Tonight, I had the fortune of taking part in a dance party. I'm a miserable dancer, first of all -- I may have talked about it on this blog before -- I flail and thrash and knock out passersby with my enthusiastic moves. But that's just it: my moves are motivated by pure passion. And really, what more passionate era for dance music is there than the gorgeous, gory 80's? The 80's, when nobody minded if you acted out the words in dance form? The 80's, when your moves were only eclipsed by your shoulder pads? Thanks Gina for inviting me to your shenanza. I had a fabulous time.
Yesterday, I went to see Kalkwerk, directed by Krystian Lupa, which was on as a part of the Lincoln Center Festival. The production was a sprawlingly tidy four hours long, with two intermissions; presumably both were necessary to bring the viewers back from the absolutely existential bleakness of the first and second act. (I didn't get up between 7PM and 11PM. I have a social bladder.)
Kalkwerk's production is relentless in its portrayal of the wretched genius; Konrad, the somewhat-narrator, is unable to sleep or even be normal because of his obsession with a certain treatise he claims he will one day write on the subject of hearing. He subjects his invalid wife to a series of auditory exercises that go on for hours in the lime works (the titular Kalkwerk) that they've moved into, and the rest of the day they only eat or sleep. In the end, the narrator has nothing to show for the enormous sacrifices both he and his wife made for the advancement of this scholastic notion. The production is beautiful to watch, powerful and intriguing, and Krystian Lupa directs his actors to the point of exhaustion so they're spot on with every bit of disturbed silence. It's also funny in parts -- but don't expect a happy ending, or even an ending, really. Kalkwerk is not for the kicky rom-com seekers among us.
Tomorrow, Coney Island, to round out the culturally relevant weekend I've been having.