Categories
News News Feature

CITY BEAT

THE REST OF THE STORY

Media coverage of two big pending federal court cases — one involving former medical examiner O.C. Smith and one involving football booster Logan Young — again failed to note the significance of the latest developments.

In the Smith case, a fellow medical examiner concluded that the Shelby County Regional Forensic Center is unresponsive and handles evidence carelessly and that Smith, accused of faking a bizarre attack on himself in 2002, made statements under oath with professional certainty that were actually “opinions” and “speculative.”

In Young’s case, a judge promised to act within a month on a motion to dismiss the case. In a related case in Alabama, two University of Alabama officials gave affidavits about the NCAA investigation of the Albert Means recruiting case that suggest that it may be a house of cards.

The Commercial Appeal, heavily invested in the credibility of Smith in general and in the NCAA and state and federal prosecutors in Young’s case, ignored key elements of both stories.

Taking the Smith case first, Smith’s apologists put a positive spin on Nashville medical examiner Bruce Levy’s report last month, in which Levy agreed that Philip Workman fired the gunshot that killed Memphis police lieutenant Ronald Oliver in 1981. Workman is on death row.

Governor Phil Bredesen asked Levy to review Smith’s testimony in clemency hearings for Workman in 2000 and 2001. (Smith is under federal indictment for giving false statements about the alleged attack on him.) Last year, Bredesen issued a stay of execution for Workman pending completion of the Smith investigation. When the feds called Smith a liar, the governor asked Levy to review his Workman testimony.

“I am not at all surprised by Dr. Levy’s opinion,” said Shelby County district attorney general Bill Gibbons. “It is what I expected. Twenty-two years ago, a jury of citizens decided that Philip Workman deserved the death penalty. É It is past time to carry out that decision.”

Levy’s report, however, should give pause to any prosecutor dependent on Smith. It is anything but an endorsement. On the contrary, Levy was critical of Smith on several counts, including his work on the Workman case. “There was initial difficulty locating the original autopsy materials” from Smith’s office, according to Levy. Levy requested materials from Smith’s office in February but was told that they were missing. “They were eventually located after my fourth request, reportedly during a search of the basement of the Shelby County Regional Forensic Center on or about April 2, 2004. They were reportedly in an unlabeled evidence bag behind some boxes.”

Levy said he is “concerned about the obvious violation of the proper handling and storage of autopsy evidence and materials, especially given recent allegations of other missing evidence from the forensic center.”

The “missing evidence” is body parts. Smith also allowed the professional certification of the office to lapse. The highly secretive office was as sloppy and unresponsive to the governor as it was to local media. And in Workman’s case, “Although the recovered bullet could be the bullet that killed Lt. Oliver, Smith’s opinion that it is the fatal bullet to the exclusion of all others is speculative,” Levy wrote.

This is the medical examiner whom Gibbons and fellow prosecutors have relied on in hundreds of close cases that are matters of life and death.

In Logan Young’s case, U.S. District Judge Daniel Breen said last week he will rule within 30 days on a defense motion to dismiss. Such motions are commonplace, but this one plausibly argues that even if Young gave money to former high school football coach Lynn Lang, it wasn’t a federal crime because it would not have corrupted Lang in the performance of his public duties as a football coach. Defense attorney Robert Hutton says it is analogous to a parent paying a teacher to tutor a child as opposed to bribing a teacher to give a child a high grade.

Breen has already affirmed an order of U.S. magistrate Diane Vescovo requiring the NCAA and University of Tennessee football coach Phil Fulmer to produce tapes and records. Federal prosecutors have appealed. The next court date is May 24th.

Meanwhile, in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Circuit Court, university officials Gene Marsh and Marie Robbins were dismissed from a related case because the plaintiffs decided they were “used and misled” by the NCAA and the university in the investigation of Alabama’s football program. Marsh is a law professor and a member of the NCAA Division I Committee on Infractions. Robbins is associate athletic director. The plaintiffs are former Alabama football coaches Ronnie Cottrell and Ivy Williams.

Marsh says in an affidavit that the NCAA “failed to share information they had received with us and failed to allow us to take efforts to prevent impropriety from occurring” in the Means case.

Categories
News News Feature

BARNSTORMING

RUSH DIGS TORTURE

Warning: more sensitive readers may wish to have a puke bucket handy when they read the following commentary from the enlightened mind of Rush “Evil Blimp” Limbaugh. He spoke these words on May 5th. If there is justice in world he will regret them for the rest of his miserable life. If this doesn’t disgust you, then you’ve not the thinnest sliver of human decency residing in your miserable skin.

“This is no different than what happens at the Skull and Bones initiation and we’re going to ruin people’s lives over it,” Rush said, referring to the torture of Iraqi P.O.W.s. “We’re going to hamper our military and then we are going to really hammer them because they had a good time. You know, these people are being fired at every day. I’m talking about people having a good time, these people, you ever heard of emotional release? You of heard of need to blow some steam off?”

If there was ever any doubt that Rush Limbaugh is a cretin, it has evaporated with this repulsive revelation. What’s Rush’s idea of a good time? WHAT’S HIS IDEA OF BLOWING OFF A LITTLE STEAM? Breaking chemical lights and pouring phosphoric liquid on detainees; threatening detainees with a charged 9mm; beating detainees with a broom handle and a chair; threatening rape; actual rape; sodomizing a detainee with a chemical light; Sodomizing a detainee with a broomstick; general beatings; taking pictures and videos of naked detainees, male and female, sometimes in graphic poses; taking pictures and videos of men forced to masturbate; forcing male detainees to wear women’s underwear; simulating electric torture; and allowing unmuzzled military dogs to attack a detainee: that’s Rush’s idea of Springtime good old fashioned frat-boy fun.

But wait, there’s more. Rush also had this to say: “I think a lot of the American culture is being feminized. I think the reaction to the stupid torture is an example of the feminization of this country.” For indeed, only a metrosexual sissy could find broomstick sodomy abhorrent. Only a chickenhearted liberal, emasculated by either God, or HGTV would be put off by burning prisoners with acid. Real men dig torture. It’s a gas, gas, gas.

On May 6 Rush changed his tune a bit. No longer was he comparing the Iraqi prison atrocities to fraternity antics. What took place at Abu Ghraib was now just a classic example of wholesome American porn. Or maybe it was more like a Britney Spears concert. Who can really tell what’s what these days?

“The thing though that continually amazes,” Rush says, feigning bewilderment, “[is] Here we have these pictures of homoeroticism that look like standard good old American pornography, the Britney Spears or Madonna concerts or whatever, and yet the Libs upset about the mistreatment of these prisoners thought nothing of sitting back while mass graves were being filled with three to 500,000 Iraqis during the Saddam Hussein regime.”

With this bizarre statement the Right’s great moral bloviator rose to an all-new low, and that, my friends, is no easy task for the muckraking Limbaugh. The conservative mantra–”We’re better than Clinton”–has been changed to, “We’re not as bad as Saddam. The dittoheads should all be terribly, terribly proud of their man behind the mic, especially veteran POW’s who were themselves the victims of torture in Vietnam. Our boys knew those gooks smashing their balls with hammers were just having a big ol’ porn party. It was totally cool man. Totally.

Couched in opinion Rush’s commentary is protected under the first amendment, and that is how it should be. But every soccer mom in America who thinks the violent, erotic fictions presented by Hollywood invariably turn our kids to the dark side has to understand that the atrocities at Abu Ghraib are no fiction. But Rush says it was nothing more than a “good time,” just like “good old American porn.” In the words of President George W. Bush, I have to ask, “Is our children learning?”

Categories
News The Fly-By

WHAT WOULD WENDY DO?

In an April 22nd article, Commercial Appeal columnist Wendy Thomas who can’t seem to make it through five paragraphs without quoting scripture or referencing the Bible in some way discusses the recent rape of two girls. She writes, “As for the attackers, I can’t help but think about Old Testament justice. A man caught stealing had his hand hacked off. If these men are convicted, Lorena Bobbitt ’em.” Now rape is a terrible crime and it demands terrible punishment. But nowhere in the Old Testament will you find any law stating that thieves’ hands should be cut off. There are such provisions in Islamic law and the Code of Hammurabi demanded an eye for an eye. But when it comes to the amputation of a hand The Pesky Fly could only find one Biblical reference: “If two men are fighting, and the wife of one of them comes to rescue her husband from his assailant, and she reaches out and seizes him by his private parts, you shall cut off her hand. Show her no pity.” (Deuteronomy 25: 11-12 New International Version)

Categories
Opinion Viewpoint

The Rest of the Story

Media coverage of two big pending federal court cases — one involving former medical examiner O.C. Smith and one involving football booster Logan Young — again failed to note the significance of the latest developments.

In the Smith case, a fellow medical examiner concluded that the Shelby County Regional Forensic Center is unresponsive and handles evidence carelessly and that Smith, accused of faking a bizarre attack on himself in 2002, made statements under oath with professional certainty that were actually “opinions” and “speculative.”

In Young’s case, a judge promised to act within a month on a motion to dismiss the case. In a related case in Alabama, two University of Alabama officials gave affidavits about the NCAA investigation of the Albert Means recruiting case that suggest that it may be a house of cards.

The Commercial Appeal, heavily invested in the credibility of Smith in general and in the NCAA and state and federal prosecutors in Young’s case, ignored key elements of both stories.

Taking the Smith case first, Smith’s apologists put a positive spin on Nashville medical examiner Bruce Levy’s report last month, in which Levy agreed that Philip Workman fired the gunshot that killed Memphis police lieutenant Ronald Oliver in 1981. Workman is on death row.

Governor Phil Bredesen asked Levy to review Smith’s testimony in clemency hearings for Workman in 2000 and 2001. (Smith is under federal indictment for giving false statements about the alleged attack on him.) Last year, Bredesen issued a stay of execution for Workman pending completion of the Smith investigation. When the feds called Smith a liar, the governor asked Levy to review his Workman testimony.

“I am not at all surprised by Dr. Levy’s opinion,” said Shelby County district attorney general Bill Gibbons. “It is what I expected. Twenty-two years ago, a jury of citizens decided that Philip Workman deserved the death penalty. It is past time to carry out that decision.”

Levy’s report, however, should give pause to any prosecutor dependent on Smith. It is anything but an endorsement. On the contrary, Levy was critical of Smith on several counts, including his work on the Workman case. “There was initial difficulty locating the original autopsy materials” from Smith’s office, according to Levy. Levy requested materials from Smith’s office in February but was told that they were missing. “They were eventually located after my fourth request, reportedly during a search of the basement of the Shelby County Regional Forensic Center on or about April 2, 2004. They were reportedly in an unlabeled evidence bag behind some boxes.”

Levy said he is “concerned about the obvious violation of the proper handling and storage of autopsy evidence and materials, especially given recent allegations of other missing evidence from the forensic center.”

The “missing evidence” is body parts. Smith also allowed the professional certification of the office to lapse. The highly secretive office was as sloppy and unresponsive to the governor as it was to local media. And in Workman’s case, “Although the recovered bullet could be the bullet that killed Lt. Oliver, Smith’s opinion that it is the fatal bullet to the exclusion of all others is speculative,” Levy wrote.

This is the medical examiner whom Gibbons and fellow prosecutors have relied on in hundreds of close cases that are matters of life and death.

In Logan Young’s case, U.S. District Judge Daniel Breen said last week he will rule within 30 days on a defense motion to dismiss. Such motions are commonplace, but this one plausibly argues that even if Young gave money to former high school football coach Lynn Lang, it wasn’t a federal crime because it would not have corrupted Lang in the performance of his public duties as a football coach. Defense attorney Robert Hutton says it is analogous to a parent paying a teacher to tutor a child as opposed to bribing a teacher to give a child a high grade.

Breen has already affirmed an order of U.S. magistrate Diane Vescovo requiring the NCAA and University of Tennessee football coach Phil Fulmer to produce tapes and records. Federal prosecutors have appealed. The next court date is May 24th.

Meanwhile, in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Circuit Court, university officials Gene Marsh and Marie Robbins were dismissed from a related case because the plaintiffs decided they were “used and misled” by the NCAA and the university in the investigation of Alabama’s football program. Marsh is a law professor and a member of the NCAA Division I Committee on Infractions. Robbins is associate athletic director. The plaintiffs are former Alabama football coaches Ronnie Cottrell and Ivy Williams.

Marsh says in an affidavit that the NCAA “failed to share information they had received with us and failed to allow us to take efforts to prevent impropriety from occurring” in the Means case.

Categories
News The Fly-By

Breach of Security

It’s bad news for one of Tennessee’s youth development centers (YDCs). Nine concerns were identified in an internal-affairs investigative report of the Woodland Hills YDC in Nashville stemming from a March escape attempt by 22 juveniles.

Woodland Hills is the only facility in Tennessee housing female juvenile offenders, including two girls from Shelby County.

The report cites concerns with security, student-to-staff ratio violations, lack of a clear crisis plan, training, and ineffective communication among staff members. The Department of Children’s Services (DCS) also released an outline for a corrective plan, which has been in development since mid-March.

The findings included a disproportionate ratio of 23 students per staff member at the facility. American Correctional Association Accreditation Standards mandates a 12-to-1 ratio. No emergency coordinator was in place during the disturbance, there was a shortage of emergency equipment such as handcuffs and protective gear, and students were allowed to assist the staff in security functions.

The uprising resulted when rumors of a malfunctioning gate spread through Woodland Hills, said DCS spokesperson Margie Maddux. The report revealed that the gate information was transmitted over hand-held radios.

During the incident, youths armed with bricks and broken mop handles made a run for the outer gates before being stopped by staff members. Maddux said the students never got outside the facility but did reach an inner courtyard. Nashville police were called in to secure the outer premises. Sixteen staff members suffered injuries ranging from minor cuts and scratches to a broken nose. Juveniles involved in the uprising were disciplined, separated, and transferred to the other three centers in the state.

DCS commissioner Viola Miller has stopped all future students assigned to the facility until the nine concerns are addressed. Ken Steverson, newly appointed executive director for Juvenile Justice Programs, will be in charge of implementing the corrective action plan, as well as possible development of a DCS tactical unit and joint training with the Nashville Police Department.

Maddux said Woodland Hills is a “Level 4” YDC but declined to call it a maximum-security facility. “This is not a correctional model and we don’t use terms like those,” she said. Youthful offenders, for example, are called “students,” not inmates. “We still try to maintain a social-services approach and provide counseling to get at the root of these kids’ problems.”

Woodland Hills houses 88 male and 24 female students, ages 12 to 19, arrested for violent offenses ranging from assault on property to rape and murder.

E-mail: jdavis@memphisflyer.com

Categories
News The Fly-By

Live, Work, Play

Don’t mess with City Council member Barbara Swearengen Holt. If you want a job or an appointment with the city, you had better make sure you live there. Just ask Artemis Williams.

In front of the City Council’s Personnel, Intergovernmental and Annexation Committee this week, Williams — the manager of rapper Yo Gotti — was scheduled to be appointed to the Memphis and Shelby County Music Commission. And then Holt, seeing his out-of-area cell phone number, said, “I need to know where this young man lives.”

Luckily, Williams gave a Memphis zip code. But later in the same committee, Holt asked for the council’s support to hold a referendum on the issue.

Citing a diminishing tax base, Holt said, “We need to have city employees live within the city limits … if the city supports you, you ought to support the city.” The referendum would come with the understanding that all current city employees would be grandfathered in.

Not all council members agreed. Carol Chumney said she had a different take on residency in Memphis. “My philosophy is that we’re regional now,” she said. “We really need to consolidate city and county government. We need to start working as a team.”

Chumney said the way to keep people living in Memphis was to keep property taxes low and the quality of the schools high. “I would rather people want to live here,” she said, instead of forcing them to do so.

However, the point was raised that the county’s property tax increase — estimated this year at 23 cents — would affect those who live in the city.

Because the issue would require a change to the city charter, voters would have to agree by referendum. This week will be the first reading, and the issue will be discussed again in committee before the resolution’s third reading.

E-mail: cashiola@memphisflyer.com

Categories
Music Record Reviews

Short Cuts

True Love

Toots & The Maytals

(Sanctuary)

Toots & the Maytals and Bob Marley & the Wailers tower above all others in the crowded reggae pantheon. The Maytals were there from the beginning, recording ska and rock-steady hits before actually naming the new genre in the title of the 1968 hit “Do the Reggaey.” Toots Hibbert has one of the greatest voices of the second half of the 20th century, easily the equal of his American soul contemporaries Otis Redding and Marvin Gaye. “Pressure Drop,” the song which blared incessantly from Trenchtown transistor radios in The Harder They Come, is the crystallization of everything right and good about reggae in general and the Maytals specifically. And if you want to hear Eric Clapton take a giant dump all over it, then True Love is the record for you.

I’m really at a loss to understand why this collection of retreads of classic Maytals songs with glommed-on guest stars exists. To this reggae fan, it’s kind of like listening to an audio book of the Old Testament read by Gilbert Gottfried. Toots still has that voice — the high notes aren’t as sweet, but the purring lows are deeper — and when he unleashes it, the results can be devastating. Just ask the hapless Ryan Adams, who embarrasses himself profoundly trying to keep up with Toots on “Time Tough.” Adams is typical. The overwhelming majority of these collaborations are disasters of the first order.

Jeff Beck wheedle-wheeing his way through “54-46 Was My Number.” Whose bright idea was that? No Doubt’s plastic “Monkey Man” can’t even compete with the Specials’ second-wave ska version. Willie Nelson and Bonnie Raitt just seem lost. Shaggy’s dancehall take on the Maytals’ first hit, “Bam Bam,” fares slightly better, but only because it’s been completely torn down and reconstructed in Shaggy’s image — proving, perhaps, that the gap between dancehall and roots reggae has grown too wide to bridge. Despite the presence of the Skatalites and legendary toaster U-Roy (one of the unheralded forefathers of rap) on “Never Grow Old,” the only real alchemy to be had is when Toots and Keith Richards take turns growling “Careless Ethiopians.”

Of course, the real reason this album exists is to help pad Hibbert’s retirement fund. And frankly, he deserves it. To find out why, go pick up any of the several Maytals compilations already in circulation. You’ll be glad you did, and you’ll never know the pain you missed by avoiding True Love.

Chris McCoy

Grade: D (for Depressing)

One Moment More

Mindy Smith

(Vanguard)

Pleasant and nice. Damn, this record is pleasant and nice. I hesitate to say anything bad about it because the whole thing just goes down so smoothly, like treacle or pudding. Mindy Smith is not only a preacher’s kid, but she’s adopted too. Being a preacher’s kid and adopted is a lot for anybody to overcome, don’t you agree? I don’t want to say this, but she bores the barnacles off me. Here’s why:

Smith comes across somewhere between a less shrill Alison Krauss and a not so edgy Gillian Welch. According to One Moment More‘s press kit, Smith had tons of offers from major labels in Nashville before she accepted a deal with worthy but dull Vanguard Records because they weren’t going to push her into the standard CMT female country singer straitjacket of tangled, flowing curls and bustier-wearing videos. So she sings her own tunes on this, her debut recording and even produced half of it. Chalk up a small victory then for independent-minded women singer-songwriters in Nashville who want to resist “the process” in order to get a recording contract. So why does all this artistic freedom and integrity translate to a set of songs that I can’t even remember unless I’m looking at the track listing on the back of the CD?

Okay, “Come to Jesus” is the first track and it’s about, well, the pale Nazarene himself and also about a boyfriend who needs saving or spiritual comforting, I think. After that one, I get lost, and I can’t place melodies with song titles until the final hidden track which is a cover of Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” And it’s, y’know, tasteful –easy on the ears. There should be nothing wrong with that either, but sometimes tasteful and nice just ain’t enough. Oh heck, leave her alone; she’s an adopted preacher’s kid, for cryin’ out loud. — Ross Johnson

Grade: B

Hoot Your Belly

Jimmy Lee Williams

(Fat Possum)

This is the latest installment of the George Mitchell series put out by Fat Possum Records. Mitchell, in the grand tradition of Alan Lomax and other folklorists, traveled the Deep South from the ’60s to the ’80s, discovering and recording local blues talent. The series features field recordings of electric blues but played in the raw acoustic style. Jimmy Lee Williams’ Hoot Your Belly is the fifth CD in the series, which has included early works by luminaries such as Fred McDowell and Furry Lewis, as well as previously unknown artists.

Williams was one such unknown, a peanut farmer from Georgia who just loved to play the electric guitar, which his boss sold him for the princely sum of $75, as he recalls in his liner notes. There’s nothing new under the sun here, blueswise, just a country farmer playing the hell out of his cheap guitar and singing for all he’s worth. But Mitchell and Fat Possum deserve kudos for bringing this music to the masses. It represents a way of life and song that was passing even when it was recorded some 20 years ago. All the tunes are traditional, with a slapping guitar style that can be hypnotic and vocals that are pleasant in a whoop-and-holler way. Thankfully, this recording is clearer and less homespun than some of the other records in the series, which makes for easier listening.

Williams passed away in the early ’80s and these songs, recorded in 1979 and 1982, make up his only recordings. Hoot Your Belly won’t make Jimmy Lee Williams a household name, but it will give a shot of immortality to the former sharecropper who would play his guitar and sing all night for half a gallon of ‘shine. n —Lisa Lumb

Grade: B

E-mail: herrington@memphisflyer.com

Categories
Music Music Features

Sound Advice

Standing alongside Pavement, Guided By Voices, Superchunk, and Memphis’ own Grifters among the top tier of indie-rock bands during the genre’s early/mid-’90s heyday, Sebadoh may have been the scene’s most direct major players. In another time or another place, frontman Lou Barlow might have been his generation’s James Taylor, the sensitive singer-songwriter who makes the college girls swoon. Sebadoh got its start as a low-fi, home-recording outfit in the late ’80s but hit its stride in the mid-’90s, first with the relationship-spanning conceptual song cycle Bubble & Scrape (told backward, like an indie-rock Irreversible) and then with the crystalline Bakesale, which jettisoned indulgent noise entirely for a near-classic batch of tightly wound relationship songs. Barlow has since hit it bigger with his other band, the Folk Implosion, but is back on the road with longtime Sebadoh collaborator Jason Loewenstein for a reunion tour of sorts. They’ll be at the Hi-Tone Café Sunday, May 9th, with ace local indie inheritors The Coach and Four.

I’ll swear on a stack of 45s that “All the Kids Are Right,” by Illinois hard-rock duo Local H, is one of the greatest anthems in rock-and-roll history — sardonic, poignant, hilarious, and driven heavenward by the crunchiest power riffs since Kurt Cobain blasted off this mortal coil. On that alt-rock equivalent to “The Dream Is Over,” singer-songwriter/guitarist Scott Lucas gazes out at the increasingly bored, ever-shrinking group of kids in the audience at the crappy club he’s playing (apparently, they found out that girls show their tits at Limp Bizkit shows and headed for the door) and sings a hymn to the end of an era: “You heard that we were great/But now you think we’re lame/Since you saw the show last night/Thought that we would rock/Knock it up a notch/Rockin’ was nowhere in sight/And it’s never good when it goes bad.” Elsewhere on the same record, 1998’s Pack Up the Cats, Lucas acknowledges another hard truth: “I’m in love with rock-and-roll/But that’ll change eventually.” Or maybe not. The band is still on the road, still playing presumably before sparse audiences, and will be at the Hi-Tone Café Wednesday, May 12th, with Detachment Kit.

Chris Herrington

I’ve always been leery of any band a club promotes with the line “featuring former members of [insert 1980s college-radio band here].” I was especially skeptical when I saw that The Low Budgets, “featuring members of the Dead Milkmen,” were coming to Murphy’s. If there were ever a band that got more credit than it deserved, it’s the Dead Milkmen. Oh sure, the first time I heard the line “It’s a boring day/I’ve got nothing to do except/Get a load of retards and drive ’em to the zoo,” I laughed until milk came out of my nose, but I was maybe 16 and susceptible to mistaking gross pre-Farrelly Brothers humor for pure genius. Musically speaking, the Milkmen were pretty inept, and once you stripped away the comedy (as the Dead Milkmen did on later releases), it became pretty obvious. The Low Budgets (who have dubbed themselves “value rockers”) only boast one of the original Milkmen, Joe Jack Talcum (also of Joe Butterfly). He’s the talented one. Better still, their songs owe less to the Dead Milkmen than to bands such as Pavement and the Ramones. Giddy indie-rock hooks adorn basic three-chord punk songs with lyrics that are silly without being sophomoric. Considering you can’t drive a block without hearing some hip-hop tune about how good it is to be rolling in money, there’s something really swell about blasting a song that repeats the line “Your card has been declined.” Talk about keeping it real. The Low Budgets hit town on Monday, May 10th. —Chris Davis

Categories
Art Art Feature

Larger Than Life

A bit of conventional wisdom for what it’s worth: Anyone who claims “it’s not the size of the boat, it’s the motion of the ocean” is, most likely, the captain of a skiff. Would the “Great Pyramid” of Giza be nearly so great if it were only the size of a shed? A whisper makes for good drama, sure, but if you really want to capture someone’s attention, isn’t a bullhorn better? Could Big Macs ever eclipse the Whopper by sporting only one all-beef patty?

 

“Size matters.” This catchphrase once used to promote Godzilla’s Hollywood makeover (and now owned by spammers out to supersize America’s genitalia one e-mail at a time) is the fundamental assumption behind “Big,” an exhibit of larger works culled from the Brooks Museum of Art’s permanent collection and peppered with some largish loans.

But does size really matter? As the exhibit’s wall text aptly points out, Phidias’ statue of Athena — the colossal centerpiece of the already colossal Parthenon — was the big bang for artists who see a bigger picture. Rubes by nature, humans have always been suckers for size: Visit the Grand Canyon; climb Mt. Everest; put your money down, boys, and see the fat lady sing. In art (as in nature), size is a novelty that overwhelms, stops us dead in our tracks. And size is an essential consideration, especially if the artist’s goal is “education.” (Or, as some fifth columnists might suggest, “propaganda.”) So, yes, size matters. But so does context.

“Large” might be a better name than “Big” for the Brooks exhibit. Or “Big on Personality.” There is no statue of Athena here. There’s no Richard Serra, Claes Oldenburg, or Chuck Close either. There’s nothing that, through sheer size, makes jaws go slack with wonder. But for Brooks, a museum that seems much larger than it actually is, these pieces, which include works by pop artist Red Grooms and chameleon photographer Cindy Sherman, are fairly gigantic.

“It just happened that the downstairs galleries we usually use for touring exhibits were open,” says Marina Pacini, Brooks’ chief curator. “It’s rare when that happens, and these are all works that don’t just fit anywhere in the museum.

“Think about [Deborah] Butterfield’s Horse,” Pacini says, referring to a life-sized sculpture of a horse that, though covered in mud and straw, appears to be constructed from pure manure. “Sure, it’s only a life-sized horse, but we’re not used to seeing a life-sized horse in a gallery. The only place we see a life-sized sculpture of a horse is outside, and some general is sitting on top of it.

“Look at the Veda Reed,” Pacini says of Across the Mississippi, a long, narrow triptych. “Can you imagine seeing only one of those paintings without the other two?” she asks. “You just couldn’t get any sense of the piece.”

“Big” is the first big example of Pacini’s goal to showcase more works from the museum’s permanent collection.

“We’ve got 7,000 objects,” Pacini says, “and it’s pretty standard for a museum that only 3 to 5 percent of a collection is on view at any one time.”

There are many reasons that, like icebergs, the bulk of a museum’s mass remains below the surface. There are conservation issues. Works on paper, for example, have to be taken down regularly. And then, of course, there are also issues of space, content, and context.

“And only so many square feet!” Pacini says, noting that museum boardrooms out of use for years were recently converted into gallery space. The ultimate goal is to get more pieces from the permanent collection, large and small, into circulation.

“‘Big’ was a great opportunity to do something quirkier, weirder, and more fun,” Pacini says. And that is a fine summation of an exhibit that is more likely to charm than overwhelm. Dennis Oppenheim’s whimsical animatronic Spinning Shark launches into action so unexpectedly that Pacini may post warnings so visitors don’t faint from surprise. Marisol Escobar’s Family, a modern creche constructed of plastic, glass, wood, and neon, sits opposite Laura Simmons’ oversized black-and-white photograph Walking Cake, a birthday cake standing on shapely female legs. Richard Bosman’s 1944 woodcut The Fall, a post-expressionist image of a man in a head-first free fall, resonates nicely with propaganda-inspired works by Barbara Kruger and Tim Rollins.

“You wouldn’t normally be able to see a lot of these pieces,” Pacini says. “The Elizabeth Murray piece, for example, has such an irregular canvas, it explodes off the wall. Where do you put something like that? We’ve got to do something to get more [art] out there for our visitors; to help them learn more about contemporary art history.”

“Big” may not make any large statements about size and art, but it does suggest that some of the most interesting works in the Brooks collection spend too much time in the vaults. The bigger news is that Pacini hopes to change all of that.

Through the end of July

Categories
Theater Theater Feature

Ants in Their Pants

The short list: missing fathers, overprotective mothers, warring siblings, wholesome-looking hussies, and morally ambiguous men who are fugitives because they just can’t stop running away from the ghosts of their own imagination.

These are the principle images inhabiting the landscape of rural American drama. From Eugene O’Neill to August Wilson, these have been the stock players. Tennessee Williams puts them together for Orpheus Descending, a play about a drifting musician in a snakeskin jacket who pops in on a town not partial to folks who are different. Sam Shepard has used every imaginable permutation of the formula, most notably in his epic family drama A Lie of the Mind, where the lead character runs off drunk in the night wrapped only in an American flag, looking for the love he killed and the wife he battered. But nobody has used these classic tropes of small-town tragedy more effectively than William Inge in his Pulitzer Prize-winning play Picnic. Inge’s characters seldom confront one another head-on. It’s a passive aggression boiling over into the real thing that fuels Picnic, a quaint old-fashioned play in three acts that seems like it was written with contemporary audiences in mind.

Set between two all-female, lower-middle-class homes in the 1950s, Picnic may be all-American, but it also has all the makings of a Jane Austen redux. Two fatherless sisters — Madge Owens, a simple beauty, and Millie Owens, a sassy tomboy with more brains than a proper lady should have — live with their mother and an old-maid schoolteacher who rents the extra room. Mrs. Potts, the elderly neighbor who, apart from a single fling, has spent her entire life celibate caring for her invalid mother, has become part of the Owens household. Hopes are high all around that Madge will marry into the country-club set and that college will open doors for poor Millie. And things go pretty much according to the script until a strapping young stranger, Hal Carter, starts doing odd jobs for Mrs. Potts and turning every female head in the neighborhood.

With Inge, truth is often the victim of expectations. Hal (convincingly played by a chiseled Michael Ingersoll) is cast by preconceptions as a no-account rascal, and over time he becomes every bit the monster he’s thought to be. Well, at least in the minds and ultimately in the lies told by the women who crave him but despise their craving.

Hal begins the play with the sincere desire, but only a ghost of a chance, of gaining respectability. He grew up like a weed, abused by an alcoholic father, who died in jail after the last time the cops scraped him off the street. The hustle is the only life Hal ever knew until his athletic abilities took him to college. He’s got white-collar fantasies with no-collar skills. His handsome face and overt sexuality are his worst enemies, and women ogle him like horny construction workers, instantly converting their lust to negative fantasies and ill will. Picnic is, if nothing else, a play about tragic inevitability. Children must forever repeat their parents’ mistakes; scapegoats and monsters must be created in order to distract us from our own pains and perversions. From the moment we meet Madge the angel, we know she will fall, and from the moment we meet Hal, we know he was born to die running.

Under the direction of Michael Detroit, Playhouse on the Square’s Picnic is fine, if a little antiseptic. The ground-kicking, “aw shucks” dialogue, which dates the play, is given an over-the-top treatment that comes on like too much of mom’s apple pie. As Millie, the tomboyish sister, the typically wonderful Angela Groeschen trips along like the sassy soubrette in some 19th-century operetta. You expect her to burst into song at any moment. While it is a beguiling performance, there are times when it seems to belong to some other play entirely. Jo Lynn Palmer is spot-on as Mrs. Potts, a woman who’s found some peace in a life lived vicariously. Irene Crist makes a virtue of understatement as Flo Owens, a concerned single mother. As the perfect life she’s planned for her perfect daughter goes to hell, she falls to pieces while keeping the better part of her dignity intact.

Inge’s name may not carry the same weight as other middle and late 20th-century writers who dealt with this same kind of subject matter. But Picnic holds up surprisingly well and is especially appropriate at a time when our culture, with all its xenophobic hang-ups, is desperately trying to reclaim the virtues of some idyllic past that never existed in the first place.

Through June 6th