Sunday In the Park with George
Heritage Repertory Theatre
Through July 29
stage In 1981, after his musical Merrily We Roll Along was abused by critics and shunned by the public, Stephen Sondheim announced that he was going to pour all of his creative energy into writing mystery novels. This was tantamount to Michael Jordan, a decade later, hanging up his sneakers and setting out to become the next Willie Mays.
Fortunately for the world of musical theater, inspiration intervened. Sondheim and his collaborator, James Lapine, while discussing the 7′ x 10′ masterpiece “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte” by 19th-century French painter Georges Seurat (which was constructed with contrasting dots of color that unify in the viewer’s eye), conceived of a musical that eschews a conventional storyline. Instead, it dramatizes an artist’s working method: so concentrated that the models for the figures in the painting are equal parts actual and illusory. How to describe the ambience Sondheim and Lapine summon up? “Art imitates life” (or even Oscar Wilde’s jocular reversal, “life imitates art”) doesn’t quite cut it. It’s more like “life coasts through art’s skin and sashays around in its body.”
Esoteric this musical can surely feel—if you’re not prepared for a unique experience. (It’s worth noting that it received mixed reviews when it first opened on Broadway, and then went on to win the Pulitzer Prize.) Philistines would say that the plot revolves around a trivial question: Is Seurat a narcissistic artist more than he is a cognizant human being? But for willing audiences, the show takes musical theater in a euphoric new direction. And then there’s Sondheim’s brilliant compositional style: the jazziness of George Gershwin infused with postmodern, Philip Glass-like riffs, and often enveloped in a more refined version of a Marvin Hamlisch-style warmth.
Luckily, Heritage Repertory is up for the challenges of Sunday. Director Robert Chapel moves everything along at an interesting pace—slow, almost as if the stage floor is covered in a coat of wet paint, but appropriate for an obvious reason. The scenic design by Sara Brown is, in effect, the production’s dominant character. To give away its surprises would be like presenting a gift in a clear glass box. The two leads, Rob Marnell as Seurat, and Janine DiVita as Dot, his mistress, are solid. DiVita has the kind of professional charisma that Charlottesville theatergoers don’t often get a chance to see. In past Heritage Rep productions, Marnell, though an excellent singer, has stumbled through the sappy dialogue of classic musicals. That’s not a problem in this case—thanks to Sondheim’s decision not to try to become the next Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. —Doug Nordfors
Jean Sampson
McGuffey Art Center
Though August 13
art Not many things can rival the intensity of this summer’s latest heat wave—
except, maybe, Jean Sampson’s vibrant oil paintings now on exhibit at McGuffey
Art Center.
Sitting before Sampson’s canvases, you realize that her work is all about “energy.” The type of energy that, as the painter herself describes it, could be overwhelming if left unchanneled or untamed. Yes, these paintings are basically controlled color explosions, with wild fields of color that allow viewers to clear their own energy fields, without any of the repercussions of an actual fire.
In Sampson’s show, as it is with most abstract art, each painting becomes a bit of a Rorschach test—viewers are drawn to what they need to see, finding what lies dormant in their own psyches, waiting to be revealed. That said, Sampson guides the viewer—both by title and the inclusion of almost-recognizable shapes—as to what his or her mind will conjure up. In “Firebird,” the small splashes of gold and orange in the middle of the painting’s horizontal composition are suggestive of smoldering debris in an otherwise serene landscape. Above the fire are brushstrokes of color that evoke the image of some winged creature attempting to lift off out of the embers. Where the sky should be, compositionally, a field of blue-green sits like a body of water, cooling the fire below. It’s a bit surreal—a pleasant surprise that keeps the painting true to its abstract nature.
In “Sage #II,” a piece made equally dynamic through the pairing of complementary colors, the large mass in the middle of the canvas seems to begin as the body of a woman in motion, created from faceted planes of jewel-like color. At the top of the piece, where the “woman’s” head and neck merge with the surrounding shards of color, the figure becomes one-dimensional. Overall, the image is suggestive of a mythical winged creature, some rare bird.
Perhaps I’m in need of a retreat, myself—some relief from the occasional oppressiveness of being earthbound. At least that’s what my psyche tells me as I view these illuminating oils. Visit Sampson’s show yourself, and see what is buried deep within you. —Karrie Bos
Talk Talk
By T.C. Boyle
Viking, 340 pages
words Whether in a dinner-upsetting exposé on the evening news or those popular Citibank commercials (you know, the ones where the harmless grandmother snickers with an ex-con’s gravelly voice), the threat of identity theft has earned a place in the mind (and bank account) of almost every American. But, just in case you weren’t already worried enough, we now have T.C. Boyle’s latest novel to show us just how very real (and easy) a crime it can be.
Moving with the crisp speed of a rote paperback mystery, and suffused with the kind of excitement normally reserved for blockbuster films, Talk Talk is a beach read with something practical to tell us. With Dana Halter, the deaf English teacher who finds herself the unknown victim of exorbitant credit card charges, Boyle has created the perfect victim-who-takes-vengeance-into-her-own-hands archetype. After a Kafkaesque weekend spent clueless in jail and tangled in bureaucratic red tape, Dana and her boyfriend, Bridger Martin, proceed to track down her impostor in a cross-country hunt, following a myriad of clues that include post office boxes, crumpled breakfast receipts, and a slew of unpaid bills.
Her foil and (sorry, Dana) the most charismatic character in Talk Talk is Peck Williams, the data thief who has appropriated her conveniently gender-neutral name. The narrative switches back and forth between the two, and there’s no denying the strength of Peck’s passages.Instead of a loutish blue-collar criminal, Boyle gives us a sharp, calculating mastermind with a trophy girlfriend, a knack for cooking culinary delights, and a wardrobe of stolen identities.
Inside both Dana and Peck—the victim and the victimizer—burbles an anger that most American readers will find all-too-familiar: rage toward the creaky cogs of justice and the minor inconveniences that pepper everyday life. As Boyle writes, “Life frustrates. Eternally frustrates. How could it be any different?”
If only the intense emotional buildup didn’t flounder in the final moments; instead of an epic showdown worthy of the catch-me-if-you-can plot, we get the painful results of justice foiled—and possibly never being meted out at all. Despite this, Boyle’s suspenseful story, and his always-engaging style, produce an engrossing, somewhat frightening novel that will surely cause wary readers to wish they hadn’t used a charge card to buy it. —Zak M. Salih