OUT IN THE ARTS

by D.L. Groover

Show Me the Money

I guess that $1.7 million bonus just wasn’t enough for Museum of Fine Arts, Houston director Peter Marzio. That was his reward from the board of trustees for raising the $126 million for the Audrey Jones Beck addition. That sleek stone structure opened in 2000, adding 85,000 square feet of exhibition space and pushing the MFAH from 30th to 6th in U.S. museum space, while propelling Marzio and his associate director to stratospheric first place among Houston arts executives’ salaries. Now, two years later, he wants another building. This time it’s a 150,000+ square foot behemoth proposed to house the museum’s growing contemporary collection and recent acquisitions. Wasn’t that why the Beck was built? My suggestion: If they would remove all the second-tier art now displayed, the really quality stuff would fit snuggly in our own tiny Gulf Coast Archives and Museum of GLBT History on West Main.

FADE TO BLACK.

Our community’s favorite Martian, wiggy ol’ Michael Jackson, has even out-weirded himself. He’s turned himself black! In a transparent attempt at blackmailing Sony head honcho Thomas Mottola, the one-time King of Pop has gone on a publicity rampage to smear Mottola as a racist in order to renegotiate his royalties contract and lead blame away from dismal sales of his latest dog of an album, the uninspired Invincible. Brandishing photos of Mottola doctored with horns and a pitchfork, wacko Jacko proceeded through Harlem in hopes of stirring up unrest and dissatisfaction, accompanied by mercenaries Al Sharpton and Johnnie Cochran. Jackson didn’t seem phased by the fact that Sony has a rich stable of black artists or that the music giant spent in excess of $50 million to promote his musical bomb, all while reaping a dismal 2 million in domestic sales. “When you fight for me, you’re fighting for all black people, dead or alive,” Jackson pronounced straight-faced to the crowd. He even kissed a surprised Sharpton, who later backtracked on his involvement in this excessive prima donna exercise. Jackson has threatened a lawsuit against Sony, which Mottola is amply prepared to defend. As ex-husband of Mariah Carey, he knows everything about divas and freaks.

ON THEIR TOES.

If you were anywhere near sleepy Jackson, Mississippi, last month, the street banners and exhibition-sized posters would have led you inexorably to the VII USA International Ballet Competition. This every-four-year dance fest is one of four top ballet competitions in the world, sharing honors with sister cities Varna in Bulgaria, Moscow, and Tokyo. Competitors must range in age between 19 and 26 for the senior division and 15–18 in the junior bracket. An international jury of 13 artistic directors and former dancers rate the field, which this year numbered 112. As in the Olympics, the judging is often extremely subjective and downright daffy. I heard, after the fact, of a dancer’s shoes as well as a costume color considered inappropriate and therefore marked down—neither of which has anything to do with the quality of dancing and ease of performance. Houston Ballet entered three dancers, and all made it to the finals but received no medals, although soloists Sara Webb and Ian Cassidy were an audience hit in their contemporary entry, Dominic Walsh’s pas de deux Sonate Corellisante. Competing in the junior division, HB academy member Michelle Carpenter, a real beauty of a dancer who will join the company as an apprentice this season, won a special citation from the jury for a full scholarship to the State Ballet Academy in Munich, Germany. She has wisely decided to stay put with Houston Ballet.

A VERY CLOSE SHAVE.

If you think a contemporary Broadway classic can’t be done low rent, you obviously missed Masquerade Theatre’s chillingly perfect rendition of Stephen Sondheim’s Grand Guignol tale of the demon barber of Fleet Street, Sweeney Todd. All the ghastly delights inherent in the 1979 multiple Tony Award-winner are here, just miniaturized and brought full face in the bandbox theater on Shepherd under Phillip Duggins’ razor-sharp direction. When Luther Chakurian, a dark psychotic Sweeney if ever there was, swept the air in front of him with his lethal “friend,” everyone in the theater instinctively leaned back. In a deliciously daft yet sympathetic portrayal as Mrs. Lovett, baker from Hell, Rebekah Dahl—whether wielding rolling pin or blissfully conjuring up seaside retirement—was ideal and, dare I say, quickly made one forget Angela Lansbury’s definitive original. Everyone in the cast was damned near ideal—with special kudos to ultra-pro High School for the Performing and Visual Arts sophomore Logan Kesler and Masquerade veteran Allison Sumrall. Because Sondheim’s vision in Sweeney Todd is so exquisitely bleak and misanthropic, there’s never much to take away from even a good production, except for admiration for the creators’ limitless craft. With this one, Masquerade surpassed itself.