#adler would be iconic as a history teacher

[godsfavoritelitlesilly]

Teacher au anyone???

[caveartfair]

Charles White’s Paintings Made Him an Icon for Black Artists

Charles White, Sound of Silence, 1978. © 1953 The Charles White Archives. Courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art.

In the 1940s, Charles White made some drawings and paintings that his mother wasn’t sold on. They were too angular and stylized; she didn’t understand what he was doing, why he’d abstracted his subjects’ bodies. White was apparently troubled by this, because ultimately, “he made the decision that he was going to make images that she could see and understand,” said Esther Adler, curator of the Museum of Modern Art’s recently opened retrospective of the pioneering artist’s work, which traveled from the Art Institute of Chicago.

White’s figures grew more realistic in the 1950s, even as the backgrounds of his paintings by and large dissolved away, leading to some of the 20th century’s most monumental images of African-Americans. There’s Harriet Tubman seated on a heavy rock that seems suspended in space; White’s iconic Black Pope (Sandwich Board Man) (1973), dressed in a sandwich board and aviator sunglasses, posed against an abstracted background with a skeleton hanging behind him; ordinary black men and women emerging from empty space or flat backdrops, stoic and defiant.

Charles White, Headlines, 1944. © The Charles White Archives. Photo by Gregory R. Staley. Courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art.

Charles White, Soldier, 1944. © The Charles White Archives. Courtesy of the Huntington Art Collections

White’s influence is difficult to overstate, due in part to the immediacy of his work—the sculptural presence of his figures and the emotional force of his compositions—as well as his legacy as a longtime teacher and mentor to students at L.A.’s Otis College in the 1960s and ’70s, when only a handful of black artists had achieved national prominence in the United States. (A survey pairing White’s work with that of some of the younger talents he fostered goes on view at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art early next year.)

“He was a kind of spiritual father for many of us,” wrote celebrated contemporary painter Kerry James Marshall, who studied under White at Otis, in the catalogue for the exhibition. “Nobody else has drawn the body with more elegance and authority. No other artist has inspired my own devotion to a career in image making more than he did.” For artist David Hammons, White’s mere existence came as something of an epiphany. “I never knew there were ‘black’ painters, or artists,” he said in 1970. “There’s no way I could have got the information in my art history classes.”

White came of age in Chicago during the Great Depression, when social realist art (in the vein of Thomas Hart Benton, or a little later, Jacob Lawrence) was viewed as a legitimate vehicle for change. He had visited the Art Institute of Chicago as a child, drawing in the galleries, taking in El Greco’s awe-inspiring The Assumption of the Virgin (1577–79). As a teenager, he read and was affected by Harlem Renaissance thinker Alain Locke’s influential anthology The New Negro: An Interpretation, which framed art as central to advancing the position of African-Americans. He paid attention to the book’s reproductions of Winold Reiss’s portraits of black Americans. He later cited Francisco de Goya and Käthe Kollwitz—figurative artists who made prints and drawings, and whose work dealt with social history—as strong influences.

Charles White, Folksinger, 1957. © The Charles White Archives. Photo by Christopher Burke Studios. Courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art.

Charles White, Work (Young Worker), 1953. © The Charles White Archives/ Charles White. Photo by Christopher Burke Studio. Courtesy of The Museum of the Modern Art.

He began working for the Works Progress Administration in 1938, and for the next six years, he would devote himself to working on large-scale murals like The Contribution of the Negro to Democracy in America (1943) at Hampton University in Virginia. It’s a fiery maelstrom of an image, dominated by a pair of clenched fists that are set to break through chains as Booker T. Washington, Harriet Tubman, Frederick Douglass, and other black liberators look on. It recalls Diego Rivera’s Detroit murals, made 10 years earlier (indeed, White and artist Elizabeth Catlett, who was then his wife, would travel to Mexico in 1946 and work with Rivera).

When White and his second wife, Frances Barrett White, settled in Los Angeles in 1956 a decade later—after a period in New York, frequent trips to the American South, and visits to Europe and the Soviet Union—a greater sense of space began to enter his work. In Folksinger (Voice of Jericho: Portrait of Harry Belafonte) (1957), he renders the famous black singer, who was a friend and supporter of White, belting out a song toward the heavens, his head raised, his lungs emptying their oxygen into the deep darkness that surrounds him.

As the American Civil Rights movement gathered speed in the 1960s, “the specificity of context” in White’s work “gets replaced by a sense of the magnitude of history,” said Adler. Setting figures against deep or shallow backgrounds, White focuses the viewer’s eye toward his or her body. “You get less of a sense of them being in a real space,” Adler continued. The space is “more spiritual, more symbolic.”

Charles White, J’Accuse #7, 1966. © The Charles White Archives. Courtesy of Michael Rosenfeld Gallery.

The effect of this can be seen in the moving Birmingham Totem (1964), made in honor of the 1963 bombing of a baptist church in Birmingham, Alabama, where four African-American girls were killed. White portrays a young boy examining a mound of wreckage, the splintered fragments of the church beneath his feet. As art historian Kellie Jones wrote in her book South of Pico: African American Artists in Los Angeles in the 1960s and 1970s, the boy’s “hands are engaged, as if he is caressing the ruins.” She pointed out that in his right hand, he holds a plumb line, “marking him as a builder and creator, symbolic of those who reconstruct and renew, removed from such despicable acts of racial hatred and intolerance.”

The boy’s crouching body is cloaked, forming the head of this totem of trauma. Set against the blank, cream-colored surface of the paper, the boy and the rubble together resemble the assembled outline of a figure—suggesting the restorative power of the body, or perhaps the load of suffering that the body must bear.

White would adopt this hunched, cloaked figure in later works as something of a stand-in for the homelessness and disenfranchisement rampant among African-Americans—but also the community’s resilience and dignity in the face of racism. In J’Accuse #1 (1965)—the first of a series whose name references the Dreyfus affair, a famous episode of anti-Semitism in France—a female figure sits, pyramidal, Madonna-like, enrobed in a thick blanket. She represents a powerful moral indictment of systemic prejudice and oppression. In Mississippi (1972), she is further abstracted from any background and made the center of a kind of inverted, twisted compass, with north at her feet and a bloodied handprint over her head standing in for the south. Even as White effectively turns his subject into a symbol, she has such weight and solidity, her features so carefully drawn, that she also asserts herself as an individual.

Charles White, Love Letter II, 1977. © The Charles White Archives/ The Art Institute of Chicago. Courtesy of The Museum of Modern Art.

Charles White, Love Letter III, 1977. © The Charles White Archives/ The Art Institute of Chicago. Courtesy of The Museum of the Modern Art.

While White’s work seemed to grow increasingly urgent with his “Wanted Poster Series,” begun in 1969—in which he riffed on 19th-century slave auction posters and notices of runaway slaves to portray black men, women, and children as a fugitive race—he held that his images came from a place of optimism.

“My whole purpose in art is to make a positive statement about mankind, all mankind, an affirmation of humanity,” he told the Los Angeles Times in 1964, as quoted in Jones’s book. “This doesn’t mean that I’m a man without angers—I’ve had my work in museums where I wasn’t allowed to see it—but what I pour into my work is the challenge of how beautiful life can be.”

Two years before he passed away, White created the color lithograph Love Letter III (1977), in which a cloaked woman appears against a rich turquoise background. Her face is turned upwards, towards a giant conch shell that floats above her—a symbol that writer Amy Crawford notes the artist used to represent feminine creativity. Women were a constant presence in White’s work, as was the spirit of his mother. Ethelene Gary Marsh had migrated from Mississippi to Chicago years earlier, and it was she who gave him a paint set when he was 7 years old; who dropped him off at the library on her way to work, where he learned about black history—and who, perhaps, in some small way, helped to steer his practice towards a more accessible, powerfully universal language.

from Artsy News

[hotspotsmagazine]

It’s Not Over Till It’s Over: Sean Hayes Talks ‘Will & Grace’

Where would our queer world be without Will & Grace?

That’s where my head was just before Sean Hayes phoned, recalling my lonely teen years, when gay white men on TV alone — here’s to evolved representation! — was unprecedented and life-changing for people like 15-year-old, closeted me.

It’s not enough, then, to say Hayes, 48, portrays Jack McFarland on the NBC sitcom, because some roles become legend, upstaging even the actor giving him life. Jack is one such character.

And so, a call from Hayes is like being a kid and spotting your fifth-grade teacher at the grocery store: It doesn’t quite feel real. And yet Hayes is a real man with a real life and even a real husband, music producer Scott Icenogle. But to the late-’90s TV landscape, it was the actor’s half-fiction as Jack and his exploding-rainbow persona that cut through heteronormative programming with gay jokes even your grandma could get down with.

And then, there’s Karen.

You obviously don’t need me to needlessly ramble on about Jack’s socialite best friend (played by Megan Mullally), who never met a martini she didn’t like. You know her, you love her. And together they truly make all of our friends out to be absolute fucking bores. The sitcom’s recent revival reinstated #friendshipgoals when the snarky pals, along with titular housemates Will (Eric McCormack) and Grace (Debra Messing), came swishing back to NBC in September 2017 for a ninth season after ending its initial 1998–2006 run.

Hayes isn’t Jack, exactly. But you might be fooled if he called you, too. His usually-unflashy voice sometimes picks up wind and takes on the kind of rapid-fire cadence his famous Cher-worshiping alter ego is known for. With Season 10 premiering October 4 and Season 9 now available on DVD and digital, I caught up with Hayes to talk about those who’ve long criticized Jack for being “stereotypically” gay, the history of the legendary Karen-Jack slap fights, and who helped him be OK with being gay.

It’s hard to put into words exactly what it feels like to talk to the man who gave me such an iconic gay character when I needed it most.

Oh my god. That’s so sweet. I really appreciate that. And you just answered the reason why when people ask me what’s the best part about playing it — that’s the best part.

Is it?

One-hundred percent.

When did you first realize Will & Grace had impacted the LGBTQ community the way it has?

Just a couple of weeks ago! [Laughs.] No, I’m joking. You know what’s so funny — first of all, you have no idea how much that means to me, you saying how much I mean to you. It means equally as much to me, so thank you.

So when did I know I had an impact? I think when I was young and doing the show I was so wrapped up in myself, in acting, in getting the part: “Am I going to get fired? Am I gonna learn my lines?” I was just happy to have a job.

It’s such a fascinating thing to discuss, and I’m so glad you asked. I felt normal growing up, so when I got a job, playing a gay character on a television sitcom I just thought, “Oh, I just have to be me, kind of, a heightened version of myself.” I didn’t think it would have that much of an impact because of the bubble I grew up in. I surround myself with people who are accepting of me, so naively I was like, “The rest of the world must be OK with it.”

I mean, I knew the stories [about homophobia] out there. I grew up and knew [being gay] wasn’t accepted, but I just didn’t think on any big level it was any big deal. So, that gave me the confidence to play Jack as outrageously as I could because, again, I’m surrounded by writers and actors — everybody else — who embrace this, so I felt loved, I felt supported and I felt confidence. So, I wasn’t heading to work thinking about how this is going to affect anybody.

[That] was a wonderful byproduct later, and I was like, “Oh, ohh!” And once it started, and all the press and blah blah blah, and we never got any backlash for being political in that sense, meaning how they politicized gay people, which is wrong. That’s another interview.

WILL & GRACE — “The Wedding” Episode 110 – Pictured: (l-r) Eric McCormack as Will Truman, Debra Messing as Grace Adler, Sean Hayes as Jack McFarland — (Photo by: Chris Haston/NBC/NBCU Photo Bank)

Over the years, people have criticized Jack for being “flamboyant.” How aware were you of that concern when the show returned for its revival season?

Oh, I never heard that. This is the first time hearing it. So, you’re saying people were worried, but I was playing him — I call it “outrageous” because “flamboyant” means a certain type of gay person, I think, and that’s another conversation to have. I was playing him as outrageously as I was before. So, people were concerned that I was playing him a certain way?

People wondered if Jack was too stereotypical for TV in 2018 and expressed some concern over what the straight community might think of us.

I think that’s [internalized] homophobia. Because I know people like Jack, because one part of me is like Jack, and so if you’re saying people in the gay community were concerned that I was playing Jack a certain way and people would “worry” that gay people act like that, they do act like that. And there’s people who act like Will. There are people on all spectrums of human behavior in the gay community, just like there are people on all spectrums of human behavior in the straight community, so I nix that, and I say “bye” to that — I say, “Bye, Felicia!” — because that doesn’t make any sense to me.

Similarly, the character of Cam on Modern Family was criticized for being an over-the-top and exaggerated version of what a gay person is. And I’m like, what exactly is a gay person supposed to be in 1998 or 2018?

Yeah, exactly. What are they supposed to be? And by the way, they are exaggerated, some of them. And so are straight people. Look at Jim Carrey, look at Robin Williams. There are lots of straight people who are exaggerated as well. I hate that argument — no, I’m glad you brought it up. I’m just saying I love talking about it, because it’s ridiculous.

As a kid coming to terms with being gay, who was your person?

If you’re talking about a famous person, Andy Bell [of Erasure]. Because I was in college and I was 17, 18, and I was shocked that somebody was out and proud, making a living in the arts or in pop culture by being who they are and not apologizing for it. I thought that was mind-blowing. “A Little Respect” was the No. 1 song on the radio, and I was like, “Wait, the guy is gay, and everybody is OK with that?”

The truth is, not a lot of people knew [Bell was gay] because we didn’t have the internet. But I knew, and all my gay friends knew. And I was like, “That’s amazing.” So that was inspiring to me, that you could be gay and make a living by singing, acting, whatever.

What has it been like to be a part of a show that has existed during two very different times, culturally and politically, for the LGBTQ community?

First, I feel very fortunate and lucky to be part of the chorus of the movement. I may not be a single voice, but I’m enjoying being a part of the chorus. And I think we’re lucky to have the voice and the representation for people to talk about it again, because I don’t think it should ever stop being talked about because everything is not OK. There are still gay kids being bullied. Look at that [gay] couple [that was assaulted] in Florida in the bathroom during [Miami Beach Gay] Pride. It just doesn’t end. The hate doesn’t end overnight.

So, we have to keep doing things, and again, my contribution may not be as an activist, because I just don’t feel comfortable doing that, it’s not who I am. It’s not in my blood, it’s not in my DNA to stand at a podium and speak in sound bites about how we need to prevail over the government and the system. I leave that to people who are good at it — I’m not good at it.

What I’m good at is being comfortable in my own skin and showing people that I have a husband, and we make stupid Facebook videos and try to show people that we’re as normal as any other human. I try to do my best at that.

So, I’m happy the show is back because there’s still tons of work to do. The power of comedy is so incredible; that’s why we broke so many boundaries the first time. And hopefully we can continue to do that.

Megan Mullally has said that you’re her “second husband,” after her real husband, Nick Offerman. How does your chemistry with Megan after all these years compare to the first time that you stepped onto set and shot the pilot?

It’s so funny that she calls me her second husband because Nick and I were born on the exact same day, same year, about 30 miles apart. Isn’t that hilarious?

But it’s like working with your sister. There’s a shorthand that nobody else would understand. So, it’s like, “I’m gonna do this,” and she’s like, “I’m gonna do that,” and then we just do it together. And there it is. So, we now know how to cut through all the stuff that you need to [cut through] to get to a comedic moment in a scene. And that’s what’s great about all this time that’s passed: I understand her, she understands me, we understand each other, so the chemistry has only gotten hotter.

Tell me the history of the slap fights between Karen and Jack.

There’s an episode called “Coffee and Commitment,” where Jack is trying to get off of coffee and Karen’s trying to quit alcohol. That was the first time we slapped each other. On paper, it was just, “Karen slaps Jack, Jack slaps Karen.” But of course, [Will & Grace Director] Jimmy Burrows, who is incredible at physical comedy, said, “Let’s make a dance out of this.”

So, we rehearsed the rhythm of it. I think that’s what makes you laugh — that’s what makes me laugh: the pauses and then the slapping again and then the pause and the slap-slap. It’s music, so you have to rehearse the beats and the rhythms in order to get that. [Laughs.] It makes me laugh even thinking about it.

What do you envision for Jack’s future?

Well, I don’t want him to change too much because our friends are our friends from high school because they never change, right? Maybe get married, but still remain Jack somehow, or find a long-term relationship. Or maybe — maybe! — there’s someone close in his own life that might be a suitable partner for life. Who knows?

Will?

I have no idea.

Could you see them together?

Could I see Will and Jack together? Maybe!

You’ve said you want to see him with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Just so you know, I’m here for it.

I think that would be a hilarious episode, and I hope Dwayne comes to his senses and comes to the Will & Grace [set] to play and have a good time.

from Hotspots! Magazine https://hotspotsmagazine.com/2018/07/12/its-not-over-till-its-over-sean-hayes-talks-will-grace/

[randobrandoblog-blog]

why we’re here

Every once in an extended while, my time carousel sees me back at one of three chief creative conceits, each of which I have about a jack/master aptitude for – I audition for a show I feel inclined to perform in, bag it on more occasions than not (due more, I’m sure, to savvy selectivity than ineffable brilliance), and get to act my heart out for two or so months. When this particular hunger strikes, I’m a little more discerning than a relative local and total national nonentity is probably entitled to be. I never audition for musicals, and I avoid the sort of stylized comedy whose illumination depends on that tense and tactile physical control for which we treasure so many different performers. This isn’t because I dislike either type; like any sane lover of art, I adore both if well-executed, and typically, if they’re being put on at all beyond high school, the cast and crew come fairly equipped for such stuff. As a sometime self-styled critic, I frequently marvel at strokes of these varieties. As a sometime self-styled actor, however, both are a bit beyond my reach and my preference. As it happens, I share these aversions with the screen performer I hope hardest to emulate whenever I try my hand at his trade. And as for the kinds of parts I do seek, he’s at the forefront of my mind too. My personal gold standard of acting, which I’ve found is seen as somewhat eccentric in regional context, is what I imagine to be most people’s gold standard in a broader context, and when they choose to think about acting at all: an evocation of reality, in all its mess and livewire unpredictability; a cocktail of arrhythmic emotional waves, bursting with responses apt enough to feel like the actor’s own. When it comes to theatre and film (which includes TV today), I regard no achievement greater than a performance in which actor and role become virtually indiscernible. Even if you have no inkling what the actor is like offstage, my ideal form of acting is the sort where you can’t imagine the human in front of you behaving any differently. Absolute, seamless naturalism, pass before you though jarring and unusual emotional extremes may. This impermeable commitment is necessary in your farces and your operas as well. But hyper human vérité is a flavor of performance I prefer the way I do coconut. I believe, too, that even as one mustn’t suggest a comparative denigration of those decidedly non-vérité forms, there is something of a golden mean quality to what I’m detailing. And when Marlon Brando first brought this sort of acting to the screen, history knows the liberation from all of that recycled cinematic convention was seismic. He wasn’t fluke enough to be the genuine first, of course – many people found theretofore-unseen magic ducking around expectations before our eyes, piercing those heavy (or corny) handed-down hands borne from decades of feeling into a fledgling and formerly voiceless medium. Even more than in small doses sometimes; Brando singled out Eleonora Duse and James Cagney, and if you’re a cinephile you’ve got your own few in mind. But Brando broke that barrier as forcefully and undeniably as Chuck Yeager, or Chuck Berry a few art forms over. Not only did he make such acting fashionable, he made it his calling, one which he honored almost slavishly (though he could be thrillingly novel circumventing it). To the historical chauvinism by which he wins this championship title, you can add American chauvinism too; well before obvious signposts like De Sica, overseas filmmakers and their actors proved to possess a firmer finger on these buttons. And of course, being the first famous realist actor on celluloid is speedily dwarfed by thoughts of centuries of stage performers – not to mention those teachers to whom Brando owed his inspiration, from the incomparable Stella Adler on up the line through Stanislavski. (As he himself would hasten to qualify, I refer to more than the often superficially tricksy “method” stuff.) But even today, when he’s been bested performance for performance by so many people, Brando’s strides, his conviction, avidity, fervor and jazz-like instincts, reverberate meaningfully enough to earn perennial gratitude. Even given the stale trappings of his early, mythmaking work, which weakens it a little now, one shudders to imagine the tradition evolving without his effort, ascendency, and influence. Of course, realism wasn’t the only thing on his résumé. As much as a desire to get it right, his inclination to the style was fueled by a desire to resist any encumberment he encountered – not even the result of oppressive genesis (though having two kinds of alcoholic parent, one loving but distant and one present but angry, can’t be a cakewalk) but an innate waggishness from which he drew his joy and energy. The suburbs in which Brando came of age weren’t unpleasant, but they were complacent and artificial, much like the tenor of the times. A youngster bursting with his immeasurable levels of curiosity and passion had only disruption in his fingertips, and having discovered he had no taste for destruction or foolishness, art was perhaps his only available salvation. Acting is the creative medium you throw yourself most literally into, and for an undisciplined, yet physically strong and clearly inspired, individual such as Brando it was a tailor fit, even as he consistently insisted he only did it out of base financial necessity and an absence of any other obvious natural talents. So we can easily conceive of how a lust for truth and an urge to resist merged to instigate his 1950s rise as a paragon of believable acting. But, though he lacked Meryl Streep or Daniel Day-Lewis’s finesse for detail when he went for pastures outside those he could summon within the skin he inhabited, Brando loved character work, and when we watch him attempt various accents or hide inside makeup choices, we come with him, witness the other half of his magnetism – he’s fun when he tosses any recognizable self aside, because it allows his madcap streak, his why-not puckishness, to flower untrammeled. Many critics bemoaned how recklessly Brando seemed to be skirting playing the clown, and he wasn’t afraid to be caught not trying. But fopping around in an obvious miss like the Mutiny of the Bounty remake was, however aesthetically wanting, a more valid punk gesture than anything he conveyed (or simulated) in The Wild One. Certainly, he flopped, sometimes hugely. But unlike at least one bazillionaire progeny, he couldn’t bore you if he tried. Despite his claims to eventual mellowness, which he might well have privately enjoyed in his later days, Brando’s notorious pugnacity, or its legend anyway, grew the way his body did. Thirteen years after his death, and considerably longer after his last great work (well – we’ll get to that argument), it’s not hard to recall, even as Johnny Depp faintly, ineptly retraces it, just how badly Brando encrusted himself in his own insistent eccentricity, for so long up to his passing. Forget Pauline Kael’s very early (1966) eulogy to his own control over his volcanic gifts and image. After the twin peaks of The Godfather and Last Tango in Paris (Apocalypse Now is a whole other matter), what was formerly a cute game he concocted to cope with unprecedented fame and admiration rapidly mutated into an onanistic circus of disagreeable quirk. Even in his self-identified “Fuck You Years”, Brando maintained a commitment to a handful of his ideals. After finally unburdening himself of charm, all that remained was that compulsive resistance to any authority. But grotesque as Brando might seem revisiting what he became (and I mean as a human being, even as those final vestiges of sex appeal disappeared under poor health), only the pugnacity and some of the pretensions – odd to imagine how a lack thereof was his first gilded calling card – truly scuff the image. True, he had strange ways of treating and referring to women and Jews. But these two groups would seem to be the only two subject to lapses in his otherwise magnanimous attunement to demographic disadvantages. And he loved and admired both, from his ingrained distance; the only on-record reference to physical abuse against women in his career (besides “shoving” stalkers and unwanted pursuers) is his defending his mother from his father after Marlon Brando Sr. had vented his odious rage. Brando’s Pop seems to have been the only living thing he hated*. From small animals to every race or culture ever to find itself America’s victim, Brando was a tireless and unafraid defender of the sort of underdog he understood he never genuinely was. When a former miracle among mankind tumbles backward into their own freakshow, it tends, especially in this era, to be all we focus on once the last breath leaves the lips – think of his genius pal Michael Jackson, who was a disfigured paranoiac for much longer than he was a smooth, soulful sweetheart, and their mutual friend Elizabeth Taylor, almost unrecognizably boozy and bedraggled for practically as long as she was ravishing and respected. In fact, all three of these troubled icons share something special – an inspiring doggedness in the face of torrents of unmerited mockery, years after the proof of their respective wonders had waned and given way to a thirst for freedom, from an exhausting, inescapable legendary status. Well-compensated as they were, none of these people were allowed normal lives, and all exhibited the brand of toll that only someone of such enormous cultural import can comprehend. In this reflexively polemical age, they deserve a more dignified collective recollection. This blog couldn’t fuel Brando’s third alone – an even less important, less public gesture than the times I’ve stepped on a stage and tried to nail it like he did, and I don’t mean in a James Dean way (those are different strands of I-should-be-so-lucky). When I think of Brando, or when I strive to conjure similar intentions and outcomes, I think of how synoptically this self-proclaimed career liar cared about truth – as much as Hemingway, with a far less coarse course of pursuit. This was a man who steadfastly refused to vitiate his characters with bad dialogue, brainless effects, or lapses in logic. One whose care for the audience, which wasn’t always obvious, entailed a belief that they’d be able to see through any bullshit in any performance, any trace of trying, any betrayal of consistency and slip from integrity. “The actor is the boss”, Adler once declaimed with Olivier bombast, and as a person who knew how corrupt such unbridled power could become, Brando tended to that role with a remarkable, reverential grace. Stuffed as this intro entry is with overtures to encapsulation, all of Brando’s accomplishments, contradictions and unclassifiable quirks can only be adequately explored by way of the plan at hand: to experience and analyze the canon – forty wildly diverse onscreen performances over the span of a half a century – and to invite you to raise the discussion to whatever heights I can’t. Per my catchy (eh?) title, we are refusing to take the straight path through this journey. I figure that’s as apposite a tribute to the old master as anything. *not counting paparazzi