Before the play even begins, Steve Scionti warns you: this show is a tribute to his grandfather, and his grandfather, well, he was a bit emotional. You think Scionti's apologizing. Strong emotions are, after all, something to be apologized for, right? But the moment Angelo Moreno walks on stage—the warning is forgotten. This aged Italian immigrant is thoroughly alive. You can't help but love him, and love him for his passion. He's only a shoemaker, a humble man who knows (and sings) all the operas, dreams impossible dreams for his family, eats mouth-watering food, and he does all of it with beautiful, tremendous emotion.

Passion for life. It's the whole point of Warehouse Theatre's latest production, “Hear What's in the Heart: A Shoemaker's Tale.” It's a one man show, in which Scionti plays out the scenes and memories relating to his grandfather's funeral. His grandfather isn't the only emotional one—the whole community is full of passion—from the young Scionti (who dreams and fights his way to Broadway) to Jerry (who cusses more people out of his pizza shop than he actually serves) to Mama Rosa (who would rather die—or kill—than be caught sugaring her marinara sauce like a Neapolitan).

Sound like a bunch of stereotypes? They are. But Scionti is a skilled artist—he quickly sculpts each stereotype only to break it down, to let us get inside the heart of these people. And that's the lesson Angelo Moreno would have for us, too—to listen to the heart, to hear what is good. And, of course, to eat pasta.

Like any good Italian, Scionti spends much of his time talking about food. But that's not all he talks about. The string of memories actually seems quite random, exactly like the disparate thoughts that tangle up in your head after the death of someone you love. It's...complicated. For those looking for a quick, catchy, mindless descriptor, I'm tempted to offer up “My Big Fat Italian Funeral,” but that's a bit irreverent. Then again, is it possible to be irreverent about dear Brother Connely's enthusiastic Sex Education class? Or about the teenage Scionti's binkini-brief disco? Probably not.

I haven't mentioned Scionti's performance yet. Good reason: I didn't think about it. By the night's end, we were all on our feet in a standing ovation, but it wasn't for Scionti, not at first anyway. We were on our feet, filled with emotion for Angelo Moreno, his rich life and death and legacy. Only then did I see Scionti, the writer and actor who single-handedly brought this vibrant, passionate community to life. Scionti's many performances, songs, and dances are electrifying. It's hard to pick a favorite character or scene—each one was enthralling. Scionti has taken his grandfather's advice...and improved on it. He's listened to the hearts of these people, and now, to our great benefit, he goes where his “heart take a him—up, up, up to sky.” And for us timid Americans, that means a healthy dose of emotion.

-- Steve Scionti's “Hear What's in the Heart: A Shoemaker's Tale,” directed by Paul Savas. Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Select evenings through April 27. Tickets $15.

Gerald Bullett was a British man of Letters who created literary programs for the BBC during World War II. His friend, Malcolm Muggeridge wrote, "I think Gerald enjoyed this work, especially when the Blitz was on; in an underground studio in Oxford street, holding forth on Lycidas or the Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, while the Luftwaffe roared overhead and the ground shook below him."

Cultural heroism isn't limited to World War II. I experienced some tonight at the Warehouse Theater during a staged reading of Ogden Nash's poem, "The Christmas That Almost Wasn't." The cast of five didn't exactly face the Luftwaffe, but they did manage to courageously perform the poem in the midst of a room of caterwauling, squirming 3-year-olds. Before the show, the little boy in front of me yelped as loudly as a Pentecostal minister, and the cheeks of a girl in the cast turned a bright crimson. Though she didn't betray her smile, she was clearly prepared for a tough fight.

"The Christmas That Almost Wasn't" and Dr. Seuss' "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" were both published in 1957. Though the two works are thematically similar, Nash's poem is a little more complex, and it seems to take more pleasure from inventive, complicated rhymes. The plot is pretty straightforward. The villainous Evilard imprisons his Christmas-loving uncle in a dungeon. Evilard then seeks to exert his evil nature and outlaws the celebration of Christmas. Things are set right through the bravery of Nicholas Knock, a shepherd, and through the help of the lovely Nell. Though the tone of the poem is light, the villain's behavior is not merely grumpy, but evil. The usurpers intend more than mischief. They desire to destroy "the Christ Child and His Christmas." This poem has layers, and I admire The Warehouse's ambitious effort to unfold this work for an audience so young.

Did I mention it was ambitious? Halfway through the performance, tantrums loomed on the horizon like low gray clouds. The actors then began to read double-quick and with twice the energy. In response, the boy in front of me shouted, "No, No, NO!" His mother finally snatched him up and removed him from the room while he thrashed in her arms like a wild salmon. When it was over, the children walked to the lobby and received gifts, treats, and a visit with Santa. I walked to my car having received a treat of my own: Art in the face of a Blitzkrieg.

Not every kid struggled; you will be interested to know that some were riveted. Perhaps they liked the story, but I think they deeply enjoyed the novelty of a live show. The birthright of theater is that it is a uniquely human offering. Even children (some) can appreciate that.

I left with two thoughts. First, I can't wait to see how they develop the show in years to come. I think that a musical production that retains the presentational aspects, but that plays to a slightly older audience (ages 6-9) will be a treasure. Secondly, I respect the willingness of the folks at the Warehouse to use theater as a means to transmit culture and preserve it. "The Christmas That Almost Wasn't" showed a fundamental trust in theater's power, and at the end the cast took a bow with the weariness and accomplishment of cultural warriors. It was a heroic display.

-- Ogden Nash's “The Christmas That Almost Wasn't,” adapted by Will Rhys. Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through December 20.

Chances are, you've already read the gospel of Luke (or at least his Nativity account) a dozen times. If you haven't, don't worry. No matter your position—Bible scholar or newbie—Centre Stage's “The Gospel According to St. Luke” will be nothing sort of revelatory.

Broadway veteran Bruce Kuhn presents the entire book by himself, and he does it in the King James Version. But never fear, Kuhn's speech is so real, his characters so nuanced that you'll understand every word—and more. Kuhn has a genius for getting to the heart of these familiar characters, the passions and the motives that we tend to gloss over in our fable-like interpretations. Unfortunately, those hidden motives (like ours) aren't too pretty.

Take the prodigal son—one of the highlights of the show. Kuhn's interpretation of the boy's gradual change and growth in repentance is astonishing, and so much more accurate than anything I've seen served up in Sunday School. Kuhn, and, one might argue, St. Luke, narrows in on the caricatures we make of ourselves—petty rivalries, pomposity, fear, even misguided religiosity—and the literal acts of God it takes to shake us out of our self-absorption. We aren't a pretty bunch of people, so in all this mess of humanity, one character stands out in strong relief: The Messiah, born to us on Christmas day.

Kuhn's portrayal of Christ is so easy and natural that you can't help feeling that this is the man we all wish we could be. He's calm. He's stable. He knows how to laugh at our self-importance. And he's powerful—leaving a wake of healed bodies and souls in his paths. Kuhn performs each of the transformations on stage, with no trickery of lighting or mechanics, and at least one miracle (healing the man with the withered hand) took away my breath.

At the end of the night, Kuhn's energy and spot-on characters make it hard to remember that you've just watching a one-man show. It's even harder to remember that you've been watching the Bible. There aren't any flannel cut outs. There's no boring teacher. There aren't even any sentimental paintings of shepherds and their lambkins. This production is about real people—you and me and our needs and our joys. It's alive and personal and human. In all the glitz and hyped emotions of the holiday season, what could be more refreshing?

 -- Bruce Kuhn's “The Gospel According to St. Luke.” Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through December 20. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

Greenville Little Theater's Christmas Spectacular 2008 is a Christmas show for people who don't like Christmas. For nearly two-and-a-half hours a cast of 20 muscled its way through a thicket of songs, dance numbers, and comedy sketches. Why? Unfortunately, I have no idea.

I wanted badly to like the show, and no doubt there were highlights. Valisa C. Smith's performance of "O Holy Night" is exhilarating, Reed Halvorson delivers a set of monologues with great timing and charm, and Shane Willimon gives a winsome performance as a plucky, slightly senile Grandfather. The dancing and singing are capably done, and a few numbers have great energy. This show is for those who want to observe some of Greenville's talent, and who enjoy the seasonal veneer of red and green costumes. If you're looking for something with conviction or substance to sustain the show's length you'll probably be disappointed.

Holiday shows often take advantage of the audience's willingness to spend the night out, and they are undoubtedly critical to a theater's financial existence. But do they have to feel obligatory? GLT's Christmas Spectacular 2008 embraces Christmas begrudgingly, the way a child embraces an ancient stranger in a nursing home. Are Christmas Carols so scarce that a barbershop quartet is forced to high-jack "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" with "The Reindeer Sleeps Tonight"? If you have to repackage an American Idol sketch for a Christmas show, is it really enough to call it North Pole Idol, and give Randy, Paula, and Simon elf-ears? The show's creators clearly want to thumb their noses at nostalgia and appeal to a younger audience. This is a noble goal, but rather than transcend age, they pursue young people in ways that seem needy. In two different sketches a dancer appears on stage in a provocative manner as if solely to say, "Look Young People! Sexiness! This isn't your Grandparent's Christmas Spectacular." The show replaces nostalgia with pop culture references and the odd bit of sensuality. (At one point during the song "Santa Baby," a beautiful singer stuffs a half dozen cashier's checks down the bosom of her dress, followed shortly by an engagement ring box. I was amused by this comic bit and looked to see if there was a Sears Roebuck catalogue or a Christmas Ham or something else for her to shove down there. But she stopped after the ring box, and now I'm confused as to what was intended. Is it alluring for a woman to treat her bosom like a filing cabinet?)

The show's "youth friendliness" provides little unity and the evening has the continuity of an extended commercial break. The frustration with Christmas Spectacular 2008 is that it showcases talent more eagerly than it showcases Christmas. Though the performances are good, one can't help but wonder, "Why all the effort?" It's a question I wish the show answered.

--- Presented by Greenville Little Theatre, 444 College Street; Greenville, SC 29601. (864) 233-6238. Through December 21. Tickets $25.

I was checking out one of my favorite blogs called yarnstorm and the author, Jane Brocket, was asked to compile her top 10 most beautiful blogs. They are very interesting to check out. I recommend it. My favorite was this blog from the St Jude's Modern British gallery. Here are some of the works from it. My favorite is Rob Ryan's papercut work (above image). He does these from cutting paper and then some are displayed in their original form or made into silk screen prints. Most use words as part of the design. I also liked Robert Tavener's work like this one, "Horseguards Friary Court". and John Bryce's woodcuts of London.

Ellen Kuras of Coffee & Cigarettes thinks Thomas Kinkades guidelines for movie-making sound like rules for making '60s porn. The article is Thomas Kincade's 16 Guidelines for Making Stuff Suck.

Our only person with the know-how to put the finishing touches to our next podcast is down with that cold that's been going around. You know, the one you're coming down with right now. So our podcast's not up. Hopefully very soon!

I am not a fan of gushing. Actually, I despise it. I like to see something added to this great conversation that is theatre, and I prefer a thoughtful, encouraging tone to the cheerleader-esque “You must see this, it's, like, so totally awesome, and I may or may not have been pad to say so” blather. But those sentiments have been thoroughly pummeled out of me by Warehouse Theatre's latest show: John Cariani's “Almost, Maine.” The happy fact of the matter is, I don't think I can add anything to this masterful production. So without reserve, with great excitement, and with only a slight hint of Valley Girl inflection, I will here say, You've Got to See This Show! It deserves the highest praise I know to give to a piece of theatre—It is alive.

Cariani's dialogue is crackling—funnier than anything I've heard in a long time, and intelligent, to boot. I believed every word the four (only four!) actors spoke on that stage—which is a stunning accomplishment given the bizarre situations in which these characters find themselves. Even the travel brochures insist that they are a different breed of people. People who let strangers camp out on their lawns. People who have a bad habit of misspelling their tattoos, and who may or may not be able to fix all nineteen pieces of your broken heart.

They're all from northern Maine, see. Way-way-way northern Maine. So North, and so cold, and so tiny that they aren't even a township. They're almost organized enough, they're almost united enough to make up a real town, but not quite. And “almost” turns out to be the metaphor for all of these people—for their sundry attempts at connecting with each other. For their givings and misgivings, fallings in and out of love.

You see, they aren't really another breed. They are you and me and our loves and almost-loves. Which doesn't mean they are syrupy--they go through pain like you and I. They just go through it in a most unusual manner (an ironing board? A big red sack full of love?), and it's almost always funny. Almost always.

That sort of dexterity—the funny and painful and poignant all rolled up together in something so real you swear you've seen it all before . . . in yourself—that sort of acting gymnastics deserves a standing ovation. I can't single out any one actor, or even any of the nineteen characters they portrayed. Debra Capps, Adam Critchlow, Jason M. Shipman, and Anne Tromsness—they made each character a living, breathing person, and they all have my deepest respect for the work they did last night.

Other respectable persons include the designers, David Hartman (scene), Tony Penna (Lights), Kevin Frazier (Sound), Jayce Tromsness (Costumes). The opening ahhhh, the perfect, perky music, the brilliant lights, the furious costume changes off (and on!) the stage—the show was seamless and beautiful. Ah, me. Forgive the gushing, but Director Chip Egan really does deserve something for pulling all of this together—maybe, he could direct a few more shows in Greenville?

I'd pay to see them. In fact, I, the obnoxious person who gave you this high school pep rally in which you learned next to nothing, I am currently finagling my almost non-existent finances into letting me see “Almost, Maine” again—something I've done only one other time in my eight years of theatre. In today's economy, that's no small investment—not even almost. But it will be worth every penny.

--

John Cariani's “Almost, Maine,” directed by Chip Egan.

Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through November 29. Tickets $25. Students $15.

from Stephanie Young

Rob Handel's "Millicent Scowlworthy" is about many things--grief, memory, healing. But more than anything else, it's a play about about plays. About how theatre can help us navigate grief, preserve our vital memories, and grow toward wholeness. It's worth seeing to be confronted by the role stories (and sympathetic audiences) play in our perception of reality. But I'll argue that there's another reason for catching one of these last few performances: director Brian Haimbach is using this play to shape the actors of our future.

Millicent Scowlworthy is everything her name suggests: boorish, melancholy, and shocking. But you can't blame her, given her violent past (and Hannah Baker's sympathetic portrayal of her). She's a refugee, recently adopted into a powerful socialite family, and the combination proves deadly. Enter media-frenzy and a town more concerned with blame than with true healing, and you get a group of brooding, anguished teenagers, among them Kelly and Porter--explosive performances (and I'm not just being cute) by Jenna Grabijas and Brandon Brown. JonBenet Ramsey, meet Columbine.

Thankfully, Handel knows how to exercise restraint--giving us just enough detail for our imaginations to handle the rest. And even more thankfully, he's put the whole thing into a thought-provoking frame tale. The real story is about a group of students who believe it is important to remember these events. They meet every year, draw names, and don costumes. They re-create the lives that were taken, the lives that did the taking, and the Greek tragedies in which they all happened to be acting at the time. (Ms. Grabijas plays a strong Kelly, but her Iphigeneia and Electra are two of the highlights of this production.)

Unfortunately, the adults in town want to move on, to command the timetables of grief and healing in the same way you'd order a dog's obedience. They chase the young actors from performance location to performance location, until the kids are huddled in a basement, holding onto each other, and reliving the brutal end.

Heavy? Yes. Dark? You bet. But you might be surprised to find yourself leaving the theatre hopeful. The reason? Well, one of them is Kalesh Nicholson, whose sullen waiter and pitch-perfect director Botho Spire promise great things for her (and our) theatrical future. Ms. Nicholson, like all the actors in this production, is a student at the Greenville Tech Theatre Program, but you'd never know it. If her electric performance is any indication of what's in our future, we do have reason to rejoice. Another reason: we need to tell these stories of grief. We need to listen. When we do, like we did at Centre Stage last night, we come a little closer to each other, and to healing. But that, I suppose, is the whole point of the play.

---

Rob Handel's "Millicent Scowlworthy," directed by Brian Haimbach. Presented by Grenville Tech Theatre Program at Centre Stage, 501 River Street, inside the Smith-Barney building, downtown Greenville. Tickets available at the door. $10

Our next podcast will feature Andy Martin's review of Blitzen Trapper's latest, Furr. I'm really looking forward to discussing the album with him.

Here's a taste of Blitzen Trapper live.

 (I hoped it would be easier to get than this, but here you go...)

1)  In iTunes, go to the iTunes store.

2)  In the top left corner of the screen, where the iTunes STORE categories are listed, click on music.

3)  On the next screen, on the left hand side of the store, look for a box titled "More in Music." Click on "iMix."

4)  Search for "revenant culture," and you'll see our playlist as one of the only ones that comes up.

If you download it, thanks for trusting our recommendations! Don't forget to rate the playlist and leave us a comment. Peace, and be well!

Agatha Christie's “Appointment with Death” at Greenville Little Theatre

review by Stephanie Geter Young

No one goes to a mystery to be lectured. In fact, most of us lining up at the theatre are seeking relief from tedium. We want a romantic murder, a few luscious whodunit thrills, some alarming approximations of the British accent, and a chummy intermission spent campaigning for your own favorite suspect. Fortunately for all, Greenville Little Theatre's latest Agatha Christie, “Appointment with Death,” provides just such an evening. But what none of us bargained for, and few of us realized when we queued up for tickets, was that this play would ask us to consider some rather uncomfortable (and definitely unpopular) ideas.

Uncomfortable idea number one: there is such a thing as a completely evil person. Enter Mrs. Boynton, ex-warden and matriarch from the nether regions. Raising children (even grown children) is a sport for her—a blood sport whose end result should be mental deformity and pain. Jan Anderson's Mrs. Boynton may be a bit uneven in spots (I didn't believe her until the second act), but in this she succeeds: you will hate her. Without your even knowing it, idea number one is in the bag: people can be purely evil, and this woman is it.

Thankfully, Madame Boynton isn't the only person in the play. Dame Agatha and the GLT cast have provided us with some blessed relief in the polar opposites and rivals Lady Westholme (Patricia deVroomen in a delightfully stodgy and unFAtiguing performance) and Alderman Higgs (a jolly good showing for Robert Simms), both of whom just happen to be vacationing in the same Jerusalem hotel with the Boyntons. Their comic bickering relieves any strain the plot may have caused and clears the way for some all-out laughs by Lady Westholme's Dragoman (Jeremiah Dew, easily the steal of the show), the very clean, very Christian tour guide with a nom de guerre and a souvenir—he make you very special price—for every occasion.

But underneath all the laughing, Agatha Christie has hidden the even more uncomfortable idea number two: it's our job to put evil people to death. Mrs. Boynton drags her brood through Jerusalem and Petra (kudos for the creative set design), wreaking havoc on their budding romances, their marriages, and their sanity. (All the Boynton actors—and especially Caroline Davis—merit some extra applause for their nervous performances.) By the time they're in the middle of the desert, headed for divorce court and the sanatorium, you'll agree with the kids: “One of us has got to kill her.” I heard more than one audience member mumbling, “I'd kill her,” and so, unfortunately, would I.

Which brings us to uncomfortable idea number three—we think we want justice, but we don't know how to carry it out. We want Mrs. Boynton dead, but we hope-hope-hope it wasn't that character who did it . . . and not that one either. It can't be anyone we like, because then we'd have to admit that they've got a little bit of evil inside of them, too. But we like all the characters. I've never seen a mystery like it. We're almost as torn up and conflicted as Mrs. Boynton's offspring—and all of it over who we hope didn't do it.

I'll leave it to you to determine if Christie found her perfect villain or no. But what I will say is this: maybe these uncomfortable ideas aren't so bad after all. Maybe there is evil, and maybe it should be punished. But maybe there is something more important than both of these notions combined: we humans still crave mercy and goodness. Now that's something worth waiting in line for.

---

Agatha Christie's “Appointment with Death” directed by Suzanne McCalla, with Jan Anderson (Mrs. Boynton), Roberta Barnes (Nadine Boynton), Chris Cashon (Raymond Boynton), Michael Coupland (Colonel Carbery), Caroline Davis (Ginevra Boynton), Patricia deVroomen (Lady Westholme), Jeremiah Dew (Dragoman), Stephanie Downing (Miss Annabel Pryce), Evan Harris (Jefferson Cope), Thomas Holliday (Lennox Boynton), Sara Kosmer (Sarah King), Peter S. Lupu (Dr. Gerard), Caleb Meahl (Arab boy), Leah Meahl (Italian girl), Robert Simms (Alderman Higgs), Chris Snapp (Clerk).

Costume, and scene design by Suzanne McCalla, Lighting by Bill Rich. Presented by Greenville Little Theatre, 444 College Street; Greenville, SC 29601. (864) 233-6238. Through November 15. Tickets $25.

I am sorry to report that you won't find a lick of cheese at Grace's Diner. No rye bread. No alcohol. But you will find a beguiling cast, some day old donuts, and, if you're strong enough, the love of your life. Not everybody does find love, you know. And that's exactly what has made William Inge's Bus Stop such a long-time success. The Centre Stage production, directed by Chip Egan, is no exception.

When the bus to Topeka gets snowed in at a sleepy Kansas diner, more than one person is in danger of being “mow-lested,” as Bo would say. He's the moody, milk-spewing cowboy that Matthew Merrit plays to a melodramatic Texas-T, and he's doing half of the mow-lestin' hisself. He's dragging Cherie, the kind-hearted “chanteuse” (Katie Martin—she's more charming than Marilyn ever was) to a ranch in Montana—against her will. And there's Elma Duckworth (Meghan Wallace), the high school waitress who is being slowly seduced by the alcoholic Professor Lyman (J. Michael Craig).

Craig offers one of the two stand-out performances of the evening. I shudder to say it, but you'll love this would-be pedophile. For starters, he's the only one who realizes that everyone is in danger, not just the girls. They're all in danger of succumbing to their own selfishness and isolation. They're in danger of hoarding up love “in our bosoms forever, where it withers and dies. Then we never know love, only its facsimiles, which we seek over and over again in meaningless repetition.”

The full weight of Lyman's philosophy comes crashing down on him during a drunken re-enactment of the Romeo & Juliet balcony scene. It's worth the price of admission just to witness Lyman's emotional pyrotechnics. He imbues Romeo's speech with an ironic self-loathing and is utterly transformed by Shakespeare's words coming out of his mouth. Compared to Romeo, he's just “a drunken, unruly child.”

According to this measure, he's not the only child in the room, the wife-nabbing Bo being chief among them. Even Carl and Grace (Beau Phillips and Kelly Wallace), with their “mature” lovers' tryst are just toying with each other, neither willing to give up something of the self to the other. Thankfully, there are enough open-hearted characters to keep these childish shenanigans from getting out of hand. The local sheriff and deacon (Steven Griffith) is one. Virgil Blessing is the other. He's Bo's fatherly side-kick, and Richard Beveridge's portrayal of him is the second stand out performance of the evening. He's so easy and lovable and salt-of-the-earth real that you want to run right on stage and hug the man.

But nobody does hug Virgil. It's enough to make a girl cry. That's the Old Black Magic at work in this production: you are never served so much happy ending that your taste buds cloy. There's just enough wisdom and just enough love to leave your heart aching for more.

---

William Inge's “Bus Stop” directed by Chip Egan, with Richard Beveridge (Virgil Blessing), J. Michael Craig (Dr. Gerald Lyman), Steven Griffith (Will Masters), Beau Phillips (Carl), Kelly Wallace (Grace Hoylard), Katie Martin (Cherie), Meghan Wallace (Elma Duckworth), Matthew Merritt (Bo Decker).

Scene Design by Lesly Preston; Costume Design by Carol Robbins; Sound Design by Christoph Kress. Presented by Centre Stage, 501 River Street, Greenville, SC (864) 233-6733. Through November 1. Tickets $25, with discounts for seniors and students.

1. Haley Gambrell of The [Artificially] Sweet Life took the 3rd prize, a $25 gift certificate to The Silver Chair. 
2. Davey of Half Past Noon took the 2nd prize, a $25 gift certificate to BIN 112 in downtown Greer.
3. Silica Larkin of Silica Larkin took the Grandest of Prizes, the print valued at $175, Big City Nocturne, courtesy of Mark Mulfinger.

Winners, email joffre-at-therevenantculture.com, let's arrange pick-up/delivery. Thanks for doing this everyone!

Chris and Annie Koelle just came by to drop off posters etcetera for their upcoming show. Check out their work on their website, then check out all the new stuff they'll have on October 17th!

Some classical musicians question the authorship of Bach's work. A brief, intriguing article. The Missus Was the Maestro

Hey y'all, we'll be holding a drawing on Friday 10/10, with some great prizes! All you have to do to qualify to win is link to www.therevenantculture.com on your website or blog, then post the link here in the comment section for this post. If you're placing the link on a blog, we'd also love it if you put up a short post mentioning that you're doing so.

There will be three prizes drawn for. The first prize is a $25 gift certificate to Greer's fantabulous wine bistro BIN 112. The second is a $25 gift certificate to Silver Chair Books. The Grandest of Grand Prizes is a small linocut by renowned Greenville artist Mark Mulfinger, entitled Big City Nocturne, and valued at $175.

So just link to us and let us know right here! We'll post the results on Friday the tenth.

Brad Hagen "stumbled upon" this, maybe Romanian artist. Who knew paper could be this beautiful?

Hey all. Blog is now hosted here. Any comments you punks made are gone. Sorry.

Also, I haven't corrected the dates. When I reposted everything, of course the dates shown were the ones that I did all the repostings on.

If I tell you that the Warehouse Theatre's latest production is good for you, you'll have visions of brussels sprouts, or church, or the high school poetry unit. If I tell you it's shattering, poignant, life-altering, you might be cringing for the latest Hallmark endeavor. “Krapp's Last Tape” is none of those things, so we'll skip the adjectives; Beckett certainly did. He billed it as a “short stage monologue.” Short yes, but there's more meat in this one-man portrait than in a whole season of your average theatre fare. Keep in mind, Beckett won the Nobel prize for “short stage” pieces such as this one. Krapp (Crosby Hunt) has come to his den to record his final retrospective. Each year, it's the same birthday routine. Wind up an old tape, listen as your younger self mocks youthful folly, falls in and out of illnesses and loves. Then muster up the courage to record this year's latest cynicism, quixotic obsessions, failing mental powers, despair. As the title suggests, this will be Krapp's last recording, and possibly, his best. It's the first time he's really questioned the past. The first time he's wondered if maturity really demands a condemnation of youth. The first time he's allowed himself to think it might have been better for him to pursue those wild relationships, be again those people, those places. Maybe once was not enough. Maybe this year, there are no words to record. And for the first time in Krapp's 69 years, he actually tries to sing. Lest you expect an aria, I should note here that Krapp is a clown, complete with floppy costume and banana-peel antics. He is the distillation and intensification of all our hopes and follies, even our repeated mistakes. He's at the end of his life, he's very nearly blind, and he has a perverse craving for the yellow fruit. A wild-haired Crosby Hunt succeeds in exploiting both the humor and the pathos of Krapp's universal situation. He's funny, even as he is pitiable. The set speaks almost as loudly as the play—perhaps I should say, with the play, since sets these days are supposed to be invisible containers. Kevin Frazier's brilliant design eschews that thought, even as it tosses aside Beckett's single ring of stark light, favoring instead an assortment of incandescent bulbs, each in its own state of decay. The filaments flicker and fade. They go out with a pop, only to burst on again with blinding illumination. They work with Hunt to shed light on Krapp's mental state, his grasping after words and ideas, his synapses barely connecting, his glimmer of life, faint and fainter still. I'll tell you now, you won't leave the theatre happy. You won't leave full of high hope and laughs. But since director Paul Savas has done his job well, you, like Krapp, will leave the stage haunted: what exactly are “those things worth having when all the dust has--when all my dust has settled. I close my eyes and try and imagine them.” Depressing maybe, but at least you'll be thinking about these things before your last birthday. If only Krapp had been so lucky. --- Samuel Beckett's “Krapp's Last Tape,” directed by Paul Savas; with Crosby Hunt (Krapp). Set, light, and sound design by Kevin Frazier. Costume by Crosby Hunt and Paul Savas. Presented by The Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through September 28. Tickets $10. *Recommended for a mature audience.

I'm sitting here having contractions, yes I said contractions (I'm nine months pregnant), and I feel compelled to comment on Hirst. Damien Hirst, Mr. Formaldehyde, is the artist who puts dead animals in huge glass boxes of formaldehyde, creates "dot" art, spin artist (yes, like you do for a dollar at the fair) and sells it for millions and not just normal contemporary art millions but record millions for any art work. What the hoodie-hey!!? This is my favorite part, he delegates all the making of his work to minions. He doesn't even pour in the paint into the paint spinner himself. He just signs it when it is done. Go to the zoo; go to a science lab but please stop supporting this idiot.

Audience, meet Ned. He's an all-American meathead, and he's in love with a bitingly intelligent woman. Like most dimwits on stage, Ned is big and brawny; he just happens to be wearing a dress. He's also a murderer, and fiercely devout. In short, nothing about Ned makes sense. His thoughts (when he thinks them) don't jive with his actions. And this is precisely why everybody loves Ned—he's a lot like us, except he's terribly funny. Unfortunately, Ned's going to let you down, and it's not the actor's fault--Peter Simms hardly let the audience come up for air. Howard Kingkade's One Foot in the Gravy stars the money-grabbing socialite Fergie (Helga H. Ridgeway). She's convinced her none-too-bright lover Ned to pose as the female caretaker for her aging husband (Mike Hawley). Six months later, Ned's still dressed in drag and Fank hasn't kicked the can. Philosopher that he is, Ned decides that it's time to take some action. What follows is your classic dead-guy comedy: where to stash the deceased (and not-so-deceased), what to tell the police, and how to keep the conscience-stricken-yet-compulsive-killer Ned from turning himself in. Perhaps they're old jokes, but Kingkade's a genius for witty dialogue—the audience laughed straight through and was still quoting Fergie's acerbic lines out in the parking lot. The audience was also doing something else in that parking lot: shaking their heads. Something just wasn't quite right, and it was something to do with everybody's darling Ned. While I can't guess at other people's conclusions, I have a hunch of my own. At the height of the chicanery, bodies are stashed, detectives convinced, victory won, and then things get serious. As in “not funny.” With no provocation, Ned confesses to sleeping with just about every Jane (and John) in the neighborhood. Come again? Where did that come from? One explanation for the audience's confusion might be that we agree with Fergie's sentiments--I don't care how many people you kill, just don't cheat on me—but I think there's more to it than that. During the confession, Ned's hilariously compulsive desire for absolution vanishes without a trace (or explanation). He's now one-hundred percent non-contradictory. No outlandish prayers or pleas for punishment. He's Fergie's equal—funny in theory, predictably wicked, one-sided, uninteresting. We fell in love with Ned's inner struggle, his irreconcilable contradictions, his humanity. But at the close of the curtain, when Ned's basking on a cruise ship, plotting guilt-free murders and trysts with complete strangers, we're happy to leave this love affair behind. The free reading of One Foot in the Gravy was presented on September 11, 2008, as part of Centre Stage's New Play Festival. There are still two more nights of free readings, both of Arlene Hutton's Letters to Sala.

George Bernard Shaw's “Man of Destiny” and Anton Chekhov's “The Bear” presented by The Distracted Globe Theatre Company review by Stephanie Geter Young George Bernard Shaw is a sexist. His women aren't good. In fact, they're better--better than the mightiest of men—and it shows in his plays, which often read like feminist manifestos. Powerful man meets nobody woman, and before the first scene's up, you know who the victor will be. But that's not the case in The Distracted Globe's production of “Man of Destiny.” There's still the powerful man (Napoleon himself, in a humane and believable portrayal by Brock Koonce), and the woman's so low she doesn't even get a name (though Traycie Amick's fiery performance might lead you to believe she was Queen of England). The difference here is how the battle is joined: from beginning to end, it's a draw. Thanks to Jayce Tromsness' direction, this is the closest I've seen Shaw come to open exploration of gender, courage, and virtue. There's actually a discussion going on here, and Shaw is asking the questions, rather than foisting his answers upon a captive audience. But make no mistake, it's a funny discussion, one you just might miss for laughing. The talented ensemble at The Distracted Globe has exploded the comic potential of the text and characters: Ryan Bradburn's sparkling Lieutenant comes to life with enough foppish zeal (and blue eyeshadow) to make Gilbert and Sullivan envious, and even Rhydwyn Davies' straight man Giuseppe can't help but pull a few classic jokes of his own. But the real comedy lies in the comic turns and contrivances of the play's two main characters, Napoleon and The Lady, as they fight, manipulate, and seduce their way to a surprising understanding: male or female, nobody's won, except the audience. And the prize? Another laugh-out-loud performance. This time, it's “The Bear,” Chekhov's brief vaudeville of a widow who's getting revenge by grieving (seven months and counting), and the man who's here to take her money, but just might end up stealing her heart instead. It's yet another battle of the sexes, but this time, not so heady. There's passion here, and raw humor. Rhydwyn Davies shows his agility with the aged and apprehensive household servant, while Andy Croston's angry Smirnov will fluster his way into the hearts of even the most stalwart of widows. Of course, it's the widow on stage he wants; she's the real gem of Anne Kelly Tromsness' production. In the mourning Popova, Jennifer Goff accomplishes something breathtaking: a believable vaudevillian performance. The exaggerated poses and gestures are guaranteed to get you laughing, but you won't for a moment doubt that Popova is a real person—a real person that you love and cheer for, despite her “making a scene at” you. I was so enthralled with “The Bear” I forgot to take notes. I got home to my computer and found I only had this one brief thought, scrawled in the pitch black of a scene change: perfect melodrama. Will she give up the dead cheat of a husband? Will she fall in love before or after she shoots the suitor? Silly questions, perhaps, but that's the brilliance of Chekhov. So many of these agonizing gender battles are just that: silly questions, self-deluded heroics, melodrama. At least at The Distracted Globe, it's fun to watch. --- George Bernard Shaw's “Man of Destiny,” directed by Jayce Tromsness; with Brock Koonce (Napoleon), Rhydwyn Davies (Giuseppe), Ryan Bradburn (The Lieutenant), Traysie Amick (The Lady). Anton Chekhov's “The Bear,” directed by Anne Kelly Tromsness; with Rhydwyn Davies (Luka), Jennifer Goff (Popova), Andy Croston (Smirnov). Set design by Jay McCabe; Costume designs by Anne Kelly Tromsness, Michele Labar, Thor Bailey; Sound design by Traysie Amick. Presented by The Distracted Globe Theatre Company, Warehouse Theatre, 37 Augusta St., Greenville (864) 235-6948. Through August 2. Tickets $7.50.

Be careful if you come down with a cold and sleep all day. You just might find yourself heading to Denny's at 2:30am, listening to Antony and the Johnsons, toting a Miroslav Volf book. That might be a little to strange for you to handle; it was for me.

From the last chapter of G. K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy:

...a man may well be less convinced of a philosophy from four books, than from one book, one battle, one landscape, and one old friend.

The links are my examples of book, battle, landscape, and old friend. As a tribute to the gift o' phrase the Gilbert Keith had, I here list every phrase from that last chapter, Authority and the Adventurer, that I think would make a good band name.

Guardian of Morality

Lost Populations

Sage or Hero

Countries in Europe

Some Tall Island

Island in the Sea

Naked Peril

Imaginary Triad

Believes In Newspapers

Medieval Darkness

Existing Chinese

Dead Pagans

Gathered In Silence

Stupid Sailors

Iceland Is Impossible

Old Mad Circle

Regalvanisation

Trick Miracles

Plato Is Dead

My Parents Kept A Cat

Felt Virginity

The Subject of Bach

Grateful Humanity

A Gayer Universe

Gigantic Secret

Solemn Supermen

You all feel free to use any of these. My gift to you. Except Iceland is Impossible. That's what I want to name my band.

So I can't post the full review until Issue 2 of The Revenant hits the stands. But I can tell you that The Distracted Globe's Summer One Acts are some of the best fun I've had this summer. And the sweet bit? The price of admission is less than a movie ticket--only $7.50 ($5.00 for students). You have been informed. Go enjoy some comedy . . . and support your local arts culture. -- The Distracted Globe's Summer One Acts program opens tonight and runs through August 2. Tickets available at (864) 235-6948.

John Hardy

Wheeling Daily Register January 20, 1894

All Were Murderers

Four Men Suffer the Extreme Penalty for Their Crimes

John Hardy Hanged at Welch, McDowell County, for Killing Thomas Drews Last Spring...

Special Telegram to the Register.

WILD E, W. VA., January 19. - John Hardy, for killing Thomas Drews, both colored, was hung at 2:09 p. m. to-day. Three thousand people witnessed his death. His neck was broken and he died in 17 1/2 minutes. He exhibited great nerve, attributed his downfall to whiskey, and said he had made peace with God. His body was cut down at 2:39, placed in a coffin, and given to the proper parties for interment. He was baptised in the river this morning.

Ten drunken and disorderly persons among the spectators were promptly arrested and jailed. Good order was preserved. Hardy killed Drews near Eckman last spring in a disagreement over a game of craps.

BOTH WERE ENAMORED

of the same woman, and the latter proving the more favored lover, incurred Hardy's envy, who seized the pretext of falling out in the game to work vengeance on Drews, who had shown himself equally expert in dice as in love, having won money from Hardy. Hardy drew his pistol, remarking he would kill him unless he refunded the money. Drews paid back part of the money, when Hardy shot, killing him. Hardy was found guilty at the October term.

(link to article at West Virginia Archives)

Folks, I See Dead People's Books! This is a LibraryThing project, recently featured at The Guardian, which assembles the titles on the shelves of famous dead people. You absolutely need to check it out. And since I've put some of my library up on LibraryThing, I can easily see that I shared two books with W. H. Auden (two I was sure I would, Hammerskjold's Markings and Tolkien's trilogy), but eleven with Walker Percy, including Les Fleurs du Mal. How cool is it to know that? Very cool, yo.

This woman moved from Kakalacky to Portland, Oregon years ago. She refers to anything she likes as coming "from the West Coast." She says things like, "on the West Coast, this is what they're saying." She does yoga in the living room of the beach house while everyone is eating breakfast. She smokes American Spirits with her two dogs. All these things annoy her nephew, who told me about her.

Her father laughs in the back, in the kitchen, while she does her yoga. He enjoys the sunshine.

Caution: product may contain spoilers. If you've seen the trailers for Hancock, you may have gotten the impression that it's primarily a comedy about a drunk superhero. They're not entirely misleading. The first 30 odd minutes are hip-hop backed episodes of drunk "heroics" by the reluctant, anger motivated "superhero" Hancock. It's a humorous, relatively fast paced, expletive-filled ride to the plot line and key characters. Generally in superhero movies there's a turning point: Spider-Man deciding responsibility comes with power, or Batman embracing his fear in order to overcome it. These turning points often highlight human struggles and present superhuman results most of us wish were possible. Hancock, however, shows us what it would be like if we had those super powers and never grew as a person. While Hancock does turn from drinking, shave, don a "hero suit," and change his theme music from hip-hop to classical, the underlying man changes little. Though he's a bit cleaner, he remains motivated by self-image and self-gratification. The director refers to this "redemption" as "a man looking to tap into a higher version of himself." If that's as good as it gets, perhaps he should look elsewhere. This meager change of heart produces equally disappointing results: a single successful act of heroism, after which we learn Hancock's all too Grecian back story and meet his 3,000+ year old spouse (also the spouse of his only friend). From this point on the movie is distinctly Greek. Hancock and Angel have a deities' brawl in downtown LA, love-hate their way to the final climax, and end the movie with a happily ever polyandry. I'm sure the movie means well; there's just no hero in it.

The setting is Zeke's home in the New Mexico desert. The time is now. At least, that's what the program would have you believe, but Stephen Kilduff's new play is as much about foreign countries and personal history as it is about the harsh isolation Zeke (David Johnston makes a convincing modern hermit) has built for himself and his family. The family. Ay, there (as Hamlet would have it) is the rub. By running from the memory of his bitter father, Zeke is condemning his family to a monotonous desert exile. But the family, especially the teenage daughter with "the heart and soul of a poet," is none too keen on monotony. She needs to grow and change. This, as one character says, is called "life. The shitty part of it." Zeke doesn't know that. He also doesn't know that daddy dearest is dead now, and Zeke's hitherto-unacknowledged brother Jason is en route to meet the family. There's a bequest to deliver, whether or not Zeke is ready. So enter Jason, the cast-off brother, in a charming, anguished performance by Jay Coffman. He's carrying a box that will dredge up the past and forever alter Zeke's future. Nobody will be the same. But you could have guessed all that (well, at least some of it) was coming if you'd skipped reading the program and paid closer attention to the subtleties of Marlaina Say's set, particularly the faint etchings on the back wall of Zeke's deck. Enough said. The Uncurled Hand is the winner of Centre Stage's New Play Festival, and it shows, both in its occasional snags and in its incredible energy. First, the snags, for they are minor. The opening is a bit bumpy--not quite enough tension builds up to the first father-daughter fallout. And the poet-daughter (admirably played by the Fine Arts Center's Sarah Hamilton), well, she never says anything really poetic, not until the play's end, by which time, you're so used to her clichés, that the words don't sit right in her mouth. Then, the energy! There's a sort of electricity between the actors an audience that comes from knowing: this is something new. These characters are alive for the very first time. Glory (played fully and lovingly by Leslie D. Smith) and Zeke share such a spark that you never think to wonder how she got stuck with the curmudgeonly hermit. Zeke and his brother make sparks of another kind, but there, you do wonder. You wonder if both of them will come out of this alive, and if so, who will have destroyed whom? But while you might be afraid, you never worry too much, because in the background Reggie (the daughter) and her just-a-friend Peter (Kyle Carrion) are lighting some little fires all their own. The setting is Zeke's home in the New Mexico desert. The time is now. But when you leave the theater, you won't feel the weight of that heavy wall leaning over these characters. The past has come and gone. The future is here, and it is bright indeed. --- Stephen Kilduff's “The Uncurled Hand,” directed by Dr. Brian Haimbach; set design by Marlaina Say; Costume design by Tonya Towne; Sound design by Hal Hawkins. Presented by Centre Stage, (864) 233-6733. Through July 19. Tickets $10. WITH: David Johnston (Zeke), Leslie D. Smith (Glory), Sarah Hamilton (Reggie), Jay Coffman (Jason), Kyle Carrion (Peter)

Here's a reading by South Carolina poet Susan Meyers, whose book Keep and Give Away I've really enjoyed. We're hoping to read one of her poems for our inaugural podcast.

There is this big trend right now among painters to paint a painting a day and post it and sell it on a blog. This article is interesting about the trend. It makes the point that it is helping artists to sell their work with no middle man and actually make a living. Most of the paintings sell for about $100 a piece. It is encouraging the masses to buy original artwork and even give it as gifts. I wholeheartedly support the idea as long as the artist actually gets time to do something more or makes these little works into something of value besides decoration. Most of the pieces are small and one object still lives like an onion or piece of cheesecake. I am sick of seeing desserts, toys, and veggie paintings. Give me some substance bigger than 4x6". Some are really nice but very nichey ( Stephanie, I know you would love to get your editing hands on that word). For instance, Karin Jurick's A Painting Today blog is really fun to look at. She paints people looking at famous artist's paintings, and it can lead to all sorts of fascinating contexts because of how loaded a lot of the famous work's content or history is. She really does a nice job on these but she hasn't gone beyond it. It will be interesting to see where these blogs lead.

On my way into work today I saw a skinny black man in a wheel chair crossing the street, not waiting for the light to change, but being aware of traffic. He was very thin, but not emaciated or unhealthy looking. He had only one leg, with which he propelled himself, since his right arm was taken up by a parcel he was carrying. And to complete the vision, as he propelled himself with that single leg, as he balanced with his left arm, as he carried the parcel in his right, and skidded purposefully but crazily across the street, a long pipe jutted out of his clenched teeth. That's a human being right there.

Yesterday my mind was blown, as my dear mother would have said, out of its "kaboochies." Steven Pressfield is the author of Gates of Fire, The Last of the Amazons, and The Afghan Campaign (about Alexander's campaigns there). The books exalt Greece, the martial spirit, and the ancient world; they are also bloody, brutal, and resigned (committed, even) to violence. Gates of Fire was a huge hit, a demi-classic (it read as if Victor David Hanson or Donald Kagan had been suddenly gifted as fiction writers), and deserved to be. But man, was it brutal. And I lost enthusiasm for The Afghan Campaign after one too many atrocities. I didn't put it down and refuse to pick it back up in some sort of protest...I just never picked it back up. Mind-blower the lesser: this same dude wrote The Legend of Bagger Vance. Just found this out. Mind-blower the greater: several people I respect have enthusiastically recommended The War of Art: Break Through the Blocks & Win Your Inner Creative Battles. I mean, these folks were into the book, and they're the sort of people who you have to take seriously. I guess he's a pantheistic sort of guy, so I'm sure there's a lot of fantabulous Platonism, but that's irrelevant to the mind-blowing. I'm going to have to read this thing to see what he has to say for himself.

It seems we have a theme for all two of our theater posts, and that theme is diminutive. Last post brought you a Tiny Tempest, and this post brings you a Theater for Toys. It began thusly: this morning, frustrated-theater-artist-me stumbled out of bed, about my day, and onto a slide show of the Toy Theater Festival 2008 . Check it out. You'll get five pictures of stunning miniature theatre--the last (and tiniest) has already inspired a few minuscule capers of my own. This shock of illumination lead me to the Toy Theater Magazine Issue 31, where you can, among other things, learn how to rig Christmas lights for miniature theaters and create your own replica of the stunning 1890's Blue Beard Pantomime book. Hungry for more? Me too. Someone here in the Upstate needs to take a cue from Great Small Theater's Spaghetti Dinners --bring on the pasta and the itty bitty actors!

Here's a picture of a Crusader in a catapult (love the image that evokes, didn't Billy Collins write something about time itself and body parts in catapults...?). It's a French Crusader, or I should say, the French bought it from us. You'd think from hearing the news that the French haven't been manly since they went from the hard-c ending to the soft-c, but you'd be wrong. They had Crusaders back in the 1970s. The absolute coolest part of the mediocre film Thirteen Days was their use of real F8 Crusaders for the runs over Cuba. Very cool...especially since it would probably have been much easier to get F4s, and few would have cared. But I cared, and I appreciated it. Speaking of the Cuban Missile Crisis, watch The Fog of War. What a fantastic movie...documentary on Robert McNamara's career. McNamara really is a brilliant guy; he describes a memory he had when he was all of two in 1918, and he says that he doesn't expect us to believe that he has that memory. As far as I'm concerned, if the guy's brain is as crystalline as it is now, when he's 85, I'm willing to believe he has clear memories from his second year of life. Incredibly lucid guy, and a very emotional series of interviews. Errol Morris (director) also did a great job, with some great effect shots and a wonderful sense of cine-chronology. Worth owning.

Over half the play is missing. In fact, nearly two-thirds of the text is strangely absent from Summer Shakespeare's production of The Tempest. No matter. What remains is fifty minutes of belly-laughing farce, with the human tragedies and loves rounded out to little comic melodramas. It may be a dinghy to Shakespeare's imperial ship, but it still floats. (Mostly.) When reducing the Bard's last play to its most comedic moments, it follows that the most believable characters will be Shakespeare's most exaggerated: Caliban, a monstrous tortoise/fish/man played unfalteringly by Josh Innerst; Stephano, the orange-soda-bibbing butler faithfully executed by Jeffrey Stegall (who also directed); and Zachary Franzen's sympathetic Trinculo, a jester in a rubber duck floatie, fins, and bathing cap. The trio conjures such a chemistry that you wish they'd never leave the stage. They command the air, the playing time, and even our hearts. It's the other characters, the people we're supposed to be loving and learning from, they're the ones who get shipwrecked in the squall of comedy and tragedy. Exhibit A: Alonsa, Queen of Naples (Sharon Murry)--I'd thought that giving this powerful character to a woman was a bold and refreshing choice, until I realized she was a comic queen mother, prone to brief fits of histrionic grief. And then there's Miranda (Nikki Eoute), whose cheerleader mood swings and exaggerated teenage love took the ten-year-old female demographic by storm, but left me a tad bit dry. The problem is repeated at one time or another in each member of the cast—comedy abounds with precision and zest (particularly in Micah Coston and Paul Radford's comic Sebastian/Antonio duo and in Paul Michael Garrison's decrepit Gonzalo), but wherever the comic airs mingle with the tragic, the ship flounders. As said before, no matter. With such a cutting, we still laugh heartily with each of them, and everything else in the play is painted perfectly, especially Laurie Mehus's scene (and, one presumes, costume) design. The action takes place on ye olde wooden O, but this O is crammed with rubber mulch and, of course, the production's signature rubber duckie. Mehus's sparkling, ingenious designs for the opening tempest and the dreamy island sequences are in themselves worth the ticket price (an affordable $5). Two actors stand apart from all these dreams and storms and comic blunders. Or rather, they stand above them. They are the makers of Shakespeare's play, the pair that orchestrates the movements, thoughts, and visions of all others: Dave LaPage (Prospero) and Rebecca Kaser (Ariel). Kaser proves a fiesty and energetic Ariel (you will believe in spirits), while Dave LaPage masterfully guides the audience (and actors) through the play's rapid twists. I laughed everywhere, but I was moved only once, when LaPage delivered the closing monologue (which has been admirably pieced together). In that moment, with those words in the mouth of the sorcerer, I believed. I believed that the rest of the Shakespeare's play really was unnecessary to this production, that the flighty visions and foibles I saw traipsing and sometimes tripping before me were the very spirits of a joyous dream. ---- William Shakespeare's “The Tempest,” directed by Jeffrey Stegall; scene design by Laurie Mehus; lighting design by Ron Pyle; sound design by Paul Keew. Presented by Summer Shakespeare, at Performance Hall on the campus of Bob Jones University, Greenville, SC, (864) 770-1372. Through July 21. Running time: 1 hour, with one ten minute intermission. WITH: Dave LaPage (Prospero), Nikki Eoute (Miranda), Rebecca Kaser (Ariel), Josh Innerst (Caliban), Sharon Murry (Alonsa), Philip Eoute (Ferdinand), Micah Coston (Sebastian), Paul Radford (Antonio), Paul Michael Garrison (Gonzalo), Jeffrey Stegall (Stephano), Zachary Franzen (Trinculo).

Well, our first print issue came out yesterday (as soon as I can figure out how to link to the .pdf, I'll post it). This morning I had a weird moment of deja vu when Kimberly asked me to move an old box downstairs. In it were several Spanish textbooks, a binder full of a photocopied book from the sixties on the Westminster Confession of Faith, several old Saturday Reviews, some World War II aircraft identification guides I inherited from a naval air gunner who befriended me, and at the bottom, a copy of the inaugural issue of flowersfall. flowersfall was a zine I published three or four times in my hometown of Gainesville, Florida, back in what the kids call "the day." You've come a long way, baby. Anyway, it was fun to see that issue again. And it made me even more pumped to see what might happen here in the Upstate. If anyone wants to come by the store and take some copies of The Revenant Culture over to their church or favorite hang-out or whatever, swing on by.

The upcoming issue of The Revenant Culture (soon, I promise) features three pieces by the person behind the Lower Alabama Vatican, the fantabulous Lauren Pope. Check her out.

From the archives of the appropriately named, Wassily Kandinsky, 'cause it sounds like candescent. And it is, even if "inner beauty" leads directly to art "divorced from reality." Look, it glows!

Kimberly came across a post by Rory of Bluelines, in which Rory describes how she was inspired by an old stenciled sign at the Brooklyn Social Club to make a sign to post above her own bed. The sign at the club is pictured below. I thought it was really cool that this woman would post these words above her bed. But imagine my disappointment when I saw the picture of what she had put together... ...I mean, it's still cute and all, but it's a lot less fun without the "Drunk and disorderly members will be asked to leave." Now that's good marriage (and marriage bed) material.

Asheville John in action.