Roll over, H. Melville, tell Tom Pynchon the news!

[ckaratnytsky]

     "America, why are your libraries full of tears?"     

     Romeo, Romeo:
     
     >I wonder if Chris the K will give us a review of LA's rendition of 
     >Moby Dick, playing at BAM?
     
     Remember what Bugs Bunny sez just before the safe drops:  "You'll be 
     SORRYYYYYYYYYY."
     
     I have seldom endured such a self-indulgent, intellectually 
     fragmented, boring, tuneless, witless, soulless, pretentious evening.  
     On the plus side, herself wasn't on-stage every minute thrilling us 
     with the sound of her voice, the projections were grand, there was no 
     intermission, I sold my extra ticket to Eurotrash, and I was with 
     Ruth.
     
     Call me unorthodox, but I'll admit it didn't bother me too much that 
     Captain Ahab wore Abe Lincoln's hat, had two legs and could break 
     dance on, uhm, crutches.  More ill-conceived fish than this can be 
     fried in 90 minutes.  Frankly, I'm thinking of signing up for 
     Melville-l just to watch the collective apoplectic fit.  Such a 
     venting of spleen would be entirely justified, not to mention 
     immensely satisfying, even though by her own admission Anderson 
     utilized less than ten per cent of the Dick available to her.  (Makes 
     you wonder about her and Mr. Wild Side, don't it?)
     
     Instead, she told a moronic story about a moronic song she 
     breathlessly revealed was a pointless timewaster in the 1930 Barrymore 
     film version.  Oh, ho ho, isn't that amusing, she chuckled, the 
     filmmakers just stuck it in there AND IT WASN'T IN MELVILLE'S NOVEL!  
     They made it up!  How Hollywood, we all agreed, scandalously bemused.  
     (We're from New York, we know about these sorts of transgressions 
     against Ahhhrt.)  Then, she made her talented performers sing it.
     
     Even worse, she had the half-baked temerity at one point to use a 
     snippet of Alan Ginsberg's glorious reading of "America" to illustrate 
     for the cognoscenti her idea of poetic lineage.  Ruth and I, having 
     listened to this, by coincidence, in the car on the drive to Maine 
     this summer, felt oh-so-relieved we got the reference.  (America, why 
     are your libraries full of tears, he howls subversively in his 
     familiar, plaintive, nasal moan.  Here's one answer, Alan:  putative 
     adaptations of fiction for the musical stage.  Why, indeed.)  And 
     tried to score points for coolness in the program notes with a 
     context-less retelling of her hoary old Pynchon story.  (That he'd 
     give her permission to do a musical version of GR, but only if she'd 
     score it for solo banjo.  Har har, me matey.)  Blech!!  Yuck!!  Ugh!!
     
     Given the (again) putative subject matter and never having seen her 
     perform before, I was kind of looking forward to the show, though I 
     had a bit of trepidation about it.  I left feeling I'd pointlessly 
     wasted my time.  It's the kind of shit that gives performance art a 
     bad name.
     
     Did I mention I didn't like it?
     
     ck