Applause, Applause…

Applause…Applause…Applause…

My hands are tired. My throat is sore. I’m not shouting or clapping. I’m just sitting in my recliner, mug of tea at my side. But the folks on that 60-inch LCD are screaming, stomping, springing, singing and carrying on in ways that make me feel like I’ve just done 45 minutes on the Stairmaster. And it’s only mid-morning.

The Price Is Right just wears me out.

Some game shows, of course, have always trafficked in carefully cultivated enthusiasm. The Monty Hall School knew that the contestants were the performers in this circus. Hosts like Monty, Bob Barker, and Bob Eubanks cultivated the role of the sympathetic yet passive observer, barely arching an eyebrow at absurd newlywed spats or near fainting spells over the prospect of a Broyhill living room set.

Since the glory days of the game show, television has gotten even more frenzy friendly. “Heeerrrrre’s Bobby Flay, Drew Barrymore, Stephen Colbert, Whoopi, Michael Strahan…” and the crowd goes wild. We like these folks. They make us happy. We cheer, but we’re cheering on the inside. Hard news programming hasn’t quite gotten there yet. Wolf Blitzer just isn’t the kind of fella to inspire “Whoop-whoops.” But who knows, we might be on our way to embracing the model of The Howard Beal Show offered in Network. Where there’s a will for higher ratings, there’s a way.

Football has found a way. After all, there’s no cheer like a sports cheer. By several estimates, the actual play in a pro or college football game lasts approximately 11 minutes. That means broadcasters have to fill 169 minutes with commercials, replays, commentary and, yes, many, many images of fans: cheering fans, anxious fans, painted and costumed fans, and media-hysterical fans screaming for their own 15 milliseconds of ESPN fame. It works. During the week of October 9-15, fourteen of the top twenty cable or broadcast shows were either football or baseball games. We love watching our teams, and we love watching ourselves watching our teams. it’s a different sort of community, I suppose, connected through the same virtual channels that drive TikTok and YouTube. It’s nice to be part of the crowd, even a pixilated one.

Beckham

David Beckham in 2005

Lest you think I'm not a sucker for a great sports story, let me tell you about Beckham, a new, four-part documentary about the soccer phenom now showing on Netflix. David Beckham, of course, was a great soccer player, perhaps the Greatest of All Time (I defer to better scholars of the game than I to make that judgment). But Fisher Steven’s fine work goes far beyond examining his soccer skills. Since Beckham’s career dates back to the early 1990s—when he began playing for Manchester United as a 17-year-old phenom—his story offers lots of insight into the changing culture of sports and celebrity in a media-driven world.

His marriage in 1999 to Victoria Adams (aka Posh Spice) created the English It Couple of the moment, and the challenges of A-List celebrity-dom are a big part of the story. Dogged by obsessive British tabloid photographers, the two are hounded at their home, at their kids school, and even outside the hospital while Victoria is giving birth.

But the true travails of superstardom become clear during a 1998 World Cup elimination match against Argentina. Involved in a tackle early in the second half, Beckham “kicked” an opposing player as they were getting up off the field. He received a red card (ejected from the match), and England lost in a penalty shootout. Vilified as a traitor to the English cause, Beckham was subjected to death threats, vicious tabloid stories, and was hung in effigy outside a London pub. He was vigorously booed at his Manchester United matches for a good six months. Oh, those English.

Not that Beckham’s life was one struggle after another. As befits a well-paid sports star, Beckham lives large, and Stevens spends some time filming at Beckham’s country estate. As befits a sports star who was a regular on the cover of magazines, Beckham’s closet is huge, organized and tres chic. (There’s a great eyebrow-raising moment when he points out the clothes rack where he hangs the outfits he’s going to wear in the coming week—selected in advance.) Through all these elegant trapping, though, the Beckham of Beckham seems like a nice guy—quiet and un-braggadocious. Someone who loves his sport and is willing to put up with a lot to keep at it.

Bargatze Who?

Nate Bargatze

Who is Nate Bargatze? Good question. And it was a really good question for me last Saturday when he was introduced as the host of Saturday Night Live. The name was unfamiliar. The face was unfamiliar. A quick search turned up a few Netflix specials. He's known for "clean" comedy—not necessarily a sure path to stardom. But Bargatze has been steadily rising since he played the clubs in the early aughts.

Attention will be paid. His opening SNL monolog was, I think, pretty brilliant. Bargatze leans into his Tennessee roots, but this is not Larry the Cable Guy schtick. He’s is a flyover guy baffled by the contemporary world. His big eyes help him lean into his deadpan, "I'm confused" persona. And his observational humor is an audience-friendly blend of Steven Wright and Jerry Seinfeld. "I'm from Tennessee," he explained at the beginning of his monolog. "I'm also from the 1900s. You just gotta say it. The world is so… 'future' now and I feel in the way of it."

Judging from his monolog, Bargatze also had a big hand in a number of the sketches, including one in which George Washington talks to his men before battle, listing the things they are fighting for. “We fight for a country where we can choose our own leaders,” the general tells them, “choose our own laws. and choose our own system of weights and measures.”

Witch

Halloween is many things. An orgy of Kit Kats and candy corn. A different sort of orgy of salacious costumes and strange looking alcoholic concoctions. A somberly affectionate occasion to remember the dead.

Or, if you're Suzan Fete, director of Renaissance Theatreworks’ production of Witch, it's an occasion to pose one of the central questions of Western philosophy: Are We Free? (in the “Will” department, that is).

Marti Gobel and Neil Brookshire in Jen Silverman’s Witch at Renaissance Theatreworks.

Do not fear. Witch is not a roundtable discussion featuring Aristotle, Augustine, Descartes and Oprah. Playwright Jen Silverman is able to pose this age-old question through a rippingly funny yarn adapted from an actual Jacobean era play (early 17th century--think bloody revenge dramas).

The star of the show is the devil himself (Neil Brookshire), who arrives in the village of Edmonton to offer some residents the sort of bargain you don't even find on Amazon Prime Day. The goods: anything you want. The price: your soul. (Free delivery.)

This deal is just perfect for a couple of aspiring heirs to the manor, Cuddy Banks (James Carrington) and Frank Thorney (Joe Picchetti). Cuddy is the son of Sir Arthur Banks (Reese Madigan), but the good Sir is somewhat put off by his son’s love of flashy dress and his passion for Morris dancing. Sir Arthur is instead quite enamored of Thorney, a mere friend-of-the-castle who has his eyes on the prize as well. These rivals make their deal with the devil, but while they are acting out the 17th-century version of Succession, Satan has become fascinated with another prospect, Elizabeth Sawyer (Marti Gobel), an honest to goodness witch who has fallen out of the town’s favor.

Elizabeth isn’t such an easy mark, however. Beelzebub is besmitten, and the pair’s long conversations lead to one distracted demon. Meanwhile, the two heirs seem to be following their prescribed fates. After a bit of the ol’ ultraviolence, it seems that the devil has pulled the right strings and granted the wishes. Or has he?

Witch plays through November 12th at Milwaukee’s Next Act Theatre space.

Louise Glück

Louise Glück. Photo by Webb Chappell

The work of poet Louise Glück is spare, flinty and not a quick, easy read. Fortunately, the several reminiscences published since her death on October 13th offer a way in. Some of the essays are charmingly anecdotal, like Dan Chiasson recalling the pair’s years-long friendship. Others are valuable introductions to her poems, like this piece by Gregory Cowles—a curated selection of poems with comments that invites a reader to “Get started” on her work. For a thorough and very readable introduction to her life and body of work, The New Yorker published appreciations from six writers “who knew, read, and studied with Glück.” I’m most grateful for this short essay by Langdon Hammer, “Louise Glück at Midnight,” which contains this small piece of her poem, “Midnight,” from the book Faithful and Virtuous Night.

At last the night surrounded me;
I floated on it, perhaps in it,
or it carried me as a river carries
a boat, and at the same time
it swirled above me,
star-studded but dark nevertheless.

I’m taking a week off to pursue my dream of becoming a Morris dancer. The Friday Five will return on November 17th. In the meantime, feel free to peruse columns that you’ve missed. And please subscribe.

Have a good week.