Word: oedipus
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...Oedipus into Santa Claus-yet the fact was that Dadd, far from becoming one of those psychotic artists whose scribbles are only, or mainly, of interest to analysts, painted many of his best works in the asylum. He labored in a solitude, a vacuum of response, which might have crushed another artist. But it may be that Dadd's enforced seclusion helped sharpen the obsessive quality of his inner vision. Behind bars, time and detail never end. The evidence is up in London's Tate Gallery this summer through August: poor Dadd's first one-man show...
...Jewish. Erica Jong has written a medley of a book, something of a cross between a True Confessions of a Feminist--How Tough it Is and a Portnoy's Complaint. The book is probably meant to be the new monument to the movement. It's got everything: woman as Oedipus, masochist, narcissist, feminist; woman as hostage of her fears, her fantasies, her false definitions; woman as siren seductress and sexually screwed up; woman as dependent and woman as rebel...
...scholar and not just an assistant dean gone wrong, and yet not be an attractive person. My first term I audited an English class whose professor, when he found he had not used up as much time as he'd intended, fell back on quoting large chunks of Oedipus at Colonnus in the original Greek; but I decided I didn't like him anyway. It was disillusioning. Similarly I have taken a class by one Nobel prizewinner, and the single moment I enjoyed most in his course was his discomfiture when the rap session into which he had self-consciously...
What gets lost in reducing a Greek tragedy to a demonic Pan-legend-a sort of Clockwork Orange run back through the time machine? Despite the passionate resourcefulness of Actor Cariou, this neo-Neanderthal Oedipus becomes an anachronism when sophisticated lines like "Wisdom is a mode of suffering" are delivered about his shaggy head, or when that barbaric stage is filled with the most subtle verbal portraits of pride in the history of theater...
Atavistic Souls. There is more to Sophocles than Jung had dreamed of. Langham has performed his own sacrifice: he has given up the head of Oedipus to secure that bloody heart, and the contradictions cannot always be contained as Sophocles goes one way and Langham another. The nice English-repertory accents that lurk beneath those animal skins are also jarring, and above the Afro-Greek beat of Stanley Silverman's score, one hears the vaguely Elizabethan cadence of Burgess's script. But Langham's sacrifice is worth it. He has taken 20th century audiences, prepared to yawn...