EDITOR’S NOTE: Sure, your 4th-grade teacher told you there was no such thing as a stupid question. But that doesn’t stop you from stifling inquiries you’re afraid will make you appear obtuse. Our critics answer the questions before you have to ask.
DANCE: How can you tell what’s good or bad in dance? How will I know what I like?
These are perennial questions hurled at one of the least under-stood or familiar of art forms. And no wonder. To understand dance, you have to see it, and unlike visual art, which can be reproduced in books, or great music, which is readily available on CDs, dance is almost universally available only in the formal concert hall, a place often geographically or financially in-accessible to many Americans.
As a result, those who’ve seen only a glimpse of a “Swan Lake” or an excerpt of a work by Martha Graham think of the art as strange, alien, remote and stuffy. Opera is as familiar as the radio; serious dance is the provenance of the elite.
There is a solution: Go and see it for yourself. Familiarity breeds delight, especially when your first encounter is something as whimsical and free as most Hubbard Street Dance Chicago offerings or a repertory sampling from the Joffrey Ballet. Initially, and durably, dance is always about visceral beauty and athletic excitement. A good dancer is an acrobat, as well as an artist, and, as the famed song in “A Chorus Line” suggests, one made attractive by the very aesthetics of the art itself. Everything’s beautiful at the ballet. Basically, dance shimmers with eroticism and romance, two universally popular elements, and to enjoy dance, you really don’t need to discern anything else.
Beyond that, experience teaches what critics and aficionados learn to treasure, that dance is ultimately like any art, boasting a visual surface underscored by innumerable, sometimes impenetrable layers. The more you see it, the more they peel away, so that once you do go, you’re the only critic who matters. Don’t worry about what to look for. Just go and look.
— Sid Smith
LITERATURE: Why do publishers still publish hardcover books, when paperbacks are cheaper for readers to buy and cheaper for publishers to produce?
Blame it on the usual suspects: tradition, prestige and money.
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“The publishing industry is resistant to change,” said Sophie Cottrell, vice president and associate publisher at Little, Brown and Co. in New York. Hardcovers long have been the industry standard — and carry much more clout than a paperback.
“The media that we rely on to spread the word about a new book — book reviewers, feature writers, radio and TV producers — are geared toward new hardcovers,” Cottrell con-tinued. “Getting serious media and review attention for a new book is, for the most part, an easier sell with a hardcover.”
But it’s not just a matter of hype, she noted. “Publishers want to create a lasting object, and hardcovers last longer. An author may spend years writing a book, and a publisher spends money producing and marketing that book. We all want it to last, to stand the test of time, and not fall apart. This is especially important for libraries, where a book needs to be tough to withstand many readings.”
Still, the most compelling reason is money. “Authors, booksellers and publishers make more money for each hardcover sale than they do for a paperback,” Cottrell said. “Walk into a bookstore and the first thing you see is what the bookseller wants you to buy: hardcovers, in big stacks to grab your attention.”
The custom of publishing first in hardcover isn’t necessarily the rule in other countries, Cottrell noted. In Great Britain, for instance, only the works of mega-selling authors are published in hardback, while everybody else gets the paperback treatment.
“We always look at a book as having two lives, one as a new hardcover, and a second as a paperback, most often a year later,” Cottrell said. “That’s when the book gets a new look, a second at media coverage and a second life in bookstores.”
— Julia Keller
THEATER: Do I have to dress up to go to the theater?
No. Nein. Nope. No-sireee. Not at all. No way. Absolutely not.
Nothing drives people who work in the theater crazier than this erroneous perception. They know that theater has a reputation for elitism. They say they cannot do much about the cost of tickets (theater is an expensive business), but they can at least ensure you’re not expected to sport a jacket.
Dress code at the Goodman Theatre? No.
Northlight? Come as you are. The Steppenwolf? Unless you’re patronizing the John Malkovich signature clothing line (and he needs the money, folks), they couldn’t give a darn about your appearance.
“When people are nice enough to pay $45 for a ticket,” says the cape-loving Writers’ Theatre artistic director, Michael Halberstam, one of the better-dressed figures on the local theater scene, “they should be able to come wearing whatever they like.”
Halberstam points out that he often does his curtain speeches in jeans. Heck, if the help isn’t even dressing up, why should you?
How about at Remy Bumppo, which bills itself as Chicago’s think theater? Sounds like a place for tweed.
Fiddlesticks.
“Any what?” asked Kristen Larsen, the managing director, when asked about a dress code. Suggested dress, Ms. Larsen.
“I don’t understand,” she said, clearly befuddled by the question.
Does your audience have to dress up? Hello?
“Of course not.”
In point of fact, the theater cognoscenti dress far worse than the occasional theatergoer. You’ll see far more attractive clothes on people’s backs at, say, “Les Miserables” than you will at the latest play at the Court Theatre. The less dressy you look, the more sophisticated you’ll seem.
Be comfortable. Be yourself. Break out the sweats, the jeans, the ripped T’s.
This ain’t the Lyric Opera, baby.
— Chris Jones
THEATER: How do actors memorize all those lines?
Mike Nussbaum, Friar Lawrence in the upcoming “Romeo and Juliet” at Chicago Shakespeare Theater says: “Essentially it’s a matter of reading them over and over. I read the Friar Lawrence part for about a month, daily, so that when we began rehearsals I was at least halfway home. Less than some, more than others. I used to be one of those people who’d read something three times and know it. But now I have to work at it.
“At my age, memorization is what it’s about. Most old actors can’t do it anymore. [Nussbaum is an extremely spry 81.] I’m just grateful I can still do it.”
Susan V. Hart, Lady Capulet in “Romeo and Juliet” says: “A few years ago I had to learn an audition for ‘House’ at the Good-man. I was commuting back and forth from Milwaukee, and the only time I had to learn my lines was in my car. So I recorded my audition sides on tape — not only my lines, but all the other lines — and basically learned my audition commuting back and forth.
“It worked, so I decided to do it for my next audition. And then I did it for the next play. There’s often not a lot of time to sit down and look at the pages, and I find that simply listening to the scene on tape is so helpful. I’m embarrassed to say I read all the other characters’ lines, you know, lower my voice, try out different pitches.
“I get into rehearsal, and I know everybody else’s lines too.”
— Michael Phillips
ART: The permanent collections at the Art Institute are all shown in chronological order except for the contemporary department. Why the inconsistency?
“We hang chronologically, by culture and by medium,” said institute director James Cuno, “so chronology is only one of the guiding principles. “I think chronologically,” Cuno said. “My mind works that way. I was educated as a historian. A philosopher would think very differently.”
The contemporary department has had four curators in 10 years, each with his own ideas regarding organization. The first of them favored strict chronology, the last has departed from it. And while viewer confusion could prove great in a department stretching over a long time span, the contemporary department covers only about 40 years. Besides, liberty taken with chronology there is in tune with two other factors: building architecture and dramatic placement. At the institute, art of the 20th Century is divided over two floors, causing movement through galleries upstairs front to back, and downstairs, back to front. This is complicated by the placement of a large painting — Andy Warhol’s “Mao” — where a strict chronological arrangement would end. Mounted there, “Mao” has a particularly dramatic effect, being visible through the museum’s Asian galleries. So it will not be moved and the contemporary department works around it.
If this all sounds irrational, it counts for little in relation to another sequence of galleries that presents ancient art next to Renaissance jewelry next to a medieval altarpiece next to 20th Century American decorative arts. Cuno advocates some inter-departmental thinking to clear that up in preparation for the opening of the building designed by Renzo Piano in 2009.
— Alan G. Artner
JAZZ. Do jazz artists really make up the music on the spot?
Yes and no.
Convene any randomly selected group of skilled jazz musicians, give them a few seconds to talk to one another, and they instantly will produce credible sounds. Indeed, the pre-performance huddle isn’t even necessary. One musician can start playing, and in a beat or two the rest of the band will determine the key, tempo, time signature and other requisites — simply by listening.
The process isn’t necessarily as magical as one might think. Seasoned jazz musicians carry with them, in their inner ear, a vast backlog of standard tunes and chord progressions that they can draw upon at a moment’s notice. When suddenly asked to perform, they tend to slip into a standard blues or a familiar tune by Gershwin or Porter — something that they know their colleagues can play in any key, at any tempo, at any time.
What’s more inspiring and impressive, however, is when a working ensemble that already knows its repertoire pushes well beyond it, through the art of improvisation. The best ensembles — such as the brilliant Directions in Music band that Herbie Hancock, Michael Brecker and Roy Hargrove recently brought to Orchestra Hall — walk on-stage with little more than a list of tunes.
Then Hancock cranks up his computer programs, Brecker weighs in with spontaneous bursts on tenor saxophone, Hargrove responds with unscripted cries on trumpet, and the trio is creating sounds that never have been heard before — and never will be played again.
There would be no way to put this music down on paper in advance; it’s too complex and mercurial to be notated, too deeply invested in the moment.
But it represents top-notch musicians responding to one another, creating thrilling new ideas in sound and structure, on the spot.
They call it jazz.
— Howard Reich
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POP: How do I get a great seat for a big show?
In the past, all a dedicated fan had to do was camp out for a day or two outside the ticket window, ensuring a place near the front of the line when prime seats were distributed. But online ticketing theoretically puts everyone at the front of the line when the bell rings for a big concert (U2, Rolling Stones), and when the mad scramble is over only minutes later, most buyers leave disappointed or empty-handed. An increasing number of bands have fan clubs that sell prime tickets to members before general-public sales. If you’re a fan of artists such as Prince, R.E.M., Pearl Jam or countless others who have well-organized clubs, this is a great way to ensure decent seats for indemand shows. Ticket brokers, who operate legally in Illinois, always have great seats for prime shows, but at ridiculous prices. Scalpers also roam outside concerts looking to unload tickets and often can be bartered down as showtime approaches, but many of these rogue entrepreneurs shouldn’t be trusted to have legitimate seats. When all else fails, try this: Sometimes prime seats become available at the ticket window just before showtime. These are usually seats held back for VIPs, media and other guests that haven’t been claimed, and a die-hard fan can score a terrific deal by inquiring at the box office for any spares just as the concert is about to begin.
— Greg Kot
CLASSICAL: When is it appropriate or inappropriate to applaud at a classical concert?
While I am against any iron-clad rule that people should never, ever applaud in the middle of a particularly wonderful performance, I believe applause is most effectively saved for the ends of pieces when it provides release and exhilaration in which all may share. Indiscriminate clapping can shatter the musicians’ concentration and that of the listeners around you who want and deserve to hear an uninterrupted performance.
Those who insist it’s perfectly OK to show your appreciation between sections of a larger work because that’s what audiences did in Mozart’s time ignore the fact that concert etiquette, like society and culture, has changed irrevocably over the last 200 years. The Viennese who attended Mozart’s concerts also played cards, chattered and moved about the hall while the music was going on.
The Chicago Symphony used to caution patrons that ill-timed applause can be as rude and disruptive to the concert experience as ringing cell phones, beeping pagers and whining hearing aids: “Silence is as necessary to the success of a work as the tones of the instruments. Silence between movements is just as important to the success of the performance.” Too bad such warnings have since become hopelessly un-PC around Symphony Center.
The pauses between movements, when no sounds fill the air, are a tiny but vital part of the classical music experience: a precious few seconds to reflect on what you’ve just heard and to anticipate what you will hear next. Today’s pushbutton standing ovations remind us that applause comes cheap. Achieving true musical understanding does not.
— John von Rhein
MOVIES: Why do movie ads and trailers so often contain music and scenes that don’t actually appear in the movie?
First of all, the music rights for ads and trailers are purchased separately from the rights for the actual film. For instance, a song will be part of a marketing campaign over a fixed time, but when it’s in the movie, it’s in the movie forever. (That wasn’t the case with some movies in home video’s earlier days, as the music copyright holders claimed that the rights didn’t apply to video, so some video versions wound up including different songs.)
Plus, ads and trailers tend to be cut by outside parties, not the filmmakers, and the marketing materials often are created before the movie’s score has been composed or the soundtrack songs selected. More to the point, music in an ad serves a different purpose from music in a movie. In an ad the music’s job is to sell the movie’s concept and tone quickly. When used in the actual movie, songs don’t have to be so on-the-nose (though they often are anyway).
So the Electric Light Orchestra’s “Mr. Blue Sky” appeared in ads for “Adaptation” and “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” — perhaps E.L.O. struck a two-for-one deal for Charlie Kaufman screenplays? — but the song wasn’t in either movie.
As for missing scenes, we’re back to the timing question. Ads and trailers usually are assembled before a film is completed. The ad makers receive a bunch of raw materials — scenes, moments — and cut them to communicate the sales pitch.
But what works in a trailer may not work in a finished film — perhaps because it’s too obvious or the filmmaker simply preferred another scene or take. Look on the bright side: If all of the jokes and scenes in ads were different from those in the actual film, you’d never have to complain that the ads ruined the movie.
— Mark Caro
ARCHITECTURE: Is it wrong to hate Mies?
I sometimes encounter people who are afraid to express their feeling that the steel-and-glass boxes of that Chicago architectural demigod, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, are cold, sterile and lifeless.
My answer is, it’s perfectly OK, as long as you can distinguish between great Mies and not-so-great Mies.
For great Mies, go to the Chicago Federal Center, that complex (bisected by Dearborn Street) of two jet-black high-rises and a low-rise U.S. post office. Arranged like the sliding planes in Cubist art, the three buildings at once respect the tic-tac-toe regularity of Chicago’s street grid and depart from it, especially the Kluczynski Building, which is set perpendicular to Dearborn (in part, to screen out visual riff-raff). The architecture is black-tie elegant, suggesting that government buildings can be perfectly dignified without the benefit of classical columns. And the sober buildings create just the right foil for Alexander Calder’s playful Flamingo stabile, the centerpiece of the Federal Center’s airy plaza. This is Mies at his best — an architecture that simultaneously engages the old, jampacked city and transforms it into a civilized clearing in the forest.
What a difference it is to confront Illinois Center, the mixed-use complex of offices, hotels and residential high-rises just east of Michigan Avenue. Its master plan was started by the office of Mies van der Rohe in 1967, two years before the master’s death. Mies’ followers designed many of its buildings. Illinois Center has the same kind of elegant, steel-and-glass high-rises the Federal Center has, but they are jammed together around tiny plazas that rarely get the benefit of sunlight. Far from being a clearing in the forest, Illinois Center is an urban thicket where developers squeezed the land for all it was worth. The lesson it reveals: How buildings are arranged is every bit as important as the buildings themselves.
— Blair Kamin
TELEVISION: Why are so few new sitcoms funny?
Call it death by homogenization.
There are so many network executives vetting and tweaking each comedy pitch these days, the shows that emerge from the development process are bland and full of cliches.
“You get a cool show in spite of the system,” says Bill Lawrence, creator of “Scrubs” and “Spin City.” Lawrence re-calls the attitude of network executives from “the olden days,” such as Grant Tinker, an NBC and MTM Enterprises executive, “who would do the research, find writers whose material he liked, then say, ‘Go do a show you’re really passionate about.'”
These days, TV writers have “28 executives giving notes,” Lawrence says. “Twenty-eight people who don’t write and all have different senses of humor.”
“The fault is on the writers’ side too,” Lawrence says. “Take a young writer who’s going in to the president of a network, who ultimately decides what goes on the air. If that person says, ‘What if the characters aren’t single — what if they’re married and have two kids?’ People have families and bills to pay, so they say to themselves, ‘I can make that stupid idea work.’ Three weeks later it’s nothing like [the concept that was pitched].”
Another culprit is a change in media law that allows networks to fully or partly own the shows they put on the air; if a show is even a moderate hit, the network that owns the show stands to make a lot of money in syndication and from DVDs. The result is that lame comedies developed “in-house” are often kept on the air long after the laughter has died (if there ever was any laughter, that is).
Still, Lawrence, who recently paid tribute to “Cheers” throughout an entire episode of “Scrubs,” remains a fan of the genre, for all its ongoing struggles.
“Good sitcoms are the ultimate comfort food,” Lawrence says.
— Maureen Ryan
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