Month: September 2006

games  The Lego Star Wars series is a bright, shiny path to not one, but two galaxies far, far away: the one George Lucas created for us back in the 1980s, and our old childhood galaxy, where we created entire universes out of colorful plastic blocks.
    The sequel to last year’s surprise hit changes little from the original game, except the thing that matters most—the chance to play through the parts of the Star Wars saga everybody actually likes. Instead of a l’il Lego Jar Jar Binks leaping about the screen (admit it—he’s annoying even when he can’t speak), Lego Chewbacca rips the plastic arms off of Lego Stormtroopers, and Lego Lando Calrissian makes like Bruce Lee. Now that’s the Star Wars I know.
    With all the smiley plastic and toy-riffic sensibility, Traveller’s Tales could have opted for the easy route and made this a strictly lightweight kids’ game. Thankfully, they gilded the mix with more slapstick humor than a crowd of drunken Ewoks. Whether it’s busting helmeted stormtroopers kickin’ it in a hot tub, or the way Lego Princess Leia has to force Lego R2-D2 to gag down the Death Star plans, it’s clear the designers had more than the milk-and-cookies set in mind when they threw this thing together. Even the puzzles go way beyond child’s play, requiring creative character swapping or Jedi Force powers to create on-the-fly solutions out of Lego-block scraps.
    In addition to all that depth, Lego Star Wars II still clutches the diploma from the Mario School of Collectibles. Nearly everything in the environment hides a cache of Lego studs, so if you’re looking to score the ridiculously vast catalog of bonus vehicles and unlockable characters, you’ll need to blast walls, droids and even the Lego gadgets your characters build along the way. Many secrets can’t even be accessed in the game’s story mode—all the more reason to go back and tackle the Death Star again in free play mode. Maybe as Lego Greedo or Lego Boba Fett this time.
    Unless George Lucas breaks his promise to spare us further desecration of his sci-fi legacy, the Star Wars well is now effectively tapped, but Lego (the company, not the snappy plastic block) still holds the rights to some awfully delicious licenses: Harry Potter, Batman and Spiderman. The Caped Crusader is reportedly next in line to get the Lego videogame treatment. If it has half the thrill of Lego Luke’s epic odyssey, I, for one, can’t wait.

stage  If Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart suddenly floated down out of the sky and waltzed into the nearest record store, he would see ample evidence that the relative indifference paid to his music during his life has morphed into something resembling religious worship. Just as Friedrich Nietzsche said, “Life without music would be a mistake,” classical music without Mozart’s splendidly conceived and melodically sublime compositions would be unimaginable.
    How strange it is, then, that most of our sense of Mozart the man comes from playwright Peter Shaffer’s overblown characterization of him as a potty-mouthed, cackling arrested adolescent. Fans of Amadeus, however, know that the buffoonery simply lends comic touches to this moving play about the discrepancies between inner desire and external reality.
    Live Arts’ production, directed by Mendy St. Ours, is a worthy rendering of Shaffer’s vision. St. Ours isn’t out to impose herself on the material—she presents it with a clean respect that calls to mind an 18th-century composer going through the motions of classical form. While this approach may be disappointing to some, most will be impressed by Live Arts’ ability to pull off an effortless reading of such a dramatically demanding play. In many respects, Shaffer’s work doesn’t need much ornamentation. Those who are only familiar with Milos Forman’s visually stunning film version will welcome all of the wonderful lines that would have cluttered the screenlplay (my favorite: a musically mediocre character saying, “My teacher always told me to avoid music that smells like music”), and notice how the play’s original ending is not only more complex, but also more gritty.
    Jon Cobb plays the title role. At first, it’s distracting how physically wrong he seems for the part—Cobb is tall and sleek, whereas Mozart was very short, with a head too big to match his frame. But all that washes away when it becomes clear how much energy Cobb is willing to expend, and how concentrated and controlled that energy is. The way he bristles with unbounded genius at the beginning is just as believable as the way he seethes with life-induced madness at the end. Adding to the audience’s pleasure is the way Sara Eshleman, as Mozart’s wife, Constanze, matches Cobb’s electric pace step for step.
    Danny Murphy is just fine in the extremely challenging role of Antonio Salieri. The show’s almost three-hour running time would pass more fleetingly, however, if St. Ours and Murphy had worked harder to make each stage in the evolution of Salieri’s anguished jealousy more distinctive. To reverse Austrian Emperor Joseph’s nitwit summation of Mozart’s musical style, “Too many notes” (ah, how much wiser we are today!), Murphy’s performance may have too few.

music  A show for young and old alike! It‘s the last show of the summer tour and three generations of Dave Matthews Band fans have arrived at what is now officially Charlottesville’s arena from as far away as Canada and as near as Albemarle High School. With me for the evening is 15-year-old Simon, whose parents just bought tickets outside. Simon says a lot of people his age are at the concert. How many are here with their parents? Pause. “Pretty much all of them,” 14-year-old Madeline, Simon’s friend, says. Simon is so excited he can barely speak, until the lights go out and he yells, “Yeah!” People wave cell phones like lighters. Dave walks out first, alone. The crowd roars and he throws his arms up in triumph. He is glad to be home.
    “This guitar isn’t small, I’m just enormous!” Dave says four songs into the show, introducing a new tune called “Shotgun.” This tour has been obsessively tracked in real time online. I can see, already, the cell phones and PDAs are out, people texting second-by-second reviews. The Internet geeks seem to like “Shotgun,” and I agree, and Simon agrees, and the guy behind me slaps my back in joy. The song is beautiful and dramatic—like you’re floating way out at sea and missing somebody really bad.
    The band is LOUD; they’re dropping bombs, waging sonic war. Dave’s neck swells like a cobra’s when he screams. Boyd dances like a maniac. The way he’s playing I think he might rip someone’s head off out of sheer glee. The band is loose and goofy, clearly having a great time. They play “Tripping Billies” and Dave does his little dance, Stefan smiles, and it all sounds just like the old days, only bigger.
    Simon is transfixed, staring wide-eyed and slowly shaking his head. They’re dancing up in the VIP suites. The band is playing well, keeping the energy high. In many ways they haven’t changed at all since they began 15 years ago. Nobody dresses even remotely like a rock star, and the songs still sound alike: noodle, build to crescendo, scream, lock into (overly long?) groove, scream, end. But the 14-year-olds, their parents, the college kids—as far as I can tell, they are ecstatic.
    “Louisiana Bayou” ends it with Dave wearing Boyd’s sunglasses and a UVA pimp hat. Robert Randolph (he and his group, the Family Band, opened) plays pedal steel, leaping up and kicking his chair away, Jerry Lee Lewis style. He’s on his feet, playing. He’s on his knees, playing. Simon stares and whispers, “Oh my God…”
    Dave comes out alone for the encore. He sings “Butterfly,” dedicating it to his mom, who is here tonight. His voice is shot—hot wind over gravel. He seems exhausted. Mom must be proud.
    The band return for “American Baby Intro.” Dave screams with everything he has left, the last shreds of his vocal cords. Mom must be wincing. A man appears next to Carter’s drum kit, starts to walk towards Dave. Two giants suddenly grab him. Mom must be terrified. The crowd gasps. The man is yanked off the stage. The band leaps into (ironically) “Stay.” The crowd cheers, forgets the trespasser. Simon’s head explodes. Lights down, lights up. Welcome home, DMB! Thank you and goodnight! —J. Tobias Beard