Loading...
 

Cutlure

Culture


array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(26) "Theater Review - Creepshow"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:57:46+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(26) "Theater Review - Creepshow"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(41) "The Weird cheerfully digs a shallow grave"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(41) "The Weird cheerfully digs a shallow grave"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(36) "Content:_:Theater Review - Creepshow"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(3967) "Who's scarier, the knife-wielding maniac or the trusted boyfriend who summons her? The Satanists next door, or the loving husband who might be secretly plotting with them? Dad's Garage Theatre's The Weird goes for both humor and horror by riffing on classic schlock comic books. But subtler themes of trust and the nature of relationships lurk just below the surface.

Melissa Foulger and Anne Towns direct the world premiere workshop production in the Top Shelf space, where the close quarters suit both The Weird's scares and its in-jokes. Playwright Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa's "Six Spine-Chilling Tales of Terror" offers a modestly entertaining fright-fest that doesn't quite unearth its most intriguing ideas.

The Weird most fully achieves its mix of chills and laughs with the introductory play "Bloody Mary." A teenager (Rene Dellefont) tries to spook his girlfriend (Bethany Irby) during an ominous drive by recounting the urban legend of the deadly title character, who appears if you repeat her name 49 times. The play disarms the audience with inside gags — it even drops the name of Dad's former artistic director Sean Daniels — then generates suspense with drawn-out silences and unnervingly long blackouts.

The Weird doesn't always go for the scare. In "Insect Love," an entomologist (Wade Tilton) in 1958 pines for his comely lab assistant (Kathleen Wattis) and chats with her in great detail about the then-newly released film The Fly. Aguirre-Sacasa intriguingly builds the play around their awkward flirtation, but never reaches a decisive conclusion. Wattis captures the earnest blandness of a typical "love interest" in a 1950s sci-fi movie, then, in "A Ten-Minute Play About Rosemary's Baby," she generates big laughs as a brassy New Yawk matron. The play condenses the Mia Farrow film about young newlyweds and the devil-worshippers next door to comic effect, but also relies on highly specific Edward Albee references that went whistling over my head.

"Swamp Gothic" mixes Tennessee Williams-style Southern melodrama and homoeroticism with the lore of Swamp Thing comics, in which a college student (Dellefont) confronts a crazed Southern belle (Sloane Warren) about her missing brother. The play picks up a creepy idea about necrophilia from "Insect Love," but the two performers never connect and merely act past each other.

Warren delightfully embodies a different kind of caricature of Southern femininity as a white-trash adulteress seeking to kill her 400-pound husband (Dellefont) in "Mourning Becomes Olestra." Dellefont's fat suit is nearly as comical as Warren's accent, which draws the word "whut" out to two high-pitched syllables.

"Olestra" hews closest to the old horror comics formula of revenge and gore, and audiences in the front row should take the protective plastic sheeting offered by the theater. But like the rest of The Weird's plays, it touches on trust issues. The Weird repeatedly shows people who question the worthiness of a friend or a lover, and suggests people who exploit the emotions of others are every bit as monstrous as zombies and vampires.

The evening's final play presents the most positive relationship and switches from monster comics to superheroes. An ordinary woman (Warren) lunches with her superheroic best pal (Irby), and they gossip about costumed crime fighters. The play flirts with notions about friendship and identity, but like most of The Weird, it feels too much like a superficial sketch.

The serious moments in The Weird signal that the writer has more on his mind than tickling and titillating his audience, even though most of his ideas need fleshing out. Playwrights like David Ives and Christopher Durang reveal cutting insights in lighthearted short plays. To make The Weird live up to its potential, Aguirre-Sacasa needs to dig just a little deeper into his characters' emotional lives. The Weird can have its heart and eat it, too.

curt.holman@creativeloafing
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4013) "__Who's scarier, __the knife-wielding maniac or the trusted boyfriend who summons her? The Satanists next door, or the loving husband who might be secretly plotting with them? Dad's Garage Theatre's ''The Weird'' goes for both humor and horror by riffing on classic schlock comic books. But subtler themes of trust and the nature of relationships lurk just below the surface.

Melissa Foulger and Anne Towns direct the world premiere workshop production in the Top Shelf space, where the close quarters suit both ''The Weird'''s scares and its in-jokes. Playwright Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa's "Six Spine-Chilling Tales of Terror" offers a modestly entertaining fright-fest that doesn't quite unearth its most intriguing ideas.

''The Weird'' most fully achieves its mix of chills and laughs with the introductory play "Bloody Mary." A teenager (Rene Dellefont) tries to spook his girlfriend (Bethany Irby) during an ominous drive by recounting the urban legend of the deadly title character, who appears if you repeat her name 49 times. The play disarms the audience with inside gags -- it even drops the name of Dad's former artistic director Sean Daniels -- then generates suspense with drawn-out silences and unnervingly long blackouts.

''The Weird'' doesn't always go for the scare. In "Insect Love," an entomologist (Wade Tilton) in 1958 pines for his comely lab assistant (Kathleen Wattis) and chats with her in great detail about the then-newly released film ''The Fly''. Aguirre-Sacasa intriguingly builds the play around their awkward flirtation, but never reaches a decisive conclusion. Wattis captures the earnest blandness of a typical "love interest" in a 1950s sci-fi movie, then, in "A Ten-Minute Play About Rosemary's Baby," she generates big laughs as a brassy New Yawk matron. The play condenses the Mia Farrow film about young newlyweds and the devil-worshippers next door to comic effect, but also relies on highly specific Edward Albee references that went whistling over my head.

"Swamp Gothic" mixes Tennessee Williams-style Southern melodrama and homoeroticism with the lore of ''Swamp Thing'' comics, in which a college student (Dellefont) confronts a crazed Southern belle (Sloane Warren) about her missing brother. The play picks up a creepy idea about necrophilia from "Insect Love," but the two performers never connect and merely act past each other.

Warren delightfully embodies a different kind of caricature of Southern femininity as a white-trash adulteress seeking to kill her 400-pound husband (Dellefont) in "Mourning Becomes Olestra." Dellefont's fat suit is nearly as comical as Warren's accent, which draws the word "whut" out to two high-pitched syllables.

"Olestra" hews closest to the old horror comics formula of revenge and gore, and audiences in the front row should take the protective plastic sheeting offered by the theater. But like the rest of ''The Weird'''s plays, it touches on trust issues. ''The Weird'' repeatedly shows people who question the worthiness of a friend or a lover, and suggests people who exploit the emotions of others are every bit as monstrous as zombies and vampires.

The evening's final play presents the most positive relationship and switches from monster comics to superheroes. An ordinary woman (Warren) lunches with her superheroic best pal (Irby), and they gossip about costumed crime fighters. The play flirts with notions about friendship and identity, but like most of ''The Weird'', it feels too much like a superficial sketch.

The serious moments in ''The Weird'' signal that the writer has more on his mind than tickling and titillating his audience, even though most of his ideas need fleshing out. Playwrights like David Ives and Christopher Durang reveal cutting insights in lighthearted short plays. To make ''The Weird'' live up to its potential, Aguirre-Sacasa needs to dig just a little deeper into his characters' emotional lives. ''The Weird'' can have its heart and eat it, too.

__curt.holman@creativeloafing__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016238"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250618"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180823"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180823"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(4203) "    The Weird cheerfully digs a shallow grave   2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Creepshow   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00  Who's scarier, the knife-wielding maniac or the trusted boyfriend who summons her? The Satanists next door, or the loving husband who might be secretly plotting with them? Dad's Garage Theatre's The Weird goes for both humor and horror by riffing on classic schlock comic books. But subtler themes of trust and the nature of relationships lurk just below the surface.

Melissa Foulger and Anne Towns direct the world premiere workshop production in the Top Shelf space, where the close quarters suit both The Weird's scares and its in-jokes. Playwright Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa's "Six Spine-Chilling Tales of Terror" offers a modestly entertaining fright-fest that doesn't quite unearth its most intriguing ideas.

The Weird most fully achieves its mix of chills and laughs with the introductory play "Bloody Mary." A teenager (Rene Dellefont) tries to spook his girlfriend (Bethany Irby) during an ominous drive by recounting the urban legend of the deadly title character, who appears if you repeat her name 49 times. The play disarms the audience with inside gags — it even drops the name of Dad's former artistic director Sean Daniels — then generates suspense with drawn-out silences and unnervingly long blackouts.

The Weird doesn't always go for the scare. In "Insect Love," an entomologist (Wade Tilton) in 1958 pines for his comely lab assistant (Kathleen Wattis) and chats with her in great detail about the then-newly released film The Fly. Aguirre-Sacasa intriguingly builds the play around their awkward flirtation, but never reaches a decisive conclusion. Wattis captures the earnest blandness of a typical "love interest" in a 1950s sci-fi movie, then, in "A Ten-Minute Play About Rosemary's Baby," she generates big laughs as a brassy New Yawk matron. The play condenses the Mia Farrow film about young newlyweds and the devil-worshippers next door to comic effect, but also relies on highly specific Edward Albee references that went whistling over my head.

"Swamp Gothic" mixes Tennessee Williams-style Southern melodrama and homoeroticism with the lore of Swamp Thing comics, in which a college student (Dellefont) confronts a crazed Southern belle (Sloane Warren) about her missing brother. The play picks up a creepy idea about necrophilia from "Insect Love," but the two performers never connect and merely act past each other.

Warren delightfully embodies a different kind of caricature of Southern femininity as a white-trash adulteress seeking to kill her 400-pound husband (Dellefont) in "Mourning Becomes Olestra." Dellefont's fat suit is nearly as comical as Warren's accent, which draws the word "whut" out to two high-pitched syllables.

"Olestra" hews closest to the old horror comics formula of revenge and gore, and audiences in the front row should take the protective plastic sheeting offered by the theater. But like the rest of The Weird's plays, it touches on trust issues. The Weird repeatedly shows people who question the worthiness of a friend or a lover, and suggests people who exploit the emotions of others are every bit as monstrous as zombies and vampires.

The evening's final play presents the most positive relationship and switches from monster comics to superheroes. An ordinary woman (Warren) lunches with her superheroic best pal (Irby), and they gossip about costumed crime fighters. The play flirts with notions about friendship and identity, but like most of The Weird, it feels too much like a superficial sketch.

The serious moments in The Weird signal that the writer has more on his mind than tickling and titillating his audience, even though most of his ideas need fleshing out. Playwrights like David Ives and Christopher Durang reveal cutting insights in lighthearted short plays. To make The Weird live up to its potential, Aguirre-Sacasa needs to dig just a little deeper into his characters' emotional lives. The Weird can have its heart and eat it, too.

curt.holman@creativeloafing
             13016238 1250618                          Theater Review - Creepshow "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(50) "The Weird cheerfully digs a shallow grave"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 21, 2004 12:04 am EDT
The Weird cheerfully digs a shallow grave | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(35) "For Art's Sake - Art on the catwalk"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-06-16T00:36:02+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-05T21:14:01+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(35) "For Art's Sake - Art on the catwalk"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(45) "Is fashion artsy? Or are artists selling out?"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(45) "Is fashion artsy? Or are artists selling out?"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(45) "Content:_:For Art's Sake - Art on the catwalk"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(5144) "I still suffer from the misguided, vaguely hippie-ish delusion that artists are somehow linked to the counterculture — that their values from Van Gogh to Pollock to Adrian Piper are defined in opposition to the world of base, material things that regular people clock their pitiful lives around.

Not so, the art and fashion magazines nuzzle affectionately. The avant-garde is a distant memory in the new media-constructed Art Chic, where all it takes to make it is style, good looks, marketing ability... oh, and a backlog of paintings or sculpture doesn't hurt.

Fashion designer Marc Jacobs has in recent years made hipster luminaries Sofia Coppola and Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon his art babes du jour. But now sculptor Rachel Feinstein is Jacobs' bellwether, adding the luster of high art to his fashion spreads. Fashion rags used to lard their pages with snapshots of the well-dressed patrons and society types who showed up dressed to the nines at gallery openings. Now it's the artists wearing the Prada and Chloe. Because of their circulation in media culture, from fashion to shelter magazines, I now feel as if I know Damian Loeb, John Currin (Mr. Rachel Feinstein), Vanessa Beecroft, Cecily Brown and Sam Taylor-Wood's faces, apartments and style better than I do their art.

Female artists are apparently no longer interested in that whole deep '60s look. You know, yanking scrolls from their vaginas in edgy performance pieces, looking like half-crazed she-creatures sprung from Greek myth, failing to dress up for gallery openings or hell, skipping them all together. Now they are supposed to be chic, well-turned out and aspire to the same world of materialism and cocktail parties their dealers and collectors occupy.

Maybe I suffer from that damnable  post-Gen X condition of nostalgia for a time I never lived in when artists could be surly and unwashed instead of market savvy and design handbags on the side. Now the road to art world success seems paved with sex and salesmanship like everything else.

As fashion magazines fill up with chic artists, art magazines have become infused with fashion.

Atlanta's own homegrown photographer Roe Ethridge has lately gotten in on the act, creating an ad for Jack "Honey, I'm a designer, too" Spade, husband of handbag queen Kate. The recent Spade ad shot by Ethridge features a moody shot of an artsy boy type gazing out of a WASPishly appointed room. The Spades have tapped into the art world before to sell their wares: Photographer Larry Sultan shot Kate Spade's 2002 Wes Anderson-style preppy print ads.

Real art has been  contaminated by proximity to commerce which has been stealing its look for so long the original now looks like an ad. As a result, Tiny Barney photographs now look like ads for Lilly Pulitzer. When I look at a Nan Goldin now, I can't tell if it's the cigarettes or the liquor that are being sold. If you didn't know better, you might want to rush to the new Prada gallery heavily advertised in Artforum to check out the slamming airbrushed androids in its latest photography show. The art world has sold off so much of its attitude, the fashion world now looks cutting edge and shopping seems like some kind of rebellion.

I used to think the infusion of the style and design crowd was a great thing for the arts. Bring on the Jezebel folk — have them twist an ankle navigating those deadly Castleberry Hill sidewalks in their bling-bling. More likely it just reduces art to a fad, sucking all of the allure and integrity off with it. Restaurants, bars and retail furniture stores are starting to highlight art now, which also seemed like a good idea, until you think about how horrific it could be for the artist. Artists now don't need to dread the horrible reduction of their work to "sofa art" chosen to complement interior design. Worse, they may find more trend-conscious customers choosing the sofa instead of the art, as in, "At least you can sit on the sofa."

When did cultural commentators become so singularly sour and bitchy, as if trying to echo pop culture's pubescent too-cool-for-school attitude? First there was the snarky, dismissive NPR report that Austrian writer Elfriede Jelinek (The Piano Teacher) had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. On "Morning Edition," commentator Neda Ulaby said of Jelinek's books, which have dealt with  sadomasochism and rape, that it didn't "make me want to run out and read them." How, Ulaby complained, could a writer whose literature was "mired in the '80s," and the unfashionable content of gender war get selected when everyone knows global views are where it's at in the contemporary literary scene? Then there was Jonathan Kandell's New York Times obituary for French deconstructionist Jacques Derrida, which many have rightly pointed out was snidely irreverent on the occasion of this important writer and philosopher's death. At various turns in the obit, Kandell took great pains to emphasize Derrida's difficulty and abstruseness — like signaling the end of Albert Einstein's life by noting how "hard" it was to understand his work.

felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5234) "__I still suffer __from the misguided, vaguely hippie-ish delusion that artists are somehow linked to the counterculture -- that their values from Van Gogh to Pollock to Adrian Piper are defined in opposition to the world of base, material things that regular people clock their pitiful lives around.

Not so, the art and fashion magazines nuzzle affectionately. The avant-garde is a distant memory in the new media-constructed Art Chic, where all it takes to make it is style, good looks, marketing ability... oh, and a backlog of paintings or sculpture doesn't hurt.

Fashion designer Marc Jacobs has in recent years made hipster luminaries Sofia Coppola and Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon his art babes du jour. But now sculptor Rachel Feinstein is Jacobs' bellwether, adding the luster of high art to his fashion spreads. Fashion rags used to lard their pages with snapshots of the well-dressed patrons and society types who showed up dressed to the nines at gallery openings. Now it's the artists wearing the Prada and Chloe. Because of their circulation in media culture, from fashion to shelter magazines, I now feel as if I know Damian Loeb, John Currin (Mr. Rachel Feinstein), Vanessa Beecroft, Cecily Brown and Sam Taylor-Wood's faces, apartments and style better than I do their art.

__Female artists are __apparently no longer interested in that whole deep '60s look. You know, yanking scrolls from their vaginas in edgy performance pieces, looking like half-crazed she-creatures sprung from Greek myth, failing to dress up for gallery openings or hell, skipping them all together. Now they are supposed to be chic, well-turned out and aspire to the same world of materialism and cocktail parties their dealers and collectors occupy.

Maybe I suffer from that damnable  post-Gen X condition of nostalgia for a time I never lived in when artists could be surly and unwashed instead of market savvy and design handbags on the side. Now the road to art world success seems paved with sex and salesmanship like everything else.

As fashion magazines fill up with chic artists, art magazines have become infused with fashion.

Atlanta's own homegrown photographer __Roe Ethridge__ has lately gotten in on the act, creating an ad for Jack "Honey, I'm a designer, too" Spade, husband of handbag queen Kate. The recent Spade ad shot by Ethridge features a moody shot of an artsy boy type gazing out of a WASPishly appointed room. The Spades have tapped into the art world before to sell their wares: Photographer Larry Sultan shot Kate Spade's 2002 Wes Anderson-style preppy print ads.

Real art has been  contaminated by proximity to commerce which has been stealing its look for so long the ''original'' now looks like an ad. As a result, Tiny Barney photographs now look like ads for Lilly Pulitzer. When I look at a Nan Goldin now, I can't tell if it's the cigarettes or the liquor that are being sold. If you didn't know better, you might want to rush to the new Prada gallery heavily advertised in ''Artforum'' to check out the slamming airbrushed androids in its latest photography show. The art world has sold off so much of its attitude, the fashion world now looks cutting edge and shopping seems like some kind of rebellion.

I used to think the infusion of the style and design crowd was a great thing for the arts. Bring on the ''Jezebel'' folk -- have them twist an ankle navigating those deadly Castleberry Hill sidewalks in their bling-bling. More likely it just reduces art to a fad, sucking all of the allure and integrity off with it. Restaurants, bars and retail furniture stores are starting to highlight art now, which also seemed like a good idea, until you think about how horrific it could be for the artist. Artists now don't need to dread the horrible reduction of their work to "sofa art" chosen to complement interior design. Worse, they may find more trend-conscious customers choosing the ''sofa'' instead of the art, as in, "At least you can sit on the sofa."

__When did cultural __commentators become so singularly sour and bitchy, as if trying to echo pop culture's pubescent too-cool-for-school attitude? First there was the snarky, dismissive NPR report that Austrian writer Elfriede Jelinek (''The Piano Teacher'') had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. On "Morning Edition," commentator __Neda Ulaby__ said of Jelinek's books, which have dealt with  sadomasochism and rape, that it didn't "make me want to run out and read them." How, Ulaby complained, could a writer whose literature was "mired in the '80s," and the ''unfashionable'' content of gender war get selected when everyone knows ''global'' views are where it's at in the contemporary literary scene? Then there was __Jonathan Kandell__'s ''New York Times'' obituary for French deconstructionist Jacques Derrida, which many have rightly pointed out was snidely irreverent on the occasion of this important writer and philosopher's death. At various turns in the obit, Kandell took great pains to emphasize Derrida's difficulty and abstruseness -- like signaling the end of Albert Einstein's life by noting how "hard" it was to understand his work.

__[mailto:felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com|felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T19:06:38+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T19:06:38+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016241"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250624"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "F"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(3) "For"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item191625"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "191625"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5402) "    Is fashion artsy? Or are artists selling out?   2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00 For Art's Sake - Art on the catwalk   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00  I still suffer from the misguided, vaguely hippie-ish delusion that artists are somehow linked to the counterculture — that their values from Van Gogh to Pollock to Adrian Piper are defined in opposition to the world of base, material things that regular people clock their pitiful lives around.

Not so, the art and fashion magazines nuzzle affectionately. The avant-garde is a distant memory in the new media-constructed Art Chic, where all it takes to make it is style, good looks, marketing ability... oh, and a backlog of paintings or sculpture doesn't hurt.

Fashion designer Marc Jacobs has in recent years made hipster luminaries Sofia Coppola and Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon his art babes du jour. But now sculptor Rachel Feinstein is Jacobs' bellwether, adding the luster of high art to his fashion spreads. Fashion rags used to lard their pages with snapshots of the well-dressed patrons and society types who showed up dressed to the nines at gallery openings. Now it's the artists wearing the Prada and Chloe. Because of their circulation in media culture, from fashion to shelter magazines, I now feel as if I know Damian Loeb, John Currin (Mr. Rachel Feinstein), Vanessa Beecroft, Cecily Brown and Sam Taylor-Wood's faces, apartments and style better than I do their art.

Female artists are apparently no longer interested in that whole deep '60s look. You know, yanking scrolls from their vaginas in edgy performance pieces, looking like half-crazed she-creatures sprung from Greek myth, failing to dress up for gallery openings or hell, skipping them all together. Now they are supposed to be chic, well-turned out and aspire to the same world of materialism and cocktail parties their dealers and collectors occupy.

Maybe I suffer from that damnable  post-Gen X condition of nostalgia for a time I never lived in when artists could be surly and unwashed instead of market savvy and design handbags on the side. Now the road to art world success seems paved with sex and salesmanship like everything else.

As fashion magazines fill up with chic artists, art magazines have become infused with fashion.

Atlanta's own homegrown photographer Roe Ethridge has lately gotten in on the act, creating an ad for Jack "Honey, I'm a designer, too" Spade, husband of handbag queen Kate. The recent Spade ad shot by Ethridge features a moody shot of an artsy boy type gazing out of a WASPishly appointed room. The Spades have tapped into the art world before to sell their wares: Photographer Larry Sultan shot Kate Spade's 2002 Wes Anderson-style preppy print ads.

Real art has been  contaminated by proximity to commerce which has been stealing its look for so long the original now looks like an ad. As a result, Tiny Barney photographs now look like ads for Lilly Pulitzer. When I look at a Nan Goldin now, I can't tell if it's the cigarettes or the liquor that are being sold. If you didn't know better, you might want to rush to the new Prada gallery heavily advertised in Artforum to check out the slamming airbrushed androids in its latest photography show. The art world has sold off so much of its attitude, the fashion world now looks cutting edge and shopping seems like some kind of rebellion.

I used to think the infusion of the style and design crowd was a great thing for the arts. Bring on the Jezebel folk — have them twist an ankle navigating those deadly Castleberry Hill sidewalks in their bling-bling. More likely it just reduces art to a fad, sucking all of the allure and integrity off with it. Restaurants, bars and retail furniture stores are starting to highlight art now, which also seemed like a good idea, until you think about how horrific it could be for the artist. Artists now don't need to dread the horrible reduction of their work to "sofa art" chosen to complement interior design. Worse, they may find more trend-conscious customers choosing the sofa instead of the art, as in, "At least you can sit on the sofa."

When did cultural commentators become so singularly sour and bitchy, as if trying to echo pop culture's pubescent too-cool-for-school attitude? First there was the snarky, dismissive NPR report that Austrian writer Elfriede Jelinek (The Piano Teacher) had won the Nobel Prize for Literature. On "Morning Edition," commentator Neda Ulaby said of Jelinek's books, which have dealt with  sadomasochism and rape, that it didn't "make me want to run out and read them." How, Ulaby complained, could a writer whose literature was "mired in the '80s," and the unfashionable content of gender war get selected when everyone knows global views are where it's at in the contemporary literary scene? Then there was Jonathan Kandell's New York Times obituary for French deconstructionist Jacques Derrida, which many have rightly pointed out was snidely irreverent on the occasion of this important writer and philosopher's death. At various turns in the obit, Kandell took great pains to emphasize Derrida's difficulty and abstruseness — like signaling the end of Albert Einstein's life by noting how "hard" it was to understand his work.

felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
             13016241 1250624                          For Art's Sake - Art on the catwalk "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(54) "Is fashion artsy? Or are artists selling out?"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 21, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Is fashion artsy? Or are artists selling out? | more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(15) "Picture perfect"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(15) "Picture perfect"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(25) "Content:_:Picture perfect"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2728) "At the heart of every portrait lies a virtual impossibility. How can a person's essence be captured in one image when human beings are by definition so changeable and manifold?

And yet, painters and photographers remain certain that their subjects' souls lie within their reach. Several of the five photographers represented in the ArtWalk at Lenox Square show About Face aspire to capture that human "essence" and bottle it in photographic form. It's a questionable proposition, but doesn't keep these photographers from offering some intriguing work.

Anna Watson's baby portraits are especially memorable for the way they subvert the baby photographer's urge to crystallize an ecstatic moment of cuteness. Instead, Watson freeze-frames real baby behavior in her goo-goo verite: an infant with a nugget of drool suspended on its glossy red lips or another image of a baby who has been placed face down on a bureau as absentmindedly as a ham sandwich.

Like Shannon McCollum's photographs of African-American iPod hipsters, Watson's other images of attractive young women can suggest fashion photography. Both artists play into the same frustrating indie-film phenomenon of artists whose view of humanity seems limited to the narrowly defined subset of their own peers. Kristine Potter's exquisitely rendered ink jet prints of immigrants on the streets of Paris are more successful at evoking inner mixtures of hardship and mettle, and that quicksilver notion of "character" in youngish subjects.

If some About Face artists strive to render the soul, Geoffrey E. Aronson hopes to embody an equally elusive concept in his images of what he sees as quintessential innocents. Subjects are  "innocent," Aronson says, because they live close to nature, for whatever that's worth. In his nevertheless whimsical photo collages, Aronson decorates his Mexican subjects like saints in a shrine, hanging seashells and seahorses from their ears or back-dropping their faces with halos of green leaves.

Ted Maloof, fortunately, makes no high-blown claims for divination through portraiture. Instead, he seems content to create exquisitely mannered images reminiscent of such masters as Stieglitz or Steichen. Filtering out context, Maloof does his subjects the great service of making them appear timeless. Like all great portraits, these don't profess to offer you their subjects' innards on a platter, but instead give you just a taste — making you hungry to know more.

About Face: Commanding Portraits by Five Georgia Photographers runs through Jan. 9 at Lenox Square Promenade in the walkway between Lenox Square and JW Marriott Buckhead Atlanta. 3393 Peachtree Road. 770-435-5180. Mon.-Sat., 10 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., noon-6 p.m."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2743) "__At the heart __of every portrait lies a virtual impossibility. How can a person's essence be captured in one image when human beings are by definition so changeable and manifold?

And yet, painters and photographers remain certain that their subjects' souls lie within their reach. Several of the five photographers represented in the ArtWalk at Lenox Square show ''About Face'' aspire to capture that human "essence" and bottle it in photographic form. It's a questionable proposition, but doesn't keep these photographers from offering some intriguing work.

Anna Watson's baby portraits are especially memorable for the way they subvert the baby photographer's urge to crystallize an ecstatic moment of cuteness. Instead, Watson freeze-frames ''real'' baby behavior in her goo-goo verite: an infant with a nugget of drool suspended on its glossy red lips or another image of a baby who has been placed face down on a bureau as absentmindedly as a ham sandwich.

Like Shannon McCollum's photographs of African-American iPod hipsters, Watson's other images of attractive young women can suggest fashion photography. Both artists play into the same frustrating indie-film phenomenon of artists whose view of humanity seems limited to the narrowly defined subset of their own peers. Kristine Potter's exquisitely rendered ink jet prints of immigrants on the streets of Paris are more successful at evoking inner mixtures of hardship and mettle, and that quicksilver notion of "character" in youngish subjects.

If some ''About Face'' artists strive to render the soul, Geoffrey E. Aronson hopes to embody an equally elusive concept in his images of what he sees as quintessential innocents. Subjects are  "innocent," Aronson says, because they live close to nature, for whatever that's worth. In his nevertheless whimsical photo collages, Aronson decorates his Mexican subjects like saints in a shrine, hanging seashells and seahorses from their ears or back-dropping their faces with halos of green leaves.

Ted Maloof, fortunately, makes no high-blown claims for divination through portraiture. Instead, he seems content to create exquisitely mannered images reminiscent of such masters as Stieglitz or Steichen. Filtering out context, Maloof does his subjects the great service of making them appear timeless. Like all great portraits, these don't profess to offer you their subjects' innards on a platter, but instead give you just a taste -- making you hungry to know more.

About Face: Commanding Portraits by Five Georgia Photographers'' runs through Jan. 9 at Lenox Square Promenade in the walkway between Lenox Square and JW ''Marriott Buckhead Atlanta. 3393 Peachtree Road. 770-435-5180. Mon.-Sat., 10 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., noon-6 p.m."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016239"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250620"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "P"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Picture"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179898"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179898"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2901) "       2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00 Picture perfect   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00  At the heart of every portrait lies a virtual impossibility. How can a person's essence be captured in one image when human beings are by definition so changeable and manifold?

And yet, painters and photographers remain certain that their subjects' souls lie within their reach. Several of the five photographers represented in the ArtWalk at Lenox Square show About Face aspire to capture that human "essence" and bottle it in photographic form. It's a questionable proposition, but doesn't keep these photographers from offering some intriguing work.

Anna Watson's baby portraits are especially memorable for the way they subvert the baby photographer's urge to crystallize an ecstatic moment of cuteness. Instead, Watson freeze-frames real baby behavior in her goo-goo verite: an infant with a nugget of drool suspended on its glossy red lips or another image of a baby who has been placed face down on a bureau as absentmindedly as a ham sandwich.

Like Shannon McCollum's photographs of African-American iPod hipsters, Watson's other images of attractive young women can suggest fashion photography. Both artists play into the same frustrating indie-film phenomenon of artists whose view of humanity seems limited to the narrowly defined subset of their own peers. Kristine Potter's exquisitely rendered ink jet prints of immigrants on the streets of Paris are more successful at evoking inner mixtures of hardship and mettle, and that quicksilver notion of "character" in youngish subjects.

If some About Face artists strive to render the soul, Geoffrey E. Aronson hopes to embody an equally elusive concept in his images of what he sees as quintessential innocents. Subjects are  "innocent," Aronson says, because they live close to nature, for whatever that's worth. In his nevertheless whimsical photo collages, Aronson decorates his Mexican subjects like saints in a shrine, hanging seashells and seahorses from their ears or back-dropping their faces with halos of green leaves.

Ted Maloof, fortunately, makes no high-blown claims for divination through portraiture. Instead, he seems content to create exquisitely mannered images reminiscent of such masters as Stieglitz or Steichen. Filtering out context, Maloof does his subjects the great service of making them appear timeless. Like all great portraits, these don't profess to offer you their subjects' innards on a platter, but instead give you just a taste — making you hungry to know more.

About Face: Commanding Portraits by Five Georgia Photographers runs through Jan. 9 at Lenox Square Promenade in the walkway between Lenox Square and JW Marriott Buckhead Atlanta. 3393 Peachtree Road. 770-435-5180. Mon.-Sat., 10 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., noon-6 p.m.             13016239 1250620                          Picture perfect "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 21, 2004 12:04 am EDT

At the heart of every portrait lies a virtual impossibility. How can a person's essence be captured in one image when human beings are by definition so changeable and manifold?

And yet, painters and photographers remain certain that their subjects' souls lie within their reach. Several of the five photographers represented in the ArtWalk at Lenox Square show About Face aspire to capture that...

| more...

array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(27) "Dance - Exposing themselves"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T21:52:17+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(27) "Dance - Exposing themselves"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Thomas Bell"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Thomas Bell"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144371"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223700"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(37) "Content:_:Dance - Exposing themselves"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2105) "Imagine that all that is true about you is written on your body in invisible ink: in words and arcane diagrams, in lines and strange shapes. And the truth that it tells is intemperate, outrageous and shamelessly inconsistent. Think of all that you hide from the public eye to appear acceptable, respectable, predictable and polite. Now reveal it all. Trace the words in brown and white, showing every shadow, bathing yourself in light.

So it is in the "body writing" section of In the Shadows of Secrets and Tales Told Out Loud, an evening-length duet of experimental modern dance, performance art, and poetry by dancers/choreographers Wayne Smith and Jhon Stronks. "We're in a place of exposing clarity," says Stronks, who writes on his pale skin with brown eyeliner while Smith draws figures in white on his dark skin.

Text is everywhere in the work, not just written on the dancers and other surfaces, but spoken, using the words of poets including radical feminist bell hooks and the late Essex Hemphill, who wrote bravely and tenderly about his experiences as a gay, African-American man with HIV. The poets were chosen, says Smith, for "their honesty and their forthrightness, their willingness to be vulnerable."

Smith and Stronks do no less. Both remain onstage throughout the performance, even during costume changes. About half of the work is improvised (following a basic architecture planned out in advance), giving them no opportunity to censor revelations they might rather keep hidden. Stronks even reveals racially motivated rage in a disturbing choreographed scene of assault that ends in a love duet.

It is a dance not of searching but of declaring the undiluted self. A dance of excessive anger and libertine love. A dance of surrender to and assertion of identity unmoderated, riotous, inconstant, messy ... and yet somehow still marvelous and whole.Smithworx Inc. and "there ... in the sunlight" present In the Shadows of Tales and Secrets Told Out Loud Oct. 22-24 at The Beam, 750 Glenwood Ave. Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 5 p.m. $10-$15. 404-668-9317. thereinthesunlight@yahoo.com."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2163) "__Imagine that all __that is true about you is written on your body in invisible ink: in words and arcane diagrams, in lines and strange shapes. And the truth that it tells is intemperate, outrageous and shamelessly inconsistent. Think of all that you hide from the public eye to appear acceptable, respectable, predictable and polite. Now reveal it all. Trace the words in brown and white, showing every shadow, bathing yourself in light.

So it is in the "body writing" section of ''In the Shadows of Secrets and Tales Told Out Loud'', an evening-length duet of experimental modern dance, performance art, and poetry by dancers/choreographers Wayne Smith and Jhon Stronks. "We're in a place of exposing clarity," says Stronks, who writes on his pale skin with brown eyeliner while Smith draws figures in white on his dark skin.

Text is everywhere in the work, not just written on the dancers and other surfaces, but spoken, using the words of poets including radical feminist bell hooks and the late Essex Hemphill, who wrote bravely and tenderly about his experiences as a gay, African-American man with HIV. The poets were chosen, says Smith, for "their honesty and their forthrightness, their willingness to be vulnerable."

Smith and Stronks do no less. Both remain onstage throughout the performance, even during costume changes. About half of the work is improvised (following a basic architecture planned out in advance), giving them no opportunity to censor revelations they might rather keep hidden. Stronks even reveals racially motivated rage in a disturbing choreographed scene of assault that ends in a love duet.

It is a dance not of searching but of declaring the undiluted self. A dance of excessive anger and libertine love. A dance of surrender to and assertion of identity unmoderated, riotous, inconstant, messy ... and yet somehow still marvelous and whole.____''Smithworx Inc. and "there ... in the sunlight" present ''In the Shadows of Tales and Secrets Told Out Loud'' Oct. 22-24 at The Beam, 750 Glenwood Ave. Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 5 p.m. $10-$15. 404-668-9317. [mailto:thereinthesunlight@yahoo.com|thereinthesunlight@yahoo.com].''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "632"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "632"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016240"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250622"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(632)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(632)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(632)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "D"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(5) "Dance"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180378"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180378"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2298) "       2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00 Dance - Exposing themselves   Thomas Bell 1223700 2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00  Imagine that all that is true about you is written on your body in invisible ink: in words and arcane diagrams, in lines and strange shapes. And the truth that it tells is intemperate, outrageous and shamelessly inconsistent. Think of all that you hide from the public eye to appear acceptable, respectable, predictable and polite. Now reveal it all. Trace the words in brown and white, showing every shadow, bathing yourself in light.

So it is in the "body writing" section of In the Shadows of Secrets and Tales Told Out Loud, an evening-length duet of experimental modern dance, performance art, and poetry by dancers/choreographers Wayne Smith and Jhon Stronks. "We're in a place of exposing clarity," says Stronks, who writes on his pale skin with brown eyeliner while Smith draws figures in white on his dark skin.

Text is everywhere in the work, not just written on the dancers and other surfaces, but spoken, using the words of poets including radical feminist bell hooks and the late Essex Hemphill, who wrote bravely and tenderly about his experiences as a gay, African-American man with HIV. The poets were chosen, says Smith, for "their honesty and their forthrightness, their willingness to be vulnerable."

Smith and Stronks do no less. Both remain onstage throughout the performance, even during costume changes. About half of the work is improvised (following a basic architecture planned out in advance), giving them no opportunity to censor revelations they might rather keep hidden. Stronks even reveals racially motivated rage in a disturbing choreographed scene of assault that ends in a love duet.

It is a dance not of searching but of declaring the undiluted self. A dance of excessive anger and libertine love. A dance of surrender to and assertion of identity unmoderated, riotous, inconstant, messy ... and yet somehow still marvelous and whole.Smithworx Inc. and "there ... in the sunlight" present In the Shadows of Tales and Secrets Told Out Loud Oct. 22-24 at The Beam, 750 Glenwood Ave. Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 5 p.m. $10-$15. 404-668-9317. thereinthesunlight@yahoo.com.             13016240 1250622                          Dance - Exposing themselves "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 21, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Imagine that all that is true about you is written on your body in invisible ink: in words and arcane diagrams, in lines and strange shapes. And the truth that it tells is intemperate, outrageous and shamelessly inconsistent. Think of all that you hide from the public eye to appear acceptable, respectable, predictable and polite. Now reveal it all. Trace the words in brown and white, showing... | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(30) "Theater Review - Nether region"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:53:39+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(30) "Theater Review - Nether region"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(43) "Netherworld strikes fear in suburban hearts"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(43) "Netherworld strikes fear in suburban hearts"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(40) "Content:_:Theater Review - Nether region"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(5796) "Before I visited Netherworld, I never considered the similarities between nubile strippers and nightmarish monsters. But on a dark, cloudless Saturday night, I learned that the  8-year-old haunted house features strict instructions for its costumed creatures that differ only slightly from lap dancers.

At the entrance to one of Netherworld's three haunted "houses," a goth chick in widow's weeds instructed us in fear-victim etiquette: "Do not touch the monsters," she said. "We don't touch you, you don't touch us." For the fearsome attraction's young, high-hormone clientele, a tour of the scare floor no doubt provides a titillating, pulse-racing form of foreplay.

Unearthly ticket-takers include a bosomy evil harlequin and a hot-chick red devil with horns and leather, but otherwise, Netherworld is a place to get freaked out, not to get your freak on. Apart from the masochism of paying good money to bestial strangers to frighten the bejesus out of you, modern-day chambers of horrors exhume different kinds of feelings.

I approached Netherworld more afraid of being disappointed than being terrorized. Would its gruesome production values compensate for the chintzy carnival rides and thrill-free, P.T.A.-sponsored spook houses that let me down as I grew up? Would it work as a specialized kind of live theater? The sign reading "Wholesale Carpet Mart" atop the Netherworld building didn't exactly strike fear into my heart. With my friend Chris backing me up, I first stepped into "Oblivion," the closest attraction to the ticket booth.

Playing on trendy techno-industrial style, "Oblivion" evoked a Trent Reznor music video, or possibly a rave during an asylum breakout. Amid jarring mechanical sound effects, visitors creep past exhibits of grisly medical tortures and demonic escapades. Most memorably, a masked, straitjacketed figure thrashes in a strobe light, with crackling sounds suggesting too much electroshock.

With lots of chain and chain-link, "Oblivion" evokes the tension of groping through an old-school maze, with updated flourishes like winged demons, madmen shooting off overhead sparks and a chainsaw-wielding freak at the end. Several times I pushed through straps of long, rubbery fabric and once, slid between spinning, floor-to-ceiling rollers with wicked spikes. Perhaps "Oblivion" preys on the phobia of being an automobile in a car wash. A strange, exhilarating feeling accompanied the final escape — I was especially relieved that I never wandered backstage by mistake.

"Spirits of the Dead," Netherworld's main attraction, suggests "Tales of the Crypt" staged by a hostile takeover of Disneyworld's Haunted Mansion. Videotaped backstory describes the "Whyshburg burial ground" and the ruins of the "Old Bostwick house," which at first just looks like the digs of a too-serious Alice Cooper fan.

But "Spirits'" art direction, from faux-castle battlements to creaky clapboard walls, effectively immerses the spectator into a supernatural haunt. The massive animatronic creatures inspire awe — one monstrosity the size and disposition of The Fellowship of the Rings' cave troll lunges at the audience. Mummified pygmies blow air-compressor blowguns at passers-by, misshapen critters claw at rickety doors.

Netherworld's ensemble of costumed actors, called the "Netherspawn," proved well trained in the art of the startle. Basically, they just pop out of hidden passages or from around corners while emitting sharp cries. It works every time. Some hide in plain sight, keeping motionless in, say, suits of armor. One ivy-covered figure stays invisibly camouflaged before a garden wall until you least expect it.

They even know when the audience starts to get wise. At one point, you go past an open closet, wary of a figure moving on the other side of the hanging clothes. Only after you're clear does a ghoul jump right out in your face, saying, "I thought there was someone in there, too!" After a while, so many jolts leave your nerves totally shot, but "Spirits of the Dead" makes up for every ride that ever left you yawning.

The "Spirits" exit leads to the "Very Scary Tales in 3-D" entrance, the least chilling of Netherworld's options. Visitors wear movie-style 3-D glasses and gawk at corridors of mildly frightful illustrations in garish luminescent paint. Imagine dropping acid and feeling like you're stuck in a hippie-era underground comic book.

In keeping with the fairy-tale-gone-wrong motif, giant gingerbread men menace the visitors, and a menacing, costumed  pig-man punctuates the gruesome fate of the Big Bad Wolf. Marauding clowns and deranged Raggedy Anns also surprise the audience, but "Very Scary Tales" offered fewer neat-o effects. It did feature a fun-house style catwalk through a tunnel that took such a disorienting spin, the world seemed to lurch to the side, perhaps representing America's terrifying change in political direction.

My glasses wouldn't stay on my head, which may have soured me on "Very Scary Tales," the only "house" that left me with that familiar, slightly swindled,  I-spent-how-many-tickets-on-this feeling from the state fair. Best think of it as an optional, sherbet-colored dessert to Netherworld's eerie entrees.

Whatever you might call the opposite of that childlike sense of wonder, Netherworld mostly succeeds at capturing it, and offers a harmlessly horrifying respite from real-life anxieties. If Netherworld really wanted to scare people, it would construct vaults of terror like the "Vortex of the Health Insurance Bills," the "Unthinkable Policies of President Ashcroft," the "Unstoppable Entity from the Escrow Account" or the "Journey through the Bowels of the DMV." Next to the likes of those, the Netherspawn are kind of comforting.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5855) "__Before I visited Netherworld, __I never considered the similarities between nubile strippers and nightmarish monsters. But on a dark, cloudless Saturday night, I learned that the  8-year-old haunted house features strict instructions for its costumed creatures that differ only slightly from lap dancers.

At the entrance to one of Netherworld's three haunted "houses," a goth chick in widow's weeds instructed us in fear-victim etiquette: "Do ''not'' touch the monsters," she said. "We don't touch you, you don't touch us." For the fearsome attraction's young, high-hormone clientele, a tour of the scare floor no doubt provides a titillating, pulse-racing form of foreplay.

Unearthly ticket-takers include a bosomy evil harlequin and a hot-chick red devil with horns and leather, but otherwise, Netherworld is a place to get freaked out, not to get your freak on. Apart from the masochism of paying good money to bestial strangers to frighten the bejesus out of you, modern-day chambers of horrors exhume different kinds of feelings.

I approached Netherworld more afraid of being disappointed than being terrorized. Would its gruesome production values compensate for the chintzy carnival rides and thrill-free, P.T.A.-sponsored spook houses that let me down as I grew up? Would it work as a specialized kind of live theater? The sign reading "Wholesale Carpet Mart" atop the Netherworld building didn't exactly strike fear into my heart. With my friend Chris backing me up, I first stepped into "Oblivion," the closest attraction to the ticket booth.

Playing on trendy techno-industrial style, "Oblivion" evoked a Trent Reznor music video, or possibly a rave during an asylum breakout. Amid jarring mechanical sound effects, visitors creep past exhibits of grisly medical tortures and demonic escapades. Most memorably, a masked, straitjacketed figure thrashes in a strobe light, with crackling sounds suggesting too much electroshock.

With lots of chain and chain-link, "Oblivion" evokes the tension of groping through an old-school maze, with updated flourishes like winged demons, madmen shooting off overhead sparks and a chainsaw-wielding freak at the end. Several times I pushed through straps of long, rubbery fabric and once, slid between spinning, floor-to-ceiling rollers with wicked spikes. Perhaps "Oblivion" preys on the phobia of being an automobile in a car wash. A strange, exhilarating feeling accompanied the final escape -- I was especially relieved that I never wandered backstage by mistake.

"Spirits of the Dead," Netherworld's main attraction, suggests "Tales of the Crypt" staged by a hostile takeover of Disneyworld's Haunted Mansion. Videotaped backstory describes the "Whyshburg burial ground" and the ruins of the "Old Bostwick house," which at first just looks like the digs of a too-serious Alice Cooper fan.

But "Spirits'" art direction, from faux-castle battlements to creaky clapboard walls, effectively immerses the spectator into a supernatural haunt. The massive animatronic creatures inspire awe -- one monstrosity the size and disposition of ''The Fellowship of the Rings''' cave troll lunges at the audience. Mummified pygmies blow air-compressor blowguns at passers-by, misshapen critters claw at rickety doors.

Netherworld's ensemble of costumed actors, called the "Netherspawn," proved well trained in the art of the startle. Basically, they just pop out of hidden passages or from around corners while emitting sharp cries. It works every time. Some hide in plain sight, keeping motionless in, say, suits of armor. One ivy-covered figure stays invisibly camouflaged before a garden wall until you least expect it.

They even know when the audience starts to get wise. At one point, you go past an open closet, wary of a figure moving on the other side of the hanging clothes. Only after you're clear does a ghoul jump right out in your face, saying, "''I'' thought there was someone in there, too!" After a while, so many jolts leave your nerves totally shot, but "Spirits of the Dead" makes up for every ride that ever left you yawning.

The "Spirits" exit leads to the "Very Scary Tales in 3-D" entrance, the least chilling of Netherworld's options. Visitors wear movie-style 3-D glasses and gawk at corridors of mildly frightful illustrations in garish luminescent paint. Imagine dropping acid and feeling like you're stuck in a hippie-era underground comic book.

In keeping with the fairy-tale-gone-wrong motif, giant gingerbread men menace the visitors, and a menacing, costumed  pig-man punctuates the gruesome fate of the Big Bad Wolf. Marauding clowns and deranged Raggedy Anns also surprise the audience, but "Very Scary Tales" offered fewer neat-o effects. It did feature a fun-house style catwalk through a tunnel that took such a disorienting spin, the world seemed to lurch to the side, perhaps representing America's terrifying change in political direction.

My glasses wouldn't stay on my head, which may have soured me on "Very Scary Tales," the only "house" that left me with that familiar, slightly swindled,  I-spent-how-many-tickets-on-this feeling from the state fair. Best think of it as an optional, sherbet-colored dessert to Netherworld's eerie entrees.

Whatever you might call the ''opposite'' of that childlike sense of wonder, Netherworld mostly succeeds at capturing it, and offers a harmlessly horrifying respite from real-life anxieties. If Netherworld ''really'' wanted to scare people, it would construct vaults of terror like the "Vortex of the Health Insurance Bills," the "Unthinkable Policies of President Ashcroft," the "Unstoppable Entity from the Escrow Account" or the "Journey through the Bowels of the DMV." Next to the likes of those, the Netherspawn are kind of comforting.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016237"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250616"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180822"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180822"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(6042) "    Netherworld strikes fear in suburban hearts   2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Nether region   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-10-21T04:04:00+00:00  Before I visited Netherworld, I never considered the similarities between nubile strippers and nightmarish monsters. But on a dark, cloudless Saturday night, I learned that the  8-year-old haunted house features strict instructions for its costumed creatures that differ only slightly from lap dancers.

At the entrance to one of Netherworld's three haunted "houses," a goth chick in widow's weeds instructed us in fear-victim etiquette: "Do not touch the monsters," she said. "We don't touch you, you don't touch us." For the fearsome attraction's young, high-hormone clientele, a tour of the scare floor no doubt provides a titillating, pulse-racing form of foreplay.

Unearthly ticket-takers include a bosomy evil harlequin and a hot-chick red devil with horns and leather, but otherwise, Netherworld is a place to get freaked out, not to get your freak on. Apart from the masochism of paying good money to bestial strangers to frighten the bejesus out of you, modern-day chambers of horrors exhume different kinds of feelings.

I approached Netherworld more afraid of being disappointed than being terrorized. Would its gruesome production values compensate for the chintzy carnival rides and thrill-free, P.T.A.-sponsored spook houses that let me down as I grew up? Would it work as a specialized kind of live theater? The sign reading "Wholesale Carpet Mart" atop the Netherworld building didn't exactly strike fear into my heart. With my friend Chris backing me up, I first stepped into "Oblivion," the closest attraction to the ticket booth.

Playing on trendy techno-industrial style, "Oblivion" evoked a Trent Reznor music video, or possibly a rave during an asylum breakout. Amid jarring mechanical sound effects, visitors creep past exhibits of grisly medical tortures and demonic escapades. Most memorably, a masked, straitjacketed figure thrashes in a strobe light, with crackling sounds suggesting too much electroshock.

With lots of chain and chain-link, "Oblivion" evokes the tension of groping through an old-school maze, with updated flourishes like winged demons, madmen shooting off overhead sparks and a chainsaw-wielding freak at the end. Several times I pushed through straps of long, rubbery fabric and once, slid between spinning, floor-to-ceiling rollers with wicked spikes. Perhaps "Oblivion" preys on the phobia of being an automobile in a car wash. A strange, exhilarating feeling accompanied the final escape — I was especially relieved that I never wandered backstage by mistake.

"Spirits of the Dead," Netherworld's main attraction, suggests "Tales of the Crypt" staged by a hostile takeover of Disneyworld's Haunted Mansion. Videotaped backstory describes the "Whyshburg burial ground" and the ruins of the "Old Bostwick house," which at first just looks like the digs of a too-serious Alice Cooper fan.

But "Spirits'" art direction, from faux-castle battlements to creaky clapboard walls, effectively immerses the spectator into a supernatural haunt. The massive animatronic creatures inspire awe — one monstrosity the size and disposition of The Fellowship of the Rings' cave troll lunges at the audience. Mummified pygmies blow air-compressor blowguns at passers-by, misshapen critters claw at rickety doors.

Netherworld's ensemble of costumed actors, called the "Netherspawn," proved well trained in the art of the startle. Basically, they just pop out of hidden passages or from around corners while emitting sharp cries. It works every time. Some hide in plain sight, keeping motionless in, say, suits of armor. One ivy-covered figure stays invisibly camouflaged before a garden wall until you least expect it.

They even know when the audience starts to get wise. At one point, you go past an open closet, wary of a figure moving on the other side of the hanging clothes. Only after you're clear does a ghoul jump right out in your face, saying, "I thought there was someone in there, too!" After a while, so many jolts leave your nerves totally shot, but "Spirits of the Dead" makes up for every ride that ever left you yawning.

The "Spirits" exit leads to the "Very Scary Tales in 3-D" entrance, the least chilling of Netherworld's options. Visitors wear movie-style 3-D glasses and gawk at corridors of mildly frightful illustrations in garish luminescent paint. Imagine dropping acid and feeling like you're stuck in a hippie-era underground comic book.

In keeping with the fairy-tale-gone-wrong motif, giant gingerbread men menace the visitors, and a menacing, costumed  pig-man punctuates the gruesome fate of the Big Bad Wolf. Marauding clowns and deranged Raggedy Anns also surprise the audience, but "Very Scary Tales" offered fewer neat-o effects. It did feature a fun-house style catwalk through a tunnel that took such a disorienting spin, the world seemed to lurch to the side, perhaps representing America's terrifying change in political direction.

My glasses wouldn't stay on my head, which may have soured me on "Very Scary Tales," the only "house" that left me with that familiar, slightly swindled,  I-spent-how-many-tickets-on-this feeling from the state fair. Best think of it as an optional, sherbet-colored dessert to Netherworld's eerie entrees.

Whatever you might call the opposite of that childlike sense of wonder, Netherworld mostly succeeds at capturing it, and offers a harmlessly horrifying respite from real-life anxieties. If Netherworld really wanted to scare people, it would construct vaults of terror like the "Vortex of the Health Insurance Bills," the "Unthinkable Policies of President Ashcroft," the "Unstoppable Entity from the Escrow Account" or the "Journey through the Bowels of the DMV." Next to the likes of those, the Netherspawn are kind of comforting.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13016237 1250616                          Theater Review - Nether region "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(52) "Netherworld strikes fear in suburban hearts"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 21, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Netherworld strikes fear in suburban hearts | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(17) "Social distortion"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-06-16T00:40:47+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(17) "Social distortion"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(38) "Opera and landscapes brim with emotion"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(38) "Opera and landscapes brim with emotion"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(27) "Content:_:Social distortion"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(4172) "From a first glance at his photographs, you might wonder what humanity did to hurt John Largaespada's so badly.

Using digital manipulation, Largaespada creates scenes drawn from opera and ordinary life but seen through a distorting fun-house mirror that transforms the friends and actors who pose for his images into grotesques from a Tod Browning back lot. His artifice is so lugubrious and outrageous it approaches the CGI baroque of Hollywood's What Dreams May Come, the fever dreams of Delicatessen or life seen from the inside of a fishbowl.

"The Band Box" initially looks like a dipsomaniac's worst hangover. A black-clad hipster sits at a diner counter interrupted in medias res chatting with the proprietor. The scene's Caligari dimensions are defined by a customer with a grotesquely bulbous head and the waiter's similarly misshapen one. Their physical weirdness is amplified by the juiced-up color scheme whose grubby, lurid crimsons and scummy yellows recall David Lynch's expressionist sets.

But there is something in the way Largaespada deforms the features of his subjects that bypasses cruelty and the expected misanthropy for something far more tragic and humanistic. The sensation is akin to the sudden vision of someone with an extreme disability or facial disfigurement, which can cause a sudden lurch in your soul, a feeling of painful but expansive kinship in the whole sad, wounding experience of life. Some have accused Diane Arbus of a pitiless exploitation of her disabled subjects, but there always seemed, for me, an intense feeling of connection to their plight.

In all of his work, Largaespada is clearly invested in the expressionist's project of rendering interior states outwardly. But instead of expressing a view of the world as a freak show, he only imagines what it might look like if our most tender emotions and vulnerability could be seen on faces and a landscape as plastic and malleable as taffy.

That investigation becomes especially revealing in his series of works centered around scenes from famous operas like Carmen and La Boheme, in which the dying Mimi wears the pitifully endearing expression of a Botticelli maiden whose face has been stretched like Silly Putty into an animated mask of grief. In his opera series, where the light is caramelized and dramatic, Largaespada is able to use his talent for manipulation of faces and background to convey the writ large emotions and situations that opera so cherishes. Much as opera uses song and music to connect audiences more deeply and profoundly with its characters' situations, Largaespada uses his distorted universe to convey extreme states of emotion. Though you'd never guess it from his clean-cut slacker look and bar code tattoo, Largaespada is an opera fan and season ticket holder back in Minneapolis, and he clearly finds an affinity in his art making with the transportive power of performance.

The beauty of Largaespada's solo show is his ability to use a consistent technique of highly stylized computer manipulation to create radically different effects and meaning. After all of his controlled, airless set pieces, in which flowers radiate color like Wizard of Oz poppies and life is coated in extreme grades of blinding sunshine and shoe leather browns, it's a shock to also see a body of landscapes of the Dakota badlands, stomping ground of serial killers and tourists.

Laying his prototypical artifice on top of the dramatic scenery, Largaespada allows a jagged mountain in "Space and Matter" to bleed like a runny watercolor into the sky and ground, as if in the process of a "Star Trek" beam-me-up. The image underscores the history of photography and painting of the West from Albert Bierstadt to Ansel Adams, as an artistic infatuation with nature as repository of the mystical, a transcendent place where an earth defined by painful beauty seems to speak its inner thoughts.

Like his people who exude the feelings percolating within, even Largaespada's landscapes become deformed and changed by some desire to communicate from the waxy ooze below land to the tiny, poignant saplings sprouting above.

felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com


"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4257) "__From a first glance __at his photographs, you might wonder what humanity did to hurt John Largaespada's so badly.

Using digital manipulation, Largaespada creates scenes drawn from opera and ordinary life but seen through a distorting fun-house mirror that transforms the friends and actors who pose for his images into grotesques from a Tod Browning back lot. His artifice is so lugubrious and outrageous it approaches the CGI baroque of Hollywood's ''What Dreams May Come'', the fever dreams of ''Delicatessen'' or life seen from the inside of a fishbowl.

"The Band Box" initially looks like a dipsomaniac's worst hangover. A black-clad hipster sits at a diner counter interrupted in ''medias res'' chatting with the proprietor. The scene's Caligari dimensions are defined by a customer with a grotesquely bulbous head and the waiter's similarly misshapen one. Their physical weirdness is amplified by the juiced-up color scheme whose grubby, lurid crimsons and scummy yellows recall David Lynch's expressionist sets.

But there is something in the way Largaespada deforms the features of his subjects that bypasses cruelty and the expected misanthropy for something far more tragic and humanistic. The sensation is akin to the sudden vision of someone with an extreme disability or facial disfigurement, which can cause a sudden lurch in your soul, a feeling of painful but expansive kinship in the whole sad, wounding experience of life. Some have accused Diane Arbus of a pitiless exploitation of her disabled subjects, but there always seemed, for me, an intense feeling of connection to their plight.

In all of his work, Largaespada is clearly invested in the expressionist's project of rendering interior states outwardly. But instead of expressing a view of the world as a freak show, he only imagines what it might look like if our most tender emotions and vulnerability could be seen on faces and a landscape as plastic and malleable as taffy.

That investigation becomes especially revealing in his series of works centered around scenes from famous operas like ''Carmen'' and ''La Boheme'', in which the dying Mimi wears the pitifully endearing expression of a Botticelli maiden whose face has been stretched like Silly Putty into an animated mask of grief. In his opera series, where the light is caramelized and dramatic, Largaespada is able to use his talent for manipulation of faces and background to convey the writ large emotions and situations that opera so cherishes. Much as opera uses song and music to connect audiences more deeply and profoundly with its characters' situations, Largaespada uses his distorted universe to convey extreme states of emotion. Though you'd never guess it from his clean-cut slacker look and bar code tattoo, Largaespada is an opera fan and season ticket holder back in Minneapolis, and he clearly finds an affinity in his art making with the transportive power of performance.

The beauty of Largaespada's solo show is his ability to use a consistent technique of highly stylized computer manipulation to create radically different effects and meaning. After all of his controlled, airless set pieces, in which flowers radiate color like ''Wizard of Oz'' poppies and life is coated in extreme grades of blinding sunshine and shoe leather browns, it's a shock to also see a body of landscapes of the Dakota badlands, stomping ground of serial killers and tourists.

Laying his prototypical artifice on top of the dramatic scenery, Largaespada allows a jagged mountain in "Space and Matter" to bleed like a runny watercolor into the sky and ground, as if in the process of a "Star Trek" beam-me-up. The image underscores the history of photography and painting of the West from Albert Bierstadt to Ansel Adams, as an artistic infatuation with nature as repository of the mystical, a transcendent place where an earth defined by painful beauty seems to speak its inner thoughts.

Like his people who exude the feelings percolating within, even Largaespada's landscapes become deformed and changed by some desire to communicate from the waxy ooze below land to the tiny, poignant saplings sprouting above.

__[mailto:felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com|felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com]__
____
____
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016174"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250501"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "S"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(6) "Social"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179896"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179896"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(4387) "    Opera and landscapes brim with emotion   2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00 Social distortion   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00  From a first glance at his photographs, you might wonder what humanity did to hurt John Largaespada's so badly.

Using digital manipulation, Largaespada creates scenes drawn from opera and ordinary life but seen through a distorting fun-house mirror that transforms the friends and actors who pose for his images into grotesques from a Tod Browning back lot. His artifice is so lugubrious and outrageous it approaches the CGI baroque of Hollywood's What Dreams May Come, the fever dreams of Delicatessen or life seen from the inside of a fishbowl.

"The Band Box" initially looks like a dipsomaniac's worst hangover. A black-clad hipster sits at a diner counter interrupted in medias res chatting with the proprietor. The scene's Caligari dimensions are defined by a customer with a grotesquely bulbous head and the waiter's similarly misshapen one. Their physical weirdness is amplified by the juiced-up color scheme whose grubby, lurid crimsons and scummy yellows recall David Lynch's expressionist sets.

But there is something in the way Largaespada deforms the features of his subjects that bypasses cruelty and the expected misanthropy for something far more tragic and humanistic. The sensation is akin to the sudden vision of someone with an extreme disability or facial disfigurement, which can cause a sudden lurch in your soul, a feeling of painful but expansive kinship in the whole sad, wounding experience of life. Some have accused Diane Arbus of a pitiless exploitation of her disabled subjects, but there always seemed, for me, an intense feeling of connection to their plight.

In all of his work, Largaespada is clearly invested in the expressionist's project of rendering interior states outwardly. But instead of expressing a view of the world as a freak show, he only imagines what it might look like if our most tender emotions and vulnerability could be seen on faces and a landscape as plastic and malleable as taffy.

That investigation becomes especially revealing in his series of works centered around scenes from famous operas like Carmen and La Boheme, in which the dying Mimi wears the pitifully endearing expression of a Botticelli maiden whose face has been stretched like Silly Putty into an animated mask of grief. In his opera series, where the light is caramelized and dramatic, Largaespada is able to use his talent for manipulation of faces and background to convey the writ large emotions and situations that opera so cherishes. Much as opera uses song and music to connect audiences more deeply and profoundly with its characters' situations, Largaespada uses his distorted universe to convey extreme states of emotion. Though you'd never guess it from his clean-cut slacker look and bar code tattoo, Largaespada is an opera fan and season ticket holder back in Minneapolis, and he clearly finds an affinity in his art making with the transportive power of performance.

The beauty of Largaespada's solo show is his ability to use a consistent technique of highly stylized computer manipulation to create radically different effects and meaning. After all of his controlled, airless set pieces, in which flowers radiate color like Wizard of Oz poppies and life is coated in extreme grades of blinding sunshine and shoe leather browns, it's a shock to also see a body of landscapes of the Dakota badlands, stomping ground of serial killers and tourists.

Laying his prototypical artifice on top of the dramatic scenery, Largaespada allows a jagged mountain in "Space and Matter" to bleed like a runny watercolor into the sky and ground, as if in the process of a "Star Trek" beam-me-up. The image underscores the history of photography and painting of the West from Albert Bierstadt to Ansel Adams, as an artistic infatuation with nature as repository of the mystical, a transcendent place where an earth defined by painful beauty seems to speak its inner thoughts.

Like his people who exude the feelings percolating within, even Largaespada's landscapes become deformed and changed by some desire to communicate from the waxy ooze below land to the tiny, poignant saplings sprouting above.

felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com


             13016174 1250501                          Social distortion "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(47) "Opera and landscapes brim with emotion"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 14, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Opera and landscapes brim with emotion | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(25) "Offscript - Sharper image"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:57:46+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-04T16:56:15+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(25) "Offscript - Sharper image"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(36) "The temptations of high-tech theater"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(36) "The temptations of high-tech theater"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(35) "Content:_:Offscript - Sharper image"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(5336) "Like a Mynah bird transfixed by a shiny object, part of me gravitates toward live plays enhanced with video and other multi-media effects. I want to see flesh-and-blood performers interact with characters on high-definition widescreen monitors. I want Shakespearean dialogue Instant-Messaged to me at my seat. I want Flash-animated scenery and graphic subtitles like the news-crawls on CNN. I want my Play TV.

But my level of anticipation of a high-tech show invariably equals the disappointment that comes afterward. Either the promising visual frills turn out to be superfluous distractions, or smart ideas fall short on the technical level.

PushPush Theater recently put a modern spin on Macbeth with video-projected press conferences and presidential addresses much like C-SPAN programming. But the picture quality didn't match the typical entertainment center of a neighborhood sports bar. The news-broadcast interludes of 7 Stages' Iphigenia ... a rave fable deepened the play's real-world texture, but never looked remotely close to actual tele-journalism. Theatrical budgets seldom make good on technological ambitions.

As an art form that's several millennia old, theater doesn't really need much hardware — if you have performers, a space and something to say, you can put on a play. 7 Stages' current show Maria Kizito uses low-tech shadow puppetry to evoke Africa's geopolitical landscape, and it succeeds as well as — if not better than — some kind of video projection.

But just because technology cannot be trusted, that doesn't mean it should be abandoned entirely. When I saw Aurora Theatre's Das Barbecu, audio snafus plagued the musical, and loud, staticky "BZZZT!" sounds disrupted the songs of Marcie Millard. Microphones are barely a century old, but few theater Luddites would advocate giving up sound amplification. Or, for that matter, electric lights or online ticketing.

As television, computers and the Internet increasingly influence how people think and communicate, a vital, relevant theater must reflect that. Theater is so strong at exploring the way we relate to each other that it shouldn't surrender technological themes to newer, slicker media.

The Alliance Theatre's otherwise-forgotten Hearts in 2001 provided one of the rare examples of a new medium improving a production. At the end, a haunted World War II veteran had an epiphany during an online chat, and the correspondent's e-mails flashed silently on a screen above the stage. The gadgetry clarified the story rather than muddied it.

The state of high-tech, mixed media theater bears comparison to the painful, awkward phase of flight circa the Wright Brothers. Some experiments achieve lift-off, while most display elegant design or flap entertainingly before crashing to earth. Eventually, the art will catch up with the science, but don't expect a systems upgrade any time soon.


br>?Bright Young Things
In announcing their new seasons, two of Atlanta's youngest theater companies are shifting their ambitions into higher gear, while a third slows down to regroup.

Out of Hand Theater's next show is a tweaked remount of the self-help seminar spoof Help!, playing Nov. 11-Dec. 5 at Dad's Garage Top Shelf. Out of Hand hopes to take Help! on the road, envisioning the show not in out-of-town theaters but in hotel ballrooms during conventions, just like "real" seminars.

The company's interest in unusual forms continues with Out of Hand Shorts, a series of sketches meant for guerilla-style performance at Atlanta's big spring events like the Inman Park Festival. Out of Hand plans to perform in cars, at parking meters and other public spaces. Most appealingly, they hope to gather 50 or so performers, teach them simple choreography, and break into mass dance numbers a la Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

Out of Hand will flex its classical muscles with August Stridberg's intimidating classic Miss Julie, with Ariel de Man directing fellow producing artistic directors Adam Fristoe and Maia Knispel at 7 Stages Back Stage in April.

Jack in the Black Box Theatre Company, a troupe even younger than Out of Hand, begins its 2005 lineup with The Exonerated (rights pending), Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen's acclaimed oral-history drama of innocent death row inmates saved from execution, at Horizon Theatre in January. In August at Actor's Express, the company will blend music, mime and dance to stage Jean-Claude van Itallie's Tibetan Book of the Dead, a poetic description of the afterlife. And in December at Dad's Garage, the company presents its own original stage adaptation of George Orwell's Animal Farm.

Celebrating its 10th anniversary, Dad's Garage Theatre no longer qualifies as the young upstart, and as its nationwide search continues to replace artistic director Sean Daniels, the theater's ambitions seem scaled back. In December and January, it presents new versions of its Chick & Boozy holiday special and its short play compilation 8 1/2 x 11, but next summer offers no elaborate productions like 2003's Bat Boy: The Musical. Instead the playhouse will observe its birthday with a "summer of improv" that features off-the-cuff comedy. Once a permanent artistic leader is named,  expect offbeat new schemes to steal the spotlight back from the youngsters.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5491) "__Like a Mynah bird __transfixed by a shiny object, part of me gravitates toward live plays enhanced with video and other multi-media effects. I want to see flesh-and-blood performers interact with characters on high-definition widescreen monitors. I want Shakespearean dialogue Instant-Messaged to me at my seat. I want Flash-animated scenery and graphic subtitles like the news-crawls on CNN. I want my Play TV.

But my level of anticipation of a high-tech show invariably equals the disappointment that comes afterward. Either the promising visual frills turn out to be superfluous distractions, or smart ideas fall short on the technical level.

__PushPush Theater__ recently put a modern spin on ''Macbeth'' with video-projected press conferences and presidential addresses much like C-SPAN programming. But the picture quality didn't match the typical entertainment center of a neighborhood sports bar. The news-broadcast interludes of __7 Stages__' ''Iphigenia ... a rave fable'' deepened the play's real-world texture, but never looked remotely close to actual tele-journalism. Theatrical budgets seldom make good on technological ambitions.

As an art form that's several millennia old, theater doesn't really need much hardware -- if you have performers, a space and something to say, you can put on a play. 7 Stages' current show ''Maria Kizito'' uses low-tech shadow puppetry to evoke Africa's geopolitical landscape, and it succeeds as well as -- if not better than -- some kind of video projection.

But just because technology cannot be trusted, that doesn't mean it should be abandoned entirely. When I saw __Aurora Theatre's__ ''Das Barbecu'', audio snafus plagued the musical, and loud, staticky "BZZZT!" sounds disrupted the songs of __Marcie Millard__. Microphones are barely a century old, but few theater Luddites would advocate giving up sound amplification. Or, for that matter, electric lights or online ticketing.

As television, computers and the Internet increasingly influence how people think and communicate, a vital, relevant theater must reflect that. Theater is so strong at exploring the way we relate to each other that it shouldn't surrender technological themes to newer, slicker media.

The __Alliance Theatre__'s otherwise-forgotten ''Hearts'' in 2001 provided one of the rare examples of a new medium improving a production. At the end, a haunted World War II veteran had an epiphany during an online chat, and the correspondent's e-mails flashed silently on a screen above the stage. The gadgetry clarified the story rather than muddied it.

The state of high-tech, mixed media theater bears comparison to the painful, awkward phase of flight circa the Wright Brothers. Some experiments achieve lift-off, while most display elegant design or flap entertainingly before crashing to earth. Eventually, the art will catch up with the science, but don't expect a systems upgrade any time soon.


br>?____Bright Young Things____
In announcing their new seasons, two of Atlanta's youngest theater companies are shifting their ambitions into higher gear, while a third slows down to regroup.

__Out of Hand Theater__'s next show is a tweaked remount of the self-help seminar spoof ''Help!'', playing Nov. 11-Dec. 5 at Dad's Garage Top Shelf. Out of Hand hopes to take ''Help!'' on the road, envisioning the show not in out-of-town theaters but in hotel ballrooms during conventions, just like "real" seminars.

The company's interest in unusual forms continues with ''Out of Hand Shorts'', a series of sketches meant for guerilla-style performance at Atlanta's big spring events like the Inman Park Festival. Out of Hand plans to perform in cars, at parking meters and other public spaces. Most appealingly, they hope to gather 50 or so performers, teach them simple choreography, and break into mass dance numbers a la ''Ferris Bueller's Day Off''.

Out of Hand will flex its classical muscles with August Stridberg's intimidating classic ''Miss Julie'', with __Ariel de Man__ directing fellow producing artistic directors __Adam Fristoe__ and __Maia Knispel__ at 7 Stages Back Stage in April.

__Jack in the Black Box Theatre Company__, a troupe even younger than Out of Hand, begins its 2005 lineup with ''The Exonerated'' (rights pending), Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen's acclaimed oral-history drama of innocent death row inmates saved from execution, at Horizon Theatre in January. In August at Actor's Express, the company will blend music, mime and dance to stage Jean-Claude van Itallie's ''Tibetan Book of the Dead'', a poetic description of the afterlife. And in December at Dad's Garage, the company presents its own original stage adaptation of George Orwell's'' Animal Farm.''
''''
''''Celebrating its 10th anniversary, __Dad's Garage Theatre__ no longer qualifies as the young upstart, and as its nationwide search continues to replace artistic director Sean Daniels, the theater's ambitions seem scaled back. In December and January, it presents new versions of its ''Chick & Boozy'' holiday special and its short play compilation ''8 1/2 x 11'', but next summer offers no elaborate productions like 2003's ''Bat Boy: The Musical''. Instead the playhouse will observe its birthday with a "summer of improv" that features off-the-cuff comedy. Once a permanent artistic leader is named,  expect offbeat new schemes to steal the spotlight back from the youngsters.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T19:06:38+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T19:06:38+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "653"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "653"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016177"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250507"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(653)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(653)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(653)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "O"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(9) "Offscript"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item190984"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "190984"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5565) "    The temptations of high-tech theater   2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00 Offscript - Sharper image   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00  Like a Mynah bird transfixed by a shiny object, part of me gravitates toward live plays enhanced with video and other multi-media effects. I want to see flesh-and-blood performers interact with characters on high-definition widescreen monitors. I want Shakespearean dialogue Instant-Messaged to me at my seat. I want Flash-animated scenery and graphic subtitles like the news-crawls on CNN. I want my Play TV.

But my level of anticipation of a high-tech show invariably equals the disappointment that comes afterward. Either the promising visual frills turn out to be superfluous distractions, or smart ideas fall short on the technical level.

PushPush Theater recently put a modern spin on Macbeth with video-projected press conferences and presidential addresses much like C-SPAN programming. But the picture quality didn't match the typical entertainment center of a neighborhood sports bar. The news-broadcast interludes of 7 Stages' Iphigenia ... a rave fable deepened the play's real-world texture, but never looked remotely close to actual tele-journalism. Theatrical budgets seldom make good on technological ambitions.

As an art form that's several millennia old, theater doesn't really need much hardware — if you have performers, a space and something to say, you can put on a play. 7 Stages' current show Maria Kizito uses low-tech shadow puppetry to evoke Africa's geopolitical landscape, and it succeeds as well as — if not better than — some kind of video projection.

But just because technology cannot be trusted, that doesn't mean it should be abandoned entirely. When I saw Aurora Theatre's Das Barbecu, audio snafus plagued the musical, and loud, staticky "BZZZT!" sounds disrupted the songs of Marcie Millard. Microphones are barely a century old, but few theater Luddites would advocate giving up sound amplification. Or, for that matter, electric lights or online ticketing.

As television, computers and the Internet increasingly influence how people think and communicate, a vital, relevant theater must reflect that. Theater is so strong at exploring the way we relate to each other that it shouldn't surrender technological themes to newer, slicker media.

The Alliance Theatre's otherwise-forgotten Hearts in 2001 provided one of the rare examples of a new medium improving a production. At the end, a haunted World War II veteran had an epiphany during an online chat, and the correspondent's e-mails flashed silently on a screen above the stage. The gadgetry clarified the story rather than muddied it.

The state of high-tech, mixed media theater bears comparison to the painful, awkward phase of flight circa the Wright Brothers. Some experiments achieve lift-off, while most display elegant design or flap entertainingly before crashing to earth. Eventually, the art will catch up with the science, but don't expect a systems upgrade any time soon.


br>?Bright Young Things
In announcing their new seasons, two of Atlanta's youngest theater companies are shifting their ambitions into higher gear, while a third slows down to regroup.

Out of Hand Theater's next show is a tweaked remount of the self-help seminar spoof Help!, playing Nov. 11-Dec. 5 at Dad's Garage Top Shelf. Out of Hand hopes to take Help! on the road, envisioning the show not in out-of-town theaters but in hotel ballrooms during conventions, just like "real" seminars.

The company's interest in unusual forms continues with Out of Hand Shorts, a series of sketches meant for guerilla-style performance at Atlanta's big spring events like the Inman Park Festival. Out of Hand plans to perform in cars, at parking meters and other public spaces. Most appealingly, they hope to gather 50 or so performers, teach them simple choreography, and break into mass dance numbers a la Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

Out of Hand will flex its classical muscles with August Stridberg's intimidating classic Miss Julie, with Ariel de Man directing fellow producing artistic directors Adam Fristoe and Maia Knispel at 7 Stages Back Stage in April.

Jack in the Black Box Theatre Company, a troupe even younger than Out of Hand, begins its 2005 lineup with The Exonerated (rights pending), Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen's acclaimed oral-history drama of innocent death row inmates saved from execution, at Horizon Theatre in January. In August at Actor's Express, the company will blend music, mime and dance to stage Jean-Claude van Itallie's Tibetan Book of the Dead, a poetic description of the afterlife. And in December at Dad's Garage, the company presents its own original stage adaptation of George Orwell's Animal Farm.

Celebrating its 10th anniversary, Dad's Garage Theatre no longer qualifies as the young upstart, and as its nationwide search continues to replace artistic director Sean Daniels, the theater's ambitions seem scaled back. In December and January, it presents new versions of its Chick & Boozy holiday special and its short play compilation 8 1/2 x 11, but next summer offers no elaborate productions like 2003's Bat Boy: The Musical. Instead the playhouse will observe its birthday with a "summer of improv" that features off-the-cuff comedy. Once a permanent artistic leader is named,  expect offbeat new schemes to steal the spotlight back from the youngsters.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13016177 1250507                          Offscript - Sharper image "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(45) "The temptations of high-tech theater"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 14, 2004 12:04 am EDT
The temptations of high-tech theater | more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(35) "Theater Review - From opera to Opry"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T17:11:54+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(35) "Theater Review - From opera to Opry"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(45) "Content:_:Theater Review - From opera to Opry"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2391) "Dang me if I can figure out who'll be entertained by Das BarbecÜ at Aurora Theatre. The musical spoofs Richard Wagner's The Ring Cycle by transporting the Teutonic tale to Texas and replacing the arias with country-and-western twang.

Built around a frame of high culture inside jokes but packed like a sausage with kitschy redneck slapstick, Das Barbecü aims at some theoretical viewer who identifies equally with Frasier Crane and Jeff Foxworthy.

Das Barbecü shows surprising fidelity to Wagner's action and characters. In the introductory song, "A Ring of Gold in Texas," hula-hooping actresses explain how dashing hero Siegfried (rubber-bodied Brandon O'Dell) discovers a long-sought magic ring. Though Siegfried loves blue-jeaned warrior-woman BrÜnnhilde (Marcie Millard), he finds himself betrothed to man-hungry Gutrune (Aimee Ariel) as part of a plan by an evil dwarf (also played by O'Dell) to steal the ring.

Directed by David Crowe, the production creatively comes up with Texan bric-a-brac to match Wagnerian lore. Instead of pointed helmets, the Amazonian Valkyrie balance steakhouse-sized longhorns atop 10-gallon hats. But Das Barbecü's Southern stereotypes frequently threaten to become nasty parodies. Lyrics like, "Will I ever get the hang/of this man and woman thang?" and barnyard aphorisms like "You'd piss on a cripple's last cream puff" drip with condescension to the South, and only the actors' good cheer keeps the show from feeling like one long insult.

Das Barbecü's players seem cast more for their enthusiasm for silly physical comedy than their singing and dancing ability, although Millard demonstrates a forceful vocal range in the final number, "Turn the Tide." Among the quick-changing actors, Sandra Benton and Anthony Rodriguez juggle funny roles as various drawling gods and goofballs.

But Jim Luigs' bland, cloying country tunes, like "Hog-Tie Your Man" and "Barbecue for Two," sound better suited to Branson, Mo., than a honky-tonk roadhouse. Most of the musical numbers either provide unnecessary flashbacks or rely on comic relief that doesn't advance the plot. Like a pickup stuck in a mud puddle, Das Barbecü either travels backward or spins its wheels.

Das Barbecü plays through Oct. 24 at Aurora Theatre, 3087 Main St., Duluth. Thurs.-Fri., 8 p.m.; Sat., 2:30 and 8 p.m.; Sun., 2:30 p.m. $18-$25. 770-476-7926. www.auroratheatre.com."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2431) "__Dang me __if I can figure out who'll be entertained by ''Das BarbecÜ'' at Aurora Theatre. The musical spoofs Richard Wagner's ''The Ring Cycle'' by transporting the Teutonic tale to Texas and replacing the arias with country-and-western twang.

Built around a frame of high culture inside jokes but packed like a sausage with kitschy redneck slapstick, ''Das Barbecü'' aims at some theoretical viewer who identifies equally with Frasier Crane and Jeff Foxworthy.

''Das Barbecü'' shows surprising fidelity to Wagner's action and characters. In the introductory song, "A Ring of Gold in Texas," hula-hooping actresses explain how dashing hero Siegfried (rubber-bodied Brandon O'Dell) discovers a long-sought magic ring. Though Siegfried loves blue-jeaned warrior-woman BrÜnnhilde (Marcie Millard), he finds himself betrothed to man-hungry Gutrune (Aimee Ariel) as part of a plan by an evil dwarf (also played by O'Dell) to steal the ring.

Directed by David Crowe, the production creatively comes up with Texan bric-a-brac to match Wagnerian lore. Instead of pointed helmets, the Amazonian Valkyrie balance steakhouse-sized longhorns atop 10-gallon hats. But ''Das Barbecü'''s Southern stereotypes frequently threaten to become nasty parodies. Lyrics like, "Will I ever get the hang/of this man and woman thang?" and barnyard aphorisms like "You'd piss on a cripple's last cream puff" drip with condescension to the South, and only the actors' good cheer keeps the show from feeling like one long insult.

''Das Barbecü'''s players seem cast more for their enthusiasm for silly physical comedy than their singing and dancing ability, although Millard demonstrates a forceful vocal range in the final number, "Turn the Tide." Among the quick-changing actors, Sandra Benton and Anthony Rodriguez juggle funny roles as various drawling gods and goofballs.

But Jim Luigs' bland, cloying country tunes, like "Hog-Tie Your Man" and "Barbecue for Two," sound better suited to Branson, Mo., than a honky-tonk roadhouse. Most of the musical numbers either provide unnecessary flashbacks or rely on comic relief that doesn't advance the plot. Like a pickup stuck in a mud puddle, ''Das Barbecü'' either travels backward or spins its wheels.

____Das Barbecü'' plays through Oct. 24 at Aurora Theatre, 3087 Main St., Duluth. Thurs.-Fri., 8 p.m.; Sat., 2:30 and 8 p.m.; Sun., 2:30 p.m. $18-$25. 770-476-7926. www.auroratheatre.com.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016176"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250505"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180821"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180821"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2604) "       2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - From opera to Opry   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00  Dang me if I can figure out who'll be entertained by Das BarbecÜ at Aurora Theatre. The musical spoofs Richard Wagner's The Ring Cycle by transporting the Teutonic tale to Texas and replacing the arias with country-and-western twang.

Built around a frame of high culture inside jokes but packed like a sausage with kitschy redneck slapstick, Das Barbecü aims at some theoretical viewer who identifies equally with Frasier Crane and Jeff Foxworthy.

Das Barbecü shows surprising fidelity to Wagner's action and characters. In the introductory song, "A Ring of Gold in Texas," hula-hooping actresses explain how dashing hero Siegfried (rubber-bodied Brandon O'Dell) discovers a long-sought magic ring. Though Siegfried loves blue-jeaned warrior-woman BrÜnnhilde (Marcie Millard), he finds himself betrothed to man-hungry Gutrune (Aimee Ariel) as part of a plan by an evil dwarf (also played by O'Dell) to steal the ring.

Directed by David Crowe, the production creatively comes up with Texan bric-a-brac to match Wagnerian lore. Instead of pointed helmets, the Amazonian Valkyrie balance steakhouse-sized longhorns atop 10-gallon hats. But Das Barbecü's Southern stereotypes frequently threaten to become nasty parodies. Lyrics like, "Will I ever get the hang/of this man and woman thang?" and barnyard aphorisms like "You'd piss on a cripple's last cream puff" drip with condescension to the South, and only the actors' good cheer keeps the show from feeling like one long insult.

Das Barbecü's players seem cast more for their enthusiasm for silly physical comedy than their singing and dancing ability, although Millard demonstrates a forceful vocal range in the final number, "Turn the Tide." Among the quick-changing actors, Sandra Benton and Anthony Rodriguez juggle funny roles as various drawling gods and goofballs.

But Jim Luigs' bland, cloying country tunes, like "Hog-Tie Your Man" and "Barbecue for Two," sound better suited to Branson, Mo., than a honky-tonk roadhouse. Most of the musical numbers either provide unnecessary flashbacks or rely on comic relief that doesn't advance the plot. Like a pickup stuck in a mud puddle, Das Barbecü either travels backward or spins its wheels.

Das Barbecü plays through Oct. 24 at Aurora Theatre, 3087 Main St., Duluth. Thurs.-Fri., 8 p.m.; Sat., 2:30 and 8 p.m.; Sun., 2:30 p.m. $18-$25. 770-476-7926. www.auroratheatre.com.             13016176 1250505                          Theater Review - From opera to Opry "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 14, 2004 12:04 am EDT

Dang me if I can figure out who'll be entertained by Das BarbecÜ at Aurora Theatre. The musical spoofs Richard Wagner's The Ring Cycle by transporting the Teutonic tale to Texas and replacing the arias with country-and-western twang.

Built around a frame of high culture inside jokes but packed like a sausage with kitschy redneck slapstick, Das Barbecü aims at some theoretical viewer who...

| more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(13) "Mondo Bizzoso"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-06-13T01:06:18+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(13) "Mondo Bizzoso"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(39) "Art is a way of life for Normando Ismay"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(39) "Art is a way of life for Normando Ismay"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(23) "Content:_:Mondo Bizzoso"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(5777) "It's not the way the near-death script is supposed to go.

Facing stage four cancer with a possibly metastasizing melanoma on his arm, the dying man is supposed to look back on his life and curse his omissions: his ceaseless devotion to work and all the creative ambitions that never materialized.

But instead of raging against misspent time, Normando Ismay remembers feeling an odd kind of contentment sweep over him as he began to contemplate his own death.

One thought brought him out of that dark void, the 52-year-old artist recalls. "I'm so glad I decided to make art my whole life and not wait until I retired."

Never mind that the uninsured Ismay had to fork over $13,000  — a loan from an unnamed friend — for the surgery last August that removed a malignant melanoma and left a scar the shape and size of a small mouse on his right arm. Or that he estimates his medical bills will rise to a staggering $20,000 by the time his treatment runs its course. Ismay has lived a happy, artistically satisfying life, and that's more than many could claim for themselves.

The good news today is that Ismay is cancer-free, though not debt-free. Dancer and friend Celeste Miller is sharing her Cabbagetown home with Ismay, helping him recover and navigate the labyrinthine health care system. And in her latest gesture of friendship, she has helped organize an Oct. 14-16 fundraiser to not only defray Ismay's medical costs but to help build a health care reserve for artists without health insurance to tap into should a devastating health care crisis like Ismay's arise.

Dressed all in black from his jeans to his beret, Ismay sits in Miller's cheerful yellow kitchen sipping mate, the dense, earthy tea of his native Argentina, and recalls his upbringing in the northwestern town of La Rioja.

"Art's for rich people only," Ismay laughingly recalls his mother advising. Like many reared in poverty, she hoped her son would follow a more traditional career path.

But Ismay could not ignore his life's calling. He traveled the countryside with his missionary father and saw both extreme poverty and the deep roots of community that brought people together with music and storytelling just as air-conditioned homes and TV drive them apart now. His father often called upon him to preach a little himself.

Decades later, when he first took the stage at an Atlanta workshop, Ismay mesmerized his audience with a charismatic storytelling ability that seemed to spring out of nowhere. He realized that his father had prepared him well for a life of mounting pulpits, though not the religious kind.

Ismay has since incorporated many of his formative experiences growing up poor but happy in Argentina into his new life in Atlanta. He left Argentina in 1974. And over the course of a 30-year art career Ismay has become one of the city's unsung creative heroes.

For Ismay, the Atlanta art scene was his graduate school. At alternative arts spaces like Nexus (now Atlanta Contemporary Art Center) and the Mattress Factory, he learned to create sculpture and installations from garbage, an abundant material in America which contrasts starkly with the scarcity of waste in Argentina.

In a 1981 show at the Mattress Factory, he noticed how all of the participating artists laid immediate claim to their little parcels of space like puppies marking their territories. In a typically tongue-in-cheek gesture, Ismay literally fenced off his space and served beer, creating a small, spontaneous community.

That early epiphany — that art was a commodity to be traded for money — led to a radical desire to make art differently. In 1994 Ismay debuted the very first Cafe Bizzoso in the long-beloved, now-defunct Atlanta Arts Festival. Bizzoso, MC'ed by Ismay's alter ego Papa Bizzoso, was a kind of collaborative, festival-style performance event, interweaving dance, storytelling and music in an effort to create a community — at least for one enchanted night.

Cafe Bizzoso combined everything Ismay loved about Argentina: a celebration of the kind of unafraid, joyful individual expression that he saw crushed in the anxiety-producing American media culture.

Louise Shaw, former executive director of Nexus Contemporary Art Center, watched Ismay's progress from his earliest days in Atlanta. She calls him a trendsetter for the way he dealt with issues just beginning to circulate in the art world.

"I think that he was truly one of the first to take a multidisciplinary approach in this very holistic way that really has to do with how art can transform communities."

After purchasing his first house for $7,000 in Taco Town, the then-marginal neighborhood between Grant Park and Cabbagetown, Ismay brought community activism home when he debuted his 1994 Crack Attack show at his own "Little Beirut" backyard art space. Ismay spray-painted an enormous sign with an arrow pointing to the "crack house" on his block in an effort to drive the drug trade from his neighborhood.

Atlanta has changed enormously since Ismay first arrived here in the '70s. But the collaboration and the camaraderie remain. His friends are staging a Cafe Bizzoso-style benefit to celebrate a life truly worth living. Meanwhile, Ismay is not worried about his legacy.

Indicating the colorful paintings adorning the walls of Miller's kitchen, he says, "I made thousands of art pieces. My presence in this world is going to be here for a long time."

felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com


Evenings feature music, dance and spoken word performances by Seaberg Acrobatic Poetry, Andean musical group Vientos Del Pueblo, musician and spoken word artist Kodac Harrison and many others. Artist's market, children's events and workshops will be held during the day on Saturday."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5825) "__It's not the way __the near-death script is supposed to go.

Facing stage four cancer with a possibly metastasizing melanoma on his arm, the dying man is supposed to look back on his life and curse his omissions: his ceaseless devotion to work and all the creative ambitions that never materialized.

But instead of raging against misspent time, Normando Ismay remembers feeling an odd kind of contentment sweep over him as he began to contemplate his own death.

One thought brought him out of that dark void, the 52-year-old artist recalls. "I'm so glad I decided to make art my whole life and not wait until I retired."

Never mind that the uninsured Ismay had to fork over $13,000  -- a loan from an unnamed friend -- for the surgery last August that removed a malignant melanoma and left a scar the shape and size of a small mouse on his right arm. Or that he estimates his medical bills will rise to a staggering $20,000 by the time his treatment runs its course. Ismay has lived a happy, artistically satisfying life, and that's more than many could claim for themselves.

The good news today is that Ismay is cancer-free, though not debt-free. Dancer and friend Celeste Miller is sharing her Cabbagetown home with Ismay, helping him recover and navigate the labyrinthine health care system. And in her latest gesture of friendship, she has helped organize an Oct. 14-16 fundraiser to not only defray Ismay's medical costs but to help build a health care reserve for artists without health insurance to tap into should a devastating health care crisis like Ismay's arise.

Dressed all in black from his jeans to his beret, Ismay sits in Miller's cheerful yellow kitchen sipping mate, the dense, earthy tea of his native Argentina, and recalls his upbringing in the northwestern town of La Rioja.

"Art's for rich people only," Ismay laughingly recalls his mother advising. Like many reared in poverty, she hoped her son would follow a more traditional career path.

But Ismay could not ignore his life's calling. He traveled the countryside with his missionary father and saw both extreme poverty and the deep roots of community that brought people together with music and storytelling just as air-conditioned homes and TV drive them apart now. His father often called upon him to preach a little himself.

Decades later, when he first took the stage at an Atlanta workshop, Ismay mesmerized his audience with a charismatic storytelling ability that seemed to spring out of nowhere. He realized that his father had prepared him well for a life of mounting pulpits, though not the religious kind.

Ismay has since incorporated many of his formative experiences growing up poor but happy in Argentina into his new life in Atlanta. He left Argentina in 1974. And over the course of a 30-year art career Ismay has become one of the city's unsung creative heroes.

For Ismay, the Atlanta art scene was his graduate school. At alternative arts spaces like Nexus (now Atlanta Contemporary Art Center) and the Mattress Factory, he learned to create sculpture and installations from garbage, an abundant material in America which contrasts starkly with the scarcity of waste in Argentina.

In a 1981 show at the Mattress Factory, he noticed how all of the participating artists laid immediate claim to their little parcels of space like puppies marking their territories. In a typically tongue-in-cheek gesture, Ismay literally fenced off ''his'' space and served beer, creating a small, spontaneous community.

That early epiphany -- that art was a commodity to be traded for money -- led to a radical desire to make art differently. In 1994 Ismay debuted the very first Cafe Bizzoso in the long-beloved, now-defunct Atlanta Arts Festival. Bizzoso, MC'ed by Ismay's alter ego Papa Bizzoso, was a kind of collaborative, festival-style performance event, interweaving dance, storytelling and music in an effort to create a community -- at least for one enchanted night.

Cafe Bizzoso combined everything Ismay loved about Argentina: a celebration of the kind of unafraid, joyful individual expression that he saw crushed in the anxiety-producing American media culture.

Louise Shaw, former executive director of Nexus Contemporary Art Center, watched Ismay's progress from his earliest days in Atlanta. She calls him a trendsetter for the way he dealt with issues just beginning to circulate in the art world.

"I think that he was truly one of the first to take a multidisciplinary approach in this very holistic way that really has to do with how art can transform communities."

After purchasing his first house for $7,000 in Taco Town, the then-marginal neighborhood between Grant Park and Cabbagetown, Ismay brought community activism home when he debuted his 1994 ''Crack Attack'' show at his own "Little Beirut" backyard art space. Ismay spray-painted an enormous sign with an arrow pointing to the "crack house" on his block in an effort to drive the drug trade from his neighborhood.

Atlanta has changed enormously since Ismay first arrived here in the '70s. But the collaboration and the camaraderie remain. His friends are staging a Cafe Bizzoso-style benefit to celebrate a life truly worth living. Meanwhile, Ismay is not worried about his legacy.

Indicating the colorful paintings adorning the walls of Miller's kitchen, he says, "I made thousands of art pieces. My presence in this world is going to be here for a long time."

__[mailto:felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com|felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com]__
____
____
''Evenings feature music, dance and spoken word performances by Seaberg Acrobatic Poetry, Andean musical group Vientos Del Pueblo, musician and spoken word artist Kodac Harrison and many others. Artist's market, children's events and workshops will be held during the day on Saturday.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016173"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250499"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "M"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(5) "Mondo"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179895"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179895"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5985) "    Art is a way of life for Normando Ismay   2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00 Mondo Bizzoso   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00  It's not the way the near-death script is supposed to go.

Facing stage four cancer with a possibly metastasizing melanoma on his arm, the dying man is supposed to look back on his life and curse his omissions: his ceaseless devotion to work and all the creative ambitions that never materialized.

But instead of raging against misspent time, Normando Ismay remembers feeling an odd kind of contentment sweep over him as he began to contemplate his own death.

One thought brought him out of that dark void, the 52-year-old artist recalls. "I'm so glad I decided to make art my whole life and not wait until I retired."

Never mind that the uninsured Ismay had to fork over $13,000  — a loan from an unnamed friend — for the surgery last August that removed a malignant melanoma and left a scar the shape and size of a small mouse on his right arm. Or that he estimates his medical bills will rise to a staggering $20,000 by the time his treatment runs its course. Ismay has lived a happy, artistically satisfying life, and that's more than many could claim for themselves.

The good news today is that Ismay is cancer-free, though not debt-free. Dancer and friend Celeste Miller is sharing her Cabbagetown home with Ismay, helping him recover and navigate the labyrinthine health care system. And in her latest gesture of friendship, she has helped organize an Oct. 14-16 fundraiser to not only defray Ismay's medical costs but to help build a health care reserve for artists without health insurance to tap into should a devastating health care crisis like Ismay's arise.

Dressed all in black from his jeans to his beret, Ismay sits in Miller's cheerful yellow kitchen sipping mate, the dense, earthy tea of his native Argentina, and recalls his upbringing in the northwestern town of La Rioja.

"Art's for rich people only," Ismay laughingly recalls his mother advising. Like many reared in poverty, she hoped her son would follow a more traditional career path.

But Ismay could not ignore his life's calling. He traveled the countryside with his missionary father and saw both extreme poverty and the deep roots of community that brought people together with music and storytelling just as air-conditioned homes and TV drive them apart now. His father often called upon him to preach a little himself.

Decades later, when he first took the stage at an Atlanta workshop, Ismay mesmerized his audience with a charismatic storytelling ability that seemed to spring out of nowhere. He realized that his father had prepared him well for a life of mounting pulpits, though not the religious kind.

Ismay has since incorporated many of his formative experiences growing up poor but happy in Argentina into his new life in Atlanta. He left Argentina in 1974. And over the course of a 30-year art career Ismay has become one of the city's unsung creative heroes.

For Ismay, the Atlanta art scene was his graduate school. At alternative arts spaces like Nexus (now Atlanta Contemporary Art Center) and the Mattress Factory, he learned to create sculpture and installations from garbage, an abundant material in America which contrasts starkly with the scarcity of waste in Argentina.

In a 1981 show at the Mattress Factory, he noticed how all of the participating artists laid immediate claim to their little parcels of space like puppies marking their territories. In a typically tongue-in-cheek gesture, Ismay literally fenced off his space and served beer, creating a small, spontaneous community.

That early epiphany — that art was a commodity to be traded for money — led to a radical desire to make art differently. In 1994 Ismay debuted the very first Cafe Bizzoso in the long-beloved, now-defunct Atlanta Arts Festival. Bizzoso, MC'ed by Ismay's alter ego Papa Bizzoso, was a kind of collaborative, festival-style performance event, interweaving dance, storytelling and music in an effort to create a community — at least for one enchanted night.

Cafe Bizzoso combined everything Ismay loved about Argentina: a celebration of the kind of unafraid, joyful individual expression that he saw crushed in the anxiety-producing American media culture.

Louise Shaw, former executive director of Nexus Contemporary Art Center, watched Ismay's progress from his earliest days in Atlanta. She calls him a trendsetter for the way he dealt with issues just beginning to circulate in the art world.

"I think that he was truly one of the first to take a multidisciplinary approach in this very holistic way that really has to do with how art can transform communities."

After purchasing his first house for $7,000 in Taco Town, the then-marginal neighborhood between Grant Park and Cabbagetown, Ismay brought community activism home when he debuted his 1994 Crack Attack show at his own "Little Beirut" backyard art space. Ismay spray-painted an enormous sign with an arrow pointing to the "crack house" on his block in an effort to drive the drug trade from his neighborhood.

Atlanta has changed enormously since Ismay first arrived here in the '70s. But the collaboration and the camaraderie remain. His friends are staging a Cafe Bizzoso-style benefit to celebrate a life truly worth living. Meanwhile, Ismay is not worried about his legacy.

Indicating the colorful paintings adorning the walls of Miller's kitchen, he says, "I made thousands of art pieces. My presence in this world is going to be here for a long time."

felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com


Evenings feature music, dance and spoken word performances by Seaberg Acrobatic Poetry, Andean musical group Vientos Del Pueblo, musician and spoken word artist Kodac Harrison and many others. Artist's market, children's events and workshops will be held during the day on Saturday.             13016173 1250499                          Mondo Bizzoso "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(48) "Art is a way of life for Normando Ismay"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 14, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Art is a way of life for Normando Ismay | more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(22) "Written by the victors"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(22) "Written by the victors"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(32) "Content:_:Written by the victors"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2258) "African-Americans undeniably needed a better ad campaign for their race than the one they've gotten from white spin doctors whose previous representations of "black" has been a public relations fiasco.

Cedric Smith's artistic mission in Deeply Rooted is to alter and correct decades of propaganda. His solo show at Matre Gallery features two bodies of work — portraits and advertisements — dedicated to revisionism.

Smith's sentimental mixed media portraits work with the very physical material of history. The artist both vintage and contemporary photographs of children at work and play  wildly colorful Henri Matisse-meets-Peter Max psychedelic landscapes where borscht skies shine down on grape soda trees. Angelic children look out at the viewer like orphans cut off from their historical context but who are adapting to the brave new world in which Smith has placed them.

Smith lends an air of  hopefulness to the images of tiny golf caddies or fruit pickers by proposing a better, hypothetical future than the one these children actually faced in their own time.

While the portraits are relatively straightforward, Smith's other body of work — of black children in distressed faux-advertisements for Sonny Boy peanut butter or Mississippi Mud Pie — is more complex.

Unlike Texas artist Michael Ray Charles' darkly humorous faux-advertisements that address the racist vision of African-Americans as Sambos and Mammys, Smith's old-timey ads ooze vintage charm as in the image of a little girl sitting atop a giant hot dog, poised to land a fork in the freak show wiener.

But then there's the advertisement of two vaguely frightened-looking children flanked by an enormous watermelon slice, a far more complicated, loaded image plucked out of racism's dire trick bag.

What exactly is Smith saying about the use of these bright-eyed children to sell Coca-Cola and Georgia plums? Is Smith, as in his portraits, proposing an alternate American history in which black faces were valued enough to sell goods? And is that really progress?-- Felicia Feaster

Cedric Smith: Deeply Rooted runs through Oct. 31 at Matre Gallery, 75 Bennett St., Space G2, Tula Art Center. Tues.-Sat. 11 a.m.-5 p.m. 404-350-8399. www.matregallery.com."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2262) "__African-Americans __undeniably needed a better ad campaign for their race than the one they've gotten from white spin doctors whose previous representations of "black" has been a public relations fiasco.

Cedric Smith's artistic mission in ''Deeply Rooted'' is to alter and correct decades of propaganda. His solo show at Matre Gallery features two bodies of work -- portraits and advertisements -- dedicated to revisionism.

Smith's sentimental mixed media portraits work with the very physical material of history. The artist both vintage and contemporary photographs of children at work and play  wildly colorful Henri Matisse-meets-Peter Max psychedelic landscapes where borscht skies shine down on grape soda trees. Angelic children look out at the viewer like orphans cut off from their historical context but who are adapting to the brave new world in which Smith has placed them.

Smith lends an air of  hopefulness to the images of tiny golf caddies or fruit pickers by proposing a better, hypothetical future than the one these children actually faced in their own time.

While the portraits are relatively straightforward, Smith's other body of work -- of black children in distressed faux-advertisements for Sonny Boy peanut butter or Mississippi Mud Pie -- is more complex.

Unlike Texas artist Michael Ray Charles' darkly humorous faux-advertisements that address the racist vision of African-Americans as Sambos and Mammys, Smith's old-timey ads ooze vintage charm as in the image of a little girl sitting atop a giant hot dog, poised to land a fork in the freak show wiener.

But then there's the advertisement of two vaguely frightened-looking children flanked by an enormous watermelon slice, a far more complicated, loaded image plucked out of racism's dire trick bag.

What exactly is Smith saying about the use of these bright-eyed children to sell Coca-Cola and Georgia plums? Is Smith, as in his portraits, proposing an alternate American history in which black faces were valued enough to sell goods? And is that really progress?__-- Felicia Feaster__
____
____Cedric Smith: Deeply Rooted'' runs through Oct. 31 at Matre Gallery, 75 Bennett St., Space G2, Tula Art Center. Tues.-Sat. 11 a.m.-5 p.m. 404-350-8399. www.matregallery.com.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016175"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250503"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "W"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Written"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179897"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179897"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2445) "       2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00 Written by the victors   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-10-14T04:04:00+00:00  African-Americans undeniably needed a better ad campaign for their race than the one they've gotten from white spin doctors whose previous representations of "black" has been a public relations fiasco.

Cedric Smith's artistic mission in Deeply Rooted is to alter and correct decades of propaganda. His solo show at Matre Gallery features two bodies of work — portraits and advertisements — dedicated to revisionism.

Smith's sentimental mixed media portraits work with the very physical material of history. The artist both vintage and contemporary photographs of children at work and play  wildly colorful Henri Matisse-meets-Peter Max psychedelic landscapes where borscht skies shine down on grape soda trees. Angelic children look out at the viewer like orphans cut off from their historical context but who are adapting to the brave new world in which Smith has placed them.

Smith lends an air of  hopefulness to the images of tiny golf caddies or fruit pickers by proposing a better, hypothetical future than the one these children actually faced in their own time.

While the portraits are relatively straightforward, Smith's other body of work — of black children in distressed faux-advertisements for Sonny Boy peanut butter or Mississippi Mud Pie — is more complex.

Unlike Texas artist Michael Ray Charles' darkly humorous faux-advertisements that address the racist vision of African-Americans as Sambos and Mammys, Smith's old-timey ads ooze vintage charm as in the image of a little girl sitting atop a giant hot dog, poised to land a fork in the freak show wiener.

But then there's the advertisement of two vaguely frightened-looking children flanked by an enormous watermelon slice, a far more complicated, loaded image plucked out of racism's dire trick bag.

What exactly is Smith saying about the use of these bright-eyed children to sell Coca-Cola and Georgia plums? Is Smith, as in his portraits, proposing an alternate American history in which black faces were valued enough to sell goods? And is that really progress?-- Felicia Feaster

Cedric Smith: Deeply Rooted runs through Oct. 31 at Matre Gallery, 75 Bennett St., Space G2, Tula Art Center. Tues.-Sat. 11 a.m.-5 p.m. 404-350-8399. www.matregallery.com.             13016175 1250503                          Written by the victors "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 14, 2004 12:04 am EDT

African-Americans undeniably needed a better ad campaign for their race than the one they've gotten from white spin doctors whose previous representations of "black" has been a public relations fiasco.

Cedric Smith's artistic mission in Deeply Rooted is to alter and correct decades of propaganda. His solo show at Matre Gallery features two bodies of work — portraits and advertisements...

| more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(31) "Theater Review - Get on the bus"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:57:46+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(31) "Theater Review - Get on the bus"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(46) "Man of No Importance honors thespians at heart"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(46) "Man of No Importance honors thespians at heart"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(41) "Content:_:Theater Review - Get on the bus"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(3927) "Thanks to the boffo box office of The Producers, movie adaptations have become a major force in stage musicals. But while the name recognition of a film like Hairspray makes it a natural, A Man of No Importance proves a less obvious choice. The overlooked 1994 film starring Albert Finney has a respectable reputation, but little importance.

The story reveals the painful soul-searching of an Irish bus conductor who attempts to stage an amateur production of Oscar Wilde's play Salome. The creative team of Terrence McNally, Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty,  who made a superb musical out of Ragtime, recognized how Importance touches on themes near and dear to the hearts of stage artists. In adapting the film to stage, the creative team gets to interpret the legacy of Wilde, pen a love letter to humble theater people and explore a unique, uncliched tale of life in the closet.

With material like that, who needs marquee value? Theatre Gael stages A Man of No Importance with similar spirit, and under the direction of Freddie Ashley, the scrappy production seldom stumbles.

Lawrence Salberg plays Alfie Byrne, a longtime bachelor and the kind of blarney-spouting eccentric you'd hope to find in Dublin. He reads poetry to the bus riders on his route every morning, and the day that comely, unwed Adelle (Jennifer Duran) steps aboard, Alfie resolves to revive his amateur theatrical group, the St. Imelda's Players. In Adelle, he thinks he's found his Salome, famed for her salacious dance of the seven veils in Wilde's play.

Though set in the early 1960s, Importance pays a good-natured comic tribute to the would-be thespians, bit players and backstage laborers of any era. The hilariously grandiose Carney (Winslow Thomas), a butcher who thinks he's a master tragedian, exults his love of the theater in the tune "Going Up." The song "Art" gently tweaks playhouse egos and creativity as Alfie deflects horrendous suggestions like turning the dance of the seven veils into a tap number. The refrain, "In a week-and-a-half, it will be art," embodies both misplaced confidence and the-show-must-go-on enthusiasm.

The 14th Street Playhouse's compact third stage perfectly suits the subject matter: Alfie would appreciate the choreography challenges when the full cast can barely fit on the stage at once. Only the number "Books" plays too broadly for the space.

The playhouse sequences contain an exuberance that the main plot doesn't touch. Alfie's fascination with Wilde extends deeper than plays and poetry. When he addresses the young bus driver Robbie (Justin Tanner) as "Bosie," the name of Wilde's paramour, Alfie hints at feelings that he's reluctant to confront.

Salberg's expressive face and powerful voice lead the audience directly inside Alfie's heart. His identity crisis comes to a head in the song "The Man in the Mirror" and concludes with bitter disappointment in "Welcome to the World." Despite the intensity of Alfie's emotions, there's a childlike quality in Salberg's performance, from Alfie's naive passion for art early in the play to his wounded shock near the end.

Importance's musical team specializes  in ringing melodies like Tanner's expansive "The Streets of Dublin." But overall, there's more drama in the songs than the story itself. Given the premise, the period and  the pessimistic foreshadowing of the prologue, Importance's action seems all  but preordained.

Importance rarely builds to true surprises, but Alfie's story, played by Salberg, unquestionably moves us. Given the generosity of the play's final moments, the audience will go easy on the lack of polish among some of Theatre Gael's supporting players. Some may even be moved to seek out the feature film, but it's no substitute for the live musical. As Alfie prophetically quips to the neighborhood priest, "Blessed are the poor of imagination, for they shall inherit the movies."

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4020) "__Thanks to the __boffo box office of ''The Producers'', movie adaptations have become a major force in stage musicals. But while the name recognition of a film like ''Hairspray'' makes it a natural, ''A Man of No Importance'' proves a less obvious choice. The overlooked 1994 film starring Albert Finney has a respectable reputation, but little importance.

The story reveals the painful soul-searching of an Irish bus conductor who attempts to stage an amateur production of Oscar Wilde's play ''Salome''. The creative team of Terrence McNally, Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty,  who made a superb musical out of ''Ragtime'', recognized how ''Importance'' touches on themes near and dear to the hearts of stage artists. In adapting the film to stage, the creative team gets to interpret the legacy of Wilde, pen a love letter to humble theater people and explore a unique, uncliched tale of life in the closet.

With material like that, who needs marquee value? Theatre Gael stages ''A Man of No Importance'' with similar spirit, and under the direction of Freddie Ashley, the scrappy production seldom stumbles.

Lawrence Salberg plays Alfie Byrne, a longtime bachelor and the kind of blarney-spouting eccentric you'd hope to find in Dublin. He reads poetry to the bus riders on his route every morning, and the day that comely, unwed Adelle (Jennifer Duran) steps aboard, Alfie resolves to revive his amateur theatrical group, the St. Imelda's Players. In Adelle, he thinks he's found his Salome, famed for her salacious dance of the seven veils in Wilde's play.

Though set in the early 1960s, ''Importance'' pays a good-natured comic tribute to the would-be thespians, bit players and backstage laborers of any era. The hilariously grandiose Carney (Winslow Thomas), a butcher who thinks he's a master tragedian, exults his love of the theater in the tune "Going Up." The song "Art" gently tweaks playhouse egos and creativity as Alfie deflects horrendous suggestions like turning the dance of the seven veils into a tap number. The refrain, "In a week-and-a-half, it will be art," embodies both misplaced confidence and the-show-must-go-on enthusiasm.

The 14th Street Playhouse's compact third stage perfectly suits the subject matter: Alfie would appreciate the choreography challenges when the full cast can barely fit on the stage at once. Only the number "Books" plays too broadly for the space.

The playhouse sequences contain an exuberance that the main plot doesn't touch. Alfie's fascination with Wilde extends deeper than plays and poetry. When he addresses the young bus driver Robbie (Justin Tanner) as "Bosie," the name of Wilde's paramour, Alfie hints at feelings that he's reluctant to confront.

Salberg's expressive face and powerful voice lead the audience directly inside Alfie's heart. His identity crisis comes to a head in the song "The Man in the Mirror" and concludes with bitter disappointment in "Welcome to the World." Despite the intensity of Alfie's emotions, there's a childlike quality in Salberg's performance, from Alfie's naive passion for art early in the play to his wounded shock near the end.

''Importance'''s musical team specializes  in ringing melodies like Tanner's expansive "The Streets of Dublin." But overall, there's more drama in the songs than the story itself. Given the premise, the period and  the pessimistic foreshadowing of the prologue, ''Importance'''s action seems all  but preordained.

''Importance'' rarely builds to true surprises, but Alfie's story, played by Salberg, unquestionably moves us. Given the generosity of the play's final moments, the audience will go easy on the lack of polish among some of Theatre Gael's supporting players. Some may even be moved to seek out the feature film, but it's no substitute for the live musical. As Alfie prophetically quips to the neighborhood priest, "Blessed are the poor of imagination, for they shall inherit the movies."

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016116"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250397"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180819"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180819"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(4178) "    Man of No Importance honors thespians at heart   2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Get on the bus   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00  Thanks to the boffo box office of The Producers, movie adaptations have become a major force in stage musicals. But while the name recognition of a film like Hairspray makes it a natural, A Man of No Importance proves a less obvious choice. The overlooked 1994 film starring Albert Finney has a respectable reputation, but little importance.

The story reveals the painful soul-searching of an Irish bus conductor who attempts to stage an amateur production of Oscar Wilde's play Salome. The creative team of Terrence McNally, Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty,  who made a superb musical out of Ragtime, recognized how Importance touches on themes near and dear to the hearts of stage artists. In adapting the film to stage, the creative team gets to interpret the legacy of Wilde, pen a love letter to humble theater people and explore a unique, uncliched tale of life in the closet.

With material like that, who needs marquee value? Theatre Gael stages A Man of No Importance with similar spirit, and under the direction of Freddie Ashley, the scrappy production seldom stumbles.

Lawrence Salberg plays Alfie Byrne, a longtime bachelor and the kind of blarney-spouting eccentric you'd hope to find in Dublin. He reads poetry to the bus riders on his route every morning, and the day that comely, unwed Adelle (Jennifer Duran) steps aboard, Alfie resolves to revive his amateur theatrical group, the St. Imelda's Players. In Adelle, he thinks he's found his Salome, famed for her salacious dance of the seven veils in Wilde's play.

Though set in the early 1960s, Importance pays a good-natured comic tribute to the would-be thespians, bit players and backstage laborers of any era. The hilariously grandiose Carney (Winslow Thomas), a butcher who thinks he's a master tragedian, exults his love of the theater in the tune "Going Up." The song "Art" gently tweaks playhouse egos and creativity as Alfie deflects horrendous suggestions like turning the dance of the seven veils into a tap number. The refrain, "In a week-and-a-half, it will be art," embodies both misplaced confidence and the-show-must-go-on enthusiasm.

The 14th Street Playhouse's compact third stage perfectly suits the subject matter: Alfie would appreciate the choreography challenges when the full cast can barely fit on the stage at once. Only the number "Books" plays too broadly for the space.

The playhouse sequences contain an exuberance that the main plot doesn't touch. Alfie's fascination with Wilde extends deeper than plays and poetry. When he addresses the young bus driver Robbie (Justin Tanner) as "Bosie," the name of Wilde's paramour, Alfie hints at feelings that he's reluctant to confront.

Salberg's expressive face and powerful voice lead the audience directly inside Alfie's heart. His identity crisis comes to a head in the song "The Man in the Mirror" and concludes with bitter disappointment in "Welcome to the World." Despite the intensity of Alfie's emotions, there's a childlike quality in Salberg's performance, from Alfie's naive passion for art early in the play to his wounded shock near the end.

Importance's musical team specializes  in ringing melodies like Tanner's expansive "The Streets of Dublin." But overall, there's more drama in the songs than the story itself. Given the premise, the period and  the pessimistic foreshadowing of the prologue, Importance's action seems all  but preordained.

Importance rarely builds to true surprises, but Alfie's story, played by Salberg, unquestionably moves us. Given the generosity of the play's final moments, the audience will go easy on the lack of polish among some of Theatre Gael's supporting players. Some may even be moved to seek out the feature film, but it's no substitute for the live musical. As Alfie prophetically quips to the neighborhood priest, "Blessed are the poor of imagination, for they shall inherit the movies."

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13016116 1250397                          Theater Review - Get on the bus "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(55) "Man of No Importance honors thespians at heart"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 7, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Man of No Importance honors thespians at heart | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(9) "Eye candy"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-06-16T00:36:02+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(9) "Eye candy"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(53) "Japanese designers find the whimsy in mundane objects"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(53) "Japanese designers find the whimsy in mundane objects"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(19) "Content:_:Eye candy"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(4891) "It's like being a child at a petting zoo where every cage sports a "Do Not Touch" label.

That's the sensation pro-duced by the highly tactile, visually delect-able survey of Japanese Design Today 100 at Atlanta's Museum of Design. Visitors are warned to look but not touch the nearly 100 examples of designer eye candy, including a Tokujin Yoshioka Design chair made of countless honeycombed layers of paper, and a "Hope forever blossoming" vase of magnificent ingenuity that transforms from a flat piece of plastic to a freestanding vase when water is added.

Japanese Design Today is a crowd-pleasing, thought-provoking show that, along with the Museum of Design's recent lunch box show, illustrates how design can point to deeper cultural truths. The Japanese designs on display accommodate the national concern with living in small spaces, seen, for instance, in the bubblegum pink portable washing machine for small loads. The dainty, lightweight furniture on view offers a refreshing antidote to the overstuffed enormity of American household designs.

Though the show's focus is on contemporary design, there is also a small sampling of products from the post-war era that suggests a consistency of vision where lightness, portability, utility, compactness and delight seem to be Japanese design bylaws.

Living in a culture where so many consumer objects are designed and built for obsolescence, it's refreshing to see objects like the classic, functional, glass-and-red-plastic-topped soy sauce decanter that can still be found on any Chinese restaurant table. Designed by Kikkoman in 1961, that ever-present condiment caddy epitomizes the maxim: If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

The one element lacking in the exhibition is indication of price and the kind of consumer for whom these objects were manufactured. That would help viewers determine whether these are truly accessible, mass-produced consumer goods, or more high design, high-end objets d'art like those found at the Museum of Modern Art design store.

It's easy to get lost in the sheer aesthetic pleasures of the show and the satisfying sense of novelty and delight at work. Much of the work looks like the output of some parallel universe defined by different needs and body types. Viewers can play a game called "guess the function" for any number of the objects on display, such as the white disc with a hole in its center, which resembles an enormous polyurethane cutting board but is in fact a seating cushion that can be hung on the wall. Shape-shifting, origami-style design makes wall text essential for objects like a piece of felt that somehow transforms into a "Pen?" as the box design itself queries, or a Miyake Design Studio piece of rectangular cloth in a punchy citrus color that, with a pair of scissors wielded by the consumer, becomes a dress.

Objectified cheerfulness in form and color is a consistent link between the objects, connecting an Isamu Noguchi 1950 pumpkin-orange paper lantern with white graphic elements and the charming, vibrant, industrial safety helmets designed in 1996, which must make Japanese workers look like an army of Legoland toys.

Whimsy, in Japanese design, is treated as something of a holy sacrament. Japanese designers clearly believe that a desire for aesthetic pleasure does not end in childhood and that adults want to find a sense of delight in their kitchen gadgets, cars and clothing. Anthropomorphized shapes are just as common in items designed for adults, like salt and pepper shakers that look like inquisitive ghosts manufactured by AZUMI (reminiscent of ceramicist Eva Zeisel's mid-century designs). Viewers may be surprised by strange desires to cuddle or affectionately greet inanimate objects like a cheery yellow and lime iron manufactured by Panasonic and designed — brilliant! — to iron clothes while still on the hanger.

America is not a design wasteland. Our nation, after all, bequeathed aesthetic history with masterworks such as industrial designer Walter Dorwin Teague's Texaco stations and Brownie cameras, the Ford Thunderbird and the Chrysler building. But in recent decades, design innovation seems to have atrophied. Contemporary design lacks the visionary excitement and future-looking scope of America from the '30s through the '50s.

Contemporary Japanese design appears to still embrace such utopian principles, believing a better society is created by the objects it uses. And that belief and investment in the future extends to the environmentalism of many of these designs: hybrid vehicles, portable ashtrays and the incorporation of recycled materials into elegant tableware or furniture.

Audiences will find not only untold delight in the inventiveness of Japanese designers, but may come away with a desire to see their own material world feel relevant and engaging again.

Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4946) "__It's like being __a child at a petting zoo where every cage sports a "Do Not Touch" label.

That's the sensation pro-duced by the highly tactile, visually delect-able survey of ''Japanese Design Today 100'' at Atlanta's Museum of Design. Visitors are warned to look but not touch the nearly 100 examples of designer eye candy, including a Tokujin Yoshioka Design chair made of countless honeycombed layers of paper, and a "Hope forever blossoming" vase of magnificent ingenuity that transforms from a flat piece of plastic to a freestanding vase when water is added.

''Japanese Design Today'' is a crowd-pleasing, thought-provoking show that, along with the Museum of Design's recent lunch box show, illustrates how design can point to deeper cultural truths. The Japanese designs on display accommodate the national concern with living in small spaces, seen, for instance, in the bubblegum pink portable washing machine for small loads. The dainty, lightweight furniture on view offers a refreshing antidote to the overstuffed enormity of American household designs.

Though the show's focus is on contemporary design, there is also a small sampling of products from the post-war era that suggests a consistency of vision where lightness, portability, utility, compactness and delight seem to be Japanese design bylaws.

Living in a culture where so many consumer objects are designed and built for obsolescence, it's refreshing to see objects like the classic, functional, glass-and-red-plastic-topped soy sauce decanter that can still be found on any Chinese restaurant table. Designed by Kikkoman in 1961, that ever-present condiment caddy epitomizes the maxim: If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

The one element lacking in the exhibition is indication of price and the kind of consumer for whom these objects were manufactured. That would help viewers determine whether these are truly accessible, mass-produced consumer goods, or more high design, high-end ''objets d'art'' like those found at the Museum of Modern Art design store.

It's easy to get lost in the sheer aesthetic pleasures of the show and the satisfying sense of novelty and delight at work. Much of the work looks like the output of some parallel universe defined by different needs and body types. Viewers can play a game called "guess the function" for any number of the objects on display, such as the white disc with a hole in its center, which resembles an enormous polyurethane cutting board but is in fact a seating cushion that can be hung on the wall. Shape-shifting, origami-style design makes wall text essential for objects like a piece of felt that somehow transforms into a "Pen?" as the box design itself queries, or a Miyake Design Studio piece of rectangular cloth in a punchy citrus color that, with a pair of scissors wielded by the consumer, becomes a dress.

Objectified cheerfulness in form and color is a consistent link between the objects, connecting an Isamu Noguchi 1950 pumpkin-orange paper lantern with white graphic elements and the charming, vibrant, industrial safety helmets designed in 1996, which must make Japanese workers look like an army of Legoland toys.

Whimsy, in Japanese design, is treated as something of a holy sacrament. Japanese designers clearly believe that a desire for aesthetic pleasure does not end in childhood and that adults want to find a sense of delight in their kitchen gadgets, cars and clothing. Anthropomorphized shapes are just as common in items designed for adults, like salt and pepper shakers that look like inquisitive ghosts manufactured by AZUMI (reminiscent of ceramicist Eva Zeisel's mid-century designs). Viewers may be surprised by strange desires to cuddle or affectionately greet inanimate objects like a cheery yellow and lime iron manufactured by Panasonic and designed -- brilliant! -- to iron clothes while still on the hanger.

America is not a design wasteland. Our nation, after all, bequeathed aesthetic history with masterworks such as industrial designer Walter Dorwin Teague's Texaco stations and Brownie cameras, the Ford Thunderbird and the Chrysler building. But in recent decades, design innovation seems to have atrophied. Contemporary design lacks the visionary excitement and future-looking scope of America from the '30s through the '50s.

Contemporary Japanese design appears to still embrace such utopian principles, believing a better society is created by the objects it uses. And that belief and investment in the future extends to the environmentalism of many of these designs: hybrid vehicles, portable ashtrays and the incorporation of recycled materials into elegant tableware or furniture.

Audiences will find not only untold delight in the inventiveness of Japanese designers, but may come away with a desire to see their own material world feel relevant and engaging again.

__[mailto:Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com|Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016114"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250393"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "E"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(3) "Eye"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179894"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179894"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5105) "    Japanese designers find the whimsy in mundane objects   2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00 Eye candy   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00  It's like being a child at a petting zoo where every cage sports a "Do Not Touch" label.

That's the sensation pro-duced by the highly tactile, visually delect-able survey of Japanese Design Today 100 at Atlanta's Museum of Design. Visitors are warned to look but not touch the nearly 100 examples of designer eye candy, including a Tokujin Yoshioka Design chair made of countless honeycombed layers of paper, and a "Hope forever blossoming" vase of magnificent ingenuity that transforms from a flat piece of plastic to a freestanding vase when water is added.

Japanese Design Today is a crowd-pleasing, thought-provoking show that, along with the Museum of Design's recent lunch box show, illustrates how design can point to deeper cultural truths. The Japanese designs on display accommodate the national concern with living in small spaces, seen, for instance, in the bubblegum pink portable washing machine for small loads. The dainty, lightweight furniture on view offers a refreshing antidote to the overstuffed enormity of American household designs.

Though the show's focus is on contemporary design, there is also a small sampling of products from the post-war era that suggests a consistency of vision where lightness, portability, utility, compactness and delight seem to be Japanese design bylaws.

Living in a culture where so many consumer objects are designed and built for obsolescence, it's refreshing to see objects like the classic, functional, glass-and-red-plastic-topped soy sauce decanter that can still be found on any Chinese restaurant table. Designed by Kikkoman in 1961, that ever-present condiment caddy epitomizes the maxim: If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

The one element lacking in the exhibition is indication of price and the kind of consumer for whom these objects were manufactured. That would help viewers determine whether these are truly accessible, mass-produced consumer goods, or more high design, high-end objets d'art like those found at the Museum of Modern Art design store.

It's easy to get lost in the sheer aesthetic pleasures of the show and the satisfying sense of novelty and delight at work. Much of the work looks like the output of some parallel universe defined by different needs and body types. Viewers can play a game called "guess the function" for any number of the objects on display, such as the white disc with a hole in its center, which resembles an enormous polyurethane cutting board but is in fact a seating cushion that can be hung on the wall. Shape-shifting, origami-style design makes wall text essential for objects like a piece of felt that somehow transforms into a "Pen?" as the box design itself queries, or a Miyake Design Studio piece of rectangular cloth in a punchy citrus color that, with a pair of scissors wielded by the consumer, becomes a dress.

Objectified cheerfulness in form and color is a consistent link between the objects, connecting an Isamu Noguchi 1950 pumpkin-orange paper lantern with white graphic elements and the charming, vibrant, industrial safety helmets designed in 1996, which must make Japanese workers look like an army of Legoland toys.

Whimsy, in Japanese design, is treated as something of a holy sacrament. Japanese designers clearly believe that a desire for aesthetic pleasure does not end in childhood and that adults want to find a sense of delight in their kitchen gadgets, cars and clothing. Anthropomorphized shapes are just as common in items designed for adults, like salt and pepper shakers that look like inquisitive ghosts manufactured by AZUMI (reminiscent of ceramicist Eva Zeisel's mid-century designs). Viewers may be surprised by strange desires to cuddle or affectionately greet inanimate objects like a cheery yellow and lime iron manufactured by Panasonic and designed — brilliant! — to iron clothes while still on the hanger.

America is not a design wasteland. Our nation, after all, bequeathed aesthetic history with masterworks such as industrial designer Walter Dorwin Teague's Texaco stations and Brownie cameras, the Ford Thunderbird and the Chrysler building. But in recent decades, design innovation seems to have atrophied. Contemporary design lacks the visionary excitement and future-looking scope of America from the '30s through the '50s.

Contemporary Japanese design appears to still embrace such utopian principles, believing a better society is created by the objects it uses. And that belief and investment in the future extends to the environmentalism of many of these designs: hybrid vehicles, portable ashtrays and the incorporation of recycled materials into elegant tableware or furniture.

Audiences will find not only untold delight in the inventiveness of Japanese designers, but may come away with a desire to see their own material world feel relevant and engaging again.

Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
             13016114 1250393                          Eye candy "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(62) "Japanese designers find the whimsy in mundane objects"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 7, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Japanese designers find the whimsy in mundane objects | more...

array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(29) "Theater Review - Blood ritual"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:49:02+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(29) "Theater Review - Blood ritual"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(37) "Maria Kizito invokes Rwandan massacre"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(37) "Maria Kizito invokes Rwandan massacre"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(39) "Content:_:Theater Review - Blood ritual"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(4156) "The facts of the 1994 Rwandan massacre defy rational understanding. Ten years ago, the African nation's Hutu majority murdered 800,000 minority Tutsis and moderate Hutus in 100 days.

The tragedy includes a footnote that's even more unthinkable, if possible. Two Benedictine nuns, Sister Gertrude Mukangango and Sister Julienne "Maria" Kizito, abetted the execution of thousands. Kizito even carried gasoline that the Hutu militia used to lethally burn scores of Tutsis, as revealed in the nuns' Belgian trial for genocide in 2001.

In its world premiere production at 7 Stages, Erik Ehn's Maria Kizito uses highly symbolic stagecraft to attempt to illuminate both a personal and a geopolitical heart of darkness. The challenging production alternates between being horrific and being impenetrable, but demands the audience bear witness to the worst atrocity of our time.

The audience enters from the upstairs rear of the playhouse, so we gradually discern white-garbed figures sprawled across the stage floor, behind rows of junk piled in low barricades. The chilling tableau looks like a failed siege, and serves as an overture to Maria Kizito's monstrous images.

Ehn flashes back and forth between the actual events and the subsequent trial, with nuns and refugees played by a distraught chorus (Caroline Karoki, Chante M. Lewis, Bobbi Lynne Scott and Yvonne Singh). Simple actions stand for catastrophes, like the way the chorus holds fishbowls of burning paper huts to represent the initial wave of anti-Tutsi attacks.

At a village monastery and health center, the nuns at first deny the refugees shelter, then report their whereabouts to the Hutu militia. Kizito (Crystal Dickinson) and Sister Gertrude (Marvel Micheale) act out of nationalism, self-preservation and even, in Kizito's case, possible attraction to Hutu strongman Rekeraho (Johnell Easter). "Christian mercy" proves to be an alien concept.

As the 29-year-old Kizito, Dickinson at first seems a portrait of sheltered naivete, especially with her big, dark-rimmed glasses and sensible white sweater. But she alternates with depths of rage and chilling indifference to the Tutsis' suffering and eventual slaughter. She only comes across as a cartoon of insanity when she bursts with childish laughter, then clamps her hand over her mouth speak-no-evil style.

Ehn writes Maria Kizito in a poetry of terrible beauty. At times, the refugees quote ghastly lines of eyewitness testimony, such as "Babies were sucking the breasts of dead mothers." His dialogue also takes on a  lyrical surrealism: Describing what the Hutus do to Tutsis, Kizito tells one refugee, "They tendon you. ... They cello you to broken string."

The shocking material and poetic language combine for indelible moments: At one point, a man embraces a woman while speaking in the voice of a flame, and she calmly describes being consumed alive. Easter leads the chorus in a choreographed demonstration of machetes while matter-of-factly explaining how to kill most efficiently.

Directed by Del Hamilton, Maria Kizito's representational style provides a means to imagine the state of Kizito's fractured psyche, if not truly understand it. And the symbols can attempt to do justice to events on a scale far beyond the resources of live theater to convey.

But Maria Kizito at times feels more dense and difficult than necessary. Americans tend to be so insulated from the Third World that a dramatization should educate more than Maria Kizito does, despite the play's unquestionable passion. The Kizito case includes more background details that deserve to be on the stage, not in the program notes or recommended reading. The show's diverse music such as hip-hop and vintage rock 'n' roll evokes the involvement of Hutu radio in the massacres, but also drowns out dialogue we very much want to hear.

Still, Maria Kizito wrestles with global issues of moral urgency and gazes unflinchingly at humankind at its worst. Perhaps the nuns' actions, like genocide itself, cannot be explained by a play or any other means. But they must be faced, lest the world allow them to happen again.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4233) "__The facts __of the 1994 Rwandan massacre defy rational understanding. Ten years ago, the African nation's Hutu majority murdered 800,000 minority Tutsis and moderate Hutus in 100 days.

The tragedy includes a footnote that's even more unthinkable, if possible. Two Benedictine nuns, Sister Gertrude Mukangango and Sister Julienne "Maria" Kizito, abetted the execution of thousands. Kizito even carried gasoline that the Hutu militia used to lethally burn scores of Tutsis, as revealed in the nuns' Belgian trial for genocide in 2001.

In its world premiere production at 7 Stages, Erik Ehn's ''Maria Kizito'' uses highly symbolic stagecraft to attempt to illuminate both a personal and a geopolitical heart of darkness. The challenging production alternates between being horrific and being impenetrable, but demands the audience bear witness to the worst atrocity of our time.

The audience enters from the upstairs rear of the playhouse, so we gradually discern white-garbed figures sprawled across the stage floor, behind rows of junk piled in low barricades. The chilling tableau looks like a failed siege, and serves as an overture to ''Maria Kizito'''s monstrous images.

Ehn flashes back and forth between the actual events and the subsequent trial, with nuns and refugees played by a distraught chorus (Caroline Karoki, Chante M. Lewis, Bobbi Lynne Scott and Yvonne Singh). Simple actions stand for catastrophes, like the way the chorus holds fishbowls of burning paper huts to represent the initial wave of anti-Tutsi attacks.

At a village monastery and health center, the nuns at first deny the refugees shelter, then report their whereabouts to the Hutu militia. Kizito (Crystal Dickinson) and Sister Gertrude (Marvel Micheale) act out of nationalism, self-preservation and even, in Kizito's case, possible attraction to Hutu strongman Rekeraho (Johnell Easter). "Christian mercy" proves to be an alien concept.

As the 29-year-old Kizito, Dickinson at first seems a portrait of sheltered naivete, especially with her big, dark-rimmed glasses and sensible white sweater. But she alternates with depths of rage and chilling indifference to the Tutsis' suffering and eventual slaughter. She only comes across as a cartoon of insanity when she bursts with childish laughter, then clamps her hand over her mouth speak-no-evil style.

Ehn writes ''Maria Kizito'' in a poetry of terrible beauty. At times, the refugees quote ghastly lines of eyewitness testimony, such as "Babies were sucking the breasts of dead mothers." His dialogue also takes on a  lyrical surrealism: Describing what the Hutus do to Tutsis, Kizito tells one refugee, "They tendon you. ... They cello you to broken string."

The shocking material and poetic language combine for indelible moments: At one point, a man embraces a woman while speaking in the voice of a flame, and she calmly describes being consumed alive. Easter leads the chorus in a choreographed demonstration of machetes while matter-of-factly explaining how to kill most efficiently.

Directed by Del Hamilton, ''Maria Kizito'''s representational style provides a means to imagine the state of Kizito's fractured psyche, if not truly understand it. And the symbols can attempt to do justice to events on a scale far beyond the resources of live theater to convey.

But ''Maria Kizito'' at times feels more dense and difficult than necessary. Americans tend to be so insulated from the Third World that a dramatization should educate more than ''Maria Kizito'' does, despite the play's unquestionable passion. The Kizito case includes more background details that deserve to be on the stage, not in the program notes or recommended reading. The show's diverse music such as hip-hop and vintage rock 'n' roll evokes the involvement of Hutu radio in the massacres, but also drowns out dialogue we very much want to hear.

Still, ''Maria Kizito'' wrestles with global issues of moral urgency and gazes unflinchingly at humankind at its worst. Perhaps the nuns' actions, like genocide itself, cannot be explained by a play or any other means. But they must be faced, lest the world allow them to happen again.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016115"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250395"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180818"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180818"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(4394) "    Maria Kizito invokes Rwandan massacre   2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Blood ritual   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00  The facts of the 1994 Rwandan massacre defy rational understanding. Ten years ago, the African nation's Hutu majority murdered 800,000 minority Tutsis and moderate Hutus in 100 days.

The tragedy includes a footnote that's even more unthinkable, if possible. Two Benedictine nuns, Sister Gertrude Mukangango and Sister Julienne "Maria" Kizito, abetted the execution of thousands. Kizito even carried gasoline that the Hutu militia used to lethally burn scores of Tutsis, as revealed in the nuns' Belgian trial for genocide in 2001.

In its world premiere production at 7 Stages, Erik Ehn's Maria Kizito uses highly symbolic stagecraft to attempt to illuminate both a personal and a geopolitical heart of darkness. The challenging production alternates between being horrific and being impenetrable, but demands the audience bear witness to the worst atrocity of our time.

The audience enters from the upstairs rear of the playhouse, so we gradually discern white-garbed figures sprawled across the stage floor, behind rows of junk piled in low barricades. The chilling tableau looks like a failed siege, and serves as an overture to Maria Kizito's monstrous images.

Ehn flashes back and forth between the actual events and the subsequent trial, with nuns and refugees played by a distraught chorus (Caroline Karoki, Chante M. Lewis, Bobbi Lynne Scott and Yvonne Singh). Simple actions stand for catastrophes, like the way the chorus holds fishbowls of burning paper huts to represent the initial wave of anti-Tutsi attacks.

At a village monastery and health center, the nuns at first deny the refugees shelter, then report their whereabouts to the Hutu militia. Kizito (Crystal Dickinson) and Sister Gertrude (Marvel Micheale) act out of nationalism, self-preservation and even, in Kizito's case, possible attraction to Hutu strongman Rekeraho (Johnell Easter). "Christian mercy" proves to be an alien concept.

As the 29-year-old Kizito, Dickinson at first seems a portrait of sheltered naivete, especially with her big, dark-rimmed glasses and sensible white sweater. But she alternates with depths of rage and chilling indifference to the Tutsis' suffering and eventual slaughter. She only comes across as a cartoon of insanity when she bursts with childish laughter, then clamps her hand over her mouth speak-no-evil style.

Ehn writes Maria Kizito in a poetry of terrible beauty. At times, the refugees quote ghastly lines of eyewitness testimony, such as "Babies were sucking the breasts of dead mothers." His dialogue also takes on a  lyrical surrealism: Describing what the Hutus do to Tutsis, Kizito tells one refugee, "They tendon you. ... They cello you to broken string."

The shocking material and poetic language combine for indelible moments: At one point, a man embraces a woman while speaking in the voice of a flame, and she calmly describes being consumed alive. Easter leads the chorus in a choreographed demonstration of machetes while matter-of-factly explaining how to kill most efficiently.

Directed by Del Hamilton, Maria Kizito's representational style provides a means to imagine the state of Kizito's fractured psyche, if not truly understand it. And the symbols can attempt to do justice to events on a scale far beyond the resources of live theater to convey.

But Maria Kizito at times feels more dense and difficult than necessary. Americans tend to be so insulated from the Third World that a dramatization should educate more than Maria Kizito does, despite the play's unquestionable passion. The Kizito case includes more background details that deserve to be on the stage, not in the program notes or recommended reading. The show's diverse music such as hip-hop and vintage rock 'n' roll evokes the involvement of Hutu radio in the massacres, but also drowns out dialogue we very much want to hear.

Still, Maria Kizito wrestles with global issues of moral urgency and gazes unflinchingly at humankind at its worst. Perhaps the nuns' actions, like genocide itself, cannot be explained by a play or any other means. But they must be faced, lest the world allow them to happen again.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13016115 1250395                          Theater Review - Blood ritual "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(46) "Maria Kizito invokes Rwandan massacre"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 7, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Maria Kizito invokes Rwandan massacre | more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(34) "Theater Review - Hey, Jack Kerouac"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:49:02+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(34) "Theater Review - Hey, Jack Kerouac"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(44) "Content:_:Theater Review - Hey, Jack Kerouac"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2395) "Like using a cell phone to answer the call of the open road, Jack in the Black Box Theatre's On the Road with Jack reinterprets the hepcat-vagabond spirit of the Beat generation for the early 21st century. The traveling rhapsodies of Jack Kerouac's novel On the Road inspires a company-created evening of beat poetry, tongue-in-cheek songs and diverse sketches that make an invigorating trip that hits a few potholes along the way.

Except for the occasional video accompaniments, On the Road with Jack evokes the kind of show you'd find at a 1950s java joint echoing with bongo drums. Ice-cold poet Mr. Boom (Dennis Coburn) unifies the evening by rhyming ecstatically about high-tech speed, snack food and the  big bang. A little beatnik homage goes a long way, but Coburn perfectly channels the spirit of a sibilant, finger-snapping Daddy-O.

The rest of the ensemble — Rachel Craw, Shawn Hale, Maia Knispel and Tyler Owens — riff on different notions of freedom and the freeway through an ambitious variety of theater styles. One sketch unfolds like still photographs as a hippie (Coburn) expands the horizons of two conservative road-trippers (Hale and Knispel). In another, a red-nosed Knispel pantomimes a slapstick roadside emergency. A scene at a bus station captures the interior monologues of four bored travelers and the tensions set off by a young hottie (Knispel) and a mentally challenged guy (Owens).

Music, including the backup tunes of the Pai Mei Traveling Band jazz trio, provides not just the smoky atmosphere but some of the biggest laughs. Hale, in waitress drag, belts out Tom Waits' Nighthawks at the Diner. Owens and Knispel, playing two aging hippies, croon a number about roadkill that's worthy of A Mighty Wind. A coke-snorting trucker (Owens) sings of his obsession with orange hazard barrels.

Despite her engaging stage presence, Craw delivers a pair of monologues (about a toll-booth attendant and an agoraphobic) that feel like overly serious acting exercises. But On the Road with Jack only truly hits the ditch with its tedious photomontage of the company's own travels. The indulgent slideshow trivializes the show's cleverness, so once the vacation snaps start rolling, it's time to hit the road.

On the Road with Jack plays through Oct. 13 at Actor's Express, 887 W. Marietta St. Mon.-Wed., 8 p.m. $12. 404-432-9847. www.jackintheblackbox.org."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2417) "__Like using a cell phone __to answer the call of the open road, Jack in the Black Box Theatre's ''On the Road with Jack'' reinterprets the hepcat-vagabond spirit of the Beat generation for the early 21st century. The traveling rhapsodies of Jack Kerouac's novel ''On the Road'' inspires a company-created evening of beat poetry, tongue-in-cheek songs and diverse sketches that make an invigorating trip that hits a few potholes along the way.

Except for the occasional video accompaniments, ''On the Road with Jack'' evokes the kind of show you'd find at a 1950s java joint echoing with bongo drums. Ice-cold poet Mr. Boom (Dennis Coburn) unifies the evening by rhyming ecstatically about high-tech speed, snack food and the  big bang. A little beatnik homage goes a long way, but Coburn perfectly channels the spirit of a sibilant, finger-snapping Daddy-O.

The rest of the ensemble -- Rachel Craw, Shawn Hale, Maia Knispel and Tyler Owens -- riff on different notions of freedom and the freeway through an ambitious variety of theater styles. One sketch unfolds like still photographs as a hippie (Coburn) expands the horizons of two conservative road-trippers (Hale and Knispel). In another, a red-nosed Knispel pantomimes a slapstick roadside emergency. A scene at a bus station captures the interior monologues of four bored travelers and the tensions set off by a young hottie (Knispel) and a mentally challenged guy (Owens).

Music, including the backup tunes of the Pai Mei Traveling Band jazz trio, provides not just the smoky atmosphere but some of the biggest laughs. Hale, in waitress drag, belts out Tom Waits' ''Nighthawks at the Diner''. Owens and Knispel, playing two aging hippies, croon a number about roadkill that's worthy of ''A Mighty Wind''. A coke-snorting trucker (Owens) sings of his obsession with orange hazard barrels.

Despite her engaging stage presence, Craw delivers a pair of monologues (about a toll-booth attendant and an agoraphobic) that feel like overly serious acting exercises. But ''On the Road with Jack'' only truly hits the ditch with its tedious photomontage of the company's own travels. The indulgent slideshow trivializes the show's cleverness, so once the vacation snaps start rolling, it's time to hit the road.

On the Road with Jack'' plays through Oct. 13 at Actor's Express, 887 W. Marietta St. Mon.-Wed., 8 p.m. $12. 404-432-9847. www.jackintheblackbox.org.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:47:02+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016117"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250399"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180820"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180820"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2606) "       2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Hey, Jack Kerouac   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00  Like using a cell phone to answer the call of the open road, Jack in the Black Box Theatre's On the Road with Jack reinterprets the hepcat-vagabond spirit of the Beat generation for the early 21st century. The traveling rhapsodies of Jack Kerouac's novel On the Road inspires a company-created evening of beat poetry, tongue-in-cheek songs and diverse sketches that make an invigorating trip that hits a few potholes along the way.

Except for the occasional video accompaniments, On the Road with Jack evokes the kind of show you'd find at a 1950s java joint echoing with bongo drums. Ice-cold poet Mr. Boom (Dennis Coburn) unifies the evening by rhyming ecstatically about high-tech speed, snack food and the  big bang. A little beatnik homage goes a long way, but Coburn perfectly channels the spirit of a sibilant, finger-snapping Daddy-O.

The rest of the ensemble — Rachel Craw, Shawn Hale, Maia Knispel and Tyler Owens — riff on different notions of freedom and the freeway through an ambitious variety of theater styles. One sketch unfolds like still photographs as a hippie (Coburn) expands the horizons of two conservative road-trippers (Hale and Knispel). In another, a red-nosed Knispel pantomimes a slapstick roadside emergency. A scene at a bus station captures the interior monologues of four bored travelers and the tensions set off by a young hottie (Knispel) and a mentally challenged guy (Owens).

Music, including the backup tunes of the Pai Mei Traveling Band jazz trio, provides not just the smoky atmosphere but some of the biggest laughs. Hale, in waitress drag, belts out Tom Waits' Nighthawks at the Diner. Owens and Knispel, playing two aging hippies, croon a number about roadkill that's worthy of A Mighty Wind. A coke-snorting trucker (Owens) sings of his obsession with orange hazard barrels.

Despite her engaging stage presence, Craw delivers a pair of monologues (about a toll-booth attendant and an agoraphobic) that feel like overly serious acting exercises. But On the Road with Jack only truly hits the ditch with its tedious photomontage of the company's own travels. The indulgent slideshow trivializes the show's cleverness, so once the vacation snaps start rolling, it's time to hit the road.

On the Road with Jack plays through Oct. 13 at Actor's Express, 887 W. Marietta St. Mon.-Wed., 8 p.m. $12. 404-432-9847. www.jackintheblackbox.org.             13016117 1250399                          Theater Review - Hey, Jack Kerouac "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 7, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Like using a cell phone to answer the call of the open road, Jack in the Black Box Theatre's On the Road with Jack reinterprets the hepcat-vagabond spirit of the Beat generation for the early 21st century. The traveling rhapsodies of Jack Kerouac's novel On the Road inspires a company-created evening of beat poetry, tongue-in-cheek songs and diverse sketches that make an invigorating trip that... | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(32) "For Art's Sake - Point and Click"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-06-16T00:33:21+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-05T21:14:01+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(32) "For Art's Sake - Point and Click"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(24) "Happy photography to you"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(24) "Happy photography to you"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(42) "Content:_:For Art's Sake - Point and Click"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(4994) "The annual month-long profusion of shutterbuggery known as Atlanta Celebrates Photography (www.acpinfo.org) suggests that if a Sharks-and-Jets-style knife fight went down, Atlanta's photographers would surely cream — if numbers count for anything — the Painters, Sculptors and Installation Artists.

Atlanta Celebrates Photography has often suggested that quantity is more important than quality. In the past, the event hasn't always quite captured what is most exciting in contemporary photography. Instead, it has seemed to stuff the ballot box with work that serves to convince people that photography is art through sheer immersion in the form, as in "see, Atlanta Celebrates Photography."

This year's event is a little slicker in terms of its website and event guide, but it still sports the populist push-pin spirit of past events with its accessible venues and work. Downtown Decatur's Temple Gallery features a survey of women artists documenting the South, from Dana S. Kemp's precise read on native arcania like creamed corn and public prayers, to more expected evocations like an image of the Fox Theatre. Speaking of which, can we officially declare a moratorium on photographs of the Fox that reduce the city to a generic picture postcard? Please?

Momus Gallery is featuring an interesting mix of photographers through Oct. 31 in Play, including New York-based Tamara Rafkin, who takes moody images of abandoned playgrounds. And New York photographer Jefferson Hayman's exquisite, precise, retro photographs transform Manhattan into a film noir dream and give ordinary still life images enormous emotional significance. Hayman's distinctive work will be on view in a Thomas Deans & Company group show, In the Details, through Nov. 6.

Say what you will about some of the High Museum's "issues" (and I know most of you have a lot to say), but it knows how to periodically throw down a great lecture. Hungarian-born, 97-year-old legendary mid-century ceramics designer Eva Zeisel — whose elegant, playful work is as synonymous with the era's sublime aesthetic as Charles and Ray Eames — will appear at the High on Oct. 29 for a Q&A following the screening of a documentary about her work. And on Oct. 7, the High is hosting esteemed New York Times chief art critic Michael Kimmelman at 7 p.m. at Symphony Hall.

The High will also be the setting for a panel discussion organized by The ArtReach Foundation on Oct. 10 at 3 p.m. titled The Art of Healing: Children Traumatized by War. Experts in the field will discuss the use of art as a tool for healing, a topic sadly more relevant than ever considering events in Iraq, Sudan and Russia. One of the speakers is former Atlanta artist Traci Molloy, who works with child victims of 9/11 at a New York summer camp.

Always straining toward representation but stopping short, Julie Jones' precise ink-on-paper drawings can suggest the architecture of Antonio Gaudí, Joan Mirò, the illustrations of Edward Gorey, Laylah Ali and everyday objects like fish hooks and protractors. Jones says much of her inspiration comes from architecture, and it's not hard to see these careful drawings as a kind of blueprint for the sculptures she also has on display in Falling through Oct. 17 at White Space in Inman Park.

The fascinating, otherworldly tabletop-scale sculptures created by artist Dashi Namdakov (whose collectors include Uma Thurman and Russian President Vladimir Putin) are the product of the artist's origins in a remote Siberian village rooted in the shamanism and Buddhism of its Mongol ancestors. In his mind-altering solo show at Gertsev Gallery through Oct. 30, Dashi's insectlike women with deadly looking pyramid breasts, and squat, Buddha-like warriors suggest a marriage of sci-fi and Far East, like Kurosawa's Ran as interpreted by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Atlanta artist King Thackston, who died Sept. 5 from complications related to AIDS, had three of the greatest artistic attributes: great ideas, wit and skill. I first encountered the artist's audacious and hilarious work with his installation "The Wrong Side of the Tracks: The Darker Side of Model Railroading," a mock model train set featuring tiny lynchings, synagogue burnings and picket lines. The piece was part of the 1996 exhibition Gone With the Wind: The Fabrication and Denial of Southern Identity at City Gallery Chastain.

In an entirely different vein, but still illustrating his potent mixture of intellectual ingenuity and good humor, was Thackston's highly memorable 2001 solo show, The Deconstruction of American Icons, at the Swan Coach House Gallery. Composed of finely executed epic pencil drawings, and a mix of bitter nostalgia and humor, the work imagined the dismantling of the Lincoln Memorial, American redwoods and the Statue of Liberty. Those who knew Thackston personally, as well as those who knew him through his work, will certainly miss his unique presence in the city.

Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5161) "__The annual month-long __profusion of shutterbuggery known as __Atlanta Celebrates Photography__ ([http://www.acpinfo.org/|www.acpinfo.org]) suggests that if a Sharks-and-Jets-style knife fight went down, Atlanta's photographers would surely cream -- if numbers count for anything -- the Painters, Sculptors and Installation Artists.

Atlanta Celebrates Photography has often suggested that quantity is more important than quality. In the past, the event hasn't always quite captured what is most exciting in contemporary photography. Instead, it has seemed to stuff the ballot box with work that serves to convince people that photography is art through sheer immersion in the form, as in "''see'', Atlanta ''Celebrates'' Photography."

This year's event is a little slicker in terms of its website and event guide, but it still sports the populist push-pin spirit of past events with its accessible venues and work. Downtown Decatur's __Temple Gallery__ features a survey of women artists documenting the South, from __Dana S. Kemp__'s precise read on native arcania like creamed corn and public prayers, to more expected evocations like an image of the Fox Theatre. Speaking of which, can we officially declare a moratorium on photographs of the Fox that reduce the city to a generic picture postcard? Please?

__Momus Gallery__ is featuring an interesting mix of photographers through Oct. 31 in ''Play'', including New York-based __Tamara Rafkin__, who takes moody images of abandoned playgrounds. And New York photographer __Jefferson Hayman__'s exquisite, precise, retro photographs transform Manhattan into a film noir dream and give ordinary still life images enormous emotional significance. Hayman's distinctive work will be on view in a __Thomas Deans & Company__ group show, ''In the Details'', through Nov. 6.

__Say what you will __about some of the __High Museum__'s "issues" (and I know most of you have a lot to say), but it knows how to periodically throw down a great lecture. Hungarian-born, 97-year-old legendary mid-century ceramics designer __Eva Zeisel__ -- whose elegant, playful work is as synonymous with the era's sublime aesthetic as Charles and Ray Eames -- will appear at the High on Oct. 29 for a Q&A following the screening of a documentary about her work. And on Oct. 7, the High is hosting esteemed ''New York Times'' chief art critic Michael Kimmelman at 7 p.m. at Symphony Hall.

The High will also be the setting for a panel discussion organized by The ArtReach Foundation on Oct. 10 at 3 p.m. titled ''The Art of Healing: Children Traumatized by War''. Experts in the field will discuss the use of art as a tool for healing, a topic sadly more relevant than ever considering events in Iraq, Sudan and Russia. One of the speakers is former Atlanta artist __Traci Molloy__, who works with child victims of 9/11 at a New York summer camp.

__Always straining __toward representation but stopping short, Julie Jones' precise ink-on-paper drawings can suggest the architecture of Antonio Gaudí, Joan Mirò, the illustrations of Edward Gorey, Laylah Ali and everyday objects like fish hooks and protractors. Jones says much of her inspiration comes from architecture, and it's not hard to see these careful drawings as a kind of blueprint for the sculptures she also has on display in ''Falling'' through Oct. 17 at __White Space__ in Inman Park.

__The fascinating, __otherworldly tabletop-scale sculptures created by artist __Dashi Namdakov__ (whose collectors include Uma Thurman and Russian President Vladimir Putin) are the product of the artist's origins in a remote Siberian village rooted in the shamanism and Buddhism of its Mongol ancestors. In his mind-altering solo show at __Gertsev Gallery__ through Oct. 30, Dashi's insectlike women with deadly looking pyramid breasts, and squat, Buddha-like warriors suggest a marriage of sci-fi and Far East, like Kurosawa's ''Ran'' as interpreted by J.R.R. Tolkien.

__Atlanta artist ____King Thackston__, who died Sept. 5 from complications related to AIDS, had three of the greatest artistic attributes: great ideas, wit and skill. I first encountered the artist's audacious and hilarious work with his installation "The Wrong Side of the Tracks: The Darker Side of Model Railroading," a mock model train set featuring tiny lynchings, synagogue burnings and picket lines. The piece was part of the 1996 exhibition ''Gone With the Wind: The Fabrication and Denial of Southern Identity'' at City Gallery Chastain.

In an entirely different vein, but still illustrating his potent mixture of intellectual ingenuity and good humor, was Thackston's highly memorable 2001 solo show, ''The Deconstruction of American Icons'', at the Swan Coach House Gallery. Composed of finely executed epic pencil drawings, and a mix of bitter nostalgia and humor, the work imagined the dismantling of the Lincoln Memorial, American redwoods and the Statue of Liberty. Those who knew Thackston personally, as well as those who knew him through his work, will certainly miss his unique presence in the city.

__[mailto:Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com|Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T19:06:38+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T19:06:38+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13016118"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1250401"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "F"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(3) "For"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item191624"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "191624"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5225) "    Happy photography to you   2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00 For Art's Sake - Point and Click   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-10-07T04:04:00+00:00  The annual month-long profusion of shutterbuggery known as Atlanta Celebrates Photography (www.acpinfo.org) suggests that if a Sharks-and-Jets-style knife fight went down, Atlanta's photographers would surely cream — if numbers count for anything — the Painters, Sculptors and Installation Artists.

Atlanta Celebrates Photography has often suggested that quantity is more important than quality. In the past, the event hasn't always quite captured what is most exciting in contemporary photography. Instead, it has seemed to stuff the ballot box with work that serves to convince people that photography is art through sheer immersion in the form, as in "see, Atlanta Celebrates Photography."

This year's event is a little slicker in terms of its website and event guide, but it still sports the populist push-pin spirit of past events with its accessible venues and work. Downtown Decatur's Temple Gallery features a survey of women artists documenting the South, from Dana S. Kemp's precise read on native arcania like creamed corn and public prayers, to more expected evocations like an image of the Fox Theatre. Speaking of which, can we officially declare a moratorium on photographs of the Fox that reduce the city to a generic picture postcard? Please?

Momus Gallery is featuring an interesting mix of photographers through Oct. 31 in Play, including New York-based Tamara Rafkin, who takes moody images of abandoned playgrounds. And New York photographer Jefferson Hayman's exquisite, precise, retro photographs transform Manhattan into a film noir dream and give ordinary still life images enormous emotional significance. Hayman's distinctive work will be on view in a Thomas Deans & Company group show, In the Details, through Nov. 6.

Say what you will about some of the High Museum's "issues" (and I know most of you have a lot to say), but it knows how to periodically throw down a great lecture. Hungarian-born, 97-year-old legendary mid-century ceramics designer Eva Zeisel — whose elegant, playful work is as synonymous with the era's sublime aesthetic as Charles and Ray Eames — will appear at the High on Oct. 29 for a Q&A following the screening of a documentary about her work. And on Oct. 7, the High is hosting esteemed New York Times chief art critic Michael Kimmelman at 7 p.m. at Symphony Hall.

The High will also be the setting for a panel discussion organized by The ArtReach Foundation on Oct. 10 at 3 p.m. titled The Art of Healing: Children Traumatized by War. Experts in the field will discuss the use of art as a tool for healing, a topic sadly more relevant than ever considering events in Iraq, Sudan and Russia. One of the speakers is former Atlanta artist Traci Molloy, who works with child victims of 9/11 at a New York summer camp.

Always straining toward representation but stopping short, Julie Jones' precise ink-on-paper drawings can suggest the architecture of Antonio Gaudí, Joan Mirò, the illustrations of Edward Gorey, Laylah Ali and everyday objects like fish hooks and protractors. Jones says much of her inspiration comes from architecture, and it's not hard to see these careful drawings as a kind of blueprint for the sculptures she also has on display in Falling through Oct. 17 at White Space in Inman Park.

The fascinating, otherworldly tabletop-scale sculptures created by artist Dashi Namdakov (whose collectors include Uma Thurman and Russian President Vladimir Putin) are the product of the artist's origins in a remote Siberian village rooted in the shamanism and Buddhism of its Mongol ancestors. In his mind-altering solo show at Gertsev Gallery through Oct. 30, Dashi's insectlike women with deadly looking pyramid breasts, and squat, Buddha-like warriors suggest a marriage of sci-fi and Far East, like Kurosawa's Ran as interpreted by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Atlanta artist King Thackston, who died Sept. 5 from complications related to AIDS, had three of the greatest artistic attributes: great ideas, wit and skill. I first encountered the artist's audacious and hilarious work with his installation "The Wrong Side of the Tracks: The Darker Side of Model Railroading," a mock model train set featuring tiny lynchings, synagogue burnings and picket lines. The piece was part of the 1996 exhibition Gone With the Wind: The Fabrication and Denial of Southern Identity at City Gallery Chastain.

In an entirely different vein, but still illustrating his potent mixture of intellectual ingenuity and good humor, was Thackston's highly memorable 2001 solo show, The Deconstruction of American Icons, at the Swan Coach House Gallery. Composed of finely executed epic pencil drawings, and a mix of bitter nostalgia and humor, the work imagined the dismantling of the Lincoln Memorial, American redwoods and the Statue of Liberty. Those who knew Thackston personally, as well as those who knew him through his work, will certainly miss his unique presence in the city.

Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
             13016118 1250401                          For Art's Sake - Point and Click "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(33) "Happy photography to you"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday October 7, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Happy photography to you | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(29) "Theater Review - Gimme an 'x'"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:22:48+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(29) "Theater Review - Gimme an 'x'"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(29) "Dad's does Debbie Does Dallas"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(29) "Dad's does Debbie Does Dallas"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(39) "Content:_:Theater Review - Gimme an 'x'"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(5127) "Pull the explicit antics out of pornography, and what are you left with? Flaccid dialogue, rigid acting and locations that look suspi-ciously like fleabag motel rooms. It's like a submarine sandwich without the meat. A soccer game without the balls. A Hooters restaurant without the ... spicy chicken wings.

Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical takes the famed 1978 skin flick out of the grind house and puts it onstage. Adapter Erica Schmidt and composer Andrew Sherman turn Debbie's low-aerobic workout film into a live theatrical tease, keeping the bare bodies and money shots just out of sight. But the musical Debbie shows surprising fidelity to the original's insipid, moral sinkhole of a story, which simply links one naughty pastime to another.

Directed by Kate Warner, the Dad's Garage production turns out to be more fun in concept than consummation. You can detect the titillation in the adapters, the performers and the audience in the idea of Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical, and that excitement gives the show a definite lift. But Dad's' Debbie wavers between spoofing an inherently empty "art form" and being genuinely empty itself.

Debbie Benton (Kristie Krabe) captains her high school football cheerleading squad and dreams of one day being a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. One fateful day she receives her letter of acceptance, but her excitement deflates when she learns that the Cowboys don't provide money for transportation or lodging, giving her just two weeks to raise it herself.

For guidance, she turns to her bosom companions, the fellow cheerleaders: slutty Lisa (Katy Carkuff), dumb-blonde Roberta (Jennifer Caldwell), hair-flipping, Valley-Girl-talking Donna (Mary Kraft) and book-smart Tammy (played with girlish enthusiasm by Tim Stoltenberg). The squad realizes that they have to get, like, jobs to raise money for Debbie, so they start a business with the ambiguously sultry name "Teen Services."

Debbie chafes at earning the minimum wage after school until Mr. Greenfelt (Doyle Reynolds), her nervous boss at a sporting goods store, offers her $10 to see her breasts. Reynolds makes an art of awkwardness, conveying both Mr. Greenfelt's sexual discomfort and the bad acting of porno films. In the ensuing number "10 Dollars Closer," Debbie gets nearer to her goal by letting Mr. Greenfelt look, then touch, and so on.

Debbie would play merely like a woman's ethical downfall, akin to Moll Flanders, were it not for Krabe's girl-next-door perkiness. She conveys both a carnal innocence and a get-up-and-go ambition that keeps Debbie's increasingly dirty deeds from besmirching her. As she contemplates giving up her virginity to be a Dallas Cowgirl, Debbie satirizes the American dream.

The other cheerleaders stoop to conquer the horny male townsfolk, but Schmidt's dialogue and comic situations seldom sparkle. Debbie comes up with some funny running jokes — Donna develops a taste for spanking, Tammy proves more attracted to her fellow cheerleaders than the opposite sex — without taking them all the way.

Except for a gag involving a dropped towel, Debbie only hints at skin and lewd activities. Instead, the show plays to audience expectations by being constantly suggestive. Whenever the girls do their stretching exercises, they involve more spreading and bouncing than you'd think strictly necessary. A couple of amusing moments lampoon teenage sexual mores: During a bout of simulated fellatio in the library (a banana serves as understudy to a leading part), Donna's boyfriend alternates between ecstatic groans and interjected instructions: "No, not that way."

Debbie's musical numbers are the show's disappointing turnoffs. Unlikely material can inspire clever lyrics and catchy melodies, but Debbie's songs prove mediocre and sparse. Debbie's boyfriend, Tim (Joey Ellington), riffs amusingly on the cliche of 1970s rock in "I Wanna Do Debbie," while the jazzy "Dildo Rag" extols the benefits of working in a candle store. Otherwise, the music falls flat and Lisa's country-style ballad, "God Must Love a Fool," feels like padding in a 90-minute show. Debbie's best choreography occurs in the slow-motion opening scene and the girls' synchronized routine when they try to think.

Dan Triandiflou plays a lock-jawed preppy, a 'roid-rage athlete, and the leering, belly-scratching Señor Bradley, and hilariously nails each one (so to speak). Otherwise, the ensemble seems  at a loss to flesh out such one-dimensional characters.

Earlier this year, Synchronicity Performance Group's Be Aggressive showed fascination with superficial cheerleaders as both impressionable human beings and American archetypes. Debbie certainly seizes its audience's attention, but never has much to say. It doesn't measure up to richly kitschy musicals like Bat Boy, but, at best, offers a kind of burlesque show for undemanding, media-savvy spectators.

Plus, it makes the most of its sporty actresses. They do splits, they help each other undress, they kiss each other in gratitude, they sigh and coo and moan and ...

Excuse me, I need a cold shower.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5242) "__Pull the explicit antics __out of pornography, and what are you left with? Flaccid dialogue, rigid acting and locations that look suspi-ciously like fleabag motel rooms. It's like a submarine sandwich without the meat. A soccer game without the balls. A Hooters restaurant without the ... spicy chicken wings.

''Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical'' takes the famed 1978 skin flick out of the grind house and puts it onstage. Adapter Erica Schmidt and composer Andrew Sherman turn ''Debbie'''s low-aerobic workout film into a live theatrical tease, keeping the bare bodies and money shots just out of sight. But the musical ''Debbie'' shows surprising fidelity to the original's insipid, moral sinkhole of a story, which simply links one naughty pastime to another.

Directed by Kate Warner, the Dad's Garage production turns out to be more fun in concept than consummation. You can detect the titillation in the adapters, the performers and the audience in the ''idea'' of ''Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical'', and that excitement gives the show a definite lift. But Dad's' ''Debbie'' wavers between spoofing an inherently empty "art form" and being genuinely empty itself.

Debbie Benton (Kristie Krabe) captains her high school football cheerleading squad and dreams of one day being a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. One fateful day she receives her letter of acceptance, but her excitement deflates when she learns that the Cowboys don't provide money for transportation or lodging, giving her just two weeks to raise it herself.

For guidance, she turns to her bosom companions, the fellow cheerleaders: slutty Lisa (Katy Carkuff), dumb-blonde Roberta (Jennifer Caldwell), hair-flipping, Valley-Girl-talking Donna (Mary Kraft) and book-smart Tammy (played with girlish enthusiasm by Tim Stoltenberg). The squad realizes that they have to get, like, ''jobs'' to raise money for Debbie, so they start a business with the ambiguously sultry name "Teen Services."

Debbie chafes at earning the minimum wage after school until Mr. Greenfelt (Doyle Reynolds), her nervous boss at a sporting goods store, offers her $10 to see her breasts. Reynolds makes an art of awkwardness, conveying both Mr. Greenfelt's sexual discomfort and the bad acting of porno films. In the ensuing number "10 Dollars Closer," Debbie gets nearer to her goal by letting Mr. Greenfelt look, then touch, and so on.

''Debbie'' would play merely like a woman's ethical downfall, akin to ''Moll Flanders'', were it not for Krabe's girl-next-door perkiness. She conveys both a carnal innocence and a get-up-and-go ambition that keeps Debbie's increasingly dirty deeds from besmirching her. As she contemplates giving up her virginity to be a Dallas Cowgirl, ''Debbie'' satirizes the American dream.

The other cheerleaders stoop to conquer the horny male townsfolk, but Schmidt's dialogue and comic situations seldom sparkle. ''Debbie'' comes up with some funny running jokes -- Donna develops a taste for spanking, Tammy proves more attracted to her fellow cheerleaders than the opposite sex -- without taking them all the way.

Except for a gag involving a dropped towel, ''Debbie'' only hints at skin and lewd activities. Instead, the show plays to audience expectations by being constantly suggestive. Whenever the girls do their stretching exercises, they involve more spreading and bouncing than you'd think strictly necessary. A couple of amusing moments lampoon teenage sexual mores: During a bout of simulated fellatio in the library (a banana serves as understudy to a leading part), Donna's boyfriend alternates between ecstatic groans and interjected instructions: "No, not ''that'' way."

''Debbie'''s musical numbers are the show's disappointing turnoffs. Unlikely material can inspire clever lyrics and catchy melodies, but ''Debbie'''s songs prove mediocre and sparse. Debbie's boyfriend, Tim (Joey Ellington), riffs amusingly on the cliche of 1970s rock in "I Wanna Do Debbie," while the jazzy "Dildo Rag" extols the benefits of working in a candle store. Otherwise, the music falls flat and Lisa's country-style ballad, "God Must Love a Fool," feels like padding in a 90-minute show. ''Debbie'''s best choreography occurs in the slow-motion opening scene and the girls' synchronized routine when they try to think.

Dan Triandiflou plays a lock-jawed preppy, a 'roid-rage athlete, and the leering, belly-scratching Señor Bradley, and hilariously nails each one (so to speak). Otherwise, the ensemble seems  at a loss to flesh out such one-dimensional characters.

Earlier this year, Synchronicity Performance Group's ''Be Aggressive'' showed fascination with superficial cheerleaders as both impressionable human beings and American archetypes. ''Debbie'' certainly seizes its audience's attention, but never has much to say. It doesn't measure up to richly kitschy musicals like ''Bat Boy'', but, at best, offers a kind of burlesque show for undemanding, media-savvy spectators.

Plus, it makes the most of its sporty actresses. They do splits, they help each other undress, they kiss each other in gratitude, they sigh and coo and moan and ...

Excuse me, I need a cold shower.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015780"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249949"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180816"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180816"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5357) "    Dad's does Debbie Does Dallas   2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Gimme an 'x'   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00  Pull the explicit antics out of pornography, and what are you left with? Flaccid dialogue, rigid acting and locations that look suspi-ciously like fleabag motel rooms. It's like a submarine sandwich without the meat. A soccer game without the balls. A Hooters restaurant without the ... spicy chicken wings.

Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical takes the famed 1978 skin flick out of the grind house and puts it onstage. Adapter Erica Schmidt and composer Andrew Sherman turn Debbie's low-aerobic workout film into a live theatrical tease, keeping the bare bodies and money shots just out of sight. But the musical Debbie shows surprising fidelity to the original's insipid, moral sinkhole of a story, which simply links one naughty pastime to another.

Directed by Kate Warner, the Dad's Garage production turns out to be more fun in concept than consummation. You can detect the titillation in the adapters, the performers and the audience in the idea of Debbie Does Dallas: The Musical, and that excitement gives the show a definite lift. But Dad's' Debbie wavers between spoofing an inherently empty "art form" and being genuinely empty itself.

Debbie Benton (Kristie Krabe) captains her high school football cheerleading squad and dreams of one day being a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. One fateful day she receives her letter of acceptance, but her excitement deflates when she learns that the Cowboys don't provide money for transportation or lodging, giving her just two weeks to raise it herself.

For guidance, she turns to her bosom companions, the fellow cheerleaders: slutty Lisa (Katy Carkuff), dumb-blonde Roberta (Jennifer Caldwell), hair-flipping, Valley-Girl-talking Donna (Mary Kraft) and book-smart Tammy (played with girlish enthusiasm by Tim Stoltenberg). The squad realizes that they have to get, like, jobs to raise money for Debbie, so they start a business with the ambiguously sultry name "Teen Services."

Debbie chafes at earning the minimum wage after school until Mr. Greenfelt (Doyle Reynolds), her nervous boss at a sporting goods store, offers her $10 to see her breasts. Reynolds makes an art of awkwardness, conveying both Mr. Greenfelt's sexual discomfort and the bad acting of porno films. In the ensuing number "10 Dollars Closer," Debbie gets nearer to her goal by letting Mr. Greenfelt look, then touch, and so on.

Debbie would play merely like a woman's ethical downfall, akin to Moll Flanders, were it not for Krabe's girl-next-door perkiness. She conveys both a carnal innocence and a get-up-and-go ambition that keeps Debbie's increasingly dirty deeds from besmirching her. As she contemplates giving up her virginity to be a Dallas Cowgirl, Debbie satirizes the American dream.

The other cheerleaders stoop to conquer the horny male townsfolk, but Schmidt's dialogue and comic situations seldom sparkle. Debbie comes up with some funny running jokes — Donna develops a taste for spanking, Tammy proves more attracted to her fellow cheerleaders than the opposite sex — without taking them all the way.

Except for a gag involving a dropped towel, Debbie only hints at skin and lewd activities. Instead, the show plays to audience expectations by being constantly suggestive. Whenever the girls do their stretching exercises, they involve more spreading and bouncing than you'd think strictly necessary. A couple of amusing moments lampoon teenage sexual mores: During a bout of simulated fellatio in the library (a banana serves as understudy to a leading part), Donna's boyfriend alternates between ecstatic groans and interjected instructions: "No, not that way."

Debbie's musical numbers are the show's disappointing turnoffs. Unlikely material can inspire clever lyrics and catchy melodies, but Debbie's songs prove mediocre and sparse. Debbie's boyfriend, Tim (Joey Ellington), riffs amusingly on the cliche of 1970s rock in "I Wanna Do Debbie," while the jazzy "Dildo Rag" extols the benefits of working in a candle store. Otherwise, the music falls flat and Lisa's country-style ballad, "God Must Love a Fool," feels like padding in a 90-minute show. Debbie's best choreography occurs in the slow-motion opening scene and the girls' synchronized routine when they try to think.

Dan Triandiflou plays a lock-jawed preppy, a 'roid-rage athlete, and the leering, belly-scratching Señor Bradley, and hilariously nails each one (so to speak). Otherwise, the ensemble seems  at a loss to flesh out such one-dimensional characters.

Earlier this year, Synchronicity Performance Group's Be Aggressive showed fascination with superficial cheerleaders as both impressionable human beings and American archetypes. Debbie certainly seizes its audience's attention, but never has much to say. It doesn't measure up to richly kitschy musicals like Bat Boy, but, at best, offers a kind of burlesque show for undemanding, media-savvy spectators.

Plus, it makes the most of its sporty actresses. They do splits, they help each other undress, they kiss each other in gratitude, they sigh and coo and moan and ...

Excuse me, I need a cold shower.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13015780 1249949                          Theater Review - Gimme an 'x' "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(38) "Dad's does Debbie Does Dallas"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 30, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Dad's does Debbie Does Dallas | more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(41) "Visual Arts - Everything old is new again"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:20:42+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-30T17:04:30+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(41) "Visual Arts - Everything old is new again"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(51) "Content:_:Visual Arts - Everything old is new again"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2503) "The Michael C. Carlos Museum at Emory University is a sanctuary of the ancient in a city fatally in love with the tear-down. And its plethora of Greek and Roman antiquities consistently earns it a top five slot among university-owned classical art collections.

In consultation with the building's architect, Michael Graves, the museum's Greek and Roman Art Galleries have been renovated and redesigned, giving the institution a suitably elegant stage on which to showcase its riches — 100 of them recently acquired by Oxford and NYU-educated curator Dr. Jasper Gaunt.

Gaunt was hired in 2001 to, in a nutshell, buy new old stuff. An ironic expert in antiquities, considering his own youthful appearance, Gaunt is also possessed of the kind of marvelously understated British wit that can make perfectly respectable matters sound deliciously naughty. For example, he described the recent acquisition of a second-century B.C. Greek marble muse as so skillfully rendered, her tunic appears to cling to her flesh like "a wet T-shirt." Gaunt lectures frequently on antiquities at the Carlos and his enthusiasm for the material makes his an act worth catching.

As understatedly posh as a high-end boutique, the revamped galleries highlight small satellite alcoves featuring work ranging from the breathtaking to those more evocative of the wares for sale in an Athens tourist trap than the antiquities the tchotchkes reference.

When thinking of classical antiquities, many may imagine the epic, but there are several works in the new exhibition of astounding diminutiveness, like a garnet portrait so tiny a magnifying glass is provided to view it, and a pair of ivory Roman dice, a charming historical artifact that may inspire viewers to save their own plastic swivel sticks and hotel ashtrays for inclusion in the future's gallery of cultural ephemera.

Most will have to take the word of antiquities scholars that the bust of the Roman emperor on view for the first time is "the finest likeness of Tiberius in existence." Like so many pieces in the collection, these objects, both epic and minute, offer the most metaphysical form of escapism. Time seems to stand still in the serene womb of the Carlos, as viewers contemplate eternity forged into object.The Michael C. Carlos Museum at Emory's Greek and Roman Art Galleries, 571 S. Kilgo Circle, Emory University. Tues.-Wed., Fri.-Sat, 10 a.m.-5 p.m.; Thurs., 10 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., noon-5 p.m. $5 donation. 404-727-4282. www.emory.edu/CARLOS.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2512) "__The Michael C. Carlos Museum __at Emory University is a sanctuary of the ancient in a city fatally in love with the tear-down. And its plethora of Greek and Roman antiquities consistently earns it a top five slot among university-owned classical art collections.

In consultation with the building's architect, Michael Graves, the museum's Greek and Roman Art Galleries have been renovated and redesigned, giving the institution a suitably elegant stage on which to showcase its riches -- 100 of them recently acquired by Oxford and NYU-educated curator Dr. Jasper Gaunt.

Gaunt was hired in 2001 to, in a nutshell, buy new ''old'' stuff. An ironic expert in antiquities, considering his own youthful appearance, Gaunt is also possessed of the kind of marvelously understated British wit that can make perfectly respectable matters sound deliciously naughty. For example, he described the recent acquisition of a second-century B.C. Greek marble muse as so skillfully rendered, her tunic appears to cling to her flesh like "a wet T-shirt." Gaunt lectures frequently on antiquities at the Carlos and his enthusiasm for the material makes his an act worth catching.

As understatedly posh as a high-end boutique, the revamped galleries highlight small satellite alcoves featuring work ranging from the breathtaking to those more evocative of the wares for sale in an Athens tourist trap than the antiquities the tchotchkes reference.

When thinking of classical antiquities, many may imagine the epic, but there are several works in the new exhibition of astounding diminutiveness, like a garnet portrait so tiny a magnifying glass is provided to view it, and a pair of ivory Roman dice, a charming historical artifact that may inspire viewers to save their own plastic swivel sticks and hotel ashtrays for inclusion in the future's gallery of cultural ephemera.

Most will have to take the word of antiquities scholars that the bust of the Roman emperor on view for the first time is "the finest likeness of Tiberius in existence." Like so many pieces in the collection, these objects, both epic and minute, offer the most metaphysical form of escapism. Time seems to stand still in the serene womb of the Carlos, as viewers contemplate eternity forged into object.____''The Michael C. Carlos Museum at Emory's Greek and Roman Art Galleries, 571 S. Kilgo Circle, Emory University. Tues.-Wed., Fri.-Sat, 10 a.m.-5 p.m.; Thurs., 10 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., noon-5 p.m. $5 donation. 404-727-4282. www.emory.edu/CARLOS.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:20:42+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:20:42+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015783"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249955"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "V"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(6) "Visual"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item181891"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "181891"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2728) "       2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00 Visual Arts - Everything old is new again   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00  The Michael C. Carlos Museum at Emory University is a sanctuary of the ancient in a city fatally in love with the tear-down. And its plethora of Greek and Roman antiquities consistently earns it a top five slot among university-owned classical art collections.

In consultation with the building's architect, Michael Graves, the museum's Greek and Roman Art Galleries have been renovated and redesigned, giving the institution a suitably elegant stage on which to showcase its riches — 100 of them recently acquired by Oxford and NYU-educated curator Dr. Jasper Gaunt.

Gaunt was hired in 2001 to, in a nutshell, buy new old stuff. An ironic expert in antiquities, considering his own youthful appearance, Gaunt is also possessed of the kind of marvelously understated British wit that can make perfectly respectable matters sound deliciously naughty. For example, he described the recent acquisition of a second-century B.C. Greek marble muse as so skillfully rendered, her tunic appears to cling to her flesh like "a wet T-shirt." Gaunt lectures frequently on antiquities at the Carlos and his enthusiasm for the material makes his an act worth catching.

As understatedly posh as a high-end boutique, the revamped galleries highlight small satellite alcoves featuring work ranging from the breathtaking to those more evocative of the wares for sale in an Athens tourist trap than the antiquities the tchotchkes reference.

When thinking of classical antiquities, many may imagine the epic, but there are several works in the new exhibition of astounding diminutiveness, like a garnet portrait so tiny a magnifying glass is provided to view it, and a pair of ivory Roman dice, a charming historical artifact that may inspire viewers to save their own plastic swivel sticks and hotel ashtrays for inclusion in the future's gallery of cultural ephemera.

Most will have to take the word of antiquities scholars that the bust of the Roman emperor on view for the first time is "the finest likeness of Tiberius in existence." Like so many pieces in the collection, these objects, both epic and minute, offer the most metaphysical form of escapism. Time seems to stand still in the serene womb of the Carlos, as viewers contemplate eternity forged into object.The Michael C. Carlos Museum at Emory's Greek and Roman Art Galleries, 571 S. Kilgo Circle, Emory University. Tues.-Wed., Fri.-Sat, 10 a.m.-5 p.m.; Thurs., 10 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., noon-5 p.m. $5 donation. 404-727-4282. www.emory.edu/CARLOS.''             13015783 1249955                          Visual Arts - Everything old is new again "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 30, 2004 12:04 am EDT

The Michael C. Carlos Museum at Emory University is a sanctuary of the ancient in a city fatally in love with the tear-down. And its plethora of Greek and Roman antiquities consistently earns it a top five slot among university-owned classical art collections.

In consultation with the building's architect, Michael Graves, the museum's Greek and Roman Art Galleries have been renovated and...

| more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(33) "Theater Review - Ill Will Hunting"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:53:39+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(33) "Theater Review - Ill Will Hunting"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(53) "Matt & Ben plumbs the shallow depths of Hollywood duo"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(53) "Matt & Ben plumbs the shallow depths of Hollywood duo"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(43) "Content:_:Theater Review - Ill Will Hunting"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(4049) "Sour grapes, much? Unmitigated envy shoots through Matt & Ben, Mindy Kaling and Brenda Withers' buzz-generating comedy about showbiz success. The playwrights pursue a tantalizing comic subject in Matt Damon and Ben Affleck's early friendship and the origins of the Good Will Hunting screenplay. And the production hinges on an intriguing gimmick by casting actresses as the future stars of The Legend of Bagger Vance and Gigli.

Matt & Ben won Best Production at New York's 2002 Fringe Festival and the touring show suggests it belongs more on the theatrical fringes than the classy atmosphere of the Rialto Center for the Performing Arts. You approach Matt & Ben more than willing to meet the players halfway, but the wispy, at times mean-spirited show never generates enough laughs to justify the attention it gets.

Matt & Ben finds the longtime chums as struggling actors in Boston, boastful of their minor screen appearances in the forgotten 1992 film School Ties. They've pinned their futures to a half-assed adaptation of The Catcher in the Rye, which they're penning themselves as the play opens: Ben (Quincy Tyler Bernstine) types at the computer while Matt (Jennifer Morris) spells the big words. Without warning, a screenplay titled Good Will Hunting and bearing their names as its authors, drops from the ceiling.

The pair quickly recognize the viability of the future Oscar-winning script and argue whether it's a blessing, a curse or a divine test. As they squabble over which one of them gets to play Will Hunting, Matt & Ben recalls highlights of the chums' mismatched friendship. The playwrights' cleverest conceit tailors the duo's public personae to the dynamics of a classic comedy team. In a flashback to their high school talent show, Matt emerges as the smart, easily irritated, anal-retentive one, while Ben proves popular, clownish and none-too-bright.

The script cracks plenty of inside gags about the pair's impending careers in films and the tabloids. "I'm gonna meet Spielberg!" says Matt. "I'm gonna meet Daisy Fuentes!" says Ben, who adds, "I like Latin women." A sequence when they disastrously read through one of the script's scenes between Matt Damon and Minnie Driver nearly redeems the price of a ticket.

But the reverse-gender casting feels like a joke with no punch line. Since Damon and Affleck lack exaggerated traits for obvious impersonation, the show doesn't bother to approximate them. In fact, Matt & Ben looks for humor in the actress's lack of resemblance to the stars. African-American Bernstine stands about a head shorter than Morris, but she plays Ben, the taller one in real life. Perhaps avoiding look-alike actors is meant to reinforce the notion that, since fame is fickle, anyone could have won Damon and Affleck's laurels.

Neither player proves intrinsically funny on her own. Morris plays Matt as a loose-limbed goofus, while Bernstine gives Ben hip-hop hand gestures that don't fit our image of Affleck. Both sound like generic, blue-collar New Yawk guys instead of wannabe actors from Boston. But to Bernstine's credit, she does a witty impression of Gwyneth Paltrow in a fantasy scene.

In Hollywood terms, the Rialto's Matt & Ben qualifies as a fish-out-of-water scenario. At 75 minutes, the frivolous show plays like a drawn-out improv sketch suitable for midnight features at a scruffy, youth-oriented playhouse or the back room of a bar. It feels stranded at the cavernous Rialto, and Morris seems especially hungry for audience responses to play off of.

Matt & Ben leaves a sour aftertaste. The script tempers its bitterness with the insight that in show business, it doesn't matter how you get in: If you're good, you can stay. The writers undoubtedly believe that while the talented Mr. Damon takes his craft more seriously than party-boy Affleck, neither deserve their status as megastars. Matt & Ben's fantastical plot ultimately seems a means to avoid slander charges while publicly disputing the Good Will Hunting script's born identity.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4170) "__Sour grapes, much? __Unmitigated envy shoots through ''Matt & Ben'', Mindy Kaling and Brenda Withers' buzz-generating comedy about showbiz success. The playwrights pursue a tantalizing comic subject in Matt Damon and Ben Affleck's early friendship and the origins of the ''Good Will Hunting'' screenplay. And the production hinges on an intriguing gimmick by casting actresses as the future stars of ''The Legend of Bagger Vance'' and ''Gigli''.

''Matt & Ben'' won Best Production at New York's 2002 Fringe Festival and the touring show suggests it belongs more on the theatrical fringes than the classy atmosphere of the Rialto Center for the Performing Arts. You approach ''Matt & Ben'' more than willing to meet the players halfway, but the wispy, at times mean-spirited show never generates enough laughs to justify the attention it gets.

''Matt & Ben'' finds the longtime chums as struggling actors in Boston, boastful of their minor screen appearances in the forgotten 1992 film ''School Ties''. They've pinned their futures to a half-assed adaptation of ''The Catcher in the Rye'', which they're penning themselves as the play opens: Ben (Quincy Tyler Bernstine) types at the computer while Matt (Jennifer Morris) spells the big words. Without warning, a screenplay titled ''Good Will Hunting'' and bearing their names as its authors, drops from the ceiling.

The pair quickly recognize the viability of the future Oscar-winning script and argue whether it's a blessing, a curse or a divine test. As they squabble over which one of them gets to play Will Hunting, ''Matt & Ben'' recalls highlights of the chums' mismatched friendship. The playwrights' cleverest conceit tailors the duo's public personae to the dynamics of a classic comedy team. In a flashback to their high school talent show, Matt emerges as the smart, easily irritated, anal-retentive one, while Ben proves popular, clownish and none-too-bright.

The script cracks plenty of inside gags about the pair's impending careers in films and the tabloids. "I'm gonna meet Spielberg!" says Matt. "I'm gonna meet Daisy Fuentes!" says Ben, who adds, "I like Latin women." A sequence when they disastrously read through one of the script's scenes between Matt Damon and Minnie Driver nearly redeems the price of a ticket.

But the reverse-gender casting feels like a joke with no punch line. Since Damon and Affleck lack exaggerated traits for obvious impersonation, the show doesn't bother to approximate them. In fact, ''Matt & Ben'' looks for humor in the actress's lack of resemblance to the stars. African-American Bernstine stands about a head shorter than Morris, but she plays Ben, the taller one in real life. Perhaps avoiding look-alike actors is meant to reinforce the notion that, since fame is fickle, ''anyone'' could have won Damon and Affleck's laurels.

Neither player proves intrinsically funny on her own. Morris plays Matt as a loose-limbed goofus, while Bernstine gives Ben hip-hop hand gestures that don't fit our image of Affleck. Both sound like generic, blue-collar New Yawk guys instead of wannabe actors from Boston. But to Bernstine's credit, she does a witty impression of Gwyneth Paltrow in a fantasy scene.

In Hollywood terms, the Rialto's ''Matt & Ben'' qualifies as a fish-out-of-water scenario. At 75 minutes, the frivolous show plays like a drawn-out improv sketch suitable for midnight features at a scruffy, youth-oriented playhouse or the back room of a bar. It feels stranded at the cavernous Rialto, and Morris seems especially hungry for audience responses to play off of.

''Matt & Ben'' leaves a sour aftertaste. The script tempers its bitterness with the insight that in show business, it doesn't matter ''how'' you get in: If you're good, you can stay. The writers undoubtedly believe that while the talented Mr. Damon takes his craft more seriously than party-boy Affleck, neither deserve their status as megastars. ''Matt & Ben'''s fantastical plot ultimately seems a means to avoid slander charges while publicly disputing the ''Good Will Hunting'' script's born identity.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015781"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249951"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180817"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180817"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(4311) "    Matt & Ben plumbs the shallow depths of Hollywood duo   2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Ill Will Hunting   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00  Sour grapes, much? Unmitigated envy shoots through Matt & Ben, Mindy Kaling and Brenda Withers' buzz-generating comedy about showbiz success. The playwrights pursue a tantalizing comic subject in Matt Damon and Ben Affleck's early friendship and the origins of the Good Will Hunting screenplay. And the production hinges on an intriguing gimmick by casting actresses as the future stars of The Legend of Bagger Vance and Gigli.

Matt & Ben won Best Production at New York's 2002 Fringe Festival and the touring show suggests it belongs more on the theatrical fringes than the classy atmosphere of the Rialto Center for the Performing Arts. You approach Matt & Ben more than willing to meet the players halfway, but the wispy, at times mean-spirited show never generates enough laughs to justify the attention it gets.

Matt & Ben finds the longtime chums as struggling actors in Boston, boastful of their minor screen appearances in the forgotten 1992 film School Ties. They've pinned their futures to a half-assed adaptation of The Catcher in the Rye, which they're penning themselves as the play opens: Ben (Quincy Tyler Bernstine) types at the computer while Matt (Jennifer Morris) spells the big words. Without warning, a screenplay titled Good Will Hunting and bearing their names as its authors, drops from the ceiling.

The pair quickly recognize the viability of the future Oscar-winning script and argue whether it's a blessing, a curse or a divine test. As they squabble over which one of them gets to play Will Hunting, Matt & Ben recalls highlights of the chums' mismatched friendship. The playwrights' cleverest conceit tailors the duo's public personae to the dynamics of a classic comedy team. In a flashback to their high school talent show, Matt emerges as the smart, easily irritated, anal-retentive one, while Ben proves popular, clownish and none-too-bright.

The script cracks plenty of inside gags about the pair's impending careers in films and the tabloids. "I'm gonna meet Spielberg!" says Matt. "I'm gonna meet Daisy Fuentes!" says Ben, who adds, "I like Latin women." A sequence when they disastrously read through one of the script's scenes between Matt Damon and Minnie Driver nearly redeems the price of a ticket.

But the reverse-gender casting feels like a joke with no punch line. Since Damon and Affleck lack exaggerated traits for obvious impersonation, the show doesn't bother to approximate them. In fact, Matt & Ben looks for humor in the actress's lack of resemblance to the stars. African-American Bernstine stands about a head shorter than Morris, but she plays Ben, the taller one in real life. Perhaps avoiding look-alike actors is meant to reinforce the notion that, since fame is fickle, anyone could have won Damon and Affleck's laurels.

Neither player proves intrinsically funny on her own. Morris plays Matt as a loose-limbed goofus, while Bernstine gives Ben hip-hop hand gestures that don't fit our image of Affleck. Both sound like generic, blue-collar New Yawk guys instead of wannabe actors from Boston. But to Bernstine's credit, she does a witty impression of Gwyneth Paltrow in a fantasy scene.

In Hollywood terms, the Rialto's Matt & Ben qualifies as a fish-out-of-water scenario. At 75 minutes, the frivolous show plays like a drawn-out improv sketch suitable for midnight features at a scruffy, youth-oriented playhouse or the back room of a bar. It feels stranded at the cavernous Rialto, and Morris seems especially hungry for audience responses to play off of.

Matt & Ben leaves a sour aftertaste. The script tempers its bitterness with the insight that in show business, it doesn't matter how you get in: If you're good, you can stay. The writers undoubtedly believe that while the talented Mr. Damon takes his craft more seriously than party-boy Affleck, neither deserve their status as megastars. Matt & Ben's fantastical plot ultimately seems a means to avoid slander charges while publicly disputing the Good Will Hunting script's born identity.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13015781 1249951                          Theater Review - Ill Will Hunting "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(62) "Matt & Ben plumbs the shallow depths of Hollywood duo"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 30, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Matt & Ben plumbs the shallow depths of Hollywood duo | more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(13) "Disaster site"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(13) "Disaster site"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(23) "Content:_:Disaster site"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2533) "French slang for "orgasm" is "le petit mort," or "the little death." Sex entails a sudden spasm of life immediately followed by a lull, and it is that lull, the aftermath of a great shock, that concerns painter Katherine Taylor.

A powerful atmosphere of eros hangs over the car crashes and other disasters in Taylor's solo show at Marcia Wood Gallery. Taylor taps into a morbid, perverse fascination that links artists and writers (and anyone who has ever read true crime or slowed at the scene of a car wreck) as diverse as Weegee, J.G. Ballard and the Swiss police photographer Arnold Odermatt, who specialized in images of car accidents — a kind of European answer to America's highway safety filmmakers.

Taylor paints the kind of quotidian disasters that spell traffic annoyances for the drivers who encounter them, and singular, devastating trauma for their victims. Rendered in muted tones of brown and gray, the works hesitate on the border between newspaper clipping and mind's-eye memory.

The paintings' strange calm captures the serene surreal chasm that is trauma's aftermath — a sense of having stepped outside the usual reasonable ribbon of time onto some alternate pathway — where the car or bus that previously glided in accordance with the laws of roadways and physics is suddenly belly-up or compacted like a wadded tissue.

The injured bodies are removed, the gawking spectators gone and what remains is the car, as splayed out and vulnerable as a magazine centerfold, its chassis upturned like a cockroach's belly or locked in an automotive embrace, one car jumping a concrete wall to merge with another, a dangling driver's door attesting to an unseen physical effect.

In addition to that Bermuda Triangle of spent energy, the works have a kind of disaster afterglow. Taylor enhances the sultriness of the scenes with her hazy, muted perspective. While Odermatt's procedural photographs capture background detail, the background detail in Taylor's paintings is sketchy. The bubbled surface of her works on canvas suggest eroded film, but also time's erosion.

The sellout success of Taylor's previous solo show at Marcia Wood Gallery, which featured  aesthetically but not necessarily intellectually  engaging images of casinos, seems to have emboldened the artist to try this new, strangely seductive work, and it is exciting to witness that progress.Afterimage runs through Oct. 30 at Marcia Wood Gallery, 263 Walker St. Tues.-Sat.,  11 a.m.-6 p.m. 404-827-0030. www.marciawoodgallery.com."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2534) "__French slang __for "orgasm" is ''"le petit mort,"'' or "the little death." Sex entails a sudden spasm of life immediately followed by a lull, and it is that lull, the aftermath of a great shock, that concerns painter Katherine Taylor.

A powerful atmosphere of eros hangs over the car crashes and other disasters in Taylor's solo show at Marcia Wood Gallery. Taylor taps into a morbid, perverse fascination that links artists and writers (and anyone who has ever read true crime or slowed at the scene of a car wreck) as diverse as Weegee, J.G. Ballard and the Swiss police photographer Arnold Odermatt, who specialized in images of car accidents -- a kind of European answer to America's highway safety filmmakers.

Taylor paints the kind of quotidian disasters that spell traffic annoyances for the drivers who encounter them, and singular, devastating trauma for their victims. Rendered in muted tones of brown and gray, the works hesitate on the border between newspaper clipping and mind's-eye memory.

The paintings' strange calm captures the serene surreal chasm that is trauma's aftermath -- a sense of having stepped outside the usual reasonable ribbon of time onto some alternate pathway -- where the car or bus that previously glided in accordance with the laws of roadways and physics is suddenly belly-up or compacted like a wadded tissue.

The injured bodies are removed, the gawking spectators gone and what remains is the car, as splayed out and vulnerable as a magazine centerfold, its chassis upturned like a cockroach's belly or locked in an automotive embrace, one car jumping a concrete wall to merge with another, a dangling driver's door attesting to an unseen physical effect.

In addition to that Bermuda Triangle of spent energy, the works have a kind of disaster afterglow. Taylor enhances the sultriness of the scenes with her hazy, muted perspective. While Odermatt's procedural photographs capture background detail, the background detail in Taylor's paintings is sketchy. The bubbled surface of her works on canvas suggest eroded film, but also time's erosion.

The sellout success of Taylor's previous solo show at Marcia Wood Gallery, which featured  aesthetically but not necessarily intellectually  engaging images of casinos, seems to have emboldened the artist to try this new, strangely seductive work, and it is exciting to witness that progress.____Afterimage'' runs through Oct. 30 at Marcia Wood Gallery, 263 Walker St. Tues.-Sat.,  11 a.m.-6 p.m. 404-827-0030. www.marciawoodgallery.com.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015782"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249953"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "D"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(8) "Disaster"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179893"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179893"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2702) "       2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00 Disaster site   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-09-30T04:04:00+00:00  French slang for "orgasm" is "le petit mort," or "the little death." Sex entails a sudden spasm of life immediately followed by a lull, and it is that lull, the aftermath of a great shock, that concerns painter Katherine Taylor.

A powerful atmosphere of eros hangs over the car crashes and other disasters in Taylor's solo show at Marcia Wood Gallery. Taylor taps into a morbid, perverse fascination that links artists and writers (and anyone who has ever read true crime or slowed at the scene of a car wreck) as diverse as Weegee, J.G. Ballard and the Swiss police photographer Arnold Odermatt, who specialized in images of car accidents — a kind of European answer to America's highway safety filmmakers.

Taylor paints the kind of quotidian disasters that spell traffic annoyances for the drivers who encounter them, and singular, devastating trauma for their victims. Rendered in muted tones of brown and gray, the works hesitate on the border between newspaper clipping and mind's-eye memory.

The paintings' strange calm captures the serene surreal chasm that is trauma's aftermath — a sense of having stepped outside the usual reasonable ribbon of time onto some alternate pathway — where the car or bus that previously glided in accordance with the laws of roadways and physics is suddenly belly-up or compacted like a wadded tissue.

The injured bodies are removed, the gawking spectators gone and what remains is the car, as splayed out and vulnerable as a magazine centerfold, its chassis upturned like a cockroach's belly or locked in an automotive embrace, one car jumping a concrete wall to merge with another, a dangling driver's door attesting to an unseen physical effect.

In addition to that Bermuda Triangle of spent energy, the works have a kind of disaster afterglow. Taylor enhances the sultriness of the scenes with her hazy, muted perspective. While Odermatt's procedural photographs capture background detail, the background detail in Taylor's paintings is sketchy. The bubbled surface of her works on canvas suggest eroded film, but also time's erosion.

The sellout success of Taylor's previous solo show at Marcia Wood Gallery, which featured  aesthetically but not necessarily intellectually  engaging images of casinos, seems to have emboldened the artist to try this new, strangely seductive work, and it is exciting to witness that progress.Afterimage runs through Oct. 30 at Marcia Wood Gallery, 263 Walker St. Tues.-Sat.,  11 a.m.-6 p.m. 404-827-0030. www.marciawoodgallery.com.             13015782 1249953                          Disaster site "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 30, 2004 12:04 am EDT

French slang for "orgasm" is "le petit mort," or "the little death." Sex entails a sudden spasm of life immediately followed by a lull, and it is that lull, the aftermath of a great shock, that concerns painter Katherine Taylor.

A powerful atmosphere of eros hangs over the car crashes and other disasters in Taylor's solo show at Marcia Wood Gallery. Taylor taps into a morbid, perverse...

| more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(25) "Offscript - Phoning it in"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:22:48+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-04T16:56:15+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(25) "Offscript - Phoning it in"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(32) "For nudity, press or say Three'""
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(32) "For nudity, press or say Three'""
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(35) "Content:_:Offscript - Phoning it in"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(4848) "You have reached the Off Script Automated Theater Column. Atlanta theater will be monitored for your quality assurance.

To read a review of Theatre Gael's  A Man of No Importance, a musical from the creators of Ragtime, press or say "one."

"One."

We're sorry. Due to Tropical Storm Ivan, the review of A Man of No Importance, playing through Oct. 17 at 14th Street Playhouse, is not available at this time. The estimated time for the review to be ready is one to two weeks.

To read a review of the world premiere of Phillip DePoy and Lee Nowell's Urban Fairy Tale, playing through Oct. 3 at Theatre in the Square's Alley Stage, press or say "two."

"Two."

We're sorry. Due to the friendship between the columnist and the playwrights, a review of this comedy about contemporary courtship could appear to be a conflict of interest. Off Script does commend actor Matt Meyers for his hilarious portrayal of humorous self-consciousness during the most awkward first date imaginable.

To read about how live theater runs into risks with naked actresses and ...

"Three! Three! Three!"

The Actor's Express full-frontal production of Killer Joe provides a reminder of how theater demonstrates the difference between "nakedness" and "nudity." Unclad performers in film or pay cable, and even in strip clubs, seldom have the same immediacy as nudes in live theater.

With theater, such exposure feels fraught with tensions. You're in the same room with a live, life-sized person with no clothes, frequently as a voyeur of fictional characters' private behavior. A naked body is such a potent stage effect that it easily distracts from the "world" of the play. Killer Joe's uneasy seduction scene between Jeff Portell and Ariel de Man succeeds by exploiting that very discomfort.

Play audiences usually forget to laugh at jokes involving nakedness, but Killer Joe gets away with one. Adulterous waitress Sharla (Jill Perry) opens her trailer door wearing nothing but a T-shirt that barely reaches her hipbones. Her stepson (Nick Rhoton) exclaims, "Put some got-dam clothes on!" and she replies, "Well, I didn't know who you were." As if being undressed from waist down is acceptable dress for some visitors, just not him. Many theaters get more than they bargain for when their casts take off their clothes, but Killer Joe doesn't let the bodies eclipse the play itself.

To read what Horizon Theatre features in its 2004-05 season, press or say "four."

"Four."

Horizon Theatre tilts its 21st season more toward musicals and monologue shows. It begins Oct. 15 with the bawdy cabaret musical Cafe Puttanesca, depicting three ladies of the evening in post-WWII Europe. December marks the return of David Sedaris' Santaland Diaries, a caustic comedy about being Santa's elf at Macy's. In January, Thomas W. Jones directs Blue, a comedy-drama with musical interludes about skeletons in the closet of an African-American family. In March, String of Pearls (rights pending) connects the lives of 23 women via a single pearl necklace. In May, Carolyn Cook stars in the one-woman show The Syringa Tree, about the shared lives of two South African families. And next summer's The Big Bang presents two singing performers as wannabe producers who act out a Broadway musical about the history of the world.

To read what Horizon will not feature in its 2004-05 season, press or say "five."

"Five."

Horizon Theatre's new season skips the playhouse's 6-year-old New South Play Festival. In previous seasons, the festival featured two full productions of new plays, as well as extensive "Playworks" readings. But Horizon has scaled back the festival over the past two years, and in May will present workshops of only four scripts. Artistic director Lisa Adler says the New South Play Festival has not cultivated the audience Horizon had hoped for, and while the theater will continue to workshop and premiere new scripts, it may not stage them in the festival format.

To read this column's reaction to the New South Play Festival's absence, press or say "six."

"Six."

It sucks. The lack of a New South Play Festival diminishes Atlanta's reputation as a rising theater city.

To read about the Southeast Playwrights Project's play-reading marathon, press or say "seven."

"Seven."

Fortunately, Atlanta has more organizations devoted to new theater than the Horizon festival. On Sept. 25 at the Alliance Theatre Hertz Stage, the Southeast Playwrights Project will present the 2004 Showcase of New Plays in Process from 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. The staged readings include Under the Arches by John Grudzien, Collection of One Acts by Bill Wellborn, From Sea to Smiling Sea by Bill Gibson, The Hermit by David Davis and Virgin Tears on Wyoming Avenue by Mary Miller.

To exit the column, press or say "nine," or just turn the page.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5049) "__You have reached __the ''Off Script'' Automated Theater Column. Atlanta theater will be monitored for your quality assurance.

To read a review of __Theatre Gael's __ ''A Man of No Importance'', a musical from the creators of ''Ragtime'', press or say "one."

"One."

We're sorry. Due to Tropical Storm Ivan, the review of ''A Man of No Importance'', playing through Oct. 17 at 14th Street Playhouse, is not available at this time. The estimated time for the review to be ready is one to two weeks.

To read a review of the world premiere of __Phillip DePoy__ and __Lee Nowell's__ ''Urban Fairy Tale'', playing through Oct. 3 at __Theatre in the Square__'s Alley Stage, press or say "two."

"Two."

We're sorry. Due to the friendship between the columnist and the playwrights, a review of this comedy about contemporary courtship could appear to be a conflict of interest. ''Off Script'' does commend actor __Matt Meyers__ for his hilarious portrayal of humorous self-consciousness during the most awkward first date imaginable.

To read about how live theater runs into risks with naked actresses and ...

"Three! Three! Three!"

The __Actor's Express__ full-frontal production of ''Killer Joe'' provides a reminder of how theater demonstrates the difference between "nakedness" and "nudity." Unclad performers in film or pay cable, and even in strip clubs, seldom have the same immediacy as nudes in live theater.

With theater, such exposure feels fraught with tensions. You're in the same room with a live, life-sized person with no clothes, frequently as a voyeur of fictional characters' private behavior. A naked body is such a potent stage effect that it easily distracts from the "world" of the play. ''Killer Joe'''s uneasy seduction scene between __Jeff Portell__ and __Ariel de Man__ succeeds by exploiting that very discomfort.

Play audiences usually forget to laugh at jokes involving nakedness, but ''Killer Joe'' gets away with one. Adulterous waitress Sharla (Jill Perry) opens her trailer door wearing nothing but a T-shirt that barely reaches her hipbones. Her stepson (Nick Rhoton) exclaims, "Put some got-dam clothes on!" and she replies, "Well, I didn't know who you were." As if being undressed from waist down is acceptable dress for ''some'' visitors, just not him. Many theaters get more than they bargain for when their casts take off their clothes, but ''Killer Joe'' doesn't let the bodies eclipse the play itself.

To read what Horizon Theatre features in its 2004-05 season, press or say "four."

"Four."

__Horizon Theatre__ tilts its 21st season more toward musicals and monologue shows. It begins Oct. 15 with the bawdy cabaret musical ''Cafe Puttanesca'', depicting three ladies of the evening in post-WWII Europe. December marks the return of David Sedaris' ''Santaland Diaries'', a caustic comedy about being Santa's elf at Macy's. In January, __Thomas W. Jones__ directs ''Blue'', a comedy-drama with musical interludes about skeletons in the closet of an African-American family. In March, ''String of Pearls'' (rights pending) connects the lives of 23 women via a single pearl necklace. In May, __Carolyn Cook__ stars in the one-woman show ''The Syringa Tree'', about the shared lives of two South African families. And next summer's ''The Big Bang'' presents two singing performers as wannabe producers who act out a Broadway musical about the history of the world.

To read what Horizon will ''not'' feature in its 2004-05 season, press or say "five."

"Five."

Horizon Theatre's new season skips the playhouse's 6-year-old __New South Play Festival__. In previous seasons, the festival featured two full productions of new plays, as well as extensive "Playworks" readings. But Horizon has scaled back the festival over the past two years, and in May will present workshops of only four scripts. Artistic director __Lisa Adler__ says the New South Play Festival has not cultivated the audience Horizon had hoped for, and while the theater will continue to workshop and premiere new scripts, it may not stage them in the festival format.

To read this column's reaction to the New South Play Festival's absence, press or say "six."

"Six."

It sucks. The lack of a New South Play Festival diminishes Atlanta's reputation as a rising theater city.

To read about the Southeast Playwrights Project's play-reading marathon, press or say "seven."

"Seven."

Fortunately, Atlanta has more organizations devoted to new theater than the Horizon festival. On Sept. 25 at the __Alliance Theatre Hertz Stage__, the __Southeast Playwrights Project__ will present the 2004 Showcase of New Plays in Process from 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. The staged readings include ''Under the Arches'' by John Grudzien, ''Collection of One Acts'' by Bill Wellborn, ''From Sea to Smiling Sea'' by Bill Gibson, ''The Hermit'' by David Davis and ''Virgin Tears on Wyoming Avenue'' by Mary Miller.

To exit the column, press or say "nine," or just turn the page.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:17:49+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:17:49+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "653"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "653"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015730"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249860"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(653)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(653)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(653)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "O"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(9) "Offscript"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item190983"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "190983"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5073) "    For nudity, press or say Three'"   2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00 Offscript - Phoning it in   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00  You have reached the Off Script Automated Theater Column. Atlanta theater will be monitored for your quality assurance.

To read a review of Theatre Gael's  A Man of No Importance, a musical from the creators of Ragtime, press or say "one."

"One."

We're sorry. Due to Tropical Storm Ivan, the review of A Man of No Importance, playing through Oct. 17 at 14th Street Playhouse, is not available at this time. The estimated time for the review to be ready is one to two weeks.

To read a review of the world premiere of Phillip DePoy and Lee Nowell's Urban Fairy Tale, playing through Oct. 3 at Theatre in the Square's Alley Stage, press or say "two."

"Two."

We're sorry. Due to the friendship between the columnist and the playwrights, a review of this comedy about contemporary courtship could appear to be a conflict of interest. Off Script does commend actor Matt Meyers for his hilarious portrayal of humorous self-consciousness during the most awkward first date imaginable.

To read about how live theater runs into risks with naked actresses and ...

"Three! Three! Three!"

The Actor's Express full-frontal production of Killer Joe provides a reminder of how theater demonstrates the difference between "nakedness" and "nudity." Unclad performers in film or pay cable, and even in strip clubs, seldom have the same immediacy as nudes in live theater.

With theater, such exposure feels fraught with tensions. You're in the same room with a live, life-sized person with no clothes, frequently as a voyeur of fictional characters' private behavior. A naked body is such a potent stage effect that it easily distracts from the "world" of the play. Killer Joe's uneasy seduction scene between Jeff Portell and Ariel de Man succeeds by exploiting that very discomfort.

Play audiences usually forget to laugh at jokes involving nakedness, but Killer Joe gets away with one. Adulterous waitress Sharla (Jill Perry) opens her trailer door wearing nothing but a T-shirt that barely reaches her hipbones. Her stepson (Nick Rhoton) exclaims, "Put some got-dam clothes on!" and she replies, "Well, I didn't know who you were." As if being undressed from waist down is acceptable dress for some visitors, just not him. Many theaters get more than they bargain for when their casts take off their clothes, but Killer Joe doesn't let the bodies eclipse the play itself.

To read what Horizon Theatre features in its 2004-05 season, press or say "four."

"Four."

Horizon Theatre tilts its 21st season more toward musicals and monologue shows. It begins Oct. 15 with the bawdy cabaret musical Cafe Puttanesca, depicting three ladies of the evening in post-WWII Europe. December marks the return of David Sedaris' Santaland Diaries, a caustic comedy about being Santa's elf at Macy's. In January, Thomas W. Jones directs Blue, a comedy-drama with musical interludes about skeletons in the closet of an African-American family. In March, String of Pearls (rights pending) connects the lives of 23 women via a single pearl necklace. In May, Carolyn Cook stars in the one-woman show The Syringa Tree, about the shared lives of two South African families. And next summer's The Big Bang presents two singing performers as wannabe producers who act out a Broadway musical about the history of the world.

To read what Horizon will not feature in its 2004-05 season, press or say "five."

"Five."

Horizon Theatre's new season skips the playhouse's 6-year-old New South Play Festival. In previous seasons, the festival featured two full productions of new plays, as well as extensive "Playworks" readings. But Horizon has scaled back the festival over the past two years, and in May will present workshops of only four scripts. Artistic director Lisa Adler says the New South Play Festival has not cultivated the audience Horizon had hoped for, and while the theater will continue to workshop and premiere new scripts, it may not stage them in the festival format.

To read this column's reaction to the New South Play Festival's absence, press or say "six."

"Six."

It sucks. The lack of a New South Play Festival diminishes Atlanta's reputation as a rising theater city.

To read about the Southeast Playwrights Project's play-reading marathon, press or say "seven."

"Seven."

Fortunately, Atlanta has more organizations devoted to new theater than the Horizon festival. On Sept. 25 at the Alliance Theatre Hertz Stage, the Southeast Playwrights Project will present the 2004 Showcase of New Plays in Process from 11:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. The staged readings include Under the Arches by John Grudzien, Collection of One Acts by Bill Wellborn, From Sea to Smiling Sea by Bill Gibson, The Hermit by David Davis and Virgin Tears on Wyoming Avenue by Mary Miller.

To exit the column, press or say "nine," or just turn the page.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13015730 1249860                          Offscript - Phoning it in "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(41) "For nudity, press or say Three'""
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 23, 2004 12:04 am EDT
For nudity, press or say Three'" | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(29) "Theater Review - Purple reign"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T17:11:54+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(29) "Theater Review - Purple reign"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(50) "Alliance meets challenge of Alice Walker's classic"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(50) "Alliance meets challenge of Alice Walker's classic"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(39) "Content:_:Theater Review - Purple reign"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(5373) "The Color Purple  begins with virtually no colors in its palette. The new musical, based on Alice Walker's novel, opens on 14-year-old, pregnant Celie (Tatiana McConnico) crying "Dear God" over her mother's coffin. The subsequent funeral features a set and costumes in black, white and shades of gray, like the American South's answer to a Dickensian slum.

The monochromatic overture suits the severity of Walker's novel, particularly the bleak opening section. When Steven Spielberg released his film adaptation almost 20 years ago, the movie's lavish, idyllic beauty was at odds with the story's slowly lifting gloom. The Alliance Theatre's Broadway-bound production resists making the production too pretty. In fact, the show starts with nearly a half-hour of unremitting suffering that threatens to become the most depressing musical ever made.

Fortunately, spirits rise in The Color Purple, which builds to moments of reconciliation and empowerment that span the emotional spectrum. Walker's knotty plot and spare prose ignore the rulebook for musical theater and give the Alliance show a unique foundation as well as an unstable rickety frame. For its world premiere, The Color Purple proves a bold, complex work that's not 100 percent comfortable on the stage.

La Chanze plays grown-up Celie, who survives a childhood marked by rape, pregnancy and the mysterious loss of her newborn children. Her father marries Celie off to the equally abusive farmer known as "Mister" (Kingsley Leggs), who treats her like a slave. When Celie recognizes one of her own children in the arms of a preacher's wife, she expresses her maternal ache in the song "She Be  Mine." Bill Hatcher's guitar gives the number the haunting strains of Delta blues, which superbly evoke the turn-of-the-century South.

Sister Nettie (Saycon Sengbloh) provides Celie's sole bright spot, but Mister drives her away for resisting his "seduction." Bereft and facing a life of drudgery, Celie sings with fury against an indifferent God. Few musicals dare to touch on such stark material.

Celie finds answers to her prayers in female role models like Sofia (Felicia P. Fields), the combative, hard-charging wife of Mister's son, Harpo (Brandon Victor Dixon). Whimsical music accompanies Sofia's first appearance, with Fields, under Gary Griffin's direction, at times overplaying her humor. But as time passes, her contentious marriage to Harpo finds a comfortable groove, as conveyed by the amusing duet "Is There Anything I Can Do for You?" in which domestic pique turns to passion.

Mister's longtime mistress Shug Avery (Adriane Lenox) gives Celie even more inspiration. When Mister shelters the burnt-out juke-joint singer under his roof, Shug initially treats Celie as callously as everyone else. But Shug soon recognizes the other woman's inner beauty, just as Celie feels her first romantic stirrings. Shug also provides the play's musical engine: The ensemble gradually joins in for the spirited "Shug Avery Comin' to Town," and Shug gives a bawdy performance of "Push Da Button." After Shug finds Nettie's long-hidden letters to Celie, Act Two begins with a thrilling African sequence, replete with songs and dances based on tribal traditions.

With music and lyrics by Brenda Russell, Allee Willis and Stephen Bray, and book by Marsha Norman, The Color Purple admirably refuses to oversimplify its characters. Shug may be the play's artistic, emotional and sexual life force, but she's also a flawed woman with a self-absorbed streak. And despite Mister's brutal behavior, there's something strangely touching in his lifelong, adulterous devotion to Shug. We respond to it partly because so many of Act One's key relationships take place offstage.

The production unfolds in a multitude of short scenes, with some songs simply providing fragments of exposition. The near-constant, head-spinning set changes are handled with clockwork efficiency, but as the decades pass and the characters evolve, The Color Purple feels a bit frantic.

La Chanze sings with deep emotional investment while never forgetting Celie's downtrodden, wounded nature. When Celie begins to gain independence and empowerment in Act Two, La Chanze shows Celie gradually open herself to love and confidence. Instead of bursting with Broadway-sized gestures, La Chanze's insightful underacting seems almost miraculous in such an elaborate musical.

There's something a little neat and politically correct about Celie's triumph. When she starts a booming business sewing trousers, the number "In Miss Celie's Pants" features exuberant costumes and dances that help relieve the pain of Act One. Yet lines like, "Look who's wearing the pants now!" hit the nail a bit too squarely on the head, and the baggy-clown trousers look too silly and flashy to fit the setting.

The Color Purple ends with a genuinely touching reunion, although some editing and streamlining are called for to resolve its story problems. But the production certainly surpasses Aida, the last Broadway musical to get a ballyhooed, out-of-town try-out at the Alliance. Aida's straightforward love story and Elton John songs made it a safer box office gamble, but The Color Purple proves the richer experience. La Chanze's performance raises a monument to the human spirit that's more lasting than any hydraulic pyramid.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(5458) "__''The Color Purple''  __begins with virtually no colors in its palette. The new musical, based on Alice Walker's novel, opens on 14-year-old, pregnant Celie (Tatiana McConnico) crying "Dear God" over her mother's coffin. The subsequent funeral features a set and costumes in black, white and shades of gray, like the American South's answer to a Dickensian slum.

The monochromatic overture suits the severity of Walker's novel, particularly the bleak opening section. When Steven Spielberg released his film adaptation almost 20 years ago, the movie's lavish, idyllic beauty was at odds with the story's slowly lifting gloom. The Alliance Theatre's Broadway-bound production resists making the production too pretty. In fact, the show starts with nearly a half-hour of unremitting suffering that threatens to become the most depressing musical ever made.

Fortunately, spirits rise in ''The Color Purple'', which builds to moments of reconciliation and empowerment that span the emotional spectrum. Walker's knotty plot and spare prose ignore the rulebook for musical theater and give the Alliance show a unique foundation as well as an unstable rickety frame. For its world premiere, ''The Color Purple'' proves a bold, complex work that's not 100 percent comfortable on the stage.

La Chanze plays grown-up Celie, who survives a childhood marked by rape, pregnancy and the mysterious loss of her newborn children. Her father marries Celie off to the equally abusive farmer known as "Mister" (Kingsley Leggs), who treats her like a slave. When Celie recognizes one of her own children in the arms of a preacher's wife, she expresses her maternal ache in the song "She Be  Mine." Bill Hatcher's guitar gives the number the haunting strains of Delta blues, which superbly evoke the turn-of-the-century South.

Sister Nettie (Saycon Sengbloh) provides Celie's sole bright spot, but Mister drives her away for resisting his "seduction." Bereft and facing a life of drudgery, Celie sings with fury against an indifferent God. Few musicals dare to touch on such stark material.

Celie finds answers to her prayers in female role models like Sofia (Felicia P. Fields), the combative, hard-charging wife of Mister's son, Harpo (Brandon Victor Dixon). Whimsical music accompanies Sofia's first appearance, with Fields, under Gary Griffin's direction, at times overplaying her humor. But as time passes, her contentious marriage to Harpo finds a comfortable groove, as conveyed by the amusing duet "Is There Anything I Can Do for You?" in which domestic pique turns to passion.

Mister's longtime mistress Shug Avery (Adriane Lenox) gives Celie even more inspiration. When Mister shelters the burnt-out juke-joint singer under his roof, Shug initially treats Celie as callously as everyone else. But Shug soon recognizes the other woman's inner beauty, just as Celie feels her first romantic stirrings. Shug also provides the play's musical engine: The ensemble gradually joins in for the spirited "Shug Avery Comin' to Town," and Shug gives a bawdy performance of "Push Da Button." After Shug finds Nettie's long-hidden letters to Celie, Act Two begins with a thrilling African sequence, replete with songs and dances based on tribal traditions.

With music and lyrics by Brenda Russell, Allee Willis and Stephen Bray, and book by Marsha Norman, ''The Color Purple'' admirably refuses to oversimplify its characters. Shug may be the play's artistic, emotional and sexual life force, but she's also a flawed woman with a self-absorbed streak. And despite Mister's brutal behavior, there's something strangely touching in his lifelong, adulterous devotion to Shug. We respond to it partly because so many of Act One's key relationships take place offstage.

The production unfolds in a multitude of short scenes, with some songs simply providing fragments of exposition. The near-constant, head-spinning set changes are handled with clockwork efficiency, but as the decades pass and the characters evolve, ''The Color Purple'' feels a bit frantic.

La Chanze sings with deep emotional investment while never forgetting Celie's downtrodden, wounded nature. When Celie begins to gain independence and empowerment in Act Two, La Chanze shows Celie gradually open herself to love and confidence. Instead of bursting with Broadway-sized gestures, La Chanze's insightful underacting seems almost miraculous in such an elaborate musical.

There's something a little neat and politically correct about Celie's triumph. When she starts a booming business sewing trousers, the number "In Miss Celie's Pants" features exuberant costumes and dances that help relieve the pain of Act One. Yet lines like, "Look who's wearing the pants now!" hit the nail a bit too squarely on the head, and the baggy-clown trousers look too silly and flashy to fit the setting.

''The Color Purple'' ends with a genuinely touching reunion, although some editing and streamlining are called for to resolve its story problems. But the production certainly surpasses ''Aida'', the last Broadway musical to get a ballyhooed, out-of-town try-out at the Alliance. ''Aida'''s straightforward love story and Elton John songs made it a safer box office gamble, but ''The Color Purple'' proves the richer experience. La Chanze's performance raises a monument to the human spirit that's more lasting than any hydraulic pyramid.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015725"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249851"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180814"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180814"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(5624) "    Alliance meets challenge of Alice Walker's classic   2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Purple reign   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00  The Color Purple  begins with virtually no colors in its palette. The new musical, based on Alice Walker's novel, opens on 14-year-old, pregnant Celie (Tatiana McConnico) crying "Dear God" over her mother's coffin. The subsequent funeral features a set and costumes in black, white and shades of gray, like the American South's answer to a Dickensian slum.

The monochromatic overture suits the severity of Walker's novel, particularly the bleak opening section. When Steven Spielberg released his film adaptation almost 20 years ago, the movie's lavish, idyllic beauty was at odds with the story's slowly lifting gloom. The Alliance Theatre's Broadway-bound production resists making the production too pretty. In fact, the show starts with nearly a half-hour of unremitting suffering that threatens to become the most depressing musical ever made.

Fortunately, spirits rise in The Color Purple, which builds to moments of reconciliation and empowerment that span the emotional spectrum. Walker's knotty plot and spare prose ignore the rulebook for musical theater and give the Alliance show a unique foundation as well as an unstable rickety frame. For its world premiere, The Color Purple proves a bold, complex work that's not 100 percent comfortable on the stage.

La Chanze plays grown-up Celie, who survives a childhood marked by rape, pregnancy and the mysterious loss of her newborn children. Her father marries Celie off to the equally abusive farmer known as "Mister" (Kingsley Leggs), who treats her like a slave. When Celie recognizes one of her own children in the arms of a preacher's wife, she expresses her maternal ache in the song "She Be  Mine." Bill Hatcher's guitar gives the number the haunting strains of Delta blues, which superbly evoke the turn-of-the-century South.

Sister Nettie (Saycon Sengbloh) provides Celie's sole bright spot, but Mister drives her away for resisting his "seduction." Bereft and facing a life of drudgery, Celie sings with fury against an indifferent God. Few musicals dare to touch on such stark material.

Celie finds answers to her prayers in female role models like Sofia (Felicia P. Fields), the combative, hard-charging wife of Mister's son, Harpo (Brandon Victor Dixon). Whimsical music accompanies Sofia's first appearance, with Fields, under Gary Griffin's direction, at times overplaying her humor. But as time passes, her contentious marriage to Harpo finds a comfortable groove, as conveyed by the amusing duet "Is There Anything I Can Do for You?" in which domestic pique turns to passion.

Mister's longtime mistress Shug Avery (Adriane Lenox) gives Celie even more inspiration. When Mister shelters the burnt-out juke-joint singer under his roof, Shug initially treats Celie as callously as everyone else. But Shug soon recognizes the other woman's inner beauty, just as Celie feels her first romantic stirrings. Shug also provides the play's musical engine: The ensemble gradually joins in for the spirited "Shug Avery Comin' to Town," and Shug gives a bawdy performance of "Push Da Button." After Shug finds Nettie's long-hidden letters to Celie, Act Two begins with a thrilling African sequence, replete with songs and dances based on tribal traditions.

With music and lyrics by Brenda Russell, Allee Willis and Stephen Bray, and book by Marsha Norman, The Color Purple admirably refuses to oversimplify its characters. Shug may be the play's artistic, emotional and sexual life force, but she's also a flawed woman with a self-absorbed streak. And despite Mister's brutal behavior, there's something strangely touching in his lifelong, adulterous devotion to Shug. We respond to it partly because so many of Act One's key relationships take place offstage.

The production unfolds in a multitude of short scenes, with some songs simply providing fragments of exposition. The near-constant, head-spinning set changes are handled with clockwork efficiency, but as the decades pass and the characters evolve, The Color Purple feels a bit frantic.

La Chanze sings with deep emotional investment while never forgetting Celie's downtrodden, wounded nature. When Celie begins to gain independence and empowerment in Act Two, La Chanze shows Celie gradually open herself to love and confidence. Instead of bursting with Broadway-sized gestures, La Chanze's insightful underacting seems almost miraculous in such an elaborate musical.

There's something a little neat and politically correct about Celie's triumph. When she starts a booming business sewing trousers, the number "In Miss Celie's Pants" features exuberant costumes and dances that help relieve the pain of Act One. Yet lines like, "Look who's wearing the pants now!" hit the nail a bit too squarely on the head, and the baggy-clown trousers look too silly and flashy to fit the setting.

The Color Purple ends with a genuinely touching reunion, although some editing and streamlining are called for to resolve its story problems. But the production certainly surpasses Aida, the last Broadway musical to get a ballyhooed, out-of-town try-out at the Alliance. Aida's straightforward love story and Elton John songs made it a safer box office gamble, but The Color Purple proves the richer experience. La Chanze's performance raises a monument to the human spirit that's more lasting than any hydraulic pyramid.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13015725 1249851                          Theater Review - Purple reign "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(59) "Alliance meets challenge of Alice Walker's classic"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 23, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Alliance meets challenge of Alice Walker's classic | more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(14) "A doll's house"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(14) "A doll's house"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(24) "Content:_:A doll's house"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2399) "What you think of Pat Magers' paintings may be influenced by what you think of family.

If the associations are cozy, Magers has work to fit that bill. If they tend to be more cynical, it would be easy to find ammunition for that, too, in her aesthetically varied, but thoughtful work in Little Family at Callanwolde Fine Arts Center Gallery. Family is the source of both comfort and anxiety, depending upon the artists Magers references. With white light streaming in on domestic tableaux of a mother and her children, Magers' oil paintings can recall the poetic stillness of Vermeer. But the exaggerated cuteness of her images can also suggest hotshot New York conceptualist Lisa Yuskavage's commentaries on women's limited roles.

Magers' paintings focus on a mother, a father, a small boy and a baby. In these jewel-toned works, white light beams into living rooms, or a cozy fire-lit glow illuminates a bedroom where the family sits or sleeps. But this Little Family is just a ruse — Magers' subjects are, in fact, dollhouse-size creatures who the artist has housed in a glass vitrine in the gallery, laying out her stagecraft in plain view.

And stagecraft is central to Magers' point. By varying her light, or painting her tableaux from a different angle, she wants viewers to see how manipulated painting is, both visually and intellectually, and how it suspends a moment in time. In certain light or from the right angle, the dolls look almost real. But by a shift of perspective or light, the realism disintegrates and the pitifully jointed clay limbs and hollow eyes become obvious.

Magers seems interested in not only offering commentary on painterly illusion, but in trying to distill the particular airless, time-frozen space of the domestic world families inhabit as well — a place where the racing, manic pace of the outside world begins to slow and feet become sticky in the psychological ooze of family. Magers' faux-home is a warm, amber comfort zone as well as a set where the characters are immobile and frozen in their conventional gestures until some giant human hand moves them into the next tableau, a possible allusion to the metaphysical machinations at work in our own families.

Little Family runs through Oct. 8 at Callanwolde Fine Arts Center Gallery, 980 Briarcliff Road. Mon.-Fri., 10 a.m.-8 p.m.; Sat., 10 a.m.-3 p.m. 404-872-5338. www.callanwolde.org."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2405) "__What you think __of Pat Magers' paintings may be influenced by what you think of family.

If the associations are cozy, Magers has work to fit that bill. If they tend to be more cynical, it would be easy to find ammunition for that, too, in her aesthetically varied, but thoughtful work in ''Little Family'' at Callanwolde Fine Arts Center Gallery. Family is the source of both comfort and anxiety, depending upon the artists Magers references. With white light streaming in on domestic tableaux of a mother and her children, Magers' oil paintings can recall the poetic stillness of Vermeer. But the exaggerated cuteness of her images can also suggest hotshot New York conceptualist Lisa Yuskavage's commentaries on women's limited roles.

Magers' paintings focus on a mother, a father, a small boy and a baby. In these jewel-toned works, white light beams into living rooms, or a cozy fire-lit glow illuminates a bedroom where the family sits or sleeps. But this ''Little Family'' is just a ruse -- Magers' subjects are, in fact, dollhouse-size creatures who the artist has housed in a glass vitrine in the gallery, laying out her stagecraft in plain view.

And stagecraft is central to Magers' point. By varying her light, or painting her tableaux from a different angle, she wants viewers to see how manipulated painting is, both visually and intellectually, and how it suspends a moment in time. In certain light or from the right angle, the dolls look almost real. But by a shift of perspective or light, the realism disintegrates and the pitifully jointed clay limbs and hollow eyes become obvious.

Magers seems interested in not only offering commentary on painterly illusion, but in trying to distill the particular airless, time-frozen space of the domestic world families inhabit as well -- a place where the racing, manic pace of the outside world begins to slow and feet become sticky in the psychological ooze of family. Magers' faux-home is a warm, amber comfort zone as well as a set where the characters are immobile and frozen in their conventional gestures until some giant human hand moves them into the next tableau, a possible allusion to the metaphysical machinations at work in our own families.

Little Family'' runs through Oct. 8 at Callanwolde Fine Arts Center Gallery, 980 Briarcliff Road. Mon.-Fri., 10 a.m.-8 p.m.; Sat., 10 a.m.-3 p.m. 404-872-5338. www.callanwolde.org.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015728"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249856"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "A"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(1) "A"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179892"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179892"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2570) "       2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00 A doll's house   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00  What you think of Pat Magers' paintings may be influenced by what you think of family.

If the associations are cozy, Magers has work to fit that bill. If they tend to be more cynical, it would be easy to find ammunition for that, too, in her aesthetically varied, but thoughtful work in Little Family at Callanwolde Fine Arts Center Gallery. Family is the source of both comfort and anxiety, depending upon the artists Magers references. With white light streaming in on domestic tableaux of a mother and her children, Magers' oil paintings can recall the poetic stillness of Vermeer. But the exaggerated cuteness of her images can also suggest hotshot New York conceptualist Lisa Yuskavage's commentaries on women's limited roles.

Magers' paintings focus on a mother, a father, a small boy and a baby. In these jewel-toned works, white light beams into living rooms, or a cozy fire-lit glow illuminates a bedroom where the family sits or sleeps. But this Little Family is just a ruse — Magers' subjects are, in fact, dollhouse-size creatures who the artist has housed in a glass vitrine in the gallery, laying out her stagecraft in plain view.

And stagecraft is central to Magers' point. By varying her light, or painting her tableaux from a different angle, she wants viewers to see how manipulated painting is, both visually and intellectually, and how it suspends a moment in time. In certain light or from the right angle, the dolls look almost real. But by a shift of perspective or light, the realism disintegrates and the pitifully jointed clay limbs and hollow eyes become obvious.

Magers seems interested in not only offering commentary on painterly illusion, but in trying to distill the particular airless, time-frozen space of the domestic world families inhabit as well — a place where the racing, manic pace of the outside world begins to slow and feet become sticky in the psychological ooze of family. Magers' faux-home is a warm, amber comfort zone as well as a set where the characters are immobile and frozen in their conventional gestures until some giant human hand moves them into the next tableau, a possible allusion to the metaphysical machinations at work in our own families.

Little Family runs through Oct. 8 at Callanwolde Fine Arts Center Gallery, 980 Briarcliff Road. Mon.-Fri., 10 a.m.-8 p.m.; Sat., 10 a.m.-3 p.m. 404-872-5338. www.callanwolde.org.             13015728 1249856                          A doll's house "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 23, 2004 12:04 am EDT

What you think of Pat Magers' paintings may be influenced by what you think of family.

If the associations are cozy, Magers has work to fit that bill. If they tend to be more cynical, it would be easy to find ammunition for that, too, in her aesthetically varied, but thoughtful work in Little Family at Callanwolde Fine Arts Center Gallery. Family is the source of both comfort and anxiety,...

| more...
array(77) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(34) "Theater Review - You talk too much"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(34) "Theater Review - You talk too much"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Thomas Bell"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Thomas Bell"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144371"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223700"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(44) "Content:_:Theater Review - You talk too much"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(2361) "When films were set to the melodies of Wurlitzers and a scant few sentences of dialogue were written on intertitles, the distance between acting and dance was narrow. Mute, the silent film actors spoke through their bodies.

Fascinated by the brief interlude when actors gave up their words, the dancers of Duende Dance Theater and the actors of Fly-By Theatre came together to explore the silent era's motion locution. Their collaboration, A World of Silents, opened last weekend. Directed by Pam Joyce and Amanda Exley Lower, the play, combined with dance and cleverly interwoven video, is more a meditation on — than a re-creation of — the era of legendary film director D.W. Griffith (Nick Stulhfaut), Charlie Chaplin (Josh Ford), Lillian Gish (Juana Farfan), Rudolph Valentino (Filipe Guedes), Mary Pickford (Brenda Norbeck) and Douglas Fairbanks (Lower).

How does the body speak? How do words move?

Lower and Norbeck give the most entertaining answers in two funny "classes" in silent acting skills. "Eyes front and to the right!" Lower instructs, and Norbeck hilariously tries to screw her eyes to both. As a posture coach, Norbeck articulates the gradations of carnal decay communicated through a slouch and an outthrust hip. Ford also portrays an amusing and credible Chaplin.

Unfortunately, Silents seems to have missed the silent era's finest revelation: Some things are better expressed when left unsaid. Knotted into the plot is a critique of how business and big bucks corrupted the art of filmmaking. Fair enough, but the conflict is explained with dialogue as subtle as an intertitle, the worst of it coming from a jarringly portentous Griffith, whose Ku Klux Klan paean, Birth of a Nation, is glossed over in the rush to cast him as a tragic hero fighting quixotic battles against the film industry.

Somewhere in this nexus of kinesthetics and linguistics, there's something fascinating Silents is trying to say, and perhaps, with further work, the two companies will figure out how to say it with eloquence. But like the silent actors themselves after talkies came around, this production has an awkward relationship with words.Fly-By Theatre and Duende Dance Theater's A World of Silents continues through Oct. 10 at 7 Stages Theatre, 1105 Euclid Ave. Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 5 p.m. $15. 404-499-8354. www.flybytheatre.org."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(2383) "__When films were set __to the melodies of Wurlitzers and a scant few sentences of dialogue were written on intertitles, the distance between acting and dance was narrow. Mute, the silent film actors spoke through their bodies.

Fascinated by the brief interlude when actors gave up their words, the dancers of Duende Dance Theater and the actors of Fly-By Theatre came together to explore the silent era's motion locution. Their collaboration, ''A World of Silents'', opened last weekend. Directed by Pam Joyce and Amanda Exley Lower, the play, combined with dance and cleverly interwoven video, is more a meditation on -- than a re-creation of -- the era of legendary film director D.W. Griffith (Nick Stulhfaut), Charlie Chaplin (Josh Ford), Lillian Gish (Juana Farfan), Rudolph Valentino (Filipe Guedes), Mary Pickford (Brenda Norbeck) and Douglas Fairbanks (Lower).

How does the body speak? How do words move?

Lower and Norbeck give the most entertaining answers in two funny "classes" in silent acting skills. "Eyes front and to the right!" Lower instructs, and Norbeck hilariously tries to screw her eyes to both. As a posture coach, Norbeck articulates the gradations of carnal decay communicated through a slouch and an outthrust hip. Ford also portrays an amusing and credible Chaplin.

Unfortunately, ''Silents'' seems to have missed the silent era's finest revelation: Some things are better expressed when left unsaid. Knotted into the plot is a critique of how business and big bucks corrupted the art of filmmaking. Fair enough, but the conflict is explained with dialogue as subtle as an intertitle, the worst of it coming from a jarringly portentous Griffith, whose Ku Klux Klan paean, ''Birth of a Nation'', is glossed over in the rush to cast him as a tragic hero fighting quixotic battles against the film industry.

Somewhere in this nexus of kinesthetics and linguistics, there's something fascinating ''Silents'' is trying to say, and perhaps, with further work, the two companies will figure out how to say it with eloquence. But like the silent actors themselves after talkies came around, this production has an awkward relationship with words.____''Fly-By Theatre and Duende Dance Theater's ''A World of Silents'' continues through Oct. 10 at 7 Stages Theatre, 1105 Euclid Ave. Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 5 p.m. $15. 404-499-8354. www.flybytheatre.org.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015727"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249855"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180815"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180815"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(2568) "       2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - You talk too much   Thomas Bell 1223700 2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00  When films were set to the melodies of Wurlitzers and a scant few sentences of dialogue were written on intertitles, the distance between acting and dance was narrow. Mute, the silent film actors spoke through their bodies.

Fascinated by the brief interlude when actors gave up their words, the dancers of Duende Dance Theater and the actors of Fly-By Theatre came together to explore the silent era's motion locution. Their collaboration, A World of Silents, opened last weekend. Directed by Pam Joyce and Amanda Exley Lower, the play, combined with dance and cleverly interwoven video, is more a meditation on — than a re-creation of — the era of legendary film director D.W. Griffith (Nick Stulhfaut), Charlie Chaplin (Josh Ford), Lillian Gish (Juana Farfan), Rudolph Valentino (Filipe Guedes), Mary Pickford (Brenda Norbeck) and Douglas Fairbanks (Lower).

How does the body speak? How do words move?

Lower and Norbeck give the most entertaining answers in two funny "classes" in silent acting skills. "Eyes front and to the right!" Lower instructs, and Norbeck hilariously tries to screw her eyes to both. As a posture coach, Norbeck articulates the gradations of carnal decay communicated through a slouch and an outthrust hip. Ford also portrays an amusing and credible Chaplin.

Unfortunately, Silents seems to have missed the silent era's finest revelation: Some things are better expressed when left unsaid. Knotted into the plot is a critique of how business and big bucks corrupted the art of filmmaking. Fair enough, but the conflict is explained with dialogue as subtle as an intertitle, the worst of it coming from a jarringly portentous Griffith, whose Ku Klux Klan paean, Birth of a Nation, is glossed over in the rush to cast him as a tragic hero fighting quixotic battles against the film industry.

Somewhere in this nexus of kinesthetics and linguistics, there's something fascinating Silents is trying to say, and perhaps, with further work, the two companies will figure out how to say it with eloquence. But like the silent actors themselves after talkies came around, this production has an awkward relationship with words.Fly-By Theatre and Duende Dance Theater's A World of Silents continues through Oct. 10 at 7 Stages Theatre, 1105 Euclid Ave. Thurs.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 5 p.m. $15. 404-499-8354. www.flybytheatre.org.             13015727 1249855                          Theater Review - You talk too much "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(32) "No description provided"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 23, 2004 12:04 am EDT

When films were set to the melodies of Wurlitzers and a scant few sentences of dialogue were written on intertitles, the distance between acting and dance was narrow. Mute, the silent film actors spoke through their bodies.

Fascinated by the brief interlude when actors gave up their words, the dancers of Duende Dance Theater and the actors of Fly-By Theatre came together to explore the silent...

| more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(10) "Dead souls"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-06-16T00:59:37+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T15:25:50+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(10) "Dead souls"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(15) "Felicia Feaster"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "144577"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(7) "1223506"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(45) "Sally Mann ponders life's end in What Remains"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(45) "Sally Mann ponders life's end in What Remains"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(20) "Content:_:Dead souls"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(3846) "You could say Sally Mann has always been about death.

Her sensual, notorious portraits of her blossoming children in Immediate Family came with a hint of mortality in its images of bloody noses, broken bones and children so at one with nature, they threatened to be absorbed back into it. They were images of a mother appraising the beauty — but also the vulnerability — of what she had made.

Later, Mann's landscapes in Deep South and Motherland seemed more like portraits of a graveyard than anything that belonged to the living. They were so beautiful they beckoned viewers to lay down for an eternity in the earth's gorgeous, moist maw. "It was Flannery O'Connor who said it's Christ haunted. But I think it's death-haunted," says Mann of her beloved South in a telephone conversation from her 425-acre farm in Lexington, Va.

Her newest work, What Remains, debuts at Jackson Fine Art and is undeniably Mann's clearest expression of her reckoning with mortality. A poetic coda to her previous work, it investigates the cyclical process by which our bodies will one day enrich the earth.

What Remains is a five-pronged investigation of mortality, from breathtaking close-up portraits of her children, which Mann says will probably be the direction she takes her work in next, to her documentation of the marks left on her Lexington property after an escaped fugitive committed suicide within view of her house.

But perhaps most shocking in the series are photographs Mann took of the corpses left to decay in bucolic settings as part of forensic research at the University of Tennessee's "body farm." In one nightmarish image, a crow surveys a glowing white corpse like the grim reaper itself.

What Remains also features images of Civil War battlefields and abstract portraits of the remains of Mann's beloved dog, Eva, who she allowed to decay and then photographed. Unfortunately, only the last three phases of the project are on display at Jackson, an omission that leaves the profound connections that unite the work fluttering rootless in the wind.

There is the presumption in modern life, disconnected from nature's rhythms, that we have somehow bested death — or can forget the undertow the earth will one day exert. Part of the impulse for What Remains, Mann says, is to remind viewers of the gravity of death so that they can better appreciate the living. Mann follows that creed: She is not only able to find satisfaction in the epiphanies of her art-making, she savors the diurnal rhythms and simple pleasures of her life in Lexington.

"I have a perfect life. I am a very lucky, lucky person," she says. "What's that great quote? They asked Flaubert what he wanted on his tombstone and he said, 'I stayed home and worked.'"

That separation from the world has allowed Mann to deal with material that she says makes her an "outcast" in the contemporary art world. It is sentiment, she believes, that damns her.

"Look at what's hanging on the museum walls," she says. "You've got these cold, modernist, post-modernist Gurskys, Struths ... really precise, really unpopulated, really unsentiment-laden pictures."

Sentiment is Mann's strength, but also her Achilles' heel. Despite her willingness to confront the taboo, there are still some things Mann's empathy will not allow her to do. Proximity to death does not make it any easier, even for Mann. When her father, a respected Lexington physician, lay dying, the artist admits there were limits to her inquisitiveness.

"I photographed him after he died, but I couldn't do it while he was alive. It involved such a loss of dignity, dying. I think I draw the line when it involves a real exploitation of someone's vulnerability."

Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
Mann will discuss her work and sign books at the Jackson Fine Art on Oct. 27 from 6-8 p.m."
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(3916) "__You could say __Sally Mann has always been about death.

Her sensual, notorious portraits of her blossoming children in ''Immediate Family'' came with a hint of mortality in its images of bloody noses, broken bones and children so at one with nature, they threatened to be absorbed back into it. They were images of a mother appraising the beauty -- but also the vulnerability -- of what she had made.

Later, Mann's landscapes in ''Deep South'' and ''Motherland'' seemed more like portraits of a graveyard than anything that belonged to the living. They were so beautiful they beckoned viewers to lay down for an eternity in the earth's gorgeous, moist maw. "It was Flannery O'Connor who said it's Christ haunted. But I think it's death-haunted," says Mann of her beloved South in a telephone conversation from her 425-acre farm in Lexington, Va.

Her newest work, ''What Remains'', debuts at Jackson Fine Art and is undeniably Mann's clearest expression of her reckoning with mortality. A poetic coda to her previous work, it investigates the cyclical process by which our bodies will one day enrich the earth.

''What Remains'' is a five-pronged investigation of mortality, from breathtaking close-up portraits of her children, which Mann says will probably be the direction she takes her work in next, to her documentation of the marks left on her Lexington property after an escaped fugitive committed suicide within view of her house.

But perhaps most shocking in the series are photographs Mann took of the corpses left to decay in bucolic settings as part of forensic research at the University of Tennessee's "body farm." In one nightmarish image, a crow surveys a glowing white corpse like the grim reaper itself.

''What Remains'' also features images of Civil War battlefields and abstract portraits of the remains of Mann's beloved dog, Eva, who she allowed to decay and then photographed. Unfortunately, only the last three phases of the project are on display at Jackson, an omission that leaves the profound connections that unite the work fluttering rootless in the wind.

There is the presumption in modern life, disconnected from nature's rhythms, that we have somehow bested death -- or can forget the undertow the earth will one day exert. Part of the impulse for ''What Remains'', Mann says, is to remind viewers of the gravity of death so that they can better appreciate the living. Mann follows that creed: She is not only able to find satisfaction in the epiphanies of her art-making, she savors the diurnal rhythms and simple pleasures of her life in Lexington.

"I have a perfect life. I am a very lucky, lucky person," she says. "What's that great quote? They asked Flaubert what he wanted on his tombstone and he said, 'I stayed home and worked.'"

That separation from the world has allowed Mann to deal with material that she says makes her an "outcast" in the contemporary art world. It is sentiment, she believes, that damns her.

"Look at what's hanging on the museum walls," she says. "You've got these cold, modernist, post-modernist Gurskys, Struths ... really precise, really unpopulated, really unsentiment-laden pictures."

Sentiment is Mann's strength, but also her Achilles' heel. Despite her willingness to confront the taboo, there are still some things Mann's empathy will not allow her to do. Proximity to death does not make it any easier, even for Mann. When her father, a respected Lexington physician, lay dying, the artist admits there were limits to her inquisitiveness.

"I photographed him after he died, but I couldn't do it while he was alive. It involved such a loss of dignity, dying. I think I draw the line when it involves a real exploitation of someone's vulnerability."

__[mailto:Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com|Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com]__
''Mann will discuss her work and sign books at the Jackson Fine Art on Oct. 27 from 6-8 p.m.''"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "631"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "631"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015726"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249853"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(581)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "D"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(4) "Dead"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item179891"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "179891"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(4054) "    Sally Mann ponders life's end in What Remains   2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00 Dead souls   Felicia Feaster 1223506 2004-09-23T04:04:00+00:00  You could say Sally Mann has always been about death.

Her sensual, notorious portraits of her blossoming children in Immediate Family came with a hint of mortality in its images of bloody noses, broken bones and children so at one with nature, they threatened to be absorbed back into it. They were images of a mother appraising the beauty — but also the vulnerability — of what she had made.

Later, Mann's landscapes in Deep South and Motherland seemed more like portraits of a graveyard than anything that belonged to the living. They were so beautiful they beckoned viewers to lay down for an eternity in the earth's gorgeous, moist maw. "It was Flannery O'Connor who said it's Christ haunted. But I think it's death-haunted," says Mann of her beloved South in a telephone conversation from her 425-acre farm in Lexington, Va.

Her newest work, What Remains, debuts at Jackson Fine Art and is undeniably Mann's clearest expression of her reckoning with mortality. A poetic coda to her previous work, it investigates the cyclical process by which our bodies will one day enrich the earth.

What Remains is a five-pronged investigation of mortality, from breathtaking close-up portraits of her children, which Mann says will probably be the direction she takes her work in next, to her documentation of the marks left on her Lexington property after an escaped fugitive committed suicide within view of her house.

But perhaps most shocking in the series are photographs Mann took of the corpses left to decay in bucolic settings as part of forensic research at the University of Tennessee's "body farm." In one nightmarish image, a crow surveys a glowing white corpse like the grim reaper itself.

What Remains also features images of Civil War battlefields and abstract portraits of the remains of Mann's beloved dog, Eva, who she allowed to decay and then photographed. Unfortunately, only the last three phases of the project are on display at Jackson, an omission that leaves the profound connections that unite the work fluttering rootless in the wind.

There is the presumption in modern life, disconnected from nature's rhythms, that we have somehow bested death — or can forget the undertow the earth will one day exert. Part of the impulse for What Remains, Mann says, is to remind viewers of the gravity of death so that they can better appreciate the living. Mann follows that creed: She is not only able to find satisfaction in the epiphanies of her art-making, she savors the diurnal rhythms and simple pleasures of her life in Lexington.

"I have a perfect life. I am a very lucky, lucky person," she says. "What's that great quote? They asked Flaubert what he wanted on his tombstone and he said, 'I stayed home and worked.'"

That separation from the world has allowed Mann to deal with material that she says makes her an "outcast" in the contemporary art world. It is sentiment, she believes, that damns her.

"Look at what's hanging on the museum walls," she says. "You've got these cold, modernist, post-modernist Gurskys, Struths ... really precise, really unpopulated, really unsentiment-laden pictures."

Sentiment is Mann's strength, but also her Achilles' heel. Despite her willingness to confront the taboo, there are still some things Mann's empathy will not allow her to do. Proximity to death does not make it any easier, even for Mann. When her father, a respected Lexington physician, lay dying, the artist admits there were limits to her inquisitiveness.

"I photographed him after he died, but I couldn't do it while he was alive. It involved such a loss of dignity, dying. I think I draw the line when it involves a real exploitation of someone's vulnerability."

Felicia.feaster@creativeloafing.com
Mann will discuss her work and sign books at the Jackson Fine Art on Oct. 27 from 6-8 p.m.             13015726 1249853                          Dead souls "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(54) "Sally Mann ponders life's end in What Remains"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 23, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Sally Mann ponders life's end in What Remains | more...
array(79) {
  ["title"]=>
  string(37) "Theater Review - Domestic disturbance"
  ["modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2019-01-13T16:22:48+00:00"
  ["creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2017-12-29T22:46:46+00:00"
  ["contributors"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(29) "ben.eason@creativeloafing.com"
  }
  ["date"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-16T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_status"]=>
  string(1) "o"
  ["tracker_id"]=>
  string(2) "11"
  ["view_permission"]=>
  string(13) "view_trackers"
  ["tracker_field_contentTitle"]=>
  string(37) "Theater Review - Domestic disturbance"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentByline_exact"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson"]=>
  string(6) "419573"
  ["tracker_field_contentBylinePerson_text"]=>
  string(11) "Curt Holman"
  ["tracker_field_description"]=>
  string(35) "Killer Joe a low-down, dirty thrill"
  ["tracker_field_description_raw"]=>
  string(35) "Killer Joe a low-down, dirty thrill"
  ["tracker_field_contentDate"]=>
  string(25) "2004-09-16T04:04:00+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage"]=>
  string(47) "Content:_:Theater Review - Domestic disturbance"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_text"]=>
  string(4039) "Get in bed with the devil, sooner or later you'll have to do some mattress dancing. So learns the Smith family when they invite Killer Joe Cooper into their Texas trailer. Actor's Express offers a hilariously raunchy production of Killer Joe, complete with bloodshed and naked body parts. Killer Joe turns into something far more disturbing than an X-rated romp, but fortunately Actor's Express keeps some of its excesses reined in.

In the dead of night, Chris (Nick Rhoton) barges into his dad's filthy trailer in a bad part of Dallas. He's deep in debt to drug dealers but, as he passes a joint to his father, Ansel (Larry Larson), Chris explains a possible solution that could benefit everyone. His mother, now divorced from Ansel, carries a high insurance policy, so Chris suggests they hire police detective and freelance assassin Killer Joe Cooper to knock her off. The proposal shocks no one, not even Chris' ethereal yet innocent younger sister, Dottie (Ariel de Man).

Jeff Portell, his head seemingly inches from the ceiling of the set, makes an imposing Joe. Meeting Dottie, he proves both a Southern gentleman and an amoral murderer. He's less agreeable with Chris and Ansel, refusing to do the hit "on spec" for a cut of the insurance money. But in lieu of getting his fee up front, he proposes that he take a "retainer" in the person of Dottie. Chris and Ansel consider whether they want the job done badly enough to make Dottie a kind of sacrificial virgin.

Director Jasson Minadakis smoothly negotiates the play's hairpin turns from bumbling hilarity to uneasy seduction to unexpected brutality. Joe begins living in the trailer himself, and the Smiths' domestic ties, tenuous to begin with, come undone. A family supper of beer and chicken from "K-Fry-C" simmers with barely contained violence.

Actor's Express takes the same joy in Killer Joe's squalor that other theaters would take in beautiful surroundings. Set designer Kat Conley lovingly applies aluminum foil to the TV antenna and litters the floor with beer cans, troll dolls and comic books. Surfaces are audibly sticky. And the costumes perfectly match the environment, from Larson's smudged jockey shorts to Rhoton's lank hair.

If playwright Tracy Letts flirts with Southern condescension, Minadakis and his cast avoid molasses-thick stereotyping. Rhoton, for instance, nails Chris as a weasely screwup, yet finds the smidgen of decency within the drawling loser. The actors, all familiar Atlanta faces who've never worked at the Express before, take Letts' creation seriously, despite their sordid behavior and dialogue like, "You'd fuck a snake if you could hold its head." They're not "Southern morons," but pot-smoking, boot-knocking, TV-addicted morons who just happen to live in the South.

It's harder to explain away the play's misogyny, frequently leveled on Chris' trampy stepmother (Jill Perry). Joe reveals bottomless reservoirs of hate toward women, which sound all the more disquieting coming from Portell's deceptively articulate, "civilized" stage persona. Joe's tenderness to Dottie could be depraved love, or just the affection the cat has for the canary. Killer Joe builds to moments of graphic abuse in the second act that the play never repudiates and that cannot be laughed off.

Killer Joe's darkest moments keep us from dismissing the show as saucy Southern slapstick. Letts also penned the off-Broadway hit Bug (a play reputedly even more dark and intense than Joe) and has earned a rep for terrifying portraits of abnormal psychology. Killer Joe's bumbling comedy essentially leads the audience over trap doors that drop us into scenes of violent catharsis that approach Greek tragedy.

Had Actor's Express mishandled Killer Joe, the show would merely be a repugnant experience. Instead, it proves a wild and unsettling ride — not a well-oiled roller coaster but a ramshackle county fair attraction in poor repair and operated by drunk carnies. See Killer Joe, but get a tetanus shot first.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_raw"]=>
  string(4127) "__Get in bed __with the devil, sooner or later you'll have to do some mattress dancing. So learns the Smith family when they invite Killer Joe Cooper into their Texas trailer. Actor's Express offers a hilariously raunchy production of ''Killer Joe'', complete with bloodshed and naked body parts. ''Killer Joe'' turns into something far more disturbing than an X-rated romp, but fortunately Actor's Express keeps some of its excesses reined in.

In the dead of night, Chris (Nick Rhoton) barges into his dad's filthy trailer in a bad part of Dallas. He's deep in debt to drug dealers but, as he passes a joint to his father, Ansel (Larry Larson), Chris explains a possible solution that could benefit everyone. His mother, now divorced from Ansel, carries a high insurance policy, so Chris suggests they hire police detective and freelance assassin Killer Joe Cooper to knock her off. The proposal shocks no one, not even Chris' ethereal yet innocent younger sister, Dottie (Ariel de Man).

Jeff Portell, his head seemingly inches from the ceiling of the set, makes an imposing Joe. Meeting Dottie, he proves both a Southern gentleman and an amoral murderer. He's less agreeable with Chris and Ansel, refusing to do the hit "on spec" for a cut of the insurance money. But in lieu of getting his fee up front, he proposes that he take a "retainer" in the person of Dottie. Chris and Ansel consider whether they want the job done badly enough to make Dottie a kind of sacrificial virgin.

Director Jasson Minadakis smoothly negotiates the play's hairpin turns from bumbling hilarity to uneasy seduction to unexpected brutality. Joe begins living in the trailer himself, and the Smiths' domestic ties, tenuous to begin with, come undone. A family supper of beer and chicken from "K-Fry-C" simmers with barely contained violence.

Actor's Express takes the same joy in ''Killer Joe'''s squalor that other theaters would take in beautiful surroundings. Set designer Kat Conley lovingly applies aluminum foil to the TV antenna and litters the floor with beer cans, troll dolls and comic books. Surfaces are audibly ''sticky''. And the costumes perfectly match the environment, from Larson's smudged jockey shorts to Rhoton's lank hair.

If playwright Tracy Letts flirts with Southern condescension, Minadakis and his cast avoid molasses-thick stereotyping. Rhoton, for instance, nails Chris as a weasely screwup, yet finds the smidgen of decency within the drawling loser. The actors, all familiar Atlanta faces who've never worked at the Express before, take Letts' creation seriously, despite their sordid behavior and dialogue like, "You'd fuck a snake if you could hold its head." They're not "Southern morons," but pot-smoking, boot-knocking, TV-addicted morons who just happen to live in the South.

It's harder to explain away the play's misogyny, frequently leveled on Chris' trampy stepmother (Jill Perry). Joe reveals bottomless reservoirs of hate toward women, which sound all the more disquieting coming from Portell's deceptively articulate, "civilized" stage persona. Joe's tenderness to Dottie could be depraved love, or just the affection the cat has for the canary. ''Killer Joe'' builds to moments of graphic abuse in the second act that the play never repudiates and that cannot be laughed off.

''Killer Joe'''s darkest moments keep us from dismissing the show as saucy Southern slapstick. Letts also penned the off-Broadway hit ''Bug'' (a play reputedly even more dark and intense than ''Joe'') and has earned a rep for terrifying portraits of abnormal psychology. ''Killer Joe'''s bumbling comedy essentially leads the audience over trap doors that drop us into scenes of violent catharsis that approach Greek tragedy.

Had Actor's Express mishandled ''Killer Joe'', the show would merely be a repugnant experience. Instead, it proves a wild and unsettling ride -- not a well-oiled roller coaster but a ramshackle county fair attraction in poor repair and operated by drunk carnies. See ''Killer Joe'', but get a tetanus shot first.

__[mailto:curt.holman@creativeloafing.com|curt.holman@creativeloafing.com]__
"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_creation_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentWikiPage_modification_date"]=>
  string(25) "2018-01-20T18:13:22+00:00"
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(3) "636"
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentCategory_text"]=>
  string(3) "636"
  ["tracker_field_contentControlCategory"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_scene"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentNeighborhood"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelations_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedContent_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentRelatedWikiPages_multi"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    string(0) ""
  }
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEContentID"]=>
  string(8) "13015669"
  ["tracker_field_contentLegacyContentID"]=>
  string(7) "1249743"
  ["tracker_field_contentBASEAuthorID"]=>
  int(0)
  ["tracker_field_section"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["language"]=>
  string(7) "unknown"
  ["attachments"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["comment_count"]=>
  int(0)
  ["categories"]=>
  array(1) {
    [0]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["deep_categories"]=>
  array(4) {
    [0]=>
    int(242)
    [1]=>
    int(244)
    [2]=>
    int(633)
    [3]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_28"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_177"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_209"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_163"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_171"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_153"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_242"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_242"]=>
  array(3) {
    [0]=>
    int(244)
    [1]=>
    int(633)
    [2]=>
    int(636)
  }
  ["categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_564"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["deep_categories_under_1182"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["freetags"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["geo_located"]=>
  string(1) "n"
  ["allowed_groups"]=>
  array(2) {
    [0]=>
    string(6) "Admins"
    [1]=>
    string(9) "Anonymous"
  }
  ["allowed_users"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relations"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_objects"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_types"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["relation_count"]=>
  array(0) {
  }
  ["title_initial"]=>
  string(1) "T"
  ["title_firstword"]=>
  string(7) "Theater"
  ["searchable"]=>
  string(1) "y"
  ["url"]=>
  string(10) "item180813"
  ["object_type"]=>
  string(11) "trackeritem"
  ["object_id"]=>
  string(6) "180813"
  ["contents"]=>
  string(4291) "    Killer Joe a low-down, dirty thrill   2004-09-16T04:04:00+00:00 Theater Review - Domestic disturbance   Curt Holman Curt Holman 2004-09-16T04:04:00+00:00  Get in bed with the devil, sooner or later you'll have to do some mattress dancing. So learns the Smith family when they invite Killer Joe Cooper into their Texas trailer. Actor's Express offers a hilariously raunchy production of Killer Joe, complete with bloodshed and naked body parts. Killer Joe turns into something far more disturbing than an X-rated romp, but fortunately Actor's Express keeps some of its excesses reined in.

In the dead of night, Chris (Nick Rhoton) barges into his dad's filthy trailer in a bad part of Dallas. He's deep in debt to drug dealers but, as he passes a joint to his father, Ansel (Larry Larson), Chris explains a possible solution that could benefit everyone. His mother, now divorced from Ansel, carries a high insurance policy, so Chris suggests they hire police detective and freelance assassin Killer Joe Cooper to knock her off. The proposal shocks no one, not even Chris' ethereal yet innocent younger sister, Dottie (Ariel de Man).

Jeff Portell, his head seemingly inches from the ceiling of the set, makes an imposing Joe. Meeting Dottie, he proves both a Southern gentleman and an amoral murderer. He's less agreeable with Chris and Ansel, refusing to do the hit "on spec" for a cut of the insurance money. But in lieu of getting his fee up front, he proposes that he take a "retainer" in the person of Dottie. Chris and Ansel consider whether they want the job done badly enough to make Dottie a kind of sacrificial virgin.

Director Jasson Minadakis smoothly negotiates the play's hairpin turns from bumbling hilarity to uneasy seduction to unexpected brutality. Joe begins living in the trailer himself, and the Smiths' domestic ties, tenuous to begin with, come undone. A family supper of beer and chicken from "K-Fry-C" simmers with barely contained violence.

Actor's Express takes the same joy in Killer Joe's squalor that other theaters would take in beautiful surroundings. Set designer Kat Conley lovingly applies aluminum foil to the TV antenna and litters the floor with beer cans, troll dolls and comic books. Surfaces are audibly sticky. And the costumes perfectly match the environment, from Larson's smudged jockey shorts to Rhoton's lank hair.

If playwright Tracy Letts flirts with Southern condescension, Minadakis and his cast avoid molasses-thick stereotyping. Rhoton, for instance, nails Chris as a weasely screwup, yet finds the smidgen of decency within the drawling loser. The actors, all familiar Atlanta faces who've never worked at the Express before, take Letts' creation seriously, despite their sordid behavior and dialogue like, "You'd fuck a snake if you could hold its head." They're not "Southern morons," but pot-smoking, boot-knocking, TV-addicted morons who just happen to live in the South.

It's harder to explain away the play's misogyny, frequently leveled on Chris' trampy stepmother (Jill Perry). Joe reveals bottomless reservoirs of hate toward women, which sound all the more disquieting coming from Portell's deceptively articulate, "civilized" stage persona. Joe's tenderness to Dottie could be depraved love, or just the affection the cat has for the canary. Killer Joe builds to moments of graphic abuse in the second act that the play never repudiates and that cannot be laughed off.

Killer Joe's darkest moments keep us from dismissing the show as saucy Southern slapstick. Letts also penned the off-Broadway hit Bug (a play reputedly even more dark and intense than Joe) and has earned a rep for terrifying portraits of abnormal psychology. Killer Joe's bumbling comedy essentially leads the audience over trap doors that drop us into scenes of violent catharsis that approach Greek tragedy.

Had Actor's Express mishandled Killer Joe, the show would merely be a repugnant experience. Instead, it proves a wild and unsettling ride — not a well-oiled roller coaster but a ramshackle county fair attraction in poor repair and operated by drunk carnies. See Killer Joe, but get a tetanus shot first.

curt.holman@creativeloafing.com
             13015669 1249743                          Theater Review - Domestic disturbance "
  ["score"]=>
  float(0)
  ["_index"]=>
  string(21) "atlantawiki_tiki_main"
  ["objectlink"]=>
  string(36) "No value for 'contentTitle'"
  ["photos"]=>
  string(130) "Coming Soon

"
  ["desc"]=>
  string(44) "Killer Joe a low-down, dirty thrill"
  ["chit_category"]=>
  string(11) "88"
}

Article

Thursday September 16, 2004 12:04 am EDT
Killer Joe a low-down, dirty thrill | more...