Live from Riverdance 25!!!
As you can see from the photo above, when the good folks in charge of selling tickets to shows at the Pantages, Dolby Theater and other assorted venues, want to make good on a mistake (see yesterday's blog post) they cough up the goods.
In this case we were literally 7 rows behind all the stomping, flailing, spinning and the bad bagpipe playing.
I had high expectations (in a limited sense of the word) for this theatrical production. After all, they were in their 25th year. Things that capture the attention of the public for more than 15 minutes usually have some redeeming quality. Or at least they have good whiskey served in the sprawling lobby bar.
And to be fair, there was plenty of production value. BTW, this is often mentioned in the ad world when a project is completed and the results are less than stellar.
"The writing wasn't great, the director was a hack, the casting was all wrong. But at least we got it down to 30 seconds and the production value was incredible."
In the case of this event, the lighting was innovative and beautiful, the sets were glossy, even the filmed portion at the rear of the stage was eye catching. But when all is said and done, Riverdance is a lot of people (beautiful, young, athletic people) stomping their feet in unison and spinning around in circles.
I hate to be so reductive, but I also have to be honest.
If one were to read between the lines and look for something more significant, one observe the similarities of Irish folk dancing to the flamenco dancing found in Spain just 1500 miles to the south. And, as I had mentioned weeks ago in my review of Outlander, the series on Netflix, there is ample evidence that connects Ireland to the one of the lost tribes of Israel.
Indeed, there were many dance numbers that looked similar to the Hora, a messy, less disciplined dance often seen at shabby weddings and bar mitzvahs.
Though Ms. Muse (a whopping 91.2% Irish) and I left before the no-doubt rousing conclusion, where toes were tapping and the floor joists at the Dolby Theater were beaten like a street musician who could only afford one drum, the evening was not without its entertainment.
All of it outside.
Where imposter Spidermen, Batmen and Wonder Women, plied their wares in dirty costumes in the heavily weed-scented air of Hollywood Blvd. Additionally, there were rovings gangs of teenage boys aboard dirt bikes, screaming up and down the boulevard, popping wheelies and terrorizing the visiting Nebraskans who were hoping to see Tom Hanks. Or Vin Diesel. Or Aubrey Plaza.
With every crane of the neck there were tawdry reminders of why I never want to play that game of being a tourist in my own town.
One last aside. Hollywood Boulevard is famous for its Walk of Fame, where the names of stars from the entertainment fields have been immortalized in industrial grade cement and tile that is often puked upon by those over served at the countless open air bars and grimy cantinas.
There are so many stars that jaded people, like myself, don't even look down or take any notice. But, to her credit and perhaps out of some random fluke, Ms. Muse, spotted a star that has some personal significance.
Bob Cummings, who the hell is Bob Cummings, you ask.
No comments:
Post a Comment