All posts by Bob Hicks

I've been observing Portland and its culture since 1974, for most of that time as a writer and editor at The Oregonian and the Oregon Journal. I finally left The O in December 2007 so I could spend more time hanging around coffee shops and catching up on good books. My journalistic wanderings have led me into the worlds of theater, dance, music, the visual arts, literature and food. I'll continue writing about those and broader cultural subjects for Art Scatter. They're terrific windows onto the great mysteries of life, and thinking about them makes the mendacities of our wayward national political culture a little more bearable.
Bob Hicks, General, Theater

J.C. & the Pirates: Ashland hits its stride

Leave a comment

Mark Antony (Danforth Comins) grieves for his dead Caesar (Vilma Silva). Photo: Jenny Graham.Jenny Graham/OSF

By Bob Hicks

Sunday was one of those days when Ashland repays all its debts and reminds you why you make the pilgrimage in the first place. The Scatters did a two-fer at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival: an enthralling Julius Caesar in the round at the compact New Theatre in the afternoon, a warm and comically capacious Pirates of Penzance on the outdoor Elizabethan Stage in the evening.

If you haven’t read or seen Julius Caesar since that unfortunate high-school freshman English class a few years back, take heart. Nothing didactic or dutiful here: this is storytelling at its most elemental and joyous. Director Amanda Dehnert’s production takes advantage of a lot of the bells and whistles that the festival’s prodigiously talented technical staff can muster, but the heart of the show is squarely in the acting and the script. It’s stripped-down theater, strategically rebuilt.

Continue reading J.C. & the Pirates: Ashland hits its stride →

Bob Hicks, General, Theater

Reign, reign, go away: it floods again

1 Comment

Doll Tearsheet (Nell Geisslinger), Falstaff (Michael Winters) and a disguised Prince Hal (John Tufts) in "Henry IV, Part Two." Photo: T. Charles Erickson/Oregon Shakespeare FestivalT. Charles Erickson/OSF

By Bob Hicks

All right, now, enough is enough. Not to get all Bardic on your heads, but this truly seems to be the summer of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival‘s discontent.

Yesterday we told you about the storm that sapped the power all over the festival’s hometown of Ashland, and the emergency-tent performance that was thus wiped out, and we recounted the perils of the broken playhouse, which after six weeks of darkness thankfully will be whole again in another couple of weeks.

So now let’s catch up with last night and the Case of the Empty House. That would be, The Case of the Empty House Awash in Rain, except it wasn’t totally empty (Mr. Scatter exaggerates) and the rain, for all its annoyance, wasn’t exactly a gullywasher, although a fair share of the audience that did show up treated it like the Johnstown Flood.

The theater was the Elizabethan Stage, that grand open-air space that holds 1,200 people. The play was Henry IV, Part Two, the midplay in the Henry saga and in many ways the least stirring, yet a play that still has considerable charms. The audience was … sparse. I’ve seen a few light houses in the 30-plus years I’ve been coming to the festival, but for a Saturday night in July and a play that may not be one of the box-office boffos like Twelfth Night but is hardly Troilus and Cressida or Pericles, Prince of Tyre either, the wide swaths of empty seats were shocking.

Continue reading Reign, reign, go away: it floods again →

Bob Hicks, General, Theater

OSF beats the curse of the Scottish play

Leave a comment

"Love's Labor's Lost" at Oregon Shakespeare Festival, 2011. Photo: T. Charles Erickson/OSFT. Charles Erickson/OSF

By Bob Hicks

Mr. Noah, will this downpour never end?

The Scatters have disembarked in Ashland, Oregon, hometown of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Ashland is in the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains, a prodigious distance from Mount Ararat, and also a fair trot from the creeping trees of Birnam Wood. Yet the festival must be wondering just whose curse has descended on it this summer, and when that wandering dove is going to return with the olive branch in its beak. As the puckish Marty Hughley commented, somebody down here must have actually uttered the title of The Scottish Play.

At about 7:15 on Friday evening, the lights went out in the little pink rental house where the Scatters are staying on the south end of town. Lights, clocks, fans, air-conditioner. Mr. Scatter ambled next door to see if anyone knew what was up.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Are your lights out?”

He was speaking to a smiling woman relaxing on a porch chair with her legs tucked beneath her. “Yeah,” she said. “The whole neighborhood’s hit.” She paused and gazed southwest. “Storm coming in from the coast,” she said. “Better just sit back and enjoy the show.”

By “show,” she didn’t mean The Imaginary Invalid. She meant the fireworks she hoped would soon be visible in the sky.

A little later the Scatters hopped into the Scattermobile and motored downtown toward the festival grounds. All the traffic lights were out. All the lights in all the houses and shops were out. The word “neighborhood” was beginning to take on a larger than usual meaning.

They approached the big white tent where they were going to see Moliere’s Invalid. Curtain time was approaching. Still no power. The Scatters began to get nervous. Had the Ashland curse bitten again?

Continue reading OSF beats the curse of the Scottish play →

Bob Hicks, General

Happy birthday, and farewell: Irby Hicks, 1916-2011

7 Comments

Today would have been Irby Hicks’s 95th birthday. He made it just five days shy, dying in the wee morning hours of Saturday, July 9, four days after a massive brain hemorrhage essentially shut him down.

Charlotte and Irby Hicks, around the time of their marriage in 1941.We pause for a long moment of reflection, love, and respect. Without Irby Hicks there would be no Art Scatter, not just because without him we would never have been born, but also because he instilled in his seven children the love of language and story that is crucial to the forming of any writer. Three of his children became professional writers. The other four are devoted readers.

Dad now enters that strange but powerful after-existence of memory, surviving in hearts and minds and stories. And memory being the elusive and misleading thing that it is, he approaches the category of myth. What do we remember, what have we forgotten, is it true?

For some reason, some of my most potent memories of my father involve food, and yet I’m not quite sure the events I recall actually happened. Did I hear them someplace, in a different context? Did I take unrelated things and invent a storyline to string them together?

Dad reading the newspaper, probably about 1950, probably in Puyallup, Washington.I vividly recall the time he put a chicken on the chopping block and lopped off its head. The decapitated bird rose up, flapped its wings, and flew across the low-lying garage, finally flopping to the ground on the other side. One sister recalls this. No one else does. So my sister and I wonder: Was this somebody else’s story that we somehow transposed to Dad? I remember the time I came home from school and encountered a whole hog’s head staring up from the bathtub: Dad had acquired it, and until he had time to strip it down, there was no place else to store it. No one else remembers that one. Did it happen? One thing’s true: the garden. That large, lush garden that for years flourished so magnificently. Maybe I think of food because it nourishes, and Dad nourished my own life. I am, in many ways, what he planted.

Like all fathers and sons, we had our times. In my late teens and early twenties I had the arrogance of the young, who like to take the full measure of their elders from the narrowest channels of their minds. And Dad did not suffer fools gladly, especially if the fools happened to be his own offspring. But those days were long past. Dad commanded respect, and we were all, I think, a little in awe of him. His even keel, his love of song, and his dry wit brought him down to earth and bound us together.

Dad was straight and strong and durable, and although we certainly knew better, I think that until three or four years ago we didn’t quite believe he would ever wear down. Well, he did. It was his time, and he went as gracefully as the circumstances allowed.

Now we turn our attention to Mom, Charlotte Lucille Baldwin Hicks, who is 91, and who has grit. Her story isn’t done.

If you’re interested, you can read Dad’s obituary notice here.

Irby Hicks, 1916-2011, in his latter years.

Dance, General, Martha Ullman West, Visual Art

Dance-plus: random notes from all over

Leave a comment

Drawing of the RMS Mauretania, from a cigarette card, ca. 1922-29. New York Public Library/Wikimedia Commons

In the past few months Art Scatter’s chief correspondent, Martha Ullman West, has been (as The New Yorker likes to say about its own correspondents) far-flung. We could tell you how much flinging she’s been up to, but it seems more appropriate to let her tell you herself. We will mention, however, that one of her flings was up the freeway to Seattle, where the national Dance Critics Association held its annual meeting and presented her with its Senior Critic’s Award, an honor that recognizes her position in the loftiest echelon of the profession. Congratulations, Martha, once again.

*

By Martha Ullman West

It’s a long time since I’ve made my presence known on Art Scatter (except to comment, lazy me). Since I last posted, on April 10, I’ve seen quite a lot of dancing, a Greek ruin or two or three, Maltese, Sicilian and Spanish museums, the Holy Grail (or not…), a clip aboard ship of the latest royal wedding extravaganza. I also received a prize, for which I had to give a lecture, and that little task made me think about all of the above and more.

Just before I skipped town on April 23, I witnessed Anne Mueller dance ballet for the last time opening night of Oregon Ballet Theatre’s final show of the season, still at the top of her form, showing her range in Trey McIntyre’s funky Speak, Nicolo Fonte’s Left Unsaid, and Christopher Stowell’s Eyes on You. More down the line about the opening ballet in that program, Balanchine’s Square Dance, which I also saw New York City Ballet perform in May.

Earlier in the week, at Da Vinci Middle School’s spring concert, a motley batch of middle school-age boys, seven of them, performed, identifiably, Gregg Bielemeier’s idiosyncratic juxtaposition of small precise movement and space-eating choreography, improvising within the form. At an age when going with the flow ain’t a goin’ to happen, they did just that, and it was lovely to see.

And then I was off on a cruise of what was originally supposed to be the Barbary Coast and include Tunisia, where I’ve long wanted to go, but world events interfered so Sardinia and Menorca were substituted, as well as extra time in Valencia, where in addition to one of the Holy Grails (housed in the cathedral there) we saw a parade in traditional garb — little girls in ruffled dresses and mantillas, elderly gents trying to manage their swords — and after that, in Granada, the magical Alhambra. That’s a place I’ve wanted to see with mine own eyes since my father rendered in paint how he imagined it looked in the Middle Ages.

Allen Ullman, "Granada," 1966, oil and casein. Courtesy Martha Ullman West.

Continue reading Dance-plus: random notes from all over →

Bob Hicks, Dance, General, Journalism, Music, Theater, Visual Art

The first thing let’s do, let’s kill the critics

5 Comments

By Bob Hicks

Bless me, reader, for I have sinned.

For 40 years Moses wandered in the wilderness. And for roughly the same amount of time I have stumbled through the landmines of contemporary culture, wearing the sackcloth of the most extreme form of penitent journalist.

Honore Daumier, "The Critic"I have been a critic.

Well, apparently I have. That’s what everyone tells me. Lord knows I’ve denied it over the years. For a long time, when people called me a critic, I’d correct them. “I’m a writer,” I’d gently explain, “and these days I happen to be writing about theater.”

It did no good. No one believed me. And “Writer Who Writes About Theater” doesn’t fit in a byline, anyway.

A few years ago I was chatting with Libby Appel, who at the time was artistic director of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. “You know, I’ve never really thought of myself as a critic,” I told her.

Libby’s eyebrow arched. (Sometimes eyebrows actually do that.) “Oh, you’re a critic,” she said emphatically.

I like to think she was delivering a description, not an accusation. I like her and respect her, even though I’ve sometimes argued in print with shows she’s directed, and I think the feeling’s been mutual. Still. There was no question in her mind. I was, without doubt, One of Those People. And Those People occupy a curious position in the artistic firmament. “Critics never worry me unless they are right,” Noel Coward once commented. “But that does not often occur.”

Then again, what exactly is right?

Continue reading The first thing let’s do, let’s kill the critics →

Bob Hicks, General, Music

MHCC: The day the music died?

Leave a comment

By Bob Hicks

At Oregon Music News, Dot Rust has been shouting an alarm over what she considers an administration/board attempt to shut down or severely curtail the internationally lauded music program at Mt. Hood Community College. She’s written two long posts about it (the one above is the second, and links to the first), and her assertions, if accurate, are worth raising an alarm about. You can lose yourself inside this thing, following the comment threads and considering the many implications of hobbling what has been for decades probably the college’s cover-image program.

trumpetChris Botti, Michele Mariana, Gary Hobbs, Patrick Lamb, Marilyn Keller, Phil Baker, Jeff Uusitalo, Lindsay Wagner, Sandin Wilson — the list of people who’ve gone through the MHCC program and made their marks locally and internationally in jazz, classical and pop circles goes on and on. Further, the MHCC program has attracted a lot of talent to the Portland area that otherwise probably would have landed elsewhere. So it’s a fair question: What’s up? And why kill the golden goose?

Rust is herself a product of the MHCC music program, and teaches there, so she has a dog in this fight. Doesn’t mean the fight’s not real. Flip on over to Oregon Music News and see what’s up.

Bob Hicks, General, Theater

A wake for Jimmy Caputo tonight

1 Comment

THE MORNING AFTER — It’s a rare and wonderful thing to be in a room filled with love the way that Lincoln Performance Hall was last night for the celebration of Jim Caputo’s life. The hall was filled to overflowing, which must have meant about 700 people were on hand for a night of music, videos (including Caputo’s infamous and oft-repeated dance steps, and his belly-rolling routine that eventually made it onstage in “The Full Monty”),  reminiscences and food. It was a bringing-together of a very broad clan, and Jim was the thread that united the pieces. It’s hard to say who’s more blessed: the man or woman who gives such a gift to a community, or the community that gratefully accepts the gift. Time after time, someone turned to someone else in the crowd and said, “Jimmy woulda loved this.” So he would have. It’s obvious that in the memories and lives of many people he’ll live on for a very long time.

By Bob Hicks

At last night’s loud and rousing celebration of the past season’s Portland theater, the Drammy Awards, Greg Tamblyn took time out from his outstanding-director acceptance speech to remind the crowd that it was a few people short this year, and especially, to his mind, it was missing Jim Caputo, the big-spirited actor who died at age 50 last month.

Jim Caputo in "The Gohosts of Treasure Island" at Oregon Children's Theare. Leah Nash/Special to The OregonianTamblyn and Caputo had been especially close — Greg directed Jimmy in more shows than you could count on the fingers of both of your hands — but Jim was in general one of the best-liked people on the city’s theater scene, a local boy who stuck around, learned well from the likes of the late great Peter Fornara, and became in turn a veteran hand always happy to help the next generation. In fact, he spent a lot of time doing shows with young actors at Oregon Children’s Theatre and elsewhere.

Tamblyn reminded the crowd that there’ll be a celebration of Caputo’s life tonight, Tuesday, at Lincoln Performance Hall on the Portland State University campus. The gathering begins at 6 p.m., and the memorial a half-hour later. Caputo’s widow, Karen Voss, gives this advice: “Please no somber dress — let’s fill the room with the bright colors of his light and laughter.”

The Drammy Committee, among its many other services, published a memoriam list in last night’s program of theater people who have died in the past year. Besides Caputo, they include:

  • Janet Bradley, the longtime and much-loved leader of Tears of Joy Theatre
  • Jack Wellington Cantwell, a true gentleman, a Portlander, and a veteran of many seasons at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival
  • Roger Cole
  • Judi Dreier
  • Bob Ellenstein
  • Bruce Fraser
  • Lannie Hurst, a genuine old-time leading lady
  • Dale Long
  • Kenneth Mars, the Hollywood star (The Producers, Young Frankenstein) who appeared onstage here with his daughter, Susannah Mars
  • Katie Myers and Michael Myers, effusive and good-hearted mainstays of Portland TheatreSports, who were swept out to sea by waves on the south jetty at Yaquina Bay
  • Bill Patton, the gentlemanly and supremely competent former executive director of the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, who began there when it was a little community summer theater and helped shape it into an internationally renowned company
  • James Peppers
  • Bob Rindt
  • Billy Rose

Each one of these people was extremely important in the lives of a lot of other people, from families to coworkers to audiences. Take a moment to remember them and the many roles they played.

And we’ll see you tonight to reminisce about Jimmy.

*

Photo: Jim Caputo in “The Ghosts of Treasure Island” at Oregon Children’s Theatre. Leah Nash/Special to The Oregonian

Bob Hicks, General, Theater

Reminder: Drammy Awards tonight

Leave a comment

By Bob Hicks

One night after the Tony Awards (hurrah for The Normal Heart) Portland’s own celebration of the year’s best stuff onstage, the Drammy Awards, happens tonight at the Crystal Ballroom just off West Burnside.

Jean-Marc Nattier, "Thalia, Muse of Comedy," oil on canvas, 1739. Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco/Wikimedia Commons.

In a season of roughly 125 eligible shows, plenty of good work has hit the stage, from Profile’s Great Falls way back in the rainy season to CoHo/Lucky Apple’s still-running Reasons To Be Pretty, which opened just a month ago in the, um, rainy season. Out of those 125 shows in Puddletown, why didn’t someone revive Singin’ in the Rain? Interesting side note: If Mr. Scatter counted correctly, the scripts for 41 of those shows were developed here in PDX.

The Crystal’s doors open at 6 p.m. and the presentations start at 7. Darius Pierce will be master of ceremonies. See you there. One final side note: The last time Mr. Scatter was carded was at the Crystal door for a Drammy ceremony four or five years ago. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

Illustration: Jean-Marc Nattier, “Thalia, Muse of Comedy,” oil on canvas, 1739. Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco/Wikimedia Commons.

Bob Hicks, Dance, General

Criticism: what’s it all about, Alfie?

1 Comment

By Bob Hicks

Shoving Deborah Jowitt out the door because she’s not “negative” enough is like firing God because he took that seventh day off. It’s short-sighted, presumptuous, and bound to come back and bite you in the butt.

So, ouch to Village Voice arts editor Brian Parks, who pulled the plug — at least, in the pages of his once-vital publication — on one of the most important voices in American dance writing. Not to wish plagues of locusts in his cornfield, but what was the man thinking? (To give Parks his due, he explained his disagreements with Howitt clearly, and he didn’t fire her: She decided she wasn’t willing to do the things he wanted her to do.)

Over at Arts Dispatch, Barry Johnson tackles this troubling question and broadens it to a consideration of the nature of criticism itself: what is it we want from a critic, and why? It’s a provocative analysis, and we highly recommend you read it for yourself. Get off this blog and haul on over to AD.