The Huntington's "Shining City": a short story made into a play

That a therapist would himself be in less-than-admirable moral or psychic shape is a truism. The play is based on that, and there's a parallel between the stories of Ian, the young ex-priest turned therapist, and his patient, John.

I thought it was fairly good theater. A bit static, since the heart of the play was really John's recitation of events off stage, troubling events that had happened earlier. There are one or two short stories basically being read aloud. And they would have been fine as literature. Here, they are dressed up as theater (with theater prices).

John the therapy patient (a middle aged fellow grieving the death of his wife from an accident, who believes his house is haunted with her ghost) recalls their life together and, in particular, his clumsy attempt to have an affair with an attractive woman he met at a party not long before his wife died. The affair was never consummated, as both people timidly, and wisely, shrunk back at the last moment.

There are plays that a group of actors with modest acting abilities would do well in, but this isn't one of them. Because so much of the play depends on the ability of a particular actor -- John -- to act and recite his story, without an excellent actor we would have a dreadful play. As it was, the four actors were very good, and we had scenes of good theater. (Well, at least I was able to understand about 70% of what the actors said, given their heavy Irish accents.)

There's a lot here that makes no sense at all -- Ian (the ex priest) brings a loutish "rent boy" to his apartment, Ian decides to move to be closer to his "fiance" (who is taking care of their daughter), and the appearance of a ghost in Ian's apartment in the last instant of the play (a silly and illogical attempt to strengthen the parallel to John's story). Our focus is painfully narrowed on the individual characters as they give their long monologues (like seeing a closeup on a movie screen for a long, long time).

Yet, I feel like I've seen decent Irish theater -- at least these are live flesh and blood characters, with live flesh and blood problems.

The Masterworks Chorale's "St. John's Passion"

I neglected to post last Sunday, after we saw the Chorale perform Bach's St. John's Passion. Many phrases sounded familiar to me, having just finished our own work on the two Bach cantatas. It seemed obvious that Steve Karidoyanes had gotten the Chorale to hit this Sunday just right. They gave off an energetic tension from the very first notes, as if this was genuinely important. The tone was lighter and tighter than we'd ever heard it.

Jason McStoots, the tenor, sang the role of the Evangelist. What a voice! It's high and sweet, with a pure consistent enunciation that never seems to lose its energy. Ulysses Thomas was the powerful baritone who sang Jesus's role. He has a beautiful rich voice. When he sang, "Mother, behold your son," my eyes nearly filled with tears.

The anti-semitic edge to St. John is there. (When the people are benignly referred to, they are simply, "the people." But when they want Christ's blood, they are "the Jews." As if somehow they were not all Jews, including Christ and his disciples.) He must have been a nut, or a propagandist. Sadly, what he did is preserved.

Brookline Chorus: Two Bach Cantatas and Benjamin Britten

Our Brookline Chorus concert on Saturday night surprised me with the size of the crowd -- who knew that around 250 people would come out on Saturday night to hear a community chorus sing Bach and Britten?

We performed the pieces (Bach Cantatas 149 and 19, and Britten's cantata, "The Company of Heaven") better than we had ever sung them before. Lisa Graham, our conductor, had moved us through the preceding rehearsals just right. She radiated energy. The soloists (Alexandra Lang, Ethan Bremner, Stephanie Kacoyanis, and Sepp Hammer) were each terrific. The basses rolled through the endless snaking sixteenth notes of the Bach more crisply than ever before.

And the Britten piece sounded almost shockingly modern, by contrast. And yet, its subject was angels and Satan, and St. Michael. As if to talk and sing of such things in the 20th century was somehow still possible. How can you not feel captivated by lines that refer to God with, "...He, Whom angels with veiled faces adore...."?