My favorite columnist [tied for first place, of couse, with Molly Ivins]
is no music critic, by his own admission.  And yet Jon has just captured
the very essence of *not* being involved in something in front of you (and
on top, and pushing and shoving, and in your face...:).  *This* is our
monkey-mind at work when not engaged; it reminds me of my awareness of
the ugly *shoes* in `The Fifth of July,' or last night's contemplation
of hairstyles at `Rent.'

Jon is wrong about one thing:  when Sellars is involved, it's not a matter
of nudity:  the emperor has too many damn clothes.

   You Are What You Wear
   JON CARROLL / SF Chronicle

   LAST FRIDAY NIGHT I sat with 1,500 of the most courteous people in
   the world. Despite overwhelming provocation, almost none of them
   walked out on Peter Sellars' much-hyped multicultural "The Peony
   Pavilion." I suspect one small child saying, "The emperor has no
   talent" might have produced a grateful stampede to the exits, but
   I cannot be sure.

   I know, there were riots when Stravinsky's "The Rite of Spring" was
   first performed.  Riots are good; riots indicate passion.  There was
   not even a minor insurrection at "The Peony Pavilion," only a sort
   of stunned civility, as when the bride's sister consents to sing "The
   Wind Beneath My Wings."

   At times like this, the experienced theatergoer attempts to concentrate
   on random speculations.  During a painful interlude a few years ago, I
   composed a thrilling jeremiad against stage smoke, which at that time
   seemed obligatory no matter what kind of performance was being offered.
   A flamenco concert? Smoke.  "Hamlet"? Smoke.  Ian and Sylvia, the
   Reunion Tour? Smoke.  Diane Hidy plays Chopin for Lovers? Smoke.

   I learned later that many performers, particularly singers, were
   protesting the use of atmospheric vapors because the "safe" chemical
   formulation of modern stage smoke produced respiratory problems, some
   of them career-threatening.

   SO, ONE OF the most pleasing interludes of "The Peony Pavilion"
   occurred at least three times in the second act, when a battalion of
   stagehands appeared onstage to move bits of the ungainly Plexiglas
   set.

   I thought:  Why do stagehands always wear black? Whom are they trying
   to fool? We know they're there, we know why they're there, we watch
   them do what rthey do because our chairs are facing that direction
   and there's nothing else to watch.

   (Aside:  Why do so many stagehands have ponytails? You'd think, what
   with all the elaborate machinery backstage, techies would if anything
   favor closely cropped hair for safety reasons.  But no, unisex
   ponytails are of the rigor.  I have no theories.)

   I think it's time for stagehands to come out of the closet.  I'm
   thinking white jumpsuits here, perhaps with the words "I'm a Stagehand:
   You Can't See Me" emblazoned on the backs.

   Since all the performers in "The Peony Pavilion" were going over the
   top (and down the other side and across the valley and up into the
   caves beyond, screaming all the way), the stagehands should have had
   a chance at the fun too.

Janos Gereben/SF
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