Philip Glass

This probably wasn’t the point Glass wanted to get across in Orphée, presented this weekend by the Virginia Opera at George Mason University’s Center for the Arts. Glass wrote the 1993 opera as a tribute to his late wife Candy Jennings. But the story comes from Jean Cocteau’s film Orphée, one of many adaptations of the Greek myth, along with Gluck’s Orfeo ed Euridice and Marcel Camus’s Orfeu Negro, which placed the doomed pair in Rio during Carnaval. (Oh, and let’s not forget the Bible.) Cocteau’s script—slightly abridged but mostly unchanged—serves as the libretto. There are no arias, only dialogue in song form. Thus Orphée the opera feels less like an opera and more like a movie set to music.

This works well for the Virginia Opera, which puts on an enjoyably peculiar production. The last time the company swung through Fairfax, it bit off more than it could chew, with an underwhelming take on the larger-than-life Aida. Glass’ simple, two-act opera is better suited to the company’s strengths. The orchestration and staging are nice, nothing fancy—one might even say minimalist. But we know the shaggy-haired maestro hates that word, so we’ll go with Glass’ preferred term: “music with repetitive structures.”

The music is certainly repetitive, though not atonal and easier on the the ears than Glass’ earlier operas; think his film scores for The Illusionist and The Fog of War more than Einstein on the Beach. It cycles through four basic chords in a manner that is supposed to be meditative, I guess, but instead evokes a feeling of confusion. Which is appropriate for a story that is often confusing: What’s with the radio? Why is Death wearing a fur coat and camisole? How does a poet afford such a swank apartment?

That poet is Orphée, French for Orpheus, who lives with his wife Eurydice in what looks like a loft condominium they furnished with beige everything sometime in the 1970s. He’s hosting a poetry reading there when a younger poet, Cégeste, is hit by a motorcycle and dies, only to be brought back to life by his patron, “the Princess.” Orphée is a little freaked out but also becomes infatuated with the mystery woman, who turns out to be, surprise, Death herself. Death’s valet, Heurtebise, gives Orphée a radio. He listens to it obsessively to the neglect of his wife, until she dies in—you guessed it—a motorcycle hit-and-run. Orphée then has to follow Heurtebise into the underworld, where things start to get weird.

Orphée could be interpreted any number of ways, most obviously as an allegory for artistic immortality and artists’ willingness to sacrifice everything to achieve it. But it doesn’t come across as autobiographical. The mood is light enough to suggest that Glass and Cocteau are not blind to the sillier pretensions of the world they inhabit. In one early exchange, Orphée’s editor presents him with Princess’ arts journal: “The pages are blank.” “It’s called Nudism.” “That’s ridiculous.”

Director Sam Helfrich keeps things light, even trippy. Body doubles wander eerily across both sides of the stage, reflections in the mirrors that serve as portals between this life and the next. Indeed, baritone Matthew Worth, as Orphée, appears to be in a half-daze for much of the opera. But his stout voice, matched by soprano Heather Buck as Princess Death, does the music justice. Others leave something to be desired—soprano Sara Jakubiak’s Eurydice could be less shrill; tenor Jeffrey Lentz’s Heurtebise could try not to sound like he has peanut butter stuck in his mouth. Mezzo-soprano Marta Wryk is great in the supporting role of Eurydice’s friend Aglaonice.

Orphée isn’t like most operas, and many in the audience Friday didn’t seem to quite know what to make of it. It’s based on a movie, but why should that be strange? Most operas are, after all, adaptations of some older novel or play. It makes sense that modern opera would pull from a rich trove of 20th century film. What might be next? Just think of the straight-to-YouTube lip dubs and Rebecca Black music videos that will serve as our next generation’s operatic muses.

Orphée closes on Sunday, February 12 at George Mason University’s Center for the Arts. In French, with English surtitles. $48-$98. (888) 945-2468.

Photo by David A. Beloff

At a time when early music is a hot ticket for chamber groups (in D.C., see Bach Sinfonia and Opera Lafayette), it’s nice to know there are ensembles that are as devoted to new music. Around here, no one is more devoted than the 21st Century Consort. Since its 1975 founding, the group has cherry-picked the best local talent—starting with its leader, Folger Consort founder and former UMD Music School director Christopher Kendall—to perform its often risky repertoire: largely untested works by living composers, balanced with the occasional 20th Century crowd-pleaser like Copland.

You won’t find much in the way of familiar crowd-pleasers in their program today at the Smithsonian American Art Museum, where they serve as the resident ensemble. Instead, you’ll get a bold selection of pieces for strings, piano, winds and voice, all written since 1980 and exhibiting a variety of approaches ranging from noise-rocker and "steampunk" (his words, not mine) synth-maker Mark Kuss to new tonalist Robert Beaser.

The 21st Century Consort understands this kind of stuff can be hard for audiences to grasp. Their concerts are frequently multimedia, with visual flair to lend the music some additional point of reference. Today’s program will open with a debut of local filmmaker Paul Moon’s Simple Machines, an eight-minute film about the world's largest diesel engine. Moon has collaborated the Consort since last season, beginning with his documentary on American composer Samuel Barber, and continuing with a time-lapse film, Time Crunch. The film was tightly synchronized to a recorded performance which the Consort mimicked live, which according to Moon “wasn't a walk in the park for the musicians.” So for Simple Machines, Moon went for a looser format and recorded score by Luke DuBois.

DuBois, in turn, completes the circle between the program and its venue. Multiplicity Multiplicity is meant to be a musical accompaniment to SAAM’s ongoing exhibition, Multiplicity. DuBois, in addition to being a composer, is a visual artist, and his series of eye charts “Hindsight is Always 20/20” is one of the works featured in the exhibit.

The 21st Century Consort performs at the Smithsonian American Art Museum’s Nan Tucker McEvoy Auditorium at 8th and G streets NW today at 5 p.m., with a preconcert discussion at 4 p.m. $20.

photo: still from Simple Machines

Eddie B. Ellis image via Facebook

Out for Good tells the story of Eddie B. Ellis Jr., a Prince George's County resident who spent 15 years in jail for manslaughter. Now in his 30s—he was convicted in his teens—Ellis works with recently released convicts (called “homecomers”) to help them readjust to life outside the prison system. Nico Colombant's 20-minute film serves to spark a conversation about ex-convicts' difficulties readjusting to life outside.

Unfortunately, Out for Good doesn't offer much in the way of narrative. More could be dredged from Ellis' work and impact, other than the presented visits to classrooms, youth groups, and the Community Supervision office at 25 K St. NE. He spends time playing basketball with youths as part of an informal ministry; he also speaks to a class at American University. Jumping from site to site with little explanation, the film doesn't deliver a particularly enriched picture of his life and work.

But its strengths lie in interviews with Ellis' uncle and younger brother (whose names are not given). “I didn’t know what he was locked up for; I didn’t even know what jail it was,” says his brother. “It was like I didn’t know him. I hadn’t seen him in years. We really just now getting to know each other, like, on a real basis.” On a fishing trip, Ellis' uncle (who also did time) provides the most insight into the difficulties faced by homecomers: “As ex-convicts, we are going through a lot of different emotions, a lot of different physical changes, mental changes,” he says. “Because your thought process while you’re in an institution is not the same as being in society. You, primarily, have to try to differentiate between the two. Just be patient with the person that’s just coming home, lending them all the support you can possible muster up."

The film shows Sunday as part of Our City Film Festival at the Goethe Institut.

This weekend, local nonprofit Yachad hosts the fifth annual Our City Film Festival, part of the organization's hefty mission to "break down racial, economic, and religious barriers, and encourage understanding between communities that are often disconnected.”

If One Punch at a Time and Porchfest are any indication, the fest is two steps closer to achieving its goal.

The sub-10-minute short One Punch is a more traditional documentary about Asia Stephenson, an 18-year-old boxer who aspires to land a spot on the U.S. women’s Olympic team. She’s shy in front of the camera, but erupts in the ring, yelping with each hook and jab she throws, and when she talks about Headbangers Boxing Club, her “second home,” she lights up. It's difficult to tell a story in so few minutes—One Punch deserves a broader scope than the one fight it follows—but it does a fine job revealing Stephenson’s character.

Porchfest, meanwhile, fits snugly within the format. Its cheerful story tracks the residents of a D.C. block—Hobart Street and Mt. Pleasant Street NW—who organized a day-long music event that spilled out from their porches onto the street. It’s a visual manifestation of Our City’s purpose, and thankfully dodges any too-cute sentiments that would distract from the awesome story. Instead, Porchfest sticks to something everybody can enjoy: neighborly kinship and good vibes, even if just for a short time.

Also: See our review of Out for Good. Films screen Sunday at the Goethe Institut.

Tom Green, "In Green," via Civilian Art Projects

Here's a heart-warmer: Alumni at the Corcoran College of Art + Design have launched a funding drive to purchase a painting by D.C. artist Tom Green, who was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease. The alumni foundation intends to present the work to the Corcoran for its permanent collection.

In 2010, the American University Museum at the Katzen Arts Center hosted a weighty retrospective in honor of Green. In December, the Post's Michael E. Ruane wrote a big profile on the artist, noting that Green has lost weight recently as well as some function in his hands. Green's greatest legacy may not be his sorta-figurative, sorta-not hieroglyphic paintings, but rather his long career as an educator at the Corc. He was an instructor there for 35 years.

Some of Green's work is now showing as part of Civilian Art Projects' "6 Painters" exhibit. Perhaps the Corcoran alumni mean to pick up one of those pieces.

Travis Morrison

Apparently Dismemberment Plan dude Travis Morrison once had another band called the Hellfluffers or something, and they had a song called "Moneytown" that could only be heard by people with cameraphones. Not for long! When Bad Friend Records puts out its retrospective Travis Morrison Hellfighters 7-inch, the original version of "Moneytown" will be the bonus download. You will not need a record player or a cameraphone to hear it. Also platform-agnostic is this dapper remix of "Moneytown" by Gavin Holland, a D.C. politician who is much better known as a disc jockey. Morrison's lyrics ("Credit cards bury the old/Sailboats glide on lakes of gold") are clunky, and his vocal performance is somewhat zany (natch), but Holland's mix pulls out the words and envelopes them in a pure dancepop context, which makes everything seem aesthetically sensible. (Same universe: "Buffalo Gals," "Puttin' On The Ritz," "Don't Fucking Tell Me What To Do.") And now that *everybody* is poor, the song gains a whiff of irony. That's entertainment!

Your next seven days should be filled with laughter. The following could help.

Friday, February 10: John Hodgman at Birchmere
This former-book-editor-cum-humor-columnist-cum-humor-author-cum-Daily Show correspondent has aged remarkably well. He recently released the final book in his trilogy of "Complete World Knowledge," That Is All, which covers wine, sports, and the end of the world. It's full of wonderful, hilarious lies. Hodgman is the smart friend at the party that makes everyone smile but isn't smarmy. He straddles the boundary between quippy and annoying and rarely, if ever, wholly crosses the line. For fans of Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me, The Daily Show, and Mike Birbiglia. 7:30 p.m., all ages, $25.

Saturday, February 11: Jim Jefferies at DC Improv
In the fine tradition of Lenny Bruce, Sam Kinison, and Mitch Hedberg, Jefferies likes to imbibe on stage. He's open with his vices. It's what colors his style of stand-up: loosely told true stories of debauchery from a funny and well-meaning Australian who now lives in L.A. and can finally afford all the coke he wants. Though not family-friendly, his appeal is wide-reaching. He's able to sell out theaters in most countries; you wouldn't want to leave him alone with your significant other, but you'd probably take a shot with the guy. For fans of Dave Attell, Patrice O'Neal, and the films of Bobcat Goldthwait. 8 and 10:30 p.m., 21+, $20, also February 10 and 12.

Sunday, February 12: The Whitest Kids U' Know at State Theater
The five guys that make up Whitest Kids are in an interesting place. Their IFC show, which before that was on FUSE, recently wrapped. Now what? A tour. Maybe a special. Maybe a film. It's similar to what happened to The Kids in the Hall. It'll be interesting to see if the five members stay together or separate into factions and start wearing suits...like another sketch group. For now, it seems like they're going to stay together, happy to be performing without television's restrictions. For fans of Miss March, ASSSCAT, and Mike Birbiglia. 8 p.m., 21+, $18.

Monday, February 13: Mothertongue: Anti-Valentine's Day Slam at Black Cat
Whether you're single or in love or somewhere in between, you're probably destined to have a not-great Valentine's Day. You'll either be alone, disappoint yourself, disappoint someone else, or all three. The best you can really hope for is to break even. The annual Mothertongue event at the Black Cat is an excellent way to cleanse the V-Day palate. Hearing open and honest tales preaching anti-love is good for everyone. For fans of Story League, SpeakeasyDC, and The Moth. 8 p.m., all ages, $8.

Thursday, February 16: Norm MacDonald at DC Improv
Norm MacDonald is the smartest stand-up performing who isn't considered smart. Most folks still think of him as the guy that got fired from SNL because he wouldn't stop making OJ jokes. Or from sitcoms that were not good vehicles for his style of humor. MacDonald never aspired to be a stand-up-turned-actor. He just did it because it was offered to him. And they paid well, so why not? Back to stand up, Norm MacDonald is thriving. His first special, Me Doing Standup came out last year to comedy nerds' delight. A 10-minute bit on how he'd get away with murder may be the funniest, cleanest, inappropriate piece of comedy of the last calender year. Watch it on Netflix. For fans of George Carlin, Richard Pryor, and anything good. 8 p.m., 21+, $25, also February 17-19.

Brandon Wetherbee hosts the podcast "You, Me, Them, Everybody," which records at the Wonderland Ballroom; the 8x8 variety show at Looking Glass Lounge; and The Quick and the Damned open mic at Solly's.

John Hodgman

MUSIC

'60s sunshine poppers The Association will wrap your heart in an argyle scarf. Saturday at 7:30 p.m. at The Birchmere. $35.

Local EDM up-and-c0mer Alvin Risk opens for Steve Aoki. Saturday at 8 p.m. at Fillmore Silver Spring. $35.

Rasp-voiced indie-folk singer Sharon Van Etten—who's new album Tramp is pretty excellent, isn't it?—shares a bill with conceptual mopers Shearwater at Black Cat. A bargain at $15. Saturday at 9 p.m. Update: This show has sold out.

Mike West says you should see Afro-Blue's Christie Dashiell sing solo. Saturday at 8:30 and 10:30 p.m. at Bohemian Caverns. $20.

Increasingly polished garage rockers Dum Dum Girls are at Black Cat on Sunday. 8 p.m. $15. Also, Cate Le Bon at DC9 (Sunday, 8 p.m., $10-$12) looks good.

BOOKS

The Midatlantic boasts a rich history of crime novelists, with Wire alumnus and detective fiction master George Pelecanos at its center. But now, there’s a new face in the crowd: retired D.C. detective David Swinson, whose noirish debut novel A Detailed Man hits stores later this month. Swinson may not be a deadly sharp writer yet—he occasionally indulges in too-poetic, maudlin prose—but his characters are surprisingly well-sketched with depth beyond their hard-boiled skins. Swinson’s protagonist is Ezra Simeon, a Bell’s Palsy-afflicted detective who inherits a high-profile murder from a dead buddy’s case file, and comes to suspect a serial killer. Cue a slow-burning trek through the dark and dangerous corners of D.C., replete with thugs, johns, cold cases, and all those details muddled in shows like C.S.I. In this District, crime is anything but polished. David Swinson signs and discusses his book Saturday at 3 p.m. at One More Page Books, Arlington. Free. (Christoper Heller)

CHAIRS

Their signature lounge chair sell for more than four grand, so it’s easily forgotten that Charles and Ray Eames didn’t want their work to become sequestered within the pages of Design Within Reach catalogs. The married couple—whom many mistook for brothers, given Ray’s androgynous name—sought to create beautiful things that could belong to anybody. One of their mantras was, “The best for the most for the least.” They were O.G.s of mid-century modern way before they were the darlings of the Dwell set. (Is it any surprise Ice Cube is a fan?) The couple became media favorites whose work grew in scale and ambition, segueing from military splints to furniture to film to the IBM Pavilion at the 1964 New York World’s Fair. But Eames: The Architect and the Painter, which aired last year as part of PBS’ “American Masters” series, also explores the Eames’ place within prefeminist America. Ray was more softspoken than her husband (“She sat like a delicious dumpling in a doll’s dress,” is the chosen praise of one male television host), but she worked with him equally; in a way, she was a forebear of the gender politics that would sweep the country 20 years later. The film shows at 4:30 p.m. Sunday at the National Gallery of Art. Free. (Brooke Hatfield)

NOT ENOUGH?

THEN PICK UP OUR MASSIVE SPRING ARTS GUIDE IMMEDIATELY.

Feb. 26 may be the Night of Silence. Everyone knows about The Artist—its many accolades, the likelihood it will take the top prize at the Academy Awards. But four out of the five films nominated for the Best Animated Short category are also silent or speak the cartoon equivalent, gibberish. Needless to say, if a movie has no dialogue, it better have a strong story. Well, there’s always next year.

The weakest of the bunch is Canada’s Sunday, a narrative that focuses on a young boy as his family goes through its Sunday ritual (church, Grandma’s). Simply drawn to the point of crudeness, the film offers charming images of squawking birds, bouncing cars, and houses that shimmy and shake whenever a train goes by. But, weirdly, a couple of animals get hurt throughout the story, which itself doesn’t seem to have much of a point.

Canada’s other entry is Wild Life, a 13-minute tale of a young Englishman who relocates to Alberta in 1909 and lies to his family about becoming a successful rancher when really he lives in a shack. Writers-directors Amanda Forbis and Wendy Tilby intersperse sometimes-amusing interviews with villagers about the stranger throughout, as well as not-so-successfully compare his trajectory to that of a comet’s. It doesn’t quite connect, but there’s a sadness that can’t be denied.

Another silent but jazz-scored entry is A Morning Stroll, a period-hopping piece about urban living, manners, a zombie apocalypse, and...a chicken that goes out for a walk in 1959, 2009, and 2059. Again, if there’s any message here, it’s not easily unearthed. But the different animation styles for each time setting — from simple, black-and-white lines to bright colors to a dingier but intricate video-game look — is a visual feast offered up in a mere seven minutes.

Pixar was unsurprisingly shut out of the Best Animated Feature running with its disappointing Cars 2—and it seems as if it barely squeaked into the shorts category. Its entry, La Luna, is pristine but relatively charmless, driven by an attempt at the magical instead of the witty. What exactly La Luna is about is a head-scratcher: Two grumbling (again, gibberish) old men and a boy paddle their rowboat to the middle of the sea and set up a ladder to the moon, on which they then sweep up stars.

So...they’re lunar janitors? Who knows. There’s a suggestion at the final image that they’re responsible for the moon’s phases, but the connection is tenuous and ultimately inconsequential.

The most ambitious and satisfying of the lot is The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore, another wordless and fantastical tale about the redemptive power of books. Co-directors William Joyce and Brandon Oldenburg use a combination of miniatures, CG, and 2D animation to present a literally whirlwind story of a tornado that blows the words out of books and the quasi-Oz the titular character discovers when he lands in an initially black-and-white world bereft of literature.

Not to worry: He soon finds a library, and life is suddenly sunny again. In ideal programming, Flying Books would be shown last of all the nominees, and you’d know exactly how Mr. Lessmore is feeling.

No Doubt: POTUS' 2012 campaign playlist is confusing. Arcade Fire. Florence and the Machine. Wilco. Someone please forward me the names of the aides responsible.

Coming Soon: The LeDroit Park Civic Association reminds us of the Howard Theatre's progress.

Today on Arts Desk: This year's Oscar-nominated shorts, reviewed.