Tag: Nathan Phillips Square

Big And Proud

You’d expect opera to be “big” but… in some cases, you’d be wrong.

As I detailed in my last blog post, the grandeur normally associated with the opera Aida has been unceremoniously stripped away in the most recent production from the Canadian Opera Company. This would be noble, but for the fact that the concept itself trumps the heart of the piece, rendering it a hollow, pretentious shell, and giving it the sort of empty grandeur director Tim Albery was purposely going against. That doesn’t mean I didn’t have a super-thrilling, emotional experience involving grandeur the very-same night, though. Quite the opposite.

“Big” as a concept (specifically applied to a live musical event) was openly celebrated once outside the Four Seasons Centre the night of Aida’s opening. My opera-mate and I walked into the start of Nuit Blanche, the fifth annual all-night celebration of all things artistic. Now, I railed against the event in this blog last year, but having spoken with several people who both work inside of it and/or adore it, well… my position has somewhat softened. I have to admit, it does offer a cool experience, though I wish it was more than once a year (say, in the summer, during or just before Luminato) and not just a single all-night, foot-wrecking event. This year I was eager to see Daniel Lanois‘ brilliant, beautiful Later That Night At The Drive-In, held at Toronto’s Nathan Phillips Square, directly in front of City Hall. The space is normally a huge, empty expanse of concrete, with a functioning ink rink in the winter, but during this year’s Nuit Blanche, it was utterly transformed into… well, a drive-in. Kind of. Together with local artists and a team of talented organizers, Lanois had transformed the space into a truly communal setting where the idea of “spectacle” (whether it be drive-in, rock concert, whatever) was being mocked, milked, celebrated, and shared.

As if in direct opposition to Albery and his pretentiously over-wrought ‘concept’, here, the sense of civic grandeur was played into and played with; to quote Madonna, “Music makes the people come together“, or, of course, the man himself, “I’m not a stranger in the eyes of the maker” -and the maker was us, him, the night, the light, the shadows, the speakers, the sets of eyes and ears and hearts, beating together and out-of-time, in-time, with music, beats, and angles. The maker was the place itself and the people filling it. Visually, ‘Drive-In’ was intoxicating: a series of geometric screens were set up all over the square, on scrims and tall screens, offering live feeds of action happening further inside -but this wasn’t a glorified concert experience. The visuals portrayed dancers, prancers, techies, hanger-ons, and onlookers. If there’s one word to describe the experience, it’d be “immersive” -one was literally immersed in sound, light, colour, and the experience of togetherness within the grandeur of a large outdoor music thingamadoodle. Really. I got the keen sense Lanois et al were purposely keeping away from easy definitions in their presentation, that they were going after something already extant within Lanois’ music: the magical, the meditative, the intimate and the epic, all at once.

So it was no accident the music emanating from Later That Night At The Drive-In was audible three city blocks away. That’s not to say it was L-O-U-D in the rock concert way; rather, there was a feeling of intimacy and sharing amidst the Nuit Blanche crowds, and surrounding this most grand of events, in one of the city’s biggest outdoor public spaces. Instead of shunning the idea of “big”, Lanois and his team were openly embracing it, using the intimacy and immediacy of live music to draw people together. A huge mirror was mounted above the small, Arabesque stage on an extreme angle, so that the small square became a kind of hallowed, silvery frame, bathing everything -and everyone -both in and outside of it in a holy, haunting light that whispered, “you are here, I am here, we are all together…

Whatever expectations onlookers may have brought were both exceeded and gently, deftly, pushed to one side. Big isn’t always bad; there just has to be a big heart behind it, one to make all the others feel they’re somehow a part of it -singing, playing, dancing, moving and being moved. At the end of the day, Big Idea has to equal Big Heart, and sometimes, with the right amount of care, it also equals Big Art. Bravo Monsieur Lanois.

Inside Looking Out

The latest offering from Soulpepper Theatre Company‘s venerable Academy is the lovely, whimsical work Window on Toronto. With a mix of movement, dialogue, and music, the show is a brisk 50-minute dip into the world of the Big Smoke through the eyes -make that window -of a hot dog vendor parked at Toronto’s City Hall.

While director Laszlo Marton states in the program notes that “I love Toronto” and the show has its focus in the Canadian city, in watching the work, it’s entirely conceivable that the series of scenes and vignettes presented could be from any large urban area. There’s a beautiful universality to the range of people and experiences that Marton and the Academy present to us, from the surreal to the gross to the touching; everything one might experience over the course of a day, a month, a year, in a city is here, if only we look.

A big part of this emotional resonance comes from the huge range of characters the eight-member troupe play: flirty girls, corporate Bay Street types, homeless people, workmen, yuppies, activists, musicians, immigrants, eccentrics, even friendly fast-food competition. They’re all here, refreshingly free of predictable stereotypes. The choice of using the music of Aram Khachaturian further conveys the international flavour of the work. After all, there are any number of local, beloved bands that could’ve stepped up (Broken Social Scene, anyone?) but with Marton at the helm, Window On Toronto takes on a uniquely worldly air. Yes, it is intended to be squarely in Toronto, but… it’s really everywhere.

The show maintains the Hungarian director’s European flair for timeless imprecision -which, in turn, gives Toronto a kind of European quality (take that, Montreal!). The famous “Saber Dance” is played a few times as cast members hurriedly move back and forth, in circles, up, down, and whirling into pace, within the frame of the vendor’s window, though the show starts simply enough, with raindrops covering the window. Marton adds a nice, meta-theatrical touch, by having the vendor himself (Jason Patrick Rothery, named, appropriately, “Jason”) sit in the front row seat, in effect becoming the audience to a continuous cavalcade of drama, comedy, and absurdity that unfolds before him over the course of a year.

That cavalcade includes a series of recurring, and deeply fascinating, characters. These include a Korean immigrant (played by Ins Choi) who befriends the vendor, and regularly comes around, first to introduce his wife, and later, his baby. There’s a braided flirty girl who loves sauerkraut (Karen Rae). There’s a quietly menacing man on a bike who comes to the window, looks around the window, silently takes notes, and rides off (Gregory Prest). There’s a lawyer-type who keeps our fearless vendor apprised of the ever-changing social situation, and leaves with a mantra-like “call me!” (Brendan Wall). There’s a hungry-looking woman in a hijab with a baby in her arms (Tatjana Cornij). There’s a protestor with hurting eyes (Ryan Field). There’s a potential love interest (Raquel Duffy) whose own pregnancy offers a quietly poignant moment. There’s a gay couple (who display remarkable “skating” skills during the winter scene, which comes complete with Strauss music to accompany). There are also impressive musical interludes performed by the cast. Touching on mime and even commedia traditions, these interludes aren’t so much diversions as they are vignettes in and of themselves. The play of colour, light, and shadow in these moments is truly inspiring, and offers some poetic grace amidst the urban hustle, in the same way that stopping and sitting on a park bench in Nathan Phillips Square -or any piazza – might.

Director Marton, together with designer Ken Mackenzie, gracefully make use of the small square in the middle of the stage, utilizing all manner of colour, texture, light, and shape. Faces, bodies, and various objects (except, interestingly, food or money) are placed in and around the frame, offering us a small peek at the world. White gloves pop up in one vignette, with thumbs and forefingers acting as hungry mouths. Eyes peek from around the top sides. What’s shown is every bit as interesting as what isn’t; bikes go by, people rollerblade, there are shouts and laughs and various bits of drama that remind us about all the untold stories in any given urban area. With one small window, Mackenzie effectively conveys the vast expanse of the space around City Hall through one heck of a great design that incorporates a number of different elements. For instance, when a piano is (mistakenly) delivered to the vendor, it’s conveniently used in that particular vignette, and in subsequent scenes, both within and without the frame proper. Its music echoes past the walls of the set, going past a visual experience of theatre and embracing an intimate aural one. Never has the music of the city seemed so obvious or lovely.

 

Along with noise and energy, there are moments of quiet and contemplation. There’s something enchanting in these moments -past the comedy, the chaos, and the bustle. It’s like a reminder to all of us who rush between emails, Starbucks, meetings, and bars: just stop, sit, listen, and look at the world around you. Maybe you’ll chomp on a hot dog. Listen, look, feel. It’s so simple. That is the magic of Window On Toronto, and indeed, of urban life everywhere.

Joy Is For Everyone

Walking up Bay Street at 10pm Saturday night, I couldn’t help but look around in wonder. The streets were jammed, and there was a palpable excitement in the air. It was the third annual Nuit Blanche, and Toronto was staying up late to catch the “all-night art thing.” Whether visual or performance, everyone was curious about experiencing… something. The flashing pixellations in the windows of City Hall were like a beacon for the thousands walking up Bay street, past the lineups of others curious about finding out about being part of a live art installation.

Waiting to meet a friend in the chaotic, crowded madness of Nathan Phillips Square, I had to wonder: “Wow, are we all elite?Stephen Harper’s sad, sadly hilarious idea about art being a “niche” meant only for elite people at galas seemed really removed from the reality surrounding me Saturday night.

And after wandering around the city all night, and taking in the smiling excitement, open experimentation, child-like curiosity, and outright wonder that such an event produces, I can only reiterate my own position: culture isn’t partisan. Like good food, we all consume culture. We all have our tastes, sure, we all have our favourites, we all have the things that work better for us than others. But we still share the passion, curiosity, wonder, and delight. Art isn’t made by, much less for, outsiders. It’s about us, for us, by us. Hallelujah.

In that spirit, I’m excited about the spate of openings coming to Toronto this week and next. Tonight the magnificent Famous Puppet Death Scenes returns to the Young Centre; I saw this wonderful show, by Calgary’s Old Trout Puppet Workshop, last year, and in all frankness, it changed my life. It changed the life of my 905-dwelling friend, too. Never having been to the Young Centre, much less to puppet theatre, she was so enamoured, enthralled, and inspired, that she’s planning on returning with a gaggle of 905 buddies this year, to introduce them to the wonders of Old Trouts, puppets, the YC, and the Distillery District. Ordinary? Whatever.

The next fortnight also sees the openings of Scratch, a new play by newcomer Charlotte Corbeil-Coleman, whose mother, journalist Caroline Corbeil, died of cancer. The play is based those experiences, though it has comic elements. With my own mother starting a second round of chemotherapy this week, there’s a special significance to the work for me. Something about the scenario of a young woman writing and sharing her life and vulnerabilities that I find very brave. Sometimes art helps us make sense of our own lives through sharing experiences. Carrying on the big-up-tha-women theme, Nightwood Theatre launches its fall season with an adaptation of the Helen Humphreys novel Wild Dogs; from the sounds of it, the work is challenging, disturbing, unusual. Good. I like that.

Speaking of challenging, Canstage opens their season next week with Frost/Nixon, a play about the famous interviews between Richard Nixon and David Frost in the 70s. Having already played to great acclaim in Vancouver, I’m looking forward to seeing this Ted Dykstra-directed work, with its timely themes and, from what I’ve heard, excellent performances. Soulpepper, a company Dykstra helped co-found eleven years ago, offers the Toronto premiere production of A Raisin In The Sun next week too, and never having seen it live, I’m looking forward to it immensely.

Amidst all this, I’ll remember the mascots, who were probably my favourite Nuit Blanche installation. It was silly, stripped-down, basic theatre in its most absurd and joy-full state. Called I Promise It Will Always Be This Way, and performed beneath the blazing lights of Lamport Stadium, with Yoko Ono’s enormous IMAGINE PEACE billboard illuminated in the background, the sight of various furry mascots dancing, jumping, and instigating cheers made for pure, unfiltered joy. I looked around at my fellow Torontonians, between snapping shots and dodging the bouncing beach balls tossed into the crowd; everyone was smiling. Isn’t that the point?

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