A Tale Of Two Daves

Dave is a pretty common name. In the case of the last two books I read -- both written by authors named Dave -- it's not common that I have such a long history with their interdisciplinary prowess. These latest works by Dave Holmes and Dave Eggers are worthy reflections of their tremendous talents and their spot-on observations about life as we know it.

My familiarity with Holmes goes all the way back to 1998. That was the year when MTV launched its "Wanna Be A VJ" contest to select new, on-air personalities for the network's programming -- which at that point still primarily revolved around music. In my mind, Holmes was a no-brainer for the job; he had the ingrained knowledge and passion for the industry, and he was easygoing and charming with the interview segments. Unfortunately, Holmes took second place, upstaged and outvoted by a ridiculous flash-in-the-pan named Jesse Camp.

Thankfully, Holmes made a good enough impression that he was asked to stick around with MTV, so he was still a regular fixture on my TV screen for a few more years until moving on to other projects. I would see his name pop up from time to time (somehow, I missed it when he came out in 2002), but it wasn't until "Esquire" ran a pointed essay of his in March 2015 that Holmes once again hit my radar and stayed there. In an open letter to musician Kid Rock, he tactfully, hilariously lambasted the star for his nonchalant use of the word "gay" as an insult. Holmes' keen awareness of the cultural shift since both his and Kid's reigns on MTV made him the perfect choice to call out this offensive behavior, and it was this turning point that made me see Holmes as a brilliant writer. I've followed his contributions to "Esquire" and other outlets, both published and filmed, ever since.

Holmes' career-altering tenure at MTV is just one of many twists of fate that he tackles with poignant humor in "Party Of One: A Memoir In 21 Songs." Each chapter borrows its name from a song title that directly or indirectly summarizes that phase in his life, and occasional "interludes" transition between the chapters as lateral moves to flesh out related topics. Admittedly, I have a certain reluctance when approaching the current memoir craze, as many of the people releasing them have yet to pay the dues of a full and distinguished career. However, Holmes' influence made me think twice, and for the better: this memoir positively brims with genuine life experience. For all of his youth (he's only 45 years old), he has stories galore to tell -- and surely there are plenty more that didn't make the cut.

With his uncanny knack for equating music and period-specific references to everyday life as well as the most extraordinary of circumstances, Holmes writes a credible and authentic account of his personal journey. From coming of age and coming out to coming to terms with himself and his passions at a time of cultural realignment, he maintains a vital spirit of enthusiasm and optimism that is both welcome and infectious. He writes conversationally but efficiently, never rambling or self-aggrandizing. In the space of a single page, I would wince at the awkward, formative scenarios that usually happen in public -- who among us hasn't walked into a full-length mirror in a crowded bar? -- before laughing aloud, heartily and knowingly, at his unwavering determination to move forward, chin up. Across these 21 chapters, his witty self-deprecation gives way to admirable self-respect.

Holmes never claims to know everything and/or know better than we do about how to lead our lives, but his candor is capable of opening dialogues within ourselves and among others. "Party Of One" is an entertaining source of inspiration to readers of all ages who are looking for some much-needed guidance about how to stay true to themselves.

Sometimes, though, navigating that truth requires a fictional route. In his new novel "Heroes Of The Frontier," Eggers mines the human condition and strikes literary gold. Clearly not a stranger to this vein, he tends to address it through incredibly diverse settings. I first encountered him during college, when my friend Kim loaned me her copy of his first book, "A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius." Drawn from his own experiences raising his younger brother, "Genius" is not a pretentious title but rather a resonant one, acknowledging and subverting the praises heaped upon people's transparencies and vulnerabilities when it's really just part of who we are and how we have or haven't grown. From there, Eggers dove into subject matter as varied as the Lost Boys of the Sudan ("What Is The What"); the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina ("Zeitoun"); the 2008 economic collapse and recession ("A Hologram For The King"); and the ethical quandaries of technological advances ("The Circle"). Among his many skills as an author, he excels at finding the strength and dignity behind these large-scale issues without ever being maudlin or preachy. Simply put, Eggers is one of this generation's finest chroniclers of how regular people reconcile themselves with an increasingly irregular world.

"Heroes," as we learn from the first page, has nothing to do with bravely exploring the Wild West. Instead, this unique road-trip saga drops us firmly in the present day, joining the story in medias res as protagonist Josie has fled to Alaska with her two children in a rented RV. With the shambles of her business and marriage behind her, geographically if not emotionally, Josie is eager for a second chance. The underlying metaphor of contending with raging wildfires, though never explicitly stated, is both timely and relevant: in a society that feels like it could implode at any moment, how you handle the flames of change is what will define you when you need to rise from the ashes.

As often happens during the stops, starts, and sudden changes of a long drive, characters come and go -- some staying for longer than others, some never actually present but always haunting the proceedings. All the while, how Josie handles the fleeting nature of human contact is a real credit to Eggers' grasp of our intrinsic, embattled need for validation. Josie craves to be embraced by some sign of civilization, and in flinging her well beyond her comfort zone, he is powerfully perceptive about where the roots of social constructs really lie. Crafting vivid, stream-of-consciousness prose from a third-person limited perspective, Eggers slowly and appropriately develops and shades his main character without overwhelming the reader with upfront details. Over the course of the book, we learn the full scope of Josie's backstory and motivation only when we need to. As the pieces of her struggle fall into place, we can reflect on what was already divulged, and we can identify that much more strongly with her existential plight.

Such engagement with the material might seem too lofty, but Eggers succeeds in keeping the tone eloquently breezy and, above all, accessible. Dark humor abounds as Josie's children are forced to accompany her on this voyage of self-discovery. Her interactions with them are almost painfully realistic as she realizes that the same choices lacking from her own past may soon be stripped from them thanks to her. Kids really do say the darnedest things, but here, it's not a cheap gimmick for easy laughs; it's symptomatic of situations that make them grow up too fast despite a parent's best intentions. Eggers takes special care not to find the easy way out, and he avoids wrapping up such grand misadventures in a nice, neat package. The characters' trip may come to an end, but it's safe to say that their destination isn't really a physical place after all.

Despite his cynical but ultimately warranted dissection of the status of the American Dream, Eggers is hardly a pessimist. By capturing these trials and tribulations on the open road, he presents the crumbling of our collective goals as a challenge to start over. Along the way, hope and joy can be rediscovered in freedom and opportunity, but only when we seize that purpose and never let go.

This "Phantom" Should Stay Hidden

Behold, the three most terrifying words ever to strike musical theater! It's not "starring Kim Kardashian." It's "spectacular new production."

Certain musicals become revered classics for their ability to whisk you away to another world with their grandeur and opulence. That's how I felt when I saw "The Phantom Of The Opera," first on Broadway and each subsequent time in Denver. There was absolutely nothing wrong with the "old" production, and it was already quite spectacular, so why even bother making it "new"? Unlike some musicals, this one holds up pretty well, even 30 years after its 1986 premiere. As it stands, the current touring version of "Phantom" is a ghastly imitation of everything that makes the original show such an effective piece of theater. Instead of being whisked away, I was painfully reminded that I was still trapped in my seat.

Since the Phantom haunts an opera house, let's start there. Most (if not all) of the show's singing is incredibly operatic, and in this regard, the actors performed in a generally capable manner. Except for one, not-so-minor thing: their vocalizations needed to make the audience feel something about the characters' journeys. Opera without emotion is just loud, high notes being shrieked at no one in particular. Clearly, one must be able to hit those notes, but it's not just about technical precision. Without this emotive range, the actors ran the risk of being robotic and the show started to drag. Considering it's nearly three hours long, they better keep it moving!

The fast-paced farce of "Notes," typically a favorite song of mine, seemed much slower than its past iterations. Presumably to allow the actors to emphasize their words (and catch their breath), but problems with diction were rampant here as well as throughout the show. Composer Andrew Lloyd Webber is known for his dynamic use of counterpoint, but the song's brilliant effect was ruined by the poorly paced tempo and the muddled voices. I also strongly suspect that Christine, the object of the Phantom's obsession, pre-recorded her demanding solo that closes the titular song. Actress Kaitlyn Davis was unusually blocked at the side of the stage with her back to the audience for the majority of this scene, and when she did face forward for the big final note, her voice cracked quite obviously. All singers have bad nights, but this attempt at subterfuge seemed awkward and forced. Why not just use an understudy instead of jarring anyone with eyes and ears right out of this signature moment?

Even the typically magnificent set pieces left something to be desired. A large, central column rotated between scenes and unfurled in segments, making efficient use of the space. Unlike previous configurations, though, it didn't convincingly portray the splendor or distance of the various locations. More often than not, the stage seemed too sparse for a production of this magnitude. In particular, the rooftop near the end of the first act and the cemetery late in the second act were barely more than glorified props and backdrops.

All of these slights pale in comparison to the flat-out boring treatment of the show's infamous chandelier. It's always been the case that after the auction that opens the musical, the chandelier is uncovered and illuminated, rising majestically during the overture from the stage to its new home above the audience. In this production, it's already positioned above the crowd, and for its instrumental cue, it rises no more than 10 feet. The disappointment continues when its climactic drop at the end of Act One no longer sends the chandelier crashing toward the stage. Instead, it just flickers and shakes and drops those 10 measly feet. Redemption is impossible when an iconic moment in stage history gets reduced to a terrible and ultimately pointless special effect.

The hits (or should I say misses) keep on coming in "Masquerade," the formerly impeccable ensemble number that opens Act Two. Traditionally staged on a grand staircase, this time around finds the players in a gilded, mirrored hallway. It certainly fits the period for turn-of-the-century Paris, but it doesn't fit the scope of an allegedly large-scale production to have everyone placed on the same level. Staggering the action on different steps added unpredictability to an already intricate scene. Most insulting is the Phantom's entrance into this celebration, which is another dreadful anticlimax to say the least. Originally, his sudden appearance right in the middle of the fray is startling, and his chilling descent on the staircase set to each downbeat of the music is perfectly ominous. In this staging -- oh, how I wish I were making this up -- he literally walks in the back door. No unsettling fanfare as he approaches; he just strolls into the room, completely lacking in surprise as well as originality.

Which brings me to the Phantom himself. As discussed earlier, actor Chris Mann is a suitable singer. Regrettably, he brought little depth to the character, playing him utterly devoid of even the remotest sense of menace or foreboding. In the throes of such a hollow portrayal, the Phantom's wounded thirst for power and unrequited desire for Christine fail to elicit any sympathy; rather, he comes across as nothing more than a spoiled brat perpetually on the verge of a tantrum for not getting his way. While the show may be larger than life, it does leave room for subtlety and nuance, but Mann found neither.

The production itself doesn't seem to tolerate any mystery surrounding the Phantom's presence either. While I did appreciate a brief glimpse of him hiding in the shadows during the opening auction, we actually see him strangle the lead stagehand later in the show. The victim's sudden appearance during a ballet used to be shocking and arguably could have been an accident, as the managers desperately claim. And don't even get me started on the digital projections of the Phantom's shadow. It looks much creepier to have the natural distortions of angled light spread across the stage than having blatantly phony swirls of his cape. Worse still, the timing was off for the pyrotechnics that the Phantom uses to taunt the characters, making them less indicative of his possible supernatural abilities and more of an unintended punchline.

But no detail was more offensive to theatrical purists like myself than the Phantom's cloak... which had sparkling lapels. I repeat: The Phantom Of The Opera SPARKLED. I'm on my best behavior during performances of any kind, but I'm pretty sure an audible "What the hell is THAT?" escaped my mouth. Last I checked, this wasn't "Twilight: The Musical." The Phantom is supposed to be a sinister yet elusive figure who's so in touch with darkness that he sings no less than four times about embracing the music of the night. Theater is meant to start conversations, but no one should ever be put in the unenviable position of defending or refuting the merits of giving the Phantom more flair.

My questions about who thought any of these changes would make the show "new" and/or "spectacular" will continue to linger. To be blunt, I may never see this musical again, just so I can preserve its former glory in my mind. I didn't even get to the part where Christine non-verbally considers jumping off the roof at the end of the first act -- of course, because her death would have fixed everything and NOT sent the Phantom into a blinding, apocalyptic rage. Or the finale, where I couldn't fathom why the mob now reaches his lair in time to witness what used to be a clever, solitary disappearance. This disruption of illusion is an apt metaphor for the revisions that plague the entire production: stage magic only works when it's stealthy and seamless.

In all fairness, perhaps these changes -- which did nothing to add to or improve the show -- can be boiled down to simple budgetary decisions? I honestly don't see how that's possible. "Phantom" is still a top-grossing attraction, a testament to its staying power among audiences. People who attended this tour for the first time likely didn't notice that anything was wrong, but returning guests couldn't have missed it. All I can say is that if this version had been my first experience with "The Phantom Of The Opera," then I wouldn't have left the venue with any respect for the legacy of this influential musical.