Theatrical
31 December 2025
Another Opening, Another Show: January 2026
Theatrical
29 December 2025
26 December 2025
22 December 2025
Museum Monday 2025/51
detail of Saint Luke Drawing the Virgin by Rogier van der Weyden, now in the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston
20 December 2025
Orinda Theater Classic Movie Matinee: Bell, Book, & Candle
The Orinda Theater's Classic Movie Matinee this past October was 1958's Bell, Book, and Candle, one of those "I married a witch: no, really, a literal witch" stories, which is seasonal for the end of October, of course, but as the film also contains several Christmas scenes, it fits in with my posting month of December as well.
As usual, the Matinee was genially hosted by Matías Bombal, who also chooses the apt shorts, newsreels, cartoons, & coming attractions that accompany each feature (the idea is to recreate an earlier movie-going experience, when you'd get all those things as part of the show).There were a couple of cartoons, including the delirious & delightful Skeleton Dance, one of the early Disney Silly Symphonies (animated by Ub Iwerks). I've seen it many times, but this was my first time seeing it on the big screen, where it is just as marvelous as ever. We also had Bewitched Bunny, in which Bugs Bunny tries to save Hansel & Gretel from Witch Hazel. (I found the children repulsive, though comically so, & would have been happy to let the witch have her snack.) At the cartoon's end, Witch Hazel has transformed herself into a sexy & beautiful young thing, & Bugs leaves with her, but not before turning to the audience & letting us know he knows, says "Ah sure, I know, but aren't they all witches inside?" – a line that drew plenty of audible gasps from the matinee audience, & not necessarily in a disapproving way. After the feature I chatted in the lobby with a group that included several women who didn't come right out & say they identified as witches, but it was pretty clear they were, at least, sympathetic, so maybe they felt Bugs was just acknowledging their power.
I had never seen Bell, Book, & Candle before (the 1950s are not really my movie decade), though I had heard of it vaguely & was curious about it. It's quite delightful, & has quite a cast: Kim Novak as the female lead, with Elsa Lanchester, Hermione Gingold, Jack Lemmon, & Ernie Kovacs in supporting roles. The male lead is Jimmy Stewart. I am not a fan, though I found him less grating than usual (in fact, downright acceptable) in this role. And I give him credit for realizing he had aged out of romantic leads; this was the last such role he played. Still, it seemed a stretch for the gorgeous Novak to fall in love with him as he passes her shop (he's a neighbor & her feelings are rooted in his looks, not his personality, as she hasn't actually talked to him yet) & I kept wondering what the part would be like with, say, Montgomery Clift in it. Novak is, as I said, gorgeous, but I was mesmerized by her eyebrows, which were done in some kind of heavy brown paint – obviously something stylish at the time, though a touch bizarre today (though that's not unsuitable for an uncanny character).
Lanchester, as Novak's aunt, is appealingly & reliably loopy, & I found Kovacs, as a writer on witches who knows less than he thinks, & drinks more than he should, actually funny (I know he's supposed to have been a comedy genius, & maybe I just haven't seen the right shows, but when I saw his stuff years ago I didn't find it amusing at all, which might be my fault). Hermione Gingold, as a rival witch, doesn't have all that much to do; I wondered if the part was bigger in the original play, as what was in the film didn't seem to warrant hiring that big a name. But maybe the idea is that she's outsized enough so that she brings weight to a role that doesn't take up much actual screen time & so might get lost in the narrative shuffle. I shouldn't neglect the scene-stealing cat, Pyewacket. When I mention this film to people, the usual response is something about the cat.
Jack Lemmon is Novak's younger brother; he is a warlock who plays bongos, beatnik-style, at the Zodiac Club in Greenwich Village. A friend of mind said he'd heard that Lemmon's character was "gay-coded" but he didn't see it, which I found . . . surprising. This is a 1950s film, & the usual subtexts apply. There most definitely is a gay subtext (I've come to realize that the mere mention of "Greenwich Village" in this period constitutes queer subtext): there's a secret society, a bit dangerous, extremely suspect, feeling themselves a bit superior to as well as set apart from normal society, & these odd, marginal, dangerous people meet in clubs in Greenwich Village, where they listen to weird music. . . . There's also a hint of an "un-American activities" subtext; at one point Stewart asks Novak if she's a Communist (yes, I'm using the names of the actors instead of the characters, but it's easier to keep them straight & visualize them that way).
I was fascinated by the décor of the film, & the role of modern art: not just jazz, but painting. Stewart's fiancée, played by Janice Rule. must, as is the way of the person who is initially engaged to the lead only to get dumped for the headliner, straddle the line between being acceptable as a mate for the lead but abrasive enough so that we don't mind seeing her or him dumped. Rule fills the role well; she's attractive, polished, & cultured enough so that she's plausible as a girlfriend for a publisher like Stewart, but she's also a bit cold, & unpleasantly snobbish & dismissive towards anyone she perceives as different (like Lemmon &, in their college days, Novak). We're not sorry to see her go. But there is a scene in which Stewart tries (briefly & unsuccessfully) to reunite with her, & we see her painting a very Joan Miró-like picture. But the modernist isn't contrasted with a cozier, kitschier "normal" style. Is it just meant to indicate a certain type of person & class? And the walls in everyone's apartments are dark blue or a similar shade, with carefully arranged artworks. The look was mesmerizing. Initially, Novak's character sells African mask (presumably some link to magic traditions is intended). By the end, she has moved to selling fanciful "bouquets" made of seashells. But they also seem a bit strange & mysterious, though we're clearly meant to see that Novak's love has changed her: for one thing, instead of sharply cut black outfits, she's wearing all-white.
Maybe I should issue a spoiler alert, but I've already said this film is from the 1950s, & it has what is meant as a happy ending, so you can guess what happens: by falling in love, Novak has lost her powers, & become a normal woman. She is fine with the change, but given a choice between casting spells on my enemies & a life with Jimmy Stewart, I know which I would take. After the movie ended, as we stood & brushed popcorn off our laps, I turned to my friend & after asking how she liked the movie (she did, very much) I said I did too, except for the unhappy ending. She laughed & I said, "I'm not kidding." I'd be much happier married to someone with magical powers; who wouldn't be? Imagine facing yet another of life's boring, stupid, annoying inconveniences & problems & being able to turn to your extremely hot partner & say, "Honey, can't you cast a spell or something?"
San Francisco Silent Film Festival: 2025
As the Castro Theater is still closed for renovations, the San Francisco Silent Film Festival took place this year at the Orinda Theater. This is a much better choice than last year's location, the Palace of Fine Arts Theater, which is fine if a bit generic inside as a venue but too difficult to reach via public transportation & too isolated: the Festival tried to make up for that with some food trucks, but in general it was an uphill battle out there. I ended up not seeing many films (in fact, only one) because anything that was first or last on the schedule just didn't work out transit-time-wise for me. The Orinda Theater, by contrast, is easily accessible via BART (& has plenty of parking, if that's your thing) & surrounded by all kinds of restaurants (even more so than the Castro Theater, actually), as well as being large &, as an Art Deco exemplar, close to period appropriate. Even so, I only made it to a few programs this year, for a number of reasons (none having to do with the quality of the films),. This is what I saw:
The Wreck of the Hesperus
19 December 2025
15 December 2025
Museum Monday 2025/50
detail of Virgin Adoring the Christ Child by Matteo di Giovanni Civital, now at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston
12 December 2025
08 December 2025
Museum Monday 2025/49
detail of Proscenium by Sargent Claude Johnson, currently at BAM/PFA & on view as part of the exhibit Object Oriented: Abstraction and Design in the BAMPFA Collection
05 December 2025
01 December 2025
29 November 2025
Ars Minerva: Ercole Amante
Annually since 2015, Ars Minerva, founded & led by Céline Ricci, has given us a revival of an opera not seen for centuries. This is obviously the Lord's work, & Ars Minerva is a jewel of the Bay Area. With the exception of 2023's Olimpia Vendicata, which I missed because COVID finally got me that weekend, I have seen & loved all of their shows. By now they have a distinct production aesthetic: stylish projections & minimal props; elaborate, often very witty, costumes; an inventive, often humorous, approach to staging these unknown works which, typically for baroque operas, usually center on mythological heroes, historical figures who might as well be mythological, & a grab-bag of Greek gods. I occasionally hear someone complain that these revived operas aren't "masterpieces". But they are, to my mind, consistently interesting & entertaining & even refreshing, & isn't being overly devoted to the narrowly defined "masterpiece" one of the problems with the current operatic scene?
This year we were given their tenth opera, & the first composed by a woman: 1707's Ercole Amante by Antonia Bembo, an Italian woman eventually resident in France, whose approach combined the two national schools of music. There was a concert performance in Europe a few years ago, but this production was the first modern, & possibly the first ever, fully staged production (another is scheduled for next year at the Paris Opera). The staging by Ricci was clever & often humorous, & kept the complicated story clear & moving (in every sense). The plot, as the title indicates, revolves around Hercules falling in love – with Iole, a woman whose father he killed, & who is also beloved by his son Hyllo. In addition, Hercules is already married to Deianira. And various gods get involved: jealous Giunone (Juno), who has always hated Hercules, & Venere (Venus), who wants to thwart Juno. There is also a Page, who delivers messages & comic asides. With those characters the plot starts spinning like a top, & as usual with baroque opera, there is no point in typing out a summary, as it would sound like confusing convoluted nonsense, but in performance it all makes complete logical & emotional sense (I've experienced this over & over & always advise people that the first rule of attending baroque opera is not to read the plot summary.)
The gods & heroes are pretty much on a level, though the gods have more power, at least of a supernatural sort. The projections, designed as usual by Entropy, seemed particularly rich this time, combining the fine-lined precision of 18th century engravings with the modernist style of collage & contrast, aptly substituting for the visual richness & swift scene changes of baroque opera. And the costumes, designed by Marina Polakoff, seemed even more lavish & even wittier than usual, with extravagant headpieces, swirling draperies (or, in the case of the muscular bare-chested Hercules, only a partly gilded pteruges), little flashing lights embedded in tulle, deep & glowing colors. It all contributed to the sense of a rich, frivolous, & decadent upper class, swirling around their love-concerns above the rest of the indifferent world. The performance opens with a woman representing Bembo lying on a couch, starting to put her opera together. It's a clever way of emphasizing the individual creation of the work, which is a particular vision of these characters rather than some sort of standard history. They are puppets in her show.
I was reminded of one of my favorite movies, Renoir's The Rules of the Game, also about an insular, insulated privileged caste entertaining themselves with the frisson of love affairs while their world slides away; but perhaps the main theme that reminded me of the film is the interrogation of the role of the hero: like Renoir's aviator, Hercules is officially a hero, but he fits awkwardly into normal life. Heroes are perhaps easier to live with once they're safely dead.
Bembo's score, prepared for performance by Adam Cockerham & conducted from the harpsichord by Matthew Dirst, is consistently appealing & entertaining. I did feel that in a couple of scenes that required something a little more, she had not supplied it: the underworld scene involving Iole's father didn't seem differentiatingly eerie to me, & the death of Hercules was lacking in the tragic grandeur we find in Handel's version of the same scene: but perhaps the failure there is mine, conditioned to expect tragic grandeur by repeated exposure to Handel's work, when Bembo, consistent with her quizzical view of the Hero, is trying for a different effect: yes, he was larger than life, but didn't that make him a bit demanding, a bit difficult to have around? And doesn't life go on, perhaps even a bit more smoothly, after his death?
Zachary Gordin was a suitably beefy Ercole, Kindra Scharich the long-suffering & touching Deianira, Lila Khazoum & Maxwell Ary as Iole & Hyllo an appealing pair of young lovers, Aura Veruni a blazing Giunone, Melissa Sondhi a sly Venere; Nick Volkert portrayed an imposing series of gods with minor roles, as well as the ghost of Iole's father, & Sara Couden was funny & sly as the Page. Bembo's initial appearance was portrayed by Cynthia Keiko Black. I did feel that the score & story are rich enough to support a sometimes less humorous approach, particularly with Hyllo; if the Paris Opera production is made available, it would be interesting to see how they handle this opera. In the meantime, I am very happy with what we were given by Ars Minerva, & I am already eagerly awaiting their next rediscovery.
28 November 2025
San Francisco Opera: The Monkey King
I was in a packed Opera House for the third performance of San Francisco Opera's world-premiere run of The Monkey King, a kaleidoscopic new work by Huang Ruo (music) & David Henry Hwang (libretto), directed by Diane Paulus. This opera is wildly inventive, wildly colorful, wildly wild, & also substantial enough to be thought-provoking in a number of directions & well worth repeated viewings (I hope it will be revived soon, as I believe the run is pretty much sold out).
The storyline is based on the opening chapters of the very long & episodic Chinese classic novel, Journey to the West; the portion we are given is basically the Monkey King origin story. Sun Wukong, the monkey who makes himself the Monkey King & then a disciple of the Buddha, is, despite his spiritual trajectory, a rambunctious & brassy character, a variant of the Trickster God, but since he is also a King, he has some inherent responsibilities towards others that can lead him into more altruistic directions. The story of the opera is the story of his discovery of some level of selflessness & spiritual enlightenment, as he is guided through adventures & suffering by the compassionate bodhisattva Guanyin & the teachings of the Buddha.
It all makes for an emotionally & dramatically complete work, though (perhaps this is just my enjoyment speaking), as in any superhero-based tale, there is room for sequels. It was several scenes into the work, after seeing the Monkey King go underwater to gain his great weapon, & then ascend to the heavens to see the glittering, corrupt world of the powerful gods, when I started to think of The Monkey King as potentially part of a Chinese-American Ring cycle, an impression strengthened by later hopes expressed by his Buddhist teacher that the Monkey King will function as some sort of redeemer of a corrupt world. As with many of our insights, I realized this one was not unique to me: while reading the program-book on the train afterwards I found in one of the articles this very subject being discussed by the composer & librettist.
The clever & frequently ingenious production owes a lot to the brilliantly eye-catching costumes of Anita Yavich & the puppetry & design work of Basil Twist. Great stretches of iridescent silks turn into waves, or horses, or the clouds supporting heaven; the Monkey King himself is sometimes a puppet, sometimes a dancer (Huiwang Zhang), & mainly & notably a tenor, Kang Wang, who does an appropriately heroic turn in what must be a strenuous role (even with leaping & flying done by dancer or puppet), sounding as fresh & spunky at the end as at the beginning. His lines frequently end with a blazoning note, which I thought was an excellent indication of his character (though I should note a friend of mine, a singer, sympathetically found this aspect of the vocal writing exhausting). There is precedent in the novel for the Monkey King dividing himself, but the staging is seamless, with a leap giving way to a puppet, flying with the aid of black-clad puppeteers, in the style of Japanese theater. There are scenes in which singer & dancer are both in action, in particular a fight scene with representative of the gods Lord Erland (also portrayed by a singer & dancer: Joo Won Kong & Marcos Vedovetto, respectively), but it's always clear what is going on. I have to give credit to the nerves of our Guanyin, the soprano Mei Gui Zhang, most of whose role is sung while she is suspended on (or, even more nerve-wrackingly, moving on) a golden platform a bit like a lozenge or flame-shaped halo, high, very high, above the stage. The entire cast is very strong (I particularly liked the deep bass of Peixin Chen as Supreme Sage Laojun) & the chorus does astonishingly versatile work.
The visuals (the costumes, &, in particular, the make-up of the Monkey King) & the action (the acrobatics, the choreographed fights) are very influenced by Asian theater, particularly Peking Opera; the music also crosses traditional east-west borders. Though the orchestra (led with assurance by Carolyn Kuan) is largely a traditional European opera orchestra, the percussion battery includes large & medium Indonesian button gongs, a Chinese opera gong, & small Chinese crash symbols, & there is a prominent role for pipa (played by Shenshen Zhang), including a rock-god-guitar-type battle between the Monkey King & one of his heavenly opponents. But the music, though permeated by traditional Chinese sounds, is not aggressively "other" or even "exotic" to non-Chinese ears, which is why I earlier referred to it as a Chinese-American work.
This hybridization of times & cultures applies to the libretto as well, which is often agreeably slangy, a helpful reminder to those dazzled by the fairy-tale qualities of the work that there is a contemporary point underneath the dazzle. "Awesome, JE!" announces the warrior nephew of the Jade Emperor, sent by him with Heaven's latest scheme for controlling the Sun Wukong. The gods sing in chorus of how no one knows how to party the way they do. There isn't much individuality there, or dissent. A corrupt & decadent ruling caste, not only on heaven but, clearly though implicitly, here on the political earth as well. The Monkey King gathers his beleaguered monkey-subjects (or brethren) around him & announces that they will no longer be shoved aside by the powerful; joining together has made them stronger. Suffering increases the strength of the Monkey King. It's a point that applies not only to the racist approaches to Chinese & Chinese-Americans through US history, but to other disenfranchised groups.
But the political suggestions of this opera are secondary to its religious & philosophical explorations. How are we to live? is the main theme, the central & too frequently silenced question of our lives. The work opens & closes with choruses singing Buddhist sutras – the chorus, a collective, expressing poetic, spiritual thoughts in a way that suggests universalism. But during the course of the action, sutra sections are usually expressed in the powerful soprano of Guanyin, that is, not only an individual, but one removed both spiritually (by her status as an immortal bodhisattva) & physically (by her elevation above the stage) from what is happening below. She functions as a sort of musical conscience to the Monkey King. Does he truly understand, & accept, & live by, what she is expressing? Or is he just looking to her as a sort of deus ex machina to get him out of various scrapes? We have gone from the choral universalism of the opening to the individual struggle, in the toils of a baffling & illusory world, to understand, accept, & act on profound sentiments in a profound & meaningful way. As they keep saying in the Journey to the West, Splendid Monkey King! Handsome Monkey King! But after the gorgeous stage-pictures have faded, the unsettling underlying message remains: How are we to live in the world we are given?











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