MASTERS OF AMERICAN COMICS

THROUGH JAN. 28

THE NEWARK MUSEUM & THE JEWISH MUSEUM 

I have never been a comic buff or aficionado. Sure, I went through a phase of rummaging through the discount racks at comic book stores (in Nyack, I seem to recall) for back issues of Spiderman (my favorite superhero). But I can’t say that comics ever truly captivated by boyhood imagination. Perhaps this had something to do with never having grown up with the funnies (my family only subscribes to the New York Times, whose few illustration are rarely accessible to children). When I reached adolescence, I developed an interest in Mad Magazine and the EC comics that were being reprinted (apropos of the TV show “Tales from the Crypt,” I think). I also discovered Gary Larson and Charles Addams through anthologies of their drawings. But I was chiefly interested in single-frame cartoons (à la the New Yorker) that exemplified a joke or pun, rather than a sustained narrative.
    This is the limited background knowledge that I brought to the “Masters of American Comics” exhibit at the Newark and Jewish Museums. Most of the 14 artists represented were previously unknown to me (this is especially true of the Newark installment). I kept comparing the work of Winsor McCay and Lyonel Feininger to the graphic works of Aubrey Beardsley, Heinrich Zille and even Goya. The downside to these otherwise flattering comparisons is that I was unable to take the “dialogue” as seriously as the image (as a counterpoint, I am forever being told by friends that that the artwork is of secondary importance in graphic novels).  Still, I enjoyed training my eye on each successive frame and treating the sheets as storyboards for a film.
    The comics from the 20s and 30s  (Gasoline Alley and Thimble Theater) bore a closer resemblance to the late-20th century comics with which I have the most familiarity. (Although I confess that I’m more intrigued by the pornographic knock-offs, the Tijuana Bibles). Perhaps this is why I found it easier to put that text and image on equal footing. The relative lack of actual drama and interior, fantastical (sometimes surreal) and quotidian elements, brought to mind Nathaniel West’s Miss Loneyhearts, a novel in the form of a comic strip, which is contemporary to Frank King’s drawings.
    I’ve never been fond of Peanuts: and the exhibit on Schulz did nothing to change my feelings.  But I loved the noirish elements in Dick Tracy and, later, the Spirit. One of my favorite artifacts (what should they be called?) on display was “The Story of Gerhard Shnobble” which struck me as impossibly cynical and bleak to have been published in 1948.
    On the whole, the artists represented at the Jewish Museum’s show were more familiar to me, especially Kurtzman – from my Mad / EC days - and Crumb (I’ve seen the pretty trashy film version of Fritz the Cat). I was also glad to be introduced to the works of Gary Panter and Chis Ware, whose work seemed freshest and most innovative to me. But I do wish that the Jewish Museum’s exhibit had been a tad less cluttered and had provided more about the specifically Jewish contribution to the medium.
    I think both shows would have benefited from more historical context and technical details. The accompanying panels often mention an individual artist’s stylistic contributions and innovations. I would also have enjoyed specific examples and explanations about actual drafting and reproduction of comics. 
   
 

A.J. GOLDMANN

In the three seasons since it premiered at the Metropolitan Opera, Julie Taymor’s lavish and crowd-pleasing production of Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte has seemed to become as permanent a fixture in the house as the starburst chandeliers. It’s not hard to see why. Taymor, best known as the director of Disney’s “Lion King” on Broadway, is a wizard with puppets and uses them to bring Mozart’s beloved fantasy to life. Onstage puppeteers skillfully manipulate dragons, dancing bears, a levitating meal and a great skeletal bird. Then you have the costumes, which range from the comically outsized villainy of Monostatos in a fat suit to the action-figure plasticity of the virtuous Tamino. All in all, Taymor’s talents are served better here than the Lion King. This comes as little surprise: indeed, her creations are all the more magnificent to the accompaniment of Mozart’s astonishing music (due apologies to Sir Elton).

It has been complained that Taymor’s visually sumptuous and overly theatrical sense detracts from the music’s power: this was, indeed, the impression received when I first saw the production two seasons ago. However, revisiting it in late December, I found that Taymor’s production fit the opera like a glove. This time around, the razzle-dazzle of the design didn’t seem to be competing with the singers for the audience’s attention; rather, the whole spectacle seems to have sunk in and integrated seamlessly and effectively with the music.

An unusually strong cast for a revival (especially one so de facto appealing to novices and newcomers) might have helped account for the change. This is hardly a production that needs to rely on star power to bring in a full house. Nevertheless, the cast on the evening of December 23rd was remarkably effective and youthful.

The German tenor Chirsoph Strehl was effortlessly ardent in the undeniably stiff role of the heroic Tamino, who is implored to save the princess Pamina from the clutches of the high priest Sarastro, and given the eponymous magic flute to guide him. Strehl sang with precision and ardor, although at times one wished for a more commanding presence and voice. More impressive was the Russian baritone Rodion Pogossov as the bird-catching Papageno, the opera’s most likable character. Pogossov’s smooth and agile baritone was capable of expressing his character’s emotional range – from cowardice to lovesickness and adorable gluttony. He was, beyond doubt, the evening’s brightest star.

The most delicate performance came from Isabel Bayrakdarian, the Lebanese soprano who sang Pamina with equal degrees of courage and vulnerability. Her honeyed voice sounded brazen and wild as she warded off the predatory Monostatos (Volker Vogel) and tearfully fragile in her confrontation with the Tamino, who is bound by a vow of silence.

The soprano Cornelia Götz gave a compelling debut as the Queen of the Night, even if her interpretation was not to all tastes. She concentrated more on dramatic expression than lyrical unity in her coloratura runs during the famous “der hölle Rache.” The one misstep was the bass Stephen Milling as Sarastro, whose warm and supple voice lacked the severity that the role requires.

In the pit, Scott Bergeson led the players in an unusually lush and protracted account of the famously tuneful score. Is it possible that he found inspiration in the clever and inventive visuals?