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Tonight we went to the Kennedy Center for the final performance of the Washington National Opera production of Rossini’s La Cenerentola. I realized this morning that it was closing, so after work I went to Ticketplace for half-price tickets. I can’t overstate how great Ticketplace is. Not just for the discount tickets–opera can be expensive–but the customer service: the woman who usually handles the orders is really friendly and knowledgeable.

I wasn’t familiar with La Cenerentola–though it’s basically the Cinderella story–so it was interesting to hear the music for the first time and be carried along by a plot that takes some departures from our well-known version of the tale. An excerpt from the program notes:

Audience members unfamiliar with the opera may be surprised to find the more fanciful elements of the fairy tale, as immortalized by the storyteller Charles Perrault or animator Walt Disney, completely missing. There is no fairy godmother, no pumpkin carriage, and even the glass slippers have been transformed into a simple pair of bracelets.

In another departure, this production gives the opera a mid-20th century setting. The prevalent formal attire is a suit and tie, Cenerentola is carried off to the palace in a luxury car, and the chorus often takes the form of camera-wielding papparazzi. The set, which a Post critic wrote looks like John Waters’ Baltimore, is bright, and a little surreal, I thought, given its extreme forced perspective. (It has such a steeply raked floor that we feared one or two of the singers might come rolling into the orchestra pit if they leaned too far downstage.) Some of the staging, especially during the inner monologues, bolstered the surreality, comically so at times, with the actors seeming to wander about confusedly in a kind of daydream.

The singing was rather good; everyone ably took on the trademark Rossini vocal acrobatics, and Sonia Ganassi’s (Cenerentola) voice sparkled, though her facial contortions (or supposedly comic mugging?) was a bit distracting. The smoldering Jesús Garcia (Don Ramiro, the prince), whom I saw previously as Rodolfo in Baz’s La Bohème, did a good job, but was overshadowed by the affable Simone Alberghini (Dandini, the prince’s valet, with whom he exchanges identities). And the singers who played Cenerentola’s family were all good comic foils to the lovebirds: Hoo-Ryoung Hwang and Ann McMahon Quintero (stepsisters Clorinda and Tisbe), and Alfonso Antoniozzi (Don Magnifico, the stepfather).

A note about seating: we were in row N on the far right aisle, which turned out to be pretty good (except when the action was briefly off to the sides or in the upstage corners). For this production at least, the pit extends quite far from the stage, so the first row of seats is actually row F or G.

Elegies: A Song Cycle, by William Finn (Falsettos), is a collection of personal, musical reflections on death and loss, by turns poignant, sad, witty, funny. We saw it performed last night at nearby Signature Theatre, and quite enjoyed it. Kudos go to the cast and crew for putting on a great show and making that black box come alive. (Designing for non-proscenium spaces can be a distinct challenge, so when it’s done well, it’s exciting to watch.) Dare I say the drama bug has bitten once again?

Elegies continues at Signature Theatre in Arlington through May 9. Thom has written a more extensive review, with which I agree; check it out.

One of the essays in Sarah Vowell’s book The Partly Cloudy Patriot is an open letter to Bill Clinton, in which she gives him advice on how to craft his presidential library. It starts:

Mr. President, I’m tired. Who wouldn’t be after a decade of sticking up for you? I am looking forward to your presidential library in Little Rock because I am worn-out from defending you. I would like to donate what’s left of my faith to some building in Arkansas, where it can be archived in an acid-free box, so I can make a little extra room in my heart and fill it up with trying not to hate your successor. But before relinquishing my duties as your crabby little cheerleader, I scoped out four presidential libraries to help you figure out how to do the job right. Not that you asked me. I just don’t want you to mess this up.

Heh. This reminds me that I have visited two of the presidential libraries that Vowell covers in her letter. In July 2002, while in Salina, Kan., for Rebecca and Jeff’s wedding, a bunch of us took a side trip to the Eisenhower library in Abilene; and in October 2003, I visited Sonal in Somerville, Mass., and we checked out the Kennedy library in Boston. Both were actually pretty interesting, though as you might expect, I was more impressed with the latter: even the stark structure itself, designed by I. M. Pei, is something to behold. I have mementos from both–the gift shop is a mandatory stop at any museum–including an “I Like Ike” magnet and a rather nice Kennedy Library pen, which I reserve for signing treaties. I mean, checks. (It makes me feel important.) I don’t really intend for the library circuit to become a thing, but there’s some nerdy glee in wondering, which one will I hit up next? Preferably one in the vicinity of a popular vacation destination. Oh, great: Reagan?

Tonight we watched the season premiere of Queer As Folk. Eh, it was okay. This is a show that I really want to like, but my main criticism since the beginning has been the writing, which is flat and soap-opera-like, instead of nuanced and compelling. Maybe I’m setting the bar too high? Maybe I should just accept it as a prime-time soap and leave it at that? I’d fallen off the QAF bandwagon after the first season, so I was hoping the show had gotten better, but it’s still kind of blah, despite a few good moments, like a tender conversation in which Ben reassures Michael that taking Hunter out of town to protect him was a courageous thing to do. Say what you will, Thom. Hal Sparks is all right by me. Another of the few actors there that I enjoy watching is maybe the least likely: Sharon Gless. Granted, her character is quite different from the others, but while they flounder to be so earnest with what little they are given, she has such an ease with her role.

Okay, I didn’t mean for this to be such a negative review–of course I’ll keep watching–but once I get started…

The Kennedy Center’s Tennessee Williams festival starts this week. The main events, with confirmed cast members listed, are:

• Five by Tenn (Apr. 21-May 9): an evening of five one-acts by Williams, some newly discovered (I Can’t Imagine Tomorrow; And Tell Sad Stories of the Death of Queens…; Escape; The Municipal Abbatoir; and These Are the Stairs You Got To Watch), directed by Michael Kahn.
• A Streetcar Named Desire (May 8-30): Patricia Clarkson (Blanche), Adam Rothenberg (Stanley), Amy Ryan (Stella), directed by Garry Hynes.
• Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (June 12-July 4): Mary Stuart Masterson (Maggie), Dana Ivey (Big Mama), George Grizzard (Big Daddy), Emily Skinner (Sister Woman), directed by Mark Lamos.
• The Glass Menagerie (July 17-Aug. 8): Sally Field (Amanda), directed by Gregory Mosher.

Say what you will about Microsoft, but I do like the images in their “Your Potential, Our Passion” ad campaign. (I will admit, though, that I’m weary of hearing the slogan during sponsor breaks on NPR.) The print ads feature people doing everyday things like waiting for the subway or walking through the park, but you see their potential goals or dreams superimposed around them. One of my favorites shows two boys sitting in a treehouse as if it were the cockpit of a jumbo jet. If I could make my own ad, it might picture me out on the street listening to my discman, doing something ordinary like waving to a friend or hailing a cab, but in my mind I’d be conducting from the orchestra pit in a Broadway theater, cueing the star for her next vocal entrance. Something like that. I doubt a musical theater career is within my current realm of possibility–potential and passion aside–but I do enjoy the power of a vivid imagination.

There’s an animal on the dance floor! This is good stuff: Buster Wilde, straight office-supply manager by day, gay werewolf by night. I came across it on David‘s blog, and just read through the whole series of comic strips. Totally funny. Ah, poor Buster: “Too late for cocktails, too early for brunch, and not a man in sight. Truly, my life is a low-budget horror movie.”

Tangent: my title for this entry reminds me of that Simpsons episode (“Three Gays of the Condo,” you know the one) where Smithers’ friends see him and Homer together in the gay neighborhood, and cattily call out, “Who’s the bear? Woof!” Classic.

Last night as I was exiting the Pentagon City Metro station, there were two guys at the faregates whose cards weren’t working. As I passed them, I heard them speaking Spanish to each other. Now, my spoken Spanish has fallen woefully into disuse, so I started to imagine what my esoteric linguistic abilities might sound like had I stopped to help: “In what station commenced you all your journey? Your card cannot, uh… you all have to use the machine of adding money, for that you all may exit the station.” Yeah, baby, work that subjunctive.

Later that night Thom and I were talking about David Sedaris, and I was reminded of one of my favorite stories, “Jesus Shaves,” which is included in the collection Me Talk Pretty One Day. I forgot to link to it on Sunday, as it concerns David and his fellow students in French class, trying to explain the concept of Easter using their beginning-level language skills:

“It is,” said one, “a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and… oh, shit.”

She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.

“He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two… morsels of… lumber.”

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

“He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father.”

“He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples.”

“He nice, the Jesus.”

“He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today.”

Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as “to give of yourself your only begotten son.” Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

“Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb,” the Italian nanny explained. “One, too, may eat of the chocolate.”

“And who brings the chocolate?” the teacher asked.

I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, “The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate.”

My classmates reacted as though I’d attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were mortified.

“A rabbit?” The teacher, assuming I’d used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. “You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?”

“Well, sure,” I said. “He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the basket and foods.”

The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my country. “No, no,” she said. “Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies in from Rome.”

I called for a time-out. “But how do the bell know where you live?”

“Well,” she said, “how does a rabbit?”

It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That’s a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth–and they can’t even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he’s someone you’d like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It’s like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they’ve got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That’s the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there’s no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell’s dog–and even then he’d need papers. It just didn’t add up.

Hilarious. This whole story, along with many other Sedaris gems, used to be available free in Esquire magazine’s online archives, but I see now one has to pay for access. Oh, well. Go get Me Talk Pretty One Day, or better yet find the audio version, so you can hear David himself. It’s worth it.

Speaking of David Sedaris, he’s got a new story in the current New Yorker (Apr. 19 & 26, 2004), in which he finds the perfect apartment in the least likely of places (“Possession”).