Word: ragingly
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...might idolize James Gandolfini from "The Sopranos" but your closet is filled with baby-blue cashmere turtlenecks. Your handy tool might be a DeWalt drill but all the girls know you can make a mean plate of vegetable lasagna. If you need a simple formula, try straight-boy rage plus feminine passion. So to summarize: Stallone out, Jude Law in. Macho out, unobtrusive self-confidence in. Or maybe it's better put this way-players out, female predators...
...university. For the current American Repertory Theatre production, however, director Marcus Stern has reset the play during the actual delivery of Alexander's lecture concerning the kidnapping and murder of her two infant daughters. Instead of the private recollections of a horribly wronged mother, we hear the carefully controlled rage of a public speaker. Instead of the mountainous stacks of books called for in Kennedy's script, we see a nearly empty classroom (brilliantly conceived by set designer Molly Hughes in a cream white just this side of what we might expect the walls of an interrogation room...
...moment, images of murdered babies can make us cringe or weep. But they are sounds and sights to which we know how to react; we have categories of thought and emotion into which we can place our surprise or anger. We can hear and appreciate the rage turned to disbelieving reflection in Denise Nicholas' mature, measured voice, and we can sympathize with her loss...
...hammered by the angstful, flanneled, head-banging juggernaut that was "Here we are now, entertain us." But Mr. Hick-Hop was not the only rocker that suffered. Metallica was temporarily uncool and Megadeth was mega-dead. Meanwhile, Korn was chillin' on the West Coast in Bakersfield, Calif., gathering up rage motivated by not having dates to awkward high school formals, jealousy towards big jock bullies and their hot cheerleader girlfriends, and tolerating parents that would not let them smoke dope and swear. Their question: when would hate-rock rule again...
...seen No Doubt only four short years ago in a small club in Providence, and the crowd was nothing like this one. They were bigger, older, rougher, more ska-core and punk. The floor then was not violent by Rage Against the Machine standards, catering more to the more gentle colliding of a skank pit. At that time, the opening band was Goldfinger, a light-hearted, prankish, oft-nude precursor to Blink-182. This time, the openers were not nearly as friendly. But the presence of the Suicide Machines did not scare off any of the teenage girls. Rather...