When it comes to movie-watching, there are two kinds of people.
There are Netflix lovers, that is, those who prefer to stay at home with easy access to kitchen and bathroom (and the ability to pause the movie at any point) and watch a flick on the cheap. Then there are fans of the true movie experience, those willing to pay more to watch a movie as the director intended it to be seen, in a public place surrounded by strangers in the dark.
And, yes, I know some people do both. Not me. It's the theater of not at all, but its been rare that I find anyone else who felt the same way. Until now.
Consider how the Washington Post describes theater my way: When it comes down to it, movies aren't even about the movie-going experience. They're about getting lost in the movie itself. Cinema should make us fall in love with storytelling, gasp at technical feats and forget that there's anything else beyond the screen in front of us.
Can I get an amen? I have a friend who won't watch movies at home because they make her feel guilty for all the things she could be doing around her house instead, while she has no such qualms in a theater.
Sorry, watching a movie at home can't ensure that you forget about your world beyond the screen. It just can't.
So you can imagine my satisfaction in finally finding a like-minded soul, and not just in terms of the cinema experience, but also willing to walk the two miles to the theater with me on a day like today where Old Man Wind is making it feel like 14 degrees out there.
Our faces didn't freeze off, although they were numb with cold by the time we got to Movieland, but afterwards we agreed that it was well worth it to see "It Happened One Night" on the big screen.
Doubly so because everyone should see a classic romantic comedy on Valentine's Eve.
Sitting down in my favorite row, the large man chomping popcorn next to us welcomed us to a classic and then observed sarcastically, "I hear that Clark guy is going places." Har-har.
I'll tell you what, he was a gorgeous hunk of man meat in 1934, leaner than in "Gone With the Wind" five years later, a fact easy to discern during the undressing scene. Who cares about big ears when you you see a 33-year old with a body like that?
Having read a biography, "Long Live the King," of him last summer, I was surprised to hear his cronies in today's film refer to him as "king." In fact or fiction, I guess he was.
There was dame wisdom ("The cooler they are, the hotter they get"), period details (fabric curtains with tiebacks on buses, pillows available for "two bits") and men like Gable who traveled with two pairs of silk pajamas in their overnight bag.
Americana was represented with "auto camps," places for overnight stays, which naturally had outside showers, a fact that surprises our heroine, the heiress Ellie.
"Outside?" she asks Gable incredulously. "All the best places have them outside," he assures her. Yes, indeed, I do love an outside shower.
The only recognizable scene from the movie for me was the hitchhiking scene because the still of Claudette Colbert hiking up her skirt to entice a driver to stop is a classic, as was her wisdom about hitchhiking: "The limb is mightier than the thumb."
Tell me about it. When I got a flat tire on the way to a show in Norfolk, my friend asked what we were going to do about it. Unknowingly taking a page from Colbert's book and proving that the limb is mightier than a distress flag, I got out and stood fetchingly beside my car (in shorts) for about a minute before a kindly offer to change that tire was proffered.
Being a Frank Capra film, it was decidedly picaresque, with a screwball comedic leaning (nothing tops him carrying her over his shoulder, handing her his suitcase and smacking her ass), plus lots of snappy '30s dialog.
Your ego is absolutely colossal!
Yeah, yeah, not bad. How's yours?
And, given tomorrow's impending blizzard of Cupidity, appropriately self-deprecatingly romantic.
I asked you a simple question. Do you love her?
YES! But don't hold that against me. I'm a little screwy myself.
Walking home (but happily with the wind behind us this time), we agreed that we'd just seen a glorious movie. How glorious? Neither of us had had a single thought beyond the screen in front of us.
Don't hold that against us. We're screwy that way.
Showing posts with label bowtie theater. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bowtie theater. Show all posts
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Ready for a '50s Close-up
Today was a cultural lesson in Hollywood, then and now.
Don't talk to me about "Madmen" or any modern production as being authentically of the era it mimics, because they aren't. The underpinnings of interpreting the present ensure that a 1956 movie nails the era in a way that a 2016 film about the 1950s could never hope to.
The first was "The Girl Can't Help It," a 1956 musical with Jayne Mansfield that I sought out (today's Movies and Mimosas feature at Movieland) because I love the '50s details.
You know, milkmen delivering glass bottles, an ice man delivering blocks of ice, a newsboy (the kid couldn't have been more than 8 or 9) hollering on the street corner (as opposed to, say, being in school). Ancient history.
But it's also witnessing the post-war buy-in to the Eisenhower notion of the American dream.
When a woman shaped like Jayne (40DD-22-36 and she can barely walk upright) proclaims, "Being domestic is one of my favorite past times. I just want to be a wife and have a lot of kids but everyone figures me for a sexpot. No one thinks I'm equipped for motherhood," it feels a little like a propaganda campaign.
What I hadn't anticipated was what a seminal music video this film was. I'm not kidding, this is the film Lennon and McCartney credited with inspiring them to pursue music. Everybody who was anybody in the nascent rock and roll era - besides Elvis - shows up to sing a song.
People like Fats Domino, Little Richard, the Platters, Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran and that's just the ones I knew. Add in the Treniers, Eddie Fontaine, the Chuckles, Johnny Olenn, Nino Tempo and Abby Lincoln, all new to me, and it was practically a documentary about early rock and roll sandwiched into a splashy '50s musical. Very unusual.
The times, they were a-changin' and in this case, with color by DeLuxe.
I walked right back to the Bowtie later to meet a friend to see the Coen Brothers latest, "Hail Caesar!" appropriately set in Hollywood in the 1950s.
Complete with Hollywood tropes of the era - ensemble dance numbers a la Gene Kelly (albeit with very un-'50s-like strong gay overtones), synchronized swimming spectacles in the style of Esther Williams and posse, stunt-oriented singing cowboy flicks and, naturally, the prestige picture of the title - something is lost in translation because none of the actors look or act like they would have back then.
You watch an old '50s musical and, sure, the star is a looker, but the hoofers in the chorus aren't necessarily. You see faces with character, imperfect and distinctive. Not so in 2016. Everyone is cast as if their looks matter most, definitely not the case in real '50s movies.
And don't get me started on the fashion, which had none of the ironclad undergarments and subtle detailing it should have.
Which is not to say I didn't enjoy "Hail, Caesar!" because what's not to enjoy about the Coens poking fun at big budget Hollywood back when it still took itself so seriously?
It wasn't so much a laugh-out-loud movie as constantly poking fun at a bygone time, complete with overbearing gossip columnists, starlets caught in compromising situations and Communist kidnappers (because it was high Red Scare era).
But there was no blond bombshell (no, indeed, Scarlett Johansson does not count), no evocation of the simpler time that existed and no average-looking people in the cast.
You wanna know what the '50s were like, kids? Watch a movie made then and marvel at how far we've come in some ways.
And then if you're a woman, thank your lucky stars you missed it.
Don't talk to me about "Madmen" or any modern production as being authentically of the era it mimics, because they aren't. The underpinnings of interpreting the present ensure that a 1956 movie nails the era in a way that a 2016 film about the 1950s could never hope to.
The first was "The Girl Can't Help It," a 1956 musical with Jayne Mansfield that I sought out (today's Movies and Mimosas feature at Movieland) because I love the '50s details.
You know, milkmen delivering glass bottles, an ice man delivering blocks of ice, a newsboy (the kid couldn't have been more than 8 or 9) hollering on the street corner (as opposed to, say, being in school). Ancient history.
But it's also witnessing the post-war buy-in to the Eisenhower notion of the American dream.
When a woman shaped like Jayne (40DD-22-36 and she can barely walk upright) proclaims, "Being domestic is one of my favorite past times. I just want to be a wife and have a lot of kids but everyone figures me for a sexpot. No one thinks I'm equipped for motherhood," it feels a little like a propaganda campaign.
What I hadn't anticipated was what a seminal music video this film was. I'm not kidding, this is the film Lennon and McCartney credited with inspiring them to pursue music. Everybody who was anybody in the nascent rock and roll era - besides Elvis - shows up to sing a song.
People like Fats Domino, Little Richard, the Platters, Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran and that's just the ones I knew. Add in the Treniers, Eddie Fontaine, the Chuckles, Johnny Olenn, Nino Tempo and Abby Lincoln, all new to me, and it was practically a documentary about early rock and roll sandwiched into a splashy '50s musical. Very unusual.
The times, they were a-changin' and in this case, with color by DeLuxe.
I walked right back to the Bowtie later to meet a friend to see the Coen Brothers latest, "Hail Caesar!" appropriately set in Hollywood in the 1950s.
Complete with Hollywood tropes of the era - ensemble dance numbers a la Gene Kelly (albeit with very un-'50s-like strong gay overtones), synchronized swimming spectacles in the style of Esther Williams and posse, stunt-oriented singing cowboy flicks and, naturally, the prestige picture of the title - something is lost in translation because none of the actors look or act like they would have back then.
You watch an old '50s musical and, sure, the star is a looker, but the hoofers in the chorus aren't necessarily. You see faces with character, imperfect and distinctive. Not so in 2016. Everyone is cast as if their looks matter most, definitely not the case in real '50s movies.
And don't get me started on the fashion, which had none of the ironclad undergarments and subtle detailing it should have.
Which is not to say I didn't enjoy "Hail, Caesar!" because what's not to enjoy about the Coens poking fun at big budget Hollywood back when it still took itself so seriously?
It wasn't so much a laugh-out-loud movie as constantly poking fun at a bygone time, complete with overbearing gossip columnists, starlets caught in compromising situations and Communist kidnappers (because it was high Red Scare era).
But there was no blond bombshell (no, indeed, Scarlett Johansson does not count), no evocation of the simpler time that existed and no average-looking people in the cast.
You wanna know what the '50s were like, kids? Watch a movie made then and marvel at how far we've come in some ways.
And then if you're a woman, thank your lucky stars you missed it.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Good and Tight
I can tell you exactly when I become a Katherine Hepburn fan. Coincidentally, it was also my first exposure to SRO.
"A Matter of Gravity" was playing at the Kennedy Center, my de facto venue for theater, and, as you might imagine, the run was selling out fast. By the time I nabbed a ticket, all that was available was standing room only.
It only demonstrates how young and naive I was that I'd had no clue that you could purchase a ticket to stand in the aisles, but I was game if it meant seeing a legend in the flesh. She had to be close to 70 at that point, but still absolutely commanded the stage.
Since then, I've done my best to see her film work on the big screen, not always an easy thing to do.
Today's Movies and Mimosas feature at the Bowtie was "Alice Adams," a Hepburn film I'd barely even heard of. I say "barely" because I've read a biography or two of her, so I'd undoubtedly read about it, but didn't recall much.
Turns out it didn't matter because when the woman in line in front of me asked for a ticket to "Alice Adams," I overheard her being told they hadn't gotten the film in. Instead, they had four other Hepburn vehicles to choose from.
She and I looked at each other. Huh? The cashier said that the plan was for the audience to vote. Democracy in action at the theater, why not?
Inside, there were only two other people, not surprisingly all big fans of old movies. Within minutes, we'd discovered that we're all planning to catch one of the four screenings of the restored version of "My Fair Lady" next week. It was a Saturday morning meeting of the film geek society.
That made the four of us intent when options were proffered by the projectionist: "Little Women," "Stage Door," "Philadelphia Story" and "Morning Glory," which won Hepburn her first Oscar.
I'd seen "Stage Door" and "Philadelphia Story," not that I couldn't have watched either again, and I was pretty damn sure I was the sole film lover in the room who'd never seen "Little Women," so I voted for "Morning Glory," a suggestion quickly seconded because no one else had seen it, either.
At 74 minutes, it was over in a flash. The 25-year old actress had not yet reached the height of her powers, but there was something refreshingly different about her. When she insisted in the script that she would be a great actress, you sensed it was as much Hepburn herself as the character making the point.
Made in 1933 and set on Broadway, the film was a testament to life in moneyed Manhattan at the time. Women wore fur coats, stoles and collars and carried fur muffs (Hepburn's character was holding out for sable) and evening dresses were cut on the bias, but day dresses were long and dowdy.
Parties at the producer's Art Deco apartment (Adolphe Menjou playing the same role he played in so many films of that era) featured glittering guests - theater critics, playwrights, actors - along with endless champagne and a live string quartet.
Just a little get-together where people say things such as, "You know, the only way to live through a party like this is to get good and tight."
Hepburn's character does, drinking for the first time, and is soon performing scenes from "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet" for the astonished guests. But the sense of assurance and certainty brought on by her first buzz register as completely believable, charming even, not over the top.
No one but youth can play youth to perfection.
By the time I saw her at the Kennedy Center, she'd honed that talent into the gravelly Hepburn persona of age and life experience.
And for that, this youth - who was definitely not tight - was more than happy to stand for a few hours. SRO cred couldn't have been better earned.
"A Matter of Gravity" was playing at the Kennedy Center, my de facto venue for theater, and, as you might imagine, the run was selling out fast. By the time I nabbed a ticket, all that was available was standing room only.
It only demonstrates how young and naive I was that I'd had no clue that you could purchase a ticket to stand in the aisles, but I was game if it meant seeing a legend in the flesh. She had to be close to 70 at that point, but still absolutely commanded the stage.
Since then, I've done my best to see her film work on the big screen, not always an easy thing to do.
Today's Movies and Mimosas feature at the Bowtie was "Alice Adams," a Hepburn film I'd barely even heard of. I say "barely" because I've read a biography or two of her, so I'd undoubtedly read about it, but didn't recall much.
Turns out it didn't matter because when the woman in line in front of me asked for a ticket to "Alice Adams," I overheard her being told they hadn't gotten the film in. Instead, they had four other Hepburn vehicles to choose from.
She and I looked at each other. Huh? The cashier said that the plan was for the audience to vote. Democracy in action at the theater, why not?
Inside, there were only two other people, not surprisingly all big fans of old movies. Within minutes, we'd discovered that we're all planning to catch one of the four screenings of the restored version of "My Fair Lady" next week. It was a Saturday morning meeting of the film geek society.
That made the four of us intent when options were proffered by the projectionist: "Little Women," "Stage Door," "Philadelphia Story" and "Morning Glory," which won Hepburn her first Oscar.
I'd seen "Stage Door" and "Philadelphia Story," not that I couldn't have watched either again, and I was pretty damn sure I was the sole film lover in the room who'd never seen "Little Women," so I voted for "Morning Glory," a suggestion quickly seconded because no one else had seen it, either.
At 74 minutes, it was over in a flash. The 25-year old actress had not yet reached the height of her powers, but there was something refreshingly different about her. When she insisted in the script that she would be a great actress, you sensed it was as much Hepburn herself as the character making the point.
Made in 1933 and set on Broadway, the film was a testament to life in moneyed Manhattan at the time. Women wore fur coats, stoles and collars and carried fur muffs (Hepburn's character was holding out for sable) and evening dresses were cut on the bias, but day dresses were long and dowdy.
Parties at the producer's Art Deco apartment (Adolphe Menjou playing the same role he played in so many films of that era) featured glittering guests - theater critics, playwrights, actors - along with endless champagne and a live string quartet.
Just a little get-together where people say things such as, "You know, the only way to live through a party like this is to get good and tight."
Hepburn's character does, drinking for the first time, and is soon performing scenes from "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet" for the astonished guests. But the sense of assurance and certainty brought on by her first buzz register as completely believable, charming even, not over the top.
No one but youth can play youth to perfection.
By the time I saw her at the Kennedy Center, she'd honed that talent into the gravelly Hepburn persona of age and life experience.
And for that, this youth - who was definitely not tight - was more than happy to stand for a few hours. SRO cred couldn't have been better earned.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
No Tigers in London
Turns out Doris Day wasn't always perky.
Despite not waking up till 10:15, I made it to the Bowtie in time for today's Movie and Mimosas feature, "Midnight Lace." I'd never even heard of it, much less of Doris as the terrified heroine of a thriller.
As is getting to be the new norm for the M & M screenings, the film started late and there were multiple glitches ("This operation is currently prohibited for this disc" messages on the big screen), music playing once the movie did start playing, that kind of unprofessional nonsense.
I've seen my share of Doris' romantic comedies, so I knew to expect a fabulous wardrobe, with scads of hats and gloves and fur. What I didn't anticipate was that it took all the way until the second scene before we saw Doris with a muff, a record I'll bet for her.
No joke, no one wore muffs as often in the movies as Doris did, and not those fake fur muffs you see occasionally now (Pru had one with a zipped pocket for her lipstick), but honest-to-god hand warmers made out of former live animals.
Maybe that's what set Doris off on her life's work advocating for animals: guilt.
I'm not sure Doris' forte was drama (she gasps pretty much constantly and cries almost as much) but part of the problem may have been the cheesy script with practically everyone being shown as a possible suspected stalker.
This bad man threatens her in London's dense fog and then begins a series of phone calls spewing what Doris calls filth (it's apparently too filthy for the audience to hear or Doris to share with her husband), promising that she'll be killed by the end of the month.
Good old Aunt Bea, played by the effervescent Myrna Loy, refers to him as "one of those telephone talkers with a kink" before recounting a story about getting a call while she was in Ireland from a man who wanted to personally dress her in black underwear.
"It was the most stimulating minute and a half I spent in Ireland," she joked. You can always count on Myrna Loy to bring the saucy humor. God knows Doris can't.
Her most risqué move is buying a pair of black evening pajamas called "midnight lace." Poor thing, she's only been married three months and her workaholic husband, Rex Harrison, has yet to take her on a honeymoon. When he finally makes plans for them to visit Venice, she goes right out and buys herself that midnight lace ensemble, which gets worn, not in Venice, but in the final scene where gunshots are fired and the stalker revealed.
Aunt Bea, by the way, had shown up with ten (yes, ten) pieces of red luggage (including a leather hat box) an indulgence unimaginable in this era of limited baggage and over-weight fees.
Alcohol ran through every minute of the film, whether it was Doris needing a brandy at the corner pub after being trapped in an elevator, or husband Rex saying, "I'm going to make one for the road."
Because the movie took place in London, scenes were full of men in perfectly-belted trench coats and there were several references to WWII and the bombing of the city. I guess it had only been 15 years before when this movie was made in 1960.
I immediately recognized the actor who played the inspector at Scotland Yard because he was the same one who'd played the inspector in another, better-crafted thriller set in London, "Dial "M" for Murder," made six years earlier and with a much cleverer script plus the luminous Grace Kelly.
And unfortunately, you, Miss Day, are no Grace Kelly. And all the muffs at Universal Studios weren't going to make you one.
Some people just need to stick to perky.
Despite not waking up till 10:15, I made it to the Bowtie in time for today's Movie and Mimosas feature, "Midnight Lace." I'd never even heard of it, much less of Doris as the terrified heroine of a thriller.
As is getting to be the new norm for the M & M screenings, the film started late and there were multiple glitches ("This operation is currently prohibited for this disc" messages on the big screen), music playing once the movie did start playing, that kind of unprofessional nonsense.
I've seen my share of Doris' romantic comedies, so I knew to expect a fabulous wardrobe, with scads of hats and gloves and fur. What I didn't anticipate was that it took all the way until the second scene before we saw Doris with a muff, a record I'll bet for her.
No joke, no one wore muffs as often in the movies as Doris did, and not those fake fur muffs you see occasionally now (Pru had one with a zipped pocket for her lipstick), but honest-to-god hand warmers made out of former live animals.
Maybe that's what set Doris off on her life's work advocating for animals: guilt.
I'm not sure Doris' forte was drama (she gasps pretty much constantly and cries almost as much) but part of the problem may have been the cheesy script with practically everyone being shown as a possible suspected stalker.
This bad man threatens her in London's dense fog and then begins a series of phone calls spewing what Doris calls filth (it's apparently too filthy for the audience to hear or Doris to share with her husband), promising that she'll be killed by the end of the month.
Good old Aunt Bea, played by the effervescent Myrna Loy, refers to him as "one of those telephone talkers with a kink" before recounting a story about getting a call while she was in Ireland from a man who wanted to personally dress her in black underwear.
"It was the most stimulating minute and a half I spent in Ireland," she joked. You can always count on Myrna Loy to bring the saucy humor. God knows Doris can't.
Her most risqué move is buying a pair of black evening pajamas called "midnight lace." Poor thing, she's only been married three months and her workaholic husband, Rex Harrison, has yet to take her on a honeymoon. When he finally makes plans for them to visit Venice, she goes right out and buys herself that midnight lace ensemble, which gets worn, not in Venice, but in the final scene where gunshots are fired and the stalker revealed.
Aunt Bea, by the way, had shown up with ten (yes, ten) pieces of red luggage (including a leather hat box) an indulgence unimaginable in this era of limited baggage and over-weight fees.
Alcohol ran through every minute of the film, whether it was Doris needing a brandy at the corner pub after being trapped in an elevator, or husband Rex saying, "I'm going to make one for the road."
Because the movie took place in London, scenes were full of men in perfectly-belted trench coats and there were several references to WWII and the bombing of the city. I guess it had only been 15 years before when this movie was made in 1960.
I immediately recognized the actor who played the inspector at Scotland Yard because he was the same one who'd played the inspector in another, better-crafted thriller set in London, "Dial "M" for Murder," made six years earlier and with a much cleverer script plus the luminous Grace Kelly.
And unfortunately, you, Miss Day, are no Grace Kelly. And all the muffs at Universal Studios weren't going to make you one.
Some people just need to stick to perky.
Sunday, April 5, 2015
Quelle Night!
I'm clawing my way back from illness to my real life.
After seeing "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for only the first time in 2010, I felt compelled to revisit it today at the Bowtie. With some films, once is enough. I sensed I could do this one twice.
A crowd of mostly women (no surprise there) showed up to revel in director Blake Edwards' take on single girl life in NYC circa 1961. Clothes, hats, gloves: tres magnifique.
Overcrowded and enthusiastic party scene in Holly Golightly's tiny apartment: worth emulating in my own and now on my make-happen list, minus the police raid.
Verbal habit I intend to adopt: quelle! As in, quelle bore! I feel certain Pru will go along with me on this one.
In what surely must be the greatest possible leap from there, part of my afternoon was spent at the River City Barn Dance at Hardywood. You read that right, a square dance.
I'm part of a generation that actually square danced as part of P.E. in both elementary school and junior high, so it's not like I haven't done the Virginia Reel or the Texas Star before.
Technically, I was there to interview Grant, the caller, the guy who calls out the instructions for each dance and we did that under a sunny sky at a picnic table outside.
But once I was back inside waiting for the dance to begin, he approached me to ask if he could "borrow" me. "I can't imagine a move in my head," he explained and if he couldn't imagine it, he couldn't call it.
It was a sashay and it involved "rolling the lady." Since I couldn't recall ever being rolled, I was game. His left hand took my right and his right my left across our bodies and just like that, I was sashaying across in front of him and back, right to left and left to right.
I enjoyed everything about being rolled. Now I recalled what I'd liked about all those P.E. dance classes: boys and girls on the dance floor. Maybe I was born to sashay.
Dinner was served at Amour where the new menu offered up a mushroom casserole of mixed local mushrooms, white wine, garlic, parsley and shallots, a perfectly lovely combination of local fungi and fresh greens accompanied by the house standard-bearer, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, and an amen from a nearby couple enjoying Chateaux Neuf du Pape ("Pink bubbles are the best!").
Of course, it was also from them that I overheard the comment, "You don't have any stories because you don't have any friends," a rather cruel observation.
Rumor had it that my friend Holmes had occupied the same bar stool as me the night before and I honored his presence with plenty of bubbly.
My main dish, accompanied by gypsy jazz overhead, was beef cheeks braised with onion, cumin carrots (divine!), spaetzle and red onions, the cheeks so tender and flavorful as to make a cheek convert out of the most conservative eater. Accompanied by Fleur des Templiers Malbec 2014, it was a perfectly matched course.
While enjoying Scott Bradley's "Post-Modern Jukebox" and savoring a dessert of profiteroles, housemade strawberry and mango sorbet, we discussed royalties, "Blurred Lines" and Destiny's Child versus Beyonce (not the same thing) and the upcoming show at the National.
I was having such a fabulous time at the bar chatting that I almost lost track of time and I had somewhere to be at 11.
And not just anywhere, but at Metzger for my very favorite DJ, Mr. Fine Wine. Arriving right as he began spinning 45s, I was immediately caught up in his web of vintage soul. And it's a tangled and talented web he weaves.
My date was good enough to ensure that I had Hugl Rose and a table on which to rest my stuff, but with Mr. Fine Wine, it's the music that matters.
Over the course of three hours, I danced with every available wriggling backside: the chanteuse, the chef, the record collector, the artist, the DJ's wife, and goodness only knows how many complete strangers. Hugs were offered from bartenders, restaurant owners, neighbors and ad agency owners.
I can't imagine anyone was surprised to see me. I shouldn't have been surprised at how much Hugl Rose was consumed while dancing and chatting up friends.
The thing is, Mr. Fine Wine pulls the choicest soul 45s and every single one requires dancing. No slow song grinding here. I finally felt compelled to go tell him that I was a devotee of his podcasts and got a major hug in return.
Just like last time he came to play in Richmond, we reached a point when it became necessary to fully open all the restaurant windows to allow cool air to enter the room, but also this time I was told, "Your blog is the zeitgeist of Richmond. We need to have lunch." You pay, maybe I will.
Like last time, I had an absolute blast dancing, sometimes with girlfriends, sometimes with my stationary date. A nearby guy introduced himself as new to Richmond (6 months from Nashville) and invited me outside for a smoke. Thanks, no.
I finished the night with a Cazadores and a dance with the owner for good luck. She thanked me for coming and I was grateful for an evening of absolutely stellar soul music. You couldn't have paid me to be anywhere else but downtown Soulville tonight.
Baby, put your good dress on. You better believe I did. Come back, Mr. Fine Wine. We are your devoted.
Or at least I am.
After seeing "Breakfast at Tiffany's" for only the first time in 2010, I felt compelled to revisit it today at the Bowtie. With some films, once is enough. I sensed I could do this one twice.
A crowd of mostly women (no surprise there) showed up to revel in director Blake Edwards' take on single girl life in NYC circa 1961. Clothes, hats, gloves: tres magnifique.
Overcrowded and enthusiastic party scene in Holly Golightly's tiny apartment: worth emulating in my own and now on my make-happen list, minus the police raid.
Verbal habit I intend to adopt: quelle! As in, quelle bore! I feel certain Pru will go along with me on this one.
In what surely must be the greatest possible leap from there, part of my afternoon was spent at the River City Barn Dance at Hardywood. You read that right, a square dance.
I'm part of a generation that actually square danced as part of P.E. in both elementary school and junior high, so it's not like I haven't done the Virginia Reel or the Texas Star before.
Technically, I was there to interview Grant, the caller, the guy who calls out the instructions for each dance and we did that under a sunny sky at a picnic table outside.
But once I was back inside waiting for the dance to begin, he approached me to ask if he could "borrow" me. "I can't imagine a move in my head," he explained and if he couldn't imagine it, he couldn't call it.
It was a sashay and it involved "rolling the lady." Since I couldn't recall ever being rolled, I was game. His left hand took my right and his right my left across our bodies and just like that, I was sashaying across in front of him and back, right to left and left to right.
I enjoyed everything about being rolled. Now I recalled what I'd liked about all those P.E. dance classes: boys and girls on the dance floor. Maybe I was born to sashay.
Dinner was served at Amour where the new menu offered up a mushroom casserole of mixed local mushrooms, white wine, garlic, parsley and shallots, a perfectly lovely combination of local fungi and fresh greens accompanied by the house standard-bearer, Willm Cremant d'Alsace Rose, and an amen from a nearby couple enjoying Chateaux Neuf du Pape ("Pink bubbles are the best!").
Of course, it was also from them that I overheard the comment, "You don't have any stories because you don't have any friends," a rather cruel observation.
Rumor had it that my friend Holmes had occupied the same bar stool as me the night before and I honored his presence with plenty of bubbly.
My main dish, accompanied by gypsy jazz overhead, was beef cheeks braised with onion, cumin carrots (divine!), spaetzle and red onions, the cheeks so tender and flavorful as to make a cheek convert out of the most conservative eater. Accompanied by Fleur des Templiers Malbec 2014, it was a perfectly matched course.
While enjoying Scott Bradley's "Post-Modern Jukebox" and savoring a dessert of profiteroles, housemade strawberry and mango sorbet, we discussed royalties, "Blurred Lines" and Destiny's Child versus Beyonce (not the same thing) and the upcoming show at the National.
I was having such a fabulous time at the bar chatting that I almost lost track of time and I had somewhere to be at 11.
And not just anywhere, but at Metzger for my very favorite DJ, Mr. Fine Wine. Arriving right as he began spinning 45s, I was immediately caught up in his web of vintage soul. And it's a tangled and talented web he weaves.
My date was good enough to ensure that I had Hugl Rose and a table on which to rest my stuff, but with Mr. Fine Wine, it's the music that matters.
Over the course of three hours, I danced with every available wriggling backside: the chanteuse, the chef, the record collector, the artist, the DJ's wife, and goodness only knows how many complete strangers. Hugs were offered from bartenders, restaurant owners, neighbors and ad agency owners.
I can't imagine anyone was surprised to see me. I shouldn't have been surprised at how much Hugl Rose was consumed while dancing and chatting up friends.
The thing is, Mr. Fine Wine pulls the choicest soul 45s and every single one requires dancing. No slow song grinding here. I finally felt compelled to go tell him that I was a devotee of his podcasts and got a major hug in return.
Just like last time he came to play in Richmond, we reached a point when it became necessary to fully open all the restaurant windows to allow cool air to enter the room, but also this time I was told, "Your blog is the zeitgeist of Richmond. We need to have lunch." You pay, maybe I will.
Like last time, I had an absolute blast dancing, sometimes with girlfriends, sometimes with my stationary date. A nearby guy introduced himself as new to Richmond (6 months from Nashville) and invited me outside for a smoke. Thanks, no.
I finished the night with a Cazadores and a dance with the owner for good luck. She thanked me for coming and I was grateful for an evening of absolutely stellar soul music. You couldn't have paid me to be anywhere else but downtown Soulville tonight.
Baby, put your good dress on. You better believe I did. Come back, Mr. Fine Wine. We are your devoted.
Or at least I am.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
Stop and Start
Today was a fine day to walk to the Bowtie for a movie.
Along the way, I spotted dandelions along Leigh Street. Spring must be further along than I realized because that seemed a little early to me.
At the ticket counter, I asked for one for "The Apartment" and somewhere between taking my money and handing me my ticket, the ticket seller said, "Hello, beautiful." It was so unexpected, I made him repeat it.
Honestly, I think I'm a magnet for non sequitors from strangers
Inside the theater, the projectionist appeared to be asleep since the movie was started while the corny pop music was still playing. Only when someone went out to notify management did the bad music fade and the dialog come up.
I'd never seen Billy Wilder's Oscar-winning film "The Apartment" but it didn't take long to find myself firmly in 1960s New York, a world of tiki bars, elevator girls, blotters and Rolodexes, instant coffee and men wearing bowler hats in bars.
Very topical, too, given that it was a year after the Revolution and a woman asks Jack Lemmon, "How do you feel about Castro?"
Or when his neighbor asks him, a bachelor, if he has napkins and he says he has paper towels. "Beatnik!" she says in disgust.
After he gets a promotion at the insurance company where he works, a sign painter comes to paint his name on the door of his office. Hand painted doors, now there's an almost lost art. That's some serious old school right there.
No more so than all the extra-marital flings the office executives are having, the women accepting those kind of relationships without a thought to their own needs.
Thank goodness for womanhood that the sexual revolution followed shortly thereafter.
Naturally, being a Billy wilder film, there was romance and wit as well. As he makes dinner for the two of them, she tries to help
Shall I light the candles?
It's a must, gracious-living-wise.
Almost two hours into the movie, the screen went blank. A handful of people got up and walked out, disgusted at yet another glitch in watching today's film. The woman next to me went and told management and got the film back on, albeit later than where it had stopped.
Considering that the reason I don't watch movies at home is because I want a full-on screen experience, I was not happy with Bowtie's problems delivering a start to finish movie.
Here I am seeing this film for the first time and I missed the voice-over and music that began it and lost a few minutes near the end. Boo hiss, Bowtie. Unlimited butter on my popcorn is not enough to make me overlook such shoddy projection skills.
I might have left myself except that the woman near me advised me to stay for the surprise ending and she was right.
The scene where Shirley MacLaine shows up at his apartment and says she wants to play gin rummy with him on New Year's Eve delivered a classic last line.
You hear what I said, Miss Kubelik? I absolutely adore you.
Shut up and deal...
Sounds like the makings of a successful relationship to me.
Along the way, I spotted dandelions along Leigh Street. Spring must be further along than I realized because that seemed a little early to me.
At the ticket counter, I asked for one for "The Apartment" and somewhere between taking my money and handing me my ticket, the ticket seller said, "Hello, beautiful." It was so unexpected, I made him repeat it.
Honestly, I think I'm a magnet for non sequitors from strangers
Inside the theater, the projectionist appeared to be asleep since the movie was started while the corny pop music was still playing. Only when someone went out to notify management did the bad music fade and the dialog come up.
I'd never seen Billy Wilder's Oscar-winning film "The Apartment" but it didn't take long to find myself firmly in 1960s New York, a world of tiki bars, elevator girls, blotters and Rolodexes, instant coffee and men wearing bowler hats in bars.
Very topical, too, given that it was a year after the Revolution and a woman asks Jack Lemmon, "How do you feel about Castro?"
Or when his neighbor asks him, a bachelor, if he has napkins and he says he has paper towels. "Beatnik!" she says in disgust.
After he gets a promotion at the insurance company where he works, a sign painter comes to paint his name on the door of his office. Hand painted doors, now there's an almost lost art. That's some serious old school right there.
No more so than all the extra-marital flings the office executives are having, the women accepting those kind of relationships without a thought to their own needs.
Thank goodness for womanhood that the sexual revolution followed shortly thereafter.
Naturally, being a Billy wilder film, there was romance and wit as well. As he makes dinner for the two of them, she tries to help
Shall I light the candles?
It's a must, gracious-living-wise.
Almost two hours into the movie, the screen went blank. A handful of people got up and walked out, disgusted at yet another glitch in watching today's film. The woman next to me went and told management and got the film back on, albeit later than where it had stopped.
Considering that the reason I don't watch movies at home is because I want a full-on screen experience, I was not happy with Bowtie's problems delivering a start to finish movie.
Here I am seeing this film for the first time and I missed the voice-over and music that began it and lost a few minutes near the end. Boo hiss, Bowtie. Unlimited butter on my popcorn is not enough to make me overlook such shoddy projection skills.
I might have left myself except that the woman near me advised me to stay for the surprise ending and she was right.
The scene where Shirley MacLaine shows up at his apartment and says she wants to play gin rummy with him on New Year's Eve delivered a classic last line.
You hear what I said, Miss Kubelik? I absolutely adore you.
Shut up and deal...
Sounds like the makings of a successful relationship to me.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Ramen and Romance
I'd forgotten how seductive more daylight and warmer air can be.
By the time I put down my book, "1965: The Most Revolutionary Year in Music," and came in off my balcony, it was already after 6:00. Ordinarily, that wouldn't matter except Mondays are ramen days.
And as I've learned from my past visits to the Shoryuken Ramen pop-up at Lunch, prompt arrival at 5:00 is the only guarantee of a seat.
But after seeing their post saying, "Today's warm weather calls for garlic shrimp mazemen (mixed ramen, no broth) with Shoyu tare, Mayu garlic oil and soft-poached egg," I decided to risk a wait.
And there would have been one if I'd not been alone because the sole unoccupied seat was the center stool at the bar to which the manager gestured, smiling, saying, "It's yours."
Bingo. Pays to be date-less (sometimes).
Since it was already two hours into the pop-up, I made sure to put in my order for the mazemen, knowing that the specials always sell out before the night is over (it did).
The couple next to me were having the regular ramen so I assumed they were first-timers and we got to talking when they said it was their second visit. They'd recently tried Grace Noodle Bar and been disappointed.
She said she was a transplant from D.C., but upon questioning, turned out to have been an Arlington resident. When I told her I was a native Washingtonian, she was amazed to learn I actually meant I lived in D.C., not Virginia. Turns out she was originally from Michigan, so perhaps she didn't understand the difference.
Actual state versus taxation without representation. Hello?
My mazemen was a satisfying bowl of garlic goodness and despite being advertised as broth-less, had some broth. While slurping noodles, I heard from the owner that they've found their own building and will be moving in soon, meaning ramen six days a week instead of two.
I say it's good timing because eating at 5 is losing its appeal with every every extra minute of daylight.
Bidding farewell to a full dining room, I left just as they ran out of mazemen. Latecomers pay the price.
From there, it was a short hop to the Bowtie to see some of Britain's finest actors in "The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel." Walking into the theater, there were only a handful of people but as I took my seat, I heard my name called. A few rows back were some dedicated wine lovers I know.
I'd chosen the film for - let's be honest here - something to do and because the original film had been a feast for the eyes (the light, colors and textures of India sumptuous) offset by some of the best older actors working today in a story in which they loved and lusted just likeyoung people real life.
The sequel wasn't as good but how often is a sequel a match for the original? The actors were still impressive but the story had so many convoluted sub-plots that it began to feel like an unnecessary pile-on.
In one relationship, the woman is unfaithful only because she thinks her boyfriend is. An annoying ex shows up talking about an imaginary boyfriend. Two guests at the hotel are pretending to be someone other than who they really are. It's all too much.
Still, there were plenty of good observations about life and love.
That's the point for all relationships - it's the journey.
Structured around the engagement party, family party and wedding of the hilarious ("There's no present like the time") young Indian owner of the hotel and his gorgeous fiancee, it was also about these people's life after retirement. About second acts.
How many new lives can we have?
As many as we can for as long as we can.
I happen to agree 100% with this philosophy.
Although Richard Gere was the handsome newcomer in this installment, I'd still take Bill Nighy for his sweet devotion to Judi Densch despite her best efforts to slow their inevitable relationship.
In the end, all it takes is to look into someone's eyes and say, "Yes, I want this" and for them to say, "I want it, too."
Sigh. Call me a sucker for old people romance.
And humor. Bill Nighy nails it when he says, "The great horror of life is that there's just so much bloody potential."
So. Much.
Maybe it's just me, but trying to realize the horror of that potential is what makes the journey so much fun.
By the time I put down my book, "1965: The Most Revolutionary Year in Music," and came in off my balcony, it was already after 6:00. Ordinarily, that wouldn't matter except Mondays are ramen days.
And as I've learned from my past visits to the Shoryuken Ramen pop-up at Lunch, prompt arrival at 5:00 is the only guarantee of a seat.
But after seeing their post saying, "Today's warm weather calls for garlic shrimp mazemen (mixed ramen, no broth) with Shoyu tare, Mayu garlic oil and soft-poached egg," I decided to risk a wait.
And there would have been one if I'd not been alone because the sole unoccupied seat was the center stool at the bar to which the manager gestured, smiling, saying, "It's yours."
Bingo. Pays to be date-less (sometimes).
Since it was already two hours into the pop-up, I made sure to put in my order for the mazemen, knowing that the specials always sell out before the night is over (it did).
The couple next to me were having the regular ramen so I assumed they were first-timers and we got to talking when they said it was their second visit. They'd recently tried Grace Noodle Bar and been disappointed.
She said she was a transplant from D.C., but upon questioning, turned out to have been an Arlington resident. When I told her I was a native Washingtonian, she was amazed to learn I actually meant I lived in D.C., not Virginia. Turns out she was originally from Michigan, so perhaps she didn't understand the difference.
Actual state versus taxation without representation. Hello?
My mazemen was a satisfying bowl of garlic goodness and despite being advertised as broth-less, had some broth. While slurping noodles, I heard from the owner that they've found their own building and will be moving in soon, meaning ramen six days a week instead of two.
I say it's good timing because eating at 5 is losing its appeal with every every extra minute of daylight.
Bidding farewell to a full dining room, I left just as they ran out of mazemen. Latecomers pay the price.
From there, it was a short hop to the Bowtie to see some of Britain's finest actors in "The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel." Walking into the theater, there were only a handful of people but as I took my seat, I heard my name called. A few rows back were some dedicated wine lovers I know.
I'd chosen the film for - let's be honest here - something to do and because the original film had been a feast for the eyes (the light, colors and textures of India sumptuous) offset by some of the best older actors working today in a story in which they loved and lusted just like
The sequel wasn't as good but how often is a sequel a match for the original? The actors were still impressive but the story had so many convoluted sub-plots that it began to feel like an unnecessary pile-on.
In one relationship, the woman is unfaithful only because she thinks her boyfriend is. An annoying ex shows up talking about an imaginary boyfriend. Two guests at the hotel are pretending to be someone other than who they really are. It's all too much.
Still, there were plenty of good observations about life and love.
That's the point for all relationships - it's the journey.
Structured around the engagement party, family party and wedding of the hilarious ("There's no present like the time") young Indian owner of the hotel and his gorgeous fiancee, it was also about these people's life after retirement. About second acts.
How many new lives can we have?
As many as we can for as long as we can.
I happen to agree 100% with this philosophy.
Although Richard Gere was the handsome newcomer in this installment, I'd still take Bill Nighy for his sweet devotion to Judi Densch despite her best efforts to slow their inevitable relationship.
In the end, all it takes is to look into someone's eyes and say, "Yes, I want this" and for them to say, "I want it, too."
Sigh. Call me a sucker for old people romance.
And humor. Bill Nighy nails it when he says, "The great horror of life is that there's just so much bloody potential."
So. Much.
Maybe it's just me, but trying to realize the horror of that potential is what makes the journey so much fun.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Morning Wood
I fear for the cultural literacy of the future.
All week long, I'd been looking forward to seeing "Annie Hall" at the Bowtie. Incredibly, I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1977. Given all the Oscars it had won, I expected a full house. Instead, I found one middle-aged guy with a bag of popcorn and a willingness to chat.
Like me, he often comes to the Movies and Mimosas feature to see classic films on the big screen. We got a good laugh when he told me that the ticket taker had looked at his stub and said, "Oh, I didn't know "Annie Hall" was coming out this week."
When he explained to the 20-something that it was a 38-year old movie, the kid was surprised.
Joining us shortly was a woman who, without being asked, announced to us that she was excited to see the movie but appalled to learn that her 44-year old daughter had never seen it. Wait, it gets worse: her daughter's degree is in theater.
She asked if I was a Woody Allen fan and I admitted to it. My first boyfriend had introduced me to his peculiar brand of humor when I was in high school and I'd read an Allen biography as long ago as college. So, yes, I was a fan.
Yet I remembered very little of the film beyond Allen breaking the fourth wall. Lost to the decades were Diane Keaton's singing, that the Alvy Singer character had had two ex-wives or all the references to Jewish persecution in WWII ("My Grammy didn't give gifts. She was too busy being raped by Cossacks").
Not remembered but not surprising were the 1977-isms. The doctor smokes in the examining room with a patient. Most women went bra-less. Waiting in line for a movie, people smoke, read newspapers and talk to each other instead of staring at their devices.
Annie Hall can't have sex without smoking a joint first and friends are aghast to learn the couple hasn't tried cocaine. "Come on, do your body a favor!" they insist, proffering the white stuff. Wow, 1977.
I also learned things. "You want to move to Los Angeles where the only cultural advantage is being able to turn right on red?" Alvy asks incredulously of Annie. So California was ahead of the curve on this? No memory of that.
Of course Woody Allen's dialog was spot on and laugh out loud-worthy. "I'm a bigot but for the left," he says. Speaking at an Adlai Stevenson rally, he says, "So I'm in the Catskills and I've been trying to do to this girl what the Eisenhower administration has been doing to us."
Very telling was a comment Allen makes about the state of photography in 1977. "A set of aesthetic guidelines hasn't been developed yet." Since few museums and galleries were even beginning to collect photography in the '70s, this rings especially true to an art geek.
Just as dated but a little skeevy was a scene where Alvy's best friend Rob is clearly peeved to get a phone call from jail from Alvy. Not because his friend has been jailed, but because it interrupted him having sex with twins.
"Sixteen year old twins, imagine the possibilities!" Considering he was, like Allen, close to 40 at the time, that's pretty distasteful, although apparently not so much in '77.
One of the most hysterical scene involved no dialog from Alvy, just a look. He and Annie are ordering sandwiches in a deli and she says, "I'll have pastrami on white bread with mayonnaise, lettuce and tomato." Jewish suffering is written all over his face.
I certainly didn't recall Paul Simon (with a bad comb-over), Christopher Walken (his weirdness already set in stone) or Jeff Goldblum on the phone ("I forgot my mantra") being in the movie.
Most surprising of all was that I remembered the last bit in the movie. Alvy tells an old joke about how he can't turn in his brother just because he thinks he's a chicken. When the doctor asks him why not, he says he needs the eggs.
"Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd, but I guess we keep going through it because most of us need the eggs."
Apparently that's the kind of sentiment that spoke to my young self when I first saw "Annie Hall" because I never forgot it.
There's a lesson there. Never see what's billed as a "nervous romance" when you're at an impressionable age. It may not do your heart any favors.
All week long, I'd been looking forward to seeing "Annie Hall" at the Bowtie. Incredibly, I hadn't seen it since it came out in 1977. Given all the Oscars it had won, I expected a full house. Instead, I found one middle-aged guy with a bag of popcorn and a willingness to chat.
Like me, he often comes to the Movies and Mimosas feature to see classic films on the big screen. We got a good laugh when he told me that the ticket taker had looked at his stub and said, "Oh, I didn't know "Annie Hall" was coming out this week."
When he explained to the 20-something that it was a 38-year old movie, the kid was surprised.
Joining us shortly was a woman who, without being asked, announced to us that she was excited to see the movie but appalled to learn that her 44-year old daughter had never seen it. Wait, it gets worse: her daughter's degree is in theater.
She asked if I was a Woody Allen fan and I admitted to it. My first boyfriend had introduced me to his peculiar brand of humor when I was in high school and I'd read an Allen biography as long ago as college. So, yes, I was a fan.
Yet I remembered very little of the film beyond Allen breaking the fourth wall. Lost to the decades were Diane Keaton's singing, that the Alvy Singer character had had two ex-wives or all the references to Jewish persecution in WWII ("My Grammy didn't give gifts. She was too busy being raped by Cossacks").
Not remembered but not surprising were the 1977-isms. The doctor smokes in the examining room with a patient. Most women went bra-less. Waiting in line for a movie, people smoke, read newspapers and talk to each other instead of staring at their devices.
Annie Hall can't have sex without smoking a joint first and friends are aghast to learn the couple hasn't tried cocaine. "Come on, do your body a favor!" they insist, proffering the white stuff. Wow, 1977.
I also learned things. "You want to move to Los Angeles where the only cultural advantage is being able to turn right on red?" Alvy asks incredulously of Annie. So California was ahead of the curve on this? No memory of that.
Of course Woody Allen's dialog was spot on and laugh out loud-worthy. "I'm a bigot but for the left," he says. Speaking at an Adlai Stevenson rally, he says, "So I'm in the Catskills and I've been trying to do to this girl what the Eisenhower administration has been doing to us."
Very telling was a comment Allen makes about the state of photography in 1977. "A set of aesthetic guidelines hasn't been developed yet." Since few museums and galleries were even beginning to collect photography in the '70s, this rings especially true to an art geek.
Just as dated but a little skeevy was a scene where Alvy's best friend Rob is clearly peeved to get a phone call from jail from Alvy. Not because his friend has been jailed, but because it interrupted him having sex with twins.
"Sixteen year old twins, imagine the possibilities!" Considering he was, like Allen, close to 40 at the time, that's pretty distasteful, although apparently not so much in '77.
One of the most hysterical scene involved no dialog from Alvy, just a look. He and Annie are ordering sandwiches in a deli and she says, "I'll have pastrami on white bread with mayonnaise, lettuce and tomato." Jewish suffering is written all over his face.
I certainly didn't recall Paul Simon (with a bad comb-over), Christopher Walken (his weirdness already set in stone) or Jeff Goldblum on the phone ("I forgot my mantra") being in the movie.
Most surprising of all was that I remembered the last bit in the movie. Alvy tells an old joke about how he can't turn in his brother just because he thinks he's a chicken. When the doctor asks him why not, he says he needs the eggs.
"Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd, but I guess we keep going through it because most of us need the eggs."
Apparently that's the kind of sentiment that spoke to my young self when I first saw "Annie Hall" because I never forgot it.
There's a lesson there. Never see what's billed as a "nervous romance" when you're at an impressionable age. It may not do your heart any favors.
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Negotiate, Demonstrate, Resist
Some movies just need to be seen.
Last February, I'd gone to the VMFA to see the Oscar-winning documentary "King: A Filmed Record...Montgomery to Memphis" and upped my MLK knowledge significantly. So naturally after seeing a treatment of the entirety of King's work, I was dead curious about a film focusing solely on the Selma portion.
As I got out of my car at the Bowtie, I was surprised to hear a train whistle very nearby and looked up to see a freight train skirting the edge of the parking lot. In all the times I've been to that theater, I have never once seen a train on those tracks.
Simple pleasures.
After sitting through a succession of movies you couldn't pay me to see (a J-Lo thriller, a new Terminator with an aged Arnold, a cheesy time travel teen film), we finally got to "Selma," which started quietly and triumphantly with his being awarded the Nobel Peace prize and then scared the pants off the audience with a heartbreaking flashback scene of the church in Birmingham being bombed and the four little girls dying in the rubble.
There was really no comparison between the black and white documentary I'd seen, which mainly used news reel footage and tonight's beautifully shot color film with its intimate angles focusing not just on the big events but all the small, private moments of King's life during that period.
Hardly surprisingly, it only alluded to King's marital infidelities, fine with me since the story of his non-violent protesting was the focus of the movie.
Considering it was Sunday night and that the film was showing in multiple theaters every hour, there was a pretty good crowd in the theater I was in. During scenes of King giving speeches, many in the theater reacted as if they were in the room with him, testifying and responding to what he said.
Surely actor David Oyelowo will win an Oscar for his spot-on performance of King, all the more notable because he's a Brit and both his accent and cadence were nearly identical to what I'd seen in the documentary. Someone did his homework.
But like in the real footage, the scenes of the marches were awe-inspiring while watching simulated beatings of marchers was not quite as horrific as watching the real thing. I'll never forget seeing a dog bite into a protester's arm in that documentary.
In a brilliant move, the final march to Montgomery fades from the fictionalized version to actual black and white newsreel footage for an emotional wallop to close things out.
I was surprised when the crowd didn't clap at the end, although, like me, most people stayed through the credits, during which epilogues were given for many of the characters. Besides King himself, probably the most heartbreaking one was the white civil rights worker who was killed by Klansmen five hours after King's speech on the steps of the Montgomery courthouse for driving other protesters home.
I've been on a surprisingly good run of films for grown-ups lately. "Selma" packed enormous emotional power, even for someone who knows about the events of the film, offering a look beyond the events to the man himself. For someone younger or less studied, it would probably be a revelation.
One of my recent goals is to become more informed, not just about current events but also about history. As it's resurrected in "Selma," it's an invaluable lesson. Bonus: buttered popcorn while I learn.
Last February, I'd gone to the VMFA to see the Oscar-winning documentary "King: A Filmed Record...Montgomery to Memphis" and upped my MLK knowledge significantly. So naturally after seeing a treatment of the entirety of King's work, I was dead curious about a film focusing solely on the Selma portion.
As I got out of my car at the Bowtie, I was surprised to hear a train whistle very nearby and looked up to see a freight train skirting the edge of the parking lot. In all the times I've been to that theater, I have never once seen a train on those tracks.
Simple pleasures.
After sitting through a succession of movies you couldn't pay me to see (a J-Lo thriller, a new Terminator with an aged Arnold, a cheesy time travel teen film), we finally got to "Selma," which started quietly and triumphantly with his being awarded the Nobel Peace prize and then scared the pants off the audience with a heartbreaking flashback scene of the church in Birmingham being bombed and the four little girls dying in the rubble.
There was really no comparison between the black and white documentary I'd seen, which mainly used news reel footage and tonight's beautifully shot color film with its intimate angles focusing not just on the big events but all the small, private moments of King's life during that period.
Hardly surprisingly, it only alluded to King's marital infidelities, fine with me since the story of his non-violent protesting was the focus of the movie.
Considering it was Sunday night and that the film was showing in multiple theaters every hour, there was a pretty good crowd in the theater I was in. During scenes of King giving speeches, many in the theater reacted as if they were in the room with him, testifying and responding to what he said.
Surely actor David Oyelowo will win an Oscar for his spot-on performance of King, all the more notable because he's a Brit and both his accent and cadence were nearly identical to what I'd seen in the documentary. Someone did his homework.
But like in the real footage, the scenes of the marches were awe-inspiring while watching simulated beatings of marchers was not quite as horrific as watching the real thing. I'll never forget seeing a dog bite into a protester's arm in that documentary.
In a brilliant move, the final march to Montgomery fades from the fictionalized version to actual black and white newsreel footage for an emotional wallop to close things out.
I was surprised when the crowd didn't clap at the end, although, like me, most people stayed through the credits, during which epilogues were given for many of the characters. Besides King himself, probably the most heartbreaking one was the white civil rights worker who was killed by Klansmen five hours after King's speech on the steps of the Montgomery courthouse for driving other protesters home.
I've been on a surprisingly good run of films for grown-ups lately. "Selma" packed enormous emotional power, even for someone who knows about the events of the film, offering a look beyond the events to the man himself. For someone younger or less studied, it would probably be a revelation.
One of my recent goals is to become more informed, not just about current events but also about history. As it's resurrected in "Selma," it's an invaluable lesson. Bonus: buttered popcorn while I learn.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Alone Again Naturally
Sometimes in the drama that is romance, you fly solo.
So while my choice of film was labeled a "chick flick," I had no girlfriend with me. You could also call it a date night movie, but I couldn't find one of those, either.
On the plus side, the evening began on a complimentary note when an apparently near-sighted ticket seller at Movieland addressed me as "Miss" and inquired if I was getting a student or adult ticket. Naturally I responded with every dimple on my face.
I'd decided on "Beyond the Lights" because two friends - one with a degree in film and the other with a pop culture blog - had confessed that they, too, intended to see it. Even the Washington Post's critic Ann Hornaday had raved about it, even putting it in her top ten for 2014, so I had her blessing, too.
My point? There was no shame in seeing what I knew would be a full-on romance. That it had a woman director only added to the allure.
The problem with going to a somewhat mainstream movie quickly became apparent: half a dozen previews of not only movies I'd never go to, but previews I could barely stand sitting through. Horror, sex, aging stars and contrived plots, who wants to see this schlock?
Not that the film I'd come to see wasn't without its own cliches: rising R & B hip hop artist at the mercy of her driven stage mother attempts suicide and ripped, handsome police office saves her and they begin to fall in love.
Can you say "shades of "The Bodyguard"?
Romance aside, the film made a lot of subtle and not so subtle commentary about the objectification of women in pop culture and especially in hip hop. It jumped out at me, but I wonder if that wasn't because I don't watch TV or music videos so it's more glaringly apparent and offensive to me.
What the film had going for it was the radiant actress (with the unusual name of Gugu Mbatha-Raw) who conveyed so much with her eyes while hinting at the inner turmoil she was feeling as her career took off and her life ceased to be her own.
Let's just say we didn't have a lot in common except a mutual devotion to fried chicken.
But it's the chemistry between her and Nate Parker as the cop that totally wins the audience over. I couldn't have been the only one getting warm watching these two interact and react to each other.
Part of what appealed to me about the film was that it was a romantic drama, not a romantic comedy. Let's be real here; when it comes to creating a successful (read: long term) romance, real people are probably going to have as many problems as laughs.
Maybe it's my life experience, but I find that kind of story more appealing than your typical rom-com.
But it's still the movies, so when the couple needs to get away from her crazy lifestyle with its non-stop pressure and paparazzi, it's an easy drive to the coast of Mexico and an oceanfront cottage.
How can you not be in love with the sound of waves crashing just outside your windows? It was enough for our heroine to take off her fake nails and remove her weave and her man still loved her. Since I don't do fake hair or nails, I don't know how I'd prove myself.
There was a charming scene in a Mexican karaoke bar where he gets up to sing a song for her, choosing New Edition and butchering it so badly she gets up to rescue him. Honey, it must be love if he's crooning '80s boy bands to you.
Weave or no weave, I'm not going to hold my breath until that happens to me.
So while my choice of film was labeled a "chick flick," I had no girlfriend with me. You could also call it a date night movie, but I couldn't find one of those, either.
On the plus side, the evening began on a complimentary note when an apparently near-sighted ticket seller at Movieland addressed me as "Miss" and inquired if I was getting a student or adult ticket. Naturally I responded with every dimple on my face.
I'd decided on "Beyond the Lights" because two friends - one with a degree in film and the other with a pop culture blog - had confessed that they, too, intended to see it. Even the Washington Post's critic Ann Hornaday had raved about it, even putting it in her top ten for 2014, so I had her blessing, too.
My point? There was no shame in seeing what I knew would be a full-on romance. That it had a woman director only added to the allure.
The problem with going to a somewhat mainstream movie quickly became apparent: half a dozen previews of not only movies I'd never go to, but previews I could barely stand sitting through. Horror, sex, aging stars and contrived plots, who wants to see this schlock?
Not that the film I'd come to see wasn't without its own cliches: rising R & B hip hop artist at the mercy of her driven stage mother attempts suicide and ripped, handsome police office saves her and they begin to fall in love.
Can you say "shades of "The Bodyguard"?
Romance aside, the film made a lot of subtle and not so subtle commentary about the objectification of women in pop culture and especially in hip hop. It jumped out at me, but I wonder if that wasn't because I don't watch TV or music videos so it's more glaringly apparent and offensive to me.
What the film had going for it was the radiant actress (with the unusual name of Gugu Mbatha-Raw) who conveyed so much with her eyes while hinting at the inner turmoil she was feeling as her career took off and her life ceased to be her own.
Let's just say we didn't have a lot in common except a mutual devotion to fried chicken.
But it's the chemistry between her and Nate Parker as the cop that totally wins the audience over. I couldn't have been the only one getting warm watching these two interact and react to each other.
Part of what appealed to me about the film was that it was a romantic drama, not a romantic comedy. Let's be real here; when it comes to creating a successful (read: long term) romance, real people are probably going to have as many problems as laughs.
Maybe it's my life experience, but I find that kind of story more appealing than your typical rom-com.
But it's still the movies, so when the couple needs to get away from her crazy lifestyle with its non-stop pressure and paparazzi, it's an easy drive to the coast of Mexico and an oceanfront cottage.
How can you not be in love with the sound of waves crashing just outside your windows? It was enough for our heroine to take off her fake nails and remove her weave and her man still loved her. Since I don't do fake hair or nails, I don't know how I'd prove myself.
There was a charming scene in a Mexican karaoke bar where he gets up to sing a song for her, choosing New Edition and butchering it so badly she gets up to rescue him. Honey, it must be love if he's crooning '80s boy bands to you.
Weave or no weave, I'm not going to hold my breath until that happens to me.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
You Won't Bore Him, Honey
After a walk down Leigh Street, past the bustle of Sunday morning doughnut-seekers converging on Sugar Shack and a pussy willow covered in fuzzy little buds, I made it to the Bowtie for a movie, but no mimosa.
And I have to say, I may be late to the party but now I understand why "All About Eve" was nominated for a record-breaking fourteen Oscars.
I don't know about anybody else, but I found so many facets to the story that fascinated me - the challenges of aging gracefully, the machinations of the theater world, older woman dating younger man.
Then there were the usual period details that I always enjoy - talk of girdles and women with size five feet, neither of which applies to anyone on the planet anymore, I don't think.
But really, it was the dialog that made the movie...and I'm not even talking about, "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night."
I'm talking about aging cracks like, "I'll admit I may have seen better days, but I'm still not to be had for the price of a cocktail, like a salted peanut."
Or, "My native habitat is the theater. In it, I toil not, neither do I spin. I am a critic and commentator. I am essential to the theater."
And it's hard to top a bald statement like, "She loves me like a father. Plus she's loaded."
Or the best line from the character named Karen, played by Celeste Holm. "The cynicism you refer to I acquired the day I discovered I was different from little boys."
But on the off chance you've never seen "All About Eve," it can be summed up in one classic 1950 quote by Bette Davis' character, Margo.
"Funny business, a woman's career, the things you drop on your way up the ladder so you can move faster. You forget you'll need them again when you get back to being a woman. That's one career all females have in common, whether we like it or not: being a woman. Sooner or later, we've got to work at it, no matter how many other careers we've had or wanted. And in the last analysis, nothing's any good unless you can look up just before dinner or turn around in bed and there he is. Without that, you're not a woman."
Now I know. Without a man, I'm nothing more than a salted peanut.
And I have to say, I may be late to the party but now I understand why "All About Eve" was nominated for a record-breaking fourteen Oscars.
I don't know about anybody else, but I found so many facets to the story that fascinated me - the challenges of aging gracefully, the machinations of the theater world, older woman dating younger man.
Then there were the usual period details that I always enjoy - talk of girdles and women with size five feet, neither of which applies to anyone on the planet anymore, I don't think.
But really, it was the dialog that made the movie...and I'm not even talking about, "Fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night."
I'm talking about aging cracks like, "I'll admit I may have seen better days, but I'm still not to be had for the price of a cocktail, like a salted peanut."
Or, "My native habitat is the theater. In it, I toil not, neither do I spin. I am a critic and commentator. I am essential to the theater."
And it's hard to top a bald statement like, "She loves me like a father. Plus she's loaded."
Or the best line from the character named Karen, played by Celeste Holm. "The cynicism you refer to I acquired the day I discovered I was different from little boys."
But on the off chance you've never seen "All About Eve," it can be summed up in one classic 1950 quote by Bette Davis' character, Margo.
"Funny business, a woman's career, the things you drop on your way up the ladder so you can move faster. You forget you'll need them again when you get back to being a woman. That's one career all females have in common, whether we like it or not: being a woman. Sooner or later, we've got to work at it, no matter how many other careers we've had or wanted. And in the last analysis, nothing's any good unless you can look up just before dinner or turn around in bed and there he is. Without that, you're not a woman."
Now I know. Without a man, I'm nothing more than a salted peanut.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
I Coulda Been Somebody
Church bells ringing, weed eaters buzzing, and a guy saying, "Good morning, beautiful."
That's the way to walk to Bowtie on a Sunday morning.
I was taking care of another glaring omission in my film viewing, this time of 1954's "On the Waterfront."
And while I'm really not a fan of crime dramas, the film had two things going for it, at least as far as I was concerned.
Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 100% critical rating and it was written by Budd Schulberg.
After discovering Schulberg's iconic "What Makes Sammy Run?" in a used book store years ago, I devoured the insider's story about the harsh realities of Hollywood.
That led me to read his second book, "The Disenchanted," an imagining of why a handsome, talented post-WWI writer (a thinly veiled F. Scott Fitzgerald) would end up a dissipated alcoholic.
Geek that I am, knowing that the same author wrote what is considered a film masterpiece had me walking down Leigh Street this morning.
I'll be honest, it didn't hurt that Leonard Bernstein did the score, either.
Eight other people and I watched the gritty black and white story about the corruption of NYC's longshoremen and the violence that accompanied those who dared to speak out against it.
As always for me, the period details were a draw.
All-male "saloons," pigeon coops on building rooves, women in full slips.
And a very handsome 30-year old Marlon Brando to boot.
So it was that I finally heard him say, "I coulda been a contender."
I coulda been sleeping in, but I'm better off for not.
That's the way to walk to Bowtie on a Sunday morning.
I was taking care of another glaring omission in my film viewing, this time of 1954's "On the Waterfront."
And while I'm really not a fan of crime dramas, the film had two things going for it, at least as far as I was concerned.
Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 100% critical rating and it was written by Budd Schulberg.
After discovering Schulberg's iconic "What Makes Sammy Run?" in a used book store years ago, I devoured the insider's story about the harsh realities of Hollywood.
That led me to read his second book, "The Disenchanted," an imagining of why a handsome, talented post-WWI writer (a thinly veiled F. Scott Fitzgerald) would end up a dissipated alcoholic.
Geek that I am, knowing that the same author wrote what is considered a film masterpiece had me walking down Leigh Street this morning.
I'll be honest, it didn't hurt that Leonard Bernstein did the score, either.
Eight other people and I watched the gritty black and white story about the corruption of NYC's longshoremen and the violence that accompanied those who dared to speak out against it.
As always for me, the period details were a draw.
All-male "saloons," pigeon coops on building rooves, women in full slips.
And a very handsome 30-year old Marlon Brando to boot.
So it was that I finally heard him say, "I coulda been a contender."
I coulda been sleeping in, but I'm better off for not.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Fairer Than a Cowbell
The greatest tragedy written before Shakespeare followed by glass-shattering Afropop.
Nice segue, don't you think?
My favorite boarding school graduate met me at Garnett's for tea sandwiches, angels on horsebacks and Paul Ponnelle Pinot Noir while bringing me up to date on her life. She'd been here, she'd been there and all on her own.
"I go all by myself everywhere! I'm becoming you except I don't write about it," she said. Must save a lot of time, I concluded.
Then we were off to see "Live at the Globe: Dr. Faustus," the better to satisfy our inner theater nerds. I'd never seen one of these HD-filmed stage productions, much less one filmed at the Globe Theatre where there were people crowded into the pit and leaning on the stage, assuming the groundling roles.
The production was a fine one with detailed Renaissance-era costumes, huge flying dragons and stilt-walkers with enormous fur robes and horns. And live musicians! It was wonderful hearing musical flourishes throughout (cue gong!). Like when the gates of hell opened with the banging of it.
It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.
Bawdy comedy abounded; when a man's head is replaced by a dog's head, he stops to lift his leg and the groundlings under him get a golden shower. Fire was everywhere: inside books, on the nether regions of a haggard wife-to-be.
The story of a man seeking knowledge who sells his soul to the devil ("If this be hell, let me be damned") uses the most beautiful language.
He has a buttock as slick as an eel.
Performances were top notch and the camera gave us wide shots, long shots and the occasional close-up. I might have had one little complaint with the production.
None but thou shall be my paramour.
To better mimic the theater experience, I'd have preferred one fixed camera angle. But that's quibbling.
Thou art fairer than the evening air.
And just like at a play, the audience clapped at the end of the performance. After the curtain call, the cast came back out for a little performance piece, with many in the cast bloody and moving gory puppets as the danced and sang.
Faustus and Mephistopheles came out, grabbed instruments and began doing that old standard, "Dueling Lutes." Faustus yelled, "It's the devils' music!" to much hilarity as the credits rolled.
Where can a person go after experiencing Christopher Marlowe at her neighborhood multi-plex but to Balliceaux for North Carolinian afropop?
Brand New Life was a six piece: guitar, bass, sax, trumpet, percussion, and drums and I arrived for the end of their first set. The sax player was all tousled hair and toe-tapping loafers. The drummer and the percussionist had the kind of young faces that will serve them well when they're 40.
The band's break was spent chatting with a local jazz musician. Best quote from him, "Not everyone's as motivated as you are." I took it as a compliment.
When the band returned, they kicked off in high gear, with the guitarist asking, "Do you want to hear another rock and roll song?" Why would we not? And by rock and roll song, he meant the bass player ditched the upright for an electric and assumed the rocker stance, one leg forward.
No one does rock and roll quite like a bearded jazz nerd.
A friend slipped into the yellow chair next to me during the second set, bringing with him tales of a first date. I got to hear about how two people I introduced got to know each other for the first time. But we only talked in between songs until the show was over.
What I liked about the band's sound was just how much was going on at any one time. With my limited musical vocabulary, I tried to explain this to my friend, who's a musician.
"No, that's the best way to put it," he said, making me feel less stupid. "Like Fela Kuti." Exactly what I meant.
It was during a particularly cacophonous section that there was the sudden sound of glass breaking as a wineglass had danced itself right off the back bar and onto the bar floor. Good vibrations. Actually, it was downright awesome.
During one song, the guitarist slid the neck of his guitar along a conga drum's skin, looking quite pleased with himself. The trumpet player (and likely leader) was a force of nature, alternately blowing and playing a drum on the chair in front of him.
And there was cowbell, lots of cowbell.
The band ended on what they called a funky song, giving the crowd permission to dance and coming out with horns blaring. A few guys shuffled their feet.
Me, I was just basking in the glow of hearing more than my ears could take in.
For all I know, it was the devil's music, too.
Nice segue, don't you think?
My favorite boarding school graduate met me at Garnett's for tea sandwiches, angels on horsebacks and Paul Ponnelle Pinot Noir while bringing me up to date on her life. She'd been here, she'd been there and all on her own.
"I go all by myself everywhere! I'm becoming you except I don't write about it," she said. Must save a lot of time, I concluded.
Then we were off to see "Live at the Globe: Dr. Faustus," the better to satisfy our inner theater nerds. I'd never seen one of these HD-filmed stage productions, much less one filmed at the Globe Theatre where there were people crowded into the pit and leaning on the stage, assuming the groundling roles.
The production was a fine one with detailed Renaissance-era costumes, huge flying dragons and stilt-walkers with enormous fur robes and horns. And live musicians! It was wonderful hearing musical flourishes throughout (cue gong!). Like when the gates of hell opened with the banging of it.
It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.
Bawdy comedy abounded; when a man's head is replaced by a dog's head, he stops to lift his leg and the groundlings under him get a golden shower. Fire was everywhere: inside books, on the nether regions of a haggard wife-to-be.
The story of a man seeking knowledge who sells his soul to the devil ("If this be hell, let me be damned") uses the most beautiful language.
He has a buttock as slick as an eel.
Performances were top notch and the camera gave us wide shots, long shots and the occasional close-up. I might have had one little complaint with the production.
None but thou shall be my paramour.
To better mimic the theater experience, I'd have preferred one fixed camera angle. But that's quibbling.
Thou art fairer than the evening air.
And just like at a play, the audience clapped at the end of the performance. After the curtain call, the cast came back out for a little performance piece, with many in the cast bloody and moving gory puppets as the danced and sang.
Faustus and Mephistopheles came out, grabbed instruments and began doing that old standard, "Dueling Lutes." Faustus yelled, "It's the devils' music!" to much hilarity as the credits rolled.
Where can a person go after experiencing Christopher Marlowe at her neighborhood multi-plex but to Balliceaux for North Carolinian afropop?
Brand New Life was a six piece: guitar, bass, sax, trumpet, percussion, and drums and I arrived for the end of their first set. The sax player was all tousled hair and toe-tapping loafers. The drummer and the percussionist had the kind of young faces that will serve them well when they're 40.
The band's break was spent chatting with a local jazz musician. Best quote from him, "Not everyone's as motivated as you are." I took it as a compliment.
When the band returned, they kicked off in high gear, with the guitarist asking, "Do you want to hear another rock and roll song?" Why would we not? And by rock and roll song, he meant the bass player ditched the upright for an electric and assumed the rocker stance, one leg forward.
No one does rock and roll quite like a bearded jazz nerd.
A friend slipped into the yellow chair next to me during the second set, bringing with him tales of a first date. I got to hear about how two people I introduced got to know each other for the first time. But we only talked in between songs until the show was over.
What I liked about the band's sound was just how much was going on at any one time. With my limited musical vocabulary, I tried to explain this to my friend, who's a musician.
"No, that's the best way to put it," he said, making me feel less stupid. "Like Fela Kuti." Exactly what I meant.
It was during a particularly cacophonous section that there was the sudden sound of glass breaking as a wineglass had danced itself right off the back bar and onto the bar floor. Good vibrations. Actually, it was downright awesome.
During one song, the guitarist slid the neck of his guitar along a conga drum's skin, looking quite pleased with himself. The trumpet player (and likely leader) was a force of nature, alternately blowing and playing a drum on the chair in front of him.
And there was cowbell, lots of cowbell.
The band ended on what they called a funky song, giving the crowd permission to dance and coming out with horns blaring. A few guys shuffled their feet.
Me, I was just basking in the glow of hearing more than my ears could take in.
For all I know, it was the devil's music, too.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
I'd Do Anything
When Plan A falls through, it's lucky that Plan B so easily takes its place.
My road trip plans with me playing fifth wheel to a favorite couple were replaced with an anniversary celebration at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds
To celebrate two years in the 'hood, they had scheduled bands and DJs playing until 8:00.
Somehow, by the time I made it over there to meet up with a girlfriend, it was almost 5.
Where does a beautiful sunny afternoon go?
Our intent had been to check out Steady Sounds' current art show by P.J. Sykes, friend and band photographer extraordinaire.
And it was impressive; there were photographs of the Love Language, Superchunk, Cloud Nothings and Daniel Johnston, among others.
There was even one of Win Butler at the Arcade Fire show in Charlottesville last summer where I'd run into P.J. and his cute wife on possibly the hottest night ever to see an outdoor show.
It made me happy to see that several had already been sold.
As someone who's bought two of P.J.'s photographs myself, I wasn't really surprised.
While we checked out P.J.'s show, we listened to a DJ playing covers of classics like "Starry Eyes" and "We Got the Beat" while an unknown band set up.
"I love that we don't know what we're about to hear," my friend enthused.
It turned out to be Buffalo's Lemuria, a band I hadn't seen since late 2009 at Gallery 5.
Their website is lemuriapop.com, if that tells you anything. And it should.
With a punk power pop sound augmented with dual vocalists of both sexes and unbridled enthusiasm, they played an energetic set that captured everyone in the room.
The band cites the Lemonheads and Superchunk as influences, so fans of '90s indie pop (okay, me and all the kids in the room born that decade) were bound to get off on them.
Both obvious fans (singing every word) and newbies (becoming fans as they heard them for the first time) had the store packed for their brief set.
We left afterwards for 821 Cafe and my favorite black bean nachos with a thrash soundtrack to accompany them.
Some things just don't need to be improved upon.
Everyone I knew was busy tonight, so instead of music, I opted for a last-minute movie.
And not just any movie, but a post-mumblecore film that went a long way toward redefining the cliched romantic comedy genre.
"Your Sister's Sister" had all the mumblecore characteristics - improvised dialogue, believable characters and limited budget - but so convincingly conveyed a sense of real life that it was easy to forget these were actors, not real people.
The story of a 30-something guy who didn't really have his life together but was willing to address his shortcomings for the sake of the right woman was at times funny but also poignant.
He didn't come to that realization until after he's had a one-night stand with her lesbian sister, so that complicated things a bit.
Naturally that transgression was brought on by, what else, too much tequila and I'm here to say that I think tequila gets a bum rap as the go-to bad spirit.
Just for the record, some of us are quite capable of drinking it without making foolish errors in judgement.
But I digress.
I laughed far too loudly at a scene reminiscent of one from my own life (Leo, you know what I'm talking about) and felt the veracity of a relationship where people who've known each other for years haven't recognized their romantic potential.
But mostly it just felt like life, where witty dialogue and unfortunate things come out of the same mouths.
And best of all, it had a totally inconclusive ending that didn't explain a single thing.
Just like real life...or Plan B.
My road trip plans with me playing fifth wheel to a favorite couple were replaced with an anniversary celebration at my neighborhood record store, Steady Sounds
To celebrate two years in the 'hood, they had scheduled bands and DJs playing until 8:00.
Somehow, by the time I made it over there to meet up with a girlfriend, it was almost 5.
Where does a beautiful sunny afternoon go?
Our intent had been to check out Steady Sounds' current art show by P.J. Sykes, friend and band photographer extraordinaire.
And it was impressive; there were photographs of the Love Language, Superchunk, Cloud Nothings and Daniel Johnston, among others.
There was even one of Win Butler at the Arcade Fire show in Charlottesville last summer where I'd run into P.J. and his cute wife on possibly the hottest night ever to see an outdoor show.
It made me happy to see that several had already been sold.
As someone who's bought two of P.J.'s photographs myself, I wasn't really surprised.
While we checked out P.J.'s show, we listened to a DJ playing covers of classics like "Starry Eyes" and "We Got the Beat" while an unknown band set up.
"I love that we don't know what we're about to hear," my friend enthused.
It turned out to be Buffalo's Lemuria, a band I hadn't seen since late 2009 at Gallery 5.
Their website is lemuriapop.com, if that tells you anything. And it should.
With a punk power pop sound augmented with dual vocalists of both sexes and unbridled enthusiasm, they played an energetic set that captured everyone in the room.
The band cites the Lemonheads and Superchunk as influences, so fans of '90s indie pop (okay, me and all the kids in the room born that decade) were bound to get off on them.
Both obvious fans (singing every word) and newbies (becoming fans as they heard them for the first time) had the store packed for their brief set.
We left afterwards for 821 Cafe and my favorite black bean nachos with a thrash soundtrack to accompany them.
Some things just don't need to be improved upon.
Everyone I knew was busy tonight, so instead of music, I opted for a last-minute movie.
And not just any movie, but a post-mumblecore film that went a long way toward redefining the cliched romantic comedy genre.
"Your Sister's Sister" had all the mumblecore characteristics - improvised dialogue, believable characters and limited budget - but so convincingly conveyed a sense of real life that it was easy to forget these were actors, not real people.
The story of a 30-something guy who didn't really have his life together but was willing to address his shortcomings for the sake of the right woman was at times funny but also poignant.
He didn't come to that realization until after he's had a one-night stand with her lesbian sister, so that complicated things a bit.
Naturally that transgression was brought on by, what else, too much tequila and I'm here to say that I think tequila gets a bum rap as the go-to bad spirit.
Just for the record, some of us are quite capable of drinking it without making foolish errors in judgement.
But I digress.
I laughed far too loudly at a scene reminiscent of one from my own life (Leo, you know what I'm talking about) and felt the veracity of a relationship where people who've known each other for years haven't recognized their romantic potential.
But mostly it just felt like life, where witty dialogue and unfortunate things come out of the same mouths.
And best of all, it had a totally inconclusive ending that didn't explain a single thing.
Just like real life...or Plan B.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Party Lines
It's not like I haven't started my day with romantic comedy before.
But today the Bowtie was offering up the fluffy Doris Day/Rock Hudson classic, "Pillow Talk."
1959, holy crap, what a different world that was!
Doris had matching gloves and hats and muffs for every ensemble. Even her jewelry got a credit.
Rock romanced girls by taking them to dinner, then to a club for dancing and then for a drive; who puts that much effort into dating these days?
Single girls in NYC had maids (the always hilarious character actor, Thelma Ritter) and some people had party lines because the city couldn't put in trunk lines fast enough to satisfy the demand for private telephone lines.
Love isn't an opinion, it's a chemical reaction.
One of the best scenes comes in a diner where a couple of customers are supposed to "punch" Tony Randall's character as he sits consoling Doris.
Apparently, the actor actually hit Randall, knocking him unconscious and the shot was so good the director used it.
I hate to admit it, but it was pretty cool to see a person hit for real and pass out. A girl like me (or a guy like my friend) doesn't often see such a thing in one's daily life (or necessarily care to).
But, who am I trying to kid here? I was there for the romance, not the fisticuffs.
It only takes one sip of wine to tell if it's a good bottle.
The love/wine analogy there was anything but subtle.
As the Thelma Ritter character put it, "If there's anything worse than a woman living alone, it's a woman saying she likes it."
I got what she meant, but we don't think things like that in 2012 anymore.
And while I may live alone, I did manage to have a date for "Pillow Talk."
I dig older women.
Now I'll work on finding a muff.
But today the Bowtie was offering up the fluffy Doris Day/Rock Hudson classic, "Pillow Talk."
1959, holy crap, what a different world that was!
Doris had matching gloves and hats and muffs for every ensemble. Even her jewelry got a credit.
Rock romanced girls by taking them to dinner, then to a club for dancing and then for a drive; who puts that much effort into dating these days?
Single girls in NYC had maids (the always hilarious character actor, Thelma Ritter) and some people had party lines because the city couldn't put in trunk lines fast enough to satisfy the demand for private telephone lines.
Love isn't an opinion, it's a chemical reaction.
One of the best scenes comes in a diner where a couple of customers are supposed to "punch" Tony Randall's character as he sits consoling Doris.
Apparently, the actor actually hit Randall, knocking him unconscious and the shot was so good the director used it.
I hate to admit it, but it was pretty cool to see a person hit for real and pass out. A girl like me (or a guy like my friend) doesn't often see such a thing in one's daily life (or necessarily care to).
But, who am I trying to kid here? I was there for the romance, not the fisticuffs.
It only takes one sip of wine to tell if it's a good bottle.
The love/wine analogy there was anything but subtle.
As the Thelma Ritter character put it, "If there's anything worse than a woman living alone, it's a woman saying she likes it."
I got what she meant, but we don't think things like that in 2012 anymore.
And while I may live alone, I did manage to have a date for "Pillow Talk."
I dig older women.
Now I'll work on finding a muff.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Oh, To Be a Sun
I didn't go to see "Anonymous" expecting a documentary about Shakespeare.
Everywhere you turn, the Shakespeare scholars have been up in arms about the movie. Historical inaccuracies! Conspiracy theories! Bogus facts!
Who cares?
The movie was a spectacle and it would have been worth seeing solely for the exterior shots of London, at least to anyone who's been there.
And, yes, I know they were shot with some new technology and not actually fully recreated.
Who cares?
The cast was stellar and the casting of Vanessa Redgrave as the older Queen Elizabeth and her daughter Joely Richardson as the younger Elizabeth positively brilliant.
On the male side, it was a film that could have gotten plenty of extras right here in RVA; everyone with a "Y" chromosome had facial hair of some kind.
And there was plenty of romance. The Earl of Oxford, when questioned by his lover, the Queen, about a dalliance, says, "How could you possibly love the moon when you have first seen the sun?"
It goes without saying that that line got him forgiven.
The group of writers in the play were a funny lot, begrudging each other's successes but also attending their plays and offering moral support in a period when writers did not have an easy go of it.
"Have you ever been arrested?" the king's guard asks the chained poet/playwright Ben Jonson.
"I am a writer!" Jonson says rhetorically. In today's parlance, he could have just as easily said, "Duh!"
Personally, I found the movie to be a rollicking romp through Elizabethan times with the added benefit of a good, if implausible, yarn.
Call me simple, but it's not important to me who wrote the plays I so enjoy seeing produced.
My movie-going companion and I had originally planned to see "My Fair Lady" until I asked if she'd prefer seeing "Anonymous" instead.
"Yea, I heard it was rad," she responded succinctly.
From where I sat, that's the perfect adjective to describe a thriller about Shakespeare being a fraud.
But don't take my word for it. I'm a writer!
Everywhere you turn, the Shakespeare scholars have been up in arms about the movie. Historical inaccuracies! Conspiracy theories! Bogus facts!
Who cares?
The movie was a spectacle and it would have been worth seeing solely for the exterior shots of London, at least to anyone who's been there.
And, yes, I know they were shot with some new technology and not actually fully recreated.
Who cares?
The cast was stellar and the casting of Vanessa Redgrave as the older Queen Elizabeth and her daughter Joely Richardson as the younger Elizabeth positively brilliant.
On the male side, it was a film that could have gotten plenty of extras right here in RVA; everyone with a "Y" chromosome had facial hair of some kind.
And there was plenty of romance. The Earl of Oxford, when questioned by his lover, the Queen, about a dalliance, says, "How could you possibly love the moon when you have first seen the sun?"
It goes without saying that that line got him forgiven.
The group of writers in the play were a funny lot, begrudging each other's successes but also attending their plays and offering moral support in a period when writers did not have an easy go of it.
"Have you ever been arrested?" the king's guard asks the chained poet/playwright Ben Jonson.
"I am a writer!" Jonson says rhetorically. In today's parlance, he could have just as easily said, "Duh!"
Personally, I found the movie to be a rollicking romp through Elizabethan times with the added benefit of a good, if implausible, yarn.
Call me simple, but it's not important to me who wrote the plays I so enjoy seeing produced.
My movie-going companion and I had originally planned to see "My Fair Lady" until I asked if she'd prefer seeing "Anonymous" instead.
"Yea, I heard it was rad," she responded succinctly.
From where I sat, that's the perfect adjective to describe a thriller about Shakespeare being a fraud.
But don't take my word for it. I'm a writer!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Man That Got Away
I'll never finish my movie bucket list at the rate I'm going, but I checked off another one today.
Since I don't watch movies at home, I have to wait for the ones I want to see to show up in theaters, so it's not a terribly efficient process.
Life is not about efficiency, though.
But Movieland's Movies and Mimosas was showing the 1954 version of "A Star is Born" with Judy Garland and James Mason, so I had to go.
Having recently finished David O. Selznick's overblown bography (appropriately, a 700-page tome), I had read the laborious behind-the-scenes story of the 1937 version of this movie being made so I was curious to see the remake.
It's l-o-n-g.
I knew that it had been cut for its original theatrical release to two and a half hours, but apparently that lost footage was restored in the 80s so it's back to a full three-hour spectacle with intermission.
And it is a spectacle, between all the scenes of shooting big Hollywood musicals and living the movie star life in 50s-era Tinsel Town.
I am fascinated by scenes of old-school night clubs, lamps glowing on each table, women in evening clothes, a live band or orchestra providing the entertainment and a sense of glamour that seems very long ago.
On the other hand, when Garland's character complains about being on tour with a band and having to wash her gloves in motel sinks, I can appreciate the evolution of the expectations of women.
Because the story is a romance, there were many touching moments, perhaps the sweetest being when she performs for him, singing, dancing and clowning, in their living room.
She is trying to make him laugh (and succeeds), easily one of the most romantic things a person can do to another.
But for sheer grand gesture, when he takes her lipstick from her hand when they first meet and uses it to draw a heart with their initials in it on the wall, both Garland and I were smitten.
Granted, it did use up the better part of a good lipstick.
Still, I'm a sucker for seeing things in writing.
Even when it's only in a movie.
Since I don't watch movies at home, I have to wait for the ones I want to see to show up in theaters, so it's not a terribly efficient process.
Life is not about efficiency, though.
But Movieland's Movies and Mimosas was showing the 1954 version of "A Star is Born" with Judy Garland and James Mason, so I had to go.
Having recently finished David O. Selznick's overblown bography (appropriately, a 700-page tome), I had read the laborious behind-the-scenes story of the 1937 version of this movie being made so I was curious to see the remake.
It's l-o-n-g.
I knew that it had been cut for its original theatrical release to two and a half hours, but apparently that lost footage was restored in the 80s so it's back to a full three-hour spectacle with intermission.
And it is a spectacle, between all the scenes of shooting big Hollywood musicals and living the movie star life in 50s-era Tinsel Town.
I am fascinated by scenes of old-school night clubs, lamps glowing on each table, women in evening clothes, a live band or orchestra providing the entertainment and a sense of glamour that seems very long ago.
On the other hand, when Garland's character complains about being on tour with a band and having to wash her gloves in motel sinks, I can appreciate the evolution of the expectations of women.
Because the story is a romance, there were many touching moments, perhaps the sweetest being when she performs for him, singing, dancing and clowning, in their living room.
She is trying to make him laugh (and succeeds), easily one of the most romantic things a person can do to another.
But for sheer grand gesture, when he takes her lipstick from her hand when they first meet and uses it to draw a heart with their initials in it on the wall, both Garland and I were smitten.
Granted, it did use up the better part of a good lipstick.
Still, I'm a sucker for seeing things in writing.
Even when it's only in a movie.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
I Like to Watch
I could probably make a case for myself as a non-sexual voyeur.
The fact is, I like to watch people...at restaurants, at shows, at museums, at the beach, almost anywhere really.
It can be fascinating to try to figure out something about the people and interactions I witness, especially when I'm with a like-minded person.
Which means I couldn't pass up one of the best voyeur films of all times, Hitchcock's "Rear Window" showing at the Bowtie's Movies and Mimosas this morning.
Rallying a couple of Hitchcock lovers to go with me, we settled in the raised front row to enjoy a film that continues to be suspenseful despite multiple viewings over the years. Hats off to the master.
But aside from Grace Kelly's beauty (and wardrobe) and Jimmy Stewart's classic low-key delivery and perennial bachelor charm, it's all about sharing the Peeping Tom experience with the characters in the movie.
I've never lived in a building that afforded me the kind of multiple views that Stewart had from his apartment but I feel quite certain that I'd be as sucked in by the tableaux as he was.
Of course, part of the premise of the film was that it took place during a summer heat wave, so everyone had their windows open.
Heat wave or not, I have my windows open from April through October, so, like in the movie, it's often voices, someone's music or an unidentifiable sound that pulls me to my front windows to see what's happening on the sidewalk or street.
My rear windows provide a view of the alley overlooking my backyard, which is rarely as interesting or as busy as the street view.
But I have seen a couple torridly kissing and a party attendee relieving himself back there. The best time for good alley viewing seems to be during neighborhood parties when I get home late.
Of course, the real takeaway from "Rear Window" was simply that the convalescing Stewart had to turn to his neighbor's windows for entertainment while his broken leg healed. It was 1954 after all.
Now a person would simply turn to his computer, TV or video games to be entertained instead. Or even sit there looking at their phone as a diversion; I see that all the time, although, Luddite that I am, I don't quite get it.
"We've become a race of Peeping Toms.What people ought to do is get outside their own house and look in for a change. Yes, sir. How's that for a bit of homespun philosophy?"
So with all our modern distractions, we may not be the voyeurs we were in 1954, but the advice is probably just as relevant.
Resolved: I'm on my way out in order to look in.
I just can't imagine I'll be anywhere near as interesting as some of the other people I watch.
What I can be is as hot as the people in a 1954 heat wave, but I'm okay with that.
"You'd think the rain would have cooled things down. All it did was make the heat wet."
All the more reason to leave my windows open. Front and rear.
The fact is, I like to watch people...at restaurants, at shows, at museums, at the beach, almost anywhere really.
It can be fascinating to try to figure out something about the people and interactions I witness, especially when I'm with a like-minded person.
Which means I couldn't pass up one of the best voyeur films of all times, Hitchcock's "Rear Window" showing at the Bowtie's Movies and Mimosas this morning.
Rallying a couple of Hitchcock lovers to go with me, we settled in the raised front row to enjoy a film that continues to be suspenseful despite multiple viewings over the years. Hats off to the master.
But aside from Grace Kelly's beauty (and wardrobe) and Jimmy Stewart's classic low-key delivery and perennial bachelor charm, it's all about sharing the Peeping Tom experience with the characters in the movie.
I've never lived in a building that afforded me the kind of multiple views that Stewart had from his apartment but I feel quite certain that I'd be as sucked in by the tableaux as he was.
Of course, part of the premise of the film was that it took place during a summer heat wave, so everyone had their windows open.
Heat wave or not, I have my windows open from April through October, so, like in the movie, it's often voices, someone's music or an unidentifiable sound that pulls me to my front windows to see what's happening on the sidewalk or street.
My rear windows provide a view of the alley overlooking my backyard, which is rarely as interesting or as busy as the street view.
But I have seen a couple torridly kissing and a party attendee relieving himself back there. The best time for good alley viewing seems to be during neighborhood parties when I get home late.
Of course, the real takeaway from "Rear Window" was simply that the convalescing Stewart had to turn to his neighbor's windows for entertainment while his broken leg healed. It was 1954 after all.
Now a person would simply turn to his computer, TV or video games to be entertained instead. Or even sit there looking at their phone as a diversion; I see that all the time, although, Luddite that I am, I don't quite get it.
"We've become a race of Peeping Toms.What people ought to do is get outside their own house and look in for a change. Yes, sir. How's that for a bit of homespun philosophy?"
So with all our modern distractions, we may not be the voyeurs we were in 1954, but the advice is probably just as relevant.
Resolved: I'm on my way out in order to look in.
I just can't imagine I'll be anywhere near as interesting as some of the other people I watch.
What I can be is as hot as the people in a 1954 heat wave, but I'm okay with that.
"You'd think the rain would have cooled things down. All it did was make the heat wet."
All the more reason to leave my windows open. Front and rear.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Mommie Dearest Okays Wire Hangers
In a twisted nod to Mother's Day (I'm guessing), the Bowtie was showing 1981's "Mommie Dearest," a film I hadn't seen, despite recognizing some of the cultural references to it (maybe because I had read the book?).
It didn't attract a big crowd, but those there were enthusiasts in a way I didn't expect.
I'm not sure if it was Joan Crawford or Faye Dunaway playing JC that inspired such passion for the movie.
One of the guys in the group next to me leaned over to say that "I didn't bring the ice cubes and wire hangers, but I might have to say some dialog along with the movie. Fair warning."
The line that got the loudest audience participation was "Don't fuck with me fellas. This ain't my first time at the rodeo," delivered when Crawford was telling the board of directors at Pepsi Cola that they couldn't toss her off the board just because her husband had died.
The film's high camp made it clear what a good midnight movie it must have been, but it also portrayed a deeply disturbed woman (bipolar, alcoholic) who should have never been allowed to adopt children, much less raise them.
And that got me to thinking about my own mother on Mother's Day Eve.
Unlike Crawford, she was a great mother, if a bit of a worrier (a trait I didn't inherit). And, yes, she was fine with wire hangers.
Looking back, I see where the rules she put in place for me (and my five younger sisters) covered all the important areas of life. Witness:
1. You can always have fruit, even five minutes before a meal. By making fruit constantly accessible, we all developed a love of it. I still grab a clementine or handful of grapes as I'm going out the door to dinner.
2. You don't have to turn out the light at bedtime as long as you're in bed reading. What kid isn't going to defy bedtime with a good book then? All six of us grew up to be avid readers (albeit of very different things; don't recommend chick lit to me) because of this rule.
3. When you lay down on a beach towel in a bikini, your stomach will be flat. Every time one of us complained about our body or feeling fat as teenagers, she reminded us of this fact (it took a few years to realize it was a metaphor). And she was right; we looked great stretched out on the sand (and probably the rest of the time, too).
4. If your hair doesn't look nice, it doesn't matter how great the rest of you looks. Every one of us has thick stick-straight hair, but as long as it was clean and brushed, it counted as looking nice, at least to her (although she loved it when we curled it...and I still do).
5. And the bedrock of her rules for children (and probably essential for a large brood): Never intentionally hurt someone's feelings. Think how your words will affect who you're talking to and adjust what you say accordingly.
I know how lucky I am to have been raised by a mother like mine rather than one like Miss Joan Crawford.
And my mother undoubtedly knows that I'll never write a nasty tell-all book about her.
So to Mom, Happy Mother's Day from Number One Daughter.
It didn't attract a big crowd, but those there were enthusiasts in a way I didn't expect.
I'm not sure if it was Joan Crawford or Faye Dunaway playing JC that inspired such passion for the movie.
One of the guys in the group next to me leaned over to say that "I didn't bring the ice cubes and wire hangers, but I might have to say some dialog along with the movie. Fair warning."
The line that got the loudest audience participation was "Don't fuck with me fellas. This ain't my first time at the rodeo," delivered when Crawford was telling the board of directors at Pepsi Cola that they couldn't toss her off the board just because her husband had died.
The film's high camp made it clear what a good midnight movie it must have been, but it also portrayed a deeply disturbed woman (bipolar, alcoholic) who should have never been allowed to adopt children, much less raise them.
And that got me to thinking about my own mother on Mother's Day Eve.
Unlike Crawford, she was a great mother, if a bit of a worrier (a trait I didn't inherit). And, yes, she was fine with wire hangers.
Looking back, I see where the rules she put in place for me (and my five younger sisters) covered all the important areas of life. Witness:
1. You can always have fruit, even five minutes before a meal. By making fruit constantly accessible, we all developed a love of it. I still grab a clementine or handful of grapes as I'm going out the door to dinner.
2. You don't have to turn out the light at bedtime as long as you're in bed reading. What kid isn't going to defy bedtime with a good book then? All six of us grew up to be avid readers (albeit of very different things; don't recommend chick lit to me) because of this rule.
3. When you lay down on a beach towel in a bikini, your stomach will be flat. Every time one of us complained about our body or feeling fat as teenagers, she reminded us of this fact (it took a few years to realize it was a metaphor). And she was right; we looked great stretched out on the sand (and probably the rest of the time, too).
4. If your hair doesn't look nice, it doesn't matter how great the rest of you looks. Every one of us has thick stick-straight hair, but as long as it was clean and brushed, it counted as looking nice, at least to her (although she loved it when we curled it...and I still do).
5. And the bedrock of her rules for children (and probably essential for a large brood): Never intentionally hurt someone's feelings. Think how your words will affect who you're talking to and adjust what you say accordingly.
I know how lucky I am to have been raised by a mother like mine rather than one like Miss Joan Crawford.
And my mother undoubtedly knows that I'll never write a nasty tell-all book about her.
So to Mom, Happy Mother's Day from Number One Daughter.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Let's Go Fly a Kite
Of all his studio's movies, the one Walt Disney himself felt was his crowning achievement was "Mary Poppins." I would never have guessed that.
Having not seen it on a big screen, I was among those who spent the cool, gray morning watching it at the Bowtie and trying to figure out what it was about this movie that swelled Walt's chest. Maybe I should have had a mimosa first before trying to do a film analysis.
So here goes.
Maybe it was its topicality, focusing on first wave feminism at a time when second-wave feminism was a very hot topic.
Though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they're rather stupid.
Maybe it was the combination of physical and verbal humor provided by both real action figures as well as animated characters, a robotic bird and a talking umbrella. Probably pretty impressive stuff, circa 1964.
Kindly do not attempt to cloud the issue with facts.
Maybe it was because it was nearing the end of the large-scale musical era and this was one big musical extravaganza. Characters broke into song from the first moments of the film to the very end where Mary Poppins floats away, umbrella in hand, chorus rising behind her. And the chimney sweep scene atop the rooftops of London is a dance-lover's delight.
That's a piecrust promise. Easily made, easily broken.
Maybe it was just that he was glad to finally get the damn thing made. Supposedly it took two and a half years to get all the songs written. It took over a hundred glass and matte paintings to recreate the London skyline of 1910, although there were frequent disconcerting switches from day sky to night sky throughout the entire film. Or were we not supposed to notice?
Gone off his crumpet, that's what he's done. Dotty as you please.
Coming in at two hours and twenty minutes the film was probably longer than it would be if it were made today. But I'm willing to bet that it also couldn't have the charm of the original if remade now.
I have to admit, seeing the wires that pull the characters up in the air was actually kind of endearing. In a 1964 kind of way, of course.
My guess is that Walt Disney never even noticed them.
Having not seen it on a big screen, I was among those who spent the cool, gray morning watching it at the Bowtie and trying to figure out what it was about this movie that swelled Walt's chest. Maybe I should have had a mimosa first before trying to do a film analysis.
So here goes.
Maybe it was its topicality, focusing on first wave feminism at a time when second-wave feminism was a very hot topic.
Though we adore men individually, we agree that as a group they're rather stupid.
Maybe it was the combination of physical and verbal humor provided by both real action figures as well as animated characters, a robotic bird and a talking umbrella. Probably pretty impressive stuff, circa 1964.
Kindly do not attempt to cloud the issue with facts.
Maybe it was because it was nearing the end of the large-scale musical era and this was one big musical extravaganza. Characters broke into song from the first moments of the film to the very end where Mary Poppins floats away, umbrella in hand, chorus rising behind her. And the chimney sweep scene atop the rooftops of London is a dance-lover's delight.
That's a piecrust promise. Easily made, easily broken.
Maybe it was just that he was glad to finally get the damn thing made. Supposedly it took two and a half years to get all the songs written. It took over a hundred glass and matte paintings to recreate the London skyline of 1910, although there were frequent disconcerting switches from day sky to night sky throughout the entire film. Or were we not supposed to notice?
Gone off his crumpet, that's what he's done. Dotty as you please.
Coming in at two hours and twenty minutes the film was probably longer than it would be if it were made today. But I'm willing to bet that it also couldn't have the charm of the original if remade now.
I have to admit, seeing the wires that pull the characters up in the air was actually kind of endearing. In a 1964 kind of way, of course.
My guess is that Walt Disney never even noticed them.
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