Spirited
Performance
Coward
comedy entertains.
BY
QUAIL DAWNING
Willamette Repertory Theatre's production
of Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit opens on the Condomine couple,
caustic, bossy Ruth (Lyn Burg) and suave, magnetic Charles (William
Mark Hulings) preparing to have another couple, the Bradmans (Dan
Pegoda and Sharon Sless), over for dinner and a seance. Charles
is a novelist, and for his upcoming work he needs to do some hands-on
research. He and Ruth have invited the local loon Madame Arcati
(Marti Stevens Byers) over for the evening, in hopes that she is
a delusional fraud like the character Charles is planning for his
book.
Shortly before everyone is set to arrive, Charles
and Ruth discuss how to go about instructing their inexhaustibly
energetic new maid, Edith (played boisterously by Victoria Blake)
over a few dry sherries. They flirt cynically with one another,
entertain notions of Madame Arcati making a fool of herself in front
of their guests, and debate on Charles' first wife, Elvira, dead
seven years.
 |
| MARTI
STEVENS BYERS AS MADAME ARCATI IN BLITHE SPIRIT. |
As the scene is rather long, it could have easily
become boring if it weren't for the taut chemistry between Charles
and Ruth — their back-and-forth banter is effective and human.
We get the idea that this argument is routine. An insecure Ruth
has complained about Elvira many times before, and an adamant Charles
is used to explaining himself.
Burg is quite good as Ruth. We're annoyed with her
when she's overbearing and at times almost repellent, but we're
also sympathetic. Hulings also allows the audience to feel sympathy
and understanding when it comes to Charles' individual feelings,
but also criticism and disapproval when those feelings manifest
themselves into actions.
The Bradmans — gentility played to perfection
by veteran Eugene actors Pegoda and Sless — arrive just as
Charles and Ruth are making up from their little spat, and are shortly
joined by thoroughly erratic Madame Arcati. Marti Stevens Byers,
who has played Madame Arcati before but is a newcomer to the Willamette
Rep stage, is a comic genius and relentlessly coaxes belly laughs
from the audience.
After an eerie seance, during which Madame Arcati
goes into a trance and then slumps unconscious into an armchair,
Charles hears Elvira's disembodied voice speaking to him. Charles
is alarmed and skeptical, but no one else in the circle can hear
her, and after Charles' first fearful outburst, Ruth convinces the
guests that Charles is merely joking with them. He insists that
he is not, and implores them to listen for Elvira's voice, but no
one else witnesses this strange phenomenon.
After Madame Arcati comes to and the lights have
been turned back on, Charles nervously fibs and says that indeed,
Ruth spoke the truth, he was simply playing a trick on everyone.
Ruth and the Bradmans laugh it off, but Madame Arcati is not so
sure, and insists that she felt something strange happening during
the seance. A few minutes after everyone leaves the Condomines'
home for the evening, Elvira herself (the perfectly ethereal Susan
Tate) materializes and thus, the comedy of errors begins.
There is an appealing, sitcommish humor about watching
the scenes that follow: Charles can see and hear Elvira, but no
one else can, and this predicament leads to a variety of hilarious
escapades and misunderstandings — especially when it comes
to the relationship between Charles and Ruth.
Truly, Blithe Spirit is a visual pleasure.
Scenic designer Michael Ganio has created a beautiful set, chock
full of historical detailing and color coordinated furnishings,
all brought to life under the flawless lighting of Michael A. Peterson's
design. Costume designer Denise Damico has dressed the actors handsomely
and in costumes fitting their personalities (although the ghost
makeup is a bit garish), and director Hans Christofferson has done
an excellent job directing his cast of talented, experienced performers.
Though I am not a fan of Noel Coward's plays in
general, and find his work dated, clichéd and sexist, Willamette
Rep's production of Blithe Spirit was anything but tiresome.
The cast and crew offer a lively, entertaining, and (forgive me)
spirited show.
Blithe Spirit only runs through Dec. 15 at
the Hult Center, so catch it while you can.
Back to Top
Holiday
Highs
A
jug of wine, and love.
BY LANCE SPARKS
Hollies and jollies? Mistletoe and candy canes?
Red-suited, white-bearded chubbos doling out goodies for happy boys
and girls? I'm just not gettin' there this year.
Got the deep Xmas blues. Too many pals are losing
jobs/homes/hopes while scrawny chickenhawks strut around playing
commanders-in-chief, gleefully blasting women, kids, old folks and
other 'soft targets,' inflicting 'collateral damage' to chalk-up
on their scoreboards, see who's winning or losing. Occasionally,
just to torture myself, I'll tune in Michael Savage on KKKUGN, listen
to hateful, racist babble of neo-fascist "conservatives." When Kat
catches me, she usually dishes up a firm whap on the back of my
head, reminds me what idiots fascists are, tells me to come back
to real people. I try, for the sake of the season, for the memories,
for the dreams.
It's all weird, because I'm normally a complete
Christmas google-head. Oh, I know it's mostly a retailers' shuck,
a way to hustle corporate geegaws off shelves and boost consumer
debt. And I know the holiday has about nada to do with Christ, that
Christ was born in spring, not December 25, that early Christian
'fathers' did all they could for centuries to suppress this 'pagan'
celebration until they had to cave in and twist history to capture
a feeling they couldn't destroy. But even knowing all that, I've
always loved giving presents (OK, getting some, too). I like sneaking
around, figuring out which little pretty will tinkle somebody's
bells, stashing it until I can fluff it with tissue and wrap it
in bright-colored papers and bows, then squirm on the couch while
the giftee unravels this mystery, token of my love. Smiles, kisses,
thank-yous. What a zap.
Rich or poor, somehow it works, wonders to behold.
Brief memoir: Christmas, year I was 16, the shattered remains of
our family living in a one-bedroom duplex, Second Street, Reno.
We were stone broke, no car, barely eating; my step-father, Jeff,
and my mother both slaved as nurses' aides at Washoe Medical Center,
earning chump wages. I was janitoring at a funky wedding chapel.
Mom, belly swollen, eight-months pregnant with my brother, sobbed,
had to have some kind of tree. Jeff and I trekked along the Truckee
River, found a fir-shaped branch of alder driftwood, hauled it home,
wrapped each branch in cotton gauze Jeff had boosted from the hospital,
cut out 'ornaments ' of colored paper, strapped them with surgical
tape, dangled them on surgical nylon. Jeff 'found' a string of lights;
we didn't ask where. One large gumdrop made the 'star.' Beautiful.
We traded one present each, no idea now what they were; the tree
was Christmas. It was nothing, it was enough, warmed the whole house,
put smiles on our faces.
I'm back, just felt a wave rush from heart to head.
Now I'm ready to talk about wine. Good thing, too — in fact,
just in time.
'Cause look who just strolled through the office
door, draped in full Jolly Fatguy regalia, red zoot suit, white
faux-fur trim, bells on hat, patent leather boots and belt, fluffy
white beard. The round tummy is genuine Jello. The big bag emits
glassy clinks and clanks. His ho-ho-ho sounds more like heunh-heunh-heunh.
"Mole," I choke out, "you're a real saint."
"Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Whatup Kwanzaa!
Soooper Solstice! We gotcher veritas in vino!" He rolls over to
my desk, starts hauling bottles from his apparently bottomless bag,
whips out a corkscrew, hands it to me, pulls out ice bucket (with
ice), ceramic green Christmas tree (with lights), menorah (with
candles), wine glasses, wine towels, little electric train (with
tracks). I pull corks.
Rattle and clank of elevator, clatter in the hall,
enter ensemble: Molly as Mizz Claus; T-Dub and Syl, Big Juan, Treetop
(with tree), Peter Poet and Soho Sandy, Jeff and Kathy, Mouse in
tux (with tails). More friends and family stream in. Party ensues.
Wine report follows:
Huge supplies and a staggering world economy have
resulted in tumbling wine prices, meaning good juice and good values
for consumers, sorta bad news/good news thing.
Festive bubblies: Why buy cheap schlock when
so much yummy sparkling wine is available for a few dollars more?
Case in point, Secret House 1994 Brut Natural ($13), flavorful
and food-friendly, with round baked-bread flavors. Made by our neighbors,
Ron and Patti Chappel, of Veneta, the wine is fine and the money
stays home; what's the question?
Looking to make a French impression sans
Parisian budget? Find Berlene 1999 Blanquette de Limoux ($10),
frothy and zesty, lemony freshness in the mouth, delish with appetizers
like smoked salmon.
Committed to California? Chandon Blanc de Noirs
($14), rich red-fruit flavors, intensely active bubbles, lovely.
White nights: Roast turkey loves fresh white
wines like riesling (LaVelle, Girardet) and gewurztraminer (Amity,
Evesham Wood), but our pal Larry Malmgren swears by Spain. Big Al
at Kiva offers Serra da Estrela 2000 Albarino ($12), creamy
mouthful of flavors like ripe pears with mineral notes.
A steal, Pepperwood Grove 2000 Viognier ($7):
say vee-o-nyeh, get floral aromas, round, creamy white, a match
for fresh crab.
Gotthavit Chehalem 2000 Chardonnay ($14.50),
one of Oregon's best labels, bright fruit flavors, vanilla accents,
perfect balance, lingering finish.
Wicked red: Torre dei Beati 2001 Montepulciano
d'Abruzzo ($13), deep purple, intense flavors like blackberries,
pepper, well-balanced blockbuster.
I scan the room, blues long gone. See the colors
now, and know: This high holy day has naught to do with stuff, all
to do with love, all we really need. Happiness to you, yours.
Back to Top
Auto-Dependent
Auckland
Clean
and green New Zealand needs a transit plan.
AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND—If it's possible to fall in love with
a country, I have. It's New Zealand, a small, bisected Pacific island country with
a whole lot of sheep (more per capita than anywhere else in the world), a nuclear-free
policy and Zero Waste goals. New Zealand has a population of just under four million
people, swollen by immigration from Asia and the Pacific islands.
I loved the hospitable people of New Zealand, their humor and
warmth, and the fascinating environmental variations in this California-sized (and
shaped) place, from the temperate North Island with its green coastal plain reminiscent
of England to its partly alpine South Island, with lush native forests and so-called
Southern Alps.
Nearly a third of New Zealand's people live in its largest city,
Auckland, whose population is expected to double in the next 50 years. I preferred
the less-congested South Island, which has less than a million people. OK, you're
saying, this is a car column, when are we going to get to the cars? Here we go,
New Zealand has the second-highest rate of car ownership in the world (guess who's
first?) and in Auckland that translates to nearly one car for every two people.
Cheap Japanese imports make car ownership available to nearly everyone. The country's
nearly as car-dependent as the U.S., and only two percent of Auckland's population
uses public transportation — one of the lowest usage figures in the world,
even lower than Los Angeles.
In the 1950s, some 58 percent of Auckland's commuters used public
transit, and as Green Party Member of Parliament Sue Kedgley points out, a far-sighted
plan was developed to electrify the rail lines and build a subway that would be
integrated with the existing bus system. Instead, the plan was shelved in favor
of a California-designed motorway grid that was only partly completed, leaving gridlock
as the inevitable result. Today, 40 percent of Auckland's land area is devoted to
cars, and air quality has drastically deteriorated (the nitrogen dioxide levels
are comparable to London's).
Eighteen months ago, frustrated Aucklanders elected a new mayor,
John Banks, who campaigned on the promise that he would end their woes by completing
the old highway plan. I met Banks and his lively transit chief, Greg McKeown, at
the mayor's office on Queen Street and I was pleased to see that the city does have
plans that extend beyond motorways, including a possible light rail system and plans
for faster bus service using cleaner hybrid electric buses. McKeown wants a free
shuttle bus for downtown Auckland, modeled in part on the electric bus shuttle in
Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Unfortunately, Auckland needs to study another model: Boston,
where a relatively simple highway plan has spiraled into one of the world's largest
public works projects, jumping from $2.5 billion to more than $15 billion and sucking
up every transit dollar in Massachusetts. Auckland plans to spend only about $600
million, but highway costs are hard to contain. There may simply be no money left
when city planners discover the truism that it's impossible to build out of congestion.
What usually happens? Look at L.A., where the highway grid was
completed long ago. Development and opportunistic drivers are attracted by new clear
motorways and quickly increase vehicle miles traveled, leading the roads as congested
as before.
The Louis Vuitton Cup races were on when I was in Auckland, and
the port restaurants were crammed with tourists enjoying one of the city's few car-free
zones. As the Greens' Kedgley points out, Europe's pedestrian-friendly smart growth
model is the best one for Auckland. "Cities like Amsterdam are bustling with pavement
cafes, street entertainers and people enjoying themselves," she says. Exactly. New
Zealand is for the most part a clean and green country; let's hope it hasn't met
its match in the omnipresent automobile.
Jim Motavalli is editor of E The Environmental
Magazine. Questions or comments? jimm@emagazine.com