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My yearnings for theatre were sated last week when, through luck and happenstance, I got to accompany friends to two of the most talked-about shows in New York at the moment: Sunday in the Park with George at the Roundabout Theatre and Macbeth at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. As events and opportunities to spend time with friends, both were completely pleasurable. As aesthetic artifacts, both were disappointing.

The better of the shows in terms of script is the lesser of the shows in terms of production: Macbeth. The central problems are that the play is a hodgepodge of ideas and techniques and that Kate Fleetwood as Lady Macbeth gives a one-note performance in the key of overwrought. (Patrick Stewart's performance is, like the whole show, occasionally extraordinary and generally competent, but lacking coherence.) The director, Rupert Goold, has chosen to put the play in quasi-Stalinist dress and on a single set: a white-tiled hospital ward-asylum-torture chamber, augmented with projected imagery when necessary. It's an effective choice, giving the play a sense of unity and menace, particularly in conjunction with the choice to make the witches into three nurses. The opening scene with the bloody soldier is hilarious at first, because the actor playing the soldier performs like an epileptic animatron, but the segue into the next scene, when the witches wonder when they'll meet again, is marvelously creepy.

Indeed, many of my favorite moments in the play were the scene transitions. Talking with other people who have seen the show, many of whom liked it far more than I, the banquet scene gets mentioned as a high point, and for me it was so, but not as much for the scene itself as for the movement from the scene of Banquo's murder (on a train, staged clumsily) to the banquet -- there is a puzzling shift to the entire cast singing something as if they've briefly been beamed in from Sweeney Todd, but just because it's puzzling doesn't mean it's not effective (I'm a sucker for sudden choral impulses), and then the chorus becomes the banquet. It's a lovely bit of choreography. Banquo gets to charge in, face and chest drenched in gore, and jump on the table, and then comes the intermission (or "interval" as the announcement at BAM said -- apparently they even imported the house manager from England). The scene is repeated when the second half of the play begins, this time sans Banquo and gore, so we get to see that Macbeth is -- shock of shocks -- delusional! It's one of the dubious choices that gives this production of Shakespeare's shortest play a running time closer to that of your average production of Hamlet.

Ultimately, my favorite performances were those of actors in smaller roles, particularly Christopher Patrick Nolan as the porter, portrayed with such diabolical menace that the character seems to have little to do with Shakespeare's original, but is nonetheless captivating to behold -- many of the other actors strain for similarly overblown effects, but produce characters that are less compelling, less nuanced, more like a reanimated bag of tics and tricks than a person.

Nonetheless, this is absolutely the best production of Macbeth I've ever seen. That is faint praise, though, because for some reason, though Macbeth is the Shakespeare play I have seen most often (yes, even more than A Midsummer Night's Dream, but that's probably because I've vowed never to see that one ever again lest it reach levels of fatal toxicity in my system), I have nonetheless had the bad luck to see nothing but truly atrocious productions of it, including an utterly lifeless version at the 1995 Stratford Festival in Ontario.

(I should note that Rick Bowes said the only reason I didn't like Kate Fleetwood's performance was that I couldn't adjust to the nontraditional casting of a woman in the role.)

Sunday in the Park is an altogether better production, one with strong and thoughtful performances throughout, and a coherent style and vision. My primary complaint was with the orchestra -- well, band, really. The production began at a tiny British theatre (yes, this is another import, a fact Michael Feingold has complained about) and despite moving to very modern and expansive digs here in the U.S., the band has not been expanded, and the lack is painful to anyone who knows the original soundtrack -- excruciatingly painful at a couple of key moments, in fact. Plenty of musicals can survive just with a piano -- I once saw a perfectly good Sweeney Todd performed that way -- but the orchestrations of Sunday in the Park provide a level of meaning to the show that is simply not available without at least a few more instruments (preferably some brass) than the new production has. The final moments of Act I, with the song "Sunday", are breathtaking with an orchestra, and while they were still affecting at the Roundabout -- it's one of the best moments in all of Stephen Sondheim's work -- the emotional power was greatly reduced from what it could be.

Sunday in the Park provides a few gnarly problems to any production. First, there's the technical challenge: how do you assemble one of the most famous post-Impressionist paintings during the course of the first act, for instance? This production solves the technical challenges cleverly -- with projected animations. Even in these days of massive Broadway spectacles, the animations in Sunday in the Park are impressive because they make the stage itself into a blank piece of canvas, allowing quick and occasionally stunning transformations. Sometimes the animations are distracting, but more often they are magical, as props and set pieces that previously seemed solid evaporate into thin air.

The other problem with Sunday in the Park is the second act. Critics have, ever since the original production of 1983/84, complained about the second act, and its shallow satire of the 1980s art world has not aged well. This is, though, primarily a problem with one song, albeit a long one: "Putting It Together" (rewritten to somewhat better effect for the revue of that title, where it became about putting a show together) -- the rest of the act is, though a bit ethereal and certainly less impressive than the first act, not particularly painful. The new production does its best with "Putting It Together", but Daniel Evans makes George so unsympathetic, so much the stereotype of the bristling and bitter and whiny artist, that the emotional possibilities of the second act's conclusion are lost, and what remains feels forced and sour.

It is, though, a generally enjoyable production, though seldom transcendent in the way the material can be.

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So, my daughter’s fever turned into a nasty cold. An odd turn of illness in my book, but now I hear the same thing is going around. (“Oh, the one-day fever with the cough and sniffles! My husband had that!”) I love how we moms categorize these different illnesses and then spread the message far and wide, so that the next unsuspecting mom will have a clue. My girl felt decent over the weekend —

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Other people go to Gettysburg for the history, the education, the connection to the past.

We went for The Land of Little Horses.

On our trip to Niagara Falls, the plan was to visit this icon of American animal miniatures as a break in the eight-hour journey. But it made sense to change the itinerary — which we only did with a promise to the third grader that we would visit The Land of Little Horses very soon. (Incidentally, it would help the tone of this post if you could speak the name of the place with a tone of grandeur. Thanks.)

Today was the day.

It actually was nicely done, The Land of Little Horses. They had loads of stables and outside enclosures, and a few of the horses roamed freely around. Along paths through the woods, there were several other animals — most of the pettable type — to see and visit. There was an arena show, and a presentation of several horses, which included a history of the breed and of The Land of Little Horses (established in 1971). I had the girls do a happy dance for a future Brotherhood 2.0 video — because while it’s likely that someone will think to do their happy dance in front of a monument in D.C., I’m fairly certain that no one else will do one at The Land of Little Horses.

In all honesty, we did do a quick tour of the Gettysburg battlefield and cemetery, and there are two things I will always remember. First, as we went up to the monument to Lincoln’s Gettysburg address, I was moved by the woman sitting on the ground in front, apparently contemplating this divisive time in America’s history. As we drew closer (passing the sign about observing respect and silence on the grounds), I realized that the woman was chatting on her cell phone. And not quietly. I just had to laugh.

The second moment was at the crest of Little Round Top. As I was taking a picture of my girls waving from the top of the turret-shaped monument, my husband was behind them videotaping me taking the photo. Now I remember why I didn’t rush to replace our video camera.

Tomorrow I’ll post the list Best Books of 2007 (So Far). At least I hope so. Come to think of it, I should probably have been working on that now instead of this post. But how could I deprive you of either the photo of the smallest horse I’ve ever seen or the catchy destination name of The Land of Little Horses?

See how the adding importance to the sound of the name makes the whole reading go better? Thanks again.

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You know when you’re so overwhelmed that you want to throw your head back and scream?

Where I am now, I’m feeling a little nostalgic for that point.

December is always a busy month for me, what with all the holiday prep, but at least it’s generally focused on one broad thing. Online shopping has also made things so much easier in the last few years, as has my artificial tree. But the two-month period from the middle of April to the middle of June remains my endurance test, and adding the Girl Scout leader thing to the mix has put me deep in the weeds.

Here’s my schedule: Birthday, Girl Scout overnight trip, 48 Hour Film Project, work yearly review, Girl Scout dance, Mother’s Day, Drama Club play, Girl Scout camping, birthday, second grade biography project... breathe... 48 Hour Film Project Best of DC Screening, Dad’s visit, booktalking, friend visit, Girl Scout awards ceremony, my birthday, Girl Scout Sing-Along, middle-school booktalking, and 48 Hour Book Challenge.

I am only up to the breathe so far.

I lose focus with lots of irons in the fire. I tend to put my energy into the current situation, and then make odd choices with my next bit of free time. I’ll sit for three hours over three days to help the second grader come up with a song for her biography project on Susan B. Anthony (she really did write most of it, and it’s pretty darn good). But then with my only free hour, I’ll decide that I need to power-wash the deck instead of putting away the laundry. So while my wood deck is now actually the color of... well, wood... my kids are sitting on the floor of the family room playing a version of laundry Go Fish for matching socks. I’ll take the time to write this post as a creative release, while upstairs the past month’s copies of the Washington Post have creeped off of their tidy pile and are now forming a sort of second carpeting for the dining room. (Which is helping with the clean-up, I guess. Now instead of vacuuming, I can throw away the top layer of newspapers. Like a bird cage.) I’ll spend twenty minutes searching online for the last ten minutes of American Idol which did not tape last night, and then step over two belts, six random shoes, and seventeen Polly Pockets on my way to the stairs.

I’m not telling you this to provoke your sympathy. Well, not entirely. I just want you to know in case I owe you an email, or didn’t review your book, or haven’t been commenting at your site. I’m still reading email, but am responding pretty inconsistently. I’m not reading books much at all, and I’m less likely to read a book that I’m looking forward to because I want to read it in a good state of mind. I’ve always prided myself on going to my blogfriends’ sites and commenting, but while I go here and there to read, I’m not always thinking of things I want to say. Maybe I’ll start using true dat! and fo’ shizzle! more as sort of a commenting crutch.

I’ll be using this space for the next two weeks to profile books I’m using for booktalking at the public schools. I may even ask for your suggestions for introductions. My older daughter has always been incredible at coming up with great hooks, but I could use all the help I can get. Obviously.

Still feel like helping out? Prizes. I still want/need prizes for the 48 Hour Book Challenge. The extra book light you got as a gift and can’t use, ’cause how many do you need? Your handicraft expertise in T-shirts, jewelry, or macramé — who doesn’t love macramé? I know I do. Hit my Email MotherReader! button and send me some love... and stuff.

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Today I spent all afternoon packing up the winter clothes and bringing out the summer clothes for my two girls. Hours I spent on this simple sounding task. There are three reasons it took so long.

1. My girls have a lot of clothes.


2. I get very obsessive/compulsive about this chore, making sure everything fits, looks good, is folded nicely, put away in the right place, and is in good condition.


3. My girls have a frickin' lot of clothes.

It was unbelievable how many clothes there were. Now, we do get clothes for my ten-year-old from an older neighbor, plus we buy some, plus she is reluctant to give up clothes unless they really, really don’t fit, so that will fill three drawers and a closet. My eight-year-old old gets all the hand-me-downs from her older sister, plus all the cute things I can’t resist at Target or Kohl’s, plus she is reluctant to give up clothes unless they really, really don’t fit, so that fills up her two drawers and a closet. Oh, and did I mention how one grandma likes to find them quality stuff at thrift stores? So many clothes.

I can only say in my defense that I don’t buy expensive stuff, and we hand down all of the eight-year-old’s clothes to the six-year-old neighbor. Actually, there is usually so much by that time, that I give about half to the neighbor, a quarter to a younger niece, and a quarter right to Goodwill. After the six-year-old neighbor is done with them, that family gives them to a friend.

I will say, with all these clothes, I only have to do laundry half as often as normal people. I mean, there’s always something to wear. But, man, so many clothes.

I am having a similar problem with books. There are books everywhere. Books for the tween. Books for the kid. Books for me. Books to review. And I can’t get rid of any of them. I keep bringing more in, but nothing is going out.

Like the clothes, the girls are reluctant to give up books unless they really, really don’t fit them anymore. For clothes, I can draw the line at shirts that show their belly buttons or shorts that they can’t button. But can I convince them — should I convince them — that these picture books don’t fit them anymore and can be given to someone else? I don’t know. It’s hard for me too, because I remember reading these books to them, snuggled together on the couch.

Does anyone have a solution for prying old books/clothes/toys out of their children’s shelves/drawers/closets and hands?

On a completely unrelated note, have I mentioned how much I enjoy 7 Imp’s 7 Kicks? On Sunday, the blog Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast asks us bloggers to list seven kick-ass things that happened to us that week. You don’t have to list seven specifically, but I like making sure I come up with seven each week — even if I have to stretch it to include free pens from Staples or an extra hour of sleep. This week was an easy one, as I announced the 48 Hour Book Challenge, got a lot of participants (and taking more...), and some cool prizes (including one “stoked” from Roger Sutton). I also am gearing up for the 48 Hour Film Project, during which teams write, film, edit, and score an eight-minute (or less) film over one weekend. We’ve signed as our writer the wonderful author and blogger Robin Brande! I also had a great dinner with a friend, a toy that was sadly lost was found again, and my girls got great haircuts.

So many good things were happening, in fact, that I was beginning to get a bit worried. That’s not usually how things go for me. Imagine my relief when I found that I could have made an easy hundred bucks in a two-hour marketing research appointment, but it was the same time as my daughter’s drama club play. Turning down a hundred-dollar assignment to watch an elementary school play. Now that’s more like it. Equilibrium safely restored.

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Yesterday I was having a bad day. The weekend had flown by without me accomplishing very much. We watched the movie Babel on Sunday night, which disturbed me so much that I stayed up way too late reading a book to chase the depressing bleakness of the movie out of my head. Monday, I felt a little sick in the morning, and my Girl Scout meeting was like pulling teeth.

After the kids did their homework, I decided to take a nap before facing the evening. I woke from my dozing state to hear several kitchen cabinet doors opening and closing. Just as I was about to get up and see what was going on, I heard (approximately) this conversation between my daughters:

10-year-old: So how is Mom feeling today?

7-year-old: I don’t know.

10-year-old: Do you think she’s tired? Disappointed in the Girl Scouts? Angry? Sad?

7-year-old: I guess.

10-year-old: That’s what I call deep depression. Now what kind of dinner is she going to make us in deep depression?

7-year-old: Macaroni and cheese?

10-year-old: No, Dad usually makes macaroni and cheese. Now here’s my theory: If Mom’s happy then she cooks dinner...

7-year-old: Like chicken and rice!

10-year-old: Right. But she’s not happy today.

7-year-old: She’ll order Chinese food?

10-year-old: No, she orders food when she’s in the middle. But she only orders Chinese food when she’s happier. You know, like last night she sent Dad out for Popeye’s chicken because she didn’t want to cook, but she wasn’t that cranky.

7-year-old: Yeah. Maybe we can get McDonald’s?

10-year-old: No, because she’d have to feel like getting in the car to get it. She’s not going to do that. I think it’s going to be... (sound of more cabinet doors opening, plus the refrigerator) Campbell’s soup, Spaghetti-O’s or hot dogs. Let’s go check.

By now I was burying my face in the pillow so they couldn’t hear me laugh, because the thing is... my daughter was totally right. They went downstairs to the computer room first, and then found me in my room, giving me time to compose myself.

10-year-old: (sweetly) Hey, Mom. What are we having for dinner?

7-year-old: (giggling) Yeah, what are we having for dinner?

Me: I don’t know. I was thinking of maybe soup, Spaghetti-O’s or hot dogs.

My oldest proceeded to let me in on some of her theory of my dinner preparations, though I don’t believe that she used the phrase “deep depression” this time. But I fooled them by making soup, frozen pizza, and hot dogs, because I am not predictable. Oh, and we were out of Spaghetti-O’s.

I also decided to order the Kids Cookbook: Food Fun for Boys and Girls. I had checked it out from the library before, but hadn’t even tried to get the kids involved in making any of the stuff. Pretty much because I was too lazy. But clearly, we are in a rut and need some fresh ideas like Easy Tostada Pizzas. I mean, the word easy is right there in the name, so that’s got to be a good sign. Maybe one day I’ll advance to real grown-up cookbooks not put out by Pillsbury, but if I can get the kids to learn how to make something, that could only be better for all of us.

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