A Good Accent is Hard to Find

Last week, in the wake of midterms and while examining the many nuances of John Stuart Mill, I went to see Shakespeare's Love's Labour's Lost.

The Globe Theatre of London obligingly left their foggy mysterious city (the majority of my mental pictures of London are scenes from Gaslight) to come to Ann Arbor, where they were no doubt trampled upon by charging mobs of Jansport-wielding students who were too involved in chortling over their latest text message to prevent the injury of a hestitant Shakespearean.

Here's my ticket! I'm saving it the same way you save the coaster at a fancy restaurant. Like a hoarding of proof that you can be expensive.

"Center or side?" the peaked clerk at UMS (University Music Society) had asked me, after he got over his surprise at being spoken to. I looked at the available seats and went instantly into optimization mode. This was just like choosing a seat for a plane ticket! First criteria: aisle! If many aisles available: close to the front! If many aisles close to the front: center row!


There were a few aisles close the front, but none in the center row. So, I got J4. How nice, I thought. I like the number 4. J is a good letter. Well, I arrived, and this was my view:

See that head right there? The one on the right bottom corner? That was not a friend of mine. I presume that was the boyfriend of the girl next to him, since she kept clutching his bicep at random points during the play (more restraining than affectionate in my opinion, but maybe he likes that). Yeah, anyways, given the rather, uh, less than panoramic view that J-4 allowed me, I took the far-too-unnecessarily-close-to-a-strange-person seat -- right next to him instead of the aisle seat. "Hello, stranger," I whispered seductively as I sat down, clutching his arm as a greeting. Ehhm, just kidding. Anyways.

I loved being in a theatre. Especially when it's spelled "theatre." Here's the king looking lionlike.

Here's a picture with most of the cast. There was always alot going on in this play. I was surprised by all the physical humor -- the king kept making this unlikely high-pitched screechy noise (which cracked me up every time, I might add) and this one other guy kept grabbing his crotch and shaking it. This supports my theory that all men have an affection for slapstick and sound effects, even William Shakespeare and Dominic Dromgoole (the director).There was one benefit, although a slightly alarming one, to being so close to the front yet so far to the side. Actors occasionally were very near my seat. Here's the crotch-grabbing man alarmingly close-up. He seemed like a merry fellow, but -I'm sure you understand- not the one I would have chosen to be within touching distance, given his crotch-grabbing history. (Look at his left hand! Where is that going, sir?) Okay, here's the person who I actually wanted to come a bit closer (cue Jay and the Americans). Berowne is the companion of the king who hesitates about swearing off women for three years when the four of them are signing the oath. What a smart lad! The actor, Trystan Gravelle, is Welsh and dashing. Look at him perched, looking broody, on that perillous piece of metal (okay, fine, not actually perillous, but I like to think so). His accent was amazing. Did I mention that he was Welsh? The French princess, in the orange, was also a wonderful actress. And look at their clothes! I love the dresses. Anyways, so after about an hour and a half of the play, everyone clapped and then people started streaming out. I thought it was odd, because the story didn't seem to be resolved. That's a bit abrupt of an ending, William, I tut-tutted in my head. Bicep boy next to me looked relieved when I rose to get my things. In my futile attempts to get pictures of the stage that were NOT grainy and blocked by an enormous pole, I had made some occasional leaps into his arms and lap.

So, I streamed out with the others, my heels clinking satisfyingly on the wooden floor, adding to my feeling of cultured sophistication. I pulled on my gloves. I had just gone to a Shakespeare play, I smiled to myself. All in all, I thought, it was a good experience. I should do it more often, go to the theater. Or better yet, the theatre.

Two hours later, my housemate (who had been at the play but in a different seat -- which probably didn't involve invading anyone's personal space or having no view of the front of stage) asked where I had gone. I blinked at her.

"I saw you get up during intermission," she explained, "then I didn't see you come back in."

"Ohhhh, right," I replied. ("Idiot!" screamed my brain.) "I, uh, had to leave early."

She looked sympathetic. "It's too bad you missed the ending."

It is, isn't it?

Intermission, n.

1. the break during acts; 2. the period when one does NOT waltz home with no realization that the story has not actually ended

Autumn Renaissance in Ann Arbor

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The Dissenting Tree

Burnt Orange

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The ivy is changing!

L'automne est un deuxième printemps, où chaque feuille est un fleur. -Albert Camus

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Christmas in October

The Sunny Side

On Snark, Humanity, and Choosing Sides

Midterms are over, and I'm escaping life, going to Panera and contemplating failing my finals. Gosh, I miss Panera. The smell of bread and the sounds of people are so comforting. But anyways - failure.

The more that I'm at this school, in a world of fierce academia (although I'm sure Ivy league students would screech with laughter at that), the more I wonder if there isn't a fundamental conflict going on. A fundamental conflict in which I have never chosen a side.

I think that basic human kindness is the lowest common denominator. Simple "niceness", unchecked emotion, unquestioning sympathy -- what would education be, and more than that, what would art be, if these qualities were enough? Imagine the educated wit of A.O. Scott's reviews, the snappy snark of Lorrie Moore's short stories, the gloriously unforgiving imagery of Flannery O'Connor, or Joyce Carol Oates, without their respective wit and snark. Imagine rock music without its scathing commentary on our culture -- oh my god, imagine movies without that! We wouldn't have any Woody Allen movies if just niceness were enough. Hell, imagine blogs. We'd just be reading about feelings, with an endless variety of cheerleading/feeling legitimization in the comments section -- "You're beautiful the way you are and don't you forget it" followed by copying and pasting exclamation points. I mean, oh my god, imagine pinkindiaink without Kat's scornful impudence! There would be no pink india ink in a world like this, friends!

Kindness is not enough. A happy family of poor villagers (why do we always return to "villagers" when we want a controlled scenario? villagers or desert islands..) who care for each other have human kindness and sympathize with one another, but that is not enough. If it were enough, civilization would not have grown around us. There would be no ruthless business world on which we base our economic system, no competitive sports to drive us, no harsh academia to whittle youth into knowledgeable citizens.

You agree with me so far? Snark is important! Wit, high standards, genius, are important! But stop. Stop for a moment and re-read what I said about the villagers.

"A happy family." Those three words evoke the most profound longing for a child of divorced parents. How impossible it seems for them, and how much they would give up to have it, makes my dismissal cold and meaningless. "A family with human kindness." The child of an abusive parent looks at those words without comprehension. "A family of people who sympathize with one another." A person whose family has alienated her/him based on lifestyle or religious choices would feel the lifting of an unbearable burden to have that judgement replaced with "sympathy."

Kindness, therefore, is the lowest common denominator: it is not enough, but without it, everything else is extraneous. Art is snarky and cruel because the author depicts humanity with the vibrant, tingling brush of sarcasm - but the humanity has to be there.

I feel that people forget that. Professors have a reputation for tough love -- and I'm not the type to go running to the teacher, asking to change a grade because of personal problems. I'm used to strictness. But the other day, as I saw a teacher be unbelievably unsympathetic to a student's concern, I suddenly asked "why?" Why do we accept the lack of humanity from people just because their "higher" qualities are so numerous and cultivated? We automatically accept that talent can be not only eccentric (I'm all for eccentricity), but actually cruel.

Isn't it a little scary to be in a world where emotion exists to be mocked and problems are always excuses?

We are suspicious because the alternative is pliability, giving into ever demand, becoming naively a push-over. The alternative, in a broader sense, is mediocrity. Assuming the worst is the most efficient method, I agree, but don't we lose something? Aren't the pursuits of efficiency and excellence and the pursuit of humanity sometimes diametrically opposed? And if they are, which side am I on?