Mark Langton reviews

RVP's 'Shadowlands'

2012-12-28T21:17:00.000-08:00

Goodbye, Mrs. Chips

By Mark Langton

Article Launched: 03/19/2008 05:05:45 PM PDT, Marin Independent Journal

See Jack. See Jack run. See Jack run from joy.

See Joy. See Joy chase Jack. See Joy catch Jack - and die.

See Jack weep.

So goes a remedial outline of playwright William Nicholson's original stage version of "Shadowlands," now in revival by the Ross Valley Players through April 20 at their historic Barn Theatre in Ross.

But when Jack is C.S. Lewis - or Clive Staples "Jack" Lewis (1898-1963) - the Irish-born writer, lecturer, Christian apologist and author of "The Chronicles of Narnia" series of children's fantasy novels; and when Joy is Joy Gresham, the Jewish-American poet who married Lewis near the end of both their lives, things aren't quite that simple.

It is the 1950s, and Lewis (Chuck Isen) enjoys a reputation as one of Britain's foremost professors and thinkers, living a contented and simple bachelorhood with his brother Warnie (Alex Ross) in the cloistered comfort of Oxford academia. Our story is set in motion when this comfort zone is shattered by the arrival of Gresham (Jennifer Reimer), a fan who has come to England to meet Lewis, with her young son Douglas (neatly played by Philip Bohlman, a seventh-grader at Marin Primary and Middle School).

Despite that she is known to him only by her letters, Jack is nevertheless charmed by Joy's frank honesty and life-affirming sense of humor, as when she receives a less-than-warm reception from his rather stuffy colleagues. When Riley (Wood Lockhart), one of Jack's more condescending peers, asks Joy how she found England, "Cold and dull," is her reply.
"How original," sneers Riley.

"I wasn't talking about the weather," Joy shoots back.

As their friendship deepens, Jack surprises everyone by agreeing to marry Joy - "only technically," at first - so she may obtain an English citizenship. But when Joy is diagnosed with an advanced form of bone cancer, Jack realizes he has fallen deeply in love for the first time, and marries her in earnest as she lies dying in her hospital bed.

Anglophiles and armchair theologians will find much to like in this staid and somewhat off-kilter production of Nicholson's 1989 play about a staid and off-kilter romance. Ably directed by Linda Dunn, it does manage to achieve an authentic, rarefied British air, greatly enhanced by a marvelously artful and utilitarian set design by Patrick Kroboth and scenic artist Megan Kenyon. Comprised of huge bookcases and sliding walls, the set is otherwise dominated by gigantic, fairy tale-sized books, no doubt meant to invoke the world of wonder discovered by children in Lewis' fantasy tales - offset by the spot-on wintry Oxford gloom in Ellen Brooks' lighting design.

The production gets off to a slow start in the first half (imagine, if you will, "Terms of Endearment" without Jack Nicholson), but finds its stride in the second.

Isen is well cast as C.S. Lewis. His "Jack" is a model, mostly, of clipped diction and repressed emotions - indeed, there are times when he struggles so hard to choke out his feelings that he looks like he might require a Heimlich maneuver. But when he finally spits it out - particularly in the difficult scenes that deal openly with grief - he does so honestly, and with great tenderness. Mr. Chips, however, could use a little more Dr. Doolittle.

Reimer also extends the boundaries of her talent to encompass Joy, and manages to be believable as this bluntly intelligent, Jewish-American woman from New York - and even more so once we learn of her conversion to Christianity. The two actors make up for their lack of sexual chemistry by achieving a kind of emotional chemistry instead, suitable to this rendering of a seemingly chaste romance.

This RVP production boasts a couple of strong supporting performances. Most notable is Alex Ross, who renders Jack's devoted older brother almost like an abstract impressionist - bringing to mind one of those all-seeing Fools one finds in Shakespeare ("Twelfth Night," "King Lear"). Also excellent was Lockhart's curmudgeonly Riley. It is great to see this affable actor (a shape-shifter if there ever was one) apply his rubber-faced comedy to a truly unlikable prig. Anne Ripley practically earned an ovation for a wonderful walk-on as a nurse.

Although the playwright's philosophical conflict is clearly understood, the production doesn't always succeed in communicating it.

Loosely fashioned around the biographical facts of Grisham and Lewis's real-life autumnal romance, "Shadowlands" is a kind of anti-Pygmalion tale of equals, made interesting not so much because of the fact of that romance, but because of the philosophical conflict that the playwright found so interesting there. "Shadowlands" is not so much a love story as it is a somewhat academic exploration of love and suffering - and the reasons God might have for burdening us with either. Lewis' answer, that pain is "God's megaphone to rouse a deaf world," appears to sew things up neatly from an intellectual point of view in the play's first scene. "We are like blocks of stone," lectures Lewis to his students, "out of which the sculptor carves the forms of men. The blows of his chisel, which hurt so much, are what make us ... perfect."

But to speculate upon pain is not the same as living it. What Lewis finally gets at final curtain is this: Only when we accept the full measure of life's experiences do we open ourselves to its greatest joys - as well as its greatest suffering. (Indeed, it is during the throes of Joy's illness that Jack exclaims, "I didn't know I could be so happy!")

When the blows of the chisel begin to fall, the Oxford don with the easy answers finally realizes that, when it comes to love and loss, there are no easy answers. The time for answers will come, to be sure, but even then one must accept Lewis' one great, final epiphany - that there are things the heart can know that the mind will never understand.

REVIEW

What: "Shadowlands," by William Nicholson

Who: Ross Valley Players

Where: The Barn Theatre, Marin Art & Garden Center, 30 Sir Francis Drake Blvd., Ross

When: Through April 20; 8 p.m. Fridays and Saturdays, 7:30 p.m. Thursdays, 2 p.m. Sundays.

Tickets: $16-$20

Special events: 2 p.m. March 30 post-performance discussion with the director and cast; 2 p.m. April 5 staged reading of Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe."

Information: 456-9555, http://www.rossvalleyplayers.org/

Rating: Three out of five stars

Mark Langton can be reached at mark.langton@comcast.net.

After the Fall: A 9/11 eye-witness, one year later

2011-09-10T23:48:00.000-07:00

(Click pages to enlarge)

Songbirds of Marin: Lyrics included

2011-06-27T08:11:00.000-07:00

By Mark Langton
IJ Correspondent

“I want to bite the hand that feeds me,

I want to bite that hand so badly,

I want to make them wish they’d never

seen me…”

Elvis Costello

“Radio, Radio”

By Mark Langton

IJ Correspondent

From the moment she steps onto the stage, Victoria George makes it clear she is nobody’s kid sister.

At first glance, this scrappy, self-styled independent singer-songwriter is just a little slip of a thing, 5’3”, in her early 20s, freshly-scrubbed and cheerleader-cute, with blonde hair, blue eyes and just as pretty as she wants to be.

But when she steps up to the microphone, this girl rocker is all business, looking like a Texas gunslinger with an itch as she swings her guitar into position, wide and fast like Johnny Cash used to do, like a Boy named Sue, like a little tough cookie who knows what to do.

Nope. No nose-scrunching here. She doesn’t even bat an eyelash. Baby, it's midnight in Fairfax -- this is no time to get cute. With a steady gaze she scans the crowd until she finds a fixed point in the middle, usually, she says, a random pair of eyes. And when she finds them, she puts on a kind of LOCK.

With eyes that say, we came to play, so let’s get busy.

The blonde singer grabs the microphone, and before you can say “Chelsea Morning” belts out the opening line of one of the better songs off her recent EP, a capella, curls into it with an ironic drawl:

Welllllll, it’s easier to pretend nothin’ happened...

The club goes silent. All you can hear is the bar. The little blonde at the microphone has our attention.

Then her band slams into gear, at wide, full throttle, as she sings the rest of the song. It’s a big voice, bigger than what you’d expect coming out of such a small package. Then, gradually, as it warms to its task, the voice gets even bigger. It’s like her voice is building a flight of stairs to reach the song’s hook – each board weighed, each nail sunk, every board in place, tight. The crowd is taking every step with her, roaring their approval with each power chord. And when she gets to the main chorus she lets ‘em have it, with both barrels. Right between the eyes:

Don’t worry ‘bout

breakin’ my heart ,

you’re not the man,

not the man for the job…

A young man up front in a football jersey who probably wouldn’t know a “female empowerment” song if it jumped up and bit him on the Astroturf looks pretty impressed, nonetheless. He sums it up this way: “This girl,” he shouts into the ear of the guy standing next to him, before the song is even over, “is under arrest.”

It's a rainy February night in Fairfax, and George is the headliner for an evening called "Women Who Rock," a showcase at 19 Broadway for singer-songwriters. Despite the steady downpour, the club is packed. "And with good reason, too," says Jeff Irving, the club's sound man, booking agent and jack of all parades.

According to Irving, tonight's bill is as good as it gets.

This group of women playing gigs around the county have striking looks, a consistent level of professionalism and a sophisticated degree of talent unlike anything Irving's seen for years. And for some reason, a disproportionate number of them grew up in Fairfax. It's as if they're putting something in the Fairfax water supply these days that turns out singer-songwriters.

"The only thing is," says Irving, "when the cream rises to the top, when they get there they look around and discover that it's already pretty crowded."

There is enough local talent to prompt several "women only" series. Among them are: the Acoustic Singer-Songwriter Showcase at Bookbeat in Fairfax (first and third Wednesdays of the month); Women Who Rock at 19 Broadway in Fairfax (intermittent gigs; next show May 12); Sexy Sunday at Peri's in Fairfax (second Sunday of the month); and the Sleeping Lady Concert Series at San Anselmo Coffee Roasters (intermittent gigs; next show April 22).

"When I started the Singer-Songwriter Showcase a few years ago, we got the people who were playing open mikes and they all just happened to be women," says Jack Irving, a Fairfax singer-songwriter who has helped promote the careers of George and Larkin Gayl among others. "I don't know what it is. Women seem to be good at this particular format. Guys more often want to be in a band and hang out with the other guys. There happens to be a lot of very talented women in this area. Larkin and Victoria, for instance, are very driven and serious about their careers. I think there are a lot of other women who are not necessarily pursuing their performing careers as much as they could."

Marin musician Krickie is the host of Sexy Sunday at Peri's. "Every time we have a show, there's a new person who walks in and blows me away," she says.

Indeed, on this night there is a full flock of songbirds at 19 Broadway. Not only are they on the bill, but several are sitting in the audience.

Beth Waters, a local favorite, is going to sing. So is Gayl, who just learned that she landed a coveted contract with About Records, one of the larger, more "artist-friendly" independent recording labels. Waters is generously sharing her spot with Gayl, as they have done many times, each providing backup vocals for the other. Waters lives in Berkeley but regularly plays in Marin.

Opening will be another local singer-songwriter, Brindl, and N.Y.-based Interscope recording artist Kristin Hoffman, who is making a stop here on a national tour, rounds out the bill. A group of record executives from Interscope is in the audience, though it is unclear whether they are scouting for new talent or just there to hear their artists. Regardless, the place is abuzz.

Someone recognizes and points out Amie Penwell, who is sitting alone at a table in the back, describing her as "one to watch." Penwell is a relative newcomer at the various open mikes in the area in terms of performing - mostly, she's been observing. But ever since she opened her mouth to sing, she is regarded by some as yet another heavyweight.

All are at different starting points in their careers. But the one thing they seem to have in common is a desire to remain independent.

"The Internet has changed everything," says Waters, who has been doing this for more than 10 years and is at a point when she just wants to "cut through the crap."

Waters has a beautiful voice. She does a slowed-down cover version of Paul Simon's "Slip Sliding Away" that is so emotionally authentic it could heal a wounded relationship on the spot. (The song will be on her coming CD, released by the independent label Mermaid Mafia, which she owns with her husband).

"An independent artist can record a pretty decent-sounding CD right at their desktop," Waters explains, "and if you're willing to go the distance, you can do it all yourself."

Waters clearly has a clue. She defines an independent artist as one who is disenchanted with the way the Big Four (EMI, Warner Bros., Universal and Sony BMG) treat their artists, and who places a premium on maintaining control of the music and the career, often releasing albums on independent labels or no label at all, relying on touring, word of mouth and airplay on independent or college radio stations for promotion.

"Or they go to Myspace.com, the marketing tool of the future," Waters says. Various musicians post songs directly on their Myspace profiles and songs can be uploaded onto other profiles. Because of the site's popularity, mainstream musicians have entered this trend as well.

"It has leveled the playing field," Waters says. "For example, I just broke even for the first time in 10 years from international CD sales, I think because of Myspace. And, for all I know, it's because my first name starts with a 'B!'"

Waters says the scene has become more intellectual. Fans of singer-songwriters tend to place more emphasis on the lyrics and are more likely to memorize them, she says. She writes her own lyrics, and for many of her fans, it's all about the words, even if they don't know it.

"People come up to me and say, Oooh, what a great voice,' and I really think it's because they're not used to the hypnotics of repeating certain words," Waters says.

Not everyone is enamored with the new sound. Marin's Maria Muldaur, who sang the 1974 hit "Midnight at the Oasis," says all female singer-songwriters sound the same, as if somebody is crying for a towel with soap in their eyes.

"Stop your caterwauling!" Muldaur says. "Get a therapist! Get a goddamn job!"

Muldaur is 62 now. Her singing career dates to the nightly jams and hootenannies in New York City's Washington Square Park and later in the coffee houses of Greenwich Village, where she was born and raised, and in the fabled music community of Woodstock, N.Y., in the late '60s. She calls the new stuff "Dear Diary music."

She says, "We had an old joke we used to tell about singer-songwriters: What does a singer-songwriter sound like when she's warming up? She sounds like this: 'Me me me me me me meeeeeeee!'"

Larkin Gayl, it would seem, is the odd duck in this local flock, as she would be the first to point out. "I know," she laughs. "It's like I fell out of a tree."

It's ironic that she should be the one to be signed by one of the major independents because she only started two years ago. She is still learning how to play the guitar. It makes sense, though, that she should be noticed. Gayl might be that rarest of songbirds: a total original. She writes quirky, at times, erotic songs that seem to float in on a lily pad.

And don't even try to pigeonhole Larkin Gayl -- or any of these women, for that matter. They've learned not to take the bait. Asked what category she would like to see her first CD placed in record stores, Gayl smiles and says, "New releases."

IF YOU LISTEN

Editor's note: There's no way to compile a thorough list of Marin's female singer-songwriters who play solo gigs regularly. But after talking to several dozen people closely associated with the folk-rock scene, we'll take an unscientific stab at it.

Some of these women are more seasoned than others, some are more electric than acoustic, and some are more known for their work in bands than playing solo. But those on this list were singled out by other singer-songwriters or booking agents at local clubs as ones to watch. (Many of these musicians have their own Web sites, too, but some don't; to promote fairness, we left off specific sites).

Aza

Lynn Bobby

Brindl

Larkin Gayl

Victoria George

Kimberlye Gold

Donna Eagle

Meredith Heller

Kimrea

Katie Knipp

Krickie

Audrey Auld Mazzera

Amie Penwell

Kelly Peterson

Adrienne Pfieffer

Stefanie Pisarczyk

Amber Rose

Devon Shane

Makela Susnow

Originally Posted by the Marin Independent Journal: 03/23/2006 04:52:00 AM PST

Old SF Examiner "Night Beat"column re: Parliament Funkadelic, et al.

2011-01-27T16:23:00.000-08:00

(Click to enlarge)

IT WAS ONLY A BAD DREAM

2011-01-04T14:38:00.000-08:00

"All that we see or seem

is but a dream within a dream."

-- Edgar Allan Poe

In my dream,

you wake me

from a dream

to tell me all

about your dream.

It seems

that in the dream

(I dreamed

you dreamed),

I’d only speak

of troubled sleep,

of how it seems

that in my dreams

I’m always waking

from these dark,

relentless dreams.

In these dreams

(I dream I dream),

you reach to me,

to touch my hair,

but I turn cold

and sharp away,

I wake up in

the world I’d left,

the one that was

without you,

without sleep,

where no one lives

but without love,

and always, always

dreaming.

In this dream

(you dream I dream)

I reach to you

to touch your hair,

but you turn cold

and sharp away,

so that, in my dream

it almost seems

you always were

a dream within

a dream, within

a dream.

"They're only

dreams,”

I start to say,

and reach down for

your little head,

but in my dream

you've slipped away.

And I wake up

alone, instead.

Titled (a sonnet upon it)

2010-12-24T12:03:00.000-08:00

Hidden in the words of love, a kind of

Eden is afoot, meddling with words

Like scheming snakes, like apple worms.

Poets waste their time on love –

Insipid rhymes rot like dead birds;

Love spells itself in its own terms.

On every page, in every line,

Verses follow their own code,

Each one like a stubborn vine.

Yet gardens must be given time.

Often there’s a hidden road

Underneath the tangled rhyme.

Most love poems hide a riddle.

(Look to the left, and not the middle.)

The Hound

2010-12-21T12:11:00.000-08:00

At night, I listen

for the wild.

I room with fear.

I know its sound.

I know the dog.

(I am its child.)

Every night,

I hear a hound.

I try to walk

a little faster,

I never, ever

turn around.

Though I hardly

am its master,

every night

I hear the hound.

I know the place

he hides his bones.

I know his turf.

His plot of ground.

I know the midnight,

when it moans.

I am familiar

with that sound.

And though I’ve walked

a thousand paces,

there is no journey.

I gain no ground.

There are no voices.

Only faces.

And the one,

relentless sound.

There is no moon

where he is howling!

His beating heart

makes my head pound!

There are no words

for what he’s saying!

There’s just the baying,

and the baying,

braying sound.

It’s hunger makes

the belly growl.

It’s a haunted heart

that’s duty-bound.

Every night

I hear a howl.

Every night,

I hear the hound.

"Modern Psychiatry," a poem by Mark Langton

2010-12-20T18:26:00.000-08:00

My mother isn't an issue.

There's hardly a mention of Freud.

There are times I require a tissue.

There are subjects I'd rather avoid.

As lively as dinner with Mother,

as chatty as dead Uncle Jim,

he leaves it for me to discover

that I'm actually me, not him.

Poetry: "Au Lit," by Mark Langton

2010-12-20T12:55:00.000-08:00

AU LIT

"Au lit!" said he,
but, dancing, she
often had little
to say.

"To dark to see!
Lie down with me,"
said he, said she,
"Ole'."

11/06

Poetry: "My Heart, My Love," by Mark Langton

2010-12-20T10:55:00.000-08:00

MY HEART, MY LOVE

My heart, my love, is in your hands,

though it still seems I have to shoulder

your breast, too, the many fears that you reveal

to very few, all that your heart demands

of love. Though mine is no less bolder,

or less certain, are not these things we feel

enough? Damn you, it still seems I must

somehow atone to earn your trust.

No matter what I put down on the page,

in ink, or blood, my heart, my breath

must still confront my daily rage,

condemned. Like the lady in Macbeth,

I wring my hands, but can't rub out

that spot of blood. This giddy doubt.

12/10