John Cage

Today kicks off the “Beyond Cage” festival, a weeks-long celebration of the legacy of one of the past century’s most outré composers. All over the city, challenging works will be performed by different ensembles up until the November 7 premiere of John Cage’s final work for orchestra at the Upper East Side Bohemian National Hall. But tonight, it’s to Carnegie Hall, where Ursula Oppens and Joseph Kubera are to perform Atlas Eclipticalis and Winter Music, both works containing from one to 10 notes per “event,” with no set tempo but a specified “amplitude” for each note. Sounds simply ... atonal!

Carnegie Hall, 881 Seventh Avenue, 8pm, tickets and information can be found at carnegiehall.org.

Rahm Emanuel (Getty Images)

Tonight brings the first presidential debate, moderated by the unflappable Jim Lehrer—but for those who have already determined whom they’re voting for, skip the partisan pandering and come gab with Oscar and Annette! The de la Rentas, along with Mercedes Bass and Mrs. Julio Mario Santo Domingo, are hosting opening night at Carnegie Hall. The new season kicks off with a performance of Carmina Burana featuring conductor Riccardo Muti and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Windy City Mayor Rahm Emanuel is the honorary chair for the evening, appropriate given the provenance of the musicians—and the fact that, long out of our nation’s capital, Mr. Emanuel no longer has to keep up appearances and look like he gives a hoot about the evening’s debate.

Carnegie Hall, 881 Seventh Avenue, pre-concert reception in the Rohatyn Room, 5:30pm, concert in Stern Auditorium, 7pm, post-concert gala dinner at the Waldorf Astoria, 301 Park Avenue, 8:30pm, tickets and information can be obtained by calling the Special Events office at (212) 903-9679.

Bennett.

End of the Rainbow, a tragic reflection with music of the last sad, declining days of the legendary Judy Garland, arrives on Broadway after breaking records in London’s West End and winning a bushel of awards for its star, a supersonically gifted dynamo named Tracie Bennett. At first glance, prancing her way into a suite at the Ritz to begin rehearsals for a five weeks of concerts at the fabled Talk of the Town, she does not sound, speak, sing or look anything like the greatest entertainer of the 20^th century. I have seen drag queens do better Judys, mimicking every stage of her turbulent career. But then, despite the overbite and the hoarse voice without a shine in it, she begins to grow on you, like moss. Slowly, the nuances take you by surprise. Like Michelle Williams in My Week With Marilyn, she begins to stake squatter’s rights on the role, not just imitating Judy, but channeling her. The book and direction of this show, by Peter Quilter and Terry Johnson, respectively, are as solid, filling and substantial as cracker crust. But by the time Tracie Bennett works her magic, captivates your imagination and captivates your soul, you know you are in the presence of someone electrifying.  

End of the Rainbow (an apt title if ever there was one) takes place seven years after Garland stopped the world in a historic comeback at Carnegie Hall, in those dark, destructive final days three months before her death in 1969 at the age of 47. The stars and the power brokers and the rich and famous people of the world (“I’ve met them all,” she says sardonically, “or rather they’ve all met me!”) have all disappeared. Here she is, at the bottom of her rope, dead broke and unable to pay for room service, her only companions a gay piano player named Anthony (Michael Cumptsy) and Mickey Deans, her new manager, fifth and final husband, and future enabler and drug pusher. With one skinny leg draped over the sofa, the high waistline Edith Head said was impossible to fit, and that innate sense of humor she never lost in good times or bum times, she reminisces about the Munchkins, the two husbands she could remember (Vincente Minnelli and Sid Luft), the pills they forced down her throat at MGM (“I could have flown over the Yellow Brick Road”) and everything from the cigarettes that stunted Mickey Rooney’s growth to the charm of Elizabeth Taylor (“She was so charming you just wanted to run her down with a car!”). Roaring with laughter and raunchy as a sailor, everything sounds like it came right out of Judy’s own mouth, and for all I know, it probably did.

Then the songs: on “Just in Time,” she has the same quiver in her lower register. On “For Me and My Gal,” the same vibrato on the high notes. On “The Man That Got Away,” the same identical sob in the pauses. Sometimes she gazes down on the crowds in the street below, surrounding the Ritz where she is facing eviction, and threatens to jump. But it’s her desperation to be adored that keeps her going. “I could throw up in their laps and I’d still be glamorous,” she says of her fans, giving the lie to what’s to come. Cussing and smoking and pacing nervously, she gets the body language down to a science. It doesn’t matter that Ms. Bennett’s timbre and intonation don’t always duplicate Garland’s at her greatest. She is, after, portraying Judy at her worst, at the end of her rainbow at last. Above all minor reservations, she is Garland. Outstretched hand, pointed arm, legs prancing like a Thoroughbred at Hialeah, she is the whole f—king show.

Tom Pelphrey is a believable Mickey Deans, although his thankless job is mainly to act as a prison warden for the neurotic, addicted Judy. As the Scottish piano player who loves her unconditionally, Mr. Cumptsy is both sarcastic and sympathetic, and the scene where he offers to marry Judy, take her off to Brighton and take care of her even though he knows he can never satisfy her in bed, is genuinely touching. But Tracie Bennett is the one you watch. Popping Ritalin, craving Champagne, begging for prescription drugs, walking off the stage of the Talk of the Town screaming “I’m all sung out,” her gestures, mannerisms and body language are heartbreaking, leavened only by that wicked humor. When she mistakenly swallows pills that were prescribed for a sick cocker spaniel, she says, “I don’t need a doctor. Call a vet. If I start to pee on a lamppost, then call a doctor.”

After a while, the rant overwhelms the story, which is slight and one-dimensional at best. But the show gets more powerful the lower she sinks. As a woman in blind panic, Tracie Bennett is galvanizing. It’s tragic watching her have a slow meltdown onstage. What a discovery! Every move is probably carefully mapped out, but it looks like director Terry Johnson wisely just moved out of the way and let her run her own show. The End of the Rainbow wears itself to a frazzle, but regardless of what happens to the show itself, time spent in the presence of Tracie Bennett’s undeniable talent is crushing, victorious and unforgettable.

rreed@observer.com

Assange. Swinton. Assange. No, Swinton. Assange?

Last week, Michael Bloomberg attended a press conference for the 100th episode of Gossip Girl. “I just don’t see how Blair could marry Prince Louis when she’s clearly in love with Chuck,” said the New York mayor, who apparently had nothing bigger on his plate to worry at that moment, such as the allegations of rape made against Greg Kelly, the son of his police Commissioner Ray Kelly, or the NYPD head’s own cameo in an anti-Muslim training video for NYPD recruits.

“I just wish that Nate and Vanessa had been able to work things out … but, again, I’m just a casual fan,” he added.

We don’t begrudge Mayor Bloomberg his guilty pleasure—after all, we spent all of Monday night watching the premiere of RuPaul’s Drag Race instead of doing actual work. We’re pretty sure front-runner Sharon Needles is taking all her inspiration from Lady Gaga, who has been stealing her “signature” look from drag queens and selling the designs to Barneys. It seems only fair.

Julian Assange, who is not quite a drag queen (though if he started dressing like Tilda Swinton we might not even notice a difference), is also guilty … of loving The Simpsons! The Wikileaks founder and all-around creepy person of interest will be supplying his own voice for a Feb. 13 episode, the plot of which we’re predicting will involve Lisa picketing SOPA and Bart teaming up with the Australian after confusing the name of the international whistle-blowing organization with that of a rapper with poor bladder control. We’re impressed with Matt Groening’s ability to convince infamously reclusive celebrities to perform cameos. How does one even get through the levels of publicists, assistants and team of ninja henchmen guarding the abodes of Thomas Pynchon or Michael Jackson and pitch them on doing a Fox cartoon? We’d say Scientology was involved somehow, but Nancy Cartwright’s robo-calling fiasco from 2009 made it clear she wasn’t a high enough in their caste system to be considered an Operating Thetan … let alone a Thetan operator.

But let’s not pick on Scientology too much. After all, we are located in New York, where members are basically regulated to asking people taking stress tests in the Times Square terminal. What worries us more is another pseudo-religion. You know, the formerly fringe one based out of Utah, where a single patriarch rules over a cult that’s become alarmingly more mainstream every year despite its seemingly arbitrary set of rules and scripture. We’re talking of course, about the Sundance Film Festival, which just finished its 28^th year of indie hits and celebrity swag parties sponsored by Bing and Grey Goose vodka. We realize Sundance plays a very important function, since by February most actors are so worn out from the exhausting L.A. awards season that they need to depart en masse for a vacation on the slopes—where they will also be handing each other awards and mingling with the Kardashians.

The festival was originally created to promote independent American filmmaking but has turned into a paparazzi paradise where it’s easier to find Tracy Morgan passed out at a party than a ticket to one of the 181 screenings taking place over the course of the week. Still, some of the original anti-Hollywood sentiment remains in the proceedings: The grand jury prize went to Beasts of Southern Wild, directed by first-time filmmaker Benh Zeitlin and starring an 8-year-old unknown named Quvenzhane Wallis as an impoverished African-American girl scraping by in Louisiana with her father. Expect the remake to star Willow Smith, or even worse, one of the Fanning sisters.

(Un?)fortunately, the end of Sundance is just a placeholder in the middle of a season marked by Hollywood award ceremonies, Fashion Week and Jay-Z’s first concert at Carnegie Hall. We’d ask our assistants to help us with all the RSVPs, but they’ve already taken the time off to start gearing up for South by Southwest. Or maybe we’ll just stay home and watch Gossip Girl.

The Leaning Tower of Tenor: Ian Bostridge and Thomas Adès at Carnegie Hall (Photo: Chris Lee)

On Monday night in Carnegie Hall's Stern auditorium, audience members seemed to scan the empty stage for signs of life as they anxiously awaited tonight's performers, British tenor Ian Bostridge and pianist Thomas Adès. It was already ten minutes past 8:00 p.m. and we had yet to see as much as a tuxedo coattail wave from behind the stage door. The lights dimmed briefly before springing back to full strength in what was either an attempt to settle the fidgeting audience, or the accidental slip of a techie's elbow. We couldn't be sure.

Eventually, the lanky Mr. Bostridge drifted across the stage, briefly smiling at the audience before taking his place in the crook of the piano. Standing well over six-feet and graced with a boyish features, Mr. Bostridge appears as a teen in the midst of an awkward growth-spurt. He cued Mr. Adès with a smile, who began the first selection, John Dowland's Elizabethan “In Darkness Let Me Dwell,” a dirge-like piece with a celebrity following – Sting has covered it – that set a a somber tone for the remainder of the recital, which featured an abundance of melancholic Heinrich Heine poetry. Centering around themes of depression, alienation from society, and unrequited love, the composers featured in the evening's performance ranged from the lesser-known György Kurtág, to leaders in Lieder Schumann, Schubert and Liszt.

The highly-acclaimed Mr. Bostridge possesses what is undoubtedly one of the beautiful instruments on the classical scene, his ethereal lyric tenor lending itself especially well to Benjamin Britten and the Baroque repertoire. Mr. Bostridge, who was a post-doctoral fellow in history at Oxford before embarking on a singing career, has gained fame performing roles such as Quint in Britten's The Turn of the Screw at the Royal Opera House and Tom Rakewell in The Rake's Progress at the Bayerische Staatsoper, having recorded on over 18 albums along the way. Meanwhile, his accompanist for the evening, Mr. Adès, is an award-winning composer, conductor and pianist, and will conduct his opera, The Tempest, at the Metropolitan Opera next year.

Mr. Bostridge's voice carried magnificently through the acoustically generous Carnegie Hall as he expressed himself passionately throughout  Schumann's Dichterliebe (“Poet's Love”), a challenging 16-song set that takes the listener through the throes of a love ultimately lost. His excellent German diction served him well on quick pieces such as “Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube. die Sonne,” while the legato lines in “Wenn ich in deine Augen seh” were handled with tremendous tenderness. “Ich liebe dich” cooed Mr. Bostridge in a gentle piano, a similar sentiment displayed on his angular visage.

However, Mr. Bostridge is as expressive physically as he is vocally, a tendency that The Observer found incredibly distracting. With such a praiseworthy voice requiring our full attention, we would have preferred that he not pace around the stage or allow his body to sway so exaggeratedly. During the quick runs in Schubert's Das Fischermädchen, Mr. Bostridge gripped the piano with both hands, moving from side to side with his chest hoisted in the air in apparent agony. Not to say that physical expression doesn't have his merits, we simply wished he would have limited himself to, say, expressive facial gestures and a 3-foot radius.

Preceding the intermission, Mr. Bostridge seated himself on a chair in the shadows, passing the spotlight to Mr. Adès, who performed an incredibly moving rendition of Liszt's Petrarch Sonnet No.123 from Années de pèlerinage. As he played the final broken chords, the audience was drawn to disregard protocol and applaud ferociously. Liszt songs have been popular this concert season in New York, as many of the same pieces were heard at Jonas Kaufmann's Met concert and Angelika Kirchschlager's Carnegie Hall performance last month. Yet, Mr. Bostridge's interpretations of Franz Liszt's “Orphan songs,” as the composer referred to them, were particularly well-executed.

The final set of Schubert pieces, Schwanengesang, D. 957, featured more of Heine's bitter poetry, narrating the story of the protagonist's painful withdrawal from society. Mr. Bostridge played the part convincingly, often grimacing at the audience during the angst-filled final piece “Der Doppelgänger” as strands of his pomaded locks fell haphazardly across his brow. “You wraith! You pale companion!” he sang with rage, contorting his body in believable anguish. After enunciating the final crisp consonant, he turned to Mr. Adès, who played the piece's final somber notes.

Bowing to tremendous applause, the duo returned with an encore piece, Caliban's aria from The Tempest, a well-received advertisement for Mr Adès's Metropolitan Opera performance next year.

Despite the gloom pervading much of the repertoire, Mr. Bostridge's expressive singing and beautiful take on some of the most beloved German Lieder stayed with us late into the evening as we pivoted on our toes, swaying our way through the crowded streets.

Alec Baldwin and Renee Fleming (Photo via Getty)

Last night as we entered the hallowed halls of Carnegie to see Alec Baldwin and soprano Renee Fleming in a staged reading of A.R Gurney's Love Letters, we thought of a funny joke to explain our tardiness. "We couldn't find the street called 'Practice,'" we apologized as we picked up our tickets. Zing!

Down in the subterranean theater of Zankel Hall, we ran into Gossip Girl's Margaret Colin, who revealed to us the location of Saturday's 100th episode party. Has it been that long? We asked Ms. Colin if she had heard about protesters from Occupy Wall Street running across the set several weeks back.

"No, but maybe we can work that in to the show," she laughed.

"Maybe Nate could lose his job at the newspaper and go join with the demonstrators," we suggested.

"And Blair would just hate that," Ms. Colin agreed.

Speaking of Nate's new job, was it true that Elizabeth Hurley's character Diana Payne was based on a certain beloved editor in chief we happened to know?

"That wouldn't surprise me at all," Ms. Colin said.

The program, hosted as part of Carnegie Hall's Young Notables series, featured the 30 Rock star and opera singer sitting next to each other but never making eye contact for two hours. (Kind of like most public transportation in New York.) While that could have made for a bust of an evening, the night was saved by the duo's performances and the richness of Mr. Gurney's plot, concerning over 40 years of the two character's correspondences as they grow up together, get sent to boarding school, fall in love (with each other and others), and fall apart. While we literally could just listen to Mr. Baldwin read a phone book for that amount of time, we were much happier to have the time pass with a little more emotion.

After the party we moved round the block to guzzle vodka at Providence while listening to a strange but not totally unwelcome blend of country and club beats provided by DJ Spooky.

"DJ Snoopy?" Ms. Colin had asked us.

"No, DJ Spooky...though Snoopy would be better," we conceded.

Despite the lack of a doggie DJ, the after-party had its share of weirdness. There were those shirtless Vikings in fur handing out cocktails, for one. We were unclear what they had to do with a two-person play about letter-writing, until two of the guests -- a private educator named Emily and Economist Chris pointed out that they were probably there with ROKK Vodka, the alcohol sponsor loved by all Norse war gods.

We nibbled on some tiny plates of pizza and tried not to look totally disoriented (we were, after all, coming off a 24-hour OWS news binge), we wondered how people like Mr. Baldwin and Ms. Fleming could keep up the momentum of their respectively amazing careers without--as we felt we were about to--curl up in a fetal position or suffer a brain aneurysm. Only one answer came to mind.

Practice, practice practice.

He's got some bad blood here. After a courtship in 2000, and then again several times over the next eight years, he turned down the music directorship of the New York Philharmonic, though he remained a frequent--and beloved--guest conductor, one of those guests whose reviews tended to be better than those of the orchestra's own directors. He had said that he didn't want to come to New York because he didn't want a full-time gig, but it turned out he just didn't want that full-time gig: In 2008, he unexpectedly agreed to take over the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and started there last fall.

So there was palpable tension surrounding his first trip to New York with his new ensemble, for a three-concert stand at Carnegie Hall last weekend. Would he include opera, which has formed the foundation of his reputation? Yes, it turned out--but more than that, the opera would be Verdi's Otello, the sweeping work that James Levine has conducted at the Metropolitan Opera more than any other piece.

In bringing Chicago to New York with Otello, Mr. Muti was making a statement, staking a claim. But any thoughts about the politics and strategy were swept away by the sheer power of Friday's thrilling, discomfiting performance. Despite being an unstaged concert production, it was dazzlingly vibrant; when the tenor and soprano singing Otello and Desdemona stood up in unison (at their music stands, in evening wear) for their final confrontation, it was shiver-inducing. The opera's headlong energy, the way it uncannily re-creates Shakespeare's play's unremitting drive toward destruction, has rarely felt so powerful.

It was the orchestra's show. Mr. Muti is known for a devotion to the letter of the score that some people have criticized as overly fastidious, but there was, as critics invariably note of him, the sense of having the gunk from decades of sloppy Otellos wiped miraculously away. The performance revealed moments and whole lines of music that are usually lost in attempts at Verdi's dense orchestration. Mr. Muti brought a transparency to those massive textures--you seemed to hear every instrument--yet the force and pure volume were stunning.

Simultaneously beefed up and pared down, the performance was relentless. The first act was one long, furious convulsion, exhausting and effective except for its stinting of the relaxation of the closing love duet. Mr. Muti drove the duet's tempo mercilessly, making clear that there is no respite in his vision of the opera. (It's an approach that occasionally veers towards rigidity.) Appropriately, given this conception, the players seemed tireless. The justly famous Chicago brass shone. The strings were both warm and sharp, with tremendous eloquence from the cellos. The orchestra's resident chorus was perfectly focused and clear.

There were moments that were almost too vivid, in which Mr. Muti and the orchestra seemed so intent on being in your face--with a savage violin line, an unexpected flute solo--that individual effects upstaged the drama. But the honesty and naturalness of Mr. Muti's phrasing always returned, bringing with it the proper perspective.

The orchestra was so effective that it seemed at times to crowd out the singers. As Iago, Carlo Guelfi was gruff and a little blustery, without the slow-burning menace of his orchestral accompaniment. His great "Credo" would have been just as terrifying, the first-act drinking song as ominously jovial, if he hadn't been singing at all: You got the whole character from the playing.

Krassimira Stoyanova was a mature, wary Desdemona who grew more convincing as the opera went on. She seemed strangely abstracted in the love duet--Mr. Muti's precision there made it difficult to project warmth and personality--but deeply affecting in her fourth-act "Willow Song" and "Ave Maria."

In a world notably low on great Otellos, the rising tenor Aleksandrs Antonenko shows great promise in the role, trumpeting Act I's public proclamations and bringing a moving simplicity to the final monologue. The only real evidence of his announced indisposition for a stomach illness was some vocal strain in the difficult sequence that ends Act II.

Otello was undoubtedly the event that Mr. Muti wanted it to be, and if the singers were hardly classic, that only kept the spotlight on the podium. There, one of the great conductors of our time was doing work that you could argue with and wonder over, work that made you hope that he and his new orchestra return early and often to strike fear in the hearts of New York musicians who have to live up to their example.

editorial@observer.com

Youth and Beauty 

Ah, Karen Russell. Or, as the Swamplandia! author might render it, Karen Russell! Never has a young author provoked such envy since that little minx Freudenberger. (Is it a girl thing?) But back to Ms. Russell: The 29-year-old phenom was pegged as an under-40 author to watch on that queasiness-inducing New Yorker list last summer, and now it's time to actually watch her--in a conversation with the novelist Kevin Brockmeier moderated by dreamy Granta editor John Freeman. Us, jealous? Why ever would you ask? ... We're all young once, of course. It used to be that all the hot things wanted to make movies. The old downtown gang is the subject of the new doc Blank City, opening today at the IFC Center. Jim Jarmusch and John Waters, among others, drop in to explain why they haven't made a good flick since the 1980s. 

Karen Russell, McNally Jackson, 52 Prince Street, 7 p.m.; Blank City at IFC Center, 323 Sixth Avenue, visit ifccenter.com for showtimes and tickets

Thursday, April 7

Company Policy

What do you get when your TV, the New York Philharmonic and Stephen Sondheim have a drunken threeway? A production of Sondheim's Company starring Christina Hendricks, Neil Patrick Harris, Stephen Colbert and Jon Cryer. (Charlie Sheen, alas, was busy rehearsing for his turn as Sweeney Todd.) Not everyone in the cast is a TV carpet-bagger: Patti Lupone gets the show-stopping "Ladies Who Lunch," and Tony winner Anika Noni Rose plays Marta. It won't be a walk in the park (with George) for the performers. Says Ms. Rose, "This feels plenty staged to me--with sweat running down the back of my neck! It's not gonna be some cute little performance with a book in hand." Thankfully, Ms. Rose assures us most of her co-stars have the requisite stage experience: "You don't just jump into Sondheim. It's like saying, 'I'd love to do some crosswords. I'll take the Times Sunday.'" Good luck, Mr. Colbert! 

New York Philharmonic, Avery Fisher Hall, 10 Lincoln Center Plaza, 7:30 p.m. (performances continue through Saturday), nyphil.org

Friday, April 8

Yale to the Chief 

Boola-boola! It's a Yalien invasion when the Ivy's Glee Club celebrates its 150th anniversary with a concert at Carnegie Hall. Maybe it's just an allergic reaction to New Haven, but boy, do these kids have spirit! So if you're looking to meet a spouse who can bear you babies with a legacy advantage, this is the spot to be. We used to think glee clubs were dorky, but that was before a certain hit TV show came along. "I do watch Glee, but I think they're more of a show choir than a glee club," sniffed Emily Howell, club president. Duly noted--so yeah, still dorky! ... One performer who doesn't have a dorky bone in her body? Catherine Deneuve, that's who. The Gallic stunner is celebrated tonight with a special screening of the new documentary Catherine Deneuve, belle et bien là, at the French Institute. Ms. Deneuve has been a star since the 1960s, and she's still doing great work, as anyone who saw her smoke up a storm in A Christmas Tale can attest. The lady even made Repulsion attractive.

Yale Glee Club, Carnegie Hall, concert at 7:30 p.m., tickets at carnegiehall.org; Catherine Deneuve, Tinker Auditorium at French Institute, 22 East 60th Street, RSVP at cinema@fiaf.org

Saturday, April 9

Beer Summit

Hey, art world--enough with the white wine! It's so damn civilized. If you really want to get those creative juices flowing, you need something a bit more festive (if not illegal!). How about beer? The RH Gallery's latest installation-art piece, the Kunst Biergarten, is an indoor suds-haus inspired by the Munich-based artist Wolfgang Ellenrieder (how very Bavarian!), whose art is on view in the gallery. The Biergarten is meant to start a conversation about contemporary art, some of which one may need to be half-drunk to appreciate! The curators and critics invited were asked to submit possible conversation topics with their RSVP. Here's a freebie from the Eight-Day Week: How many brews will it take before somebody stumbles into one of Mr. Ellenrieder's gorgeous canvasses? Prost!

RH Gallery, 137 Duane Street, 5 p.m., invitation only

Sunday, April 10

Silence Is Golden

Want to pick up a Laurie Simmons print without getting out of your PJs? BAMart's silent auction is quieter than most: Bidding for items by the likes of Jeff Koons, Richard Serra and Cindy Sherman takes place largely online, making the charity ritual less like the game of sneaky one-upmanship we all know and love (watching people slink up to your coveted item is half the fun!) and more like the online auctions we've all been doing late at night for years, ending up with too many misshapen "vintage" cashmere sweaters in the bargain. Let your computer do the bidding for you and enjoy yourself at the reception, where Ms. Simmons and Carroll Dunham, honorary artist chairs of the auction, will sip cocktails and tell you about how very proud they are of filmmaker daughter Lena. 

Peter Jay Sharp Building, Dorothy W. Levitt Lobby, 30 Lafayette Avenue (Brooklyn), cocktail reception 3-6 p.m., auction information at bam.org/auction

Monday, April 11

Colons and Canciones

Things could get a little awkward at tonight's Ballet Hispanico spring gala, where perky-but-tough news diva Katie Couric is serving as the event's cochair, and Dr. Jonathan LaPook will be on hand as a vice chair. (Other chairs of various types include Dr. Mehmet Oz, investor Roland Betts, former Morgan Stanley CEO John Mack and Nora Ephron.) But back to awkward! Dr. LaPook--Couric completists will remember--was the same guy who gave the newscaster that famous on-air colonoscopy. The group will celebrate Ballet Hispanico's 40th year and try not to giggle. ... If you're free for lunch (it's Monday, live a little) drop in on the Matrix Awards, but be warned: Don't take the red pill. If you do, you will discover the mind-bending truth: that the Matrix Awards have nothing whatsoever to do with Keanu Reeves. Instead, the ceremony honors women in communications. It will be hosted by the mistress of on-message and our new First Tablescaper Sandra Lee. Also: That irascible Rosie O'Donnell will present an award to her publicist, Cindi Berger. We're betting on a Medal of Valor. 

Ballet Hispanico Spring Gala, Plaza Hotel's Grand Ballroom, Fifth Avenue at Central Park South, cocktails at 7 p.m., dinner at 7:45 p.m., program to follow, call 212-362-6710 for tickets; Matrix Awards, Waldorf-Astoria, 301 Park Avenue, lunch begins at noon, tickets at nywici.org

Tuesday, April 12

Keith on Smiling p>

Keith Olbermann, you may recall, was a television announcer that yelled a lot, back when Howard Beale was on-trend. Then he left his gig to team up with Al Gore (a guy who never yelled enough). Mr. Olbermann's new show on Current doesn't start for a while, though, so he's got time on his hands to tweet up a storm and moderate panels, like today's Paley Center symposium on Ernie Kovacs, the pioneering television comedian who was actually Letterman back when Letterman was in rubber pants. Other panelists include comedian Robert Smigel of TV Funhouse and Triumph, the Insult Comic Dog fame, and Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In producer George Schlatter. Let's hope Triumph shows up to hump Keith's leg. 

The Paley Center for Media, 25 West 52nd Street, 6:30 p.m., tickets at paleycenter.org

Wednesday, April 13

Mass Appeal

You know how Sandra Bullock was always the one you got when Julia Roberts was booked? That's been the rep of Governor Deval Patrick: second-tier Barack Obama. How unfair! Anyway, Mr. Patrick, the governor of Massachusetts (hello? executive experience?), is publishing a memoir, A Reason To Believe, the title of which is a brazen refutation of the title of President Obama's memoir, The Audacity of Hope. (You see, hard-nosed reason beats blind faith every time.) The governor is in New York today, where he'll be meeting with well-wishers from the worlds of business and politics at-pass the mini-muffins!-a private breakfast. The gathering at Random House headquarters will be co-hosted by A Better Chance, the nonprofit organization that sent young Mr. Patrick to preparatory school. Money well spent, we'd say!

Random House, 1745 Broadway, 8 a.m., free books and breakfast for attendees, private event

ddaddario@observer.com :: @DPD_

"That was great--I loved that," he said. "Some people in the Tibetan movement who were more P.C. or pious thought it was being trivialized." But to Mr. Thurman, a longtime practitioner of of detachment, "It was kind of an ironic, self-deprecatory thing."

Groupon apologized, sort of, for the advertisement, broadcast to the largest audience in U.S. history, and redirected traffic to advocacy groups and charities. That boost in traffic--and the publicity for Tibet, which Mr. Thurman called "subliminal"--was worth the ribbing. "It was foolish of a few P.C. hothead Tibetophiles to get upset about it."

Of course, the real target of the ad, which featured Timothy Hutton, seemed to be the use of celebrities to promote serious issues (ahem, Richard Gere). But Mr. Thurman, whose benefit this year features performances by Patti Smith, Michael Stipe, and the Flaming Lips, and whose daughter, Uma, is a film actress, disagrees. "I don't think it satirized celebrities--it's a double-backhanded-irony thing," he said. "Look, I have no idea! I still don't understand that coupon thing, what they sell or what they do, spending so much money on ads."

ddaddario@observer.com :: @DPD_

• You knew this day was coming. Bedbugs at Carnegie Hall. Insert obligatory "practice" joke.

• Columbia Business School students apparently have issues with personal hygiene. Bunch a hippies. No jobs left for those of you who don't get "professional haircuts."

• What if Obama made avant garde web videos?

• RIP Paul the Sooth-Sliming Octopus. You will be missed. You were kind of like Punxatawney Phil, only with more legs. Underwater. And squishy.

• Things you need: solid gold Monopoly set! See what they did there? A game...about acquiring wealth...made out of gold...So Meta!

• You know that creepy Elmo dude in Times Square? Yeah, he's officially creepy. Proof exists. Whither sad panda?