That moment when you know you made the right musical call.
It's after you get home from the University of Richmond's International Film Series seeing "Tokyo Story," a black and white 1953 post-war commentary by the Japanese director considered second only to Kurasawa.
Shot from the point of view of a person sitting on a mat on the floor, the film offers a heart-breakingly sad look at the already seismic cultural shift from old to young after WW II. In fact, it may have been the birth of the whippersnapper generation that spawned successive legions of disrespectful children with no interest in history or heritage.
A beautiful film, but also a dispiriting one.
No, it's when I'm getting ready to head out in search of my evening's repast, but before I pick up dessert and head to Holmes' basement for a two-month catch-up session and music fest ("We've got some new music," he says with a leer in his voice on the phone call to arrange things).
Certainly, it's when "Almost Cut My Hair" comes on the radio and it's followed by John Prine and then Leonard Cohen's latest album "You Want It Darker" (do I or is that just his old age talking?) that I feel the universe patting me on the back.
Go to the vinyl, Karen. And take chocolate...
But my family's rule was always "no dinner, no dessert," so I head directly to Bistro 27 where a rehearsal dinner is in progress for what will surely be no more than a starter marriage for these two impossibly young people. Watching the guests occupy themselves with alcohol and each other's spawn reminds me how tedious such events are when small children are involved.
My meal, on the other hand, delivers in spades: the rockfish is weighed down with lumps of crabmeat and the accompanying sauteed vegetables - squash, mushrooms, zucchini and tomatoes rounded out with lemon juice and herbs de Provence - could not have been cooked more perfectly. The mushrooms, especially, are so flavorful they all but burst in my mouth.
I order two chocolate mouse cakes to go and head to the party of three.
Holmes and Beloved are just finishing up dinner when I arrive, pleased to no end with how their first attempt at chicken saltimbocca and pasta has turned out.
After our shared dessert, Beloved excitedly tells me she has a present for me: a hardback copy of "Valley of the Dolls" scored at an estate sale. Miraculously, the deceased had had two copies and she'd picked one up for herself as well. We're both elated at our new trashy reading score.
As a result, the time machine for the evening is right that moment set to '60s/70s as we move to the man cave, take up our assigned bar stools and the musical focus begins with them showing off some new vinyl finds: The 101 Strings' "East of Suez," and an Arthur Murray party record with appropriate music for rumbas, the waltz, fox trot, samba and others to keep your guests cutting a rug all night.
Then the radio's earlier foreshadowing kicks in as Holmes puts on Crosby and Nash's "Wind on the Water" so we can moon over "Sit Down, I Think I Love You," but it's when he puts on "Nuggets: Original Artifacts from the First Psychedelic Era 1965-1968" (modestly claiming that he'd just happened to come across it while perusing the "N" section of his record collection) that the party truly gets started.
Don't get me wrong, I only recognized a very few songs on this two-disc set, but the overall sound was completely memory-inducing. "Lies" by the Knickerbockers was familiar and the Standells' "Dirty Water" almost was, while Mouse's "A Public Execution" sounded eerily like Dylan, if he could sing.
Easily the most dramatic song was the Barbarians' "Moulty," an autobiographical ode to the drummer losing one of his hands. The song winds down with Moulty telling us not to pity him because he's happy with his lot in life. "I just need to find a good woman and I'll be complete!" he sing-songs dramatically.
"No, you won't!" hollers Beloved at the turntable. "You haven't got a hand!"
But it was when the Castaways "Liar, Liar" came on that Beloved got excited, recalling that the band had played a school dance when she was at Albert Hill Middle School. A classmate named Mac had been inspired to start a band, she said, and when they played "Gloria," all the girls at Hill swooned and screamed.
Not willing to be outdone in school memories, Holmes shares that he and friends at John B. Cary also started a band, with the dubious name of Dr. VD's Observatory. No report on how the girls reacted.
Virtually all the songs were one hit wonders, sometimes one of two, but one band was instantly recognizable and that was Nazz. No one sounds like Todd Rundgren and none of the other songs had the production his "Open My Eyes" did, either.
It was after listening to all four sides of "Nuggets" and lamenting Holmes' loss of a similar version except of original artifacts from the first English psychedelic era that he pulled out another album for one last bonus nugget, Syndicate of Sound's "Hey, Little Girl," who - we really shouldn't have been surprised - had also played at Albert Hill during Beloved's junior high tenure.
As we're listening, Beloved reaches over to the end of the bar and randomly picks up a 1967 issue of a Mad Magazine Special and begins flipping through. Shrieking, she holds it up, saying, "You know what's in Mad? Valley of the Dolls!"
Actually, it was Valley of the Dollars, a spoof on the millions author Jacqueline Susann had made on the book and movie, but also mocking the cheesy film with abandon. Actress Barbara Perkins is shown on her way to the movie set, walking past a sign that says, "You are now leaving Peyton Place.
I may be too young to have seen the cheesy prime time soap opera, but I nonetheless got the joke.
It was then that the happy couple pulled out another piece of the web they were weaving over me with the soundtrack to Valley of the Dolls, complete with movie montage music and the theme song sung by an uncredited vocalist because Dionne Warwick was under contractual obligation to another record company.
I ask you, how many friends gift you with the book, provide a period-appropriate magazine satire of it and then follow up with the music from the film?
Four plus hours into our evening, we had to decide on the final vinyl and Beloved scooped up the double "Shaft Soundtrack" album, asking rhetorically, "What is this?"
Holmes, no more than our obedient DJ by this point, barely looked up, mumbling, "I don't know. I'm just a captive."
Since I'd just seen "Shaft" a week ago, it was especially satisfying to hear Isaac Hayes' masterpiece on speakers as fine as Holmes has.
And because even when you're heading toward 2 a.m. Holmes will still try to slide in one last record to dazzle his guests, he put on a pink vinyl copy of a club mix of the Rolling Stones' "Miss You." Since it had been ages since our last rendezvous, he could have been trying to tell me something.
More likely, he was reminding me that when I stop by Dr. VD's Observatory, I always make the right musical call.
Showing posts with label UR International Film series. Show all posts
Showing posts with label UR International Film series. Show all posts
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Is That So Difficult?
Life is too short to sit still.
The Library of Virginia was hosting Calvin Schermerhorn discussing "Solomon Northup and the Tragic Voyage of the Orleans." Yes, the same Solomon Northup as depicted in "12 Years A Slave."
After parking in the garage, I rode upstairs in the elevator with an attractive man who looked at me quizzically and asked, "There is a lecture here tonight, right?" Reassuring him, I shared that I'd asked the parking lot attendant the same question.
The proof was upstairs where the room was just about full for a Friday night lecture.
Using maps, vintage pictures of Richmond and plenty of photos from the movie, Schermerhorn took us from Spring 1841 in Richmond through Northup's boat ride to New Orleans.
His point was showing that human trafficking then was not so different than now, except prices have risen (Solomon was sold for a mere $650).
Showing bills of lading with slaves listed as chattel, noting their aliases (because free men were being sold as slaves), height and color (Northup was listed as "yellow" because of his European and African ancestry), he wove a tale of how men were systematically broken down and resigned to being enslaved.
But it was during the Q & A that things got good. Several black audience members made the point that enslavement was kidnapping, a point that Schermerhorn agreed with. He admitted that he'd been contacted by Northup's relatives but hadn't been in touch.
And, lo and behold, the next woman who stands up says she's a third generation descendant of Solomon Northup and part of the effort to establish a foundation to honor his legacy.
You can imagine how surprised our lecturer was at this surprise guest. Several black audience members challenged her on whether she felt herself to be black or white given how white she looked.
Admirably, she acknowledged being raised with a strong sense of Solomon's legacy but self-identified as white.
So that was a totally unexpected part of tonight's history lesson. Having seen "12 Years a Slave" and been moved by its tragic story, it was equally as moving to hear from a descendant of the man depicted.
Pays to go to history lectures, kids. Keep that in mind.
But it's Friday night and we can't be serious all the time, so my next stop was UR for their International Film series, tonight showing "Land Ho!"
A man I'd never seen before stood in front of the audience and said, "Paul's not here, so this is a comedy and it actually has some funny stuff in it. Enjoy!"
With people calling out, "Speech, speech!" sarcastically, he started the film.
An Icelandic-American film that premiered at Sundance, the charming story was nothing more than two 60-something men on an extended vacation in Iceland. As a bonus for me, there were plenty of scenes in Reykjavik restaurants featuring beautiful food and winking at the top tier food scene that exists there.
Oddly enough, the film had subtitles despite all the characters speaking in English.
The extrovert was divorced, recently retired as a doctor and bored for company and the introvert widowed, then divorced and retired from banking with no money. Strange bedfellows, indeed.
The former doctor, with his thick southern accent, penchant for pot (when he offers it to his friend, he declines, saying, "I haven't smoked pot since the '70s." Incredulously doc responds, "The 1970s?") and lusty nature was hilarious ("This is so good it's like angels pissing on your tongue"). His ex-brother-in-law was more cautious and tentative about everything.
As they make their way around Iceland, enjoying a disco ("We're the oldest people here. By a lot!"), being drenched by a double cascade waterfall (truly beautiful), seeing a geyser explode twice (I jumped the first time) and talking about life's letdowns (hey, shit happens), they both find themselves happier.
When they pop Jiffy Pop together over an open fire while camping, it got a big laugh from the mostly older audience.
The former banker would like another relationship and defines it as wanting someone "to talk about the news with, have a cup of tea with, eat breakfast with and sleep with. Is that so difficult?"
You want my opinion on that? Harder than you'd think, my friend.
But it's the pot-smoking ex-doctor who continually pushes the limits of his friend's patience, suggesting walks at night (they wind up lost in the darkness), driving through ponds (because they can), quizzing a honeymooning couple ("How many times have you hit the mat so far?") and generally being goofy ("I think I need a doobie-nator right now"). His friend finally loses his patience with him, asking why he always has to be doing something.
Because life is too short, he insists, to sit still.
After the movie, I met Holmes and Lovey for a short walk to Belmont Food Shop to quell our grumbling stomachs. I'd been craving the late night cook's plate and they'd never even heard of it.
Sometimes it's my duty to educate.
We began with a bottle of Sainte Eulalie 2013 Rose while Satchmo played overhead. The other tables were mostly winding down, so one by one they wandered out into the night while our evening was just beginning.
After hearing my order, Holmes took my advice and got a cook's plate for the two of them as well, none of us knowing what might be on it. In the meantime, he ordered Espolon, which arrived looking sophisticated in a champagne coupe.
Have one, he suggested. While I admired the presentation, I required food before tequila. Like magic, our cook's plates arrived.
The pieces of slate held lamb belly confit, fresh tuna poached in olive oil and duck gizzards, along with frisee salad, pickled veggies, crusty bread, buttered radishes and celery salad, the makings of a rich and wonderful meal.
I have been devoted to this cook's plate since Belmont Food Shop first opened. You never know what's going to be on it and you're never disappointed with what shows up. Lovey swore she'd never eat gizzards and ate several. Such is the power of the cook's plate.
Next came a cheese course: Pecorino, Maytag Bleu and triple cream Delice de Bourgogne with Marcona almonds and dried fruit, honey, bread and crackers, accompanied by J. Mourat Collection Rose in a unique bottle that resembled an old-time medicine bottle.
Meanwhile, I heard about a wake the couple had recently attended at a home with a fabulous art collection. Besides a Picasso and Dali, they had a painting of Pat and Julie Nixon, their faces expertly depicted and both with their naked breasts showing. It sounded like the highlight of a home filled with art.
Everyone talked at once. We heard about Belmont finally getting the permits to start hosting events, such as a recent Petersburg restaurant clan party, in their other room. Discussion ensued about how to get people to try things like heart, cheeks and tail. It sounds like their patio opening is just around the corner.
Ah, patio season, I await your arrival.
Despite Lovey's purported disdain for butterscotch, I insisted we try butterscotch pot de creme along with the expected chocolate silk pie and darned if she didn't become a convert right in front of our eyes. First gizzards, now butterscotch. It was a big night for our girl.
Holmes couldn't resist a chuckle when he asked where I'd been before dinner. He seemed to think it was funny that I'd begun with a slavery lecture before moving on to an Icelandic aging comedy. That I'd wound up sipping pink and eating belly surprised him not at all.
Stop moving and you die. It's not just me. Look at sharks.
The Library of Virginia was hosting Calvin Schermerhorn discussing "Solomon Northup and the Tragic Voyage of the Orleans." Yes, the same Solomon Northup as depicted in "12 Years A Slave."
After parking in the garage, I rode upstairs in the elevator with an attractive man who looked at me quizzically and asked, "There is a lecture here tonight, right?" Reassuring him, I shared that I'd asked the parking lot attendant the same question.
The proof was upstairs where the room was just about full for a Friday night lecture.
Using maps, vintage pictures of Richmond and plenty of photos from the movie, Schermerhorn took us from Spring 1841 in Richmond through Northup's boat ride to New Orleans.
His point was showing that human trafficking then was not so different than now, except prices have risen (Solomon was sold for a mere $650).
Showing bills of lading with slaves listed as chattel, noting their aliases (because free men were being sold as slaves), height and color (Northup was listed as "yellow" because of his European and African ancestry), he wove a tale of how men were systematically broken down and resigned to being enslaved.
But it was during the Q & A that things got good. Several black audience members made the point that enslavement was kidnapping, a point that Schermerhorn agreed with. He admitted that he'd been contacted by Northup's relatives but hadn't been in touch.
And, lo and behold, the next woman who stands up says she's a third generation descendant of Solomon Northup and part of the effort to establish a foundation to honor his legacy.
You can imagine how surprised our lecturer was at this surprise guest. Several black audience members challenged her on whether she felt herself to be black or white given how white she looked.
Admirably, she acknowledged being raised with a strong sense of Solomon's legacy but self-identified as white.
So that was a totally unexpected part of tonight's history lesson. Having seen "12 Years a Slave" and been moved by its tragic story, it was equally as moving to hear from a descendant of the man depicted.
Pays to go to history lectures, kids. Keep that in mind.
But it's Friday night and we can't be serious all the time, so my next stop was UR for their International Film series, tonight showing "Land Ho!"
A man I'd never seen before stood in front of the audience and said, "Paul's not here, so this is a comedy and it actually has some funny stuff in it. Enjoy!"
With people calling out, "Speech, speech!" sarcastically, he started the film.
An Icelandic-American film that premiered at Sundance, the charming story was nothing more than two 60-something men on an extended vacation in Iceland. As a bonus for me, there were plenty of scenes in Reykjavik restaurants featuring beautiful food and winking at the top tier food scene that exists there.
Oddly enough, the film had subtitles despite all the characters speaking in English.
The extrovert was divorced, recently retired as a doctor and bored for company and the introvert widowed, then divorced and retired from banking with no money. Strange bedfellows, indeed.
The former doctor, with his thick southern accent, penchant for pot (when he offers it to his friend, he declines, saying, "I haven't smoked pot since the '70s." Incredulously doc responds, "The 1970s?") and lusty nature was hilarious ("This is so good it's like angels pissing on your tongue"). His ex-brother-in-law was more cautious and tentative about everything.
As they make their way around Iceland, enjoying a disco ("We're the oldest people here. By a lot!"), being drenched by a double cascade waterfall (truly beautiful), seeing a geyser explode twice (I jumped the first time) and talking about life's letdowns (hey, shit happens), they both find themselves happier.
When they pop Jiffy Pop together over an open fire while camping, it got a big laugh from the mostly older audience.
The former banker would like another relationship and defines it as wanting someone "to talk about the news with, have a cup of tea with, eat breakfast with and sleep with. Is that so difficult?"
You want my opinion on that? Harder than you'd think, my friend.
But it's the pot-smoking ex-doctor who continually pushes the limits of his friend's patience, suggesting walks at night (they wind up lost in the darkness), driving through ponds (because they can), quizzing a honeymooning couple ("How many times have you hit the mat so far?") and generally being goofy ("I think I need a doobie-nator right now"). His friend finally loses his patience with him, asking why he always has to be doing something.
Because life is too short, he insists, to sit still.
After the movie, I met Holmes and Lovey for a short walk to Belmont Food Shop to quell our grumbling stomachs. I'd been craving the late night cook's plate and they'd never even heard of it.
Sometimes it's my duty to educate.
We began with a bottle of Sainte Eulalie 2013 Rose while Satchmo played overhead. The other tables were mostly winding down, so one by one they wandered out into the night while our evening was just beginning.
After hearing my order, Holmes took my advice and got a cook's plate for the two of them as well, none of us knowing what might be on it. In the meantime, he ordered Espolon, which arrived looking sophisticated in a champagne coupe.
Have one, he suggested. While I admired the presentation, I required food before tequila. Like magic, our cook's plates arrived.
The pieces of slate held lamb belly confit, fresh tuna poached in olive oil and duck gizzards, along with frisee salad, pickled veggies, crusty bread, buttered radishes and celery salad, the makings of a rich and wonderful meal.
I have been devoted to this cook's plate since Belmont Food Shop first opened. You never know what's going to be on it and you're never disappointed with what shows up. Lovey swore she'd never eat gizzards and ate several. Such is the power of the cook's plate.
Next came a cheese course: Pecorino, Maytag Bleu and triple cream Delice de Bourgogne with Marcona almonds and dried fruit, honey, bread and crackers, accompanied by J. Mourat Collection Rose in a unique bottle that resembled an old-time medicine bottle.
Meanwhile, I heard about a wake the couple had recently attended at a home with a fabulous art collection. Besides a Picasso and Dali, they had a painting of Pat and Julie Nixon, their faces expertly depicted and both with their naked breasts showing. It sounded like the highlight of a home filled with art.
Everyone talked at once. We heard about Belmont finally getting the permits to start hosting events, such as a recent Petersburg restaurant clan party, in their other room. Discussion ensued about how to get people to try things like heart, cheeks and tail. It sounds like their patio opening is just around the corner.
Ah, patio season, I await your arrival.
Despite Lovey's purported disdain for butterscotch, I insisted we try butterscotch pot de creme along with the expected chocolate silk pie and darned if she didn't become a convert right in front of our eyes. First gizzards, now butterscotch. It was a big night for our girl.
Holmes couldn't resist a chuckle when he asked where I'd been before dinner. He seemed to think it was funny that I'd begun with a slavery lecture before moving on to an Icelandic aging comedy. That I'd wound up sipping pink and eating belly surprised him not at all.
Stop moving and you die. It's not just me. Look at sharks.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Bon Appetit
One must follow food porn with actual food, n'est-ce pas?
Showing at UR's International Film Fest tonight was the French bio-pic "Haute Cuisine" based on the memoir of Daniele Delpeuch, who served as private chef to French president Mitterrand.
When I invited my favorite Francophile to join me, she informed me that she'd already seen it on Netflix (not that watching a movie at home in any way compares to seeing it on the big screen, but I digress). She wavered, saying that it had been a charming film, so I sweetened the pot by suggesting that we go out for a bite afterwards and she climbed on board.
As many times as I've been to UR for their weekly screenings, tonight's crowd was by far the largest I'd ever seen. We took seats in front of three women, one of whom I knew, and we were all soon relating about short grandmothers (not one of us five had had one who'd been over 5' tall) and the inevitability of tall men sitting in front of us at theaters.
Mid-conversation, three men clambered over us and sat down to my right, effectively doing exactly what we'd been discussing to the women behind us. When I turned around in empathy, the three burst out laughing.
"Are you in some sort of ladies' club?" the man next to me inquired quite seriously. You mean like the She-Ra Man Hater's Club? No, sir, I'm not.
Usually the film is introduced by a professor who provides a bit of background and suggests elements to watch for, but tonight a different man greeted us, joking, "Tonight's French film didn't arrive, so we're going to show an Italian horror movie."
It wouldn't have mattered since obviously the predominantly female audience had nothing better to do on a Friday night than watch a mature French woman effortlessly cook meals for the President of the Republic. Being French, she couldn't help but do it with perfect make-up, lots of jewelry and impossibly soigne ensembles under her simple (but chic) black apron.
As if we didn't already know French women are different than us, watching the lovely 58-year old actress Catherine Frot with her flawless skin, impeccable posture and cheekbones to die for was a solid reminder that however they do it - all that wine and foie gras, high heels worn everywhere (including the kitchen) - we should be emulating it from birth.
"Haute Cuisine" fits solidly into the food movie trend of the past few years with mouth-watering shots of edibles being prepared, plated and served. Because this one was also French, there were just as many sexy shots of ingredients like truffles, cep mushrooms and Savoy cabbage to titillate the audience.
But the most satisfying part of it all was that she wasn't preparing fancy food for the Prez. He'd hired her because he wanted a woman to cook the rustic dishes of his youth, the kind of dishes his grandmother used to make. The chef even uses vintage cookbooks to seek out era-appropriate inspiration.
The movie's drama arrives courtesy of the large staff of the all-male main kitchen who resent the presence of a woman in their historically male domain, even though she's in a separate, smaller kitchen. Chauvinism and bad behavior are rampant. Still, she perseveres right up until bureaucrats try to control what she cooks for the sake of the president's health.
Lesson #1: never tell a French chef she can't cook with butter and cream or she'll resign and take a job in Antarctica where lonely men on a base appreciate hercream puffs cooking. The end.
When the lights came up, the first words out of my friend's mouth were, "That's a movie that'll make you hungry." Not having eaten since lunch was every bit as effective for me.
My plan was to go to Acacia to check out their late night bar menu but the sleek bar was full up, so the hostess graciously put us at a small nearby table with bar menus. Overhead, middle eastern techno pulsed out the beat of a Friday night.
We debated the appeal of drinking Rose in the winter (not a problem for me), something she resists despite drinking white wine during cold months. Makes no sense to me. After my ruby red glass of Tavel Chateau d'Aqueria Rose arrived, we considered the menu which was heavy on fish.
Leave it to Acacia to do a bar menu that's more Acacia-like than bar-like. I chose fish tacos after hearing that they were made with fresh flounder. Two fat tacos stuffed with fish and jalapeno slaw boasted plate mates of fresh guacamole and recently-fried tortilla chips with a pretty little mesclun salad on the side.
It may have read as a snack but was most certainly more of a meal. After watching a movie about the pleasures of food, it would have been completely unsatisfying to have noshed on average food afterwards. Even she had to admit that her lobster bisque was the perfect decadence to put a period at the end of a story about a French kitchen.
And not just any kitchen, but one where a middle-aged woman stole the show with her unflappable demeanor, peasant cooking and devotion to fresh ingredients.
Much as I enjoyed the movie, I admit I'm not inspired to cook any more often because of it. That's what chefs are for.
On the other hand, I am rethinking how often I put on heels and go shopping at the farmer's market. Ineffable French style has to start somewhere.
Showing at UR's International Film Fest tonight was the French bio-pic "Haute Cuisine" based on the memoir of Daniele Delpeuch, who served as private chef to French president Mitterrand.
When I invited my favorite Francophile to join me, she informed me that she'd already seen it on Netflix (not that watching a movie at home in any way compares to seeing it on the big screen, but I digress). She wavered, saying that it had been a charming film, so I sweetened the pot by suggesting that we go out for a bite afterwards and she climbed on board.
As many times as I've been to UR for their weekly screenings, tonight's crowd was by far the largest I'd ever seen. We took seats in front of three women, one of whom I knew, and we were all soon relating about short grandmothers (not one of us five had had one who'd been over 5' tall) and the inevitability of tall men sitting in front of us at theaters.
Mid-conversation, three men clambered over us and sat down to my right, effectively doing exactly what we'd been discussing to the women behind us. When I turned around in empathy, the three burst out laughing.
"Are you in some sort of ladies' club?" the man next to me inquired quite seriously. You mean like the She-Ra Man Hater's Club? No, sir, I'm not.
Usually the film is introduced by a professor who provides a bit of background and suggests elements to watch for, but tonight a different man greeted us, joking, "Tonight's French film didn't arrive, so we're going to show an Italian horror movie."
It wouldn't have mattered since obviously the predominantly female audience had nothing better to do on a Friday night than watch a mature French woman effortlessly cook meals for the President of the Republic. Being French, she couldn't help but do it with perfect make-up, lots of jewelry and impossibly soigne ensembles under her simple (but chic) black apron.
As if we didn't already know French women are different than us, watching the lovely 58-year old actress Catherine Frot with her flawless skin, impeccable posture and cheekbones to die for was a solid reminder that however they do it - all that wine and foie gras, high heels worn everywhere (including the kitchen) - we should be emulating it from birth.
"Haute Cuisine" fits solidly into the food movie trend of the past few years with mouth-watering shots of edibles being prepared, plated and served. Because this one was also French, there were just as many sexy shots of ingredients like truffles, cep mushrooms and Savoy cabbage to titillate the audience.
But the most satisfying part of it all was that she wasn't preparing fancy food for the Prez. He'd hired her because he wanted a woman to cook the rustic dishes of his youth, the kind of dishes his grandmother used to make. The chef even uses vintage cookbooks to seek out era-appropriate inspiration.
The movie's drama arrives courtesy of the large staff of the all-male main kitchen who resent the presence of a woman in their historically male domain, even though she's in a separate, smaller kitchen. Chauvinism and bad behavior are rampant. Still, she perseveres right up until bureaucrats try to control what she cooks for the sake of the president's health.
Lesson #1: never tell a French chef she can't cook with butter and cream or she'll resign and take a job in Antarctica where lonely men on a base appreciate her
When the lights came up, the first words out of my friend's mouth were, "That's a movie that'll make you hungry." Not having eaten since lunch was every bit as effective for me.
My plan was to go to Acacia to check out their late night bar menu but the sleek bar was full up, so the hostess graciously put us at a small nearby table with bar menus. Overhead, middle eastern techno pulsed out the beat of a Friday night.
We debated the appeal of drinking Rose in the winter (not a problem for me), something she resists despite drinking white wine during cold months. Makes no sense to me. After my ruby red glass of Tavel Chateau d'Aqueria Rose arrived, we considered the menu which was heavy on fish.
Leave it to Acacia to do a bar menu that's more Acacia-like than bar-like. I chose fish tacos after hearing that they were made with fresh flounder. Two fat tacos stuffed with fish and jalapeno slaw boasted plate mates of fresh guacamole and recently-fried tortilla chips with a pretty little mesclun salad on the side.
It may have read as a snack but was most certainly more of a meal. After watching a movie about the pleasures of food, it would have been completely unsatisfying to have noshed on average food afterwards. Even she had to admit that her lobster bisque was the perfect decadence to put a period at the end of a story about a French kitchen.
And not just any kitchen, but one where a middle-aged woman stole the show with her unflappable demeanor, peasant cooking and devotion to fresh ingredients.
Much as I enjoyed the movie, I admit I'm not inspired to cook any more often because of it. That's what chefs are for.
On the other hand, I am rethinking how often I put on heels and go shopping at the farmer's market. Ineffable French style has to start somewhere.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
All Along
With my limited budget and insatiable appetite for culture, I'm an unabashed fan of Richmond's free film series.
For the most part, both show foreign and arthouse films that never made it to Richmond, providing a chance to see award-winning and festival quality works on the big screen as they were meant to be seen. The only downside? No buttered popcorn because they're on school property.
The difference is in the audiences and the process. The VCU Cinematheque series at the Grace Street theater is full of film students with a smattering of film-loving adults taking advantage of a well-curated program with an introductory analysis before the film and usually a Q & A afterwards.
University of Richmond's international film series attracts a predominantly gray and white-haired crowd of mostly couples -alums, for all I know, or maybe just near West Enders - providing handouts about the film and a limited bit of information conveyed beforehand orally.
At tonight's screening of "Watchtower" at UR's Ukrop Auditorium in the Robins School of Business (can't you just smell the money?), we were forewarned that the cinematography would be exquisite, the acting as naturalistic as a documentary and that in all likelihood, the child in the film probably belonged to the actress playing the mother.
"I'm not going to give it away, but you'll see," our host said cryptically. "Also, you will write the last scene yourself."
In a scene where a bus driver tells her he used to write poetry in his youth, he goes on to say sagely, "High school, that's the time to write poems...before life gets in the way." Take heed, young poets.
During a scene where the female lead began going into labor, squatting and screaming, the older man in front of me leaned over to his wife and stage-whispered, "Do you think she's going to have a baby?" One man got up and walked out at that point. Obviously, he didn't want to see any babies being birthed realistically.
But I think it was the scene where the woman puts the crying newborn to her breast and it begins to eat that had convinced him that they were related. Perhaps he'd never heard of a wet-nurse.
Much of the film's appeal was how unlike American films it was. No love story or even suggestion of one. A mother who not only shows no interest in her baby but consciously rejects caring for it. Characters who don't smile. No musical soundtrack.
The movie was basically a character study of two people who end up together (in the watchtower of the title where the man is a fire spotter in a ruggedly beautiful area of Turkey) and learn each other's dark secrets, at least until the last scene when all we see is him leaning against the doorway looking pensive and we have no idea if she and the baby have left or if they're downstairs.
On another campus with a very different audience, we'd have chewed over that ending for a good, long while, discussing every possibility, every cinematic clue.
Like a good read, I'll be thinking about this one for a while.
For the most part, both show foreign and arthouse films that never made it to Richmond, providing a chance to see award-winning and festival quality works on the big screen as they were meant to be seen. The only downside? No buttered popcorn because they're on school property.
The difference is in the audiences and the process. The VCU Cinematheque series at the Grace Street theater is full of film students with a smattering of film-loving adults taking advantage of a well-curated program with an introductory analysis before the film and usually a Q & A afterwards.
University of Richmond's international film series attracts a predominantly gray and white-haired crowd of mostly couples -alums, for all I know, or maybe just near West Enders - providing handouts about the film and a limited bit of information conveyed beforehand orally.
At tonight's screening of "Watchtower" at UR's Ukrop Auditorium in the Robins School of Business (can't you just smell the money?), we were forewarned that the cinematography would be exquisite, the acting as naturalistic as a documentary and that in all likelihood, the child in the film probably belonged to the actress playing the mother.
"I'm not going to give it away, but you'll see," our host said cryptically. "Also, you will write the last scene yourself."
In a scene where a bus driver tells her he used to write poetry in his youth, he goes on to say sagely, "High school, that's the time to write poems...before life gets in the way." Take heed, young poets.
During a scene where the female lead began going into labor, squatting and screaming, the older man in front of me leaned over to his wife and stage-whispered, "Do you think she's going to have a baby?" One man got up and walked out at that point. Obviously, he didn't want to see any babies being birthed realistically.
But I think it was the scene where the woman puts the crying newborn to her breast and it begins to eat that had convinced him that they were related. Perhaps he'd never heard of a wet-nurse.
Much of the film's appeal was how unlike American films it was. No love story or even suggestion of one. A mother who not only shows no interest in her baby but consciously rejects caring for it. Characters who don't smile. No musical soundtrack.
The movie was basically a character study of two people who end up together (in the watchtower of the title where the man is a fire spotter in a ruggedly beautiful area of Turkey) and learn each other's dark secrets, at least until the last scene when all we see is him leaning against the doorway looking pensive and we have no idea if she and the baby have left or if they're downstairs.
On another campus with a very different audience, we'd have chewed over that ending for a good, long while, discussing every possibility, every cinematic clue.
Like a good read, I'll be thinking about this one for a while.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Never Enough Sun and Sea
Fall is making its imminent arrival known and I'm not at all happy about it.
You see, I'm a summer person, never happier than when it's warm enough that I need a minimum of clothes. Unlike so many people I know, I'm not into scarves, layers and jackets.
So while parts of my walk this morning on the North Bank trail were delightfully sunny and warm, the shaded parts were feeling cooler than they have all summer.
When I got to Texas Beach to wade in, the river was not the bathwater temperature it's been for months now.
That leaves me hoping for many weeks of Indian summer but acknowledging that Fall is just around the corner. Sadly.
The only thing I like about the approaching season is that the cultural calendar is back in swing, meaning things such as UR's international film series, which kicked off tonight.
Before taking on an Italian film on a serious subject, though, I scooted over to Saison for fried chicken night, sliding into the one remaining bar stool between two guys watching football.
The one to the left was gracious, making sure I had enough room and welcoming me while the other was deep in his crossword puzzle.
When he asked if he could have a vodka and pineapple juice, the bartender paused noticeably and then said okay.
Both his friend and I noticed the pause, assuming that the bartender wanted him to consider the cocktail menu and perhaps order something more interesting.
His friend insisted he try something different, but the guy held fast even after tasting the other's drink ("too spicy!").
You have to respect a guy who knows what he wants.
Their half chicken arrived shortly before my quarter chicken did and it was as I was carving into my thigh that the vodka drinker said, "Look at you using a fork and knife."
Putting them down, I explained that I was only cutting into it to release some heat so I'd be able to eat it sooner with my fingers.
"Look, don't mess with her," his friend said cutting into his own. "She's been to fried chicken night here before and knows the deal."
I was pleased to see that tonight's sides were different: a cucumber and red onion marinated salad and cornbread, but not that sticky sweet variety that passes for cornbread so many places these days.
No, this was a much drier crumb and not nearly as sweet, much closer to my Richmond grandmother's classic cornbread.
You know how I do, smearing honey butter all over it, but Mr. Vodka couldn't get behind the honey butter. Too weird, he claimed, although he loved the cuke salad.
When I abruptly got up to leave for my movie, he turned to me smiling and said, "Thanks for our first dinner date."
Went pretty well for strangers, don't you think?
Then it was on to University of Richmond where I joined a decidedly mixed audience, half students and half middle-aged and up.
Tonight's offering was "Miele," which means honey and was the title character's nickname, interesting because her occupation was assisting people with suicide due to terminal illness.
The directorial debut of Valeria Golino, it was a beautifully shot, gorgeously lit character study highlighting the beauty of life and the importance of music.
What struck me was that the film didn't take a position on assisted suicide, just showed suffering people who had made the decision to check out, so Honey felt she was helping them with their request.
That is, until a man asks for her to provide the drugs to do it himself (a first since she always attends the ritual, providing the drug and often the music), which she reluctantly does.
Only afterwards does she learn that he has no terminal illness, he's just depressed and tired of life.
The rest of the film follows their relationship as she tries to talk him out of it and he holds fast to his plans.
Spotting the stud in her tongue he asks about it and she explains it has Aztec roots but he's unimpressed.
"Contemporary idiocy knows no limits," he observes. Amen to that.
When he finally comes to visit her at her tiny and spare oceanfront house, he comments, "Too much sun, too much sea, too much wind," summarily dismissing her choice of habitation.
Oh, and P.S., there's no such thing, in my humble opinion.
Not one but two older couples got up and walked out after seeing the second assisted suicide, not at all a violent thing to watch but most definitely a sad one to see the reaction of the loved one who remains.
Their loss. They missed a visually stunning film, honest to its core, with the kind of complex characters superbly acted rarely seen in American films. A film that never came to Richmond.
My summer days are waning and Fall is beginning to seem like an inevitability but at least the culture quotient is seeing an uptick.
And no matter the season, there's always the beauty of life and the importance of music..honey.
You see, I'm a summer person, never happier than when it's warm enough that I need a minimum of clothes. Unlike so many people I know, I'm not into scarves, layers and jackets.
So while parts of my walk this morning on the North Bank trail were delightfully sunny and warm, the shaded parts were feeling cooler than they have all summer.
When I got to Texas Beach to wade in, the river was not the bathwater temperature it's been for months now.
That leaves me hoping for many weeks of Indian summer but acknowledging that Fall is just around the corner. Sadly.
The only thing I like about the approaching season is that the cultural calendar is back in swing, meaning things such as UR's international film series, which kicked off tonight.
Before taking on an Italian film on a serious subject, though, I scooted over to Saison for fried chicken night, sliding into the one remaining bar stool between two guys watching football.
The one to the left was gracious, making sure I had enough room and welcoming me while the other was deep in his crossword puzzle.
When he asked if he could have a vodka and pineapple juice, the bartender paused noticeably and then said okay.
Both his friend and I noticed the pause, assuming that the bartender wanted him to consider the cocktail menu and perhaps order something more interesting.
His friend insisted he try something different, but the guy held fast even after tasting the other's drink ("too spicy!").
You have to respect a guy who knows what he wants.
Their half chicken arrived shortly before my quarter chicken did and it was as I was carving into my thigh that the vodka drinker said, "Look at you using a fork and knife."
Putting them down, I explained that I was only cutting into it to release some heat so I'd be able to eat it sooner with my fingers.
"Look, don't mess with her," his friend said cutting into his own. "She's been to fried chicken night here before and knows the deal."
I was pleased to see that tonight's sides were different: a cucumber and red onion marinated salad and cornbread, but not that sticky sweet variety that passes for cornbread so many places these days.
No, this was a much drier crumb and not nearly as sweet, much closer to my Richmond grandmother's classic cornbread.
You know how I do, smearing honey butter all over it, but Mr. Vodka couldn't get behind the honey butter. Too weird, he claimed, although he loved the cuke salad.
When I abruptly got up to leave for my movie, he turned to me smiling and said, "Thanks for our first dinner date."
Went pretty well for strangers, don't you think?
Then it was on to University of Richmond where I joined a decidedly mixed audience, half students and half middle-aged and up.
Tonight's offering was "Miele," which means honey and was the title character's nickname, interesting because her occupation was assisting people with suicide due to terminal illness.
The directorial debut of Valeria Golino, it was a beautifully shot, gorgeously lit character study highlighting the beauty of life and the importance of music.
What struck me was that the film didn't take a position on assisted suicide, just showed suffering people who had made the decision to check out, so Honey felt she was helping them with their request.
That is, until a man asks for her to provide the drugs to do it himself (a first since she always attends the ritual, providing the drug and often the music), which she reluctantly does.
Only afterwards does she learn that he has no terminal illness, he's just depressed and tired of life.
The rest of the film follows their relationship as she tries to talk him out of it and he holds fast to his plans.
Spotting the stud in her tongue he asks about it and she explains it has Aztec roots but he's unimpressed.
"Contemporary idiocy knows no limits," he observes. Amen to that.
When he finally comes to visit her at her tiny and spare oceanfront house, he comments, "Too much sun, too much sea, too much wind," summarily dismissing her choice of habitation.
Oh, and P.S., there's no such thing, in my humble opinion.
Not one but two older couples got up and walked out after seeing the second assisted suicide, not at all a violent thing to watch but most definitely a sad one to see the reaction of the loved one who remains.
Their loss. They missed a visually stunning film, honest to its core, with the kind of complex characters superbly acted rarely seen in American films. A film that never came to Richmond.
My summer days are waning and Fall is beginning to seem like an inevitability but at least the culture quotient is seeing an uptick.
And no matter the season, there's always the beauty of life and the importance of music..honey.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Let It Breathe
You can never go wrong reminiscing about Italy for a couple of hours.
After taking my hired mouth out to eat, I did the unthinkable, namely spend the entire evening on the UR campus.
Their international film series is back in full swing and honestly, after the January weather we've had, nothing sounded as appealing as looking at a movie shot during summer in Lecce, Italy, down on the heel of the boot and far more southerly than where I'd been.
I arrived in time to get a raffle ticket (for what, I don't know, but I didn't win so it obviously didn't matter), a schedule for next week's RVA Environmental Film fest and find a seat behind an ESL teacher I know who's now trying to learn Italian.
Claiming her Italian sounds a lot like her Spanish only with hand gestures, she got kudos from me for effort.
The professor giving the introduction greeted us with, "Wow, we had a heat wave today, didn't we?" a reference to this afternoon's downright balmy 56 degree weather. "After you see tonight's film, you're going to be really hot."
Now that was news I wanted to hear.
"Loose Cannons," a 2010 film by Italo-Turkish director Ferzan Ozpetek was being shown to tie in with the campus-wide reading of "The Laramie Project" because of its related issues.
The movie was all over the place with drama, family comedy, domestic tragedy, farce and, come on, it's Italian, so romance and sexual innuendo.
But it was the beautiful cinematography, the film shot in summer's over-saturated colors in a city known as the "Florence of the South" and full of Baroque monuments.
I've only been to the Florence of the north, but it didn't take long to see I'd be more than happy to see its sister city.
Stylish camerawork ensured that we saw all the fabulous family meals from every angle, platters of food and bottles of wine abounding on the long table.
Food was a character here, with the mistress of the house directing a servant, "The cheese, let it breathe!"
Truth be told, we could all stand to let our cheese breathe more here.
The story begins with a bride trying to shoot herself on her wedding day but ultimately concerns a family in the pasta-making business and the big dinner to introduce their father's new partner.
One of the sons confides to his brother beforehand that he intends to come out at the dinner so he can return to Rome where he lives with his boyfriend and has been working on a novel rather than the business degree his family thinks he has.
The only problem is before he can say he's gay, his brother does and his father flips out, banning him from the house and having a subsequent heat attack.
Dad is not only homophobic but a typical Italian, saying things like, "I lost your sister when she married that Neapolitan dickhead." Having heard a fair amount of Neapolitan slurs when I was in Italy, I know this attitude isn't uncommon.
This leaves the younger son stuck working the family business rather than returning to the lover and life he's carved out for himself in Rome. for fear of killing his father with the news.
Nobody wants that on their conscience, least of all an Italian son.
The saving grace is the grandmother, who'd been the bride who'd married not the man she loved but his brother and always regretted not doing what made her happy.
Saying things like, "Normal, what a horrible word!" and, "If you always do what others want, life is not worth living," she was the guiding light in a family of reactionaries.
She's the one who'd started the pasta company with the man she hadn't married so her descriptions of pasta-making were about its tactile qualities- "Warm, soft, you have to touch it" - and always with a longing in her voice.
High camp arrived in the form of the younger son's gay friends from Rome who, along with his lover, stopped by on their way to the beach to try to release him from his family's grasp.
Warned about the patriarch's homophobia, they tried their best not to "act gay," a fruitless attempt that made for some of the funniest scenes.
My favorite was one of the three of them in swim trunks and Speedos in the sea, dancing and singing in unison as only gay men can do.
But even if there hadn't been moments of heartfelt drama or over-the-top humor, every scene was set in Italy, so every scene was a wonder to behold.
Meals were taken outside on patios in the sun and lasted for hours, with no phones and no screens.
Narrow streets wound through facades with shutters on windows and open doors on centuries-old buildings. Pasticcerias offering confections as beautiful as they tasted, a fact I confirmed repeatedly while in Italy.
When women went anywhere, even shopping, they were dressed to impress, dressed better (and more fetchingly) than women here dress to go out to dinner or a date.
Even when the brothers got into a tussle, it was outside an apartment in a courtyard with Greek sculpture in the center.
It was Italy, for goodness' sake.
Thanks, UR, for the evening's travelogue, a reminder that I can't go back to Italy soon enough.
If it helps, I'll do it Italian-style, dressing to impress no matter where I'm headed...including the pasticceria as often as possible.
A girl can dream, can't she?
After taking my hired mouth out to eat, I did the unthinkable, namely spend the entire evening on the UR campus.
Their international film series is back in full swing and honestly, after the January weather we've had, nothing sounded as appealing as looking at a movie shot during summer in Lecce, Italy, down on the heel of the boot and far more southerly than where I'd been.
I arrived in time to get a raffle ticket (for what, I don't know, but I didn't win so it obviously didn't matter), a schedule for next week's RVA Environmental Film fest and find a seat behind an ESL teacher I know who's now trying to learn Italian.
Claiming her Italian sounds a lot like her Spanish only with hand gestures, she got kudos from me for effort.
The professor giving the introduction greeted us with, "Wow, we had a heat wave today, didn't we?" a reference to this afternoon's downright balmy 56 degree weather. "After you see tonight's film, you're going to be really hot."
Now that was news I wanted to hear.
"Loose Cannons," a 2010 film by Italo-Turkish director Ferzan Ozpetek was being shown to tie in with the campus-wide reading of "The Laramie Project" because of its related issues.
The movie was all over the place with drama, family comedy, domestic tragedy, farce and, come on, it's Italian, so romance and sexual innuendo.
But it was the beautiful cinematography, the film shot in summer's over-saturated colors in a city known as the "Florence of the South" and full of Baroque monuments.
I've only been to the Florence of the north, but it didn't take long to see I'd be more than happy to see its sister city.
Stylish camerawork ensured that we saw all the fabulous family meals from every angle, platters of food and bottles of wine abounding on the long table.
Food was a character here, with the mistress of the house directing a servant, "The cheese, let it breathe!"
Truth be told, we could all stand to let our cheese breathe more here.
The story begins with a bride trying to shoot herself on her wedding day but ultimately concerns a family in the pasta-making business and the big dinner to introduce their father's new partner.
One of the sons confides to his brother beforehand that he intends to come out at the dinner so he can return to Rome where he lives with his boyfriend and has been working on a novel rather than the business degree his family thinks he has.
The only problem is before he can say he's gay, his brother does and his father flips out, banning him from the house and having a subsequent heat attack.
Dad is not only homophobic but a typical Italian, saying things like, "I lost your sister when she married that Neapolitan dickhead." Having heard a fair amount of Neapolitan slurs when I was in Italy, I know this attitude isn't uncommon.
This leaves the younger son stuck working the family business rather than returning to the lover and life he's carved out for himself in Rome. for fear of killing his father with the news.
Nobody wants that on their conscience, least of all an Italian son.
The saving grace is the grandmother, who'd been the bride who'd married not the man she loved but his brother and always regretted not doing what made her happy.
Saying things like, "Normal, what a horrible word!" and, "If you always do what others want, life is not worth living," she was the guiding light in a family of reactionaries.
She's the one who'd started the pasta company with the man she hadn't married so her descriptions of pasta-making were about its tactile qualities- "Warm, soft, you have to touch it" - and always with a longing in her voice.
High camp arrived in the form of the younger son's gay friends from Rome who, along with his lover, stopped by on their way to the beach to try to release him from his family's grasp.
Warned about the patriarch's homophobia, they tried their best not to "act gay," a fruitless attempt that made for some of the funniest scenes.
My favorite was one of the three of them in swim trunks and Speedos in the sea, dancing and singing in unison as only gay men can do.
But even if there hadn't been moments of heartfelt drama or over-the-top humor, every scene was set in Italy, so every scene was a wonder to behold.
Meals were taken outside on patios in the sun and lasted for hours, with no phones and no screens.
Narrow streets wound through facades with shutters on windows and open doors on centuries-old buildings. Pasticcerias offering confections as beautiful as they tasted, a fact I confirmed repeatedly while in Italy.
When women went anywhere, even shopping, they were dressed to impress, dressed better (and more fetchingly) than women here dress to go out to dinner or a date.
Even when the brothers got into a tussle, it was outside an apartment in a courtyard with Greek sculpture in the center.
It was Italy, for goodness' sake.
Thanks, UR, for the evening's travelogue, a reminder that I can't go back to Italy soon enough.
If it helps, I'll do it Italian-style, dressing to impress no matter where I'm headed...including the pasticceria as often as possible.
A girl can dream, can't she?
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Who's Zooming Who?
Ah, the challenges of a religious holiday for a heathen.
I don't want to eat Easter brunch, I'm sure as hell not going to church and I don't need to see overdressed dogs in hats.
So, taking a cue from my game-designing friend Dave, I organized a board game afternoon.
I know, so 20th century, right?
There was a suggestion of beer pong (as if) before we decided on something slightly more cerebral.
One of the guests graciously brought plenty of Prosecco and I supplied the Scrabble (50th anniversary edition) as we spent the gray afternoon trying to beat the pants off each other.
Maybe it was the bubbles, but my crowning glory was "zoom," which only garnered me 35 points.
So I've had better Scrabble matches.
Eventually thoughts turned from vowels and consonants to food and I persuaded them to consider my traditional Easter dinner: Chinese food.
We arrived at Peking in the Slip just about the time they opened and the four of us slid into a booth to do some refueling.
I was teased about my boring order of wonton soup and Hunan pork, but I wasn't looking to reinvent the Easter wheel today, just for comfort food.
The conversation got kind of raucous but fortunately there were only two other people in the joint then so we told ourselves it didn't matter.
We'd already decided to finish out our day at UR for tonight's international film series selection, a Colombian film called "Fat, Bald, Short Man."
Irresistible title, right?
Walking into Ukrop Auditorium I found a couple of attendees thanking the cinematography professor for showing a movie on this, the resurrection.
I threw in my gratitude while they were at it.
He admitted that having to cancel last Sunday due to snow had been a factor, a boon for the religious-averse this week.
The movie was a dark humor, animated (rotoscoped, actually) tale of a 46-year old man who lives the lonely lifestyle.
Colleagues make fun of him, gambling brother uses him, no real friends and not even cats to keep him company.
And what lonely middle-aged man doesn't surround himself with cats? I can't think of a one.
Everything changes when he gets a new boss who happens to be fat, bald and short.
Despite their physical resemblance, though, the boss is successful, respected and has a pretty wife.
Kindly, he takes Antonio under his wing and they become friends.
Before long Antonio is encouraged to join a self-help group to get over his shyness and befriends a sickly and slightly crazy neighbor with whom he can talk.
Because the film was animated rather than live-action, part of the charm of it was the starkly simple figures (like a child's drawing of a face: dots for eyes and a line for nose and mouth) set against real backgrounds, which made for few distractions from the sweet story of a man who finally learns to step outside himself.
When challenged at a shy group meeting to share one of his experiences with woman, he's so embarrassed he makes up a story about his quiet co-worker.
Something about passionate lovemaking behind the coffee plants at the botanical garden.
No one buys it, but rather than ridicule his fantasy, the group leader tells him to imagine what he wants to happen and make it so.
One particularly poignant exchange between Antonio and his group leader summed up the challenge of changing yourself.
Why aren't you married?
It's not that simple to be married.
It's not that simple to be alone, either.
Don't I know it.
By the time Antonio stands up to an obnoxious co-worker (who's trying to pressure him to lie for his benefit) and tells off his brother (while assuring him he still loves him), you couldn't help but cheer for the fat, bald, short man.
Thankfully, it was a foreign film, so there was no tidy conclusion, just an obvious change of attitude in Antonio's demeanor by the time the credits rolled.
As he all but dances around his kitchen making a meal for himself, there's a clear optimism and enthusiasm for life that he hadn't shown before.
It was like he'd been raised from the dead...or the 46-year old lonely lifestyle (with or without cats), which is practically the same thing.
Ooh, did I say that out loud?
I don't want to eat Easter brunch, I'm sure as hell not going to church and I don't need to see overdressed dogs in hats.
So, taking a cue from my game-designing friend Dave, I organized a board game afternoon.
I know, so 20th century, right?
There was a suggestion of beer pong (as if) before we decided on something slightly more cerebral.
One of the guests graciously brought plenty of Prosecco and I supplied the Scrabble (50th anniversary edition) as we spent the gray afternoon trying to beat the pants off each other.
Maybe it was the bubbles, but my crowning glory was "zoom," which only garnered me 35 points.
So I've had better Scrabble matches.
Eventually thoughts turned from vowels and consonants to food and I persuaded them to consider my traditional Easter dinner: Chinese food.
We arrived at Peking in the Slip just about the time they opened and the four of us slid into a booth to do some refueling.
I was teased about my boring order of wonton soup and Hunan pork, but I wasn't looking to reinvent the Easter wheel today, just for comfort food.
The conversation got kind of raucous but fortunately there were only two other people in the joint then so we told ourselves it didn't matter.
We'd already decided to finish out our day at UR for tonight's international film series selection, a Colombian film called "Fat, Bald, Short Man."
Irresistible title, right?
Walking into Ukrop Auditorium I found a couple of attendees thanking the cinematography professor for showing a movie on this, the resurrection.
I threw in my gratitude while they were at it.
He admitted that having to cancel last Sunday due to snow had been a factor, a boon for the religious-averse this week.
The movie was a dark humor, animated (rotoscoped, actually) tale of a 46-year old man who lives the lonely lifestyle.
Colleagues make fun of him, gambling brother uses him, no real friends and not even cats to keep him company.
And what lonely middle-aged man doesn't surround himself with cats? I can't think of a one.
Everything changes when he gets a new boss who happens to be fat, bald and short.
Despite their physical resemblance, though, the boss is successful, respected and has a pretty wife.
Kindly, he takes Antonio under his wing and they become friends.
Before long Antonio is encouraged to join a self-help group to get over his shyness and befriends a sickly and slightly crazy neighbor with whom he can talk.
Because the film was animated rather than live-action, part of the charm of it was the starkly simple figures (like a child's drawing of a face: dots for eyes and a line for nose and mouth) set against real backgrounds, which made for few distractions from the sweet story of a man who finally learns to step outside himself.
When challenged at a shy group meeting to share one of his experiences with woman, he's so embarrassed he makes up a story about his quiet co-worker.
Something about passionate lovemaking behind the coffee plants at the botanical garden.
No one buys it, but rather than ridicule his fantasy, the group leader tells him to imagine what he wants to happen and make it so.
One particularly poignant exchange between Antonio and his group leader summed up the challenge of changing yourself.
Why aren't you married?
It's not that simple to be married.
It's not that simple to be alone, either.
Don't I know it.
By the time Antonio stands up to an obnoxious co-worker (who's trying to pressure him to lie for his benefit) and tells off his brother (while assuring him he still loves him), you couldn't help but cheer for the fat, bald, short man.
Thankfully, it was a foreign film, so there was no tidy conclusion, just an obvious change of attitude in Antonio's demeanor by the time the credits rolled.
As he all but dances around his kitchen making a meal for himself, there's a clear optimism and enthusiasm for life that he hadn't shown before.
It was like he'd been raised from the dead...or the 46-year old lonely lifestyle (with or without cats), which is practically the same thing.
Ooh, did I say that out loud?
Monday, February 4, 2013
An Advice for You
Just to be clear, I did my Superbowl duty.
I made a batch of chili today. With corn muffins, even.
That bit of athletic patriotism done, I did what any red-blooded nerd would do for the first half of game day.
I went to see a Brazilian movie.
It was part of UR's international film series, which I hadn't been to in almost a year, so I knew I'd be in the company of other gym class dropouts.
In fact, my fellow Brazilian cinephile bet me there'd be less than ten people at the screening.
I knew better and guessed 35.
For the record, there were 39 including us.
The film, Riscado (which means craft), was about an actress who works for an event company impersonating celebrities while trying to further her acting career.
Marilyn Monroe, Carmen Miranda, Betty Paige. She did them all.
And not because she particularly looked like them, even in costume, but her acting skills sold them.
The film had a decided European sensibility, something I loved, from the opening shots of the actress smoking on her balcony while Brazilian music played and she stared directly into the camera to intermittent, random artsy shots.
And by that, I mean slo-mo non sequiter shots of hands in a sink or a woman in a pool set to music.
My only complaint with the film was the half-assed subtitles with glaring mistakes in them for anyone with even a slipshod command of the English language.
"Live it on the floor" instead of "leave."
Damn became dam. Seems showed up as seams.
But sometimes the subtitles' fractured translations were quite charming, as in, "An advice for you. Enjoy it a lot."
The movie had some highly comic moments, but at its heart it was a drama about a woman staying true to her passion, acting, despite lectures from landladies, not enough money and a fear her time was running out to make it.
Clearly certain problems transcend cultures.
We left UR essentially for VCU, our second half happening being Live at Ipanema.
Walking up Grace Street, we noticed the signboard in front of Strange Matter read, "Yes, we'll be showing the sports ball game."
They sounded about as into it as I was.
Happily, Ipanema has no televisions for watching sports ball.
What they did have was dessert, so we scored some fine WPA Bakery banana/coconut cake and Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for The Black Brothers to get set up.
Before long, I could smell the incense burning.
With no announcement, much less fanfare, the quartet (guitar, drums, bass, trumpet) began playing their pastiche of indie/jazz/blues/rock as people continued to come in the door.
It was my third time seeing them, so while I know what to expect, I am still pleasantly surprised when the horn kicks in or the drumming gets especially jazzy.
Singer and guitarist Justin's voice was on point right from the first song with the lyric, "This time I'm getting it right."
The four-piece was squished into the front alcove and at times Justin's guitar neck threatened to knock into Lucas' horn mic and eventually it caught a cord of it.
When he introduced the next song as being called "Warsaw," I immediately wondered which Warsaw he might mean, at least right up until he sang, "This is a prison song."
Oh, that Warsaw.
Franklin Massey and his acoustic guitar joined the band in the already-cramped front for one song, making for an even denser sound.
Their last song was about escaping to West Virginia and from the first guitar notes, it sounded to me like a driving song, as in a windows-rolled-down kind of driving song.
Which, on a cold February night, seems like something very pleasurable to imagine.
So I took the Brazilian's advice and enjoyed it a lot.
I made a batch of chili today. With corn muffins, even.
That bit of athletic patriotism done, I did what any red-blooded nerd would do for the first half of game day.
I went to see a Brazilian movie.
It was part of UR's international film series, which I hadn't been to in almost a year, so I knew I'd be in the company of other gym class dropouts.
In fact, my fellow Brazilian cinephile bet me there'd be less than ten people at the screening.
I knew better and guessed 35.
For the record, there were 39 including us.
The film, Riscado (which means craft), was about an actress who works for an event company impersonating celebrities while trying to further her acting career.
Marilyn Monroe, Carmen Miranda, Betty Paige. She did them all.
And not because she particularly looked like them, even in costume, but her acting skills sold them.
The film had a decided European sensibility, something I loved, from the opening shots of the actress smoking on her balcony while Brazilian music played and she stared directly into the camera to intermittent, random artsy shots.
And by that, I mean slo-mo non sequiter shots of hands in a sink or a woman in a pool set to music.
My only complaint with the film was the half-assed subtitles with glaring mistakes in them for anyone with even a slipshod command of the English language.
"Live it on the floor" instead of "leave."
Damn became dam. Seems showed up as seams.
But sometimes the subtitles' fractured translations were quite charming, as in, "An advice for you. Enjoy it a lot."
The movie had some highly comic moments, but at its heart it was a drama about a woman staying true to her passion, acting, despite lectures from landladies, not enough money and a fear her time was running out to make it.
Clearly certain problems transcend cultures.
We left UR essentially for VCU, our second half happening being Live at Ipanema.
Walking up Grace Street, we noticed the signboard in front of Strange Matter read, "Yes, we'll be showing the sports ball game."
They sounded about as into it as I was.
Happily, Ipanema has no televisions for watching sports ball.
What they did have was dessert, so we scored some fine WPA Bakery banana/coconut cake and Franco Serra 10 Dolcetto d'Alba while waiting for The Black Brothers to get set up.
Before long, I could smell the incense burning.
With no announcement, much less fanfare, the quartet (guitar, drums, bass, trumpet) began playing their pastiche of indie/jazz/blues/rock as people continued to come in the door.
It was my third time seeing them, so while I know what to expect, I am still pleasantly surprised when the horn kicks in or the drumming gets especially jazzy.
Singer and guitarist Justin's voice was on point right from the first song with the lyric, "This time I'm getting it right."
The four-piece was squished into the front alcove and at times Justin's guitar neck threatened to knock into Lucas' horn mic and eventually it caught a cord of it.
When he introduced the next song as being called "Warsaw," I immediately wondered which Warsaw he might mean, at least right up until he sang, "This is a prison song."
Oh, that Warsaw.
Franklin Massey and his acoustic guitar joined the band in the already-cramped front for one song, making for an even denser sound.
Their last song was about escaping to West Virginia and from the first guitar notes, it sounded to me like a driving song, as in a windows-rolled-down kind of driving song.
Which, on a cold February night, seems like something very pleasurable to imagine.
So I took the Brazilian's advice and enjoyed it a lot.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Twice Smitten
That a 101-year old man could make a film about youth and love so believable left my head and heart happy.
"The Strange Case of Angelica" by Portuguese director Manoel de Olivera was tonight's feature at UR's International Film series.
The series is always a mix of students and an older crowd taking advantage of the chance to see foreign films, this one less than a year old, that don't otherwise show here.
Because Olivera first conceived of this movie back in the '50s, there were a lot of details about it that seemed anachronistic for 2010.
The main character Isaac wore a fedora and carried a handkerchief; I don't know a man today who does either regularly.
He lived in a boarding house and his landlady brought his breakfast up on a tray when he didn't come downstairs for the meal. With a flower.
And the whole premise of the film begins with him being called to a wealthy home to take a death portrait of the beautiful daughter who has just died.
There's a custom long gone.
In a magical moment, one of many in the movie, as he's taking the photograph, the girl opens her eyes and smiles at him.
None of the mourners in the room notice, but at that moment he is smitten.
She comes to visit him at night and they fly over the city; he dreams of her, reaching up to her form floating over his bed.
At breakfast, other boarders discuss matter and anti-matter as a matter of hypothesis while he realizes that he has achieved the intersection of the two in his meetings with Angelica.
Before the film, we had been warned that the movie was slow and used mostly static cameras ("No MTV quick cutting in this film").
I would argue that it reflects the attention span of a time past when movie audiences enjoyed lingering shots of workers singing in a vineyard or an exchange from a balcony to the street on a rainy night.
It wasn't slow; it lingered. Nothing was forced and Isaac's gradual obsession with Angelica unfolded in a completely believable way.
The film's take on life and death and the thin line that separates the two worlds (and the visible wires during the flying scenes) made for a moody and atmospheric film that would never get off the ground in Hollywood.
I left grateful to the now-102-year old director who essentially assured me through this quiet and whimsical film that love and life are forever.
At his age, I'm assuming he must know.
"The Strange Case of Angelica" by Portuguese director Manoel de Olivera was tonight's feature at UR's International Film series.
The series is always a mix of students and an older crowd taking advantage of the chance to see foreign films, this one less than a year old, that don't otherwise show here.
Because Olivera first conceived of this movie back in the '50s, there were a lot of details about it that seemed anachronistic for 2010.
The main character Isaac wore a fedora and carried a handkerchief; I don't know a man today who does either regularly.
He lived in a boarding house and his landlady brought his breakfast up on a tray when he didn't come downstairs for the meal. With a flower.
And the whole premise of the film begins with him being called to a wealthy home to take a death portrait of the beautiful daughter who has just died.
There's a custom long gone.
In a magical moment, one of many in the movie, as he's taking the photograph, the girl opens her eyes and smiles at him.
None of the mourners in the room notice, but at that moment he is smitten.
She comes to visit him at night and they fly over the city; he dreams of her, reaching up to her form floating over his bed.
At breakfast, other boarders discuss matter and anti-matter as a matter of hypothesis while he realizes that he has achieved the intersection of the two in his meetings with Angelica.
Before the film, we had been warned that the movie was slow and used mostly static cameras ("No MTV quick cutting in this film").
I would argue that it reflects the attention span of a time past when movie audiences enjoyed lingering shots of workers singing in a vineyard or an exchange from a balcony to the street on a rainy night.
It wasn't slow; it lingered. Nothing was forced and Isaac's gradual obsession with Angelica unfolded in a completely believable way.
The film's take on life and death and the thin line that separates the two worlds (and the visible wires during the flying scenes) made for a moody and atmospheric film that would never get off the ground in Hollywood.
I left grateful to the now-102-year old director who essentially assured me through this quiet and whimsical film that love and life are forever.
At his age, I'm assuming he must know.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Power Napping Before Beer-Thirty
I was a Nollywood virgin before tonight. Okay, to be honest, I didn't even know there were Nollywood films before tonight.
Maybe that's why the University of Richmond does their International Film Series in the first place. Perhaps they realize that there are oblivious types like me out there who need to be educated and they set out to do it on a weekly basis.
Being shown was Arugba, a 2008 Nigerian film that was part romantic comedy, part social commentary, part public service announcement and overwhelmingly, a moral tale. Governments are corrupt and politicians self-serving. Got it.
The award-winning film was made by a leading Nigerian director as an allegory about the current state of Nigerian politics and culture. To this American, it was striking for its heavy-handed health lessons (AIDS testing good, infant dehydration bad) and love/hate relationship with the U.S.
References to Obama being elected (and shown speaking on TV) underscored the effect this had on blacks worldwide, but they were tempered by things like a dance number espousing native African traditions over superficial American ways.
And much to my surprise, there were several colorful dance numbers that combined Western style hip-hop sounds and delivery with native African style dancing and costumes.
Contrast that with one of the main plot points being about choosing a ceremonial virgin for the traditional masquerade festival, which sounded rather archaic to me.
But there was a touch of modern humor when one of the town elders addressed the crowd saying, "I greet the virgins and those that can never be virgins again."
Not long after I sat down in the theater, a guy came in and sat next to me and his friend eventually joined him. He mentioned that he didn't have high hopes for the film because, "The synopsis sounded dull. I don't really like African movies." So why exactly are you here then?
Within fifteen minutes, he was slumped in his seat snoring next to me. Fortunately, his friend waited until one of his snorts woke him up, they conferred and decided to exit stage right.
Squeezing by me, the snorer leaned down and apologized, "Sorry, just didn't like it. We're gonna go have a beer. Wanna join us?"
I'd make a disparaging remark here, except that four other people got up during the course of the movie and left, too. I'm not sure what they were expecting from a Nigerian film, but whatever it was, clearly it wasn't being delivered.
They might want to consider getting used to seeing more Nigerian movies, though. According to the pre-film speaker, in terms of sheer number of movies being produced, it's now Bollywood, Nollywood, and then Hollywood. Number three and hanging on by our collective fingernails.
Whoa. That gives virgins and those that can never be virgins again something to think about, I'd say.
Maybe that's why the University of Richmond does their International Film Series in the first place. Perhaps they realize that there are oblivious types like me out there who need to be educated and they set out to do it on a weekly basis.
Being shown was Arugba, a 2008 Nigerian film that was part romantic comedy, part social commentary, part public service announcement and overwhelmingly, a moral tale. Governments are corrupt and politicians self-serving. Got it.
The award-winning film was made by a leading Nigerian director as an allegory about the current state of Nigerian politics and culture. To this American, it was striking for its heavy-handed health lessons (AIDS testing good, infant dehydration bad) and love/hate relationship with the U.S.
References to Obama being elected (and shown speaking on TV) underscored the effect this had on blacks worldwide, but they were tempered by things like a dance number espousing native African traditions over superficial American ways.
And much to my surprise, there were several colorful dance numbers that combined Western style hip-hop sounds and delivery with native African style dancing and costumes.
Contrast that with one of the main plot points being about choosing a ceremonial virgin for the traditional masquerade festival, which sounded rather archaic to me.
But there was a touch of modern humor when one of the town elders addressed the crowd saying, "I greet the virgins and those that can never be virgins again."
Not long after I sat down in the theater, a guy came in and sat next to me and his friend eventually joined him. He mentioned that he didn't have high hopes for the film because, "The synopsis sounded dull. I don't really like African movies." So why exactly are you here then?
Within fifteen minutes, he was slumped in his seat snoring next to me. Fortunately, his friend waited until one of his snorts woke him up, they conferred and decided to exit stage right.
Squeezing by me, the snorer leaned down and apologized, "Sorry, just didn't like it. We're gonna go have a beer. Wanna join us?"
I'd make a disparaging remark here, except that four other people got up during the course of the movie and left, too. I'm not sure what they were expecting from a Nigerian film, but whatever it was, clearly it wasn't being delivered.
They might want to consider getting used to seeing more Nigerian movies, though. According to the pre-film speaker, in terms of sheer number of movies being produced, it's now Bollywood, Nollywood, and then Hollywood. Number three and hanging on by our collective fingernails.
Whoa. That gives virgins and those that can never be virgins again something to think about, I'd say.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Sunday Satisfaction: Subtitles and Sex
The UR campus is a long-time nemesis of mine and since it was my destination tonight, I thought it wisest to stop at Secco beforehand for a glass of wine.
It may seem counterproductive to imbibe before taking on that devil's triangle of a campus, but my thinking was that in case I wasn't able to locate the elusive building (and that's happened before), at least it wouldn't bother me as much.
So, Secco on a Sunday at 6 was completely civilized, with few tables populated and my favorite bar stool open and waiting for me. After a bit of tasting, I opted for the 2009 Chateau de Roquefort Cotes du Provence "Corail" Rose (bright fruit, clean finish), only to have cheese whiz Sara applauded me with, "Rose, drink it while you still can!" Amen to that. Sadly, I can already feel colder weather breathing dwn my neck.
After my massive brunch, all I really needed (besides true love and eternal happiness of course) was a chunk of cheese and the new Rosemary Manchego came highly recommended to complement my rose. The rosemary flavor was subtle and I also noticed they have a couple of other new cheeses, including a major stinky one I need to try.
But like Cinderella, I had a time limit, albeit a self-imposed one to allow myself enough time to make the 7:30 screening of the UR International Film Series (and wondrously, I found the building on my first try by asking a student for help).
Tonight they were showing Vincere, about the tragic life of Mussolini's first wife/lover, Ida Dalser and the son they had before he abandoned her for a publicly suitable wife. The film was only released in this country last spring and had already done well on the film festival circuit, including Cannes.
The film was operatic; there's just no other way to describe it. The sets and locations were magnificent and the evocation of the period completely convincing. Director Bellocchio brilliantly shifted to newsreels to eventually show the aging, balding and thicker man that Mussolini became rather than trying to achieve an artificial age in a marginally believable way.
Like all great foreign films, there were subtitles, plenty of nudity of both the male and female varieties and lingering sex scenes that rang true. You know, the kind you don't really need to watch when you're not dating...or when seated next to a white-haired octogenarian whose sharp intake of breath marked the start of every passion-filled scene.
And in the end, Ida died at a relatively young 57, her son at 26 and Mussolini got killed by the people he betrayed. Hollywood be damned, you have to appreciate a European unhappy ending.
But before he discarded her, their passion was intense and watching it certainly added something besides foreign film appreciation to my Sunday evening. A lot of wishful thinking perhaps, or at the very least, fodder for sweet dreams.
It may seem counterproductive to imbibe before taking on that devil's triangle of a campus, but my thinking was that in case I wasn't able to locate the elusive building (and that's happened before), at least it wouldn't bother me as much.
So, Secco on a Sunday at 6 was completely civilized, with few tables populated and my favorite bar stool open and waiting for me. After a bit of tasting, I opted for the 2009 Chateau de Roquefort Cotes du Provence "Corail" Rose (bright fruit, clean finish), only to have cheese whiz Sara applauded me with, "Rose, drink it while you still can!" Amen to that. Sadly, I can already feel colder weather breathing dwn my neck.
After my massive brunch, all I really needed (besides true love and eternal happiness of course) was a chunk of cheese and the new Rosemary Manchego came highly recommended to complement my rose. The rosemary flavor was subtle and I also noticed they have a couple of other new cheeses, including a major stinky one I need to try.
But like Cinderella, I had a time limit, albeit a self-imposed one to allow myself enough time to make the 7:30 screening of the UR International Film Series (and wondrously, I found the building on my first try by asking a student for help).
Tonight they were showing Vincere, about the tragic life of Mussolini's first wife/lover, Ida Dalser and the son they had before he abandoned her for a publicly suitable wife. The film was only released in this country last spring and had already done well on the film festival circuit, including Cannes.
The film was operatic; there's just no other way to describe it. The sets and locations were magnificent and the evocation of the period completely convincing. Director Bellocchio brilliantly shifted to newsreels to eventually show the aging, balding and thicker man that Mussolini became rather than trying to achieve an artificial age in a marginally believable way.
Like all great foreign films, there were subtitles, plenty of nudity of both the male and female varieties and lingering sex scenes that rang true. You know, the kind you don't really need to watch when you're not dating...or when seated next to a white-haired octogenarian whose sharp intake of breath marked the start of every passion-filled scene.
And in the end, Ida died at a relatively young 57, her son at 26 and Mussolini got killed by the people he betrayed. Hollywood be damned, you have to appreciate a European unhappy ending.
But before he discarded her, their passion was intense and watching it certainly added something besides foreign film appreciation to my Sunday evening. A lot of wishful thinking perhaps, or at the very least, fodder for sweet dreams.
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