In a recent forum for Chattanooga mayoral candidates, E. Alfred Bibbins (yes, that is his real name) announced, God is my campaign manager and I am following His lead. Since the deity known as Jehovah hasn t really interfered in human politics since he deposed King Saul in favor of King David, we can only assume that Bibbins was talking about James Carville.
I’m on a ride and I want to get off but they won’t slow down the roundabout.
— Duran Duran’s “The Reflex”
Duran Duran is coming to the Horseshoe Casino on Thursday, March 8th, but according to their publicist, since the wild boys aren’t touring in support of a new album, they aren’t giving interviews either. Unfortunately, without an interview I have no choice but to share with you, the reader, my personal remembrances of the fab five from back in their heyday. Warning: This is not for the faint of heart.
It’s been almost 20 years since I stood in front of the mirror in my tight, black leather pants and my shiny, gray plastic Sergio Valente shirt with the Western details, gobs of smudged eyeliner, cherry-red lipstick, and an extra-spiky mullet singing at the top of my lungs into a day-glo Goody brush. No doubt I was waving my arms in the air and making the anthemic declaration, “I’ll light my torch and wave it for the new moon on Monday and the fire dance through the night. I stayed the cold day with a lonely satellite.”
I didn’t know what the words meant then. Still don’t. Doesn’t matter. All that mattered at the time was this: I wanted to be Simon Le Bon, the lead singer for Duran Duran. I had all his moves down: the hop, the sneer, the pucker, the squint, and most importantly, the mullet flip. I shopped at Chess King, where I bought synthetic vests like Simon wore, skinny ties like Simon wore, suits with shoulder pads like Simon wore, you name it. I raided my mom’s makeup frequently. I didn’t want to be the president of General Motors or a fireman or an astronaut. I wanted to be, or at least look, talk, and move, just like Simon Le Bon. In the mid-’80s he was the coolest guy in the universe, and I practiced a lot because all the chicks dug him the most.
It was nineteen-eighty-something. The speed limit was 55 (Hagar couldn’t drive it), Reagan was trading arms for hostages, and everybody was on the cocaine-fasttrack to unfathomable gaudiness. The tune on the radio was by a new group called Duran Duran. It featured big guitars and bold synth licks. It had more guts than most of the empty New Wave schlock that was being floated about, but it wasn’t exactly rock either. It was “Hungry Like the Wolf,” and it described perfectly the direction the world was moving in. We were all hungry for power, money, drugs, and sex and ruthless when it came to obtaining any or all of the above. Excess was everything.
Factually, the fab five weren’t all style over substance. Thanks to keyboardist Nick Rhodes, who was fascinated with the possibilities of electronic music, the group pioneered sampling. They blended club beats with rock guitars. They crooned important-sounding nonsense lyrics a la Brit-punks the Damned over dark but melodic pop. In a number of ways Duran Duran seemed like great innovators in a time when popular music needed a shot in the arm and arena bands still ruled the airwaves and the concert circuits. Still, they didn’t really have the chops to steal Van Halen’s thunder.
Enter the music video.
Think of your favorite Duran Duran song: “Girls on Film,” “Planet Earth,” “Union of the Snake,” “Rio,” etc. Now try to think of that song without the accompanying video. It just can’t be done. Their tunes became synonymous with outrageous fashion, exotic locations, and extremely hot, often wet, women. No doubt Duran Duran is responsible for selling more ugly clothes, not to mention bad ideas, than Crockett and Tubbs combined. Goodness knows that within a year of “Rio”‘s release, even Patrick Nagel, the artist who designed the album cover, was a household name. If you didn’t have one of his prints featuring a busty nude female as pale as the grave hanging in your dorm room, you just weren’t cool. If you didn’t have a mullet, a dangling earring, and a double-breasted shirt, you weren’t ever going to get a date.
My senior portrait hangs in my family’s foyer, and it mocks me every time I return home to visit. Who is that boy with the Japanimated eyes and over-sized Adam’s apple? He’s glowing with optimism in his gray, collarless, plastic shirt with Western detailing by Sergio Valente, his shiny black pants, and a big, spiky mullet: all business on top and a long flowing party in the back. Call it what you will: cooter-cut, bi-level, mullet, Missouri Compromise, or just a big mistake. At the time, it was, as one author has proclaimed, “the hairstyle of the gods.” It was Simon’s haircut. Damn you, Duran Duran.
Now, nearly two decades since his star ascended and a good dozen years since Duran Duran recorded anything of relevance, Simon Le Bon won’t give me an interview. After I bought all that hair mousse you’d think he would feel obligated. After the parachute pants you’d think he’d have some sympathy. But no. Please, Simon. Please tell me now. Is there something I should know? Is there something I should say that would make you come my way?
Thursday, March 8th, Horseshoe Casino
A.R. Gurney (Love Letters) is the dramatic voice of the tragically white. With lean prose tossed off as effortlessly as Bing Crosby’s celebrated scat, he speaks both for and to an imagined country-club set for whom a delayed tee-time might generate just enough conflict to fuel a rather laid-back Greek tragedy. Over the years, he has gently teased his well-heeled peer group, but Gurney’s light satire can seldom overcome the accompanying “conservatives are people, too” sentiments that permeate his work. In The Official Preppy Handbook, author Lisa Birnbach described ennui as a sort of affected boredom that makes every activity a person performs seem excruciatingly casual. It was a quality she highly recommended to would-be preps and a quality which Gurney’s characters exhibit in abundance. It is the very same characteristic that makes this white-bread historian’s latest offering, Far East, a bit of a snoozer. The characters come off as emotionally disengaged tourists gliding effortlessly through life. Their problems don’t bother them very much, so why should we care? Fortunately, Theatre Memphis’ production has a top-drawer cast, elegant direction by Jerry Chipman, and an absolutely breathtaking set by Michael Walker to recommend it. Even with all this exquisite baggage it comes off as the unfunny fulfillment of every WASP joke ever written.
Q: What’s an American WASP’s idea of open-mindedness?
A: Dating a Canadian.
Far East, which is set during a lull in the Korean War, begins when junior officer “Sparky” Watts (John Moore) reports for duty. He is an upbeat go-getter who, having been sheltered all his life by a wealthy family, is determined to find “meaningful experiences” overseas. While he pays lip-service to the virtues of being a good soldier, he is given to distraction and intent on preserving a luxurious, carefree lifestyle. He regularly requests leaves, plays lots of tennis, and has his very own convertible shipped over from America. Ironically, his rebellious playboy attitude is tempered by a WASPy urge to couple, and within days of his arrival he settles into a monogamous, loving relationship with a Japanese waitress whom the audience is never really allowed to meet. All of the play’s conflict is rooted around this one underwhelming transgression.
Enter Julia Anderson (Irene Crist Flanagan), the bored “Laura Bush meets Mrs. Robinson” wife of Sparky’s C.O. She is a “Smith girl” of the highest breeding. She knows young Sparky’s family and suspects that they would be devastated if they found out about his amorous adventures with a yellow-skinned heathen. So, of course, she devastates them. Later we discover (gasp!) that her actions are not motivated by breeding but rather a longing to breed with poor Sparky.
Moore, in his most animated role to date, makes Sparky a really likable guy. In fact, he’s so very nice and even-keeled that his excessive yet disarmingly understated affability seems more like some dangerous pathological disorder. The love he professes for his Japanese sweetheart is discussed with roughly the same ardor as his tennis game or his longing to climb Mt. Fuji. With a little more bravado and a little less spit and polish, Moore could have shown us what a greedy, manipulative, and immature opportunist Sparky really is — especially when he turns in his friend for being a homosexual who has swapped top-secret information to the enemy to avoid being outed. It’s a passionless career move and not at all an act of patriotism. As it stands, Moore comes off as a tepid, vaguely tragic romantic lead.
Flanagan’s patrician bearing and preening, motherly concern for Sparky never mask her character’s motives. She drips with sexual innuendo from their first awkward encounter. Her best moments, however, come near the end of the play when Sparky tells her that the simmering attraction she feels is mutual. Like a good little WASP, she takes this affirmation as a sign that this affair was never meant to be, leaving the entire audience with a painful case of theatrical blue balls.
Q: How many WASPs does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Three. Two to mix the martinis and one to call the electrician.
Barclay Roberts (in the role of Captain James Anderson) is virtually incapable of giving a bad performance. He’s always going to play essentially the same character, but not to worry: He’s very good at it. Every choice he makes is simple and every word rings true. And while this is no less the case in Far East, Roberts’ intrinsic warmth and gentleness ultimately undermine his performance and dull his self-absorbed character’s edge. On one hand, the career officer is infuriated by Sparky’s lack of seriousness and patriotism. On the other, he sees the young officer’s roguishness as a reflection of himself in younger, wilder days. Roberts glosses over this dilemma with an adorably gruff “what the hell, I like ya, kid” attitude. He’s so likable in fact that we forget that he virtually ignores his wife. When she eventually leaves him, it seems like an unfair and intentionally hurtful decision on her behalf rather than the result of their mutual unhappiness.
Captain Anderson sees the military as a sort of boy’s club where rank has its privileges. He’s more concerned with getting stationed on an aircraft carrier, improving his golf swing, and getting a little bit of indigenous tail from time to time than he is with salvaging his marriage. But in Roberts’ super-friendly hands, these less-than-sterling qualities become attractive signifiers of the rugged individualist. You just can’t find fault in a man you’d desperately like to sit down and have a drink with.
Q: Why did the WASP cross the street?
A: To get to the middle of the road.
Director Jerry Chipman deserves big props for dishing out the eye candy. The set, a single wooden tower set against a pale blue scrim and a burning orange sun, begs for crisp, uncluttered blocking. That is exactly what Chipman delivers. The entire experience of Far East is so enjoyable on a sheerly visual level it almost makes up for the lackluster script and the less-than-impassioned performances.
Far East at Theatre Memphis through March 25th.
With the opening of Bizet’s Locket, Playwright’s Forum, a company dedicated solely to the development of original scripts, has launched its finest effort this season. The story follows Annette, a young woman of the ’60s who has returned to France to track down her birth parents. She enlists the aid of Pierre, a dubious war-hero-turned-cop who helped her adoptive parents smuggle her out of Europe during WWII and now seems to go out of his way to throw Annette off the scent.
The subtle, talky script is perhaps a bit too pat. Characters draw conclusions too quickly, and the mystery is not terribly compelling. Still, it is compelling enough, and the question of whether or not Pierre is actually a murderous, in-the-closet Nazi provides plenty of intrigue.
An all-star cast, featuring the talents of Tony Isbell, Michele C. Summers, and Dorothy Blackwood, gives the script the kind of intelligent workout that a new work not only deserves but requires. Leigh Ann Evans’ direction is, for the most part, on the money. Long, tedious, and often unnecessary set-changes, which make Bizet’s Locket move just a little slower than an elderly slug on Quaaludes, should be sped up or eliminated. Either one would be a radical improvement.
Bizet’s Locket at TheatreWorks through March 10th.
The U of M’s entire studio theater space has been converted into a warm, cozy art gallery. Light-pedestals scattered throughout the audience hold objects both mundane and fascinating. Similar pedestals onstage display trophies, kettles, and books. Everything about the environment is inviting and comfortable, until the lights dim, that is, and we meet the characters in Donald Margulies’ Sight Unseen.
Jonathan Waxman is a wildly successful Jewish artist who constantly poor-mouths his achievements and bad-mouths an art world that embraced him and made him a star. He is an insufferable egomaniac who believes in his own myth, if for no other reason because he made it himself — with the help of a publicist, of course. His “bad boy” art, which has undertones of racism, blends religious symbology with scenes of graphic sex and (quite possibly) violence. Like the infamous Piss Christ of yesteryear, it’s the kind of knee-jerk art that gets people’s attention and causes wealthy buyers, desperate to stay ahead of the hip-curve, to line up with their checkbooks. Of course Waxman also takes the lazy and infuriating modernist stance that absolves the artist of any faults he might have and makes viewers almost entirely responsible for what they see in a painting. He is a manipulative jackass and a poseur who cleaves to his heritage only when it suits him politically. He is the artist-turned-ugly-American who has come to the English countryside to claim the one thing his millions of U.S. dollars can’t buy: the forgiveness of Patricia, a college sweetheart he left behind. Then again, maybe he just wants to get himself a little “old-time-sakes.” Hard to say.
Though she still obviously carries a torch for her famous ex, Patricia, now a world-wise archaeologist living with her caustic Brit husband in the north of England, isn’t interested in forgiveness. Her husband, Nick, who feels he’s always lived in Waxman’s shadow, is likewise determined to make the artist as uncomfortable as possible over the course of his visit. What ensues is a fiercely intelligent, surprisingly satisfying two-hour debate about art, history, heritage, family, and relationships. In the end, the work is too academic and desperately in need of a few laughs or at least a horrified gasp or two. It’s all heady wind-up with no pitch. Still, it’s an evening well spent.
As Waxman, Nate Eppler is nearly as aloof and creepy as Christian Bale in American Psycho. It’s impossible to tell whether or not he actually believes anything he says. Bill Lewis is equally convincing as Nick, a good-hearted man consumed by jealousy, resentment, and hatred. Kelly Morton’s performance as the jilted girlfriend become crumbling mountain of self-sufficency is inspired. She radiates strength, smarts, and self-control as she shifts easily back and forth in time from free-spirited, sexually liberated teen to conservative, jaded, and calculating adult.
Sight Unseen at the University of Memphis through March 10th.
Last week, Fly on the Wall reported on Senator Steve Wild Bill Cohen s attempts to pass a bill that will allow citizens with carry permits to take their guns into grocery, convenience, and liquor stores. We were remiss not to report the comments of Tennesssee Senator John Ford, who seemed a bit troubled by the bill. Ford, no stranger to firearms-related incidents himself, expressed his fears that someone might be fumbling through a purse, drop their gun, and accidentally kill themselves or somebody else in the process. Funny, we didn t know that Senator Ford carried a purse.
From now on, we’ll call Senator Steve Cohen Wild Bill since he wants to turn Tennessee into Dodge City circa 1875. Cohen supported a bill (which passed 27-5) that will allow Tennesseans with gun permits to carry loaded guns into liquor, grocery, and convenience stores. Our Wild Bill argued that a customer with a gun could help prevent a robbery. Of course, nobody would ever consider perpetrating one
From now on, we’ll call Senator Steve Cohen Wild Bill since he wants to turn Tennessee into Dodge City circa 1875. Cohen supported a bill (which passed 27-5) that will allow Tennesseans with gun permits to carry loaded guns into liquor, grocery, and convenience stores. Our Wild Bill argued that a customer with a gun could help prevent a robbery. Of course, nobody would ever consider perpetrating one.
Though it has not yet been considered by the House, the Tennessee Senate approved a bill to ban the use of cell phones by drivers under the age of 18. A similar, more logical and equitable bill which would ban the use of cell phones by motorists regardless of age has been proposed but is being fought by the cell phone lobby. Commenting on how the cell phone ban for teenage drivers will save a lot of young lives, Memphis Senator Steve Cohen said, The problem is not where [teenagers ] hands are, it s where their minds are. To follow Cohen s reasoning to a natural conclusion the Senate must, of course, also ban getting some.
In 1997 the Tennessee state Senate took great pains to ensure that high-interest payday loans were, in fact, loans and that the post-dated checks put up as collateral were treated as collateral. This was to protect the poor families who use such services from being taken advantage of by companies that many people believe to be nothing more than legitimized loan sharks. The payday loan industry contributes huge amounts of money to political campaigns, and in 1998, a year after the protective measures were taken, the single largest contributor to Tennessee political campaigns was a payday loan company. Interestingly enough, last week the Senate voted to allow these companies to take people who fail to pay their loan on time to court and tack on bad-check fees, as well as court costs and attorney fees, to their already huge interest rates. Should the political contributions continue, no doubt additional penalties will eventually be added. Broken knee-caps and severed fingers are time-honored and effective means of settling delinquent debts, after all.
Memphians A. Ray Mills (one-time deputy to Sheriff A.C. Gilless) and Stephen Toarmina (a former Gilless adviser) have each been sentenced to three years in prison for selling jobs with the Shelby County Sheriff’s Department. We can t help but wonder what kinds of jobs the two men will sell once they are behind bars.
I want to give Circuit Playhouse’s production of Joe DiPietro and Jimmy Robert’s musical essay on the perils of romance I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change a fabulously glowing review. In fact, I want to give it the ravingest rave that ever raved. But I can’t. Not entirely anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I loved it. It’s pretty darn close to being perfect. But in one very subtle, perhaps even nit-picky, way I wish that it could change: the script, that is, not the actual performances, which are all on the money.
Like so many contemporary scripts, I Love You tends to turn subtext into dialogue. In other words, the characters come right out and say the things which the audience should be allowed to discover. The best example of this is in the very first musical number, “Cantata for a First Date,” when the characters all begin singing, “But I’ve got baggage, emotional baggage, a planeload of baggage that causes much saggage.” To some extent, this substitution of subtext for dialogue satirizes the self-help Men are from Mars craze and, as they say in those silly, silly books, that’s okay. But if this was truly the authors’ intent, the insipid language which has grown up around that movement needed to be placed in somewhat larger quotation marks and examined a bit more carefully. As it stands, there are moments during the show when those of us who find such notions of “empowerment” to be the modern-day answer to snake oil will cringe with embarrassment. But those moments are fleeting and more than made up for in the script’s brutal, hilarious, and occasionally even touching honesty about that crazy little thing called modern love.
I Love You, You’re Perfect, Now Change is subtitled “The Hilarious New Musical Revue.” I don’t know why that is, but it is. It’s not a musical revue. It’s sketch comedy with music. It’s vaudeville. Oh sure, in their preface to the script the authors beg the performers to play the scenes for honesty, not laughs, noting that the comedy will be better that way, but this sentiment is true even in the broadest of farces. That they even feel the need to come out and say this is testament to the fact that live theater has lost its way. Fortunately, director Kevin Shaw and his more than capable cast know exactly where they are, what they are doing, and exactly how it should be done. On a stage designed to conjure up images of old-time vaudeville, complete with cutouts of red velvet curtains and illuminated placards announcing the names of the various sketches, Shaw and company have staged the most entertaining show to appear on the Circuit stage since the recently revived Pageant made its local debut.
Allow me to skirt all of the punch lines and give you the setup to a few of the scenes. “Satisfaction Guaranteed” is a commercial for a law firm that will sue your partner if they fail to satisfy you in bed. “A Stud and a Babe” shows us how even wallflowers can get lucky on occasion. “Tear Jerk” will appeal to every man who has ever agreed to take his date to a “chick flick.” “Sex and the Married Couple” explores all the factors that work against a nesting couple’s attempts to keep the flame alive, and “Funerals are for Dating” is about a widow and widower who look for love in unusual places. As you can see, the script’s content ranges from broad (Brecht-lite) satire to utterly mundane scenarios of family life. At the risk of sounding trite, I Love You has a little something for everyone. The songs run the gamut of popular forms and each one in its own way somehow manages to become a show-stopper. This is largely due to the efforts of one of the most capable casts ever assembled. Whether working as an ensemble or flying solo, Kim Justis, Carla McDonald, Guy Olivieri, and Christopher Swan (making a glorious return to the Memphis stage) generate big laughs and make it all look so very effortless.
I’ve always admired Kevin Shaw’s gifts as a choreographer, though I’ve never been all that impressed with his directing skills. I have to admit it: This time I’m impressed all the way around. Still, movement is obviously his forte. In the scene titled “The Family that Drives Together,” Shaw has used rolling office chairs to create one of the most inspired bits of choreography I’ve ever seen.
Through March 18th, Circuit Playhouse