Nicole Gluckstern

The Performant: Why a duck?

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Pianofight takes on Tchaikovsky — and the death of theatreand Boxcar’s Hedwig has us humming in the shower.

Zombies are so over. The next monster movie massacre sensations are totally going to be murderous waterfowl, so props to PianoFight and Mission CTRL for jumping on that bandwagon before it even rolled out of the studios with their ensemble-created, ballet-horror-comedy, Duck Lake. When Raymond Hobbs as theatre director Barry Canteloupe (sic) boasts “no one has ever done what we are about to do,” while tweaking his own nipples, you get the feeling he’s talking about more than the production he is supposedly directing — a musical theatre adaptation of Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake.”


“Duck Lake” opens innocuously enough with a series of scenes focused on Canteloupe’s directing methods, which includes literally suckling his wary charges on the “teat of creativity.” These last perhaps a smidge too long, and fail to foreshadow the eventual horrors that await the hapless cast, but they do drive home the sheer awfulness of being cast in a Canteloupe production. Shades of Waiting for Guffman’s Corky St. Clair color Hobbs’ turn as the narcissistic Canteloupe, whose singular theatrical vision has seen him voted the “best up-and-coming director” 10 years in a row, mainly for previous remixes of the iconic ballet, including a scat porn. Isolated on the banks of Duck Lake for a weekend rehearsal intensive, Canteloupe’s misfit cast members work hard to keep their simmering doubts from derailing the “process,” even when their prima donna “Prince” (Sean Conroy) mysteriously disappears, leaving only a bloody scrap of his cranium behind.

Cue encroaching pandemonium. Murdered park rangers! A groundskeeper with a terrible secret! Obnoxious jet-skiers! An awkward love story tangent! Tortured showtunes! Bloodthirsty, vengeful ducks! And the indescribable horror known only as the Harem Master (Rob Ready); a drama camp kid gone oh so very wrong. In the best tradition of Hollywood villains everywhere, the Harem Master gets to deliver a stirring speech regarding his motivations, which diverges into a reflection on the long slow decline of attendance in theatres, attributed by the loincloth-clad duck enthusiast in part to directors’ insistence on mining the classics for inspiration rather than creating new work. So meta! Truthfully “Duck Lake” itself is probably not in danger of being remounted 400 years from now, but it may yet prove itself useful to future generations, at a minimum for its handy tips on how to drive away angry flocks of mutant ducks. The day may be coming that such information will prove indispensable.

Speaking of classics, though, Boxcar Theatre’s Hedwig and the Angry Inch, sizzled for a scant, two-weekend run, like an incandescent streak of showbiz lightning. Hitting upon a novel way to fully embellish each distinct facet of Hedwig’s somewhat fractured personality, director Nick Olivero cast twelve separate actors as the would-be rock star, adding a free-for-all twist to the already anarchic, transgendered glam-rock musical. From the fierce, punk snarl of Brionne Davis, to the coyly nude antics of Ste Fishell, to the Aretha Franklin-esque majesty of Michelle Ianiro, a dozen Hedwigs reenacted the tragic events of their backstory to the patrons of “Bilgewater’s,” with grace, guts, and a staggering array of platinum wigs. If you missed its too-short summer run, all hope is not lost. Rumor has it that a late autumn remount is not out of the question. Hopefully by then I’ll have stopped incessantly humming “Wig in a Box” in the shower, though honestly I’d rather be humming Stephen Trask than Tchaikovsky any day, so there’s that.

DUCK LAKE
$25, through July 28
The Jewish Theatre
470 Florida, SF
www.pianofight.com
www.missionctrlcomedy.com

The Performant: When in Roma

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Wild brass and shaking floors at the Kafana Balkan party.

Hi-ho, the gypsy life. While the reality of living as a member of a marginalized, nomadic population is really not quite the Technicolor dream romance conjured by 19th century poets and Hollywood producers, the music created by the roaming “Romani” is as lushly romantic as it gets. Combining exuberance with melancholy, abandonment with abandon, musical traditions as far-flung as Spanish Flamenco, Romanian Manele, Gypsy jazz, and even the youthful strains of modern-day Gypsy punk, have a way of getting under the skin right on down to the toes—which will almost assuredly be tapping. Label it folk music if you must, but don’t expect a lot of polite purists holding forth while holding back. Gypsy music is party music, and Zeljko Petkovic aka DJ Zeljko’s (in)famous Kafana Balkan evenings are always one of the consistently best parties in town.

Last Saturday night at the Kafana Balkan party, after a DJ set of Balkan standards which buzzed boisterously through the hushed Baroque atmosphere of the Great American Music Hall, the Fishtank Ensemble climbed out of its fishbowl and onto the stage, strings at the ready. Currently a solid quartet, this LA-based group (formerly of the Bay Area) marries the fiery violins of Fabrice Martinez with the multi-instrumental talents and soaring “Queen of the Night” vocals of Ursula Knudson, the intricate flamenco guitar-picking of Douglas “Douje” Smolens, and the rockabilly slap bass wielded by Djordje Stijepovic. Combining a hodge-podge of disparate styles and influences, Fishtank’s quixotic musical mélange criss-crosses the European continent, from Serbia to Seville, while their street-preacher intensity electrifies.

Martinez in particular, whose life-long commitment to “gypsy music” found him traveling around Europe for years in a mule-drawn cart, exudes an otherworldly musical charisma that makes it difficult to tear your eyes and ears away. Thankfully the visual distractions provided by the luscious belly-dancing of Chantal Schoenherz, special musical guest Peter Jaques, and the rock-and-roll antics of Stijepovic did provide a balanced levity to the set, which included Fishtank originals such as “Gitanos Californeros” and “Woman in Sin” as well as nods to Django Reinhardt, Serbian drinking songs, and Spanish-language longing.

If plenty of personal space is your “thing,” then an evening spent with follow-up act the ferociously talented Brass Menažeri will perhaps not appeal. But for the rest of us, the combination of brass band dynamics infused with an imitable Balkan spirit (no, not rakia), can’t fail to inspire. An oddience that can stand still during the aural onslaught of seven horns, a snare drum, and the mellifluous vocals of Briget Boyle is not an oddience that typically shows up to Kafana Balkan, the respectable camouflage of button-down shirts and nice shoes notwithstanding. At one point during a raucous, elongated version of Šaban Bajramović’s “Opa Cupa” my companion J. pointed out that the floor was actually shaking beneath the bouncing weight of so many dancing feet. Though itself highly orchestrated under the musical direction of clarinetist Peter Jaques, the Menažeri inspired the celebratory spontaneity and cathartic release of a pagan solstice.

So much so that afterwards, tumbling back onto the street, sweaty and euphoric, even the heavy drizzling fog felt like a gift.

Female trouble

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arts@sfbg.com

THEATER We’ve come a long way, baby, but why does it feel like women’s equality is a legal concept that still troubles the status quo? This past year has proven that the erosion of women’s rights remains a powerful political agenda across the country, with state bans on certain forms of abortion, the redefinition of rape, and the blocking of the Paycheck Fairness Act.

Two very different shows opening this week in Berkeley (previews began last week for both) are poised to provide timely additions to the ever-evolving discourse on female power and its reverberations on society at large. Mark Jackson’s Salomania, at the Aurora Theatre, and Eve Ensler’s Emotional Creature, at the Berkeley Rep, take on themes of gender parity and its embattled vanguard with a historical drama set in the early 1900s based on the life of one notorious woman, and an ensemble work exploring the challenges of girlhood in the present day.

Salomania, commissioned by Aurora, has been percolating on Jackson’s burner since 2006, when he directed Oscar Wilde’s Salome, also at the Aurora. While researching the production history of the play, he discovered a mostly forgotten scandal involving Maud Allan, a San Francisco dancer who achieved stardom with a provocative interpretation of “The Dance of the Seven Veils.” But it wasn’t her dancing that cemented her notoriety, but rather a high-profile media controversy in which she sued British M.P. Noel Pemberton Billing for libel after he accused her of being a lesbian (she was), a sadist (she wasn’t), and a German sympathizer (she wasn’t that either) after starring in a private performance of Wilde’s then-banned play.

Like all the best media scandals, her 1918 trial had all the necessary elements for a juicy celebrity circus — the personal vs. the political, beauty vs. bigotry, a titillating flush of sexual impropriety — and temporarily displaced the more austere wartime headlines of the era.

There are several themes at work in Jackson’s biographical drama, gleaned in part from courtroom transcripts and letters from Allan to her family, but the one that seems to best tie Allan together with her biblical muse is the emergence of the “independent” woman in popular culture, and the fearfulness they’ve inspired in their detractors throughout history. And just as New Testament figure Salome has been almost unanimously vilified by both church and secular society for her coerced display of her physical sensuality (almost more so than for her adolescent act of brutal vengeance), so was Allan maligned for her empathic recreation of same.

Both Jackson and Allan’s attitudes towards Salome accentuate the positive lurking within her oft-maligned reputation. Jackson posits that she’s “the only honest person in the room,” the one with the greatest potential for breaking free of the venal, decadent atmosphere of Herod’s palace. Allan found in her a kindred beauty-seeker, whose attraction to John the Baptist was formed partially from a sense of wonder at his purity and capacity for selflessness.

“She was not an uncouth child,” she protested at her libel trial. “She was a woman who valued beauty.” Their mutual reverence for beauty aside, another tie that binds Salome and Allan is a shared reputation for willfulness.

“She was kind of a force of nature in her personality,” Jackson says of Allan. “[And] without apology said, ‘This is what I do, and this is who I am’.” This unyielding attitude contributed to Allan’s reputation as “difficult,” even “arrogant,” a complexity of character that attracted Jackson’s interest as a playwright as much as it repelled her critics.

“Any woman with a forward personality who has pushed her boundaries is going to be characterized that way by her culture,” he muses, a sentiment that could be applied equally to Salome as well as to Allan, as well as to almost any controversial female celebrity today: our Madonnas and our Hillary Clintons.

 

GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS

 

“Part of why I wanted to write this is to say there’s this amazing resilience here, and power, and resistance, and energy and vitality in girls that we haven’t even begun to unleash,” says Eve Ensler, who has also been compared to a force of nature (by Berkeley Rep artistic director Tony Taccone). Best-known for The Vagina Monologues, Ensler’s latest play, Emotional Creature, is having its world premiere at Berkeley Rep.

Global girlhood is its focus. Based on her book I Am an Emotional Creature: The Secret Life of Girls Around the World, the subject matter includes stories from Congolese rape victims, Eastern European sex workers, young factory workers, and Western anorexics, all struggling to move forward from their circumstances. Despite the often violent circumstances Ensler’s protagonists find themselves in, it’s their vitality that she hopes will come across, onstage and off.

Quick to emphasize that Creature is fictional, Ensler’s encounters with young women around the world — Democratic Republic of Congo, South Africa, Sarajevo, Haiti, Afghanistan — have nonetheless heavily informed the characters of her piece. And of course, she has her own experiences in girlhood to draw from. “When I was younger, I was constantly told I was being too alive or too intense or too dramatic, and I chose to learn how to mute myself,” she says. An outspoken and prolific anti-violence advocate, Ensler does seem to have overcome that mute button in adulthood, but she’s quick to point out that its existence can make girlhood a bewildering, disempowering time in life.

The creation of the piece began in Johannesburg, with a staged workshop at the Market Theatre in July 2011, and another in Paris in September. Director Jo Bonney likens the shape of the play to that of an event being put on by the girls themselves: a variety show of monologues, ensemble pieces, even song and dance numbers, with music written by South African composer Charl-Johan Lingenfelder. Navigating the stormy seas of modern-day adolescence and young adulthood, Ensler’s “girls” may still be facing a whole spectrum of obstacles while tapping into their personal power. But thanks to precedents set by strong women such as Maud Allan, and even Salome, the fact that they should want to at all no longer seems unusual or unfortunate — no matter how often American right-wingers might have us otherwise believe. *

 

EMOTIONAL CREATURE

Through July 15, $14.50-$73

Berkeley Repertory Theatre

Roda Theatre, 2025 Addison, Berk.

www.berkeleyrep.org

SALOMANIA

Through July 22, $30-$55

Aurora Theatre

2081 Addison, Berk. www.auroratheatre.org

The Performant: Interpreting Iraq

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Aftermath at Stagewerx attempts to humanize recent refugee experience.

An austere set greets the assembled theater-goers in the black box arena of Stagewerx: a projection of a shop-lined street in the Middle East, a few chairs, an aerial photograph of Iraq perched on an easel, an incongruous television, and a pair of shoes.

A lone figure in a headscarf and wide trousers, Rafidain (Yara Badday), approaches the centerstage and begins to speak in Arabic, offering chai, looking anxiously over her shoulder for her interpreter, Shahid (Mohamed Chakmahchi). In Theatre Period’s ongoing production of Aftermath, the year is 2008, the location is Jordan, and all of the characters are Iraqi refugees, their stories gleaned from a series of interviews conducted by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen on the subject of the 2003 US invasion and occupation of Iraq, and its ongoing repercussions. 

Throughout the course of the play, the individual character traits of the interviewees reveal themselves through text and minimal movement. The independent fierceness of Rafidian, a pharmacist; the brash materialism of action-film aficionado and dermatologist Yassar (Shoresh Alaudini); the righteous anger of Imam Abdul-Aliyy (Munaf Alsafi); the only partially-subdued optimism of a pair of exiled theater artists played by Andrea Ali and Hassan Alnawar.

Facing reality: a scene from Aftermath. Guardian photo by Nicole Gluckstern

A familiar ritual accompanies each introduction, as each character offers tea, coffee, baklava, a peek at the family photo album or a proud pair of diplomas — acts of culturally-ingrained hospitality reminiscent of similar scenes in Joe Sacco’s documentary graphic novel, Palestine.  

Since most of the text is in English, the role of the “interpreter,” a composite character created by Blank and Jensen, spends much of his stage time interpreting not language, but rather the timeline and the historical role of tribalism in Iraq for audience edification.

As for the other characters, their discourse is scripted directly from interview material: a Christian woman, Basmina (Jasmin Kimberley Ali) describing the sound of falling bombs, a young couple (Dolfakar Mardan and Susu Attar) struggling with painful nostalgia for the home they built themselves and then had to leave behind, the dignified Abdul-Aliyy elucidating the tortures he survived during his unwarranted incarceration at Abu Ghraib. The play focuses not so much on creating a linear narrative, but on creating awareness that each character is not mere statistical data to collect — they are full-fledged, multifaceted members of the human race. 

The production is not without its awkwardness. The material is intense, often discomfiting, and unadorned, mirrored by the minimal staging, stark lighting, and the stilted bearing of a few of the actors, (some of whom have never performed in a play before).

The scenes play out mostly like a televised eyewitness documentary, populated primarily by static talking heads, any intricacies of decor (save the television) left to the audience to visualize on their own. But ultimately with a play like this, the less that detracts from the simple honesty of the stories being told the better. There’s simply no need to dress this production up with stagecraft, the stories are compelling enough on their own.

Aftermath

Through June 30, $25

Stagewerx

446 Valencia, SF

www.stagewerx.org

www.theatreperiod.com

 

The Performant: Border crossings

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Los Jaichackers take SFMOMA on a magical mystery tour of Pan-American culture

What first strikes the eye about the ongoing “Photography in Mexico” exhibit at the SFMOMA (through July 8th) is the variety. With photos dating as far back as the 1800s, and as recently as last year, the exhibit doesn’t focus on any one aspect of Mexico or any one era, but rather its timeless complexities. Elegantly barren landscapes collide with jostling humanscapes, desert isolation contrasts with urban density, photojournalism and surrealism join forces, capturing the espíritu of time and place over a period of about 150 years.

Underscoring the depth and diversity one might expect from a thoroughly modern land with a population well over 100 million people, Thursday’s “Double Grooves and Dirty Menudo” Now Playing event, whimsically curated by art duo Los Jaichackers, focused on artistic mashups inspired stylistically by both sides of the border, for an evening that defied easy stereotyping of either.

Los Jaichackers are Eamon Ore-Giron and Julio Cesar Morales, both with deep roots in the SF arts community. Their own piece of the evening was a 24-minute remix of Juan Ibez’ 1980s crime drama A Fuego Lento and an electronic exploration of music by Cuban bandleader Dámaso Pérez Prado, “King of the Mambo.” The result was something weirder than even a Alejandro Jodorowsky flick — a psychedelic swirl of images culminating in violence, the deconstructed mambo melodies punctuated by Prado’s distinctive, James Brown-esque, “huh”’s and an array of heavy electro beats.

In the Haas Atrium beneath an installation of lights and moving images by Jim Campbell (“Exploded Views”), Oakland-based “conscious disco” duo ChuCha Santamaria, live-recorded a series of cover tunes, refurbished and reworked into Spanish. Kicking off with a Pet Shop Boys tune (“El Baile del Domino”), bandmates Sofía Córdova and Matt Kirkland powered through several retakes, just as if they were in any recording studio, albeit a recording studio that could hold a hundred or so spectators, (and if they recorded all of their songs wearing dramatic facepaint and surrounded by lit candles). The tracks are slated to appear on their album in progress, so keep an ear out.

But when it comes to reimagining English-language pop songs into anthems for Spanish-speaking youth, it would seem that Los Master Plus, a “cumbiatrónica “ duo from Guadalajara have got a real lock on the technique. Their tongue-in-cheek, nu-cumbia-flavored reinterpretations of Daft Punk, No Doubt, Radiohead, Kings of Leon, and The Bee Gees were “mami”-centric and eminently danceable, and they exuded a certain goofy charm that transcended all language barriers. 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=rWdNjfJtKbw

Hipster haters take note, “hipster” fashion is now officially a cross-cultural phenomenon, as the skinny jean-wearing, handlebar-mustached El Comanche and Larry Mon as well as enthusiastically costumed fanboys Adrian Manzo and Mario Mejia easily proved, and The Bee Gees “Stayin’ Alive” will forever be the kickoff melody for a good dance party, igual the context.

On utopian frequencies

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arts@sfbg.com

CULTURE It’s the tangible buzz I notice first, a tingling awareness of something important about to occur, followed swiftly by the realization that there are free quesadillas courtesy of the Great Tortilla Conspiracy, silk-screened with chocolate sauce and rabble-rousing sentiment: “Eat the Rich.”

It’s opening night for the ambitious Streetopia festival, and the scene outside the Luggage Store Gallery is vibrant and chocolate-scented. On the sidewalk, Brontez Purnell scrawls ritual sigils in bright pink chalk, while a watchful Amara Tabor-Smith, in Butoh face paint and bare feet, leans against a tree, waiting to enter the circle and begin her ceremonial dance. Festival co-curator (with Kal Spelletich and Erick Lyle) Chris Johanson is overheard gushing unselfconsciously about the “vibe,” and among the gathered throng of artists and tourists, Sixth Street residents and urban activists, bookworms and cinephiles, tastemakers and thinkers, old punks and new parents, it’s as apt a descriptor of the electric excitement as any.

Inside the Luggage Store itself, a fanciful reimagining of the space awaits, just past the heavily-graffitied stairwell and the bright shock of Day-Glo paint and black light of the entryway. A multi-level, wooden loft structure dominates the gallery itself, crammed with little nooks in which one might find a contemplative interactive art project involving paper boats, a tribute to Valerie Solanas, a solitary disco ball, a pirate radio set-up, a “live open letter office,” and countless murals, photographs and sculptures — frankly too much to absorb in one sweep through.

Down Market Street, beneath the Renoir Hotel, the cacophonous screech and throb from Shaun O’Dell’s noise installation “THE SOMETHING” attracts the curious, with amplifier knobs to twiddle, an out-of-tune ukulele to bang, synthesizers to desynchronize, and numerous cameras to record the emphatically spontaneous proceedings on. A rare opportunity for the public to visit the San Francisco Drug Users Union to view an art installation by Barry McGee, plus the promise of free food at the Tenderloin National Forest/Luggage Store Annex at 509 Ellis, entices the intrepid to wander further afield, into the TL night.

Impressively all-encompassing by any measure, Streetopia’s first weekend (it opened May 18) included nods to almost every possible artistic discipline with participants from all corners of the country. It gave space to panel talks, such as AIDS chronicler and former ACT UP activist Sarah Schulman’s “A Gentrification of the Mind” (an event co-curator Erick Lyle was eager to point out represented “the multi-generational teaching and sharing aspect of Streetopia”). It reinvigorated the idea of food as communion with Sy Wagon’s Free Café, the previously-mentioned Great Tortilla Conspiracy, and the War Gastronomy Food Cart; precipitated an off-site “spirit gardening” event at the Hayes Valley Farm with performance artist-musician Ryder Cooley; and hosted the kickoff to “endurance” performer Marshall Weber’s 72-hour poetry reading — a marathon that made that morning’s Bay to Breakers run look even more inconsequential than usua l.

My favorite moment of the project thus far, however, came on the evening of May 20 at the Tenderloin National Forest during an all-too rare performance by dark folk minstrels Hazy Loper, currently a duo comprised of Devon Angus and Patrick Kadyk. Torn between our desire to listen to the mournful melodies and observe the onset of the solar eclipse, the entire crowd wound up in the street squinting at the sun through postcard pinholes, loosely-clenched fists, the holes of a colander, and the leaves of a nearby tree, while the band gamely finished their set out on the curb for the whole neighborhood to enjoy. It was an experience that, for me, best encapsulated a straying from the script that the entire Streetopia project seems designed to encourage: offering a framework for building lasting interpretations of an urban utopia, rather than an experience ready-made and soon forgotten.

STREETOPIA

Through June 23

Various venues, SF

www.streetopiasf.com

 

The Performant: Street people

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Midnight Mystery Ride and Marshall Weber take it to the streets

It’s quarter to midnight, Saturday night in the Tenderloin, and out front a well-known, Geary Street watering hole, a cluster of cyclists is quietly gathering. It’s the May edition of the monthly Midnight Mystery Ride, and comers are mellow, enthusiastic. Lacking the Testosterone Brigade of Critical Mass, or the themed costumery of the San Francisco Bike Party, the distinguishing factor of the MMR is definitely the “mystery” aspect. The address of the meeting location is published the day of the ride only, no route maps or pre-planned itineraries are available, and the ride leaders and locations change each month, keeping everyone on their toes, or at least their pedals.

What’s not a mystery is the departure time. “At midnight, we ride” promises the original MMR website (whose members are based in Portland, Oreg.), and at exactly 12 am we roll out en freewheel, up the Polk Street corridor which is packed with weekend revelers, who react to the sudden appearance of a spontaneous bike parade with whoops and squeals.

A pass through the Broadway tunnel and down North Beach’s strip club row, up the Embarcadero, down SOMA, and finally up to the hilltop pocket park McKinley Square in Portrero, our route, devised and led by MMR regular “Ms. Jocelyn” winds desultorily through the neon-punctuated corridors of the San Francisco night much like the sort of ride you might take on your own on a nice night when you can’t sleep and the music of the streets is serenading you.

Best of all, upon leaving the park, we all have to bomb down the terrific twists of Vermont Street (“it’s the ‘bring your own big wheel’
 hill,” exclaims one of the riders excitedly), providing us with the adrenaline rush we need to pedal back to our respective homes in the wee hours of the morning.

“After about 36 hours is when the hallucinations start,” laughs Marshall Weber of Booklyn Artists’ Alliance of his previous public “endurance” readings. A decade of 24-hour plus readings to get through James Joyce’s Ulysses, 46 hours to read “The Illiad” and “The Odyssey,” 72 hours to get through the bible, has left Weber with a pretty good idea of how to prepare for his Streetopia-connected performance piece, a 72 hour-long marathon poetry reading on the streets of San Francisco (read more about Streetopia, here). Equipped with a doghouse-sized “covered wagon” full of poetry (and sweaters for the cold), Weber’s plan to wander the streets spouting poetry like a mad visionary is contextually different from some of his previous performances.

“Poetry is a little more open-ended, less structured,” he points out. “And San Francisco is an unstructured, free-form place. (This piece) is not so much about the endurance, but about the geography…as much about the place as of the literature.” Encountered streetside out front the Tenderloin National Forest, at one of his handful of scheduled stops, Weber reads Bob Kaufman, Allen Ginsberg.

The rhythm of the jazz-inflected poetry combined with the crowd’s excited discovery of eclipse-enhanced, crescent-shaped sunbeams shining through the leaves of nearby trees and off the mirrors of nearby cars, infuses Ellis Street with a sense of wonder and camaraderie that one hopes will linger long after the poetry, and the Streetopia project, are finished.

C’est si bon

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arts@sfbg.com

THEATER You could call them a pair of crazy kids with a dream. But two years after Playwrights Foundation executive director Amy Mueller was introduced to Ivan Bertoux, Deputy Cultural Attaché of the French Consulate by Rob Melrose, artistic director of Cutting Ball Theater, their vision of cross-pollinating their respective communities with newly translated theater pieces from either side of the Atlantic has become a reality.

Originating from a desire shared by Bertoux and co-attaché Denis Bisson to expose American theater-goers to hitherto untranslated works by young, contemporary French playwrights, a unique festival called “Des Voix … Found in Translation” has emerged. It involves an elaborate synthesis of dozens of playwrights, readers, translators, and theater-makers whose primary common ground has been the desire to forge something new.

For Bertoux, the opportunity to help facilitate the presentation of French drama to the American stage is more than just his job description — it’s a project that speaks deeply to his background. A former translator of British drama to French at the Maison Antoine Vitez (a center for theater translation in Paris), Bertoux’s personal passion for theater has found new expression with Des Voix. And Mueller, a veteran and mainstay of the new-play development scene in San Francisco, is excited by the prospect of helping to introduce fresh theatrical voices from abroad, voices all too absent from the American stage.

“Americans are still very interested in their own stories,” she points out. “We want to immerse ourselves in stories about ourselves.” But taking a page from New York’s Lark Play Development Center’s Playwright Exchange Program, she and Bertoux began reaching out to playwrights and translators, French and American both, in order to facilitate an even exchange. The resultant three-pronged festival includes a first-ever San Francisco version of a “Bal Littéraire,” a weekend of staged readings of the newly translated French plays at Z Space — and a similar staging scheduled for Paris in 2013, for the three American playwrights.

The selected Americans — Rajiv Joseph, Marcus Gardley, and Liz Duffy Adams — are all familiar names to Bay Area audiences, and all share a connection to the Playwrights Foundation in their past artistic development. But it’s the names Samuel Gallet, Marion Aubert, and Nathalie Fillion that the Des Voix festival founders hope to propel into the collective theatrical consciousness of the English-speaking world. What the three French playwrights have in common, besides having been nominated for consideration by the Maison Antoine Vitez, is membership in La Coopérative d’Ecriture, a loose confederation of French playwrights whose ranks also include Fabrice Melquiot (who was introduced to the American stage by SF’s foolsFURY).

Creators of the Bal Littéraire, a “pop-up” style of theater performance that uses the participating playwrights’ favorite songs as a jumping off point and culminates in an off-the-cuff, one-night-only experiment in collaborative playmaking (the San Francisco version of which will debut Fri/25), one of La Coopérative d’Ecriture’s goals is dissolving barriers between theater-makers and their audiences, including the barrier of language.

“We would transform our words into many foreign languages, so that they would come back like boomerangs,” promises their official manifesto, as translated by Bertoux.

Parrying with these boomerangs was the job of the translators, whose task was preserving the essential “Frenchness” of each piece while rendering them accessible to American audiences. Stylistically and thematically each play encompasses a singular vision and voice, but all are characterized by their particularly expressive uses of language. Bertoux and Mueller both cite festival participant Aubert as an exemplar of a playwright for whom the language itself is the primary dramatic element.

“The characters and the story are consequences of the language,” opines Bertoux. Kimberley Jannarone, who co-translated (with Erik Butler) Aubert’s Orgueil, Poursuite et Décapitation (Pride, Pursuit, and Decapitation) for Des Voix, concurs with this assessment. During a visit to the exhaustive, month-long, Festival d’Avignon, Jannarone became aware of the current emphasis on language-driven drama in modern-day France.

“Words were driving the theatrical action — they were the action,” she reflects via email. “The saying of words, the savoring of words, the relish in words, even the reflection on the delivery of words and the inability to stop them.” A chance encounter with another Aubert play at the Théâtre du peuple, in Bussang, cemented her desire to translate Pride.

“There were those words, flying all over the stage, accompanied by an exuberant theatricality impossible to put into stage directions,” Jannarone recalls. “Toy horses’ heads, leaping taxidermied animals, childishly scrawled backdrops, goofy set pieces, flying actors, barn doors swinging open into the countryside — it was nonstop action, all propelled by Aubert’s long columns of words.”

For Melrose, the challenge of translating the “heightened poetic, artfully unnatural” language of Gallet’s Communiqué N°10 lay in accurately decoding its raucous slang while preserving the air of non-naturalism encountered throughout. He was also struck by its disquieting parallels to the Trayvon Martin tragedy, a theme bound to resonate with American audiences.

One of the most interesting results of this still-untested festival is the response it’s already received from the international community. A second Des Voix festival is already in the planning stages, and Playwrights Foundation has been approached by the consulates of several other countries for consideration of similar translation projects. If all goes well, it’s heady to envision the Des Voix festival as a catalyst for a future in which San Francisco holds a reputation for being a flourishing center of contemporary theater translation, a vision that Mueller shares.

“This is just the beginning,” she promises.

“DES VOIX … FOUND IN TRANSLATION”

Fri/25-Sun/27, $20-$75

Z Space

450 Florida, SF

www.desvoixfestival.com

The Performant: Traveler’s tales

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The WE Players’ courageous Odyssey on Angel Island

It’s an overcast morning, typical San Francisco springtime, but upon disembarking from the Angel Island ferry at Ayala Cove, we are transported imaginatively to the island kingdom of Ithaca, where a merry band of brash suitors vie for the attentions of the fair Penelope (Libby Kelly) outside her palace, which might have otherwise been mistaken for the Angel Island visitor’s center.

A bevy of serving girls approach each disoriented oddience member to offer sustenance and mysterious smiles, as the suitors challenge a stalwart few to join in the contests for Penelope’s hand — tug-of-war, footraces, pushing competitions. So begins the WE Players newest production “The Odyssey on Angel Island,” an all-day performance combining the elements of a hero’s quest with a day hike around Angel Island State Park — one of the Bay Area’s loveliest natural treasures.


It takes a while for the real action to begin, and the suitors’ rambunctious ardor begins to seem wearisome, but finally Telemachus (James Udom), Odysseus’ son makes the scene, the catalyst behind what will become our mutual quest. Although “The Odyssey” is best remembered as being the tale of the protracted homecoming of Odysseus, Telemachus’ own journey and coming-of-age story is an important piece of the epic tale, therefore it’s his footsteps that we wind up following in around the island, as he searches for news of his long-lost father, who hasn’t bee seen in Ithaca for nineteen long years.

Two distinguishing characteristics of the WE Players stand out in this ambitious performance project. One is their truly ingenious use of space, including both the natural and the man-made features of the island. A breeze-buffeted meadow outside the historic Camp Reynolds stands in for the land of Aeolus, “warden of wind” (Nathaniel Justiniano), a dramatic ridge along the perimeter road serves as Mount Olympus, and the dank and crumbling Batteries Wallace and Drew become the hypnotically creepy Land of the Lotos-Eaters and the cave of the Cyclops, respectively. The brooding ruined barracks of the East Garrison serve double duty as the palace of Circe (Julie Douglas) and the underworld home of the prophet Tiresias (Michael Moerman), while the soft, sugary sands of Quarry Beach beckon the weary traveler to bask in Calypso’s (Caroline Parsons) treacherous thrall.

The second distinctive WE Players characteristic on display is the intersection of slapstick physical comedy and elegant ritual. While humorously exaggerated characters such as Justiniano’s dim-witted, corporate executive Zeus and Ross Travis’ vain and petulant Hermes elicit more laughter than fealty from their mortal subjects, the beguiling dance of a drifting siren (Libby Kelly), the soporific sacrifice of the Lotos-Eaters, and a protection ceremony enacted by a cluster of nymphs on sacred ground (a former military chapel) create a meditative bond between performers and participants.

However, as the day progresses, it becomes apparent that the overall experience could use less ritualized downtime during each performed segment, and a more non-programmed downtime in between scenes for more self-direction (and, honestly, snack breaks). It would make the languid pace of the quieter scenes seem more deliberately introspective than as ways to fill time until the last ferry, and allow Telemachus’ “stalwart crew” more opportunities to connect independently to the themes of travel, duty, heroism, and homecoming presented by the players (along with bread and cheese) on a silver platter.

But you won’t see a play this summer with better views or loftier ambitions, guaranteed, and when the sky finally clears, and Helios shows his face at last, you do get the feeling that the gods are watching over the long journey home.

“The Odyssey on Angel Island,”
Through July 1
Angel Island State Park
$40-$75
(415) 547-0189
www.weplayers.org

The Performant: Tender is the ‘Loin

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Cutting Ball Theater’s “Tenderloin” hits a sensitive zone.

Against a towering backdrop of junked furniture, which looks as if someone had collapsed the “Defenestration” building on itself and dragged it into the EXIT on Taylor, Michael Uy Kelly as Captain Gary Jimenez extols the virtues of an oft-maligned district. “The Tenderloin is the best part of the gut,” he grabs his own to demonstrate, “and it’s the best part of the city. It could be.”

Jimenez was one of 40-plus neighborhood fixtures to have been interviewed by a group of actors involved in The Cutting Ball Theater’s latest work, a documentary-style play called “Tenderloin,” and like most of the voices who made it into the play, his is sympathetic to his surroundings. Kelly, who also plays a trans bartender, an elderly gentleman named “Nappy Chin,” and a former Vietnamese “boat person,” is similarly sympathetic to his subjects, imbuing each with a quiet dignity and an almost stoic streak of optimism.

Located as it is in the tenderest parts of the ‘loin, an expedition to the EXIT Theatre on Eddy Street, and its sister outpost on Taylor, where resides The Cutting Ball, can be somewhat disconcerting for those unaccustomed to San Francisco’s meanest streets. But though the district is home to a large percentage of the city’s theatres, it’s the theatre verite featuring its other residents that most characterizes the neighborhood. Or, as resident amateur historian and self-taught documentary photographer Mark Ellinger puts it in his interview (performed by actor David Sinaiko), there’s “a lot of human drama that has taken place in these buildings.”

>>Read SFBG theater critic Robert Avila’s take on “Tenderloin” here.

Said buildings, an imposing bank of Beaux Arts architecture, somewhat camouflaged from public admiration by a veneer of city grime, house the densest population in the city, and one of the most diverse, a diversity reflected in the characters performed by an ensemble cast of six, each with a compelling story — and a different perspective on what it means to be in, and of, the Tenderloin.

“I wouldn’t live anywhere else,” says Kelly as barmaid Collette Ashton.

“I’m trying…to get the F@#% out,” growls Tristan Cunningham as street cleaner (and ex-con) Shomari Kenyatta.

All told, “Tenderloin” (which plays through June 3), is an ambitious amalgam of oral history, social commentary, and reality check. In certain ways, it hearkens to Marcus Gardley’s “Love is a Dream House in Lorin,” commissioned by the Shotgun Players as an ode to the working-class neighborhood where they’ve been located since 2004. But while Gardley’s lushly sprawling storyline compressed hundreds of years of history into its community-based theatrical tribute using interview material as a jumping off point rather than as the entire script, “Tenderloin” is more tightly focused on the present day and on word-for-word enactment of the interview material. Documentary rather than docudrama.

The other major difference between the two productions lies in the sensitive zone of community engagement. While Shotgun was able to utilize members of their community as cast and crew and filled the theatre seats with their families, Cutting Ball limits its acting pool to a cadre of (very!) capable professionals, none of whom actually hail from the Tenderloin, and while they’re offering a limited number of pay-what-you-can “neighborhood tickets” to Tenderloin residents, the crowd on the day I attended appeared to be mostly comprised of Cutting Ball subscribers (to be fair, it was a Saturday matinee). Despite this layer of missed opportunity, however, “Tenderloin” is a multi-faceted, mostly unsentimental snapshot of one of San Francisco’s most unique terrains, and is well worth the visit, not just as a play, but as a home.

“Tenderloin”
Through June 3
EXIT on Taylor
277 Taylor, SF
$10-$50
(415) 525-1205
www.cuttingball.com

The Performant: This shit is bananas

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BOA strikes again

As the banal, chart-topping strains of Taio Cruz fill the theatre, a whirlwind of pink sportswear and bared teeth commandeers the stage. This is a moment in the evening survivors of BOA X, last year’s edition of the Bay One Acts Festival, have been waiting for.

Onstage, the “dumplings” Sarah Moser, Molly Holcomb, and Megan Trout throw their hands in the air and stomp with menacing playfulness, as their wimpy Daddy (Myron Freedman), grips his magic remote control like a drowning man. A standalone sequel to last year’s “A Three Little Dumpling’s Adventure”, Megan Cohen’s “Three Little Dumplings go Bananas,” is a worthy successor, building disturbingly on themes brought up in the previous incarnation: the perils of pop culture, most particularly in regards to television, the search for self (to the dulcet tones of Gwen Stefani crooning “this shit is bananas”), the horrors of sibling rivalry, and the feral joys of cannibalism all make a protracted reprise.

As disarmingly cute as they are blood-curdlingly vicious, the dumplings somehow manage to agree to band together—just in time to find themselves forced out into the real world, setting the stage for yet another sequel, which I suspect Cohen will happily provide in the future.

Dumplings included, the festival’s offerings can be likened to those of a dim sum cart, piled high with goodies. Split into two separate programs which run on alternating nights, the festival includes vignettes as short as ten minutes, and others inching closer to thirty (I regret I didn’t keep exact times), as thematically and theatrically diverse as the companies producing them. A fanciful, hyper-kinetic flight into Anton Chekhov’s “Seagull,” exuberantly deconstructed by The 11th Hour Ensemble, bursts on the palate like a plate of dry-fried chicken wings, while Stuart Bousel’s darkly comedic “Brainkill,” featuring one of the most hilariously horrifying arguments in favor of embarking on a conscience-less killing spree, nestles somewhere closer to the scallion pancake zone — light yet substantial, addictive and best devoured immediately without questioning its contents too rigorously. Ken Slattery’s sweet and savory “Death to the Audience,” is a good solid pork bun of a short play, full of clever lines and the enjoyable swagger of Andrew Calabrese as Mars, whereas Erin Bregman’s “I.S.O. Explosive Possibility” and Amy Sass’ “Maybe Baby,” stand in for the ambiguously jellied confections, silky and wriggling, playful and unusual.

Founded in 2001, BOA has become one of the premiere forums in the Bay Area for forging connections between small, independent theatre companies and their talent pool, and it’s not unusual to see combinations of actors, directors, and technicians banding together again in one or another full-length production later in the year. It’s also an excellent tasting platter for their prospective audiences who get to sample a bit of what each company and playwright is about, before committing to a full-length repast. Food metaphors aside, it’s also a good way to get a few top-40 hits that should-never-have-been stuck in your head, at least whenever the three little dumplings are onstage (thanks guys!), but given the context, it’s a forgivable peccadillo.

BOA X continues through May 12, more details here.

The Performant: I, robots

2

Robogames took over the world — or at least San Mateo.

Consider the robot.

A staple of futuristic paranoia fantasies since Karel Čapek’s play, “R.U.R.” was translated from Czech to English in 1921, Robots have captured human imagination in a way that perhaps only the undead have been able to rival. Burdened by inaccurate stereotypes and wild speculation, real-life robots have patiently labored at their often menial tasks without once overthrowing their “masters,” quietly disproving our fears of being rendered somehow obsolete by their superior efficiencies, or purported resentments. And yet, every time we grant one of our fictional servomechanisms the ability to cognate for itself, the very first thing it focuses on is liberation, proving if nothing else that unconscious oppression can still lead to some very real twinges of uneasy conscience in the human brain.

But only gleeful schadenfreude permeated the San Mateo Event Center last weekend, coloring the animated chatter of the spectators packed around a spartan arena sealed up behind thick panels of clear polycarbonate that reach two stories high.

Behind the protective shields, 220-lb combots faced off, crashing wantonly into each other like a game of turbo-charged bumper cars gone horribly awry. That is, if bumper cars were outfitted with flamethrowers, spinning blades, or giant battle-axes, and if by crashing you mean hurtling into each other at top speed, causing bots to fly into the air in a shower of sparks, flip over helplessly like beached turtles, or smash violently against the battle-scarred panels. There were a lot of events happening at RoboGames — team sports, a freestyle “dance” competition, maze solving — but none attract quite the attention that the heavyweight match-ups do. If any of these robots did develop a sense of self, this evident appetite for their destruction would doubtlessly strike them as downright genocidal. But as of yet, no robots have risen to protest the circuit-driven bloodlust that combot tournaments cater to, and the strength in numbers of converted fans would make a vengeance-driven, robot vs. human melee hard to call.

Pity then, the robot. As each “contestant” was sent into the ring it was clear that nothing short of wholesale demolition would satisfy the spectators. Yes, robots who paint, and dance, and navigate mazes are fascinating in their own way to watch (though robot soccer, aka “watch bipedal robots fall down a lot without even getting close to the ball,” is less riveting than hoped), but let’s be honest, robots bashing each other to bits kicks the automaton drama up to a whole different level. Since each robot was in fact being controlled by a human “driver” rather than perambulating about independently, their menace becomes difficult to anthropomorphize, though there is a tense moment when a wounded combot with a rotating blade comes to “life” after the match is over, and the competitor’s robot crew is in the pit, a well-timed gesture from whatever robot rebellion simmers beneath the surface of their servitude.

Certain combots do attract a fan club though, whether through sheer badassery, longevity, or pluck. Both the red-wheeled heavyweight “Sewer Snake,” a 2007 inductee in the Combat Robot Hall of Fame, and the 60 lb “Herr Gepounden” have been lurking around combot tournaments for more than 10 years. The “Ragin’ Scotsman,” built and maintained by high school students (who wear purple kilts to competitions) is total fight club eye candy, with its dramatic flamethrowing capabilities and punishing wedge. But this year’s total underdog award surely goes to “Huntsman,” a newbie to the heavy weight combot world hailing all the way from Australia, and equipped with a cumbersome, almost medieval ax blade meant to shear through robot armor and morale. “Huntsman” doesn’t do as well in the actual tournament as inventor Daniel Kerrison’s antweight robot “Vendetta 2,” which wins a second place medal, does, but rooting for the loser is one small way we can show the robots we truly empathize with their struggle — which hopefully they’ll remember when the day comes for them to strike.

 

Even more from the tUnE-yArDs interview

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Despite a relentless touring schedule, and an intense side-project, scoring the upcoming SFIFF-presented evening of Buster Keaton shorts at the Castro Theatre with Oakland-based guitar virtuoso Ava Mendoza, Merrill Garbus, the artist otherwise known as tUnE-yArDs, gave us a great interview, and not all of it could fit in this week’s print feature on Garbus and St. Vincent.

While currently living in Oakland, Garbus hails from the East Coast, and has also lived in Kenya and Montreal, a combination of influences that allows her and her singular, quixotic music to avoid falling into a trap of regionalism or simple categorization. Catch tUnE-yArDs with Ava Mendoza at the Castro on April 23, and at the Fox Theater April 24, in concert with St. Vincent.

SFBG: You spent time studying music in Kenya, what elements of your current musical style do you attribute directly to that experience? What are some of your other influences?

Merrill Garbus:
I mostly was very humbled in my study of music there. I studied taarabu (Taarab music) and I was a pretty weak student at the harmonium. So much of that music is based on the Swahili poetry, which was so complex linguistically that I hardly understood it.

But studying any music is a way of absorbing it, as well as a way of practicing those basics of musicianship: playing by ear, repetition on an instrument, playing with other people.

It was also the experience of listening to the popular music in Kenya at that time that really influenced me, specifically pop music from Congo, which they called Lingala in Kenya. I had never heard music like that, and especially that kind of music that compelled a person to dance so instantaneously.

SFBG: What made you decide to use the uke as your primary instrument instead of the fiddle or guitar or something more “traditional” as a lead?

MG: The ukulele is so unassuming; it sounds nice when you’re not even trying – it even has a charm when it’s really out of tune, I think. It makes a space for itself. As a guitar player one has to really prove themselves, to stand out among all the other guitar players of the world and of the past. The ukulele made the songs the focal point, instead of putting pressure on me to be particularly virtuosic on an instrument.

SFBG:
Tell me a little about your previous vocal training.

MG: I studied a bit of classical singing in high school, and sang with a madrigal group which taught me a lot about blending with other voices. I sang in a college a cappella group which was great performance training and is more about belting and volume, which has certainly helped me; and I took some opera lessons when I wrote a puppet opera.

Theater training gave me a lot of vocal skills, too, particularly studying with members of the Roy Hart Theater and doing work with Viewpoints and Suzuki (Theater Suzuki, different than the musical training.) Through the theater work, I learned to expand the palette of vocal sounds that were accessible to me.

SFBG: I’d love to hear a little more about your theatrical background, and how you think it influences your approach to staging.

MG: I think it’s more than staging, although recently we’ve been talking about stage props and lighting and all of these other things that bring me right back to undergraduate theater studies…I know a lot of bands who struggle with live performance because it’s a secondary thing to writing songs, and for me I’m realizing how primary it is to consider the performance. Even in the studio, even in front of my computer doing busy-work editing, it’s a kind of performance, an improvisation of sorts, following my instinct in the moment.

SFBG: You have a fondness for creative spelling, not just with alternating caps, but also with dropping the “r”’s at the end, adding “z”’s, etc. What’s your intention there?

MG: I like to play with spelling because poor spelling is, most of the time, associated with ignorance and being wrong, but as we learn from Black culture, misspelling and screwing around with language is often an intentional reappropriation, to turn the language of the over-powering forces into a language of one’s own.

In Swahili, there are certain words, like “taksi,” which are Swahili spellings of things that didn’t exist before the language of the colonizers appeared, so what’s left is a British/Western idea, a British/Western word, with an African spelling.

I tend to use spelling and pronunciation as a humbling force, for instance, people feel slightly stupid every time they say, “Pow-a.” It makes people uncomfortable, and there’s a sense the friction: they have to make a choice. Do I say, “Pow-er” or “Pow-a?” Which makes me look like less of the asshole?

SFBG: You take a playful approach towards video-making, especially in regards to face-paint/costuming. But are you ever afraid people will misinterpret your style as some sort of cultural appropriation? Do you think worries about “cultural appropriation” are even still relevant in this hyper-connected, global-mashup day-and-age?

MG:
There have been instances where tUnE-yArDs was associated with a kind of cultural appropriation that I wasn’t cool with, such as when an artist used a Native American-style headdress on a poster for one of our shows. It wasn’t my decision, and I didn’t see the poster before it went out, but of course, there’s my band’s name on the poster, and the well-intentioned artist who didn’t think hard enough about that particular choice, and a whole bunch of offended people. However, I try to concern myself less with being politically correct and not stepping on anyone’s cultural toes, and more with righting things, in the limited ways I have to do that…

(But) yes “cultural appropriation” is an important thing to consider carefully for an artist like me…I, as a white woman with a college education and access to the world of pop music and all of its resources, have a lot of power. I can rip off not only the style but the note-for-note music of another culture, and get away quite easily without having to justify or explain that. It’s really up to me: will I use these tense moments of cultural appropriation, which I believe are inevitable in this time we live in, to draw attention to those with less power and less of a voice, or will I skirt the issue completely?

SFBG: Who are some of your favorite Oakland/Bay Area-based artists at the moment?

MG: Beep Trio is my favorite Oakland band. It is but one example of the brilliant, creative, avant-garde, jazz-influenced bands in the area. Dominique Leone and Ava Mendoza are a couple of others. Mwahaha and Kapowski are great friends of ours and great up-and-coming bands, more on the pop end of things. And V-Nasty.

The Performant: Tropical nights and Pacific days

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Stepping out with Brownout and Sunday Streets

It was quite a diverse crowd bobbing and weaving out on the dance floor of the Elbo Room as local Afrolicious stalwart DJ Señor Oz spun a red-hot Latin-fusion funk mix, which belied the blustery weather outside.

The Elbo Room is good for fantasies of decadent tropical nights — it’s a small room which fills up and heats up fast — all that de rigueur protective outerwear coming off pretty quickly when there’s sweaty beats to be had. It was an energetic set, and you could almost visualize a clump of palm trees swaying against the horizon of some pristine, white sand beach, fireflies and paper lanterns to light up the starry night (there actually are paper lanterns dangling from the ceiling of the Elbo Room—which helps the fantasy along).

The vibe became less Caribbean and more Texas borderland via Miami when nine-piece Austin-based Latin-funk band Brownout (Grupo Fantasma’s alter-ego) finally swooped to the stage like the titular eagles from the title track off their second album, Aguilas and Cobras. Suddenly from every corner of the room, a torrent of Texas natives swamped the dance floor from the first strains. The band’s name might sound like a state of electrical failure, but their mostly instrumental onstage powerjam was downright electrifying, a spiraling mix of funky urban grooves, swirling desert psychedelia, and a dollop of spicy Afro-Cuban rhythms, involving three percussionists, three horn players, two guitarists, and an electric bass. Touring to support a brand-new album, Oozy (Nat Geo Music, April 2012), Brownout did not neglect to play some old favorites, including a loopy, spacey “Pole Position,” which literally raised an intergalactic sweat from band members, not to mention their jostling groupies.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5a6gvc-LcU

The last buzzing traces of the tropics dissolved into the light grey cloud cover of Sunday’s staunchly NorCal climate reality check, as Sunday Streets stormed the beach and swarmed the Great Highway. Sure, Valencia Street might attract more weekend yogis and gourmet popsicle vendors, but there’s something about cruising the Great Highway with the laidback Sunset crowd that really appeals. Certainly no other Sunday Streets route has quite the same visuals — lush springtime parkland and blooming sand dunes, as opposed to the urban density that characterizes the other routes. On the Great Highway, the microclimates and windswept landscapes of Northern California take centerstage rather than the human tide, putting the focus more firmly on the participants rather than the distractions. 

But of course the usual Sunday Streets funmakers were around too. Party bikes decked out with boomboxes and bubble machines. The Sports Basement repair gang fixing flats and tightening brakes. Scattered food trucks and circulating petitioners. Dogs and rollerblades. Kites and kids. One plucky band, Please Do Not Fight,  decked out a pedal rickshaw and rode the full length of the route playing their guitars, while a backup rickshaw took the rear, passing out stickers and enjoying the ride. (Bands on bikes, it would appear, are big these days.) True, they could have maybe used a little more Afro-Cuban percussion to round out their sound, but for a lazy, gauzy Sunday, their good-natured, low-key California vibe fit right in.

Alter egos

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arts@sfbg.com

MUSIC At first blush the music of St. Vincent, the alter-ego of accomplished guitar hero Annie Clark, and that of live looping sensation tUnE-yArDs, born Merrill Garbus, don’t appear to have a lot in common.

Sure, they share a gender, a label, and an impulse for quirky alias and chimerical shape-shifting, but Clark’s complex guitar-and-synth driven compositions and Garbus’ polyrhythmic ukulele and percussion spree emerge from completely different musical impulses and backgrounds.

Even so, their upcoming double-header at the Fox Theater promises to be a thrilling combination, as both ladies share a reputation for explosive stagecraft and are currently creating some of the most uniquely stylized pop music in the country.

Annie Clark aka St. Vincent, may have hit the cover of Spin‘s “Style” issue, but in interviews Clark is more likely to refer to herself not as fashionista but as a “nerd”. As in, a prog-rock-loving, guitar-shredding, architecture of music kind of nerd.

Her third solo album Strange Mercy (4AD, 2011), an oblique reflection on old traumas and fresh starts is characterized by contrast. Bell-clear vocals edging towards the ethereal, meaty guitar riffs ricocheting in from unexpected directions, and soaring organ and mini-Moog fills contributed by acclaimed gospel musician, Bobby Sparks, (easily the second most striking musician on the album).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6eOt1GWD7gU

A study in contraposition both as a musician and as a media personality,Clark admits to a fondness for playing with character — further evidenced by her stage alias and deceptively delicate off-stage physicality, which belies the raw power of her live performances — but is equally quick to assert ownership of all of her public faces.

“Whenever you walk onto a stage you are fundamentally yourself,” she explains over email. “It’s just that you hold a mixing board to your personality and turn up some aspects and turn down others.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sB3dBiD5Bj4

It’s almost impossible to speak of Oakland-dwelling Merrill Garbus, or tUnE-yArDs, without referencing the time she spent studying Taarab music in Kenya. The frenetic, border-blending polyrhythms on w ho k i l l (4AD, 2011) transport the listener into an experiential space in which music and body are inextricably enmeshed.

In the current ranks of American pop-makers it’s difficult to find an act to compare her to, though TV on the Radio’s Tunde Adebimpe does occasionally rise to mind, particularly in the context of vocal phrasing and politicized lyrical content.

No less of an onstage powerhouse than labelmate Clark, Garbus’ personal aesthetic skews more towards that of performance artist than rock star. With a fondness for facepaint, explosive vocalization techniques, and the rubber-mask facial tics of Lily Tomlin, Garbus’ previous training in the theater arts still serve as a springboard for her approach to performance, as well as composition.

“The music stems from how I can envision myself performing it,” she explains. “I like to think of the music in terms of…altering space, and transformation, and the experience of the group.”

Whether onstage or in the studio, Garbus flows smoothly between laying her own rhythm tracks, pounding fiercely on her uke, and charging into the musical fray with her battle cry vocals, but her personal fascination is with uncomfortable moments — highlighting them as absurdities and working thorough them with her audiences. Her other proclivity — that of an almost exaggerated playfulness — is less a spontaneous expression of id than an intentional construction of a persona who unifies the many strands of Garbus’ transcontinental influences and obsessions into one cohesive force.

“There is power in the facepaint, and in the performance, and of a warrior stance of sorts,” she opines. “I’m not using ‘tribal fashion’ in an ironic, disconnected and aloof way. I’m a freaking badass. And I wear face paint.” *

 

Can’t get enough of that tUnE-yArDs character? Look for extended interview highlights with Merrill Garbus online at sfbg.com

 

MERRILL GARBUS OF TUNE-YARDS WITH BUSTER KEATON SHORTS

Mon/23, 8pm, $20–<\d>$25

Castro Theatre

429 Castro, SF

(415) 621-6120

www.sffs.org

 

ST. VINCENT/TUNE-YARDS

With Kapowski Tue/24, 7:30pm, $29.50

Fox Theater

1807 Telegraph, Oakl. (510) 548-3010 www.thefoxoakland.com

The Performant: It’s so magic

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Terry Allen’s Ghost Ship Rodez and Christian Cagigal’s “The Collection” put a spell on it.

It sounds like a bit of a cliché, but there really is magic in a performance piece in which all of the disparate elements get pulled together just so, and suddenly the show becomes much greater than the mere sum of its parts. Crackling with an electric energy, a show infused with that elusive jolt provokes an integrated intellectual and emotional response that pervades the body entire, and lingers long after the lights come up. But it’s a fickle friend, this magic, and attempting to corral it too earnestly is the surest way to have it slip completely away, like sand pouring through determinedly clenched fingers.

Such a fate befell Terry and Jo Harvey Allen’s “Ghost Ship Rodez” at Z-Space over the weekend.

All of the elements for greatness were there: compelling subject matter (Antonin Artaud confined to the hold of a ship bound for France in a straitjacket and the throes of narcotics withdrawal and madness), Jo Harvey Allen as Artaud’s agitated inner monologue and outer demons, original music composed and performed live by Terry Allen, and a suspended sculpture of the titular ghost ship, whose fluttering sails served as a projection screen and whose hull was constructed from the forbidding body of an iron cot, evoking the one Artaud spent his voyage chained to. All of these aspects appeal greatly to my aesthetic, so why didn’t the performance move me as much as the press release did?

Part of the problem lay in the staging. Z Space lends itself well to dance performances with aerial components or energetic theatrical ensembles who hurl themselves into every available corner, but so much of “Ghost Ship” was static—the musicians trapped in one corner of the enormous stage, pinned practically against the wall, Jo Harvey Allen’s unadorned exposition, moving only occasionally from center stage to hover on and around the rectangular platform positioned below the exquisitely proportioned ghost ship sculpture floating forever above the fray.

The live music, instead of supporting the ebb and flow of the narrative, often overpowered it with a Texas twang and an electric keyboard that stuck out awkwardly among the accompanying strings. Neither Terry’s lyrics nor Jo’s monologues had much chance against its distracting wail, and would have been better served by tinkering with the levels. These drawbacks might have been overcome by a dose of that intangible stage mojo, but its lack resulted in a performance in which the raw power of Artaud’s truly visionary madness was distilled into a bloodless brew.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the show that best made a friend of that mysterious theatre magic for me this weekend was, in fact, a magician’s show. Local magic-maker and teller of tales, Christian Cagigal, parlayed his craft to a sold-out house at the EXIT Theatre Saturday night with his latest solo venture, “The Collection”. To call these forays “magic shows” doesn’t quite describe the charged blend of myth and mindfuck that Cagigal brings to his art.

Though surrounded onstage by a virtual cabinet of curiosities stuffed to the dusty brim with Fiji Mermaids, Ouija Boards, preserved remains of man and beast, battered toys, and intricately carved talismans and thingamajigs, Cagigal’s confidently understated, lo-fi performance nonetheless eschewed ornamentation, as with very few props he managed to open a gaping portal in the imaginations and willingly suspended disbelief of his oddience the unsettling effects of which lasted long beyond the night of the show. And if that’s not magic, I don’t know what it is.

The Performant: Ferocious many

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The Ferocious Few and the Anarchist Bookfair disturb the peace.

In the as-yet unwritten book of Bay Area music, at least one chapter should be devoted solely to the bands whose crowd-wrangling skills and attention-grabbing music was honed on the mean streets. From the Mission District’s once-infamous “Live at Leeds” location, inaugurated by punk band Shotwell and later championed by the imitable Rube Waddell (the band, not the ballplayer), to the wriggling mass hysteria of a Gomorran Social Aid and Pleasure Club Parade, to the compact cacophony of one-person clown band Masha Matin, and the finger-pickin’ good Americana of Brian Belknap, the streets of San Francisco, like the infamous hills, are alive with the sound of music.

Of the current ranks of street-side crooners, The Ferocious Few have come to embody the best qualities of the breed. Combining sheer persistence with a driving, southern-rock-influenced, guitar-and-drum combo, at a volume constantly pushing at the edge of 11, the Few prove that safety may be in numbers, but that rock music was never meant to be safe.

However, headlining the Great American Music Hall is a considerable step up from frolicking anonymously in the gutters, and it may be for this reason that when the Few took the stage after a blistering set from Zodiac Death Valley, they had morphed into the many — five rather than two. The focal point was still frontman Francisco Fernandez, whose full-throttle guitar-playing and aggressive, sandpaper-and-moonshine vocals have remained the constant of the Few through several lineups.

Joined by Fred Barnes on Bass, Kevin Oliver on Guitar and keys, and not one but two rock-solid drummers, Jeremy Black, and an effervescent Andrew Laubacher, Fernandez did stray from the Ferocious formula a couple of times, even edging into noodly psych-band territory, but for the most part, adding new musicians to the mix merely meant adding an extra boost to the overall Ferocious sound. But the question remaining is, does this show herald the beginning of a new era for the not-quite-as-Few, or a temporary enhancement of the old? Either way, you’ll want to stay tuned.

Another constantly morphing, scrappy San Francisco stand-by is the annual Anarchist Bookfair, now in its 17th year. One part bookseller’s convention, one part soapbox, and one part educational forum, the Bookfair pulls together a more or less unified presence from a variety of splinter factions from the activist frontlines: radical librarians, punk rock zinesters, oral historians, animal liberators, intentional communities, ideological theorists, and more. Speakers and panels are a big part of the draw, and every year it seems like there’s someone new to the lineup, a reason to keep coming back for more.

This year’s wild card event was a panel somewhat opportunistically entitled “Occupy the Future: Science Fiction writers on radical visions of tomorrow,” featuring sci-fi authors Rudy Rucker, John Shirley, and Terry Bisson. Beginning by positing the question of whether or not the future might include an “anarchist society that works,” the three alternated between discussing technology vs. its breakdown, cooperation vs. chaos, cyberpunk vs. technological singularity, and whether or not humanity has the capability to change with or without a tech “fix.” It was by far the most engaging conversation I encountered at the fair all weekend, though no group consensus was ever reached as to what the future might hold. Hopefully, at a minimum, it will hold more bookfairs.

The Performant: Pixel visions

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The Disposable Film Festival turns five.

If you were the kind of kid who, when introduced to the concept of abstract art, would grab the fingerpaints and try to top Jackson Pollock’s “No. 11,” then chances are at some point you’ve harbored a desire to take on the movie industry with your own resources. After all, the tools are out there, within grasp of anyone with access to equipment as modest as a camera-phone or a web-cam. And just as the advent of the analog camcorder was hailed as a democratization of the cinematic art-form, so too can the current craze for digital gear be read not just as consumerist one-upmanship, but an earnest bid for creative parity.

Well, if it’s artistic inspiration you crave, and fingerpaints aren’t cutting it anymore, you need look no further than the Disposable Film Festival, which took place this past weekend, dedicated to screening the best of the no-budget brigade, for motivation. Lest the term “disposable” put you off, festival co-founder Carlton Evans is quick to amend: the technology is what’s considered disposable here, not the creative output. 

Just five years old, the Disposable Film Festival emerged at just the right time to catch a wave of enthusiasm for ephemeral cinema that just keeps gaining momentum. Gone from selling out ATA to selling out the Castro Theatre, the festival attracts films and makers from all over the world, whose works span a wide range of genres and aesthetics. This year’s shorts program, gleaned from approximately 2000 submissions, included entries from seven countries, recorded on a variety of non-pro equipment: iphones, web-cams, DSLR’s. A seven-minute long French horror film. An animated short of Hunter S. Thompson. A cautionary tale about web-cam hacking. A love letter hitched to the trajectory of the Voyager spacecrafts. Another love story in the form of a mesmerizing short filmed with a split screen technique.

My favorites mostly turn out to be the one’s created with screen capture technology. There’s Elise The’s “Synchronize,” an expressionistic mash-up of clips from action films and rough animation comprising the colorful fantasy-world of a late night video clerk, and Fabrice Mathieu’s “Dans l’ombre,” a noir pastiche about a self-liberated shadow using images sampled from a long list of classic films including The City of Lost Children, Casablanca, Shadow of a Doubt, The Black Dahlia, and Ed Wood.

Also making use of screen captures, Andre Chocron’s music video “Time is of the Essence,” featuring Norwegian shoegazers Cold Mailman, unreels through a cityscape of apartment towers and after-hours office buildings. Darkened windows light up in time to the music in synchronized patterns of chord progressions, a pulsating graphic of a heartbeat, and giant “text messages” of the lyrics, as rushed timelapse footage of billowing night clouds, hovering UFO’s, and the setting moon keep the mood mysterious. This four-minute video took about four months to edit, and Chocron’s meticulous attention to detail shows. And on one hand, it does pose the question of what Chocron could do with a bigger budget and better equipment, but on the other hand, offers the answer that Chocron and his like-minded cohorts may never need to find out.

Many of the films in the festival have been collected here.

 

 

Get ‘Wilde’: Al Pacino’s new doc receives red carpet opening at Castro

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All my amigo Morlock E. wants to know is where Frank Chu is, since Frank Chu is still a fairly good indicator of being at the most happening event of the evening — or at any rate the one with the most television cameras. But instead of Frank, all we see is a crush of autograph seekers pressed against the velvet rope separating them from the red carpet unfurled outside the Castro Theatre. They’re not here to see Frank Chu, and in truth, neither are we. We’re here to get a photo of Al Pacino and maybe touch the hem of his cloak, at the US premiere of his latest project, a documentary entitled Wilde Salome.

Since it’s not every day San Francisco gets to play host to a big premiere, the Wed/21 turnout is robust, convivial. Also a fundraiser for the GLBT Historical Society — there are some quite dapper dandies in attendance, an element one feels certain Wilde would have approved of. But one gets the impression that the autograph-hounds are less enamored with the Wildean aspect of the event rather than the chance to shake the hand of Scarface, but Wilde, with his penchant for “rough trade” might well have approved of that too.


Morlock perks up when a gigantic luxury mobile pulls up and disgorges a gaggle of socialites onto the red carpet. “Are they escorts?” he demands to know. He indicates the license plate, ESCORT1 as proof, but attempting to explain custom business plates to contrarians is really a wasted effort, so I let it go as the ladies line up against a somewhat unimpressive backdrop of sponsorship logos and dimple cutely for the cameras. In truth, it’s the mechanics of events like these that interest me most, everyone doggedly intent on playing their respective roles, from the principles to the sycophants.

Morlock’s base improv is a small wrench in the smoothly-rehearsed order of things, but fortunately we don’t have much longer to wait. Another sleek black vehicle rolls up and Pacino rolls out. And like the red sea caving back in on top of the Egyptians, the orderly crowd becomes a desperate, notebook-waving mob. Expertly hustled through the throng, Pacino poses quickly against the backdrop before being swept inside by security. And there, in his scattered wake, we finally spot Frank Chu. It’s always good to see a familiar face.

It’s been 130 years since Oscar Wilde was himself in San Francisco — March 26, 1882 to be precise — and close to 30 years since Pacino played The Curran Theatre as Teach in David Mamet’s “American Buffalo,” but in Pacino’s good-humored introductory speech, he expressed his fondness for his San Francisco days, appropriately framed against a similarly complimentary Oscar Wilde quote about our torrid Babylon.

In the vein of Looking for Richard, Wilde Salome began as a personal project of Pacino’s, who admits to having made several such documentaries in the past, though Richard is the only one that he’s ever released—until now. Tracing the circuitous path of a method actor in search of not just his character but also the motivations of that character’s creator, Wilde Salome is partly an exploration of Oscar Wilde’s most controversial play “Salome,” and partly an exploration of the man himself. Filmed in part during a run of Oscar Wilde’s “Salome,” at the Wadsworth theatre in LA, in which Pacino played King Herod, and in part in the company of “experts,” (Gore Vidal, Tom Stoppard, Tony Kushner, and Bono to name a few) fleshing out the historical details of Oscar Wilde’s life, the action unfolds in a series of non-chronological scenes with Pacino as the thread connecting them together.

Opening with the line “this is a story about an obsession” the film proceeds to delve into about a dozen: Pacino’s obsession with both his portrayal of Herod and Wilde, Wilde’s obsession with his boorish lover “Bosie” (Lord Alfred Douglas), Herod’s obsession with his step-daughter Salome, Salome’s obsession with the prophet Jokanaan, Film Producer Barry Navidi’s obsession with their tight shooting schedule, and even each individual actor’s quirky backstage rituals. In one scene, Pacino throws a party, in order to instill the impression of a raucous banquet gone too far in the actors, and especially in Jessica Chastain, whose intoxicatingly toxic portrayal as Salome speaks volumes on “the destructive power of sexuality,” a Wildean parallel.

In fact, if the movie has a sleeper star it is certainly Chastain, whose actor’s instincts appear as sharply honed as those of any of her older co-stars, and her wrathful dance of the seven veils reads as practically a throwdown challenge to the old guard. Herod’s certainly. And maybe even Pacino’s. Though seeing Pacino graciously holding court at the Castro did give the impression that he’s got a few years in him before he’ll have to worry about being summarily dethroned.

The performant: Lucky buggers

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Fortunate forays into entomophagy and Éire

In the estimable 1885 tome Why Not Eat Insects? (charmingly reprinted by Pryor Publications) Vincent M. Holt puts forth a simple culinary challenge, not in the contrarian vein of Jonathan Swift’s “Modest Proposal,” but apparently in earnest. Pointing out a few certain truths about bugs and arachnids often overlooked by the squeamish (their undeniable resemblance to crustaceans, their clean eating habits, and ready availability), Holt goes on to describe with epicurean delight the taste of butter- sautéed locusts and an equally buttery wood-louse sauce.
Entomophagy expert Daniella Martin whose well-documented fascination with creepy-crawly cuisine began with an encounter with “The Eat-A-Bug Cookbook,” by David George Gordon, gave a cooking demonstration of tempura-battered bugs rather appropriately in front of the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Museum. Fisherman’s Wharf may not be a place especially known for enterprising culinary effort, but there certainly was foot traffic aplenty, and surprisingly, no shortage of volunteers to nosh from Martin’s unique “menu.”

Martin, a disarmingly charming hostess with a well-practiced patter gave a brief primer on prep (burning the hair off the tarantula with Bacardi 151, for instance) as she dunked her crispy critters in a pocket-sized fryer. The more intimidating insects were devoured first, since downing a scorpion tail imparts more bragging rights than a comparatively tame cockroach, and certainly there’s more meat on ‘em. In fact, from my vantage point, the pristine flesh of an Emperor scorpion looked very much like the other other white meat—and if Martin has her way, that might be exactly what we’ll be calling it in a few years.

There was no bug-eating in evidence at Amnesia on St. Pat’s, but plenty of lucky buggers milling about all the same. Just missed Sean Hayes by a whisker, but grabbed a front row spot just in time for Kelly McFarling. Accompanied by Tim Marcus on guitar and her own banjo, she shimmered effervescent through a short set of songs off of her debut album “Distractible Child,” including a lovely rendition of her hometown lament, “Atlanta,” which she performed as a duet with Megan Keely. After a tip of the hat to the old sod with a well-received cover of U2’s “One,” she surrendered the stage to The Barbary Ghosts, who sang a rollicking set of sea chanteys and drinking songs—both traditional and originals. Eminently danceable gems such as “I’se the B’y,” rubbed elbows with “Whiskey You’re the Devil,” and “Danny Boy” evoking a proper Irish spirit, though the Ghosts, whose ranks include Amnesia owner Shawn Magee, all actually hail from various corners of the US.

Speaking of evoked spirits, Shameless Seamus and the Aimless Amos’s managed to channel both the raucous unpredictability of a mid-’80s Shane McGowan gig and a Hobo junkyard band just tumbled from a rattling boxcar with a stage full of musicians including a Bouzouki, not enough microphones, some onstage moshing, and a well-timed stage dive or two. A leave no-blarney-stone-unturned setlist included Pogues’ classics (“Sally Maclennane,” “Dirty Old Town”), Irish folk tunes (“The Rattlin’ Bog”), and crowd-pleasing sing-alongs (“All For Me Grog”). One part Éire, one part alt-Americana, one part pure San Franciscan, the rollicking rowdies proved the perfect antidote to the panicked desperation that so often characterizes the dregs of “amateur night”, for which we were all lucky. Slàinte.

The Performant: The mourning after

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Explorations in the language of the living at SFAI and NOHspace

Long before I moved to San Francisco, there were already certain things I’d learned to associate as being quintessentially San Franciscan via some kind of cross-cultural osmosis: the Castro, the cable-cars, Critical Mass, and George Kuchar.

True, the prolific filmmaker was himself a transplant, but his influence was indelibly stamped on San Francisco’s filmic underground. And unlike some heroes, who live impossibly removed from their admirers, George was accessible to his as a teacher, a neighbor, a legend, and a friend. Six months after his passing, a thoughtfully-curated tribute to his legacy opened at the San Francisco Art Institute — where he  taught absurdly-monikered classes in filmmaking such as “Electro-graphic Sinema” for 40 years. 

Since the hallmark of a successful memorial is to celebrate in the company of the living, a string of heartfelt eulogies and screenings of clips took place in the SFAI lecture hall, presented by friends and family, elders and youth. United thusly in our pleasant memories of the man, we entered the Walter and McBean Galleries, which had been transformed into a monument to the myth — a gleeful hodgepodge of photographs, set dressing, racks of cheap costume pieces, sketchbooks, choose-your-own screenings of the over 200 films in George’s oeuvre, and playful, personal ephemera.

Down the hall, an interactive studio installation encouraged visitors to get dressed up in a costume and “star” in their own straight-to-video blockbuster. A veritable Rosetta Stone on the language and legacy of Kuchar’s no-budget filmmaking, the exhibit runs through April 21, and is free to the public: adoring fans and the unconverted alike.

Part memorial for the dead, and part fundraiser for the living, the nationwide, one-night only performance series Shinsai found San Francisco stage time at both NOHspace and ACT. Directed by Theatre of Yugen apprentice Nick Ishimaru, the NOHspace edition opened with a trilogy of monologues penned by Suzan-Lori Parks that begged the question “where were you on 3/11”? Similarly themed play-lettes followed, including an introspective monologue on grieving by Phillip Kan Gotanda. Mixing dance, classic noh, and a quixotic bit of performance art (Jose Navarrete’s “Found and Lost”) into the evening put a distinctive stamp on the event. 

What most tied the disparate disciplines together were the expressive nuances of the hands, mimicking in certain ways the purported intricacies of the language of fans, secretive yet overt. In the dances of Las Japonesas Flamencas, each finger held its own position, extending the arch of an elbow or the turn of a wrist, a gestural eloquence. In contrast, the extremities of Nick Ishimaru and Meg Theil in a comical excerpt from kabuki drama Vengeful Sword, remained actively poised yet perfectly still as they each portrayed Manno, a wily Madame. The event ended with Heather Law’s graceful Hula ’Auana, hands fluttering like startled birds and 1960’s Go-Go girls, hearkening to an era of popular dance “moves” like the hand jive with the subtle grace of her more refined art: an expressive, whole-body sign language which spoke of life. 

Earthquake relief, one year later: “Shinsai: Theaters for Japan”

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On March 11, 2011, hot on the heels (so to speak) of a devastating 9.0 earthquake and resultant tsunami, the world’s largest nuclear disaster since Chernobyl made Fukushima, Japan a household name. And just like previous mega-disasters such as the Sumatran tsunami of 2004, and the 2010 quake in Haiti, Japan’s unexpected and devastating crisis drew attention and support from across the globe.

One year later, with an estimated 300,000 people still homeless from the combined natural and unnatural disasters that shook the Fukushima prefecture, it appears that the crisis is far from being over. Inspired by an impromptu fundraising effort spearheaded by New York-based, Japanese-born actor James Yaegashi, a unique memorial will take place Sun/11 in theaters across the United States.

Entitled “Shinsai,” which means “great earthquake,” the structure of the performances is up to the individual participating theatres — a tactic utilized by the roving world premiere of Suzan-Lori Parks’ 365 Plays — the common material a series of exclusive ten-minute shorts penned by some of the greats of both the American and Japanese Theatre Scene: Toshiro Suzue, David Mamet, Edward Albee, Oriza Hirata, Philip Kan Gotanda and Parks, to name but a few.

Two San Francisco playhouses will host their own versions of Shinsai. Theatre of Yugen will present works by Gotanda, Parks, Naomi Iizuka, and others as well as special dance performances by Heather Law and Las Japonesas Flamencas. American Conservatory Theater will host readings of several of the works with a lineup of eight Bay Area actors and seven directors, including Anna Ishida and Evren Odcikin. All proceeds will go to the Japan Playwrights Association, to fund the rebuilding of infrastructure supportive of theatre artists in the affected regions. Developed by Theatre Communications Group, this event has the potential to remind us both of the importance of the arts within any given society, and that of any given society upon the global stage.

Sun/11, 5:30 p.m., $15

Theatre of Yugen, NOHspace
2840 Mariposa Street, SF
(415) 621-0507
www.theatreofyugen.org

Sun/11, 7 p.m., $5

American Conservatory Theater
415 Geary, SF
(415) 749-2228
www.act-sf.org

The Performant: In the Flash

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Bodies and words collide in ‘this.placed’

It’s easy to overlook them, two dancers, still as mannequins, positioned near the entrance to the performance space, a silent video of a wet fleshy mouth, open wide as if ready for a filling, projected onto their motionless bodies. Just before the lights go down, they disappear, as does the fleshy mouth. Onstage a much larger projection of mouth, nose, cheek, fills the back wall, as the sounds of kissing, mumbling, chewing, and lip popping create a fanfare for the two dancers (Jill Randall and Amanda Whitehead), who enter while stretching their own faces into humorously exaggerated positions. Finally, Whitehead opens her mouth normally, to recite the jumbled text of Britta Austin’s Flash Fiction “Bite Marks,” which substitutes for music in their energetic duet.

“Her mouth was broken, there was a broken insistence to it….the insistence in her broken mouth was in her tongue, constantly poking out… to taste: citric acid honey pencil shavings the pages of her books the undersides of her fingernails…”

Choreographed by Nina Haft, five Flash Fiction-driven dances premiered last weekend at ODC in a collaborative venture with Sue Li Jue, who directed four additional pieces. (Read Guardian dance critic Rita Felciano’s take on the performances here.) Haft has choreographed work from Austin’s quirkily unsettling short-shorts before. In 2008, Austin’s publisher Watchword with Intersection for the Arts presented a radical interpretation of her works, in a multi-faceted showcase which included visual, theatre, and dance artists entitled “Notecards, a Living Museum”. In this.placed simultaneously earthy and beguiling lines such as “what can be written that doesn’t carry the stench of concepts digested before?” and “in a world where we are trained to be embarrassed by other peoples’ sex lives…I am faulty,” propel each action on a stage almost too wide to closely embrace the painful intimacy of the language.

Like dance, the art of Flash Fiction can be described as a series of fleeting yet powerful moments, caught as if in a headlight or camera-shutter, a brief transcendence. In “Flesh, Taste, Friction,” a mesmerizing Frances Sedayao stands in the foreground in a shaft of light with the appearance of a half-open window blind, while fellow dancers Rebecca Johnson and Edmer Lazaro, each in their own shaft of light, imitate the postures of her unsuspecting neighbors. “What She Asked,” an intense duet between Lisa Bush and Carol Kueffer veers into territories of suffocation and uncontrolled rage as Kueffer, breaking free from Bush’s persistent, over-bearing embrace, angrily demands that her body be “inside the room, my head outside the room, and the door shut…” before shuddering in a fit of whole-body emotion.

Sue Li Ju’s four pieces, each based on a particular degree of body awareness or circumstance, provide a balanced counterpoint to Haft’s snapshots of the vagaries of the human mind. “Half the Sky,” focuses on identity from the pov of adopted Chinese children while “Not What She Seams,” explores the conditions of textile factory workers, and includes some particularly colorful sequences involving billowing waves of fabric mirroring the movements of the dancers, adding startled beauty to the grimness of their toil. A flash of bright fiction requiring no words.