As you probably know, I ride the Staten Island Ferry from Manhattan to Staten Island and then back again almost every day. It is usually very noisy on the ferry. Among the sounds I often hear are the chattering of hundreds of tourists, boisterous natives arguing loudly about some controversial issue, the ferry's chugging engines, foghorns blaring periodically, the ripples in the harbor bumpingly resisting the surging boat.
Yesterday, however, as the boat was very slowly positioning itself to return to its slip in Manhattan, and its engines had been reduced to little more than a murmur, I was suddenly aware of how absolutely hushed everything had become. For one thing, I heard no voices at all, in part because there were so few people on board and virtually all of them sat alone in some remote corner of the deck. The usually ubiquitous crew was nowhere to be seen, no walkie talkies were barking, the loud speaker system was silent. Outside the air was utterly still; the water in the harbor did not crawl at all. All that I heard, even when I strained to listen, was the creaking of the wooden walls and pillars of this old boat, some version of which I ride every day. Those creaks made me think, not of age, but of venerability, of a machine that was designed to do its job reliably and dutifully, day in, day out. Somehow, there was something comforting and endearing in that sole, lingering groan, which seemed to say all this may take its toll but it is good, solid, uncomplicated and absolutely necessary work.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
23rd Street Pseudonyms
Welcome back! The pseudonyms of the three people imprinted on the 23rd Street Subway wall and referred to at the end of the previous post are revealed today. They are: Harry Houdini for Erich Weiss, the escape artist and magician; O. Henry for William Sidney Porter, the short story writer; and General Tom Thumb for Charles Sherwood Stratton, the 25-inch dwarf who gained notoriety as one of the stars of the circus produced by P.T. Barnum (also noted on that wall) to much acclaim throughout the mid to late nineteenth century.
What a bizarre trio, huh!? In some crazy sense, they represent the diversity and the sheer nuttiness of New York. The first figure - Houdini - was such a remarkable and convincing escape artist that at least one astute observer (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) believed he had the ability to dematerialize and rematerialize at will. O. Henry is still the best known short story writer of all time for his surprise endings. In fact, he spent only the last few years of his life in New York City, during which time he wrote close to a short story a week, though only a handful are still regularly read and remembered. And then there's Tom Thumb, who actually weighed over 9 pounds at birth and just plain stopped growing after six months (he began to grow again very slowly later on in his life). He went on to become one of the most famous people of his time, despite having no real talent, simply because P.T. Barnum convinced millions that he was worth seeing.
If anything unites these three it is probably that the American public came to believe they were something more than what they really were. Which, to the extent this is true, nicely captures one of New York City's most endearing qualities as well. It is the dream, the fantasy of New York that arrests so many. But like so many dreams or fantasies, they can rarely be fully realized or understood and often lead, in the end, to some degree of disappointment. Those who know this but seek after the dream anyway are less disappointed than others when the dream goes unfulfilled. They may even experience some sort of wry pleasure in knowing that part of that great quest is chimerical, something like an unendingly diverting mirage that is admired and appreciated for its beauty but is ultimately as insubstantial as gossamer.
What a bizarre trio, huh!? In some crazy sense, they represent the diversity and the sheer nuttiness of New York. The first figure - Houdini - was such a remarkable and convincing escape artist that at least one astute observer (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) believed he had the ability to dematerialize and rematerialize at will. O. Henry is still the best known short story writer of all time for his surprise endings. In fact, he spent only the last few years of his life in New York City, during which time he wrote close to a short story a week, though only a handful are still regularly read and remembered. And then there's Tom Thumb, who actually weighed over 9 pounds at birth and just plain stopped growing after six months (he began to grow again very slowly later on in his life). He went on to become one of the most famous people of his time, despite having no real talent, simply because P.T. Barnum convinced millions that he was worth seeing.
If anything unites these three it is probably that the American public came to believe they were something more than what they really were. Which, to the extent this is true, nicely captures one of New York City's most endearing qualities as well. It is the dream, the fantasy of New York that arrests so many. But like so many dreams or fantasies, they can rarely be fully realized or understood and often lead, in the end, to some degree of disappointment. Those who know this but seek after the dream anyway are less disappointed than others when the dream goes unfulfilled. They may even experience some sort of wry pleasure in knowing that part of that great quest is chimerical, something like an unendingly diverting mirage that is admired and appreciated for its beauty but is ultimately as insubstantial as gossamer.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
23rd Street Celebrities
One sunny summer day, as I descended to the 23rd street stop on the N-R-W Subway line, I heard the rumbling of an arriving train which induced me to dash down the rest of the stairs in hopes of catching it. I fumbled for my metro card, burst through the turnstile, and raced toward the beckoning open doors of the train, only to miss my ride by the length of an arm. Disappointed that I wasn't likely to catch another train for at least 5 minutes, I glumly wandered down the long waiting platform. As I strolled, my attention was drawn to the white ceramic tiles that lined the subway walls and were intermittently stenciled with the names of people and their professions. As I looked more closely, I realized these were the names of New York celebrities, some very well known and others quite obscure (at least to me), all of whom, as it turned out, had lived or worked in this part of Manhattan that stands in the shadow of the Flatiron Building.
Built in 1902, the Flatiron was not the tallest but probably the most distinctive of the first wave of steel-based skyscrapers. Its triangular shape was ingeniously fitted to the intersection at Broadway, 5th Avenue and 23rd Street, and its limestone facade with appealing embellishments were so attractive that it helped to make the area that surrounded it one of Manhattan's most fashionable and elegant turn of the century neighborhoods. Even today the Flatiron is one of the city's most recognized and iconic structures. As the wall of the 23rd street subway station suggests, the variety of people who were drawn there included: Florenz Ziegfeld, the enterprising founder of the dazzling Ziegfeld Follies; Stanford White, the influential architect who was killed in 1905 on the roof garden of Madison Square Garden, a building he designed, for allegedly having an affair with the great beauty Evelyn Nesbit (also noted on the wall); and Nellie Bly, one of America's first celebrity journalists, who gained fame for pretending to be insane to expose the horrors of mental institutions and for reporting on an around the world trip that took an astoundingly brief 72 days in 1890.
But these were just three of dozens of names on that wall from a panoply of professions. I became so enthralled that I missed the next train, too. By the way, there were also these three names: Erich Weiss, William Sidney Porter, and Charles Sherwood Stratton - the real names of three New Yorkers from roughly this turn of the century period (one actually died in 1883) who were much better known for their pseudonyms. Can you name them? The answers will be in tomorrow's post.
Built in 1902, the Flatiron was not the tallest but probably the most distinctive of the first wave of steel-based skyscrapers. Its triangular shape was ingeniously fitted to the intersection at Broadway, 5th Avenue and 23rd Street, and its limestone facade with appealing embellishments were so attractive that it helped to make the area that surrounded it one of Manhattan's most fashionable and elegant turn of the century neighborhoods. Even today the Flatiron is one of the city's most recognized and iconic structures. As the wall of the 23rd street subway station suggests, the variety of people who were drawn there included: Florenz Ziegfeld, the enterprising founder of the dazzling Ziegfeld Follies; Stanford White, the influential architect who was killed in 1905 on the roof garden of Madison Square Garden, a building he designed, for allegedly having an affair with the great beauty Evelyn Nesbit (also noted on the wall); and Nellie Bly, one of America's first celebrity journalists, who gained fame for pretending to be insane to expose the horrors of mental institutions and for reporting on an around the world trip that took an astoundingly brief 72 days in 1890.
But these were just three of dozens of names on that wall from a panoply of professions. I became so enthralled that I missed the next train, too. By the way, there were also these three names: Erich Weiss, William Sidney Porter, and Charles Sherwood Stratton - the real names of three New Yorkers from roughly this turn of the century period (one actually died in 1883) who were much better known for their pseudonyms. Can you name them? The answers will be in tomorrow's post.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Merman and the Broadway Indelibles
I recently went to see a one-woman show about Ethel Merman, the great Broadway musical comedy star. It was a lot of fun to listen to a few of the songs she made famous and to hear of some of the old stories that burnished her legend. For instance, did you know that she premiered in George and Ira Gershwin's hit Broadway musical Girl Crazy in 1930 at the age of 20, introducing the song I Got Rhythm? And even if you did know that, I’ll bet you didn’t know that George Gershwin was conducting in the orchestra pit on that show’s opening night and that among the musicians in the band that evening were – are you ready for this? – Benny Goodman, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Gene Krupa, and Glenn Miller!
One of Ethel Merman’s great distinctions is the unique stamp she left on certain roles. Even today when you think of those roles you think of Merman. In two cases, I think, she gave definitive, unforgettable performances: As Annie Oakley in Irving Berlin’s Annie Get Your Gun and as Mama Rose in Jule Styne’s and Stephen Sondheim’s Gypsy. It is arguable that no other Broadway star has left such a memorable imprint on two great roles. Here is my list of the top ten performers who are indelibly associated with a particular role in great Broadway musicals (no films please). I invite you to critique, add, or subtract, in other words, to offer up your own list. By the way, I have even attempted (foolish man that I am) to put these roughly in the order of the strength of the performer's identification with the role in question. The stronger the association of the performer with the role and the show, the higher he or she appears on the list.
1. Yul Brynner as the King in The King and I
2. Robert Preston as Harold Hill in the Music Man
3. Barbara Streisand as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl
4. Carol Channing as Dolly Levi in Hello Dolly
5. Rex Harrison as Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady*
6. Zero Mostel as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof
7. Ethel Merman as Mama Rose in Gypsy**
8. Ethel Merman as Annie Oakley in Annie Get Your Gun**
9. Vivian Blaine as Adelaide in Guys and Dolls
10. Mary Martin as Nellie Forbush in South Pacific
*Is anyone thinking that Richard Burton as Arthur in Camelot should be included (who learned from Harrison how to perfect the talking/singing that became a kind of trademark)? It's a tough call, but I have omitted him primarily because Camelot itself does not really compare, to my surprise, to these other musicals in terms of popular success (873 performances) or for being as widely or as fondly remembered. By the way, I don't really get this, as I love the show, but these are the facts and my sense. Hey, do you think the appalling movie adaptation from the mid-60's had a negative impact on the collective memory of this show?
**Some of you may be thinking that Merman shouldn’t be on this list at all, because Patti Lupone recently gave the definitive performance as Mama Rose in Gypsy and Bernadette Peters a few years back turned in the ultimate performance as Annie Oakley in Annie Get Your Gun. You may have a point, but this is a post, for heaven’s sake, about Ethel Merman, so delete her only after careful and respectful consideration.
One of Ethel Merman’s great distinctions is the unique stamp she left on certain roles. Even today when you think of those roles you think of Merman. In two cases, I think, she gave definitive, unforgettable performances: As Annie Oakley in Irving Berlin’s Annie Get Your Gun and as Mama Rose in Jule Styne’s and Stephen Sondheim’s Gypsy. It is arguable that no other Broadway star has left such a memorable imprint on two great roles. Here is my list of the top ten performers who are indelibly associated with a particular role in great Broadway musicals (no films please). I invite you to critique, add, or subtract, in other words, to offer up your own list. By the way, I have even attempted (foolish man that I am) to put these roughly in the order of the strength of the performer's identification with the role in question. The stronger the association of the performer with the role and the show, the higher he or she appears on the list.
1. Yul Brynner as the King in The King and I
2. Robert Preston as Harold Hill in the Music Man
3. Barbara Streisand as Fanny Brice in Funny Girl
4. Carol Channing as Dolly Levi in Hello Dolly
5. Rex Harrison as Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady*
6. Zero Mostel as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof
7. Ethel Merman as Mama Rose in Gypsy**
8. Ethel Merman as Annie Oakley in Annie Get Your Gun**
9. Vivian Blaine as Adelaide in Guys and Dolls
10. Mary Martin as Nellie Forbush in South Pacific
*Is anyone thinking that Richard Burton as Arthur in Camelot should be included (who learned from Harrison how to perfect the talking/singing that became a kind of trademark)? It's a tough call, but I have omitted him primarily because Camelot itself does not really compare, to my surprise, to these other musicals in terms of popular success (873 performances) or for being as widely or as fondly remembered. By the way, I don't really get this, as I love the show, but these are the facts and my sense. Hey, do you think the appalling movie adaptation from the mid-60's had a negative impact on the collective memory of this show?
**Some of you may be thinking that Merman shouldn’t be on this list at all, because Patti Lupone recently gave the definitive performance as Mama Rose in Gypsy and Bernadette Peters a few years back turned in the ultimate performance as Annie Oakley in Annie Get Your Gun. You may have a point, but this is a post, for heaven’s sake, about Ethel Merman, so delete her only after careful and respectful consideration.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Miracle at Lincoln Center
I've been walking around with this huge smile on my face and no matter what happens I continue to grin irrepressibly. I am calm, contented, pleasantly placid, stubbornly serene. I have just seen the film Miracle on 34th Street for the 27th time or so, but for the first time on the big screen and in the commodious, cushy auditorium of the Lincoln Center Film Society to boot. It was terrific.
For the uninitiated, Miracle on 34th Street is the story of a Macy's Santa Claus who goes by the name of Kris Kringle and claims to be the real thing. At a hearing to determine whether or not he should be committed for being insane, his lawyer, who has become a dear friend, must prove that he is, in fact, who he says he is - the one and only Santa Claus. There is something about the clever script that makes all of this plausible, and the whole effort is helped enormously by the skill and charm of veteran English actor Edmund Gwenn, playing the Santa. Gwenn's performance is unparalelled for this kind of picture, though Hollywood did have the termerity to attempt a TV remake with Sebastian Cabot many years later that only reinforces the superiority of Gwenn's performance.
It may be of some interest to know that I saw this film as part of a retrospective celebrating the performances of Natalie Wood, who was only eight at the time and plays the little girl who becomes convinced that this Macy's Santa is for real. She is quite wonderful in it and very convincingly plays a girl who begins as a skeptic and is eventually won over by Santa's kindness and sincerity. And, indeed, it is those qualities of the Kris Kringle character in this film - his gentleness, decency, love of life, and knack for bringing people together - that make me, anyway, smile and, yes, cry whenever I see it. Especially when the Natalie Wood character is still doubting Kris and happens to witness him greet a little Dutch girl as he sits on his throne in Macy's. She is a non-English speaking refugee from a bombed-out city in Holland and has just been adopted by American parents. The American mother brings the Dutch child over to Santa and apologizes that her adopted daughter is unable to communicate with him. But before the Mom can finish, our smiling Santa pulls the little girl to his lap and begins speaking cheerily to her in perfect Dutch. This also gives the girl a chance to communicate to her new mother through this Dutch-speaking Santa how much she loves her. We see Natalie Wood's eyes popping with wonder as she watches these exchanges, while the new mother in the film and Steve, the appreciative viewer, pretty much dissolve in tears of joy at the same time. It never fails.
And to see this perfect little New York-based fantasy on a big screen at one of New York's great cultural institutions. Well, that is like a minor miracle in itself and why I wanted to share a few comments about it here.
For the uninitiated, Miracle on 34th Street is the story of a Macy's Santa Claus who goes by the name of Kris Kringle and claims to be the real thing. At a hearing to determine whether or not he should be committed for being insane, his lawyer, who has become a dear friend, must prove that he is, in fact, who he says he is - the one and only Santa Claus. There is something about the clever script that makes all of this plausible, and the whole effort is helped enormously by the skill and charm of veteran English actor Edmund Gwenn, playing the Santa. Gwenn's performance is unparalelled for this kind of picture, though Hollywood did have the termerity to attempt a TV remake with Sebastian Cabot many years later that only reinforces the superiority of Gwenn's performance.
It may be of some interest to know that I saw this film as part of a retrospective celebrating the performances of Natalie Wood, who was only eight at the time and plays the little girl who becomes convinced that this Macy's Santa is for real. She is quite wonderful in it and very convincingly plays a girl who begins as a skeptic and is eventually won over by Santa's kindness and sincerity. And, indeed, it is those qualities of the Kris Kringle character in this film - his gentleness, decency, love of life, and knack for bringing people together - that make me, anyway, smile and, yes, cry whenever I see it. Especially when the Natalie Wood character is still doubting Kris and happens to witness him greet a little Dutch girl as he sits on his throne in Macy's. She is a non-English speaking refugee from a bombed-out city in Holland and has just been adopted by American parents. The American mother brings the Dutch child over to Santa and apologizes that her adopted daughter is unable to communicate with him. But before the Mom can finish, our smiling Santa pulls the little girl to his lap and begins speaking cheerily to her in perfect Dutch. This also gives the girl a chance to communicate to her new mother through this Dutch-speaking Santa how much she loves her. We see Natalie Wood's eyes popping with wonder as she watches these exchanges, while the new mother in the film and Steve, the appreciative viewer, pretty much dissolve in tears of joy at the same time. It never fails.
And to see this perfect little New York-based fantasy on a big screen at one of New York's great cultural institutions. Well, that is like a minor miracle in itself and why I wanted to share a few comments about it here.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
MoMA Dust-up
I went to MoMA the other day during their pre-opening hours. I love going at this time because most of the galleries are utterly deserted and there is something about being present with these great pictures and sculptures in this immense silence - the kind where all you hear is the air conditioning whistling through the vents - that is beautiful and calming.
I was on the fifth floor in the room where all those amazing Matisses are hanging - the Piano Lesson, an improvised version of the Dance, the Red Studio - when my looking was interrupted by a young woman walking swiftly through the gallery with a dusting brush in one hand and a bottle of cleanser in the other. She stopped periodically whenever she came to any flat surface where one of a number of Matisse's sculptures was sitting. She dusted each surface, while carefully avoiding the artwork itself. I watched her leave the Matisse room and walk just as deliberately into another, stopping only when encountering some kind of flat surface to free it of dust, always conscientiously keeping her duster from brushing up against the art objects themselves. I couldn't help being struck by the juxtaposition of what we consider to be great, transforming art with the simplest, most quotidian of tasks. Truth and beauty may be eternal, but, hey, dusting is important, too. And need I add that even in an art museum you can’t escape the fact that cleanliness is next to Godliness.
I was on the fifth floor in the room where all those amazing Matisses are hanging - the Piano Lesson, an improvised version of the Dance, the Red Studio - when my looking was interrupted by a young woman walking swiftly through the gallery with a dusting brush in one hand and a bottle of cleanser in the other. She stopped periodically whenever she came to any flat surface where one of a number of Matisse's sculptures was sitting. She dusted each surface, while carefully avoiding the artwork itself. I watched her leave the Matisse room and walk just as deliberately into another, stopping only when encountering some kind of flat surface to free it of dust, always conscientiously keeping her duster from brushing up against the art objects themselves. I couldn't help being struck by the juxtaposition of what we consider to be great, transforming art with the simplest, most quotidian of tasks. Truth and beauty may be eternal, but, hey, dusting is important, too. And need I add that even in an art museum you can’t escape the fact that cleanliness is next to Godliness.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Funniest Words
By themselves, the words – Fuck You – are really not that funny. It is only after those roaming street guys have lured you into a second rate comedy club promising you a big discount and a wonderful time and you are sitting there counting on someone to be funny that those words become, well, hilarious. I know this because the last time I was in such a club those words were used many times in many contexts and every time they were uttered they elicited a big laugh. In fact, I heard those words in a comedy club for the very last time when I used them myself as I exited the club with a surprisingly public flourish. It all came to pass innocently enough.
There I was sitting in this comedy club, having been lured there only hours before, actually laughing, as I had off and on for seventy minutes during the course of four half-way decent stand up acts. But when the fifth and last comic got up, you could tell almost immediately he was going to be the worst. The number of expletives increased alarmingly and the amount of humorous material declined precipitously. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but during a pause in his tedious routine, I happened to say out loud how great it would be to hear something that was actually funny.
Needless to say, this unfunny fellow took great offense at my remark and retorted angrily and predictably: “The fucking old fart sits there through everybody’s else’s act and never says a fucking word and now suddenly he’s got a fucking problem with my fucking jokes.” As you might expect, this tirade did get him some hearty laughs, so he kept returning to it, particularly trying to taunt me with the phrase “the old fart,” invariably preceded by some variation on the ‘F’ word.
Finally, I decided I had heard enough. I stretched and yawned elaborately indicating how monotonous this had all become and then got up to leave. As I made my way out, he insisted on asking me where I was going, that nobody walks out on his act. I didn’t say anything but just keep moving when he inquired quite suddenly if I had anything to say for myself. With that kind of opening, how could I resist? I paused for a moment, looked over at him, peered at the audience and then back at him. I carefully formed the letters in my mouth, preparing to respond with sincerity but also with great deliberateness so that it was almost as if I was spelling out those ugly but inevitable words: “F-u-c-k Y-o-u!” Blowing him a kiss, I quickly departed the club with the surprisingly raucous laughter of the audience following me out the door.
I could say those two words tomorrow and nobody would laugh. But at that time and in that place, I guess judging from the reaction of the audience, they were the funniest words I’ve ever said.
There I was sitting in this comedy club, having been lured there only hours before, actually laughing, as I had off and on for seventy minutes during the course of four half-way decent stand up acts. But when the fifth and last comic got up, you could tell almost immediately he was going to be the worst. The number of expletives increased alarmingly and the amount of humorous material declined precipitously. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but during a pause in his tedious routine, I happened to say out loud how great it would be to hear something that was actually funny.
Needless to say, this unfunny fellow took great offense at my remark and retorted angrily and predictably: “The fucking old fart sits there through everybody’s else’s act and never says a fucking word and now suddenly he’s got a fucking problem with my fucking jokes.” As you might expect, this tirade did get him some hearty laughs, so he kept returning to it, particularly trying to taunt me with the phrase “the old fart,” invariably preceded by some variation on the ‘F’ word.
Finally, I decided I had heard enough. I stretched and yawned elaborately indicating how monotonous this had all become and then got up to leave. As I made my way out, he insisted on asking me where I was going, that nobody walks out on his act. I didn’t say anything but just keep moving when he inquired quite suddenly if I had anything to say for myself. With that kind of opening, how could I resist? I paused for a moment, looked over at him, peered at the audience and then back at him. I carefully formed the letters in my mouth, preparing to respond with sincerity but also with great deliberateness so that it was almost as if I was spelling out those ugly but inevitable words: “F-u-c-k Y-o-u!” Blowing him a kiss, I quickly departed the club with the surprisingly raucous laughter of the audience following me out the door.
I could say those two words tomorrow and nobody would laugh. But at that time and in that place, I guess judging from the reaction of the audience, they were the funniest words I’ve ever said.
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