visiting heavenly South Pacific

It's a bit late in the day to be reviewing the Lincoln Center revival of "South Pacific". But as I only just saw this almost two year old production last night, I wanted to toss in my belated two cents.

I've long loved this show, but it's been mostly a theoretical love. I love the score and the story and the characters, but none of the productions I've seen has measured up to the greatness inherent in the material. I wasn't around back then when Mary Martin and Ezio Pinza were dazzling audiences and subsequent versions have been pleasant but not the exhilarating experience this show was. And I wasn't even seeing the first string stars, as Kelli O'Hara has left the show and Paolo Szot was not in it last night. No matter. Laura Osnes and William Michals were just dandy. Vocally, dramatically, in every way, they filled the bill. Supporting actors Danny Burstein as Billis and Loretta Ables Sayre as Bloody Mary were as splendid as they've been acclaimed to be. Smaller roles were also filled most capably.

Much of the credit goes to the director Bartlett Sher, who trusted the material and guided his cast wisely. Nothing gimmicky; no original concepts. Some new emphases on lines that gave the characters a slightly different spin. Nellie's reaction to learning that Emile had a relationship with a woman of color showed more of the racism beneath the surface than is usually portrayed. Her instantaneous turning on Emile was more than usually unsettling.

The crowning glory of this operation is the orchestra. A full thirty-piece orchestra sounding as wonderful as can be. And it was live, in person, not piped in from a room on the fifth floor and filtered through blaring loudspeakers. As the overture began, a portion of the orchestra was visible in the pit below the stage. Then, suddenly the front part of the stage that was over the orchestra pit started pulling back, to reveal the entire contingent. The audience, stunned to see this wonderful assemblage, started applauding right in the middle of the overture. It was a treat to see these usual unseen artists (as well as hear them unimpeded) and as the overture drew to its close, I could see the percussionist poised with his cymbals, ready for that climactic clashing, and I had the thrill of anticipating it seconds before I saw and heard it. No wonder classical music fans love to WATCH concerts as well as hear them.

As the music for the first scene started, the stage moved forward, once more sheltering the orchestra, but we knew they were still there and their handiwork throughout the evening made the experience all the more thrilling. This is one of the great advantages of live theater --- live musicians, playing real instruments. I've been attending theater for nearly forty years, a lot of it small scale productions with piano or small combos and I've enjoyed them. But nothing tops the experience of a show with a full orchestra and I still haven't gotten blase about it. Every time it's like I'm fourteen again, seeing my first Broadway show.

Setting the time machine for 1969

Recently I reconnected on Facebook with some friends from junior high school days. It's a little strange; in my mind they're frozen in 1969 as gangly adolescents. In reality, of course, they're forty years older (as I am) and have led lives I know nothing about.

So I find myself mentally traveling back to 1967-69, my years at Lefferts Junior High. In the world at large, these were tumultuous years. The war in Vietnam dragged on and the protest movement grew. Civil rights was another touchy topic. Assassinations stunned the nation: first Martin Luther King Jr. and while we were still reeling from that, Bobby Kennedy too was shot dead. We were of an age to recall his brother's murder as the first big shocker of our lives. The world was a scary and unstable place.

Our neighborhood was in transition; white flight had been going on for a while and each year some of our classmates would move away to the "safety" of Queens or Long Island. At the time it wasn't too noticeable or threatening. But within a few years the white kids had become the minority and felt increasingly targeted by bullies.

My class was the "two year SP" a special program for particularly bright kids to do three years of junior high work in two years. There was also a three year SP, where they took the standard amount of time, but supposedly had some "enrichment" programs.

The years of junior high are probably the most traumatic in even the best of circumstances. It's the period of transition from childhood to young adult and each of us made that trip at a different pace. Looking at the class photo there are some who were already physically mature young women while others still looked like grade schoolers. It's hard to believe we're all the same age; one would guess the ages as ranging from ten to twenty. We probably all felt self-conscious about whatever stage we were at.

Reading the various messages has been fascinating. Everyone seems to have a different view on those times. Recollections of harassments and shakedowns, on the one hand; ugly gymsuits and teachers' eccentricities on the other. Sometimes just a general rose-colored glasses tinged nostalgia; sometimes a grim pride about just having survived those years. Landmark incidents are recalled in very different terms. Like the "sewing machine" affair. Did one of our classmates actually heft a sewing machine out a window? Memories differ; maybe it was just some parts were tossed out. All in all, what was memorable to one person was totally forgotten by another.

One thing that hasn't come up so far in our discussion is the boys (at that age they're still called boys). They were overwhelmingly outnumbered in our class. The first year there were six boys to over twenty girls and in the second year two of those boys had gone. To make up for that disadvantage, they compensated by being incredibly obnoxious. One in particular did his best to try the patience of our ever-cheery ninth grade English teacher. Academically he was brilliant; personality-wise he was bucking for ostracism at best and jail time at worst. I would not be surprised to hear he was either a leading scientist at MIT or a prisoner in Sing Sing.

Uterine Nostalgia

Since my last adventure at the eye doctor's I've had a few sessions at the dentist. Not nearly as much fun. Had a root canal on a back molar, which was to be followed by the administration of a crown. Turns out my roots were found wanting, and before my coronation I had to go through a process called a crown lengthening. If you'd like to check out the icky details (complete with photos) here's a link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crown_lengthening

So visits with cutting, poking, taking impressions. All leading up to the ultimate coronation, now set for next week.

Meanwhile, my trip into menopause took a slight detour. After over a year's hiatus, my uterus suddenly ceased being dormant. A trip to the doctor removed fears of any serious problems. I think it was just a case of my uterus getting sentimental. Last month was the 40th anniversary of the onset of my puberty and I think my uterus was just wanted to mark that event with one last splurge for old time's sake. Maybe I should have worn some bell bottoms to commemorate the anniversary. Or a mini-skirt.