Sunday, December 26, 2004
So, it's been what? Six months?
And I'm living in the Bay Area, oddly enough, given my first posts on this blog. Moved for my sweetie, who I was also starting to see when I started this. Not bad, though I'm figuring out what the hell I'm doing here in terms of my work, and that's a little harder.
But screw the personal stuff. I found Pugilist Specialist, a play by Berkely-based ensemble The Riot Group, terribly disappointing. In the play, "four marines are assigned the task of eliminating a Middle-Eastern leader. Throughout the preparation, training, and execution of the plan their conversations are recorded." My friend Jen had seen them in London and wanted me to see them--I had been so excited--but no.
According to The Guardian, the play "brilliantly dissects the US military mentality." Gimme a break. Rather than provide any insight into military mentality, or military mentality as a reflection of American reality, Pugilist Specialist--which undeniably had some flashy and clever writing and a couple of understated, confident performances (especially from Stephanie Viola, though I could never tell whether the constant eye-blinking was a purposeful tic or not--it did make me compulsively blink along with her)--was nothing more than an exercise of a 25-year old writing what he thought the military thinks like and speaks like.
It didn't, in any way, ring true.
The language had no reality in it--and I'm not talking naturalism, I'm talking truth. He didn't even exaggerate or (forgive me, I hate this world) stylize it so that the speakers' language was more military than the military. I couldn't imagine anyone who had ever actually been in the military not hooting with derisive laughter at this version or interpretation of their reality.
The script progressed in a surprisingly traditional temporal narrative fashion. If what we were watching was supposed to be the playback of the recording, they missed multiple opportunities for rewind and fast forward--if we're supposed to be watching the live recording of the story, the parts of the story the omniscient narrator allows us to see doesn't elucidate anything: no strong thematic collage, no real build-up of tension of good old fashioned 12 Angry Men.
The play's staging, static, self-indulgent, at least remained consistent.
But never mind--all the problems, separately, point to what made the play, coming together, such an irritating bore: PS was for white liberals, by white liberals, with no (as far as I can tell) research into real people's lives--which makes the production utterly non-radical, not activating, not progressive. Makes it easy.
Oh well. Welcome back to the Bay Area.
But screw the personal stuff. I found Pugilist Specialist, a play by Berkely-based ensemble The Riot Group, terribly disappointing. In the play, "four marines are assigned the task of eliminating a Middle-Eastern leader. Throughout the preparation, training, and execution of the plan their conversations are recorded." My friend Jen had seen them in London and wanted me to see them--I had been so excited--but no.
According to The Guardian, the play "brilliantly dissects the US military mentality." Gimme a break. Rather than provide any insight into military mentality, or military mentality as a reflection of American reality, Pugilist Specialist--which undeniably had some flashy and clever writing and a couple of understated, confident performances (especially from Stephanie Viola, though I could never tell whether the constant eye-blinking was a purposeful tic or not--it did make me compulsively blink along with her)--was nothing more than an exercise of a 25-year old writing what he thought the military thinks like and speaks like.
It didn't, in any way, ring true.
The language had no reality in it--and I'm not talking naturalism, I'm talking truth. He didn't even exaggerate or (forgive me, I hate this world) stylize it so that the speakers' language was more military than the military. I couldn't imagine anyone who had ever actually been in the military not hooting with derisive laughter at this version or interpretation of their reality.
The script progressed in a surprisingly traditional temporal narrative fashion. If what we were watching was supposed to be the playback of the recording, they missed multiple opportunities for rewind and fast forward--if we're supposed to be watching the live recording of the story, the parts of the story the omniscient narrator allows us to see doesn't elucidate anything: no strong thematic collage, no real build-up of tension of good old fashioned 12 Angry Men.
The play's staging, static, self-indulgent, at least remained consistent.
But never mind--all the problems, separately, point to what made the play, coming together, such an irritating bore: PS was for white liberals, by white liberals, with no (as far as I can tell) research into real people's lives--which makes the production utterly non-radical, not activating, not progressive. Makes it easy.
Oh well. Welcome back to the Bay Area.
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