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Friday, September 23, 2005
ASO plays Finnish Masters
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
CONCERT REVIEW
Atlanta Symphony Orchestra
8 tonight and Saturday. $10-$53.
Symphony Hall, 1280 Peachtree St. N.E. 404-733-5000, www.atlantasymphony.org
We’re only two weeks into the new Atlanta Symphony Orchestra season and already we might have heard the performance of the year.
Thursday in Symphony Hall, principal flutist Christina Smith hummed, whirred, spat, recited French Symbolist poetry, and not least, played a hauntingly gorgeous flute in Kaija Saariaho’s “Aile du songe,” a 2001 flute concerto by one of Finland’s most esteemed composers. This is the first time the ASO has programmed Saariaho’s music.
The “Wing of the Dream” comes in two parts, “Aerial” and “Terrestrial.” The imagery is drawn from a collection of poems, “Oiseaux,” by Saint-Jean Perse. The music, like the poems, contemplates the mystery of birds in flight rather than chirping birdsong.
Musically, the first section evokes the American desert Southwest. The flute opens with languid upward scales across two octaves, which is a typical Saariaho launching point. It suggests we’re slipping into dream time. The harp rolls out dreamy fog, punctuated by the rattlesnake sound of crotales, a percussion instrument. At one point the cellos and basses provide the rumble of faraway thunder. Yet the music is almost still, which made Smith’s clipped phrases and long, breathy trills seem as if our protagonist, dressed in a shoulderless red gown, was on a peyote trip, and loving it, under the starry Arizona sky.
The solo flute and orchestra interact much more in the second section, and the mood grows jittery. In an ear-catching effect, the score asks the flutist to vocalize words as she blows the notes. First it’s pips and whoops and then, near the end, snatches of poetry.
Despite Smith’s bravura performance and the earthy sensations of the music, Thursday’s audience didn’t warm to it. I’m not sure they were meant to, in the same way that Tennyson described nature as “red in tooth and claw.” Saariaho’s cool modernist aesthetic can hold some listeners at arm’s length —- it’s never coddling, but neither is it unfriendly. Like the natural world, it simply exists apart from our expectations.
One Finn followed another with the Sibelius Symphony No. 3, which seemed like comfort food after the aloof Saariaho. The symphony is the sort of polished gemstone that reminds us what vast riches lie scattered around the classical music terrain —- an El Dorado of sound.
Under ASO Music Director Robert Spano, the symphony’s opening movement came off cleanest, with plump, well-tuned brass chords and burnished string tone. The performance was never more touching than when the bassoon, clarinet and oboe sang a sad little song. We felt for the lost little trio, surrounded by the great swirling chatter of the orchestra. And it was at moments like this, a combination of personal thoughts and natural habitats, that the link between Sibelius’ 1907 symphony and his countrywoman Saariaho was most acute.
Spano kept the symphony lively and forward-rolling. A few smudged passages and a slight slackening of the tension in the finale are the drawbacks likely to be fixed in subsequent shows.
After intermission came Elmar Oliveira and the Brahms Violin Concerto. Most of the details were in place and the architecture was solid, yet Oliveira and the orchestra never quite connected emotionally, with each other or the audience. Still, people came to hear the glorious Brahms, and everyone’s effort was warmly applauded.
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Dad’s Garage & ‘Rocky Horror’
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. “The Rocky Horror Show.” Dad’s Garage. Through Oct. 22.
The very prospect of Dad’s Garage staging “The Rocky Horror Show” is frightening in itself: Experimental, over-the-edge theater troupe mounts wacky, bisexual, horror-show musical parody.
Frightening and completely rational.
Dad’s and “Rocky” —- each has its own cult following, the former a local one since its founding 11 years ago, the latter an international one since its first London staging in 1973 and subsequent movie version starring Tim Curry. The two cults have a lot in common: a whacked-out sense of humor, a fondness for Grade D horror flicks and the dorky 1950s, and the comfort and courage derived from sitting in a roomful of like-minded individuals who dare to be different, though not from each other.
Only two audience members stuck out in the colorful and wildly enthusiastic opening-night crowd for “Rocky” —- a sweet-looking twosome, unhip to a fault, attired as if for a 1950s sock hop. The young man’s coat and tie were particularly noticeable, as the 140-seat room wasn’t air-conditioned. Just looking at him made me sweat.
The pair turned out to be Brad and Janet, the show’s two innocents who, once situated onstage, set out in search of their old science professor, Dr. Scott. Along the way, they encounter the castle of Dr. Frank- N-Furter (Geoffrey Brown), the mad transvestite scientist from the planet Transexual in the galaxy of Transylvania.
While Frank is in the lab creating Rocky for his own sexual fulfillment, Brad and Janet (Clark Kent look-alike Joey Ellington, perky and pony-tailed Jessie Dean) are entertained and undressed by Frank’s oddball assortment of partners and co-habitors: his spooky servant Riff Raff (E. Cooper Seay), Magenta the high-heeled chamber maid (Steve Emmanuelson) and mindless groupie Columbia (Katy Carkuff).
Directed with rudimentary (read garage) naturalness by Kate Warner, what follows is the hard-won metamorphosis of Brad and Janet from pure innocents to unapologetic decadents.
The movie version of this musical by Richard O’Brien, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” is usually interactive, with audience members singing along and yelling out their own creative responses to some of the lines. Dad’s cast deserves a great deal of credit for maintaining concentration on opening night, despite the continued, sexually explicit interruptions of one vociferous and only sometimes funny individual.
Kudos in particular to Doyle Reynolds as the Narrator, a smooth and pretentiously faux-British presence throughout, and to Brown, whose sweetly coifed and long-legged Frank commanded the stage with grace. Chris Skinner’s Rocky was fittingly (in this production) flinty, and Travis Sharp showed good comedic sense as Eddie/Dr. Scott. Seay served as the lead guitarist in the assembled four-person band and managed to pull off Riff Raff’s riffs without missing a beat.
THE VERDICT: It’s a cultural thing.
THE 411: 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays. Also, 5 p.m. Oct. 2; 8 p.m. Oct. 3. Through Oct. 22. $9-$23. Dad’s Garage, 280 Elizabeth St., Atlanta. 404-523-3141. www.dadsgarage.com.
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‘Bug’ at Actor’s Express
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
THEATER REVIEW. “Bug.” At Actor’s Express. Through Oct. 29.
If you suffer from such easily transferable conditions as yawning, hunger or scratching, beware the new play at Actor’s Express. Or at least pack some “Bug” spray and a little lotion to soothe your itchy skin.
Watching Tracy Letts’ play “Bug” is like being in a confessional with a really friendly mosquito. You hardly notice it at first. Then you panic.
You feel the claustrophobia. The slow panic and real-time pacing. The paranoia and lunatic logic that engulf war veteran Peter and down-and-out waitress Agnes.
Even if you liked Letts’ deliciously lurid “Killer Joe,” which opened the Express’ 2004-2005 season, that’s not sufficient prep for the sick business that plays out in the lost couple’s pathetic Oklahoma City motel room.
Letts, a member of Chicago’s famed Steppenwolf Theatre, is the bad-boy playwright of the moment in the way that Quentin Tarantino was the enfant terrible of the movie world back in the day. The Oklahoma-born Letts is fascinated by the grotesque, by redneck humor, by terrorism, by mental illness, by illicit drug use, by nudity —- all of which he uses to depict his specimens of what the Powers That Be might dismiss as society’s Lowest Common Denominators.
Probably the only reason Letts gets away with his twisted little vision is that it’s so monstrously funny. He gives his women characters names like R.C. and Lavoice and Sharla. He sprinkles his dialogue with one-liners that are so pithy and disgusting, so infectiously silly, that even the sickest moments are delightful because you know you shouldn’t be laughing. That you wouldn’t be if your mother were around.
He also has a gift for nailing his characters in just a few words. It’s ironic that the first thing we hear from Peter (Daniel May) is “I’m not an ax murderer.” And that he speaks it in the voice of a little boy who’s been banished to a corner.
Like Hitchcock, Letts plants warning signals —- and shockers that we don’t see coming. (Don’t open the door. Oh, wait, what’s on the pizza?)
Agnes (Sherman Fracher) is the verbal engine that drives this compulsively talky talker over the top. The unspeakable sadness of Agnes’ back story makes her unhealthy behavior and intense loneliness seem absolutely truthful. What Fracher does so magnificently is amplify her character’s gullibility and naivete, her tics and spastic behavior, her constant jonesing for alcohol, cigarettes and cocaine, to the stuff of high comedy.
For those who haven’t heard, we should probably say right now that Agnes and Peter become convinced that their accidental affair, and the subsequent arrival of what they believe are millions of microscopic visitors, are part of a government plot.
You should also know that Agnes’ riffraff ex-husband, Goss (Jeff Feldman), preys on them like a badly mustachioed mantis. And that a strange intruder named Dr. Sweet (David Skoke) drops in at one point to add an aura of “X-Files” mystery to the whole mess.
And so as not to reveal too many secrets, we’ll just leave it at that.
Fracher gives one of the best performances I’ve seen all year. As R.C., newcomer Kara Cantrell cuts a buxom and appropriately dyke-ish figure. Feldman looks like he’s just crawled out of a bad biker bar (and uses his character’s meanness to great comic effect). May, never an actor to hold back, for once does just that.
Jasson Minadakis (“Killer Joe,” “The Goat”) directs. Kat Conley contributes the seedy motel set, and when the characters wear clothes, they pull on the nondescript thrift-store garb of designer Jim Alford.
I’m a nut for Tracy Letts’ plays. But that doesn’t mean that I think he’s a heavyweight writer. If you want to believe “Bug” is a brilliant piece about the flaws of the military, the seeds of terrorism or the Sodom slouch of America, go right ahead.
I’m just thrilled that somebody has the nerve to put such disturbing material in the unforgiving light of the theater.
Splat. What the *#&$? Geesh, does anyone know where I put the insect spray?
THE VERDICT: Show with the biggest buzz.
THE 411: 8 p.m. Wednesdays-Saturdays. Call for Sunday times. Through Oct. 29. $10.75-$26.75. Actor’s Express, King Plow Arts Center, 887 W. Marietta St., Atlanta. 404-607-7469. www.actors-express.com.
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