Trekhprudny Lane

It sounded promising on the back page of the newspaper: a children's musical play, guest artist, "art house" theater, and not at nap time. So we bundled up and got on the metro -- too bad, because the performance today must rank as one of the most awful that I (and I hope the girls) will ever endure. Such a quaint theater, with a dark wooden bar, beat-up floorboards, little scenes from medieval Italy painted in pastels along the walls of the lobby, and a portly, lisping, long-haired owner, a bit like Meatloaf. When A. stepped forward to buy tickets and asked for only two, Meatloaf replied, "Don't lie." Does EB look that much older than three? In any case, the place has seen better days, but that's part of Moscow's general charm. The production's (again, quite promising) title: The Cat That Went Its Own Way. The plot, as it turned out: a Taming of the Shrew sort of tale of crushed impetuousness, in which an independent-minded feline is forced into some bad deals with a neanderthal ménage à trois and her standing in society is never the same. The staging: picture a prehistoric disco, with purple lame cave walls, red toile and holiday lights for fire, and plastic meat in a basket. The cat wore black spandex and a sultry sneer (meee-ow!); the leading neanderthal lady wore asymmetrical scraps of suede, a leopard print bra, and fishnets.  The latter was comfortable with belting it out Bette-style, the former wanted every last one of us to know that she had had classical voice training. The men played fools, dogs, and horses, and were disposed of easily. Everyone, oddly, wore an example of American Indian beadwork (the cat's fringed and beaded ankle bands were especially puzzling). The whole thing was one big demoralizing power struggle between gender stereotypes, played out with too much gratuitous suspense (Gasp, glance left, then right, finger raised: what's coming???), and that Scorpions-era electric guitar that Russians never seem to tire of. It was only an hour long, I think, but it was terrible. So cynical, for a children's play. And I don't believe for a moment that EB doesn't catch on to that feeling.

On a lighter but related note, A. just returned from the philharmonic, and he said that as the first notes of Mahler's fourth symphony began, a cat was spotted sashaying down one of the side aisles towards the stage. Going its own way! Bravo.