The 31st Spoleto Festival USA is officially in the past tense. It’s now time to get forensic on the thing. But that’s less easy than it sounds. Part of the difficulty in summing up the festival after the fact lies in its nature; as Mayor Riley noted during the mid-festival tribute to founder Gian Carlo Menotti, the composer knew that, to be truly successful, Spoleto must be much more than merely a series of concerts. “For Menotti, the word ‘festival’ was not a throwaway term,” hizonner observed in his memoriam. “Everything and everyone must be touched by it. Menotti knew that Spoleto must become the life and the patina of the city for 17 days.” If you’ll glance at a festival calendar, it’s obvious organizers take Menotti’s mission seriously. Toss Piccolo Spoleto’s hundreds of separate events and the scores of chance encounters and random pearls of unpredictability the twin festivals generate into the mix, and you’ve got a whole that’s much greater than the sum of its parts.
This all renders the greater impact of the shebang essentially unsumuppable. Still, here goes.
Blogging. It may seem like an insider’s observation, just shameless navel gazing, but the stats argue otherwise. There were five professional, local blogs keeping hourly tabs on the festivals this year, not including the occasional posts from The State and The New York Times. And people were reading — and watching, and listening to — them. Our three blogs had 308,967 hits over the three
The weather. Things were fine, even splendid, weather-wise until the middle of the festival’s second weekend, when tropical storm Barry swept inland south of us and pummeled the city (and Dock Street Theatre opera L’ile de Merlin) with a soaking, windblown welcome to the first day of hurricane season. No sooner had we squeegeed ourselves off than we were reminded it was also high summer, with 90-plus-degree heat through the end of the festival.
Ticketmaster. This company belongs on the same shit list as Wal-Mart and Enron. The City of Charleston needs to kill Piccolo’s contract with these West Hollywood hoodlums and handicap regional guys Etix’s bid next year. The opening weekend ticketing snafu ought to give the Office of Cultural Affairs more than enough leverage to wriggle out of a ROFR.
Left-leaning political commentary. There was no shortage in either of this year’s festivals. At the Village Playhouse, they sang, “What is Urinetown? Urinetown’s a lie, a means to keep the poor
Costumes. Women swooned over the duds in the Gate Theatre’s Constant Wife — the shoes, the hats, the dresses, the handbags, even the gloves — but the rest of the ’07 festival had some notable couture, too. The multicolored day-glo suits in Mahagonny were safely observed only through s
Rotting innards. I may have been the only person who didn’t care for Sekou Sundiata’s
Parking. It was a quick way to give yourself an ulcer last year, if your destination was anywhere near the CofC’s Simons Center for the Arts — or the Cistern, or Theatre 220, or the Sottile Theatre. And it was just as bad this year, with the formerly spacious parking garage at St. Philip and George streets now a faded memory and whatever’s going up there still under construction. And that damned bicycle-riding CofC parking cop was the bane of my existence. God forbit any of those spaces actually be used by anyone at night, while school’s out…
Charles Wadsworth. The 78-year-old host of Spoleto’s Chamber Music is as much a fixture of the Big Festival as the Dock Street itself, but his brand of suggestive, self-deprecating humor — or “corny palaver,” as New York Times blogger James Oestreich put it mid-festival — isn’t for everyone. His age makes him mostly immune to criticism. But any man 20 years younger letting loose with the same off-color remarks about the female musicians in his employ would be sued to within an inch of his innuendo.
Cellphones. Are people whose cellphones ring in the middle of performances evil, stupid, thoughtless, or simply minions of the Devil? And for punishment, should they be a) forced to eat their phones, b) drawn and quartered, c) buried alive with a phone whose ringtone is Beyonce’s “Irreplacable”? My solution: pack ’em off to Urinetown.
Magic. Between the wonderfully unpredictable Major Bang: or, How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Dirty Bomb and Aurélia’s Oratorio, there was more illusion on the Emmett Robinson stage this year than at a David Copperfield fan club convention.
Festival foxes. I worried that my “Most Boinkable Artist” category in last year’s wrap was too, shall we say, indelicate. But a conversation with Spoleto admins and organizers at the festival finale convinced me it had to go in again. The top honors went to:
2) Keith Phares, who played Pierrot in L’ile de Merlin (and appeared in both of the two recent Don Giovannis here). It must have been the Keanu Reeves Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure impression.
3. Rubberbandance’s Lila-Mae Talbot. Cute as a button, limber, and with a French accent. What more need be said?
4. Andrew von Oeyen. Youthful blond virtuoso pianist von Oeyen is a veteran of last year’s list, and if he seems a little too fond of his own picture, where’s the harm in that?
5. The Constant Wife’s Jade Yourell. As Constance’s best friend Marie-Louise, who’s not so secretly knocking boots with Constance’s husband John, Jade was a beautiful, brainless bonbon. As a beautiful, brainy actress, she’s even better.
Nihilism. This $20 word got bandied about a lot in the wake of the premiere of Pascal Dusapin’s Faustus, the Last Night. Unless you’re a fan of either Neitzsche, Heidegger, or The Big Lebowski, you may be unfamiliar with its philosophical ramifications for that opera. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, though. It’s probably nothing.
Underground art. At the last minute, after much urging on my part — and coming just one week
Controversy. Spoleto wouldn’t be Spoleto unless it chapped a few asses with its programming, and so it was. Most of the debate, however, took place within the rarified circles of music theorists and connoisseurs, not among the plebeian masses, sad to say. Faustus, the Last Night was either groundbreaking genius or unlistenable tripe, depending on which critic you asked. Glass’ Book of Longing was either a delightful melding of music and literature or a nose-dive into shlocky, saccharine pap. L’ile de Merlin was a gut-bustingly sharp satirical updating of an otherwise unremarkable opera to some, a crass, unsubtle piece of pandering that sacrificed music to silly spectacle for others. Neither did Dood Paard’s spare, postmodern medEia do anything to mollify the unquiet gripers. It was a banner year for “challenging” art at the festival. Menotti, rest his soul, would be proud.