critics and their criticism
In observation of the 110th birthday of Perry Como, May 18, 1912.
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Has there ever been a more perfect opera to watch after a breakup than Ariadne auf Naxos?
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In any case, we are now in the Queen’s garden of the Palace in Madrid. It is the day before the coronation of King Philip. Coronation? What coronation?
The only correct version of Don Carlos must be in French. That is the language that Verdi composed it in and he made all his revisions in that language.
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In online discussion on “Favorite Opera” and cuts in opera in general, it seems Don Carlos (in its original French title) or Don Carlo (as it is better known in Italian) – with or without the “s” – generally get the most votes both as favorite and as an opera from which deplorable cuts are made.
Watching Gloria Grahame—lips moist and parted, eyes staring off into some faraway middle distance—is absolutely arresting. She looks like the quintessential Noir femme fatale that was, in fact, probably her principal calling card.
One by one, we see the principals arriving at the eerily empty building. Something about watching them—masked and in street clothes, struggling with umbrellas—was almost unbearably emotional for me.
Without attempting to rival The New York Times’ enormous celebratory package, your doyenne lauds the golden anniversary of the Broadway opening night of the seminal musical Follies with a selection of parterre box and parterre box-adjacent pieces devoted to this gorgeous monster of a show.
Sweet Bird of Youth closes out an undeniably successful decade for Tennessee Williams, on stage and screen, and bisects his body of work, with his mature hits on one side and his experimental, often lambasted later plays on the other.
The flawless, classical singing style of Perry Como. Perry Como?
I can safely say that this is the gay drama I’ve been waiting for: a genuinely devastating drama that doesn’t treat its characters like lambs waiting for the slaughter or overdose on weepiness, and a queer narrative that unapologetically centers the queer perspective.
If The Night of the Iguana is not exactly a day at the beach, it’s not really the dark night of the soul it should be, either.
As I don’t need to remind you, we are fast approaching the one-year anniversary of COVID quarantine—and for the arts, it remains a scenario of giveth and taketh away.
We shared a feeling that writing about The Fugitive Kind was a date with destiny.
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