Best Of :: Arts & Entertainment
Not coincidentally, the best local film of the past 12 months tells an intimate history of Twin Cities art through the life of its director's own uncle, abstract painter Reginald Anderson. (And as luck would have it, this little-seen, hour-long film is playing May 15 at the Walker as part of a two-hour "Midwest Film and Video Showcase" program that begins at 7 p.m.) Keeping the camera close to her subject, filmmaker Terri Myers observes the 75-year-old Anderson enjoying his recent personal and artistic "awakening," which followed not only a stroke but several decades of low self-confidence and insufficient acclaim for his lyrical, translucent, abstract-expressionist work in pencil, watercolor, and pastel. The film also salutes Anderson's pioneering efforts to make his way in the Twin Cities (art scene) as an African American: growing up in the mythic, predominantly black Rondo neighborhood of St. Paul (which was decimated in the '50s to make room for I-94); taking night classes at the Walker in the '40s, and later at the UM and the Minneapolis School of Art; and spending more than 20 years as a security guard at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts before triumphantly returning to the canvas. Not just a portrait of the artist as an old man in his prime, Not a Nickel's Worth of Doubt is also a rare look back at the local culture that inspired him--positively and otherwise--to prove his worth.
Playing favorites can be a dangerous game, particularly in matters artistic, where the judge's personal taste is paramount. Nevertheless, we find it undeniable that, alongside Hidden Theatre's Brian Baumgartner, Steven Epp (who played Aramis in Theatre de la Jeune Lune's The 3 Musketeers) is playing in his own league in this town, and has been doing so for far too long. Brilliant is hardly too strong a word for this rare, scary, enigmatic, frightfully versatile actor. His one flaw is that, unlike Baumgartner, he hates to surrender center stage. We wish someone would come along to push back at him with equal force.
This town is packed with good actors, but Hidden Theatre cofounder Baumgartner is disgustingly good, and we are getting disgusted with ourselves for pointing it out so often. His talent is clear in every role, from the psychotic girlfriend-beater of The Crackwalker and the pseudo-psychotic guerrilla activist of Accidental Death of an Anarchist to the sweet, torch-bearing best buddy of Blue Window. Keep an eye on this kid: He's got the gift but good, and as long as he continues to work with the right directors, challenging himself with a range of roles, he stands to blow many minds before the day is done.
A veteran of the Guthrie stage, Wingert shines most wickedly in witty roles. Her rollickingly funny performances in last year's A Midsummer Night's Dream, You Can't Take It with You, and Blithe Spirit again proved the actress has a gift for saucy wit and comic timing. Her wide smiles slide from sweet to saccharine to sneer in seconds, but it's when she's trading barbs and battling with wordplay that Wingert rises to the height of her comic powers.
Okay, okay: So the two characters Duncan portrayed in Jar the Floor and A Raisin in the Sun are pretty much one and the same, with the Jar character simply a few years farther down the road to senility. No matter. Duncan hit almost every note perfectly in both roles, and when she wasn't cracking us up with her impeccable deadpan delivery and marvelous comic timing (especially strong in Jar the Floor, Cheryl West's generational drama), she made us swallow our tears with her artless pathos (see Raisin, Lorraine Hansberry's classic fable of African American family struggle). Other actresses in town have delivered roles of equal power (Annelise Christ in Hidden Theatre's Blue Window, Barbra Berlovitz in Theatre de la Jeune Lune's The Pursuit of Happiness), but none have surpassed Duncan's utterly flawless timing and ability to tap the very blood of her characters.
Between the hours of 8 p.m. and 10 p.m. Monday through Friday, the acerbic, absurdly energetic T.D. Mischke broadcasts either from "the muddy ditches along Highway 61" or his summertime perch above right center field at Midway Stadium. Mischke's m.o. is to use tidbits from the news as springboards into the inane, the banal, and the just-plain-stupid. Once he starts tugging on a story, the facts might get stretched, but the effort often yields hidden truths or new possibilities. Once, when describing the case of a hulking brute who'd been robbing female manicurists, Mischke began weaving a yarn about the crook's cry for help as he struggled to raise funds for a sex-change operation. Was this true? It didn't matter. Mischke had judiciously plunked the proper note by robbing the bully of his most prized possession: his masculinity. On another occasion last fall, Mischke suddenly became enamored with the quiet space between his words and fell silent for the entire show. The calls rolled in, of course. "It was actually a great study in what people will do when there's silence," Mischke recalls. "They filled [the air] and I never said a word." And, when the host feels like talking, the caller can't help feeling disoriented and a little woozy--in the best possible way.