… if trying to cope /with a misanthrope:

The greatest challenge in producing Moliere’s “The Misanthrope” at Gulf Coast Community College, said director Jason Blanks, had nothing to do with the elaborate costuming or the historical accuracy of the setting.

It wasn’t even the usual challenge the leading actors face of learning a vast number of lines.

“One of the unique challenges of doing Moliere or any of the classic French comedies is it’s done in rhymed couplets,” Blanks said. “The challenge is to make sure that it doesn’t sound like an elaborately costumed Dr. Seuss book.”

Webster defines “misanthrope” as a person who hates or distrusts all people. In Dr. Seuss terms, he’d be something of a Grinch — cuddly as a cactus, charming as an eel.

The show opened Friday, and has a matinee performance today at 2:30 p.m. Encores will be Nov. 21 and 22 at 7:30 p.m. and next Sunday at 2:30 p.m. Tickets are $10 for adults, $5 for kids under 18; GCCC students, faculty and staff get free admission with a college ID.

See Photos Here.

In this play, the titular character (played by Nathan Simmons, who may want to start worrying about being typecast) is blinded by his infatuation with a flirtatious woman (Allison Fleckenstein) who embodies all the qualities that he dislikes in other people.

(Personal note: Don’t mistake this column for an unbiased examination of the production. I know most of the young men and women involved, and I contributed to the procreation of one of them. Having said that, what I saw of dress rehearsal on Wednesday was pretty darn funny.)

“You have to make it sound normal — normalized speech — but also there are points where accentuating the rhyme scheme actually makes it funnier,” Jason said. “So it’s skating the fine line between normal speech and heightened rhyming speech.”

The misanthrope in question engages in wordplay throughout the show, sometimes mimicking the delivery of his intended’s other suitors. Compared to those fops, he’s a bad banana with a greasy black peel.

Certainly, the style won’t work for everyone, but you shouldn’t mistake it for Shakespeare: There’s no iambic pentameter, the scenes are more madcap romantic/comedy style than that, and the rhymes come fast and furious, often disguised in the witty dialogue. Part of the fun is seeing what words will be matched and how they’ll be played.

That, and seeing if the misanthrope’s heart grows three sizes that day.

Peace.

It all passed too quickly, and the music didn’t linger.

In the Hammocks neighborhood, the music of the night was the giggling of costumed children who spent the early evening hours of All Hallows Eve rushing house to house and filling bags, pillowcases and boxes with treats. Hannah Montana was as ubiquitous as the many clones of Batman and Spider-Man, and some put more effort than others into their presentation.

More than a few of the goodie bags extended on this evening were grasped by children wearing no costume at all to cover their street clothes. But their lack of effort just made the imaginative one stand out all the more, like the child dressed as a mouse in a trap, or the little turtle who paused to model her head gear and berate me for rushing her before speeding along the sidewalk to the next house.

Before we knew it, the streets were empty. The ghouls had gone home to nurse stomachs packed too full of sweets. Porch lights all around were extinguished.

Later that night, in a house near downtown Panama City, the music was delta blues, but it carried an eerie edge, almost the whine of a theremin, like you’d hear in a 1950s sci-fi film. The keening moan came from a saw wedged between the knees of artist Heather Clements, who flexed the metal and excited it with a bow.

She accompanied guitarist and singer Slim Fatz, who worked the strings of a box guitar and sang the blues.
The location was the UnReal Artists Gallery, 839 Oak Ave., which was hosting an after-hours Halloween “Spooktacular.”

Host and owner Paulette Perlman encouraged guests to take a candle and wander through the darkened back rooms of the house on a self-guided art tour. They moved carefully, studying walls adorned with art — paintings, collections of objects, photographs, and a room decorated with ghosts and spider webs. Some held their candles perilously close to the work to pick out details.

Outside, in the “outdoor house,” the air was cool and clear. Though people milled and mingled, nothing went bump in the night.

Before we knew it, morning broke with Christmas music in the retail stores and on the radio. Jingle bells rang as crumpled Jack O’Lanterns dropped into garbage cans and candy wrappers got scooped off the floor. The sudden change was jarring, but then I had a flash of Jack Skellington in his Santa suit, and realized everything was going to be OK.

Peace.

… for shooting Andy Warhol

Despite (or perhaps because of) his professed superficiality, Andy Warhol would have appreciated the irony and even might have been amused by the artistic value of the stunt.
It happened one evening last month at the Gallery Above. Local artist Matty Jankowski arranged to have three young women (Tabitha, Mary and Amanda) show up to act as models, and he supplied his own piece of artwork a portrait of, Warhol printed on a discarded muffler and mounted on a bedpost, to serve as the centerpiece.
His concept: “Shooting Andy Warhol.”

(Click here to see a photo gallery from the event.)

(Click here to see VIDEO of the event.)

Matty started by giving the audience a history lesson via published reports and essays, bringing them up to speed on Warhol’s philosophies of art, death, time and reality. Tabitha sat with a wood-handled revolver in her lap and read aloud the tale of how Warhol got plugged in the chest by an unbalanced and marginal member of his Factory scene one day in June 1968.
Then the virtual carnage began. Toting real guns, the models took turns aiming at the muffler, at each other, and at random points overhead and all around. They also traded off posing with an antique Polaroid, shooting each other shooting “Andy,” and in turn being shot by Matty and any other person holding a camera or using a cell phone camera.
Electronic flashes whirred and snapped. Hammers click-clickclicked as the triggers tripped. This continued in fitful starts and stops for a quarter-hour, reflecting Warhol’s famous pronouncement that, in the future, everyone would be famous for 15 minutes.
The audience was encouraged to participate further by writing about their experiences in a book Matty passed around. Some wrote notes or quick poems or sketches. I attached a short story I had read earlier in the evening.
The “shooting” spree was part of last month’s Open Mic Night, which next occurs from 7-9 p.m. Wednesday, Oct. 29. The Gallery Above is at 563 Harrison Ave. For details, visit galleryabove.com
As a photographer attempting to capture the other photographers as they stalked the models that night, I became acutely aware of the audience, one step farther removed from the action, observing even me. It spun an already surreal happening into the realm of the absurd.
I had the experience of existing outside myself for a few strange minutes, and I think Andy could have sympathized.
Peace.