, the actors attempted to play the characters exactly as Tom, Demi and Jack would have played them....making them come across as mediocre impersonators.

Eighties heartthrob, Rob Lowe, played the lead role as Lt. Daniel Kaffee. And while he is still drop-dead gorgeous (Hello Dorian Gray -- the guy looks AMAZING!), he is in no way a stage actor. Yes, he was dreamy in "St. Elmos Fire." He was believable on the "The West Wing." Heck, I even liked him when he made a comeback in "Austin Powers." But I dare say his talent has not carried over to the stage. He jumped on lines. His timing was off. He went for the cheap laughs. He did this weird talking-out-the-side-of-his-mouth thing that was really annoying. I know he and (playwright) Aaron Sorkin are good buddies, but this was ridiculous casting.

Far worse were the actors playing Lt Cdr Joanne Galloway (Demi Moore's character in the movie) and Col Nathan Jessep (played in the film by Jack Nicholson). The actress playing Lt Galloway delivered her lines at mock speed, as if she might forget them if she didn't spew them out fast enough. Moreover, she held a striking resemblance to Molly Shannon's "Mary Katherine Gallagher" character on Saturday Night Live...we kept expecting her to leap out into the audience yelling "Superstar!"

The actor trying very hard to be Jack Nicholson, while he did somewhat resemble him, came across as being entirely too effeminate for a tough-as-nails Marine colonel. And the actor playing Lt Jack Ross seemed as if he might break out into song and dance at any moment...so it came as no surprise to see that his recent credits included roles in the musicals "Chicago," "The Producers" and "Sunset Boulevard." I think his hair styling might have been a leftover from his "Chicago" run -- definitely not Marine Corps regulation.

And why is it that actors and directors insist military roles be played with bad, exaggerated southern accents that can't be matched to specific states or regions? Most American actors can't get that accent right, much less Brits. They must think the whole U.S. military hails from Texas or Louisiana. I would have preferred they just kept their British accent and let us use our imaginations. You could physically see the audience shudder every time the actor playing Pfc Laudon Downey yelled "Sir!" -- it came out as a twisted garbled mess that felt more and more like a knife in the head as the play wore on.

Finally, I'd be remiss not to mention the "artistic" treatment of scene changes. As the courtroom set was being shifted in dim lighting, actors dressed as Marines in camoflauge would descend from the ceiling from ropes as if they were being airlifted into and out of the courtroom. During a couple changes, soldiers came out with machine guns, miming as if they were tiptoing through a dark field in battle. On one change, a Marine in full dress blues came out and did an elaborate gun-twirling routine (think that's called a drill) right smack in the middle of the courtroom. It was weird. It was awkward. It made no sense. It was laughable. It was what you'd get if you crossed military bootcamp with Cirque du Soleil. Hey -- there's the next Cirque du Soleil concept -- Marinetastica!

In college, I had a good friend named Mike, and we were obsessed with bad theatre. We would seek out the worst of the worst, just for a good laugh. Highlights included an exceptionally bad dinner theatre production of "1776," where there were too few men so women played some of the male roles. Another standout was "Civil War" (a rock-opera about the Civil War, need I say more?) on Broadway -- think that one closed the night it opened. Anyway, I'm sorry that Mike could not have been here to share this one with me -- it no doubt would have made our greatest hits.

Epitaph for George Dillon

Friday night I saw the play "Epitaph for George Dillion" starring the dreamy Joseph Fiennes. It was extremely well casted and acted. However, the play itself was really bad and very boring. I'd sum it up by saying it was kind of like an Arthur Miller play, but with a bad plot and not at all interesting.