IknowIknowIknow I’m a week behind on my scintillating coverage (dubbed “incoherant” and “what is all that about, exactly” by the visiting public) of everyone’s favorite Sunday night shows. I’ve been on Love Leave (TM Bert Cooper), ok?!?!
Anyway I’ll do my best to get a twofer recap of Mad Men up later today and a twofer Game of Thrones up on Tuesday evening.
WILL THAT SATISFY YOU??!?!
….hope y’alls had a good weekend! The Aged P and I had an epic ramble, around the Islamic and Byzantine exhibit at the Met, down through Central Park where I gave bad directions to some tourist teenagers, to dinner at Benares, an Indian restaurant which used to be part of a localish chain called Baluchis, then Death of a Salesman (spoiler alert…), followed by afterhours jazz at Lincoln Center’s Coca-cola room. It was awesome and exhausting and by the time I was waiting for the R at Atlantic/Pacific I was so tired I was on the verge of tantruming because where is the damn train already?!?!
Death of Salesman was good, though the first time I saw it was a recorded live performance starring Brian Dennehy and I sobbed because it was all so sad. This time, though excited to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Andrew Garfield, I was more struck by Arthur Miller’s entrenched dude-centrism (as well as being driven crazy by the friction of the guy next to me and his wife who kept rubbing one another’s clothing and it doesn’t sound like it would be that loud BUT IT WAS) and good grief, all the shouting. I’m working on a whole theory where I compare its form and relationships to Hamlet, and its emotional tone to Wagner (you might hate everyone at the beginning but by the big confrontations you’re all choked up).
Can you call it sexism when the biggest transgression is neglecting to provide worthwhile or independent things for the female characters to do? When the issues your male characters are grappling with are The Significance of (hu)Man(s) To The World Of Work And Achievement, I feel like you can. Miller could have written a son and a daughter and made the play about sexism just as easily. Well, if he hadn’t been an emotionally stunted objectifier of women himself, anyway.
And I agree that Andrew Garfield was too young and fresh-looking, though his emotional acting was spot on and very compelling. Anytime we just saw his back, or his face was turned away from the audience, I totally bought it. He just looked younger than Happy, younger than 34, and a little too pretty despite his convincing American accent.