Tag: Julie Taymor

Web Writing

My recent blog silence isn’t so much for lack of what to write about, but what to focus on. Choose one thing’ has been a constant mantra throughout my life. Social media has been both a blessing and a curse in terms of widening perspective and simultaneously driving home a tendency to un-focus; no wonder being on an airplane recently, with laptop purposely packed away, produced a weirdo mix of panic and relief.

Settling on one thing was enough of a challenge, but once I chose my topic, there were several developments that occurred with incredible rapidity, forcing updates and edits. And then, I had second, third, eleventh, twenty-eighth thoughts on posting it. I don’t like writing about things I haven’t seen, much less giving play to conjecture. But the drama at the center of the Broadway production of Spider Man: Turn Off The Dark has been weighing heavily on my mind -for the way it’s been treated in popular media, for the reports I’ve received from those who have seen it, from the things shared with me from those who’ve worked with its director, and, mainly, for my absolute love of the theatrical medium, and the close-knit family unit that squals, squeals and shrieks at its crying, bleeding, puking, unquestionably messy core.

As reported lastnight, director Julie Taymor’s role has been altered -or, to be frank, greatly diminished; the New York Times offered a “precipitous” headline on top of a solid piece of reporting, though the piece had a noticeable undercurrent of sadness that perfectly reflected my feelings at the situation. Theater is nothing but a sum of its creators/cast/crew parts, a singing, dancing Frankenstein monster that might provoke a few tears, jeers, cheers, but always, hopefully, a gilded memory framed in sighs, frills, & the tunes you’ll hum the next day. Show producers Michael Cohl and Jeremiah Harris along with composers Bono and The Edge felt Spider Man: Turn Off The Dark needed more neck bolts, some matching arms, a solid pair of shoes to walk in (though not of the “furious” eight-legged variety) and more smoochy time with the proverbial Mrs. Frankenstein. I briefly referenced the show in a past blog in which I attended The Fantasticks, and observed how low-tech it must’ve been to my companion, who’d been to the Foxwoods Theater not long before. I felt a little ripple of excitement spotting the ads and theater marquee recently. Something new is going on there, I thought. It’s hard, but so is life. So is theater. And to some, theater is life. Doctor Frankenstein had to work hard to imbue his creature with it.

The hyper-critical response to Spider Man: Turn Off The Dark is due, in part, to the starry names attached to the project; its composers are well-known rock dudes, while its director is the woman behind one of the most original pieces of theater ever produced. Famous rich people are easy targets, especially when it comes to a public spectacle involving putting one of American pop culture’s most famous (and beloved) figures onstage. Through death, bankruptcy, accolades, accidents, an addition, a withdrawl, and big, name-making snark, the show has chugged on, drawing big crowds and averaging good weekly totals. The ocean of words written about the show are a truer reflection of the lack of awareness in the general public for how theater works (or should work) and is less about the show itself, which most people who are writing (journalists aside) haven’t seen. It also shows an awesome ignorance towards the nasty politics of playing on Broadway, where artistic integrity and creativity are frequently last on the list of priorities for a Really Big Show (ROI is #1, in case you’re wondering). It all has to start somewhere -any show, large or small does -and once the germ of the idea has been sewn, the care and cultivation come when words first hit the screen. Setting: a bare stage, or, Setting: Peter Parker’s bedroom. Whatever the case, it starts with the words.

And the weak writing in Spider Man: Turn Off The Dark has been a source of concern for professional theater writers and audiences alike. This was the main complaint of my friend who’s seen it, and it’s been highlighted in the vast, bitter sea of sniping. I had a long conversation with a theater-producer friend recently, about the demands of staging a new live show, and about the pressures from investors, who frequently want to see a quick return on the money they’ve put out; with the pressure and intense public scrutiny this show is under, it seems at least plausible that the written aspect got overtaken by the fancier, much-more-hype-friendly-and-frankly-sexy special effects. He flies! He leaps! He lands on balconies! He’ll be swooshing over your head! As was pointed out in an informative article on theater-flying recently, flying = sales. Might it be a fair suggestion that Julie Taymor, for all her intense creativity, felt more pressured to focus on the visual (ie money-making) aspects of the show, and less on the actual writing? Maybe. Or maybe not. She had a decade, goes the accusation. She’d never written before. She didn’t want to make any changes. She was forced to walk the plank. Blahblahblah.

I’m left, after observing and following all these dramatic (and probably truamatic) developments, asking one small question: did anyone at the beginning suggest an outside voice (like a dramaturge) was needed? Or did the situation become like a cartoon snowball, rolling down a hill, picking up toboggans, trees, feckless bystanders, in its raging, manic race to inevitable explosion?

It’s all conjecture, and it’s worth remembering that much of what’s coming out now about the show is just that. Julie Taymor didn’t experience a soft landing, and I doubt anyone associated with the show will at this point. But we can only guess. It’s all a series of web-laced question marks. I’m going to hold off on making any firm judgments on Spider Man on Broadway until I see it. For the sake of everyone involved, I hope they, as a collective Dr. Frankenstein, can get their creature on its feet. Some of us still want to believe.

Update: the new opening of Spider Man: Turn Off The Dark is June 14th.

Middle photo credit:
Jacob Cohl / AP Photo /The O and M Co.

Feel / Reveal


Watching pieces of the movie Frida recently, amidst bites of crostini, answering emails, and half-sketching, was a strange experience -and not just because of the multi-tasking.

When I saw it in the cinema in 2002 I was bowled over by the mix of images, plot, and music within Julie Taymor‘s vision of the Mexican painter’s life. My initial viewing was at an early point in my own personal explorations into drawing and painting; after years of photography, including nearly two years spent in Ireland and England with an ancient, beloved manual-forward SLR camera, I thought it might be a good idea to strip the technology away to get to the heart of art-making. And so the drawing/painting/sketching odyssey began, and photography, however slowly, fell by the wayside, paralleling the dwindling of film stock and the rise of mobile (and, for that matter, internet) technology.

It was during a recent dinner party at my home that I felt a deep twinge of nostalgia for my old snapping days. I brought out the old Minolta at the request of one of my guests, a photo enthusiast. The weight of the camera, the ka-chunk of the shutter, the cylindrical beauty of the lens, the quasi-surprise of the prints… it was all magical to behold after so long away from it. Yet spying the light meter again created a small panic, a palpable sense of, what am I doing?! It was a curious mix of panic and passion.

Aside from the heart-stopping, beautiful viuals, what I love so much about Taymor’s film is that Frida’s struggles and doubts over her own artistic voice aren’t ever glossed over; in one scene, when she and husband Diego Rivera go to New York City so the latter can complete a commission for the Rockefellers, a reporter asks her, “Are you an artist too?” She demures -and keeps on stabbing her brush at the canvas. Yes, no, maybe. I don’t know. Keep on keepin’ on. Even when bed-ridden, she continued her output, never labelling herself or her work. Just doing it.

I’m a longtime admirer of Frida’s work -“admirer”, actually, feels too mild, but “fan” feels too slavish. She takes her place, like Patti Smith, in my mental curio cabinet of beautifully imperfect heroes: shriekingly female but defying categorization, always personal but ever-cryptic, physical but very heady, hugely experimental but deeply traditional. A mass of genius in contradiction, Frida’s work, like Patti’s, has the power to bring me to tears, and frequently has.

The timing of Taymor’s movie on television was curious on a personal level (never mind Taymor’s directing Spider Man: Turn Off The Dark, opening next month on Broadway. More on that in a future post.). I’d been berating myself for not being productive enough artistically lately. I should be drawing/painting/etc is a frequent mental mantra. It’s feels like a hard thing to go off and do, and yet it shouldn’t be. That old want-to-be-doing vs should-be-doing battle is raging. The other reason productivity falls away is that I have a genuine sense of not knowing what I’m doing, that it’s all for naught, that it’s all horribly amateur and pointless and stupid. That voice of doubt is sometimes louder than the calm, quiet one that asks me to keep going.

And so, it was appropos that, looking through a bookshelf for something else entirely, Peter London’s No More Secondhand Art (Shambhala Publications, 1989) popped out at me. I opened it, as if my magic, to a page with the following header: “Am I Good Enough?” That would be my other mantra, a much older one that applies to several areas and pursuits. But I was fascinated by London’s dissection of this question to self as applied to art-making, one that works whether you love drawing, painting, photography or performance:

We can never win the encounter with such a question, because the very underlying assumption of “Am I —— enough?” is a faulty appraisal of the human condition and a false understanding of what it does take to engage in creative enterprises… Rather than paralyzing ourselves with the existential bone-crusher “Am I good enough?” we would do better to ask ourselves question that invoke no comparisons. Instead, we could become interested in describing the new terrain being uncovered or invented.

I dream of the day that voice stops -or at least softens. I dream of the day I’ll have the most precious things any artist could ask for -time, space, resources -to do what I want most to do, when my heroes smile and say, see? It wasn’t so hard after all. Because really, it’s not.


Paintings:

Top: The Two Fridas, 1939.
Bottom: Viva la vida, 1954. Frida Kahlo’s last painting.


Photo credit:

Photograph of Frida Kahlo by Lucienne Bloch, 1932.

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