Dance, Edward Scissorhands, Dance

My friend Troy rang me up Saturday morning. He had an extra ticket to Matthew Bourne's interpretation of Edward Scissorhands at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I met him at BAM, we trudged the slushy streets to brunch, and then settled in to what was a pleasant but somewhat underwhelming performance of one of my favorite stories.

The performance was very much wedded to the movie, even using Danny Elfman's haunting soundtrack. The major characters were all recognizable, especially the nympho neighbor with her red red hair, and some were a bit queerer, like her pretty boy son who reminded me of the gay character Christian from the movie Clueless. Johnny Depp made the character of Edward, and the dancer who portrayed him stuck with Johnny's mannerisms and choices making me wonder if there were any other way that character could be played.

There are no speaking parts in this performance, a simple screen with projected words (productions love screens and projection these days! they also used it to depict snow later on) used early on to introduce the story. In the movie, Edward never speaks, and so muting all the characters diminished the effect of his muteness.

One thing present in the story that a dance ensemble was able to underscore was the nuclear family structure of the suburban neighborhood Edward finds himself in. The symmetry of mother father son daughter and the subsequent pairings of sons and daughters as siblings and then couples with the children of other families made for interesting recombinant duos. It was also interesting to note how variations from this four person family model disrupted the community: clearly Edward's sudden adoption by one of the main families, but also the one family with a third child, an infant, who keeps getting tossed around from mother to father to son to daughter and back. This family is also portrayed as a bit trashier than the other, the father with his beer and wife beater, the mother with her perpetual curlers and nightgown.

I guess the one obvious translation into the medium of dance that struck me was the evolution of Edward in relation to movement. He begins awkward, with little or no recognizable dance of his own. As he's introduced to the suburban community he begins to learn the dance moves they enact on a daily basis--this is especially evident toward the end at the Christmas Formal as he watches from the sidelines and copies the elaborate steps of the group couple number before breaking in to dance with his love interest much to the chagrin of her jock boyfriend. And there are times the community learns Edward's moves once he discovers he has moves--sometimes in a mocking way, sometimes, as in the "meet and greet Edward" picnic, in an eager-to-learn-new-moves-from-this-stranger, this "other" among us kind of way.

Overall the story tended to wander during the long, big group dance numbers leaving you to wonder where your focus should reside. It also was a bit more "family-friendly" than the movie, much of its darkness and sadness downplayed or revised (such as the death of the jock boyfriend--he's merely wounded in this version). To a child whose imagination thrived on dark stories, it makes me wonder about the double standard of allowing kids to see gratuitous violence and sex, but when it comes to a necessary violence or darkness rooted in the paradoxical nature of human complexity, one central to a classic narrative, we shield them.

Some highlights: the bizarre seduction scene between the nympho neighbor and Edward that leads to her riding a washing machine; the clergy family all dressed in black with their goth-looking, suicidal Wednesday Addams-esque daughter wanting Edward to slit her wrists, and leather jacket punk son causing mischief (and a great scene where the mother becomes a cross which the minister father shoulders and carries off stage); and a slight queer undertone the some of the male teenagers, showing some of the many cracks in the pre-fabricated notion of "normal" suburban family-centered America. Some of those first born sons won't be getting married and making nuclear families of their own.

Cheesiest moment: the end, after everyone bows and then Edward wanders onto stage, oblivious to the audience, only to then become aware and thank us by making it "snow" out over the seats (big cannons up in the lighting spray fake snow out over us). The audience seemed to love it, especially the families with kids...

Unexpected Discoveries

I discovered two poets at the Tribute to Carcanet Press event the other night that have me excited. The first is Mimi Khalvati, whose work was adeptly read by Marilyn Hacker. I have some of her books on order and will say more when I've had a chance to see and process them on the page.

The second is Kei Miller, a striking man my age born in Kingston, Jamaica. He gave entrancing readings of Laura Riding Jackson's "The Troubles of a Book" and Les Murray's "The Meaning of Existence" before reading a few of his own poems. The one I remember in particular was based on a photograph he saw circa WWI of a woman giving up her pots for scrap metal. I wish I could remember the title. Unfortunately his books have not been released in the States, so I must find a way to get copies from the UK.

Also got to hear Susan Wheeler read for the first time, and Paul Muldoon and Eavan Boland. And the space was quite something--the National Arts Club off Gramercy Park.

Here was the full line-up: John Ashbery, Eavan Boland, Mark Doty, Marilyn Hacker, Kei Miller, Stanley Moss, Paul Muldoon, Alice Quinn (on behalf of Maureen O'Hara, Frank O'Hara's sister), John Peck, Marie Ponsot, Susan Wheeler, David Yezzi, and the guest of honor Michael Schmidt.

If People Disapprove of You, by Sophie Hannah

David Yezzi read this poem last night at the PSA's Tribute to Carcanet Press event. The poem is by Sophie Hannah. It's a bit of an anthem:

If People Disapprove Of You.

Make being disapproved of your hobby.
Make being disapproved of your aim.
Devise new ways of scoring points
In the Being Disapproved Of Game.

Let them disapprove in their dozens.
Let them disapprove in their hordes.
You'll find that being disapproved of
Builds character, brings rewards.

Just like any form of striving
Don't be arrogant; don't coast
On your high disapproval rating.
Try to be disapproved of most.

At this point, if it's useful,
Draw a pie chart or a graph.
Show it to someone who disapproves.
When they disapprove, just laugh.

Count the emotions you provoke:
Anger, suspicion, shock.
One point for each of these
And two for each boat you rock.

Feel yourself warming to your task -
You do it bloody well.
A last you've found an area
In which you can excel.

Savour the thrill of risk without
The fear of getting caught.
Whether they sulk or scream or pout,
Enjoy your new-found sport.

Meanwhile all those who disapprove
While you are having fun
Won't even know your game exists
So tell yourself you've won.

Pushcart Redux

Another "morning after" post, this time to sum up the Pushcart Prize reading at the Baruch Performing Arts Center to celebrate Bill Henderson, founder and publisher of the Pushcart Press, and the new book The Best Poems from 30 Years of the Pushcart Prize.

The line-up, reading in alphabetical order: Lucille Clifton, Billy Collins, Maxine Kumin, Grace Schulman, Gerry Stern, and C. K. Williams. The event was pretty well attended, though many in the audience were Grace Schulman's students at Baruch or other poets in the Pushcart anthology. With such an all-star cast of poets I was surprised there weren't more people there, but there seemed to be a sense that the event wasn't too well publicized. Perhaps I'm comparing crowds to the packed Kinnell event, or Auden event. Or perhaps it's just a sad reflection that even after winning awards like the Pulitzer and National Book Award, you can only muster a small recital hall sized room of people interested in hearing your work. And I'm not sure being in New York is a good or bad thing for mustering an audience.

I had never heard Collins, Kumin, or Schulman before, and was blown away by Kumin's reading. Reminded me of Adrienne Rich, to hear such a sharp, powerful voice trapped in such a seemingly frail, slow body. Her poems for her brother "The Man of Many Ls" and for her horse Jack, were particularly memorable (she even changed the ages of the horses from the printed version of the poem to reflect how old they are today). She had a nice sonnet that began with a line from Mrs. Dalloway, too. Collins was like listening to a series of bad jokes, and the audience seemed to find him funny and eat up the fact he was reading haikus; I've never really understood what all the hype was about him, other than he's that word I hate--"accessible"--and I couldn't wait for him to sit down. Stern was a riot as usual, though few seemed to get his humor. His interludes between poems are often more interesting and potentially distracting from his actual work, but at least his humor has wit. At one point he even had to say "everything I'm telling you is lies" since the audience just wasn't getting it.

The worst part of the evening was the emcee, Joan Murray, who edited the Pushcart book. She deemed it necessary to continually remind us that she herself is a poet with each narcissistic, name-dropping story and introduction for the actual poets on stage. I think she managed to insult each of the honored guests at least once while waxing poetic about one of their colleagues on stage.

I must say, having been to three poetry events in the past month, how very different the crowds have been at each.

Hotel Indigo

Back from Atlanta, where I went partly because the annual AWP Conference was being held there this year, but mainly to run away someplace warmer for a long weekend. I had a wonderful travel companion, Troy, who lived in Atlanta for many years and was able to give me the insider's tour of hot spots in town. Highlights: our hotel, the Hotel Indigo, and its beachy theme; brunch at Java Jive; the Moroccan feast and the flaming belly dancers (by flaming I mean huge flaming candelabra on their heads); Muriel & Agnes's (cute southern food restaurant owned by two gay boys who named it after their mothers); the High Museum of Art where I got to see life-sized pear sculpture; and an afternoon at the cafe Arpe Diem with my friend Greg Wrenn who I have not seen in seven years.

Needless to say I skipped most of the conference. I have a love-hate relationship with conferences anyway. The book fair is the best part, and seeing friends and making new ones. The panels are uneven--some are brilliant, others false advertise to be about one thing and turn out to be about something altogether different. The worst of these are the ones that say they will explore a certain set of ideas or themes and then the writers don't write a paper or essay, they just stand up there and read their work with no context, as if we are simply to write the essay in our heads as to how it fits into the panel's topic.

Most of the people I had intended to see--(Mark and Paul, Nancy and Rick)--I didn't. But I did run into many friends and mentors and chance acquaintances at the book fair (Cynthia, Lyrae, Rachel R., to name a few) which is always fun. And got a bunch of free books. Two highlights: the on-line journal Memorious is now publishing limited edition box sets of their issues, starting with the most recent issue, Issue 7. The box sets are gorgeous, to say the least, printed on nice stock watercolor paper, a poem per card, the fiction done accordion style. The other highlight was meeting the folk at Spire Press where I learned Pear Slip is their next title set to be released by next year's AWP Conference. We talked about ideas for Pear Slip's cover, upcoming readings and promotion, and where we all live in NY. As Troy remarked, isn't it fun to be treated like a rock star?

Next year's AWP will be here in NYC, and I promise to actually attend.

Two Poems and an Essay: Memorius 7 Released

Just a note to say I have two poems ("Square Dance" and "Euclid on the Erotic Postulate") and a poetics essay ("On the Transformative Power of Hybrid Forms") in Issue 7 of Memorious.