Irresponsible Hypotheses

Waddling Back

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 08:14:28 GMT

Wow, when I disappear, I disappear, don't I?

I resurfaced a few days ago, actually, and then realized with panic that the gushing that once sprang with such irritating insuppressibility seems to have cramped up without my knowledge. The fountainhead's run dry! The aqueducts are blocked! The creative centers are cooped up under siege!

But I shall not stay silent for long. (That is partly resolution, by the way, and mostly resigned prediction.) Until then, here are the fruits of this morning's OMGWEEKENDYAY:

The Scarlet Pimpernel,
an adaptation of the production based off the staged play based off the novel by Baroness Orczy.

DRAMATIC IRONY: What ho, brave Paris! How is it we find
That in this home of great and noble thought,
So recent-proven birthplace of reform,
The herald, as we thought you, and the home
Of progress, and the worth of earth-bound man,
Of reason and discussion, freedom too:
In short, thou spring of the Enlightenment—
If I may ask, just what the hell is this?

PARISIANS: The dream of Paris and the Third Estate
Has as it were broke free from out our hands.
The count of recent revolutions here
We lost, I’m pretty sure, once passed it four.
And theory had lost us at

SAINT-CYR: Hello,
Dramatic Irony, I am to be
Your tour guide for this evening. Bienvenue.
As you can see, the place has gone to hell.

DRAMATIC IRONY: Peace, peace, dear Baron, peace. Let these poor men
And women, bloodied mind and soul, reveal
The cause of their distress. Perhaps there is
An op’ning song here to be had, my friend.

PARISIANS (singing): Her face is smooth, complexion silver-pale,
But brightest crimson always tints her mouth,
With smooth, clear voice which, maidenlike, demurs
And always waits, with docile stance, to hear
The orders of her lord and master said.
Once spoken they, she acts without a pause:
Without a qualm or single backward thought,
But as a violent warrior maiden, she—
Unyielding she, remorseless she—will scream
Her sib’lant scream, more like a hiss, and then
Will dip her teeth and drink the health of France,
The new-freed France, with sacrificial blood.
We hail as fit we should our rev’renced queen:
All bow before the Madame Guillotine!

SAINT-CYR: … Well, that’s just creepy, sirs. I’ve got to say.
~

*sighs and stretches* Aaah, it's good to be back. ;)

In Defense of Weeaboos

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 07:40:56 GMT

I'm going to complain now, but I'm going to try to do it charmingly. Here goes.

The complaining shall be on the incredibly annoying but nevertheless surprisingly prevalent notion of "judging" people based on the reasons they choose to learn something, especially on the issue of language. It has been inspired by a brief revisit of various fannish e-locales.

What is a legitimate reason to learn a new language? Is there even such a thing as a legitimate reason to learn a language? And why are so many people freely judgmental (at least online) about the reasons people have for learning a language?

On the whole, those who learn new languages as requisites for a job, or to meet a school language requirement (as long as neither have any particular personal interest whatsoever in the language in question), seem to be spared any judgment. Those who are bilingual, or who know a second language moderately well and want to improve it, generally pass under the axe unscathed as well. I can see problems if someone plans on learning a language to better communicate with extended family, because that involves starting a language from scratch of his own free will, but maybe there just aren't enough of those around learning a given language for there to be any organized judging happening.

Flak starts to thicken when the language is learned for aesthetic purposes. If someone enjoys anime and wants to learn Japanese, this is a problem: ditto for opera and Italian, probably for Dumas novels and French, or for that matter probably Hindu studies and Sanskrit. This is because, I'm assuming, it's viewed as gratuitous language-learning -- learning motivated by something partial and impure.

Now, let's assume foreign languages will not be helpful in academia. Let's assume that an interest in a given subject, if it could be enriched or furthered or facilitated by the knowledge of a new language, could not lead to a career that would use that new skill. Let's assume that acquiring knowledge of a new language, and all the ways that makes you a more well-rounded, knowledgeable person in the world and possibly in the workforce, is secondary to the fact that the only proper way to choose that language is via the dignified method of dropping a pin on the map.

Even then. Even then -- what's so terrible about learning something for no God-given reason other than that it will enrich your understanding of the world, or at least some of the things in it that you love? Maybe nothing, absolutely nothing, will come of an opera fan learning Italian in order to better understand what he enjoys, or of a Dumas fan learning French so she can indulge herself in reading his books in the original language, or of some earnest otaku learning Japanese. Maybe all they'll get out of it is a deeper understanding of their hobbies, and a better ability to appreciate them. Fine. Maybe that's possible, maybe it's even probable. Now, on what grounds is this is somehow a bad thing?

Would this line of reasoning be applied elsewhere? Is anyone who takes up dance lessons after being inspired as a child by watching Michael Jackson moonwalk across a stage –– or if he's inspired to look up Fosse, or picks up miming for that matter –– automatically docked a few moral points? If Charlotte Brontë was partially inspired to try her hand at writing by William Thackeray, does that make her less of a writer than one (I assume one must exist, somewhere) who started writing from absolute thin air, without being inspired or influenced or motivated by anything he had ever read? If someone has a relative die of AIDS and is therefore inspired to try and become a doctor or a scientist in hopes of curing the disease, is he immediately less worthy than someone who went premed for no reason that she could really think of?

Perhaps. And it's entirely possible that they were all, from Charlotte Brontë onward, judged for exactly such a reason. But only those who would find that line of reasoning a sensible approach here, I think, should be applying it to the study of foreign languages.

I don't suppose judging should influence people's decisions to do something, especially random and generalized judgments that, I certainly hope, would not actually pan out in the particular. I also really don’t suppose that this little spiel is remotely necessary, as the rhetoric is so self-evidently nonsensical that it almost does it an undeserved grace to treat its self-righteousness as something which deserves formal deflating. Still, I like to think there's nothing wrong with tearing down nonsensical rhetoric, especially if it's being passed and parroted around.

Season of Memes, Apparently

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 09:56:23 GMT

I am inventing my own this time, though. It is called the "Figwit Moments" meme, in which we are joyful for little silly things that are peripheral in our day-to-day lives but not to our hearts. (The idea of calling that sort of moment a Figwit Moment isn't mine, unfortunately: it comes from here.)

I am not sure what the rules are, nor how the tagging works. Chances are good this will end up less a meme than, strictly speaking, a linkspam. But I think I can live with that.

1 - "Pa-pa-pa-pa," here sung by Bryn Terfel and Cecilia Bartoli. Papageno finds his Papagena (and vice versa!), and I dare you not to grin from ear to ear. I do not think anyone really needs to be informed that Mozart's accessible entertainment is the world's immortal genius; I find it's more enjoyable all around if we're reminded that the world's immortal genius does in fact occasionally take the form of transcendently accessible entertainment.

2 - "Mary had a Bicycle." I think the reason that the nostalgia effect of old "Sesame Street" clips is so profound is that it actually is a good show, no matter how old we are; its place in our adult estimation is independent of its place in our childhood hearts. I believe it doesn't take one iota of irony to enjoy Sesame Street.

3 - The lyric "If I sing B-flat (laa)/ We both sing B-flat (laa)/ We all can be flat (luuh)/ Together" from "Together Wherever we Go" in "Gypsy" is what I shall always point to as my favorite Sondheim line, however odd or trifling a choice it may be in the grand scheme of his oeuvre.

4 - "He's not as big as the pirate I killed," says Michael upon coming back home and seeing his father, his exact memory of whom had grown fuzzy while they'd been away. "Peter Pan" the book is one great big Figwit Moment for me, so I think it's fair to pull up any quote from it I like and consider it a legitimate Figwit Component.

5 - "Tell me that I may sponge away the writing on this stone," says Scrooge in "A Christmas Carol." One of my TAs once observed (correctly, as far as my experience so far has proved) that every English major will, at some point in his life, be reading a passage of Shakespeare and suddenly, as if experiencing a spiritual epiphany, collapse in tears – because the words are there and hopelessly perfect and she has finally, accidentally, managed to make it past the very tip of the iceberg and it is so beautiful it's unbearable. It won't be the last time it happens with a piece of writing, nor even with Shakespeare; and English majors being English majors, it's probably not the first time it's happened to them either.

My first literary epiphany of that sort, or the first one I remember, was in seventh grade, at that line in "A Christmas Carol." ("Dybji," you may say, "no offense, but that is not exactly Dickens' best." Yes, quite so, but I had only just figured out in that instant what "best" meant in relation to writing, or at least had got my first inkling of what it meant.)

ETA:
6 - This scene from "Evangelion" was the moment I realized I was going to really, really like this anime. That's not to say it's an enjoyable scene to watch -- it's painful to watch, in fact, and that's the point. Part of what sets "Evangelion" apart, and makes it the "Hamlet" of pop-culture mecha cartoons, is that instead of inciting comfortable, cathartic (or, to be less kind, pleasurable, in the usual way of seeing an expectation fulfilled) feelings of faux sympathy for a character by spewing his blood everywhere (who can really relate to the pain of shouldering your way through a force field, or having your limbs wrenched off in space?), it shows us something we relate to in a real, visceral, immediate way: a scream. The kid's fourteen years old, and he's not a hero, and he wants to go home, and it hurts -- and we don't get to look away.

The truth is that if "Evangelion" has a flaw, I think it is that the show cannot possibly reassemble its characters or its world no matter what the form of the ending; it had all been deconstructed far too masterfully. It would require far more than a half hour (or two hours) to counterbalance: it would require an entire second arc, an entire second series. (That counterbalance and that second series take the form of 2008's "Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann," but that is a case to present another day.)

7 - Aurora's Variation from "Sleeping Beauty." It may be surprising that this is my favorite variation from the ballet (or not, everything considered, or rather me considered). In a nutshell, it comes down to the fact that, firstly, I love the visual style of it, but more importantly, that if I were asked to consider a bride's jubilant wedding dance, this is not what I would come up with. It's almost more difficult to pull off thematically than physically. And yet somehow they manage, sometimes, and when they do the thing to do is remember why they get the sorts of ovations they do.

So: Figwit Moments, anybody?

The Year of Self-Improvement

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 03:33:47 GMT

Or, Tyler Durden would so disapprove.

I decided, near the end of last schoolyear, that this would be the year of self-improvement. The governing factors in making the decision weren't all ebullient, but that doesn't exclude ebullience from its execution. And in consequence I have been having myself a ball.

It is in part the year of Serious Self-Reflection, executed in appropriate Auguste Rodin style (I am getting very good at the Thinker pose). Since every year of my life has also been a year of self-reflection, however, this year is far more the year of Shutting Up And Smelling The Wildflowers.

It is the year of taking that book embargo seriously, because at some point, around the time college commenced, bookstores stopped being an Ali Baba's refuge of joy and salvation and started being claustrophobic dens in which endless rows upon rows of classics I hadn't read would point accusatory fingers at me. This is more a mental hurdle than a literary one, because for goodness' sake it's not as if you can manage to plow through enough that you run out of things to read, and a person needs to be able to handle that fact. ("Don't worry about ever having to cross Austen off your to-read list. Once you've got through the drafts and unfinished novels, there are always her life's compiled letters to go through, and they are fascinating," said one professor brightly, with an ingenuousness that leads me to believe she did not think she was consigning me to the depths of identity-crisis-driven despair for a week.)

It is also the year of learning new things. I have been trying out Photoshop, with delightfully embarrassing results. I have started drawing, with surprisingly unembarrassing results, everything considered. I have decided I would like to learn to sing, in order to end the Typical Exchange between my sister and I, which runs thusly:

SISTER: You've been making those horrible noises again! Stop it!
ME: I do not know what you are talking about.
SISTER: The noises! Those horrible, horrible possessed sounds you make in the shower!
ME: ... You mean my singing?
SISTER: You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.

Don't listen to my sister, by the way: I have a lovely voice. Well. For a given definition of "lovely" that includes Kozuki Wataru.

But, after all, this is also the year of casting down undue pride. "Self," I said, "you are going to do all the things you always wanted to or thought of doing or even vaguely considered doing, but never had the time for, or the spare dignity." No more of that: I am doling out dignity like a Robin Hood who has just finished holding up the Bank of Me.

Which is why I've also been volunteer ushering. I am triumphantly blind to what others may think of this: I think it is wonderful fun, and you feel phenomenally helpful, and besides, you have no idea how much pride one can take the first time someone shows you an "AA-42" ticket and you inform them with absolute confidence that they belong in the second balcony, and should be entering through Door Three.

You also meet the most wonderful people while ushering. I'm not talking about the regular, paid ushers: they tend to be college theater students and, not unlike high school theater kids, they are in their own impenetrable social bubble. (Utterly impenetrable, by the way. There could be eight people packed neatly in between Eighth Grade Tom Wingfield and Senior Year Lina Lamont, but you bet they'd manage to hold a conversation with each other across all eight, on the subject of how well the lighting crew is doing, Morsing it to each other through tap if necessary.)

I'm talking instead about the other volunteer ushers, who to my surprise turned out to be old married couples or groups of elderly ladies. And while I posit that there is not a lot of company more unpleasant than the elderly audiences at opera, at least during intermission (what can you say to the white-haired person with the giant walker who butts in front of you for the drinking fountain?), apparently there is also little company guaranteed to be more pleasant than that of an old lady called Adelaide, who normally buys season-tickets to this sort of thing but has been checking out more varied theaters of late, and who is ushering to pass the time.

ADELAIDE: Hello, have we met? I can't remember, there were a flock of young kids last time.
ME: I don't think so.
ADELAIDE: Oh, good. I'd have felt silly otherwise.
ME AND ADELAIDE: *Shake hands and introduce ourselves*
ADELAIDE: You know, this is my culture weekend. Tonight is ushering, and tomorrow I'll see "Phantom."
ME: Oh, "Phantom"!
ADELAIDE: I've seen it before, of course. But you know what show you really could see any number of tims? "Into the Woods." Have you ever seen that? It's the most wonderful show.
ME: *would totally not pass Adelaide's Are You Cultured test*
ME: *loves Adelaide so, so much anyway*

She even managed to engage with Arnold the college theater student, and get him to talk about where he came from (Houston), what performances he'd liked performing in ("Amadeus"), what neat stories he had (the man who played "Into the Woods" a few years ago at a regional production was Hunter Bell, Mr. "[title of show]" book writer). By intermission they were chatting as if they'd known each other for years.

ME: *adds Adelaide to list of personal heroes*

Adelaide and I also came to identical conclusions regarding show premonitions. Ushers show up early for shows, you see, and since we set some things up we get to be in the auditorium early as well. We get to see actors practicing scenes and such, and so we have a good chance to make show premonitions in a way audiences can't. So far our premonitions have been pretty accurate: the first show of the season had a man practicing "Non piu andrai" from "The Marriage of Figaro" at a piano, as all crew's heads gradually turned away from their work to look at him and eyes closed in helpless joy.

This second show sported a man contorting about on the floor, shaking his leg violently and making bizarre sounds that can be best transposed as "Oughhhhhh-oo-hooo."

Both plays matched pretty well to the pre-show entertainment.

Other than ushering, I've also been taking walks and picnics (I'm not so out of shape as all that, but fresh air for an hour and a half had the embarrassing effect of turning me into a lethargic, snoring lump on the couch the instant I returned home; we've made much progress in that direction, it now merely reduces me to a lethargic lump with a remote in my hand). The remote has led to new ventures, too, I might add, because guess what else I'd never had the time or spare dignity for? Turner Classic Movies channel.

ME AT DINNER: So, you know that Greta Garbo person? Apparently all that fuss about her was for a reason!

And what with the other varied expeditions I've begun this year, I can best be likened to a highly enthusiastic version of that little girl in the "Rhapsody in Blue" number from "Fantasia 2000."

Well, not quite. I'm a much worse swimmer than she is.

Review: "Kean"

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 06:57:01 GMT

(Alternatively titled: What, she's alive?)

Kean: Hoshigumi 2007
DVD
Stars: Okay, who votes that I just give up on trying to give intelligible star ratings, and instead just utilize some sort of "squee", "hum", and "sigh" response system?

To abbreviate pragmatically, if you knew or cared about this show beforehand, you may want to see it; if you're a Tom or a Hoshigumi fan, you will definitely want to; and if you are a fan of both (or, at best, all three), you, well, you need this.

“Kean” was famously a star vehicle without the vehicle. The star in question was the marvelous Alfred Drake, one of the stage’s most popular leading men in 1960. Even with that draw, however — not to mention the selling point of seeing Drake’s talent for bombastic splendor and powerful delivery applied to a scattering of Shakespeare — the show flopped after barely making it past the two-month mark. Much of this had to do with an illness under which Drake was suffering at the time of the run, affecting his performance and causing him, uncharacteristically, to miss shows. But even with the caveat, it’s hard to deny that “Kean” is hardly a masterpiece.

In its original form, as a play by Alexandre Dumas, it focused on a high-strung artistic genius and his attempt to juggle two women in his life; in a later incarnation by Jean-Paul Sartre, it changed into a portrait of a man who can no longer tell when he is performing and when he is not. In the musical version, book by Peter Stone, the stakes are raised once again: all this Satrian perpetual performance has now given the actor an identity crisis. Kean may be a role, but Hamlet is a better one, and our protagonist soulfully wonders, “Is it the man who casts the shadow, or the other way around?”

Kean, it turns out, is a deconstructionist who becomes increasingly suspicious of the musical he inhabits. The first curtain falls on him observing that this is the obvious place for a first-act finale; by the climax, he refuses to play along at all any more. Which is clever, but comes at the rather steep cost of a plot. The sacrifice of all components of a well-written musical for an effect demands that it be a worthwhile effect indeed; “Kean”s wanders into gimmick territory. It does not help that the dubiously-inspirational epiphany at the end — that identity, like life, imitates art — implies there should be no more objection to Kean picking the charade back up, meaning the loss of a proper ending becomes an almost painfully unnecessary injustice.

All this is not to dismiss "Kean" entirely. For one thing, if we must have bad shows, let more of them be like this: "Kean" really is bad for all the right reasons. It doesn’t live up to its existentialist aspirations, but it has them, and presents them with a fair amount of panache. Its score, no masterpiece, nevertheless evokes the operatic side of showtunes (gorgeously so in "Sweet Danger"), and a revolving secret door evokes comedies of manners (as does "Civilized People"); these glimmers lend some solidity to this show about shadows. Besides which, it’s not every day that so rare a piece gets a full-blown production like this.

As for the production, let me begin at the beginning and warn you that Todoroki Yuu is no Edmund Kean. Far from portraying a legend of the stage, she didn't manage to convince me for one minute that her character was an actor, let alone a Shakespearian one.

In most contexts that appraisal would be a damning one. But, as it turns out, it doesn't make the show unwatchable here. Perhaps because anyone watching “Kean” in 2009 has certain reasons, be they historically- or seito-based, to stick around till the end, the show itself inevitably ends up a bit beside the point. And so it is with a shrug rather than a groan that this not inconsiderable problem has the greatest chance of being received — which is fortunate, since the Kean offered here really is a charismatic piece of work. If Kean the actor can be considered a nonentity for the duration of the show, Kean the man is deliriously present, in this case as bright, winsome, impish, limp-wristed fellow who is generally incapable of focusing on anything for more than a few minutes. He is also constantly oscillating between endearingly nanners and seriously unhinged, and, in one tricky bit of acting Tom did manage to pull off, he is generally at the right points on that spectrum at the right times. No matter that she is not a convincing Othello (and that this Kean at least should have no problem finding himself more interesting than the Hamlets he provides), Tom looks truly dangerous when her eyes snap at the audience.

As impressive is the fact that Tom’s costars overcome the age and experience gap as entirely as they do. Yuzuki Reon, using her baby face to advantage, looks the part of the rich, self-assured upstart who enjoys using his birth and rank against Kean, while the talented Minami Mari gives an especially arch performance as Elena, the young woman dipping into the game of intrigue for the first time and turning out to be a natural. Anna Danby, the hopelessly sincere girl with only her earnestness to go for her, is their pointed counterpart, and Aono Yuki highlights the contrast well, though this does render her performance more muted than the other two. (One note of interest is that the only times Tom fails to be successfully threatening is in her scenes with Elena or Anna. Their virtue never looks in any believable danger — though I suppose we can’t have Tom actually straddling poor Marimo as she forces her down on a bed.)

The rest of Hoshigumi, gamboling around the sets and selling broadsheets of Kean, brings an endearing sense of community to its scenes. Everyone in this London seems to know one another — they drink together, sing together, and defame scurrilous aristocrats together — and even when opinions run bipartisan, it’s with a sense of family feud rather than public debate. Costuming aside, the street scenes are the most consistent in quality, and make a warm, highly effective argument for troupe chemistry. Another, very serious advantage to the underclassmen’s energy is the way it makes it clear Tom is non-ironically a Shakespearean god to them, if only within the world of the play. That helps.

In the end, this production does little to persuade me “Kean” was particularly wronged when it fell through the cracks of history. And yet I’m grateful it exists: this quirky little play is not so bad that it doesn’t deserve a staging, and this version, for all that it’s as flawed as the material, lacks nothing in spark, spunk, and goodwill.

----------------------

Addenda, unrelated to the review or the theatrical value of this production in general:

1. Tom is a woman who loves her fans. So much so that when a scene demands that she appear in with shirtsleeves rolled back, and after a certain point the pins holding them up start slipping, she starts to scrunch those sleeves up. Repeatedly. However many times necessary. "My fans have been promised a view of my forearms," she seems to be thinking, "and by golly they shall have it!" Tom's status is a bit too venerable for "adorable" to be the right word, but it comes to mind.

2. Around Kean's dressing-room mirror are a smattering of his own "penny plain" posters, a few period photographs, and this. Yes, no, oh hi, oh my eye –– might this be Alfred Drake?

Takarazuka Musings, or, Oh My God She's Still Talking About This

Sat, 12 Sep 2009 22:10:31 GMT

I waffled back and forth for a bit as to whether I ought to do this post. The trouble with reflective, subject-specific posts is not only that they are incomprehensible to those not engaged with the subject matter –– and utterly predictable to those who are –– but that they date so quickly.

Still, aside from one early musing on retirements and a half-musing on musumeyaku, I don't think I've ever given proper voice to why Takarazuka is one of my hobbies. This isn't the official statement, mostly because I'm still hammering that answer out myself; but –– if everyone will bear with one last bit of meta for what I promise will be a while –– it's a reflection on how I'd describe my perspective right now.

I. Introduction, or, Fannish Perspective: It's Part of the Game

This began as a comment. Someone mentioned that their experience with Takarazuka had experienced a bit of a shift, away from seeing people in costumes in the background and more toward seeing specific actresses in costumes in the background. I found this to be a perfect way of describing what I've gained from fandom thus far. This is not to say that I'm in any way an expert on underclassmen now, or even on a particular troupe, or even on siennes in general. As far as that goes (and given the company I'm in), my knowledge and familiarity is alarmingly casual. But the sentiment resonates very well, because in an abstract sense it summarizes a hugely important facet of being a Takarazuka audience member: being a fan.

Which sounds incredibly obvious to anyone who knows about Takarazuka, of course, but I'm not just talking about the way that marketing to the fans and fanclubs plays such a large role in Hankyu's actions, or that a significant portion of their revenue is circulating in fan clubs, or that fan interactions like iri/de affect the lifestyle of the actresses, or that things like troupe rankings and casting politics are so enormously significant to its audience that Hankyu must think (or do whatever its equivalent is for the process) about it in virtually every decision it makes. (On a side note, the calendars. My thoughts on calendars had been, "Maybe I should buy one next year. I need calendars, it would be nice to have one of a hobby." Non-Zuka people, you would not believe the discussions and speculations that have emerged because of who appears in what month on the calendars. There is actually an expression for it, "calendar politics." Digest that as best you can.)

No, I'm not just talking about that. I'm talking about Takarazuka as an art form, and how fan culture influences the way its audience views it.

II. "Fannish Perspectives": A General Discussion

One of my epiphanies several years ago was that people don't always view things from a critical point of view –– that is to say, as a reviewer, or critic, or academic might look at them. And while you could have knocked me over with a feather for the first few weeks that I was trying to digest this concept (please don't think I'm kidding, this literally was an epiphany for me. I never claimed to be sharp about things like this, guys.), it's hard not to realize what an embraceable idea it is. There is a surprisingly meaningful side to the philosophy of shallowness, actually. There is something in being able to seriously watch a movie because you like one of the actors in it, regardless of how good a performance he gives or how worthwhile her screentime is. There is something in being able to see a show for subversive subtext that you (probably) know that you're inserting quite deliberately. There is something, in short, in being able to engage with texts on a personal level, rather than just an aesthetic one. I'd been doing this for years myself, while cheering for Inu-Yasha or biting my nails over Aramis' fate in "The Man in the Iron Mask", without realizing that this was different from how I approached Shinji in "Evangelion" or Momma Rose in "Gypsy."

I think most things could lend themselves to either form of reading, and most people duly approach them with some mix, conscious or otherwise, of both. Other things lend themselves much better to this kind of "engaged" reading –– Inu-Yasha is so much fun when you're rooting for him and hoping he'll come to his senses about Kikyou, whereas it gets a bit redundant if you're reading it just cerebrally –– while others leave room for much more by approaching them critically. (Still being in college, of course, I think that when it comes to certain things, approaching texts like "Paradise Lost" without a critical or scholarly lens, or at least a cerebral one, means you're missing out.)

III. "Fannish Perspective": A Specific Discussion

But the curious thing is that, for me, Takarazuka suggests a mix of both kinds of viewership. (Is there anything about Takarazuka that isn't some insane, ridiculously complicated overlapping of different aspects?)

That is to say, I'm pretty sure it's hard to watch the umpteenth Takarazuka Musical Generator product only to focus on the ways it plays into gender representation and interacts with feminism. It would get old very quickly, not to mention boring and a bit redundant. At the same time that I think there will always be an appeal for scholars, and that there will always be the urge to dip into reflective thinky-thoughts for the fans, it also seems pretty safe to assume that's not what would draw people to see the same show fifteen times over.

Putting on my "fan" lens means, for me, entering a state of mind that has all the high-energy, high-pitched enthusiasm of a thirteen-year-old girl hearing "I Want to Hold Your Hand" live in concert in 1963 ... combined with the cooing, somewhat unconditional enthusiasm of a parent attending the middle school play. Noru just winked at the camera? Cue a huge grin plastered on my face as I cackle and wish I could show someone who would understand why I think that is just awesome. O-Hana is putting on her "aged, worldly woman tired of it all" voice? Tom is parading about in the finale feathers? Komu has that Serious face on as she's doing her pirouettes? I catalogue these as things with which to compliment them, feeling unshakeably confident that my little pumpkin is the absolute best in the show. "All eyes went straight to you," I can imagine myself saying, and I'm sure their fans must be saying that in my place, as they ~~drive them home with celebration balloons in the car~~ hand them postcards at iri/de.

This aspect, much more than the dips into self-analysis and study, seems intrinsic to people who like Takarazuka, and certainly to those who stick around after puzzling through a few explanations of what it is. Academia can take you in pretty deep, but for the people who stick by Takarazuka year after year, troupe era after troupe era, generation after generation, I think it's far more a lifestyle than anything else. It's the fannish lenses that can stay on indefinitely, and that in turn keep you involved in this hobby indefinitely as well.

IV: My Own Point of View, a Background

When my professor made a brief segue into Takarazuka (it was a lecture on shoujo manga, the Magnificent 24s, The Rose of Versailles, and so forth), I thought it was fascinating. An all-female theater troupe, which provided venues of expression usually closed to (especially Japanese) women. Splendid! applause all around, I thought.

Then he mentioned that the founder and most of the current establishment of the company were male, and that the actresses who played male roles got universally higher billing, more publicity, more fans, and that it didn't really subvert any patriarchal structures. Okay, I thought, hold the ovations, perhaps, but it still sounds like a curio.

Then we saw a clip of someone I can now identify as Anju Mira, stepping out of a futuristic, ridiculously tacky submarine, with the most ridiculous costume and makeup imaginable, surrounded by these only-marginally-humanoid musumeyaku in costumes, and belting forth in what was, if you'll pardon me, certainly not a conventionally impressive singing voice. Okay, I thought this time, curio sounds exactly right, and if I thought this was going to be charismatic (or comprehensible) to me, I was sorely mistaken.

Then I went on YouTube, and you know the one bit at the end of Act I of "Elisabeth," when Death is on the silver bridge outside the stage, and watches as Elisabeth, the woman he loves, as she reunites with her husband and resolves to live her life? And Death (in this case played by Zunko) reaches out an arm, and sings out her name in a desperate, haunting sort of way as the curtain closes? And that Zunko does have a conventionally impressive singing voice, and that the spectacle in this case suited the subject matter? Well ... yeah, at that point they had me. They had me more after I saw "Guys and Dolls" courtesy of the library, and after "The Rose of Versailles" from ditto didn't manage to make me abhor it forevermore.

But in my case, the appeal of the performances was primarily only a turnkey to the more basic appeal of the metatheatrical aspect. I was an academic/fan on reflex. It was fascinating, discovering in myself that I had never thought of identifying with the "Guy" side of the "Guys and Dolls" divide, or rather hadn't thought at all, and identified instinctively with the "Dolls" side. There was the obvious, the vicarious and the defying conventional gender stereotypes and blah blah. There was the advantage of genre, since I already was fairly fond of musical theater. But most importantly there was the fact that I couldn't quite puzzle out what, exactly, Takarazuka was saying to me that let it resonate so well. I know where to go for cleaner pirouettes and faster tangos, for more clever storytelling or concise staging, for more diverse performance styles; and yet here I was, arrested and with a clenching feeling in my heart by the sight of Wataru literally sparkling as she spun around the practice room floor for the T4 concert, being an otokoyaku once more.

In short, Takarazuka won my heart I don't know why, and retained my interest because of it.

V. Not a conclusion so much as an open journal entry on where I am now as someone in the Takarazuka audience, and an opening-up of the floor

Surveys don't go over too well in the Takarazuka LJ community. I suppose as a group people are tired of being studied, especially in the same ways over and over again. Certainly the questions seem to repeat themselves from survey to survey. But one question I'm surprised I don't see repeated –– in fact, I haven't seen it yet, though it seems so important –– is, "What do you see onstage?"

A male character and a female character? A man and a woman? Two women? Yourself and a dream man? Yourself and an otokoyaku? A woman and an otokoyaku? An otokoyaku and a musumeyaku, as genders distinct from "male" and "female" categories respectively? Or just two performers you recognize and like?

And how do you relate to what you see? The one thing about what Jennifer Robertson dubbed the "official story" (Hankyu, Takarazuka's parent company, is extremely protective about its image, and is reputed to make sure that only articles or studies that support its own public image of the revue are ever released) that seems true is that Takarazuka is about dreams and illusions. But there are many different kinds of illusions happening at once on a Takarazuka stage, which is what makes it so hard for me to easily categorize and describe when people ask me what I like about it, or worse, what the general appeal is. What illusions do you see, and on which ones do you focus? In what way does it speak to you?

These questions have only come up for me recently, as I learn more; and I was surprised, on seeing how central they seem, that I hadn't seen them floating around, or for that matter hadn't thought of them myself much sooner. I had to grapple with them for quite a while before I could figure out my own answers to them. After all, when I first discovered Takarazuka, and even afterward when I got a livejournal and joined the online community for it, I didn't think this was really a question at all. I just assumed that the way in which Takarazuka resonated with me was more or less the way it resonated with everybody, and if I could just figure out what the heck was happening in my head as I watched, I'd be good to go. And then, gradually, I realized that what I got out of it was not just a variation on a universal theme, but very frequently tangential or entirely unrelated to what other fans were getting out of it, and the can of worms just quadrupled in size and density.

At first, I saw the otokoyaku as male while they were in character. Offstage, of course, they were as female as anything, but while I was focusing on the show, I saw only the characters they were performing –– and, even with babies or fairly-feminine performers like Ayaki Nao, I made a conscious decision to see the character, if not the actress, as male. This was partially just because if I didn't, then where would I be in seeing this, among other things, as a venue for being able to defy gender representation? If I can't see them as male, not even after occasionally helping them along and squinting, then doesn't that prove a rather problematic point about performance?

But somewhere along the line that stopped being all I saw. I can always switch that lens back on –– I do it on occasion –– but the problem is that now I really recognize the actresses. At the time when the important thing was the characters, my vision was of course focused only on that. But now, while the characters in a given show are important, I'm also watching for the actresses. I don't see "Elisabeth": I see "O-Hana's Elisabeth," or "Tonami's Elisabeth." More relevantly, I see "Osa's Death" or "Mizu's Death." It takes a very complicated double vision to see, at the same time, a decidedly male character, and a decidedly female actress playing the part. The best summary I have now for what I see is like the old monarchical philosophy of the "two bodies of the King": the physical body of the current King (i.e., the body of Louis XIII) and the "spirit" of Kingliness, the divinely-imbued aspect that gave Louis XIII the right and destiny of being King. (In France, those "two bodies" existed in the same person, obviously, until Louis XIII would die, and the "spirit" would pop by into Louis XIV; in England, after a while, the "spirit" part of the deal started to reside in Parliament.) A Takarazuka otokoyaku thus has both the "body of the actress" (Mizu, or Osa) and, layered on that, the "spirit of the character". It's as confusing to see things this way as it is to try to describe it, trust me.

I said earlier that I kept on with Takarazuka after that first mention by my professor because it resonated with me, and I was trying to articulate why. But I would add that at this point, the question has somewhat decreased in urgency. I still hope to answer it, but I'm learning so much just by talking and listening, by seeing the mechanics of troupe drama and casting and retirements in present tense, by finding out my favorites and trying to pick out baby faces ("trying" being so operative there –– it's not happenin' any time soon -_-;; ), by watching DVDs and dinner shows. I am still resolved to answer it, but I'm allowing myself to have a good time in the interim, since that's also part of the point.

What's keeping me here right now, then, is the fannish lens. Not to say that Takarazuka, as the abstract noun, isn't still intriguing to me, and its unsolved appeal still the real reason I'm on board, but my reaction to what I see onstage isn't purely cerebral anymore. There's an element of "engaged" reading, of seeing a show but also seeing the casting drama that must have gone on behind the scenes, of seeing troupe or top-otokoyaku-and-musumeyaku chemistry settling into place. There's an element, in short, of old-fashioned affection. Striking the balance between cerebral interest and sincere affection is still a work in progress for me, but a very organic one as well. I think this, like many other takes I have on Takarazuka and many other things I see on its stages, is something that's not as universal as my reflexes assume they are, though perhaps other people see that dichotomy as well, in different ways, or tangential ways, or surprisingly similar ways. So far, all I know for sure about the Takarazuka illusion is that it should be a plural, not a singular. I hope to find out and articulate what I see in it, but in the mean time I'm happy to discover that at least I now have a context for that vision.

I think you see why I quickly realized this doesn't belong in a comment box. ;)

(And I do know it's not Sunday. I just like the icon. :) )

Fall Cleaning

Sun, 06 Sep 2009 22:26:20 GMT

Returning to my native land has heralded many things, among them a floor-to-ceiling fall cleaning that has left my normally very neat room buried under piles and piles of paper. Every item that has ever belonged to me, starting with my first-grade hand-written essays and ending with a pile of still-unread books, is in my room. Most of it is organized; that which is not is on the floor, making the room unnavigable.

It makes nighttimes very exciting: I never know if I am going to make it to my bed intact or not. My sister, who is artistic and has therefore lived in such conditions since the age of ten, has taught me a sort of shuffle-step, to avoid risk of tetanus.

Coming back after a sustained absence means reassessing what you have, and why you have it. It also means assessing why you can never find any of it when you need it. And thus begins Fall Cleaning. I have a confession to make: I had always considered myself something of a Spartan when it came to stuff. All I really had to worry about was paper, and once that was filed all would be well with the world.

So I went through all the papers, from elementary school newsletters to college lecture notes, and filed them away. That took a busily constructive two days, and I felt pretty happy with myself.

"Have you gone through all the junk in that black hole of a hall closet?" asked my mother.

Thus began the quest to gather and organize the binders full of old high school notes; photo albums; pipe-cleaner figures; playbills from 1990. Underneath them was a pile of stuffed animals, some of sentimental value, others not. Under them were all the old Ariel Barbies I bought like an obsessive-compulsive as a child. Under them was a pile consisting exclusively of items best classified under "What is this, anyway?"

That took four days.

"Don't forget the bushels," said my mother. With sinking heart I remembered wrapping up in old bedsheets untold number of nicknacks -- which, unlike stuffed animals and Barbies, cannot be divided into "file away", "donate", and "burn." These are the souvenirs, the little jars that can fit nothing, the hand-glazed clay figures of old men on street corners, the boxes full of friendship bracelets and sixth-grade-camp bead necklaces and odds and ends picked up off sidewalks since the age of five. One can never throw these things away, you may have noticed. Interestingly, the reason we usually give ourselves for this decision is that such objects shall, in future days, fill our hearts with warm memories and a nostalgic, affectionate connection to a beloved past self. And yet, in the moment of crisis, when the trash can is looking ever so tempting and yet unspeakably forbidden, such objects inspire nothing so much as a desire to go back in time, grab our past selves, shake them uncontrollably by the shoulders, and inform them that we will kill them if they pick that scratched washer off the sidewalk.

Emptied and filed away were all the bushels, more or less. That took nearly a week.

I considered telling my mother, and then reconsidered. Combing the house, I took every single item that belonged to me, from the Broadway CD collection to the random books I had holed away on desks, coffee tables, kitchen counters, bathroom carpets, and so forth, and dumped them all in my room. These are still waiting to be sorted, "but at least it can't be said there's anything left to do after this," I said in triumph.

"Gone through that closet of yours?" said my mother.

The tough-love attitude my mother takes up whenever there is any daunting task to be accomplished is one that she applies to everyone, including herself. The family appreciates it. Even when we're not together, we work as constructively as back in the day, when my father, sister, and I would mutually scurry back and forth under her militant command. Things get accomplished. Tasks are checked off. Insurmountable obstacles are blasted away. All is well.

But some things can be too much.

"Honey, forget it, you've been constructive, it's okay," said my mother, somewhat anxiously, as the pounding sounds of skull against wall reached her through the telephone receiver.

Through the closet I went, but with considerably less enthusiasm than I had tackled everything else. No more pausing to reflect on a past item, remembering why I had kept it, and sparing it from the donation crates for now! No more sentimental reorganizing, no more trying to make room. Mercy was out. Anything I could not imagine myself wearing tomorrow was out.

Which, once the elementary-school sweaters, middle-school jeans, and assortment of T-shirts with holes in them had been eliminated, left me with about three items of clothing.

The reason for this is simple: I don't know how to shop. Not for clothes, anyway. I never learned. Shopping was what you did in marathon bouts before summer trips away, a twenty-four-hour do-or-die process in which you bought all your winter coats for the upcoming year on sale, and anything you might possibly need until the next May 25th. As such the process has been invested with an intrinsic stressful horror which has only recently begun to fade.

dragonbeak and I go to the mall, and after frequenting Borders at length, we dubiously begin to explore the less bookish corners of the establishment. We try on bowler hats and fedoras, meditate on the possible uses for the paper fans on sale at the Asian paraphernalia stores, and discuss the relative virtues of Elvis calendars. But let a shirt catch my eye and I back off nervously, trying to avoid flashbacks.

Someday my room will be clean again, and my closet restocked. My life will have one more check-mark on the great to-do list of reestablishing order. Until then, the piles of felt my sister has left in the hall closet are looking increasingly pantlike, and increasingly tempting.

BeruBara and Zombies.

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 06:46:19 GMT

Yes, that's right.

I'm jumping aboard a meme that has been circulating for a while –– based on the premise that zombies make everything better. My favorite application was a parody of William Carlos Williams' "Plums" ("I'm sorry I ate your brains..."), though the more famous version is of course "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies."

And so, with no further ado, a labor of love, a very late present for the lovely and wonderful just_keep_on:

PAPA JARJAYES: For generations, we the Jarjayes have served as guards for the royal family.
DAUGHTERS JARJAYES: The males have, anyway. We just gather roses and sing of their beauty!
PAPA JARJAYES: Yes, of course. But as I was saying—
DAUGHTERS J: Oh, how we love being children of the Second Estate!
PAPA JARJAYES: Right. Yes. Now, girls, let Papa finish the exposition.

PAPA JARJAYES: Now, my wife having delivered me one daughter after another, I at last despaired of a son and raised my youngest, Os—
NURSE GARDINER: OSCAR!
PAPA JARJAYES: … Well, yes.

DAUGHTERS J (rushing over): Nurse!
NURSE GARDINER: Now, now, girls. Today I’ve brought my son with me—Andre!
PAPA JARJAYES: Anyway, as I was saying. My daughter, I raised her as—
ANDRE (pointing to Oscar, who has just appeared in the window): A boy!
PAPA JARJAYES: … Well, yes.

OSCAR: Hey, Andre, let’s fence. I bet I could beat you!
ANDRE: You are like a boy. I like you!
DUEL: Commences, and carries on until both Oscar and Andre reached adulthood. One wonders if this is a metaphor.

ANTOINETTE: Here I am, holding court, and being harrassed by the Ladies of Court.
OSCAR: Enters.
ANTOINETTE: Os—
LADIES: OSCAR!
ANTOINETTE: … Well, yes.

LADIES: Oh, Oscar, your strangely effeminate flavor of manly charm makes us weak in the knees.
OSCAR: I know, ladies, I know, but I don’t have time for this today, I have to discuss some political affairs with Antoinette—
LADY 1: With her? You fool, don’t waste yourself!
LADY 2: Yes, I’d be just as willing to, uh, discuss political affairs with you.
LADY 3: I’d be willing to be a political affair with you.

OSCAR: Uh, no, wait. I feel like there’s been some misunderstanding. You see there’s been a series of very dangerous and problematic uprisings lately—
LADY 1: Oh, yes. I see.
LADY 2: But that’s not a problem. I could give you some very dangerous uprisings myself—
LADY 3: In Lady Oscar’s case that really would be problematic, wouldn’t it?

OSCAR (blushing to the ears): No, ladies, I’m quite serious about this. Antoinette—
LADY 1: Oh, so you’re serious about her, eh?
LADY 2: Figures.
LADY 3: (winking) That’s fine. We’re French, I’ve got a secret door in my room, she’ll never have to know—
OSCAR: WE SUSPECT IT'S ZOMBIES!
LADIES: … (Can find no possible euphemism for zombies)
LADIES: (Filter off in defeat)

OSCAR: Finally.
OSCAR: Antoinette, stop sniggering.

ANTOINETTE: So, is it really zombies, Oscar?
OSCAR: I’m afraid so, Your Highness. We have yet to discover the cause, but the outbreaks are concentrated almost exclusively in the Third Estate.
ANTOINETTE: Oh, good. It’s not foreign, then.
OSCAR (clearing her throat): Since you raise the subject of handsome foreign princes I don’t have crushes on, Your Highness … you must send Fersen away.

ANTOINETTE: No!
OSCAR: You must. People are talking. He favors you too much, you look at him too much, you’re together too much—and then, you look so good together.
ANTOINETTE: Really?
OSCAR: It’s a bad thing.

FERSEN: Here I am, going to meet with the loveliest pair of collarbones in all of France.
FERSEN: Love, love, love. I love you, Antoinette.
ANTOINETTE: Love, love, love. I love you, Fersen.
OSCAR: Drinks.

ANDRE: Oscar! Are you drinking on the job?
OSCAR: Well, the thing is they’re singing again.
ANDRE: Ah. Well, then, since you’re not likely to remember this in the morning, can I just tell you that I know you care about Fersen, and it breaks my heart … because the thing is I lo—

ZOMBIE: Attacks!
OSCAR AND ANDRE: Duel mightily!
ANDRE: Is shamefully defeated!
OSCAR: Comes to rescue and defeats zombie, though inebriated.
OSCAR: Who says they took all the girl power out of this franchise?

MASKED ZOMBIE: Turns out to be Bernard.
OSCAR: No! Bernard! Why? How?
ANDRE: We should pay a visit to the family and figure out what happened. You don’t suppose they heard the fighting and got worried?
OSCAR (bitterly): No. Fersen’s too busy staring at Antoinette’s gorgeous collarbones. Antoinette’s too busy staring at Fersen’s gorgeous eyes and his gorgeous hair and his gorgeous pink sequined lapels and his gorgeous shoulders and his gorgeous pecs and … (slurs off to sleep)
ANDRE: And that is why you should never drink on the job.

ANDRE: (Meditates) I know she’ll kill me if she finds out.
ANDRE: (Plucking up courage) Love, heaven, hell, dying upon the hand I love so well—(Kisses her)
OSCAR: (Does not wake up and kill Andre.)
UEDA SHINJI: And that is why you should never drink on the job.

THE NEXT DAY: Dawns.
OSCAR: Hello, Commoners! We, uh, we have bad news. Your pal Bernard went, uh, he went a bit zombie, you see, and, er, that is—we killed him.
COMMONERS: You filthy aristocrats! Horrid, horrid Second Estate! Vive la révoluti—
ROSALINE: OSCAR!
OSCAR: … Yes?

ROSALINE: You mustn’t bully Oscar, you fools! Did you fail to notice the strange allure of her effeminate-flavored manly charms?
ANDRE: I didn’t.
COMMONERS: Well, now that you mention it …

COMMONERS: How are you, Mlle Jarjayes?
OSCAR: Worried, thank you. Have you any idea what the cause or cure is as regards this zombie epidemic?
COMMONERS: Both are you. We are oppressed, you see, and over the years of having no proper sewage there’s, you see, there’s something in our low-quality water—
OSCAR: I had no idea! We must join you and right this horrible wrong, for the good of humanity! The future is before us! I shall lead you, my friends! Right, Andre?
ANDRE, who had been focusing on her ringlets: What? Er, right.

LADY 1: Oh, Lady Oscar, where have you gone?
LADY 2: Following her ideals, or some other silly thing like that.
LADY 3: She’ll come back. She has to. Ready, girls? Sen, no—
LADIES (singing): We love you O-oscar, oh yes we do, we love you Oscar, and we’ll be true.
NURSE GARDINER (picking up on the idea): When you’re not near us—
ALL TOGETHER: We’re bluuuuue! Oh, Oscar, we love you!

OSCAR (totally oblivious to all this singing): National Guard, please let me sign up.
MATOBU SEI: Oscar de Jarjayes, the lady whose mastery of swordfighting has made her captain of the Queen’s personal guard, not to mention a legend! But you can’t join us, you’re a woman.
OSCAR: Proves that she can defeat Matobu Sei, but not that she is male, thus not teaching Matobu Sei anything she didn’t already know.
MATOBU SEI: Welcome aboard, buddy!

OSCAR: Follow me, National Guard! I’ll be training you from now on!
NATIONAL GUARD: Follows, and learns.
ANDRE: Mostly follows and learns, but also messes a few moves up and makes a couple staggering motions.
NATIONAL GUARD: Worries.

PAPA JARJAYES: Oscar, dear, I have found you a husband!
ANDRE: WHAT.
GIRODEL: Yep. Here I am, Oscar. I love you very much, just so you know.
OSCAR: WHAT.
GIRODEL: And, what with the it pleasing your father and the me loving you and all, I think it’s a great idea.
ANDRE: Oh hell no.
GIRODEL: D’you think we should go with eggshell or ivory for the wedding napkins?
OSCAR: … I mean, I hadn’t thought about it, but I’d vote for white.
PAPA JARJAYES (with satisfaction): Match made in heaven!

GIRODEL: Righto, but the thing is, you should wear a dress, too. No more of this military attire. Certainly none of that dancing with the ladies of court you so seem to enjoy. You’ll probably have to downsize the fanclub, too, and tell them to stop singing ’60s showtunes for you.
OSCAR: Oh hell no.

EVENING IN OSCAR’S ROOM: Happens.
ANDRE: Uh, Oscar. In honor of our, er, first training session and, uh, your—your en- … en- … en- … that thingie with the ring that happened after it, I thought we’d have a toast.
OSCAR: Splendid! The stars are rather lovely tonight, aren’t they, Andre? Just like that evening you didn’t sexually harass me in my sleep.

OSCAR: You know, I’ve always thought of you as my twin star, Andre. The Castor to my Pollux.
ANDRE: 1798 was clearly not the peak of fandom metaphors.
OSCAR: And, well, it makes me feel like we’re bound somehow. I admire you very much, you know. Hopefully we’ll always be together, bud.

ANDRE: Right. Uh, Oscar, I’m having second thoughts. Don’t drink that.
OSCAR (raising cup): Why? Let’s toast to our neverending affection for each other!
ANDRE (tearing cup out of her hands): ALL-CAPS HAS MORE SUBTLETY THAN YOU AND THESE SCRIPT-WRITERS.

ANDRE: Oscar, I love you! I’ve always loved you! And I was a fool, but I couldn’t help it, I thought I’d rather see us both dead than you married to someone else!
OSCAR (slightly panicked): Er, that’s very moving, Andre, now stop the barnacle impression.

OSCAR: Oh, Girodel, there you are.
GIRODEL: Ah, Oscar! Listen, I was thinking about the curtains—how do green fleurs-de-lis sound to you? Embroidered in lines across the top, see, we want to seem tasteful—
OSCAR: I’m sorry, Girodel, but I just can’t marry you. There’s this man, see, whose face would freeze into a position reminiscent of a kicked puppy if I did.
GIRODEL: Well, that’s a reasonable basis upon which to build your future.

ANTOINETTE: Louis, there’s a revolution brewing. All these complicated political things they keep talking about!
LOUIS: I know, dear. I don’t understand any of it either.
ANTOINETTE: Oh, Louis! I’m so glad you’re here with me in these horrid times!
LOUIS: I’m just glad I get a speaking scene.

ANDRE: Ready for the big charge tomorrow, guys?
NATIONAL GUARD: We are. But, Andre, how do we say this—
ANDRE: You. You know?
GUARD: Yes. And—
ANDRE: Don’t tell me I can’t go!
GUARD: You’d be a danger to yourself and everyone around you, not to mention to the cause of liberty, equality, and fraternity.
ANDRE: Yes, but I’d also look weak beside the girl I love.
GUARD: Well, that’s a reasonable basis upon which to build our future.

OSCAR: Here we come, Bastille!
COMMONERS AND NATIONAL GUARD: We will, we will rock you!
ANDRE: Braaaaains—I mean, ahem. Yes. Charge!

OSCAR: Leads!
REBELS: Charge!
ANDRE: Is shot.

OSCAR (from below the bridge): ANDRE!
ANDRE: O … Oscar? Where are you?
ANDRE: Staggers around.
OSCAR: Andre! You … you’re a zombie?
ANDRE: Bernard bit me, you see. Oh, Oscar, I—
OSCAR: ANDRE!
ANDRE: Love, love, love. I love you, Oscar.
OSCAR: ANDRE!
ANDRE: OSCAR!
OSCAR: ANDRE!
ANDRE: OSCAR!
STORY: Finishes Andre off.
OSCAR: WHAT.
STORY: It’s a mercy killing. And believe me, when I say that, you know it’s true.

OSCAR: Fights on.
OSCAR: I have been shot! Battle on, you noble heroes of the revolution, into the brilliant future—a beautiful future, a future free of zombies, guillotines, mindless war, and bad playwrights!
DRAMATIC IRONY: Settles upon the audience with an audible thwack.

PAPER-MÂCHÉ PEGASUS: Carry off Oscar and Andre.
OSCAR: Love, love, love. I love you, Andre.
ANDRE: The day will never come that ends my love for you, Oscar.
OSCAR: Oh, Andre. Did anyone love me more than you?
LADIES OF COURT (with bits of paper-mâché sticking to their hair): WE DID, OSCAR!
OSCAR AND ANDRE: ... Well, yes.

Review: Sorasabeth'98

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 06:38:41 GMT

Elisabeth, Soragumi 1998
DVD
4 stars

I should probably admit from the get-go that I do not think “Elisabeth” is a good show. The loose, surreal sketch of Empress Elisabeth’s lifelong love affair with a personified Death is a fog-machine spectacle, a sequined soap opera, a straight-faced and dull discussion of cabbages and kings, a glamorous faux-epic — and, okay, fine, it’s also the most successful Austrian musical of all time and one of the biggest Takarazuka franchises today. Having had the bad luck of seeing the Soragumi 1998 production, I find myself forced to admit these facts have had some pretty impressive side effects.

One is that Zunko had a chance to play Death, the show’s darkly winsome center, and do wonders with the role. Armed with what is perhaps one of the best voices in recent Takarazuka history, she blasts hubristically through “The Last Dance,” seethes through “Milk,” and closes Act I with an “Elisabeth” that sends chills down the spine.

Her interpretation has been hailed as the cold one, and that’s true enough: her der Tod seems less the spirit of death than the thing itself, given legs and a face. Apathetic to the point of amorality, his love for Elisabeth seems to take him completely by surprise, occasionally breaking through his seemingly-ingrained masterfulness and seeming all the more sincere for the contrast. It’s an interpretation that may not be the universal favorite — this Death is neither a fairy-tale prince like Osa’s nor a deliciously sadistic being like Mizu’s — but Zunko makes a powerful argument in its favor.

Another splendid side effect is O-Hana, at this point an Elisabeth veteran. To be sure she makes a very diminutive, dainty-looking Empress, but she wears the requisite pride and growing iciness well, and her face-off with Zunko in “Malady” makes it clear she is not to be trifled with. She also successfully navigates the age spectrum required of the role. And while she cries a few times more than I found really necessary — it lost its emotional impact after a while and became distracting — she creates a demurely tough, elegantly unyielding Elisabeth who is quintessentially Takarazukan. I’m not sure how, exactly, she manages to make “I Belong to Me” sound practically selfless, but I really believe she does it.

Well-suited to each other’s interpretations and their own roles, this Elisabeth and Death nevertheless do far better at singing declarations at each other than dialogue: while they do have chemistry, it’s not in the intimately sexy way associated with this romance. Thus we have a very unique “Malady,” which is pure argument; there’s nothing seductive about it. Yet, assuming the lack of swoopy Death hands isn’t too much of a blow, the resulting wide-stanced, furious battle of wills makes for a uniquely crackling and riveting rendition. (You can’t have it all, though: Zunko’s somewhat melodramatic head-snaps fare worse in “Elisabeth.”)

The rest of the troupe, very fortunate in its casting, by and large does splendidly by its roles. Wao makes a very properly stiff-and-stuffy Franz, and as might be expected harmonizes well with O-Hana in both their duets. Komu makes a heartbreaking (if very Serious) Rudolf. Izumo Aya had clearly not yet turned mean roles like Sophie’s into her signature, but the vocals and sternness are already there. Wataru is perhaps the only real weak link in the cast, as a vaguely mean and mostly unmemorable Lucheni.

The show still drags a disproportionate amount of the time, of course, especially during the time-lapse scenes, wherein Wataru struggles to imbue Lucheni with enough charisma to make the history-stuffed narration entertaining. The stilted narration sequences, with their even stiffer staging, recall Berubara in the worst of ways, and set in a show where even the good numbers have a seductively slow, relentlessly serious tone, they make the story seem about two hours longer than it is. The sum of "Elisabeth"s parts are undoubtedly superior to the whole. That said, the cast does its best to reduce the problem: the narration sequences have rarely sounded better, and as soon as the next major number starts up, all is resuscitated.

The other flaws are still present, too, if we must go there, but I’d rather not; it seems only fair, in honor of the glamour this cast has managed to throw over them.

You see, the trouble with turning your nose up at “Elisabeth” is that it’s just so romantic. In an illogical, marginally-unhealthy sort of way, to be sure, but try reminding yourself of that when Death, after singing his last hubristic siren call, is embraced by Elisabeth at last and bursts into hopelessly grateful tears. And to be sure, everyone will have her own golden cast, and her own favorite rendition of that scene: but I believe this to be a powerful contendor for that spot in anybody’s list.
---

I might as well append the usual public-service announcement: Beware the camera angles. They're very, ah, artsy, and while I was able to treat this with bemusement for the majority of the time, the cameraman kept trying, and finally succeeded in getting in my black books when he cut away from a woman en pointe. Crazy, crazy human being.

Review: Ichiro Maki's "September Night"

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 06:32:38 GMT

September Night
VHS
2 stars if you're not an Ichiro fan, 4 if you are.

Announcement: Ichiro Maki knows how to hold a micrphone.

This may not seem as important as all that, of course, but in a world of extremely talented ladies with big gestures and humble speaking voices—a world of performers who use microphones every day of their lives, but only cradled gingerly between both hands—it is refreshing to see one grasp a microphone as if she did in fact know how to use it.

The actress upon whom this distinction is conferred is a worthy one, as Ichiro Maki can command a stage with just as much confidence as she can grip a mic in her dinner show “September Night.” Her voice is always pleasant to listen to, and the way in which she slinks off a suit jacket before snapping her head around to the audience is—well, it’s classic top otokoyaku: impossible to see without laughing, and impossible to laugh at without feeling a surge of affection. Both talents are showcased well in the selection of mostly easy-listening songs that make up the playlist, as are those of her four musumeyaku backup singers.

More energetic is the musumeyaku’s rendition of “The Locomotion” (no, really), and the utterly straight-faced treatment of an unwittingly-genius finale number. (I can’t give you the title, as it would be a spoiler. It must be seen to be believed, anyway.) Meanwhile the rest of the show should probably be seen for any Ichiro fan who wants a pleasantly subdued evening of sequins.

Review: "Epiphany"

Mon, 24 Aug 2009 02:05:42 GMT

Epiphany, Hoshigumi 1999
TIP disc
3 stars

The place is a small restaurant in Tokyo, near the Enoza theater district; the time is Meiji Era Japan. A young man is gently rebuffing a girl’s affections, imploring her to turn her feelings elsewhere. For those who know this story is an adaption of William Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, the reason is clear: the good-looking Kabuki actor Takagoro (Ayaki Nao) is in fact a woman in disguise.

Of course, since this is Takarazuka, so is every other man on the stage. The gender mixups are relevant here in a way they haven’t often been since the all-male cast of seventeenth-century England, something “Epiphany” remembers to take advantage of. When “Takagoro” tells the heartbroken Mari that her love is no different from loving an actress onstage, the observation must have made quite a few people in the audience smile over their own opinions of Miss Ayaki Nao.

And Saeko proves herself entirely equal to leading the project. Playing a woman, a man, and a woman-disguised-as-a-man, sometimes with only a few minutes offstage to switch costume and persona, she gives an inspired performance. Only an otokoyaku could calibrate herself enough to pull off such a triple role, and not every otokoyaku could do it so well.

Nor is the rest of the cast overshadowed. From Asazumi Kei’s and Miya Erika’s brazen odd couple, to Matobu Sei’s devilishly-handsome reformed-pickpocket Shingoro, to Oohiro Ayumu’s believable onnagata—indeed, even to Hiiro Moe’s hilariously outspoken and Mizushiro Rena’s adorably oppressed bit characters—they all do justice to the colorful assembly of silly, well-meaning, and (especially in the women’s cases) strong minor characters.

Not that most of them have too much to do with their Shakespearean bases; nor does the story, which replaces Shakespeare’s subplots with a few more suited to the new setting. To fly through the new story setup: Otaka, disguised as her brother Takagoro, becomes a Meiji-era Kabuki actor and falls in love with fellow-actor Iriya. He in turn is in love with Mouri Mari, the daughter of a theater owner who once banished him, and sends her love letters through the understandably-reluctant Otaka. Mari promptly falls in love with Otaka instead of Iriya, unwittingly foiling both actors’ romantic aspirations as well as those of her other suitor, a gold-digger out to win Papa Mouri’s support for a coed theater troupe, until he realizes Otaka would be the perfect actress to pilot his venture.

The Meiji setting, the reason for most of the changes, is used to great effect. The eclectic costumes; the sets, ranging from Western house to Kabuki stage; the language varying from the traditional, proper vocabulary of the actors (this is the first time I have been able to conclusively prove that there is in fact a Japanese word for love letter other than “rabu retta”) to the first inklings of imported Western words from the new-money officials—all of it was executed to advantage. And the scriptwriter made the splendid decision to use the new context to throw in the overarching conceit about the rise of actresses in Japan, letting them pull all the Takarazuka in-jokes and genderswaps in coherently with the plot.

This coherency is the greatest asset of “Epiphany.” There are no less than seven subplots threading together here: Otaka’s new life as an actor, Mari’s search for the meaning of love, Fukunaga’s quest to Westernize theater, Iriya’s differences with Papa Mouri, Papa Mouri’s haunted past, Takagoro’s growth to maturity, and Shingoro’s conflict with the pickpocket gang. Having this many ideas—and this many characters—runs the risk of muddling the storyline past coherence. Luckily, they manage not to lose focus. All of these characters’ intertwining stories are, at their hearts, about the same thing, after all: this is a show about changing times. More importantly, it is a show with direction, and that makes following the characters’ bumbling way to a happy ending a lot more enjoyable.

Even the climax, which runs dangerously close to cluttering itself as virtually the entire cast finds itself crammed together in a kerfuffle on the riverbank, sets itself up well enough to remain coherent. That it doesn’t end with double engagements was a bit of a disappointment, however. When Shakespeare wrapped the entire play up so neatly, you wonder why they bothered changing it so that it needed a talking-heads epilogue.

Indeed, Shakespeare lovers will probably not be raving after this adaptation. Shakespeare’s comedies are wonderful, among many other things, for their tightly-crafted storylines, and while the plot here is usually coherent and frequently pleasant, it’s not at all tightly-crafted. The changes here serve to do very little on a narrative level than to loosen the pegs of the original play, and many of the thematic innovations and new tangential subplots throw off the story’s pacing enough to make it drag at times.

All this is relevant only if you’re expecting Shakespeare, though, which is generally a bad idea when facing any liberal adaptation of his stories. “Coherent” may not be a glowing adjective to provide a play based on “Twelfth Night,” but it’s not a given, either.

There’s also the question of the music, which is scarce and mostly unexceptional, and the dances, which are sprinkled throughout the show and used to passable effect. Both acts open with a Western-style waltz, but the real prizes go to the two interpretive Japanese dances that serve to describe the state of Otaka’s mind. Saeko navigates these beautifully, delivering such dangerously clichéd lines as “That love letter should have been mine!” with such tearful sincerity that you can’t help but sympathize with her. The true magic of this play lies in scenes like this, and when there are that many of them strung together well enough to assemble a pleasant whole, there’s really not much room for complaint.

It’s very simple, everyone: this is Bow Hall gold, and it’s a keeper.

Review: "Amber-Hued Rain/Cocktail"

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 16:03:55 GMT

In the Amber-Hued Rain/Cocktail, Hanagumi 2002
VHS
3 stars. Add one if you're a Charlie fan.

If there’s one moral upon which all the entertainment industry since the dawn of civilization agrees, it is: Do not fall in love with a certain sort of woman. It will not end well.

Of course, from Salome to Carmen to Manon, “not end well” has usually meant death for one or both of the involved parties. Sweeping tales of romance rarely address the outcome for those of us who fall in love with such women and manage to come out of it alive.

Into exactly this territory treads “In the Amber-Hued Rain,” the odd single stage of Takumi Hibiki. On the off chance that the divinely-justified, star-crossed love story does not consume its lovers, apparently, a would-be Jose—here named Claude (Charlie)—would don a trench coat and wander about in a sort of rueful melancholy, collar turned up against the rain and recounting his love for an untameable woman (Ootori Rei). Film noir meets would-be epic romance, with mixed results.

On the one hand, it’s refreshing to see an atypical plot for a Zuka stage, whatever the form. On the other hand, this is not a plot that’s wildly worthwhile in and of itself. Claude, affianced to the gentle and harmless Françoise (Toono Asuka), falls hopelessly in love with the kept woman Sharon, agreeing to compete for her affections with the gigolo Louis (Haruno Sumire). In their way are a wealthy banker (Yabuki Shou) who is dating Sharon; Françoise, who has more spunk than anyone expected; Michel (Sena Jun), Françoise’s brother and Claude’s friend; Eva (Natsumi You), Louis’ boss; and Sharon herself, who rather likes having rich men look after her, thank you very much.

And that’s it. No lives are risked, no noble sacrifices are made, not even any beautiful friendships are formed. Claude never abandons his responsibilities to run off for true love, but he never turns his back on Sharon, either: instead, he just sort of waffles, and thereby still manages to break Françoise’s heart, since the girl isn’t blind. In their dreams, both Claude and Sharon see something vaguely magical in the sparks between them—but in the real world, they cannot escape the mundanity of their situation or of themselves. Theirs is the mediocre incarnation of a great love story.

And, granted, this is an interesting concept to explore, but it’s also not particularly entertaining, at least not in this incarnation. The trouble with writing a show where nothing is happens, is, well, that nothing happens. And the noir frame does not alleviate this problem so much as make it unclear why it’s even thrown into the mix.

Luckily, though perhaps not surprisingly given the cast is chock-full of then- and future stars, the performances are solid all around. Natsumi You probably wins as the actress who lights up the stage with the most grace and least material, and Asuka gives a slightly-hysterical but nevertheless engaging performance as Françoise. Meanwhile I find my crotchety self stuck with no complaints to make about anybody in the cast.

The star being Charlie, the show blessedly features three large dance numbers—an opening waltz, a ballroom sequence in Act II featuring a young Maikaze Rira, and a lovely dream sequence between Charlie and Midori. There’s also a full-company number set at the train station which provides a welcome moment of simple, upbeat scene-setting.

Its atypicality, the well-rounded cast, and the company numbers provide something of a counterpoint to the fact that “In the Amber-Hued Rain”s plot is ultimately not engaging. It never hurts to watch, which is not true of other shows with more uneven material. But whether the tradeoff is worth the price is for the audience to decide.

COCKTAIL REVIEW

Some shows are too infamous to need much introduction, but let me say from the get-go that “Cocktail” is also good. Not in the vein of high art, to be sure, nor even of explicability, but definitely good nonetheless.

Led by the talented Takumi Hibiki, the troupe high-kicks its way through the silly (a number entitled “Temptation” that evolves into a can-can, another which posits that tequila could turn Osa into a miming basketball star), the sultry (a notorious dance about a monk’s temptation, a series of impressive pretzel maneuvers in a pair dance), and the over-the-top (a sequence involving horrific sequined-and-ruffled, full-body jumpsuit bell-bottoms and feathered headdresses, which at risk of losing the respect of the entire online community I am going to admit I liked).

There’s also an extended sequence called “Charlie’s Bar,” which, with its eery applicability to the offstage plot of the show, is sure to require hankies for any Charlie fans. This was after all her only Grand Theater stage as top star. To keep the dialogue about Charlie (the character) being washed up, or the plot point wherein he loses his girl to Osa, seems a bit brutal; but the subsequent homage and send-off from the troupe compensates by being such a touching public farewell, as is Charlie’s final ascent up a staircase lit up by her name and crowded below by a cheering Hanagumi.

Musically, “Cocktail” is marginally more interesting than “Amber-Hued Rain,” though to be fair most of its songs are covers (“Orphée en Enfers”) and revue staples (“Tabu”). Charlie and Midori both make it through the solos in pretty good shape, but it’s Yumiko who belts her way to the singing spotlight (they hadn’t yet figured out to give Osa her operatic solos).

But the dancing, not the singing, is the real focus of the show, or at least it comes in second place after the costumes. Both the can-can and the monk scene feature some nifty moves (the latter is choreographed by Anju), and if the stair dance and finale leave Charlie looking as if she’s ready to collapse in bed for a week, the effect seems worth it.

That’s true of the whole revue, really: the effect is worth the trouble, both for the performers who as always worked so hard to create a good show, and for the audience who has managed to get their hands on it. There’s not much more to “Cocktail,” but even so, effect is rarely delivered with so much style and glee, nor so steady a supply of sequins.

Review: "Seal of Roses"

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 16:01:29 GMT

Seal of Roses, Tsukigumi 2004.
TIP disc
2 stars. Add one if you like vampire stories; add another if you're a Saeko or Rika fan.

There are some shows you feel almost guilty for not liking. After all, “Seal of Roses” isn’t supposed to make an awful lot of sense: it’s meant to be good fun, now with more vampire action.

But could someone explain the logic of infusing a good, fun vampiric romp with the most pointlessly confusing storyline that side of camp? The idea of switching your brain off is to be able to actually keep it switched off. A story that makes no sense without some serious investment of thought—and even less sense with it—is anathema to romps, even those with Shibuki Jun in them.

Then again, the show does have Shibuki Jun in it. And Emi Kurara, and Ayaki Nao, and Kiriya Hiromu. It also has Oozura Yuuhi, Yoshizuki Eri, Hoshihara Misao, Natsukawa Yura, and a young Tsukifune Sarara and Hokushou Kairi. All of them are their usual variously cool, cute, funny, clever, adorable, scary, and/or stately selves. And since the show’s storyline—which follows Francis the vampire’s quest to collect the jeweled roses that would seal away his nemesis, while in the process discovering the meaning of life and love—spans 700 years, we get to see all of them in various incarnations, various costumes, and various wigs. In other words, Fuin still has the elements of good B-theater fun-with-vampires action, and if you just want a chance to see that, it’s not a terrible show. Just don’t expect it to make sense on any level.

Oh, and then there’s the dances. They also doesn’t make any sense, incidentally (I don’t know which of the choreographers was responsible for some of those moves, though that’s probably the anonymity I would want in his position). Still, Rika is a talented dancer, and every so often, show notwithstanding, she gets to do her thing.
Rika’s acting chops are also in full form. She can take such absolute inanities as her character’s reunion with once-lover Paula’s granddaughter seem genuinely moving, and her expressions when she’s trapped in a giant glass cage can almost make you forget the absurd sequence of events that got her there.

Then, of course, she breaks out through means unknown, and we’re back to square one. This is a script that insists on screaming out how bad it is, even when I did my utmost to ignore it and focus on the spectacle.

Thankfully, there is spectacle. For starters, there’s the giant LCD screen, used to great effect in the medieval act, retired in the French court act, brought back for reasonably effective use in the Berlin act, and, after a dip into hopeless inexcusability during the 2003 act, coming back for gaudy but ultimately pretty effect in the revue.

There’s also the music, which is largely serviceable, occasionally catchy, and decently-sung. There is also enough of it that the pacing doesn’t feel too stilted or dry.

Finally, and luckily, there are the costumes. As a whole this show is a sartorial dream: each time period is well-rendered, as is every nationality (don’t ask; it’s a misguided attempt at a round-the-world dance). I also confess an irrational fondness for the birds-nest hairstyles and futuristic garb of the 2003-era populace, and a moment of appreciation when a flock of red-caped vampires make their entrance in the first dance number.

Saeko was probably the most blessed in the outfit department. Over the course of the play her fans get to see her as a monk, a seeress (yes, she goes in drag—dark blue, hoop-skirted, frilly drag; just saying), a Nazi, and an evil rat’s-nest-headed mastermind in a suit.

Rika doesn’t do too badly either, dressed variously in suits, armor, gypsy getups, and vampire capes, as well as one shirt-and-trousers number in which she proves herself once more the undisputed champion of unbuttoned poet blouses.

And Kurara—frizzy medieval wig notwithstanding—got some very pretty outfits as well: her fans get to see her as a medieval princess, a Rockette-type band leader, a tango dancer, and a modern girl who is for some reason wearing what looks like a spiffied-up slip.

Kiriyan apears as a moustachio’d, self-absorbed actor with an unwitting comic turn, a Nazi, and Louis XIV.

Natsukawa Yura makes an appearance in a grape-colored evening dress. Yuuhi gets the BeruBara treatment as Louis XIV’s brother. Micchan makes a notable appearance as the one teenager in 2003 with a functioning brain, Rui-Rui as the Sun King’s mistress, and Yoshizuki Eri as both a wisdom-dispensing monk and an elderly, white-wigged doctor. Rounding out notable appearances is Misao, who at one point gets a scar.

Whether these visions of siennes in dapper will be worth the DVD depends primarily on your mileage. If you’re strong-willed enough to keep your brain switched off no matter how the irrational riddle of the plot may tempt your synapses to fire, this will be fun. If not, your best bet is to scramble the scenes, watch them out of order, command your brain to be silent, lean back on your occipital lobes, and rewind to watch that bit with the poet blouse again.

Review: SoraBeruBara 2001, Fersen and Antoinette

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 15:57:43 GMT

Er ... this one is not kind. I should explain that my intellectual assessment of a show does not always align with my ability to enjoy it, at least to some extent, and, er ... don't kill me.

Rose of Versailles, Soragumi 2001
DVD
1 star

If anyone needed proof that one great performance will not a great show make, he or she need look no futher.
The great performance in this case is Hanafusa Mari’s as Marie Antoinette—whose walk to the guillotine has got to be one of the most powerful moments ever on a BeruBara stage. O-Hana makes for a wonderful Antoinette, and by the last scene, she needs nothing more than for the first spotlight to hit her: her very posture speaks volumes. (So do her eyes, incidentally, and so does every vocal inflection, even when given nothing to work with but “Ai Areba Koso.”)

But while an exceptional sienne might carry a flimsy show, no sienne on earth can be expected to shoulder a positive Sisyphus’ boulder. There’s no point expecting miracles, then: the most cheek-crackingly broad smiles from the ensemble can’t save this one. Nor can all the chemistry with which O-Hana and Wao can light up the smoldering air between their eyes, nor all the angst Mizu can fit into a lovesick André gaze, nor all the melodramatic flourishing the otokoyaku could manage with their capes. At its best, BeruBara is like a giant float—big, colorful, wobbling forward in commemoration of something, and not good for much. This is not BeruBara at its best.

The pacing is abysmal. Oscar and André’s story is smushed into the first act, to its detriment; the second act then empties sharply of all revolutionary action (indeed, any action at all, except for a horrifically misguided attempt to use an LCD screen which I am still trying to scrub out of my memory), focusing on Antoinette and Fersen angsting separately or together. Characterization is, by and large, left somewhere on the cutting board, whereas the vastly awkward poisoning scene is unfortunately not.

And while it’s hardly to be expected that any important characterization or narrative weight should depend on the songs in BeruBara, this version has to be exceptional even in its own world. “Ai Areba Koso” is reprised beyond any conceivably excusable limits, to the extent that when Fersen is supposed to wrap up the tragedy—and, to her credit, poor Wao gives a solid effort and clearly tries her hardest to make that refrain sound poignant or relevant—it’s hard to do anything but groan, or even snicker.

Similarly absent is all believable historical buildup, or indeed any real connection to the history the play professes to tell. Not that BeruBara aims for any great deal of historical accuracy, what with Oscar’s very existence, but even so, the manga did touch in meaningful ways upon some of the basic themes of the French Revolution. The closest this show approaches to such themes is a screamed “Furansu … banzai!” at the end of Act I.

You may think all these sweeping negatives on my part are bad form, or sloppy authorship. Quite the contrary: I assure you every adjective was chosen with deliberate attention. One-note this review may seem, but unnecessarily unkind it is not, not when its subject is considered.

One-note, that is, except on the subject of its leading lady. To be sure, she’s not perfect, and in the first act does not actually stand out very much from the countless Antoinettes who have preceded her. It probably doesn’t help that she’s weighted down by the yards of fabric and kilos of jewelry she’s wearing, which is in fact the problem plaguing the rest of the cast. I was hardly expecting to see such heavy-hitters as Wao, Mizu, and Saeko and come away without a single really positive thing to say about their performances—except that at least they all seemed to have survived them.

The exception happens in the finale, where the complete irrationality of Fersen managing to sneak in and out of the Bastille helpfully establishes how much of the credit belongs to Ueda Shinji and how much to the cast. If everyone else does her best with the material she’s given, it is only O-Hana who is able to make silk purses out of sows’ ears, spin straw into gold. Her representation of Marie-Antoinette’s final moments, a portrait of a woman ruined by powers she still does not understand, still tinged by the aristocratic mannerisms she can never escape, is the only reason to think about this Berubara.

After being subjected to the previous two hours I’m not sure Eponine dying on the barricades could have moved a tear out of me, so I will say baldly that I was in no danger of crying. But that finale did raise me from a profound, half-disgusted state of cynicism into a sense of melancholy and sympathy—a profound accomplishment indeed, when five minutes can serve as a counterweight to the most terrible two hours I can ever recall seeing assembled on a stage.

Review: "Guys and Dolls"

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 15:50:54 GMT

There'll be quite a few of these coming up, so for the non-Takarazuka people (and, come to think of it, the unoffending Zuka people, too, who have flists they don't want cluttered) I pre-empt with a bit of an apology.

"Guys and Dolls": Tsukigumi 2002
DVD
4 stars

Nobody who’s heard ekusudei speak on this subject is probably in much suspense on this one, so I’ll dive right into it by saying that here be siennes in pinstripes, lit up by neon, and doing what is probably the most important thing required of a “Guys and Dolls” show: giving the audience a sense of place. When a character scuttles across the stage in this show, she has got to be scuttling across Runyonland—and this is Runyonland, albeit via Osaka.

The plot that organizes all this scuttling is fairly simple: the Save-A-Soul Mission, led by the earnest young Sarah Brown (Emi Kurara), is failing miserably in attracting repentant sinners in downtown New York. Unrepentant sinners, on the other hand, abound, led by the stalwart Nathan Detroit (Yamato Yuuga), a man unabashed by anything except his frustrated fiancée of fourteen years, Adelaide (Kiriya Hiromu). In a bid to raise money for one final gambling spree, Nathan bets young rake Sky Masterson (Shibuki Jun) that he couldn’t take Miss Sarah out on a date; Sky, unable to turn down a challenge, accepts. Shenanegans ensue until everything is eventually straightened out by one lucky roll of the dice.

Replete with a lineup of perfectly oustanding songs (all but one of which are kept, in occasionally-truncated form, here; allow me to pump my fist) and accented by a splendidly world-building bit of staging, the show really is hard to beat.

So is this production: I can hardly imagine our girls doing it better. For starters is Rika’s splendid turn as the irresponsibly charming Sky Masterson. Her low quaver works very well here, helped along by a thoroughly-mastered heartthrob act; and if she’s drawing in broad, unvarying strokes, at least she’s drawing in exactly the right ones. Winking rakishly at the audience and toying with her hat, she seems convinced it is her born duty to steal the heart of every female in the entire theater. It is only possible to laugh at such ambitions when they actually seem unlikely to succeed.

It certainly succeeds with Kurara, who, whatever her vocal weaknesses, gives us a straight-laced, long-suffering, slightly vulnerable counterpoint to Rika’s charm. Their scenes together should be required viewing for all TMS students: the two of them provide an inimitable lesson in stage kissing.

Meanwhile, Tani delivers an increasingly-cornered smarminess as Nathan, and the insuperable Kiriyan, looking like a born musumeyaku, delivers a duly sniffling and sneezing Adelaide. Still, Kiriyan’s effeminate cuteness and Tani’s cool humanity collide with disappointingly little pomp and circumstance, and their scenes together are unmemorable.

Some of the aspects of the original book that dated poorly—for one, the inevitable moment where the gender divisions veer askance (“if he ever tries to stray from you/ Have a pot roast/ Have a headache/ Have a baby/ Have two!”)—are distressingly unsoftened here, even though the very fact that this is an all-female cast should have given them a leg up in that direction. The line I just quoted is here accompanied by a vision of Rika and Tani in aprons, juggling babies on their hips. This moment—wait, I think I heard a couple thuds. Understandable, understandable. Here, have some smelling salts—this moment, I was saying, is a headache-inducing, metatheatrical labyrinthe that’s headed nowhere good if you try a feminist lens on it.

But the most basically crucial aspect in a good production of this show is tone—and in that Tsukigumi delivers, from the neon sets to the pinstripe suits, from the bumbling antics of Yuuhi, Sararan, and Micchan (Nicely-Nicely, Benny, and Rusty) to Shiomo Maho’s deadpan Big Jule. Even the lighting behaves itself, for once. But possibly most impressive of all is the way that the opening New York cops-and-robbers sequence, the brawlfest in Havana, and the crapshooters’ dance in the sewers all work together to flesh out the neon world of the play. And the prim, wide-elbowed prancing of the dolls, and the smirking fedora tosses of the guys, are carried out with such gusto that it’s clear the cast was having a ball with both.

In short, unless you don’t much care for “Guys and Dolls,” or unless you care so much that you demand a singingly soaring Sarah or a more boisterously male “Oldest Established,” this should probably be somewhere on any Zuka fan’s to-see list.

I Am Back!

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 02:28:50 GMT

Now, to catch up on everything I missed.

Announcement of Hiatus

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 15:46:14 GMT

Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. Or rather, I am, but not permanently: only for the upcoming few months. I should be alive and well and back on the internet by the fall.

(People to whom I still owe things, don't worry, I haven't forgotten. I promise I'll finish and deliver everything once I get back.)

In the interim — I hope you all have smashingly wonderful summers, and I promise I shall catch up on absolutely everything –– comments I'll have missed, entries I'll have missed, crazy decisions on the part of Hankyu I'll have missed –– upon my return, whereupon my life will probably be in more of a semblance of order.

I love you and shall miss you all exceedingly. Please have fun while I'm gone!

"Oklahoma!" Review

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 04:04:52 GMT

That is one exhausted Mistoffelees on the left.

Nevertheless, here he is, presenting the first of the Before-I-Go presents I owe everyone. I confess in the end I had to give up trying to find time to actually edit this thing, and beyond some desperate sanding it remains mostly as it was after the first viewing, Pre ... Stuff. Still, that desperate sanding is my proof that, Internet, you can never say I do not try for you.

"Oklahoma!" Tsukigumi 2006
Sky Stage recording
4 stars

The curtain goes up, the opening sequence plays out, a familiar figure steps onstage. Todoroki Yuu (Curly) faces the audience and begins a wonderful rendition of “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’ ”—one marred, unfortunately, by a single sour note in the opening bar.

I went in expecting that this would serve as a good symbol for this production as a whole: I was pleasantly surprised, instead, to find that while it can loosely summarize Tom’s performance as the lead, the production itself suffers from no such dramatic flaws.

Nor does the show itself, which in fact suffers from very few flaws at all. Its historical relevance aside (it was the second major musical to use song and dance as a storytelling vehicle for a coherent, integrated narrative, and it forever changed the nature of musical theater), “Oklahoma!” remains one of the best musical comedies I have ever seen.

The story begins as Curly (Tom) heads out to invite his maybe, sort-of sweetheart Laurey (Shirosaki Ai) to a dance social, only to find she’s already taken by her farm’s hired hand, Jud (Kiriya Hiromu)—though it becomes increasingly unclear how much of this date is due to Laurey’s own will. Meanwhile Laurey’s friend, Ado Annie (Yumesaki Nene), finds herself with the more pleasant problem of having to choose between two suitors, the seedy peddler Ali Hakim (Ken Ruisu) and the earnest, slightly empty-headed Will Parker (Aoki Izumi); and the older generation, including Laurey’s Aunt Eller (Koshino Ryuu), wonder about the future of the territory they inhabit, soon to be a state (guess which one). As the day draws on, the various storylines all come to a head at the Box Social, drawn along by a splendid lineup of songs, dance sequences, and colorful characterization.

As for how well this production measured up to the quality of its material, I turn first to the star of the show—who, whatever the playbill may tell you to the contrary, is undoubtedly Kiriya Hiromu. Guys, this woman is something else. I mean, if it comes down to it I think I love the entire revue company, past and present, kit and kiboodle, but that’s very different from, well, thinking of its actresses in a context beyond Takarazuka.

That's not an issue with Kiriyan's performance here. Without a doubt, she stole the show—and this was not an easy show to steal, nor is Jud an easy character with which to steal it. Her performance is little short of riveting, sufficient reason in and of itself to watch this show. Sullen, taciturn, and, bogglingly, believable as a burly farm hand, she cuts at once a dislikable, threatening figure whom Laurey would have good reason to fear, and a desperate figure of lonely, wistful humanity in "Lonely Room." Appropriately, it's almost impossible to really root for Jud when he grabs at Laurey at the Box Social, and yet it is equally impossible not to feel for him when he is spurned.

Tom's performance, unfortunately, pales in comparison. While her voice has the volume that could do justice to the long, warm notes requireed of Curly—though of course she still has her very distinct, love-it-or-hate-it voice—and while she is mostly convincing as a cowboy, she nevertheless flounders when it comes to the character of Curly himself. You never get a real sense of what her interpretation is: in some moments she seems to play him as the gentle, somewhat innocent pastoral type, and in others (especially the dances), there is far too much of the winking, authoritative sexiness of a top otokoyaku for you to believe she is even in character.

The only times she really seemes to pull her interpretation together are, in fact, in her scenes with Kiriyan, where she gives off a well-meaning but guarded pragmatism appropriate to a mistrustful cowboy venturing into a smokehouse. Equally importantly for those scenes, Kiriyan avoids presenting Jud as a simple victim of aforementioned cowboys’ occasional munching on their feet.

It is important to note how the two songs that most develop this character, and which grant him his most sympathetic moments—“Pore Jud is Daid” and “Lonely Room”—are initiated: after a plea from his romantic rival. At risk of switching on the slash goggles of every girl in the vicinity, it is Curly who brings to center stage what good we see in Jud. He does it for his own benefit and he does it a little cruelly, but nevertheless he does it. Tom’s portrayal of this reluctant cordiality is spot-on, while Kiriyan stunningly portrays Jud’s small-minded but deeply human character. As a result, their “Pore Jud is Daid” is one of the greatest scenes in the show.

Meanwhile, Ai-chan delivers a fine Laurey, playful, confident, and winsomely fluting out her songs. One does wish that her growth and maturation over the course of the show might have been more clear, but that may have been a decision on the part of the director: “Let’s keep the musumeyaku at a mental age of fourteen” is not an unusual Takarazuka philosophy.

Koshino Ryuu is earthy, authoritative, slightly frightening when toting a handgun, and altogether a fine Aunt Eller. Ken Ruisu, on the other hand, presents a disappointingly overplayed Ali Hakim, with such dramatic, saturated renditions of his dry one-liners that only one of them got so much as a laugh. Nene is similarly something of a non-factor, clearly trying very hard but severely, I would say painfully, lacking in vocals. Morie, with her apple cheeks and lightbulb grin, fares somewhat better as the dopey Will Parker.

The direction is muted on the whole, which does little to solve the problem of the non-Jud characterization, but is splendid when it comes to the approach taken to the other adaptations. Takarazuka moments are generally fitted in with enough panache that they are not jarring or in much danger of throwing off the pacing of the story, and the dances are infused with Takarazuka elements that, surprisingly, gel fairly innocuously with the cowboy hats. The only adaptation that proves really problematic is the interpolated reprise of “Pore Jud is Daid,” which comes off as extremely self-satisfied on the part of both cowboys and farmers.

The only other real complaint is in the direction of the lighting, which was generally far too dark. The first act theoretically takes place in one morning through afternoon, but you wouldn’t know that from all the dips into evenings and overnights the lighting seems to throw in for its own amusement.

Like “Guys and Dolls” 2002, this is not the best performance of a Broadway classic. Of course, there the similarities end, for this "Oklahoma!" cannot boast, as did "Guys and Dolls," strong direction, winning world-building, or across-the-board troupe chemistry. Still, this remains one of the greatest musicals in the Broadway canon, in a production that can, at least, boast what must be one of the most amazing nibante performances this side of 2000.

THE TONY AWARDS!

Fri, 29 May 2009 21:10:59 GMT

Yes, everyone, I know, I know, not for another week yet. Not till the 7th (which I know is redundant; of course you’ll all have marked your calendars, hired the babysitter so that you could visit your friends’ house for guacamole and cheering on of your favorite Broadway babies, bribed friends to tape the show and mail the tapes to you since you’re out of town, and so forth).

Still, I’m excited already. It looks to be terrific; I’m positively thrilled.

And yet, as with all Tony awards, there’s also a nagging feeling as they approach. A sort of apprehensive fear. “What if,” your conscience whispers, “what if this is the year? What if somehow Broadway’s glacial death, the one that’s been eating at us for the past two decades and a half, the one that’s slowly toppling this glorious leviathan—what if this is the year it really happens? What if this is the year our hearts must all break?”

Don’t scoff. I am moved to remind you that last year took out “RENT” (and the “Chorus Line” revival. And the “Sunday in the Park with George” revival. And the “Gypsy” revival. And even “Spring Awakening” and “Hairspray”) for no fathomable reason whatsoever unless we consider that Broadway’s is a terminal disease.

So here I am, biting my nails, when all I should be doing is cheering those three little Billy Elliots on, or wondering if maybe I shouldn’t head out to see “Next to Normal,” or wishing “Waiting for Godot” had gotten a handful more nominations.

Only one thing to do, really. Tell those vampires to die! Defy doubts! Reassure yourself that there’s still some lifeblood yet! Spam LJ!

- Urinetown, the brilliant satire with the incredibly questionable name.

- The Drowsy Chaperone, which was supposed to be abolutely fantastic, one of those things I so wish I could’ve seen. And look at Sutton Foster go!

- The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, the Off-Broadway musical that could.

- In the Heights, not because the show itself is reputed to be genius, but because its freshness and originality is, which is another way of saying: Lin-Manuel Miranda, ladies and gents.

- Avenue Q, which, really, has already established itself in the league of really great Broadway musicals, or at any rate it should’ve.

Drabble Delivery

Fri, 08 May 2009 01:19:48 GMT

Here are the drabbles I owe everybody so far. I thought that as I'd written them, I shouldn't make the early birds wait. :)
You will notice there are only four, which means there is room for one more.

DOUBLE STANDARD
From just_keep_on: Elisabeth, Elisabeth and Death.

“Darling,” said Elisabeth. “We’ve got to talk about this.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said Death. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
Elisabeth stopped him from leaving with a single well-applied glare. “Sissi,” he said, slightly petulantly, “I am Death. It is the done thing.”
“You can take lives without kissing,” she replied sternly.
“This seems patently unfair. You cheated on me your entire life.”
“That’s cancelled by the fact that you took my son, which I still try not to think about.—And so, as of today. No more kissing.”
Death sighed. The other harbingers were not going to be happy about this.

LONGING
From cleo2584: Evita, Evita and Che.

Che lit a cigar. He was certainly not going to join in the weeping.
“All you had to do was live forever,” he said, knowing here, finally, was proof that she was what he had always accused her of being.
He hadn’t defined himself by Lady Evita: he’d had dreams, political dreams.
Why, then.
He’d known there was no magic to her. He’d thought sometimes he was the only one who knew there was no magic to her.
“We are all monarchists at heart,” he said bitterly, clenching his teeth. The sudden taste of tobacco in his mouth assuaged nothing.

COMEUPPANCE
From dragonbeak: Dragon Knights, Ruwalk and Alfeegi.

Alfeegi sang in the shower. Ruwalk hadn’t expected that one.
Ruwalk sang in the shower, too, of course, but Ruwalk sang at a reasonable volume.
And in a reasonable range.
If Alfeegi screeched one more note of “Getting to Know You,” Ruwalk thought he might disregard the conundrum and just murder him in the shower.
The conundrum was that, short of murdering him in the shower, Ruwalk could think of no way to complain. “Annoying.” “Too loud.” “Obnoxious.” “I’m trying to concentrate.” “Shut up.”
Loaded words, oh, loaded, loaded words.
Lykouleon had laughed. “Welcome to spousedom, old buddy,” he’d said.

MISUNDERSTANDING
From cherishcherries: Harry Potter, Zacharias Smith and Hermione, via OotP.

“If he makes us practice Patroni again,” said Zacharias bitterly. “Seriously, why does he even pretend he doesn’t like leading, if he’s so opposed to anything resembling democratic debate and parliamentary objection?”
“Hufflepuff,” observed Hermione. “House of the Paranoid.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” he snipped. She laughed and poked his elbow. “You cross-indexed the color-coded notes, didn’t you?”
“Of course. Now hand over your half.”
Ron stared at them, arms crossed. “I don’t get it,” he said flatly.
“What?” asked Harry. “Enjoying studying? Neither do I.”
Zacharias reached up and pecked Hermione on the cheek.
“Ah,” said Harry.

In Which I Roll Up My Sleeves

Thu, 07 May 2009 03:25:23 GMT

Meme, from the lovely cleo2584.
The first FIVE people to comment in this post get to request a drabble length fic (i.e., about 100 words) of any pairing/character/entertaining prompt of their choosing from me. In return, they have to post this meme in their journal.

Prompt away, everyone! I'm only going to ask that you not request RPF, because I simply don't think I could figure out how to write it. (I also please request nothing from classic literature, for the same reason.)
Anything else is fair game. Do your worst. ;)

Pull up a Chair, Do

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 12:23:06 GMT

In which Dybji, against all her better judgment, tackles meta.
(You can tell I am having far too much fun with this LJ thing. I promise I shall settle down soon, really. Sooner or later I will run out of things to ramble on about in this fashion.)

Actually, unless it’s of the “times-they-are-a-changin’,-I-protest:-time-must-stand-still-in-Hyogo-Prefecture,-confound-it-all” variety, nothing meta on this journal will probably ever pertain to Zuka or its fandom.
That is because I am convinced any meta on the subject would end up a great deal like the diary entry of an exceptionally-fortunate and innocent ten-year-old girl writing on her friends. “Reno is sweet, as always; today she brought a flower for each of us from a batch her mother had clipped from the garden. Daisy was nice as well, she sang a lovely song in the playground today and pretended to accompany herself on the harp. Khaled started reading the next chapter of ‘Princess Bride’ for us all, it was thrilling; we all had fun enacting the sword fights out. Brunhilda insists on talking about this cartoon called Pokémon, we worry about her sometimes: but she was very sweet too, and told us we were all as Gym Leaders to her heart, which I understand is a compliment.”
The point is, Zuka fandom is so civil and so kind and so communal in its strangely-cultivated strain of squee that any meta I wrote about it would probably end up a strange sort of cramped pontification.

ETA: Oh ... dear. Aaaaand I've suddenly learned that this may well be the most horrible timing conceivable for a post on this subject. I ... I don't want to delete this, I really did spend a good deal of time writing it, but it is now horribly ironic from beginning to end and ... and ... oh, I don't know. Zuka people, please just ... please skip it. It really was written as an extrapolation from an RL dialogue, and now it -- um. I'm sorry.

I've been guilty of the "GTFO" reflex from childhood. That's not what I'm going to talk about, actually; I just thought it'd be helpful to mention. To break the ice, and make it clear this is directed more toward myself in all likelihood than anyone else.
The "GTFO" reflex I define as that strange, instinctive feeling a person gets when encountered by someone new and silly—or perhaps even old and respectable—who is, as it were, doing it wrong. That urge to knee-jerk in such a way that the leg attached to that knee shall kick all offending parties far, far away from you forevermore.

It's an understandable urge. Especially if something has an emotional or sentimental urge on you, it's very, very easy for it to be tainted or ruined. Or, rather, and what's more relevant, it's very easy for its impression on you and your feelings toward it to be tainted or ruined. Mr. Rochester does not care whether some fourteen-year-old girl in 2009 thinks he is an ugly, selfish man, or whether another writes self-insert fan fiction about him. Of course he doesn't care: he doesn't exist. Both of those girls are in the greater scheme of things harmless. They can't change the text, and they certainly can't hurt Mr. Rochester.
What they can hurt is your conception of Mr. Rochester, and that's not a dismissible power. If at age twelve Mr. Rochester was your first love, or if you identified with Jane Eyre so much you started answering to the name, or if you just really really liked Charlotte Brontë -- well, it's not Mr. Rochester that's at risk, it's his sanctity to you. And that's no light matter, after all; it's a natural urge, then, to want to tell both girls to please stop talking and never start up ever again.

Obviously Mr. Rochester here is not actually Mr. Rochester but just a symbol for all the strange sentimental Figwit components of a piece of art that we develop irrational sentimental attachments to. (For me, among other things: Ranma, Cats, Disney's "Sleeping Beauty.")
It can be broader than that or narrower, can be a work or a character or a moment or a quote. Maybe it's Jackson Pollock, for you. Maybe it's Harry Potter. Maybe it's just Hogwarts' giant squid. Maybe it's literally Figwit.
Maybe it's a genre. Maybe it's a medium. Maybe it's a specific work or show. Maybe the emotional attachment is intertwined with an intellectual artillery. Maybe you think that anyone who's into Evangelion because they have a Rei fetish needs to leave immediately because their presence taints the incredible power of the show. Maybe you just want slashers to stay away from your Disney; maybe you want bandwagoners to stay away from your Marvel comic. Maybe you want the feminists to stop besieging your nice silly fine,-probably-misogynist pop culture sitcom. Maybe you just want people to stop taking your literary idol’s name in vain goddammit.
The point is, none of these are about actual appreciation of the work. And that's precisely why the GTFO reflex is forgivable: if it were about intellectual or aesthetic enjoyment of art, it's much easier to be mature. It's much easier to say, "No, sir. With all due respect, you are wrong." Or, "No, ma'am. With all due respect, I completely disagree with that interpretation." Or, in the immortal decision of Sam Gamgee when he returned to the Shire, to simply turn around and say nothing at all.
But it’s not that. It’s not about aesthetics. This is the realm of the heart overlapping with aesthetics and it is dangerous ground. The damage can be irrevocable: just one person says, just contemptuously enough, “Well, that’s just absurd. And Lewis Carroll was a pedophile, you know”, and suddenly you’re standing there with that strange ineffable feeling you got on reading Alice in Wonderland gone forever and while the appreciation may remain the instinctive impressions are gone forever. And, hey, that’s no light matter. Them can indeed be fightin’ words, in a way.

That said, if the GTFO reflex is forgivable, actually pronouncing the words "Get the ---- out" are less so.
Okay, so it's hard to say, "No, sir. With all due respect every word you say is a dagger to me" if all the person is saying is, "Gaston was one heck of a good-looking fellow." Okay, so maybe Gaston looks like your uncle and you hate your uncle and Disney's "Beauty and the Beast" is sacred to you because it let you come to terms with that fact. But maybe the other person had a friend exactly like Gaston, and feels the poor man might have done better if he'd only had someone to give him some good advice before he stormed the castle. Neither can legitimately tell the other to GTFO, can he? Because this is not in the realm of literary or aesthetic appreciation anymore, it’s in the realm of personal relationship to a work. (In the realm of literary appreciation, if someone is doin it rong, it’s usually, or perhaps just ideally, easier to either ignore them or smile affectionately and figure they’ll catch up soon enough if they keep reading up the way they seem to be doing; that, or realize maybe you were wrong yourself.) And yet since it is now in the realm of the emotional, you can't blame either for sort of maybe itching to cry “GTFO.”
Still, if they don't manage to clam that impulse up, there is a bit of blame to be had there.

Because, as my poor and exceptionally brilliant mother has been telling me from childhood, it's a question of maturity.
A five-year-old who thinks that High School Musical is the greatest song-and-dance spectacular ever is not really going to get my hackles up. A ten-year-old who thinks there's nothing left for him to learn, that after long division all the secrets of the world have been more or less divulged, is not really going to make me wonder what I'm doing in college. Someone who thinks June Anderson has an unexceptional voice is not really going to make me crack out the annals and try to defend my contrary point of view. That’s in spite of the fact that my affection for musical theater, college, and June Anderson all have an element of the personal as well as the aesthetic to them.
And someone who thinks the best part of "Hamlet" is their ever-so-subversive, sneaky, appropriative Hamlet/Horatio fic, or someone who thinks that Subaru and Seiishiro in "Tokyo Babylon" have a far deeper and more powerful relationship than those silly floozies in "Romeo and Juliet" do—well, neither is probably going to end up inspiring any Shakespeare scholar to use up an awful lot of breath. No, not even if there's a level of deep, emotional value for that scholar in both of those plays. It is far more likely that this abstract Shakespeare professor will look at the clock and wonder how he might politely disengage, or at least change the subject, than to actually be riled into resoundingly declaring that person be disqualified from speaking evermore on the son of memory and heir of fame.
When the disparity or the absurdity is that evident (i.e., Confused Fangirl vs. Shakespeare Professor, or Five-Year-Old versus Twenty-Two-Year-Old), it’s easy to be mature, even if the thing being threatened by the offending party is something of deep emotional value. But the moral is not, Act superior, nor is it, Only ignore those supremely “inferior.” No, the moral is that the reason those people don’t inspire the “GTFO” reflex is that they’re harmless. They can’t batter our hearts and ruin our emotional attachments because their artillery is so absurd to us that it’s powerless. And the further moral by extrapolation is that all these people are, in the end and as pertains to our emotional investment in something, harmless -- as long as we remember that they must be harmless.

By the time the disparity reaches that of the Shakespeare professor, the GTFO impulse probably doesn't even raise its head, it's so absurd. It's much harder for me than for that professor: I am naturally small-minded in mental and imaginative scope, incurably selfish, and immaturely sentimental (I candidly admit that, my above example notwithstanding, I once really did have to stop myself from raising the mental fisticuffs with some poor High School Musical enthusiast, in defense of all that means something to me in musical theater). But I always try to breathe, and then remember something very important: art mustn't serve as a Horcrux. No, not even art which has personal as well as aesthetic value. If my impressions of a work are what I am protecting, I must remember those impressions are inside me, and only I have agency over what happens to them. I must remember that, look inward, not outward, for verification, and repeat to myself if necessary that a posse of high school students—an army of high school students—could never ever manage to dream of taking down Ed Rochester.

A Voice That Only a Mother Could Love: or, Perhaps, a Doting Fan

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 05:24:17 GMT

The 100 Questions Meme asks, among other things, if there was a point at which I thought "there's no going back now!".
When filling it out, I optimistically -- though, I still stubbornly think, accurately -- wrote, "No. Why, I could quit any time I wanted to!"

There are so many possible answers to that one, though -- even for one person. I feel everyone could easily think of five, even ten milestones on their fannish trajectory, each of which proved one of the many sequential points of no return. It seems a shame to tie myself down to one, I thought: I shall write them all down, as they occur!

That was a terrible idea.

I should have seen it coming, really. Chronicling your own fall into a strange world you wot not of generally doesn't seem like the best of plans. It led to some interesting entries, though, and I am sure they will seem amusing and not progressively-alarming in, oh, about ten years. The most recent milestone was listening to Wataru as background for studying.
Let me repeat that: Listening to Wataru's singing voice. Of my own free will. Without visuals. As background. For studying.
"Dybji," I told myself, "you're in deeper than you think."

(I should probably add that I still don't think I'm in particularly deep. And I'm quite happy about that, since I think it matches in degree my true feelings: I think it's very easy to start taking a perverse pride in one's own madness and thereupon deliberately pitching oneself in as far in as possible, as if to say, "I may have no sense of proportion, but I assure you that mine is no mediocre madness. Mine is so extreme it develops a validation unto itself. I go the full monty. Mine is a lack of proportion to end all lacks of proportion!" I hope not to do that; I hope that if my own strain of madness grows (or recedes), it's because my aesthetic enjoyment of Zuka does likewise, and not for any reason outside of that.)

In the mean while, I feel the internet may be interested to know (okay, who am I kidding, I know perfectly well the internet is not at all interested to know, but I'm fondly forging on) that I have fallen upon the solution to one part of the riddle of "The Moments of Happiness."
The song begins of course with the following invocation: "Jellicle cats and dogs all must -- pollicle dogs, and cats, all must -- like undertakers, come to dust."
While in Cymbeline, we have: "Golden lads and girls all must/ Like chimney-sweepers, come to dust" (IV, ii).
Whether the reference was made by T.S. Eliot himself or by Random Arrangement Man in Mr. Lloyd-Webber's Employ is unknown to me, but it remains a wonderful discovery on an otherwise-dreary, speechless day.

Elisabeth Parody: or, When Freudians Attack

Wed, 15 Apr 2009 20:35:08 GMT

I'm shocked to discover I haven't really talked about the TIP discs I've seen yet. This boggles the mind, what with them being amazing and wonderful and, on their arrival, inspiring a series of gymnastic and vocal reactions that I do not think I shall ever acknowledge in public as having performed.

Meanwhile, I thought I should do something in honor of my finally having seen Elisabeth from start to finish.
Instead of talking about my reactions (which can be summarized as variations on three thoughts: 1. Wow, Ayaki Nao is pretty; 2. Wow, I think I've just granted my eternal devotion to the mass of awesome that is Kiriya Hiromu; and 3. Hm, this really isn't a very good musical, better stop paying attention to the plot and start focusing on Kiriyan), I bear a gift, the mode of which I have stolen shamelessly from my days sitting, wide-eyed and pen in hand, taking notes for a paper on the Harry Potter fandom:

SCORE: *begins*
LUCHENI: *stagger-sways onstage*
VOICEOVER: Lucheni! Elisabeth! Hapsburgs! Murder! Anarchists! Trial!
LUCHENI: No, no, no. It goes, "Trial! Delayed! Angry! Anarchist! Explanation! Death!"
DEATH: *appears*
AUDIENCE: *various jokes about how, indeed, he must be Death, for they have all been slain on sight*
DEATH: I am here as a witness. Luigi Lucheni killed the Empress on my orders, because she loved me.
VOICEOVER: I do not feel you are correct on this front, Mr. Tod.
DEATH: Of course I am correct. She was too coy to say it, but I know deep down inside she wanted it.
VOICEOVER: ... I think the multifaceted irony of that observation has stunned me into silence for the rest of the musical.

LUCHENI: When in doubt, rock'n'roll. Eliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiisabeth!
ELISABETH: *appears*

PAPASABETH: In spite of the fact that I am a landed gentleman with manors, a title, and pondsful of money, I find my obligations to take part in polite society and talk to my own relatives stifling. It is unspeakably unjust, my daughter.
AUDIENCE: Tell that to your serfs.
ELISABETH: When I grow up, I want to be just like you, Papa!
AUDIENCE: This explains so much.

SOPHIE: My cough of evil clearly establishes me as a heartless political machine.
INTEREST GROUPS: May we please ply our power over the Emperor, shamelessly and nearly-irrevocably tearing power away from the throne?
SOPHIE: Oh yes. Please do.
FRANZ-JOSEPH: ... Mother, you do realize you are not actually a heartless political machine so much as a heartless idiot, right?

DEATH: Christine, I lo-o-ove you … Er, I mean, Elisabeth. Elisabeth, I love you.
ELISABETH: I feel strangely fond of you, as well. And, for the benefit of all the Freudians out there, I’ll express these thoughts by reprising the song I just sang for my father!
FREUDIANS: Aww, fanservice. We feel so flattered.
REST OF AUDIENCE: We feel a little horrified, actually.

SOPHIE: We have set up an engagement date for you, son!
MAMASABETH: We have set up an engagement date for you, daughter! Elisabeth, you can come along too.
FRANZ-JOSEPH: Elisabeth, your artless beauty has completely stolen my heart!
ELISABETH: And that diamond necklace has stolen mine.

PAPASABETH: This will not end well.
SOPHIE: No, it won't.
PAPASABETH: Let's sit back and watch, shall we?
SOPHIE: I'll get the popcorn.

DEATH: Your final dance shall be with me! I am your destiny!
ELISABETH: I admit the smoldering eyes do make a good case.

SOPHIE: I am a bully.
FRANZ-JOSEPH: I am spineless.
ELISABETH: I am in despair!
DAGGER: *appears*
ELISABETH: O happy dagger! Here is thy sheath!
FREUDIANS: (nodding excitedly) And thereby the dagger becomes a phallic impersonation of Death!
ELISABETH: What? Phal ... oh my god! *flings dagger away*
DEATH: Curses.

ELMER: Hungary, independence, imperialist pigs.
HUNGARIANS: History! Death to Elisabeth!
ELISABETH: *reveals Hungarian flag dress* I am the Scarlett O'Hara of Austro-Hungarian history.
HUNGARIANS: History! Long live Elisabeth!
ELMER: Curses.

ELMER: I plan a retaliation. It involves a gun!
DEATH: Oh, no, Elmer. Guns represent manhood, and nobody in this story gets to have a manhood except me and Lucheni. And that’s only because he’s in my employ.
ELMER: That’s logical. Here, take this. I don’t need a manhood anyway, my only love is Hungary.
FREUDIANS: *wipe tears of affection*

DEATH: I incite the people to revolt.
LUCHENI: This will have no effect on Elisabeth's future life, nor on her eventual death. You really shouldn't look so smug.
DEATH: Of course I should look smug! These scenes are the ones that make the historically-inclined middle schoolers drool! Who cares if it has no bearing on the rest of the musical?
LUCHENI: Good point.

SOPHIE: Your kids are mine! I must raise them instead of you, as is customary in royal court!
ELISABETH: I. Hate. You.
FRANZ-JOSEPH: Elisabeth ... I am spineless and heart-broken ... please open the door.
DEATH: Elisabeth ... I am lonely and heart-broken ... come and make out with me.
ELISABETH: Both of you, please shut up.

DEATH: Revolt, peasants!
PEASANTS: We never actually do revolt, but damn do we look good singing about it.

FRANZ-JOSEPH: I defy my mother, and prove it by stealing her trademark cough.
ELISABETH: Oh, baby, that's sweet. Let’s reconcile.
DEATH: ... You owe me your life, woman.
ELISABETH: Don't you realize my trademark power ballad depends upon my ignoring that fact?

ACT TWO

LUCHENI: History, history, history. Kitsch!
DEATH: History, history, history. Pope hat!
ELISABETH: Shameless power ballad about when I—er, “dance.”
DEATH: Sexual tension about wanting to—uh, “dance.”
FREUDIANS: *look bored*
REST OF AUDIENCE: *nod appreciatively*

SOPHIE: I must oust this young female with her influence over Franz-Joseph.
PRIEST: Because it is lessening your power at court?
SOPHIE: No, because it is tearing down the Hapsburg dynasty!
SOLDIER: … And you weren’t?
SOPHIE: (coldly) She is tearing down the Hapsburgs in a different way than I was.

SOLDIER: We hire Madame Wolf and her posse of ladies of the evening. We must explain to Franz-Joseph that there are other fish in the sea!
PRIEST: Or chickens on a plate, as it were.
MADAME WOLF: Ha, I like that. I shall use that metaphor as the basis of my pimp song.
FRANZ-JOSEPH: I am moved by the clever metaphors of your pimp song and the mermadian looks of Shirosaki Ai.
LUCHENI: I can hardly blame you, sir. Say cheese!

ELISABETH: I do not have anorexia!
ELISABETH: *collapses* Fine, I do have anorexia, but it’s totally under control!
DR. ZABLE: This is in an effort to keep the Emperor interested, isn’t it? You should probably know, he’s cheating on you.
ELISABETH: He is most certainly not!
PHOTOGRAPH: *appears*
ELISABETH: Curses.

ELISABETH: … I … I don’t know what to do.
DR. ZABLE, shockingly revealing himself to be DEATH: Shineba ii!
ELISABETH: No.
DEATH: I don’t understand how you consistently fail to follow the impeccably logical solutions I am always presenting to you.

DEATH: *taunts Elisabeth with dagger*
ELISABETH: *reaches out hopelessly, yearning for dagger*
DEATH: *fondles dagger himself*
FREUDIANS: *inhale*
REST OF AUDIENCE: Say one word and we will cut you.

Ayana Oto as YOUNG RUDOLF: Angst!
DEATH: Inappropriate touching!
AUDIENCE: And so was the infamous red dress foretold.

RUDOLF: Visions of greatness, including the overthrow of his father while rushing to Elisabeth’s embrace—
FREUDIANS: *inhale*
REST OF AUDIENCE: Yeah, no, we got that one. Don’t bother.

WINDISCH: I’m in a madhouse, I wear white, I have delusions of being someone I’m not!
ELISABETH: Oh, young lady, I would change places with you.
THE GHOST OF WILKIE COLLINS’ WOMAN IN WHITE: … You could, you know.
ELISABETH: My life has nothing, nothing!
LUCHENI: Except paparazzic opportunities for me.
ELISABETH: Curses.

RUDOLF: Contemplates suicide.
DEATH: Contributes ideas for this contemplation.
RUDOLF: Revolts!
REVOLT: Fails!
ELISABETH: Returns!

RUDOLF: We’re so alike, Mama. You shun all responsibilities and want to belong only to yourself, I am lonely and want to stop belonging only to myself. Also I try to fix this country’s problems in an effort ostensibly to help the country, rather than to prove to Death I don’t need him. We are perfect mirror images!
ELISABETH: … Rudolf, my boy, I think you’re a couple NTs short of a synapse on that one.
RUDOLF: What? My logic is impeccable!

DEATH: Hey, honey, why don’t you ditch the old lady and come with me?
RUDOLF: No, that sounds like a really bad ide—wow, you’ve got smolderingly gorgeous eyes, sir.
DEATH: And lustrous hair. And pouty lips. And a mighty gun—
RUDOLF: Well, that’s that! I can’t possibly be expected to resist you with your pouty lips and mighty gun!

ELISABETH: … Rudolf? Rudolf?
CRICKETS: Chirp.
ELISABETH: … You made out with my son? You crazy freak, why would you—
DEATH: (eagerly) Are you jealous? You’re jealous, aren’t you! Come on, admit it, I’ll still take you, you and Rudolf can be in my harem—
ELISABETH: I can be with Rudolf if I die? Oh, do take me now!
DEATH: … You are one incestuously-inclined family, you know that?

FRANZ-JOSEPH: I reappear. Oh, Elisabeth—
ELISABETH: No, stay away, please. I’ve had just about enough of having people sing that name out to me.
FRANZ-JOSEPH: I can change, baby, I promise—
ELISABETH: We are as two ships in the night GOOD DAY, SIR.

FRANZ-JOSEPH: *dies*
DEATH: Lucheni, I am entrusting you with my mighty dagger. You know what this means.
LUCHENI: … Actually, I think I’m completely overloading on the innuendos at this point.
FREUDIANS: *have been gagged by rest of audience*
LUCHENI: Come on, this one’s really ambiguous. Couldn’t you just let them explain—
REST OF AUDIENCE: No.
DEATH: Don’t worry, Lucheni, it doesn’t mean you’ll have to do anything questionable with imperialist pig-dogs. You just need to kill Elisabeth.
FRANZ-JOSEPH: She doesn’t love you, you great poof!
DEATH: That’s it, you’re getting buried in anthropomorphized sheet-people now. Furthermore, I am Death, obviously I’m bisexual. And heterosexually lesbian at the same time. ... It’s pretty complicated, actually.
DEATH: (afterthought) And also, she totally loves me. Imperialist pig-dog.

LUCHENI: *Fails to stab Elisabeth.*
DEATH: *appears*
ELISABETH: O happy dagger! Here is thy sheath! No, for real this time.

LUCHENI: Grande amore!
DEATH: Crossing the deep waters of Styx together, la la la.
ELISABETH: No more tears and suffering, la la la.
TRIAL FOR LUCHENI: *apparently, remains in limbo*
LUCHENI: Curses.

Criticism: Not as Easy as it Looks

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 18:00:07 GMT

I recently saw the 2002 film version of "The Importance of Being Earnest."
I wanted to like it. I've progressed far since my clingy childhood, and I fully accept adaptations: faithful, unfaithful, anything as long as they're good. I'd heard about the tattoo scene and I was fully ready to laugh.

I ... I didn't like it.
I mean, I didn't hate it, because it's pretty hard to hate something that keeps so many lines from a play one loves. But ... it was all over the place. I'm hardly a theater expert, but "Earnest" is pretty much about the dialogue. And this movie inserts camera cuts, stylistic effects, endless chopping scenes into littler scenes in order to have the characters move around more, fantasy sequences involving knights and ladies, unnecessary flashbacks, and all manner of things that make sure the language takes more of a backseat than it needs to. "We can reinvent this thing!" the directors seem to be saying; "see how clever we are!"
And "yes," thought I, "but the thing is, you are reinventing it to its detriment. You can't beat Oscar Wilde, not at his own game. Please to tell that cameraman to stand still."

Lots of people love this adaptation, though. And so I decided to do what I usually do: consult the New York Times.
I adore the New York Times. -- or, more specifically, the New York Times theater review. I rely on it as my great sage of theater education. It's alarming how good the reviews in the New York Times are: even when I disagree in sentiment I can almost never disagree with their appraisals (they didn't like "Cats" at all, and after all I love "Cats"; that said, reading their review, I could only think, "... Well, yes, actually. You're totally right. I don't just cede to this, I confess I agree."). And I end up learning the vocabulary for how to express and consolidate the impressions I get when I see a show.
So I wondered whether the magic would carry over. Maybe the New York Times film review would manage to explain to me what I had been missing.

The New York Times did nothing of the sort, actually, because the New York Times agreed with me. "The essence of a great play," it said, "resides in its language and not in a movie's ability to go on location or add cinematic frills."
Choir of angels, play here.
Roger Ebert, however, did not. He found the movie witty (well, okay, it is that) and urbane, and terribly studiously frivolous.
But that's a review of the screenplay -- or rather, the original play. I know the play is good, I actually memorized it in high school in an effort to prove my adoration (I forgot most of it by the next week, of course). What I want to know is whether the movie is a good adaptation of the play. You can't credit the movie for the anagrams -- the credit there is Wilde's. Rather, you could say "I'm glad they kept these lines in, and those out: that is Good Adapting." That sort of praise does legitimately belong to the adaptation.

Then again, I guess most people who go see the movie aren't interested in whether this is an ideal or a flawed adaptation of Wilde's play. They want to see a good movie: they want to know whether it's clever or not. The New York Times review is (in my uncredited opinion, of course) a better review in the purest sense of criticism -- that is to say, when judging an adaptation of a classic, judge it on how well it adapted the source material -- whereas Ebert's review was almost certainly the better moviegoer's review, since it didn't bother with purism and instead just judged what was on the screen, which is of course all a moviegoer likely cares about: it's all I'd care about, to be sure, if I hadn't by some off chance bumped into the play earlier in my life.
It's an interesting dilemma.

What do you all think? What's the proper way to do a review? -- or, at least, which type of review would you prefer?