This Doctor will always be in

Thirty years ago this October, a blind man opened my eyes.

Before I saw Doc Watson play at McGlohon Theatre, I had never been to a concert of traditional music. A friend of mine nagged me into going -- this was the homegrown music of my newly adopted state! -- and I acquiesced with low hopes.

He seemed old to me, old and wrinkled. (I realize now he was just about the age I am today.) He seldom spoke: maybe just "Here's a song I think you'll know" or "I heard this growing up." And without seeming to put out any effort, he filled the room with joy and sorrow.

I learned three things that night. First, music has no boundaries. He played songs academicians would classify as blues, gospel, folk and country, and they all blended into one seamless flow of Americana. Definitions became irrelevant.

Second, though his sometimes quavery baritone reached for notes, he had a beautiful voice. The honesty of his singing made it so.

Third, any kind of music can speak to a listener with a little patience and open ears. Baroque music may be more difficult to grasp on a first go-round than bluegrass, but even Bach yields simple pleasures on first listening.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Doc's CD from the Newport Folk Festivals of 1963 and '64. "Froggy Went A-Courtin'," and I have to hear how that turns out.

The great thing about great music

Critics commonly refer to 1939 as the best year ever for movies: "Gone With the Wind," "Goodbye, Mr. Chips," "The Wizard of Oz," "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington," "Wuthering Heights," etc., etc. They're not usually talking about "They Shall Have Music." But maybe they should be. (And hey, it got an Oscar nomination for best scoring.)

Hollywood could remake any of those classics today -- except this one. Nobody would give a violinist top billing, as Jascha Haifetz gets in "Music." Nobody would open with an unbroken, nine-minute performance of Saint-Saens' "Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso" or end with a full rendition of the last movement of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E Minor, as this does. And sadly, I don't think producers today would have the cojones to make a movie in which slum kids saw their lives transformed by classical music.

The plot's kind of hokey: Petty thief Frankie (Gene Reynolds, who went on to produce "M*A*S*H and other TV shows) finds two discarded tickets to one of Heifetz' Carnegie Hall concerts. When he can't scalp them, he ducks inside to escape a cop and is amazed by the violinist, whom he bumps into afterward. When Frankie runs away from his angry stepfather, he ends up at a music school; luckily, the teacher (Walter Brennan) realizes he has perfect pitch and lets him sit in with the violins and sleep in the basement. The music school runs out of dough, Frankie begs his old pal Jascha for help, and the great man comes through.

Heifetz spends 90 per cent of his screen time playing in his coolly elegant way, cracking a smile now and then. The movie's worth seeing for that, though the kids do a good job, and Joel McCrea turns up as a guy in love with the teacher's daughter. ("Union Pacific," released the same year, was about to make him a star.)

But the thing that really touched me was the belief that exposure to Beethoven and Chopin could turn a potential hoodlum into a productive and happy kid. We've seen countless movies about would-be stars using music to get rich; here's one that suggests great music makes us emotionally richer. Frankie's not going on to a solo career; he simply realizes that loving beauty doesn't make you weak or foolish and deepens your understanding of life.

A movie in our postmodern, cynical age would never suggest such a thing without an ironic sneer, but it's as true now as it ever was. Too bad we've forgotten that. 

One man. One woman. Naked, onstage.

Emotionally speaking, of course. Because there's nothing more revealing for an actor than to command a platform alone for 75 to 90 minutes.

If they're bad, there's nowhere else to look, no one to share the blame for lines that fall flat or timing that goes awry. But if they're good, the triumph is entirely theirs -- and we relate to them in a direct, powerful way we can't do when dividing our attention and loyalties among a big cast.

Two actors are giving first-rate performances in just those circumstances this weekend. Mark Sutch plays a Dutch librarian who goes on an obsessive quest for 15 years in "Underneath the Lintel" at Warehouse PAC. (My take on it: http://www.charlotteobserver.com/2012/05/16/3240163/underneath-the-lintel-sutch-a.html#storylink=misearch.) And Lauren Otis plays a pregnant 16-year-old on a journey to meet the baby's father in "The Edge of Our Bodies" at Carolina Actors Studio Theatre. (My review: http://www.charlotteobserver.com/2012/05/24/3263665/one-woman-show-is-way-out-on-the.html#storylink=misearch.)

Both shows started in CAST's cozy quarters at 2424 N. Davidson St. "Lintel" was a visitor; "Bodies" is the last show of CAST's mainstage season and runs through June 23. In fact, CAST is importing three more plays, running May 27-June 30 at various times.

"Eliza" is a one-woman piece, adapted from poems by Dede Wilson, starring Pamela Freedy as a Londoner who sails to New Orleans in 1837 and embarks on a turbulent life. "Under the Red Cloak," a choreopoem by Dee Abdullah, deals with women's shared stories of childbirth, pain and healing. Keith Huff's "A Steady Rain" is about two Chicago cops whose decisions to return a panic-stricken boy to his guardian has repercussions. (Details: Go to "buy tickets" at www.nccast.com.)

Charlotte theaters have long been helpful to temporary tenants, from Theatre Charlotte's hosting of the "Just Do It" series to Actor's Theatre of Charlotte's cooperation with everyone from The Light Factory to Sunday morning church worshippers

Yet CAST, which moved into its new digs last summer, has embarked on an especially ambitious and extensive program as a landlord. More power to the company for playing host to such a wide variety of shows; the theatrical spring will be richer for that decision.

English people are nasty

Or so Hollywood wants us to think. Whenever a deranged demigod goes on a rampage or an alien attacks the planet, he or she seems to have an English accent. Current cases in point: Loki in "The Avengers" and Boris the Animal in "Men in Black 3."

Loki should theoretically have a Scandinavian accent, right? He's a character from Norse mythology. (Thor, his half-brother, has an unaccented voice.) Boris is a Boglodyte, whatever that is; he doesn't even come from Earth. But there they both are, sounding like a "Macbeth" audition is in the offing.

This tradition goes back half a century, when Hollywood typically hired Brits to play Nazi generals. It dates in superhero movies back at least to "Superman II" in 1980, when Kryptonian criminals sounded like refugees from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.

So why should this be? Are American filmmakers still upset about the War of 1812? Do we resent the fact that James Bond, coolest secret agent of all time, has a British accent? (Tinged with a Scottish burr, of course, in Sean Connery's case.)

No, something else is at work. In Hollywood, a villain's British accent represents class consciousness and superciliousness. When he gets his comeuppance, usually at the hands of an American, the story reminds us that guts and heart matter more than breeding or brains. You think you're so smart, Mr. Demigod? Wait until Iron Man kicks your Norse butt all the way to another dimension!

There's a subtle message here, too: People with lots of intelligence can become megalomaniacs. We start to associate the phrase "smarter than you and I" with "better than you and I," which Americans can't tolerate. Maybe that explains why we so seldom vote for the smartest person in a political race and so often choose to support folks of average intelligence, who remind us of ourselves.

The things we do for love...

I figured the title of this post would apply to me, the come-with husband who tromped off with his wife Saturday night to see one of her former students perform with the Matthews United Methodist Church Youth Choir.

I'd sit smilingly through an hour of Broadway numbers, possibly after stuffing myself with ice cream left over from the annual church picnic. I'd shake a few hands, compliment people politely (I've known choir director Craig Estep for years) and go home, duty fulfilled.

But midway through the opening "Phantom of the Opera" medley, something happened. First, some of the singers were better than I'd expected. More importantly, the earnestness and energy -- yes, and love -- radiating from the performers swept me up.

Not all of these soloists are headed for Broadway careers, though tenor Michael Juilliard should certainly consider the school that shares his name. Nor did all of them fully understand the heartbreak and political upheaval about which they sang; they hadn't yet experienced all the passions that drive adult Broadway characters.

But every single one of them, down to the back-row choristers who never soloed, had experienced the transformative power of music. All of them knew the happiness of using a talent -- a God-given talent, I expect they'd say -- that helped them add a little joy to the world.

We often forget that the word "amateur" comes from the Latin "amator," or "lover." Like all the things we do for love, this kind of singing had a special beauty all its own.

"The Godfather" -- an offer they COULD refuse today

Forty years ago today, "The Godfather" was the most talked-about movie in America. People were quoting it -- "I made him an offer he couldn't refuse" -- buzzing about the Mafia, going to see it over and over, even (briefly) letting it influence men's fashions. (Love those fedoras.)

I've been watching the first two parts of the saga while plodding along on my treadmill this week, and three things have occurred to me.

First, nobody these days would release a grand-scale, thoughtful, complex drama like "The Godfather" in spring, as Paramount did in 1972. They'd hold it at least until October, figuring that Oscar voters have the memories of fruit flies. But there was a time, o my children, when memorable films came out all year round.

Second, the infantile minds in focus groups today would start the negative buzz after the first test screening: too slow, too bloody, nobody to root for, no romance, not enough laughs to lighten the story. And what's up with Marlon Brando's mumbling? Did he have cotton in his mouth or something?

Third, no studio now would fund it, buy it or distribute it widely, with confidence -- unless, perhaps, it had been made so cheaply that nobody could lose much money on the gamble. But I'd bet my life insurance that not a single studio head would greenlight it today.

Four decades ago, studios still tried to think big, spend prudently and appeal to a wide range of moviegoers. Today, they spend big, barely think at all and consider folks over 35 to be invisible or unreachable. But that's why the Lord gave us DVD players....

Free movie stuff!

Sometimes the second shall be first. Case in point: the Summer Blockbuster Series, a lineup of action-adventure films between now and August. People who participate agree to attend on the day after the movies have opened, so they probably wouldn't be the most rabid fans. But there are perks.

Here's how it works: Moviegoers who sign up via Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/pages/2012-Summer-Blockbuster-Series/391167347582076) get together for lunch or dinner, depending on the time of the scheduled showing. They eat, get prizes, watch the screening and agree to post comments about the experience on Facebook. Everyone who went to the "Avengers" screening got an Avengers bag, poster and key chain. Promoters also gave away 18 tickets to the Comedy Zone and two fireworks bundles from Phantom Fireworks.

Another group will go to "Battleship" Saturday. The list of screenings then stretches on to "Men in Black III," "Total Recall," "Prometheus," "G.I. Joe: Retaliation," "The Amazing Spider-Man," "The Dark Knight Rises" and "The Bourne Legacy."

Two thoughts occur to me. First, "Battleship" is the only movie on this list -- "Avengers" included -- that isn't a prequel, spinoff, sequel or remake, and even "Battleship" is inspired (however loosely) by a board game. Hollywood has always suffered crises of originality, but this one seems especially acute.

Second, there are some movies that should be seen only if someone gives you a gift to make the event  worthwhile. I need no inducement to see "Dark Knight" and "Prometheus," but anyone who wants me to sit through a "G.I. Joe" sequel had better provide a non-cinematic incentive. A Rolex would be about right.