the imaginary invalid

On Friday, Stephen and I went to the opening of The Imaginary Invalid at Portland Center Stage. Molière! Never saw Molière before. [or an adaptation of.] I'd heard somewhere that it's supposed to be promoted as a night of a hundred and one fart jokes, and if you know me, you know I'm squeamish about the things that happen in that corner of the body. I even tailor my curse words to stay away from ones involving that corner of the body. But there's something about combining that kind of humor with a bit of age and a bit of French that... elevates it*. So, I was ready for the fart jokes. In fact, at intermission, I turned to Stephen and said, I want more fart jokes.

Because, really, they're contained in... I don't know, probably just the first twenty minutes or so of the play? OK, no, I really didn't need any more; I was just proud of myself for saying the word out loud. The evening was plenty entertaining without more. Lots of laughs all the way through.

As broad as the humor is, this is the kind of play that relies heavily on its players. I think the stage was set (forgive the theatrical expression but somehow I can't come up with another right now) for the audience to have a good time by the opening sequence of Argan sitting in his chair, looking through his medical bills and lamenting his bad health. Feeling for his pulse and wondering if he's dead. David Margulies' Argan is sweetly naive as well as funny so you fall in love with him. In fact, I think the sequences where Argan worries over and "works" his maladies were some of my favorite parts of the show because they were so charming.

Margulies' Argan is someone you want to mother, even if he's infuriating. And because of this, the interaction between Argan and his maid and sometimes-willing confidant Toinette has a sweetness behind the banter. Toinette is played by Sharonlee McLean. Funny and particular as always. I like her in everything I see her in, which is a lot.

[Since I'm posting pictures, look at the costumes. Really neat. Of course, I had an expert in historical fashions with me, and Stephen was impressed. We had a really interesting conversation about the set and costume design, which Stephen said looked to be inspired by the Dutch masters. The set looked like one of those lovely Dutch interiors that have inspired Stephen more recently in his own painting--the lines of the room and the sunlight pouring through the window--and he said the wardrobe went right along with that style. Consistent and well done.]


And Christine Calfas! Another standout. She can't help but fill the stage with her energy and her presence. Her part (Beline) is written to be so one-sided and unsympathetic that, if they put a lesser actress - even a pretty good actress - in that part, it could come off irritating. But Christine Calfas is hilarious and sexy. Her rant toward the end of the performance is so sumptuous, you wish you could take all the hates you're afraid to voice (especially the guilty ones) and have yourself a rant as good as hers.

For the couple of other performances I'd like to make note of, I'm going to let Stephen do the talking [in quotes], since I thought what he said was very apt.

John Wernke's Cleante [flinging his long, blond hair around... in love with his beauty, in love with his theatre, in love with Argan's daughter]: "Sweet knucklehead."

Danny Wolohan's Claude: "A cross between the Chicken Lady and George W. Bush."

There are three tiny moments, three tiny perfect outbursts that each last a second or two. One belongs to Wolohan, one to Wernke, one to Calfas. I won't spoil them by trying to describe them, but I'll just say: these alone are worth the price of a ticket.

*["fàrt" - see? classy!]

post-it part two

I'm squeezing in a bit of blogging around some other pressing work - in fact, I'm right in the middle of writing up a review of the production of The Imaginary Invalid, which we saw at Portland Center Stage last Friday.

But because I meant to post this other thing weeks ago... and because my last night was filled with dreams of losing José and finding José and frantically trying to find water for José, wandering around under rickety, wooden structures and through endless underground mazes trying to find a way out so that I could find water for José... here is a picture of the tiny post-it that sits by the place where I do my writing. And which I wrote about in a tiny moment way back before Christmas.


There he is. New tape and all.

off

This morning, getting prepared to drive the two newest paintings up to Seattle for the Exquisite Allegory show at Winston-Wächter Fine Art Gallery,



Stephen said, "Did you say goodbye to the paintings in the living room?"

It's a strange day when the paintings leave. First they're in the studio, coming to life, from tiny sketch to drawing to painting-in-progress. Then they're sitting out in the living room, propped up against the couch like guests. Like more than guests since they were born in this place. While they live with me, I'm like the proud step-mother. Or the aunt who doesn't have children of her own but loves them and wants to give them presents and put their hair up in pigtails.

You forget that suddenly they're going to be all grown up and then they're going to be gone.

The show opens next Wednesday, January 12th.

top hat

I played a game with myself that whatever part we got to in the movie by midnight would be the omen for 2011. We started the evening with Humoresque. Joan Crawford and her desperate passion for music. The second movie was supposed to be Out of the Past, but it was too late to start a film noir masterpiece by then, so we opted for Top Hat. We could have landed on anything. The Piccolino. Or Eric Blore dressed as a priest. Or Edward Everett Horton doing a double-take. There was a lot of opportunity to land on that.

At two minutes to midnight, we stopped the movie and Stephen grabbed his cell phone, and we huddled there in front of the TV looking at the tiny phone clock tick over to 11:59 and then 12:00, for a clink of Veuve Clicquot and a kiss.

I pointed to the background image Stephen has on his cell phone, then pointed at the TV, then pointed to the cell phone, then pointed at the TV.

Stephen and me: cheek to cheek. Astaire and Rogers: cheek to cheek.

...

Worst Beatles lyric ever:

When I'm getting home tonight, I'm gonna hold her tight,
I'm gonna love her till the cows come home.

*shake it up baby now doesn't count because it was written by Bert Berns and Phil Medley, who was the brother of our pool guy. Or something.

...

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Alaska flight 521 with service to Portland.

The sunshine here in Orange County should give you plenty of chances for nice views as we take off.

Current temperature is sixty degrees.

Unfortunately, in Portland the weather is Portland.

post-it

Sitting the other night at my desk [which is to say the tiny living room table where I have my laptop and piles of papers], and Stephen steps past on his way to the kitchen. Just as he does: thkk - a funny, little sound. The quick crisp of a piece of paper hitting the floor. Both Stephen and I look around for what it could be. He finds it first, lying there under the table by the wall, like a spot of light on the floor. A yellow post-it note. It has a cartoon of a dog's face, pointy ears stuck out, big, round eyes and the tongue hanging out the side of the mouth. It says, "Don't forget my pills."

When did I make that little note? We were going out of town, and Frank was coming to walk José, feed him, give him his pills. It's not that I thought Frank would forget anything, but I guess I figured a cartoon the size of a postage stamp would make things certain.

The cartoon was kind of haphazard. Not my best work.

Now, José's gone and Frank's living back in California. The tiny note stayed taped to the door jamb to the kitchen for - what? three years? Sometimes I'd look at it hanging there to my right as I worked on my writing, and wonder how long we'd let things go before we finally removed it. It looked pretty ridiculous, all curled at the edges, stuck there for no reason anymore, but I didn't want to take down that bit of happy history. Figures I'd let time do it for me.

Stephen ducks and reaches first for the post-it note. He leaves the room with it.

Comes back. With a fresh piece of tape.