O’Death sings plays country music, but not the “tear in your beer” variety or some kind of Toby Keith bullshit. They play the kind of country music the couple in American Gothic would listen to. That is, if instead of going to do their chores, the farmer and his wife invited the painter inside to drink some absinthe and violently defend the farm from some sonovabitch Yankee banker who came to collect on their debts.
 
Before the show started, my friend Amanda expressed some concern that this show would fall short of the one we saw at the Mercury Lounge last December. I can’t say her concern was uncalled for since the intimate confines of the Mercury Lounge makes it harder to stand off to the side and look cool than the spacious interior of the Music Hall of Williamsburg. The assumption was that O’Death would bring their A-game, the question is, would our fellow concertgoers?

Hell yes they did, in no small part thanks to the crackling energy provided by the band from the moment they stepped on the stage. Even those who chose not to run up front and get in on the twirling, smashing action of the more animated crowd members must have exhausted themselves just watching the quintet stomp around the stage and whip us all up into a frenzy.

This was thanks in no small part to lead singer Greg Jamie’s distinct caterwaul (in a good way), a plaintive wail that evokes Appalachia at its most mournful, while his bandmates pitch in with pounding, foot stomping drumming and banjo playing and the most aggressive fiddling north of the Mason-Dixon line. When the wild haired, shirtless dudes say dance, you dance first and ask questions later. There was a slight technical difficulty when Gabe Darling had to go to his backup banjo, but the broken instrument is a testament to how hard these boys go at it.

They packed all they could into about an hour long set, some new mixed in with the old, and while the tempo stayed almost exclusively on faster than light on songs like “Adelita” and “Allie Mae Reynolds”, there were a few moments to rest up and grab a partner courtesy of “Nathaniel”. I tried to introduce Amanda’s sorority girl friend to the joys of the mosh pit, but what science concluded years ago, I learned firsthand: sorority girls don’t dig mosh pits. Her complaints aside (“Everyone here needs deodorant”), it’s safe to say the crowd got their fill of gothic country punk rocking and went home happy.

Opener Ponytail provided a change of pace with shrieking, piercing singing over skillfully played post-punk freak outs. If they veer more towards Explosions In The Sky and less towards Animal Collective, they could go from merely good to great.

Photo by Chris La Putt

Jukebox the Ghost opened for the XYZ Affair at Mercury Lounge on Saturday night to a crowd that ate up the trio’s ear-pleasing piano pop tunes and on-stage repartee. The normally spunky group seemed short on enthusiasm compared to past shows, but despite this, the songs were served up in neat, catchy, pitch-perfect packages.

Jukebox ran through tracks from its debut full-length, Let Live and Let Ghost, during its 50-minute performance. The set had highs— “Hold It In,” “Victoria” and “Good Day”—awkward-sounding lows— “Miss Templeton’s 7000th Dream”— and "say-what?" moments— a bizarre turn of Rage Against the Machine’s “Guerrilla Radio”. But the show was undeniably tight.

Jukebox is one of those bands whose live shows sound as slick as their albums, and while getting a more raw sound from a band might be one of the fun parts of seeing a live show, there’s something to be said for sounding that polished and still being genuinely fun, not sterile, in a live setting.

Photo by leannetr on Flickr.

Which “C” was confused by the crowd waiting in the lobby of the People’s Improv Theater on Friday night? That “C” would be me. I was there for “The Ultimate Gossip Girl Summit,” and I don’t know why all of the quasi-hipster, ballet-flatted women in their late twenties surprised me, but I was a little knocked off my game.

If it really were a room full of tweenage fans, giggling childishly and frantically typing away on their sidekicks, that’d be a little too scary for words. But it would’ve been nice to see a few of them, or at least their adult world equivalent: the homosexual male. Thanks to all those that knew enough to go online beforehand, the show had already sold out before people even started filing in to buy tickets. Apparently, Gossip Girl fans are no joke.

About 10 minutes before the show, a startlingly handsome pair of men pushed their way to the front of the crowd: the gays had arrived. A wash of confusion swept over their startlingly handsome gay guy faces when they were told, “I’m sorry, the show is sold out.” I rapidly texted Melanie, “OMFG, there evn turning th gays away from The Gossip Girl Summit…” She replied with lightning speed “GASP! This sh*t is serious!!”

Moderator Sara Benincasa calls upon the panel to provide insight to the myriad of unanswered questions (i.e. “Would you go to town on Ed Westwick’s 20-year-old baby dick?”), untackled subjects (Chuck Bass date rape fantasies, anyone?) and catty observation (“Serena’s trannilicous make-up job is starting to resemble the Burger King King mask”).

Over-enthusiastic input poured from a super-sized panel of self-appointed “Gossip Girl” experts, ranging from Gawker’s “LOLcait”, who watched GG to numb the pain of the Bush administration, to smug UESider, Rya Backer, there to remind us that Jewish girls do not give head. The participation trickled all the way down to Benincasa’s boyfriend, who spent hours compiling every song ever played on GG in preparation for the show. After the pre-taped video of Sirius Indie talk show host, Diana Saez presenting Chris Rovzar with an award for his hard hitting coverage of GG, showering the audience with complimentary headbands, cupcakes and trivia question prizes AND the musical GG-themed ukulele stylings of Jen Kwok, there was barely anytime left to get to the actual summit! “Why didn’t they break this up into 2 groups?!” I texted to Mel, perplexed “Half for this show, n half for th next! There’s waaaay too much to cover n not enuf time!”

Before attending the show, I had only seen one episode of “Gossip Girl” but after a couple of minutes, I was just as excited as the grown women in the room who came dressed as characters from the show. Who knew this hyper-colored, artificial world of white elitism could invoke such a level of enthusiasm from seemingly ordinary men and women? One moment they were standing around quietly chatting and sipping from their Amstel lights and the next moment they’re booing a negative critique of Chace Crawford and screaming for the head of Michelle Trachtenberg! The whole thing seemed just as cathartic as it was entertaining and later on I wondered, how exactly did people in their early 30’s get through all of that Kelly and Brenda drama back in my 90210 days? It was similar to emerging from a Sioux sweat lodge, but instead of clarity, I left with a cute headband.

Photo by Maryanne Ventrice on Flickr

See the trailer for the event below:

Remember how Vito Fossella, the Staten Island Congressman, faced mandatory prison on account of his .17 score on a blood alcohol test last Thursday in Virginia?

Fosella was arrested on May 1 in Alexandria last Thursday.He told officers he was visiting a friend in the D.C. suburb.  Today he admitted that his friend is his lover, and the mother of his three year old daughter. 

Turns out, Mozzarelli’s must have seen this coming.  The midtown Italian restaurant features “Vito’s Vodka Pie,” a mozzarella, mushroom, tomato and vodka sauce pizza for $19.95.

Fosella, who is married, is in historic company.  Last month, Cokie Roberts revealed that Mrs. John Quincy Adams petitioned the elder John Adams for extra money for an orphan asylum after finding that Congressmen had left 40 women pregnant before returning to their home states.

Watching Marie-Christine Questerbert’s films at the Anthology Film Archives in today’s climate of post-fill-in-the-blank-philosophy is oddly fitting. Today, we seem as beyond any tipping point or point of change as Questerbert’s films had suggested since her earliest featured films in the 1970s. Even though her films are very much of their moment, Questerbert goes several steps beyond contemporary questions of feminism, responding to the preposterous declaration, “Something’s happening,” with “Did something happen?” That having been said, yes, she’s full of it and obnoxious and more than a little aloof. But at the same time, she makes a heckuva not-quite-artifact.

The shorts program begins chronologically with “Octopus Dé-Natura,” which is arguably Questerbert’s most satisfying featured film. From a static distance, Questerbert records a flurry of inexplicable activity as it unfolds on a mountainside. A group of students descend from a bus and ask a man in a Mardi Gras costume if there was a man that came by there. A naked man stalks up and down the hill. A cloaked figure kicks over a bus sign. A hipster plays the bongos. Spilled Gasoline lights on fire. And that’s it. The end comes abruptly but even the uninitiated would almost certainly expect it too.

Questerbert’s post-feminist outlook is in full-swing in “The Endless Ride” even before the movement (was there ever only one?) became later contested, dehistoricized and fragmented into a bad joke. She champions SCUM, a caricature of women that inspire fear in the hearts of the mad logicians that are MEN, reminiscent of James Tiptree Jr.’s “The Women Men Don’t See” in bemoaning women “a toothless world” for beating their chests and calling for change that almost certainly won’t come...

Continue reading "Marie-Christine Questerbert" here.

If you've been down in the Lower East Side recently, you noticed the Day-Glo orange Keith Haring mural at the corner of Bowery & Houston St. I happened upon it a few weeks ago, figured it was a recreation of some sort and wondered how long before some roughneck graffiti artists would come and throw up a production of their own over the meticulous work.

So far it hasn't happened.

The Keith Haring Foundation collaborated with artists from the Deitch Projects Gallery to recreate the art piece in the same spot where Haring originally painted it in 1982. And they were able to sigh in relief that no one has marred its crazy colors and celebrate what would have been Haring's 50th birthday on May 4. I wondered if maybe the New Museum had anything to do with it, since they're located down the street, so I talked to Gabriel Einsohn at the New Museum, and she explained that they don't have anything to do with it, but it's certainly convenient that it's located so nearby.

The Keith Haring Foundation didn't stop celebrate with a mural though. The New Museum announced today that they are the recipient of $1 million grant from the foundation, which will establish "The School and Youth Programs Fund and to name The Keith Haring Director and Curator of Education and Public Programs." This is the Foundation's largest contribution to date and will continue to solidify the museum's focus on the Bowery neighborhood and its efforts to not come off as a creepy, elitist art world gem in the quickly gentrifying rough and tumble area where they planted their building.

In fact, go to the New Museum's website, and click through to the Bowery Artist Tribute page, and you'll find ab interactive archive that will start to clue you into some of the more significant art-making residents from the past. It's still a work in progress and has some kinks to be worked out (I continually got the same image of the same tenement building when I clicked on new points of interest), but if you have info you want to submit, they're open to it and will continue to add it up.

Photo by Michael Dashkin on Flickr.

Despite an “unbearable” first season featuring a real-life Countess! and a high-powered career woman!, Bravo appears ready for a second season of The Real Housewives of New York City.

And its producers are “looking for women who typify the Manhattan socialite.”

Don’t get too excited yet, even if you, too, manage the seemingly impossible by being a “permanent fixture in the Hamptons as well as Manhattan.”  According to the casting call from production company Ricochet Television, they are not looking for an all-new cast, just some additions.

Read: You might hang out with the present cast.

Decide carefully.

Maybe it's because my sister and I would dress up our little brother in the life-size toy's outfit, but there's something creepily familiar about Danny Ross' video for his song "I Can't Wait." It begins with a shot of the 1980s toys that had those obnoxiously catchy commercial jingles, and then cuts to a grown man dressed in striped shirt, overalls as he searches New York for Kid Sister (and eventually finds her in front of Lincoln Center).

By day Ross is a staffer for Congressman Jerrold Nadler. By night he crafts pleasant pop tunes and hits the streets to remind people how they used to enjoy easy listening by Ben Folds Five—before it wasn't so cool anymore. But the video comes across like an Andy Samberg SNL skit with an eerie nostalgic vibe.

At Yoko Ono’s opening reception for her exhibit Touch Me at Galerie Lelong, the place was packed and Ono was in attendance. But there were too many people there for me to get a grasp what was actually going on.

With Yoko, it’s always a matter of digging deeper. On the surface, sometimes there doesn’t seem to be that much there. This is intentional. This concept has been the foundation of her entire, 40-some-year career. Still, this can be frustrating at times; so much so that at first I was tempted to get negative. I wanted to be fair, however, so I went back for a second look without the hordes in attendance. I’m glad that I did and urge you to take a little time and examine the entire exhibition.

Yoko is of course, a pioneer. She was one of the founders of Fluxus, a Dada influenced movement which encouraged a DIY philosophy. It was subversive in mocking the over-intellectualized world of abstract expressionism of the 1950s.  Fluxus provides the base for her to use elements of humor, the macabre and shock value combined with the heaviness of mental anguish. Rarely do I see an artist who is so perfect for a medium.

On exhibit is a showing of her famous mid-'60s work “Cut Piece.” This is the performance piece where she sat on a stage while the audience would come up and each cut a piece of her clothing, until she was naked. On display are both footage of an historic 1965 Carnegie Hall performance was followed by a 2003 reprise at the Theatre le Ranelagh in Paris. This is shown on four screens and played back at slightly different times. I have to say that, in the current version, she is in tremendous physical condition. She appears to be defying age. What was originally conceived as an act of vulnerability, now exudes strength and survival.

“Cut Piece,” with its historical context/transformation set the stage for Ono’s central piece: “Interactive Painting.”  A massive canvas (the width of the gallery) is hung from the ceiling. Various holes are cut in it and viewers are instructed to put a body part through a hole. Also, she supplied Polaroid cameras where we were encouraged to take a picture of ourselves and either bring it home, or pin the photo to another canvas, thus creating a new piece of work (which is what I did).  Sharpies were supplied for writing a caption under the picture. I was there solo, but Yoko has someone there to take the picture.  I stuck my arm through one of the holes and extended my hand. My caption was “I gotta hand it to you, Yoko.”

Among the other pieces is “Vertical Memory,” which is made up of photos consisting of a composites of male faces: Lennon, her father and her son, Sean. Below each one are short statements where she addresses the journey from cradle to grave. Even though her face wasn’t included, all of the pictures resembled Yoko.

Through May 31. Galerie Lelong, 528 W. 26th St. (betw. 10th & 11th Aves.),

The Cave Singers packed the house last night at the Mercury Lounge, but they didn’t necessarily rock the house. Which is fine, because they’re not really a rock band. As Matador, their label, makes it clear in the band’s press release, The Cave Singers are a "folk trio." When I first read that, it made me realize how nebulous and misleading the genre-labeling that people like me promulgate can be. Because when I got hooked on their debut, Invitation Songs, folk is not what came to mind.

What actually came to mind was how much I liked the raspy vocals of the Seattle band’s singer, Pete Quirk, which reminded me of Stevie Nicks. In fact, I actually thought Quirk was a woman the first time listened to “Helen” off the Matador Spring Sampler CD that introduced me to the band. Since then I’ve seen that one other writer likens Quirk to Fleetwood Mac’s other vocalist, Lindsay Buckingham (at least he got the sex correct). Just goes to show, you’ve got to listen to this stuff yourself.

Or go see it for yourself, which a couple of hundred of us did last night. What we saw was a dark room (appropriately cave-like) with three bearded men on stage exchanging acoustic instruments. The trio took us through a dozen or so songs, with Quirk doing all of the singing (why then, the pluralized moniker? Who cares?) and occasionally playing the melodica, that small mouth-powered keyboard-thingy that looks like a Fisher Price toy. Quirk also busted out the harmonica and tambourine, which brought to mind Dylan, another nasally folkie that Quirk’s voice can sound like.

The set seemed short, less than an hour, and featured a lot of new material. The fresh tunes were a treat, but it was the more familiar stuff, like the foot-stomping “Dancing On Our Graves” that went over best. While the show was well received by the room full of fans, overall I felt underwhelmed. Even though I expected it to be as mellow as it was, a swaying-more-than-dancing experience, something about The Cave Singers’ hypnotic appeal didn’t translate to the live show. Still, it was worth seeing them if for no other reason than I now agree that calling them a folk band is accurate, although limiting.

Towards the end of the night I felt a tinge of pride when I asked the friend I had brought to the show to close his eyes during “New Monuments” and imagine Stevie Nicks. He did so, and smiled. “I hear it,” he said. Now go hear it for yourself.

With the first rendering of the new downtown Whitney expansion that is planned along the High Line revealed, it seems we may finally see architect Renzo Piano do something a bit more daring than his safe and unobtrusive (but nice) NYC structures so far (New York Times building, Morgan Library). It also will be an addition to the Meatpacking/West Chelsea area that is quickly shaping up to be the most exciting neighborhood for design in the city.

I know. I know. I also hate being in the nabe on a Friday or Saturday evening when it's choked with attitude and short skirts and girls in heels getting snagged in cobblestone. I can't stand the price point and haute-tude one bit. But walk around there on a weekend in Spring and it feels completely different. I've wandered through the area the last two weekends, usually stopping in at the Apple store at W. 14th St. (much more manageable than the other two tourist-magnets) and then wandering around near the High Line.

It's watching André Balazs' hunky Standard Hotel (left) continue to go up that really gets me going (the website has a video that's updated every 15 minutes). It straddles the rails elegantly, and the concrete work is exquisite. It's the sort of building that makes me think Berlin or Spain or Tokyo. The sort of forward-thinking design and construction that New Yorkers always seem to shoot down in favor of more squat little brick and mortar faux-jobs. The Standard Hotel gives me hope for the High Line development.

The Whitney project will shore up that feeling, adding a cultural touchstone to the area—not another hotel or condo that's out of most people's reach. Why was the Dia Foundation so dumb as to pass up this opportunity? We'll never know for sure, but this will mean the Whitney will no longer feel like the poor, tiny stepchild to MoMA and the Guggenheim (see a slideshow here). They will catch up to the New Museum (who at least got a glitzy new building even if they can't curate a show worth your time).

One guy says it reminds him of Rem Koolhaas' Oporto Opera House, but it's really too early to tell what the building will look like until more detailed renderings are completed (too bad the Whitney didn't go back to Koohaas, who had designed an expansion for them that was shot down by the UESiders). New Yorkers have fooled themselves into thinking that the city is European because of its immigrants and cosmopolitan pretensions. But it's actually been far too backward when it comes to merging contemporary ideas with culture, and this is the first time it feels like we might actually get the chance to do something extraordinary and vital. We'll just have to wait and see.

Photo by Timothy Hartley Smith on Flickr

:01-:40 Scarlett Johannson rides the bus and blows bubbles with her gum and wears knit caps just like everyone else.

:41-:53 Scar Jo sleeps, and dreams of one of those flailing, blow-up used car lot attention getters, she also dreams of an insect and some dude’s face for a split second

:56-1:42 Scar Jo at makeup, getting ready for photo shoot. They have to cover up her sweet arm tat, and they poke and prod to get her ready. Who knew that the process of making someone beautiful looked so ugly?

1:42-229 A quick clip of the dream insect tells us that Scar Jo’s photo shoot is a go. She’s all glammed out, and there’s so much happening that it seems like the film is sped up and the camera work is jittery. Scar Jo is in the zone, but in shots of the crew hovering around the set it almost seems—and here’s the part that really gets to me—like the shoot is no big deal.

2:30-2:46 A second of repose in a different outfit reminds Scarlett Johannsen of a child actor playing Scarlett Johannsen thinking about growing up and being Scarlett Johannsen.

2:47-3:00 She’s on a plane. No: She’s on a bus with the knit cap again; No: She’s on a bus to LAX; No, wait: sShe’s on speed having a rave in the back of her car with a BlackBerry.

3:01-3:23 Still on speed, Scar Jo brushes her teeth… thoroughly, and heads to bed, where she dreams of being on a bus, having Salman Rushdie whisper in her ear, and an ocelot.

3:24 Up and at ‘em! Scar Jo makes her way out of the hotel to the SUV with security. She hugs people. Someone gives her flowers, it is not clear why. In the SUV leaving she smiles. The window rolls up, she sighs deeply, and heads off.

Flight of the Conchords are not that funny, neither as a band, nor as a TV show. Not like “it’s not to my taste” not funny, or “I don’t get it” not funny either. They arouse in me nothing more than a pancaked whoopee-cushion of ambivalence, the essential oil of deflation. What bothers me is not them –who appear to be amiable, quirky, and nicely accented- but the effusive response they have received. I could never hate them like this guy, this guy, this guy or this guy.

Still, I can’t help but find it unreasonable, a warning sign of self-deception, or a grave indication of an unsatisfied need to belong when someone sings the praises of the joke singing Kiwi duo. I am sure there is a Nixonesque silent majority out there to whom my opinions are heartland truth, but I have not yet met it. Flight of the Conchords are generally not funny, and certainly not very funny (although I will admit their original HBO special had its moments), and yet they thrive nonetheless. Why? The key to their success has been twofold; the exploitation of a cultural niche, but firstly, and perhaps more importantly, that exploitation in conjunction with the transcendent and godly power of successful marketing.

As a new show on HBO, and one that is not at first preview, abominably bad, Flight of the Conchords came to the bank with its credit line already secured. An HBO show pilots onto screens with the spirit wind of the greatest (ever) TV channel (ever) at its back. HBO shows get cut more slack due to the network’s recent track record of challenging and rewarding their viewers with, admittedly, some of the best shows I have ever seen (The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, The Wire, Curb Your Enthusiasm). But the mystic aura surrounding HBO’s efforts can outshine and blind certain viewers to even the most mediocre of faux-video montages, and one of the lowest identifiable-joke-per-unit-of-time quotients in sitcom history.

The mystic aura helps explains why my roommate and I were able to continually watch the show in its first season, laugh rarely, and still convince ourselves that it was “pretty good.” I mean, it’s HBO, right? Maybe we weren’t getting something. A little show’s moment will generally flutter and fade, but in the case of Flight of the Conchords we weren’t allowed the sweet release of the dropped topic because hey—look at those guys! They live in Chinatown! They wanna pursue their dreams in the big city! They dress like-they’re just like—US!

And so the relatability trumped the lack of laughability, because more powerful (and marketable) than people’s need to laugh is their need to bond. Flight of The Conchords is a silly-billy connector pipe between the nozzles who hold up the show as the way this moment feels. This is not how my moment feels, and Flight of the Conchords is not a funny show. That a comedy lacking in any social commentary and focussed on awkward mid-twenties-middle school hijinks (with one admittedly awesome but not necessarily funny Bowie episode) could ascend the peak of coolness reveals less about the seemingliy nice guys who make it, and perhaps more about the priorities of the audience that clamors for it.

Photo courtesy of Guardian UK

New Zealand’s fourth most popular folk-parody duo? Talk about your one-way ticket to home box office gold. Flight of the Conchords spent their first glorious season on HBO failing at music, love and life in general, with a little bit of help from New York’s current reigning class of underground comedians like Eugene Mirman, Todd Barry and Aziz Ansari.

While, by my estimates, such a distinction would have helped them crack the number three, or possible even the coveted number two slot, they’ve since downgraded themselves to “formerly New Zealand's fourth most popular guitar-based digi-bongo a capella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo," having been knocked out of fourth place by their own cover band, the simile-embracing Like of the Conchords, a distinction that one would assume might make it a touch easier to score tickets to one of the band’s upcoming Town Hall appearance tonight and tomorrow.

This, sadly, is not the case—one can only imagine the manner of hoops fans would have to go through to make it into a show by the top four. I read something about “fire by Baptism” on a message board somewhere. Scoring an interview with the band, it turns out, is even tougher. We’ll spare you the grim and gory details here, and simply say that we spent much of the past week listening to "The Most Beautiful Girl (in the Room)" from the band’s recently released self-titled LP, thinking about what might have been. In the meantime, we’re set to spend the next couple of months wandering the streets of Chinatown with Mel-like tenacity, hoping to score ourselves a cameo in Season Two.

Flight of the Conchords play May 6 & 7 at Town Hall, 123 W. 43rd St. (betw. 6th Ave. & B’way), 212-997-1003; 8, $35.

One perk of theater criticism is you’re often given the script for a play that’s been off the scene. That certainly applies to Marc Camoletti’s Boeing Boeing, which ran on Broadway for 19 days in 1965 and fell off the radar faster than you can say Bermuda Triangle. True, the sex-farce-loving Brits kept it going-going for over seven years during the swinging ’60s, and the Guinness Book of World Records, in the early ’90s, proclaimed it the most-performed French play on earth. (Camoletti, who was French, died in 2003.) But in America, the play has long been going-going-gone.

Broadway, you see, has traditionally been unfriendly to farce, especially the libidinous kind. Maybe it’s the difficulty U.S. actors have adjusting their Method-centric technique to the idea of flying in and out of doors for no reason but to make us laugh, or of making exclamations like “She’s back!” seem believable. Maybe it’s because realism-weaned American audiences resist suspending their disbelief to such a farcical degree.

But with director Matthew Warchus’ new, pure-genius revival of Boeing Boeing transferred from the West End to Broadway, a sea change in attitude is in order. The subtitle—“a nonstop comedy”—may be a bit misleading (more on that later), but Boeing Boeing is a caterwauling scream of insanity. I wish it a first-class, smooth flight.

The West Wing’s Bradley Whitford plays Bernard, an American bachelor and businessman living in Paris who is constitutionally incapable of romantic commitment. He’s so averse that he’s engaged to three “air hostesses”: Gloria (Kathryn Hahn), a perky, free-spirited American; Gabriella (Gina Gershon), a sultry, earthy Italian; and Gretchen (Mary McCormack), a tall, domineering German. Any unwanted collisions are averted because Bernard has memorized all their flight timetables. As long as schedules stay consistent, no one gets hurt. Yet, as this is farce, pain is inevitable.

The unforeseen arrival of Bernard’s long-lost friend Robert—played by a long-faced Mark Rylance as a laser beam of deadpan delight—coincides with the schedules of all three women changing, thus initiating the action. Indeed, the only thing standing between Bernard’s arrangement and total disaster is Robert, who the women, for various reasons, hit on as well as hit, kiss as well as kiss off. The scene in which Bernard realizes the jig could be up is one of the most artfully delivered pure-farce moments in recent Broadway history, only topped by the physical pratfalls Rylance suffers through—his testicles pulverized, a beanbag to his head, or being hurled by that manic Germanic giantess.

All of which cruelly amuses Bernard’s snickering maid Berthe, who the peerless Christine Baranski transforms from an insult machine into a centrifugal farce all her own. Entombed in mannish clothing, a pixie wig, and glaring behind black plastic spectacles stolen from Beat poets, Berthe’s contempt for the lunacy about her is a combustible keg ever ready to explode. Seven doors swing open and shut on Rob Howell’s swanky white set (allowing the mod, color-coded costumes to pop), but the one leading to the kitchen, with the porthole window, is what gives Baranski the funniest take of the night.

The sweat-drenched Whitford essays the beleaguered straight man’s authentic joie de vivre, slipping into a quivering skip-step whenever a new complication threatens Bernard’s well-calibrated world. While perhaps too old to play the swinger—Whitford looks more like a booty-hungry divorcé—he’s guided superbly by Warchus, whose staging is elegant as a mathematical proof. The director’s one worrisome choice is when, cued by the script, he permits Whitford and Rylance a serious scene or two and the energy flags. All right, they both need a second to breathe, but the script does say “nonstop.” Still, what’s an airplane ride without turbulence?

Open run. Longacre Theatre, 220 W. 48th St. (betw. Broadway & 8th Ave.), NYC. 212-239-6200; $26.50-99.50.

Photo by Joan Marcus

Earlier today, I walked up the stairs and into the front door of a potential new home, in my quest for a new apartment, and there in the living room sat The Acorn, who I had seen live at Union Hall as recently as Saturday. It was simply a strange coincidence. The guys in the band were friendly as I wandered around their temporary crash pad deciding in my head whether or not it was the right place for me.

The Ottawa six-piece are one of those bands whose name will certainly become more and more known in the indie music world over the course of the next year. Their 2007 release, "Glory Hope Mountain" has been another testament to the high level of quality music coming out of Canada. "Glory Hope Mountain" is a concept album based around the story of the lead singer Rolf Klausener's mother. At times the songs are deeply emotional and natural indie folk, but there is also a nice handful of more upbeat tracks that help give the album an uplifting vibe.

On Saturday night, The Acorn was able to prove that the magic goes beyond recorded form as they filled the songs with extra life, during an exceptionally tight performance. Klausener's voice was just as soulful, if not more so, and the duel percussion worked perfectly.

They played free show yesterday at Williamsburg's Soundfix, and they're still not done in New York, with another show tonight at Pianos, and one on Tuesday at Mercury Lounge (with the equally great Cave Singers). This is a great chance to see a really great up and coming band while they're still playing smaller rooms.

Photos by Jonny-Leather

Iron Man opened this weekend to big box office numbers. It probably broke some new record that either existed before or was conveniently manipulated to exist so it could be broken (biggest opening on the first weekend in May with expectations of rain?). And of course there's another big budget flick with F/X wizardry right around the corner ready to catapult reap box office bucks (get ready for the Tron-meets-Willy Wonka wonder of Speed Racer this coming weekend).

Even more amusing than guessing which summer tentpole will bring the whole industry billions, is the merchandising, and we were lucky enough to receive two HUGE boxes full of goodies from Hasbro. First was the Iron Man grab bag that included Nerf guns retrofitted as an Iron Man toy and a mask and wrist gadget for shooting your pals.

Then, a couple weeks later, another box arrived, this one packed with Indiana Jones junk (sorry no Crystal Skull). It was all ready to be plundered for people's children and relatives, but I managed to save a couple of choice swag (I'm hanging on to the Shia action figure for an interested film critic that will remain unnamed) for the office guys to enact their own Summer Blockbuster Smackdown: Iron Man vs. Indiana Jones. The Jones plush whip was a hit—it makes a faux thwacking sound when a button is pushed, or can be switched to Indiana theme song to annoy your attacker—but it was no match for Iron Man's "Blast Repulsor Gauntlet."

How long will the toys manage to survive the inevitable manhandling? No telling. But probably longer than either will last in cinemas this summer.

Photo illustration by Jonny Leather.

It's Monday. Yes, it's May 5, so maybe you're making Cinco de Mayo margarita guzzling plans. Or maybe you need something new to listen to. Well, if you're in the market for indie Brooklyn musician who sounds a little bit dancehall, a little bit '80s pop, has lots of funky attitude without the pretension for anything beyond danceable beats. Here's a new, unreleased Santogold track available for download. Check it out. And save a Dos Equis for me.

Troma Entertainment founder and fearless leader Lloyd Kaufman is a gentle, impish grandfather figure made even more diminutive when propped against a backdrop of Amazonian women donning various rubber outfits as well as a larger-than-life Toxic Avenger.

Instead of hard candy, however, this granddaddy is more likely to offer a severed finger or some bloody stool out of the pocket of his loudly patterned suit jacket. Don't worry: That's just his unassuming charisma as the patriarch of a cadre of greasy but lovable weirdos, including a fiftysomething fan who tarred himself in feathers and spent the night flapping his makeshift wings on the sidewalk for myriad TV cameras in preparation for the release of Poultreygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead.

In honor of the release of Troma's latest goofy and gory musical, Kaufman invited press and fans alike to the Library Bar on Avenue A last Wednesday night. It was a delightfully depraved oasis for those who rightfully bemoan the fact that the East Village has grown entirely too sanitized.

Plus, the man is always good for some off-the-cuff deadpan. "Yeah, Oliver Stone used to work for me," Kaufman said. "We went to Yale together. He used to write shitty novels and then he switched to movies and did ok with that."

Amidst rumors that Troma is in financial hot water (and seriously, what indie media company isn’t in a vulnerable position between the hostile economic climate and relentless consolidation of media outlets),  it’s a small wonder that Poultrygeist, a tribute to Ingmar Bergman set against a geyser of diarrhea, still managed to see the light of day (see our profile of Kaufman last year during all the Grindhouse craziness).

Still, it’s a bit of a shock to the system to receive a respectful kiss on the cheek from a sweet Mel Brooks-type figure and then go home to watch a screener of a movie where Ron Jeremy’s speaking role is the most tasteful thing mentionable. But Kaufman’s got enough nuanced social commentary hidden under a Greek chorus of fart noises and dry humping to keep the Poindexters reeled in. Check out the trailer below (and a NSFW trailer here). Poultrygeist opens at Village East Cinema May 9 and there are still tickets available for the May 10 screening at which Kaufman will give his cleverly sadistic bon mots to those in attendance.