A Double Life: Frank O’Hara’s Amazing Versatility

(Bloomsbury Books.)

“Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.”

--Frank O’Hara

Matthew Holman’s exhaustively researched and methodically written book, Frank O’Hara: New York Poet, Global Curator, manages to be not only a superlative biography of this gifted poet but also a revealing memoir of the heady times in which he lived, a detailed chronicle of the city he so loved, and a tender portrait of the important Museum of Modern Art that many people, myself included at first, did not realize counted him among its most effective ambassadors of contemporary visual art. This is the first book to closely examine the curatorial work that O’Hara undertook for MOMA in New York and abroad. The day after his premature death in 1966, The New York Times ran an ironic and slightly ambiguous headline: “Frank O’Hara, 40, Museum Curator/Exhibitions Aide at Museum of Modern Art Dies – also a poet.” Also a poet? That strikes some of us as a surprise, since we felt it might well have read “Frank O’Hara, 40, NY poet dies—also a curator.”

Molière & Menotti

Clockwise from left: Amber Gray, Matthew Broderick, and David Cross in Tartuffe. (Photo: Marc J. Franklin.)

As Tartuffe, the titular character of Molière’s most famous comedy, Matthew Broderick is so preternaturally calm that he barely seems to be breathing. Nothing unsettles him; without blinking an eye, he absorbs any threat to his power over Orgon – who takes him in, offers him his daughter in marriage and even makes Tartuffe his heir –and simply applies to it a nonsense logic that makes you think of the discourse in Through the Looking-Glass. Tartuffe is a scam artist who uses Christian piety as both a façade and a weapon to control the credulous – Orgon and his ridiculous mother, Madame Pernelle. Broderick takes Tartuffe’s cold-heartedness literally: he’s so unmoved that he might have the body temperature of a reptile. The text tells us that Tartuffe enjoys good food and sex, but even when Orgon’s wife Elmire, in an effort to expose him while her oblivious husband is watching from under the table, comes on to him, he responds greedily to her overtures but there’s no evidence in his face or his tone that she’s given him an erection. We’d swear there was nothing remotely human going on under those Puritan bangs if we didn’t see the way his machinations turn Orgon’s family’s lives upside down.

Along the Spectrum: Recent Movies

Tracey Ullman and Cillian Murphy in Steve. (Photo: Robert Viglasky, Netflix.)

Cillian Murphy and the Belgian filmmaker Tim Mielants are a superlative team. Last year Mielants directed Murphy in the beautiful Irish movie Small Things Like These, the best treatment so far of the subject of the Magdalene Sisters, the notorious Irish order that turned pregnant unwed teenage girls into workhorses and then put their babies up for adoption. I loved everything about this film: Enda Walsh’s subtle, precise screenplay, culled from a fine small novel by Claire Keegan; Frank van den Eeden’s moody, delicate lighting; and all the performances, but especially Murphy’s. He plays Bill Furlong, a family man who runs a coal business in an intimate Irish town where the Magdalene convent wields considerable power – they decide which of the local girls gains entrance to their prestigious school. Their backing not only guarantees a better education but guides the students’ path to college and a promising future. So when Bill finds, hiding in the coal bin, one of the girls whose families have dumped them in the convent to sidestep the shame of their situation and she begs him to help her get away, the Mother Superior (Emily Watson) has only to remind him, in a friendly tone, how well two of his five daughters are managing in their school and how much they’re looking forward to admitting the next one in line to secure his silence. (She seals the deal with a generous Christmas tip; this isn’t a prosperous town.) But Bill himself was raised by a single mother, and then, after her early death, by the kind woman she’d worked for as a domestic; he feels his life was blessed by his upbringing at the hands of one brave woman and one with the means and the independence of mind to stand against the social norms of this time and place.

Icke/Sophocles

From Left: Jordan Scowen, Olivia Reis, Mark Strong, Lesley Manville, James Wilbraham, Anne Reid and Bhasker Patel in Oedipus. (Photo: J. Cervantes.)

Robert Icke’s Oedipus, newly transplanted to Broadway from the West End, is, like his 2015 Oresteia, a modern version of a classic work that has resonated through time since the Greeks birthed tragedy. These are the weightiest cornerstones of the genre: Aeschylus’s Oresteia, the only complete trilogy we have from among the theatrical constructions the ancient Greek playwrights submitted to the City Dionysia festival in Athens, invented dramatic cause and effect, while Sophocles’ Oedipus, which moves backwards and forwards in time without ever altering the setting, is a marvel of dramatic structure that no one has ever surpassed. Aristotle used it as his model for tragic dramaturgy in the Poetics. The ancient Greek world was a treasure trove of firsts – the Poetics pioneered theatrical criticism.

Being and Somethingness: Barnett Newman: Here

Princeton University Press.

“Here. A place in the world. Proof that one exists. Barnett Newman spent a lifetime searching for confirmation of a simple idea.”

Amy Newman

For many decades as an art historian I have often remarked to those who would listen that what matters most about visual art and art history is not exactly what you’re looking at in front of you. Puzzled expressions often ensue. I frequently share the observation that there’s more to fine art than meets the eye, and that what matters is what’s behind your eyes, not what’s in front of them. In other words, how much you know about what you’re seeing, in the sense not of privileged knowledge but rather of the kind of basic information that can be accessed by anyone who is curious about what’s going on in the world of contemporary art, that quantum which can alter your perception forever. By anyone who can, that is, suspend immediate snap value judgments and pursue any credible art text in any reasonable library. And if my audience were still listening, I would proceed to further clarify this perspective: the image is in front of us but the imagination is in our minds, lurking behind our visual apparatus, just waiting to be fully engaged in a deeply personal and, for lack of a better term, existential revelation.

Two New Books on Indigenous Culture

I. Talking Skin: Indigenous Tattoo Traditions: Humanity Through Skin and Ink

(Princeton University Press.)

“For thousands of years, these communities have etched human experiences into skin, one powerful mark at a time. But sadly, much of that ancient ink is fading fast, along with the knowledge that surrounds it. To me, tattooing isn’t just art; it’s a vital piece of global cultural heritage.”

--Lars Krutak

I’ve always been fascinated with tattoos, ever since I was a kid and used to marvel over my Uncle Johnny’s flamboyantly decorated arms. He was a sailor in the Merchant Marines and often explained to me how every inked image reminded him of some exotic place he had sailed to: “Every picture tells a story, kid, every tattoo sings a song of my travels.” Such a romantic at heart, that Johnny. In the old days, the only folks with tattoos, at least that I knew of, were military guys and members of motorcycle clubs (as they were euphemistically called back then). But that, of course, is merely the popular culture in the West that has celebrated a kind of outlaw status for wearers of the “talking skin.” I don’t have any tattoos myself, never quite worked up the courage to go through that initiation that seemed to lead to an endless road of ink. My Métis wife has some, though, and through her I learned of far older inking cultures for whom the marking of flesh is a significant gesture that embodies a shared communal awareness of place and identity. Indigenous Tattoo Traditions: Humanity Through Skin and Ink Lars Krutak’s new book from Princeton University Press, is both a major contribution to that community of bodily markings which is greatly moving to me as a cultural commentator and a poignant reminder to me of how, in my formative years, I was intrigued by these mobile graphic artifacts, artworks that from my earliest days always felt like a kind of visual music. The songs that indigenous tattoos sing are rooted in a combination of ancestral pride and contemporary swag, and Krutak’s fine tome celebrates their singing in a truly poetic manner worthy of such a noble fusing of art and heritage.

White Christmas and A Christmas Carol: Second-Tier Holiday Cheer

Clyde Alves, Jonalyn Saxer, and the company of White Christmas. (Photo: Diane Sobolewski.)

I loved the stage transcription of Irving Berlin’s 1954 Christmas movie musical White Christmas when it came through Boston in 2006 and again in 2015, so I was looking forward to seeing the Goodspeed Opera House version that opened last week, directed by Hunter Foster. But except for Kelli Barclay’s dance numbers it’s a letdown. The major problem is the acting, which is somehow simultaneously flat and overstated. The book by David Ives and Paul Blake, adapted from the screenplay by Norman Krasna, Norman Panama and Melvin Frank has a fairly complicated plot involving the efforts of Bob Wallace and Phil Davis, a pair of Broadway song and dance men, World War II veterans who fought under a beloved general, to round up their unit in order to pay tribute to him at Christmas when they discover he’s running a ramshackle Vermont inn – and to mount a revue there to put the place in the black. Still, it’s light and casual. The jokes aren’t inspired, but on both tours the clowning had the low-key pleasures of a good old-fashioned TV variety special from the decade of the film. And the characters were all satisfyingly human, so you felt drawn in. At the Goodspeed, the humor feels warmed-over and then juiced up so that you’re doubly aware that what you’re not hearing isn’t fresh. The vaudeville touches make you groan, especially a running gag involving a pair of chorus girls who keep trying to chase Phil (Clyde Alves) down at the worst possible moments, when he’s trying to woo Judy Haynes (Jonalyn Saxer), half of a sister act he and Bob discover in a New York club and end up hiring for the show. And the actors aren’t strong enough to make their characters convincing, including Omar Lopez-Cepero as Bob, Lauren Nicole Chapman as Betty, the other Haynes sister, who falls for him until a misguided rumor makes her think he’s a rat, and Bruce Sabath as General Waverly. (In the movie Bob and Betty were played by Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney, Phil and Judy by Danny Kaye and Vera-Ellen, and the general by Dean Jagger.)

The Baker’s Wife: No Revelation

Ariana DeBose, Scott Bakula and the company of The Baker's Wife. (Photo: Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman.)

The Classic Stage Company production of The Baker’s Wife marks the first major appearance of a legendary failed musical that has been making the rounds for nearly half a century and has built up a considerable cult following among musical-theatre aficionados. The source material is a 1938 film classic by the French director Marcel Pagnol, based on a novel by Jean Giono, who co-authored the screenplay with Pagnol. It was optioned for a musical adaptation in the early fifties by Frank Loesser and Abe Burrows, in the golden days following their triumph with Guys and Dolls, and Bert Lahr was named to play the lead, a baker in a small provincial town whose beautiful younger wife runs off with a local peasant, sinking him in despair and prompting his neighbors to band together to track her down so that he’ll continue to produce his magnificent loaves of bread. Zero Mostel was attached to the project for a while, and then Joseph Stein – the author of Fiddler on the Roof – and composer-lyricist Stephen Schwartz picked it up in the mid-seventies. With Topol, the star of the movie of Fiddler, in the lead, the show went on a pre-Broadway tour in 1976; in the wake of a stormy relationship with the production he was replaced by Paul Sorvino, Patti LuPone stepped in for the original leading lady, but the out-of-town problems were never solved, Stein and Schwartz left the show, which never made it to Broadway. Having fallen in love with the score, the celebrated English director Trevor Nunn persuaded them to mount it in London in 1990, where it garnered positive reviews but never captured a wide enough audience. Though it won the Olivier Award for Best Musical, it closed after a couple of months. Since then it has played in all the most important musical-theatre venues outside New York – the Goodspeed Opera House in 2002, Paper Mill Playhouse in 2005, and the Menier Chocolate Factory in London in 2024.

On Repression: Fun Home and Bat Boy

Sarah Bockel and Nick Duckart in Fun Home. (Photo: Marc J. Franklin.)

It’s not the Huntington Theatre Company’s fault that the opening night performance of Fun Home occasioned repeated displays of virtue signaling on the part of the audience; that’s what you get these days when you produce a play that wears its liberal heart on its sleeve. (The cheering began with the pre-show announcement, for God’s sake.) But Logan Ellis’s production of the musical, adapted by Lisa Kron from Alison Bechdel’s autobiographical graphic novel, makes it easy for an audience to declare their allegiance. The show, which premiered at the Public Theatre twelve years ago under Sam Gold’s direction, is already didactic. It’s a memory play narrated by a character based on Bechdel, who grew up in Beech Creek, Pennsylvania in the 1960s and 70s, in a museum-like Victorian house that doubled as the small town’s funeral parlor (hence fun home, the family’s nickname for it), with a father who divided his time between undertaking and teaching high school English. Though Alison’s reminiscences permit her to revisit her eleven-year-old self, they focus on her coming out as an Oberlin freshman and, in the wake of that announcement, her mother Helen’s revelation that Alison’s father Bruce was a closeted gay man with a taste for young, sometimes underage men. Bechdel’s trajectory ends happily: she grows up to become a famous cartoonist. Bruce, on the other hand, ends up a suicide.

Fouettés, Flutters and Fun: The Trocks at 50

Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo. (Photo: Zoran Jelenic.)

On Sunday, Oct. 19, at the Elgin & Winter Garden Theatres, Les Ballets Trockadero de Monte Carlo — the Trocks — closed their 50th-anniversary tour in Toronto with an evening in which exacting technique and theatrical excess sharpened one another — and the laughter felt earned. From the first moment, it was clear the Trocks were performing with both intelligence and irreverence.

Vertiginous Vortex: Our Little Gang / The Lives of the Vorticists

Reaktion Books/Univeristy of Chicago Press

“Vorticism, in fact, was what I, personally, did and said, during a certain period.” 

Wyndham Lewis

“Vorticism . . . what does this word mean? I do not know.”

Wyndham Lewis

Even art historians with a comprehensive knowledge and understanding of advanced visual art trends such as Impressionism, Fauvism, Expressionism, Dadaism and Surrealism are often somewhat at a loss to grasp, let alone to cogently explain, the obscure art and literary movement that arose in the second decade of the 20th century in English avant-garde circles known as Vorticism, mostly by the Vorticists themselves. After the opening salvo of radical thinking that exploded in the new years of that newest of all new centuries, with a shared intellectual bomb contained in both Sigmund Freud’s 1899 theories of the unconscious, and Einstein’s 1905 relativity theory, tradition was turned on its head. Among other recent discoveries that seemed to call into question the sanctity of classical values, the domains of art and literature were also about to begin actively reflecting the dominant prevailing mindset of drastic and hyper-accelerated change.

How To Live and Die at the Canadian Opera Company: Roméo et Juliette and Orfeo ed Euridice in Toronto

Stephen Costello and Kseniia Proshina in Roméo et Juliette. (Photo: Michael Cooper.)

The Canadian Opera Company’s 2025–26 season opens with a stylistically mismatched pairing: Roméo et Juliette, Charles Gounod’s 1867 Shakespeare-inspired opera in director Amy Lane’s over-extravagant Malmö Opera rental, and the revival of Canadian director Robert Carsen’s minimalist 2011 staging of Orfeo ed Euridice, Christoph Willibald Gluck’s 1762 rendering of the Greek myth. The two productions run in rotation at Toronto’s Four Seasons Centre through to the end of this month.

Killers: Rope and Punch

Ephraim Birney and Daniel Neale in Rope. (Photo: Hartford Stage.)

The English playwright Patrick Hamilton – best known for Angel Street, the thriller that became the classic 1945 film Gaslight – wrote Rope in 1929, five years after the celebrated Chicago murder case that inspired it. Two well-heeled University of Chicago students, Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb, who were lovers, kidnapped and murdered Loeb’s fourteen-year-old cousin Bobby Franks to prove that they could commit the perfect crime – and that, as superior intellectual specimens, they had the right to operate outside the realm of accepted morality. (The irony was how badly these self-proclaimed Nietzschean Übermenschen bungled it.) The case, which their lawyer, Clarence Darrow, used as his most famous argument against capital punishment – he succeeded in getting his clients life sentences rather than the gallows they seemed fated for – has never entirely disappeared from popular culture: it has generated plays, films, a musical and one famous novelization, Meyer Levin’s Compulsion. In a 2018 review in this publication of the book The Leopold and Loeb Files: An Intimate Look at One of America’s Most Infamous Crimes, Devin McKinney conveys with poetic eloquence the enduring power of this murder, which has moved so many interpreters to theorize on the motivation of the killers but has remained an unsolvable mystery.

When A Film Lab Cancels an AI Show, Who Gets to Define a Cultural Commons?

Works by the artist Rick Valicenti from the exhibit Playbot Companions.

We are pleased to welcome a new critic, Jason Wang, to Critics at Large.

In the first week of October, Toronto hosted a small but telling cultural collision. On Oct. 1, artist and designer Rick Valicenti opened Playbot Companions at 99 Frames Parliament Street: a two-week presentation of framed, AI-generated hairstyles linked by QR code to tiny “playbot” faces and backstories. The conceit is simple and unnerving — show the hair, hide the face, and force the viewer to complete the “playbot” as a person. But the sharper question is: what happens when intimacy becomes a design choice and companionship a consumable commodity?

Wild at Heart: Surviving Pynchon and Bolaño

(Bloomsbury.)

“We know that hyperbole is first of all a rhetorical figure of exaggeration but it is more fundamentally a moment of hubris. Hyperbole implies a risk that is in fact fantastic and fictional: that if I push it too far, I will become mad.”

--Marc Richir, 2015

In some very tangible ways, this new book by Samir Sellami, Hyperbolic Realism: A Wild Reading of Pynchon’s and Bolaño’s Late Maximalist Fiction. is unavoidably elegiac, and rightly so, given that Robert Bolano was taken from us far too soon by a liver ailment in 2003 at only 50 years of age. But it’s also rather celebratory, since the erstwhile Thomas Pynchon has just released his ninth novel Shadow Ticket, and his first in a decade, at 88 years of age, on October 7 of this year. He thus carries the torch of challenging literature forward in a way that illustrates, as Sellami’s critical study shows so well, how important his labours and those of Bolaño have been down in the mines of innovation fiction. I readily admit that I prefer reading supposedly difficult books by supposedly difficult authors. Of course I concurrently acknowledge the skillful means of such masters as Dickens, Chekhov, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald, as well as the rest of the canon of pared-down-to-essentials normalcy. However, I just feel that somehow it’s a better use of my limited time and energy to forgo the dining and laundry lists of quotidian narratives and instead plunge headlong into the intense dreamtime of Joyce, Stein, Faulkner and Burroughs.

Love Affairs: The History of Sound and Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale

Josh O'Connor and Paul Mescal in The History of Sound. (Photo: MUBI.)

In The History of Sound Lionel Worthing and David White fall in love over a song. Drinking in a bar on a Saturday evening in 1917, Lionel (Paul Mescal) hears David (Josh O’Connor), a fellow student at the New England Conservatory of Music, play a plaintive folk ballad Lionel has known all his life and he drifts to the piano. David, an orphan raised in privilege in Newport, Rhode Island, is a competent musician whose passion for American folk obsesses him. Lionel is a singer whose gifts have taken him off the Kentucky farm where he grew up and all the way to Boston, and he knows at first hand most of the tunes David has been collecting in his brain. The night they meet, they play and sing until the bar closes; then Lionel walks David back to his apartment and they become lovers. After they graduate, David goes off to Europe to fight in the Great War while Lionel returns home to the farm and his family. When the war is over David takes a job as a music professor in Maine. He reaches out to Lionel, inviting him to join him on a trip through the forests and islands of the state recording music on wax cylinders to preserve it for posterity, and the two men pick up their relationship where they left off. But David is now prone to spells of melancholy, and after they leave each other at the end of their journey Lionel stops hearing from him. He continues to write monthly letters to him until he finally gives up trying, in 1921. It isn’t for years, after Lionel has become first a singer in a world-famous Italian choir and then, driven by his own unsettled nature, a choir director back in the States, that he finds out what happened to the man he fell in love with in that Boston bar.

Memory in Motion: Laurence Lemieux’s Anne

Laurence Lemieux in Anne: "...lives linger and ripple forward." (Photo: Jeremy Mimnagh.)

Laurence Lemieux’s Anne is a work of elemental courage and restraint, a memory piece where ancestry comes alive in the present and takes shape in the body. The world premiere, which opened at Toronto’s The Citadel on Oct. 1, begins in near-silence. Lemieux stands motionless on a reflective Marley floor, upright in wide trousers and a pleated peplum shirt, a costume that bridges eras. Then, almost imperceptibly, her spine creases and her form dips. The veteran dancer-choreographer seems to age before our eyes, centuries carried in a body overtaken by the past.

It’s Elementary: Gaston Bachelard, An Intellectual Biography

(Reaktion Books, University of Chicago Press.)

“An element, we take it, is a body into which other bodies may be analyzed, present in them potentially or in actuality, and is not itself divisible into bodies different in form. That, or something like it, is what all men in every case mean by element.”

--Aristotle, “On the Heavens,” 350 BCE.

Perhaps the most famous of the horde of books by the prolific French philosopher Gaston Bachelard (1884-1962) was his marvelous tome from 1957, The Poetics of Space. It was so popular that it almost accidentally became a bestseller, at least by the standards of rarefied French philosophers, so that Bachelard nearly achieved the same stature as the pop media philosopher Marshall McLuhan. It’s certainly the one that had the most lifelong impact on me personally, since I first encountered it many years ago on the nightstand bookcase of a youthful chum who was an architecture student at the time. He kept it in pride of place in a charming little shelf-like display that contained only about three or four books. I borrowed The Poetics of Space from his shelf (possibly without his permission) during one visit, and I didn’t return it for thirty years.

Barbra Streisand, Robert Redford and The Way We Were

I opted to listen to Barbra Streisand’s 2023 memoir, My Name Is Barbra, rather than reading it in hard copy so that I could hear her inimitable phrasing – the quality that made me a diehard fan of her albums when I started collecting them in 1964, at the age of thirteen. (The first one I owned, a gift from my aunt and uncle, was the original cast album of Funny Girl, which had recently opened on Broadway; I played “Don’t Rain on My Parade” through so many times that it’s a miracle I didn’t wear down the vinyl.) I was lucky: Streisand’s movie career began the week I started university, when she opened in the film version of Funny Girl, and I saw each of those great early performances – in Hello, Dolly!, The Owl and the Pussycat, Up the Sandbox and The Way We Were – as they came out, on the big screen. What I mostly desired from the memoir was information about, and her personal response to, her early triumphs on stage (her scene-stealing supporting performance in I Can Get It for You Wholesale led to Funny Girl), television (where she, Joe Layton and Dwight Hemion reconceived the variety special with the explosively inventive My Name Is Barbra in 1965), LP and film. My usual experience with the memoirs of performers I love is that they’re fun as long as they chronicle the origins of a career but run out of steam once the writer has made the leap into stardom. And this one comes in at a shade under a thousand pages! Plus I haven’t cared much for Streisand’s pop albums and found only a few of her later pictures interesting – though, notably, I’ve never missed one. (Her film career had pretty much faded by the early nineties.)

Stratford and the Shaw Festival: New and Old

The company of Forgiveness. (Photo: David House.)

Stratford’s production of Forgiveness (at the Tom Patterson Theatre), Hiro Kanagawa’s adaptation of Mark Sakamoto’s book Forgiveness: A Gift from My Grandparents, marks the Canadian play’s eastern premiere. (It has been staged in Vancouver and Calgary.) The play’s dual protagonists are Mitsue Sakamoto (played by Yoshie Bancroft), and Ralph MacLean (Jeff Lillico), whose lives were shaped irrevocably by their World War II experiences. Ralph grew up on the Magdalen Islands in Quebec and lied about his age to get away from his abusive alcoholic father and join the first Canadian unit stationed in Japan, before Canada and the U.S. declared war in the wake of Pearl Harbor. He was captured and spent four years in a Japanese POW camp. Mitsue and her Japanese family were deprived of their citizenship rights and forced to leave their home in British Columbia in 1942, first for an internment camp and then to harvest sugar beets on a farm in the Prairies, laboring long hours for a pittance; their initial “home” was a converted chicken coop. The ban wasn’t lifted until four years after the end of the war. What links these two stories together is the romance that flared up in Calgary, where the two main characters wound up, between Mitsue’s son Stan (Leon Quin at the performance I attended, standing in for Douglas Oyama) and Ralph’s daughter Diane (Allison Lynch). The author, Sakamoto, is their shared grandson.