Not to start out too deep, but life is all about timing.
There have been certain instances in my life when I knew that a good thing was happening to me, but it wasn't the right time to accept it. Other times, I feel like my arms were wide open to whatever life handed me, but nothing appropriate came into them.
The biggest lesson of my life happened when I was 28 and it taught me that I have absolutely no control over what awful things could be dropped in my lap.
It was also a gift that convinced me that I'd had my lowest point and nothing could ever destroy me like that again. Of course, I was wrong.
These days, I'm really quite happy with my life, simple as it is. I feel lucky to have the people I do in my life and fortunate to still get so much pleasure out of what I do.
Would I change a few things if I could? No doubt. Am I complaining about where I am? Not a chance.
Tonight's adventure began at Graffiato's early, meaning when I walked in, it was uncrowded enough that I could actually hear the music (Goo Goo Dolls, Tom Petty, Bowie) and there were plenty of bar stools available for dinner. At that point the staff outnumbered the guests three to one and I saw more than one restaurant owner was in attendance.
Taking advantage of happy hour, Montelvini Prosecco on tap was procured, followed by a plate of cheeses- Grayson and Bianco Sardo- and meat -finocchiona, a fennel Tuscan salami, served on slate with all the usual suspects.
Pickled veggies, you are as ubiquitous as tattoos in this town.
Conversation was more focused than usual, defining, designating, qualifying and planning for a project that has its seeds in a decade-old idea.
Finally, it's time to walk the walk.
As customers - the kind who like to sit at tables and not the bar - began to arrive and with plans for a movie, we moved on to entrees: satisfying gnocchi with pork ragu and whipped ricotta followed by rich, meaty monkfish with farro and gremolata.
I'm getting used to the showmanship of the food runners who not only bring the plates but deliver a detailed explanation of what you're getting along with a spoon, whether you need it or not (um, a spoon for a meat and cheese board?).
Easy as it would have been to linger for more Prosecco, we had a movie to catch at the Westhampton, "Love is Strange" with John Lithgow and Alfred Molina.
Having just last month seen Lithgow in "The World According to Garp," although he was 38 in that and he was 69 (and playing a 79-year old) in tonight's film, it was fascinating to see a more recent representation of his superb acting skills.
The story of two gay men who have been together for 39 years was sweet, romantic and a reminder that marriage can still get a gay person let go from a church-related job. Is this not 2014?
Most of the film revolved around them having to temporarily bunk with relatives after they sell their apartment when one partner loses his job.
The story sails along with family interruptions, comic moments and couple tenderness when the two can be alone and then suddenly there's a huge surprise that I never saw coming. It's sad and surprising/not surprising at the same time.
Is anyone ever truly ready for whatever life hands them? Of course not. We adapt, adjust and regroup, we're mended at the places that broke but we're also changed for good.
Sometimes there's still time to move on changed, but not always. Who doesn't remember what our mothers told us about life being fair?
So after an exquisitely acted film, the only logical thing to do was stop for a nightcap and discuss the film, the bartender's path in life and chat with the woman who, when "Sweet Caroline" came on, told me she's been known to dance in the window of the bar when it plays.
After her jukebox picks ended, I insisted on making some of my own selections, to which she retorted, "I'll tell you if I don't like them." No doubt.
With her in mind, I went old school - Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Jackson Browne, Al Green- and she didn't badmouth a single one. That said, she was also outside smoking cigarettes much of the time.
When "Cracklin' Rosie" came on, she exploded with happiness singing along and when her man finally dragged her out, she again reminded me to come back when she's drunk so I can see her dancing in the front window.
Since it's hard to say when that might be, I stand a good chance of never seeing her dance in the window, much as I might want to. Timing.
Then again, life could surprise me with something so much better I'll forget all about her. Lucky timing.
For better or for worse, always the optimist.
Showing posts with label westhampton theater. Show all posts
Showing posts with label westhampton theater. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Friday, July 18, 2014
Stick with Me, Baby
Luck was a lady pretty much all day for me.
After concerns and re-testing - this time requiring not only X-rays but ultrasounds - my second medical appointment of the week ultimately delivered negative results.
After not seeing a close friend for a month, we managed to fit in a last minute, long lunch with her 10-month old crushing on me hard (perhaps related to me giving him not only his first captain's wafers but his first whipped cream) while leaving a minefield of sweet potato tots under his high chair.
When we finally parted, he gave me a look of betrayal for abandoning him to his mother. "Boys never like it when Karen leaves," she jokes.
And when it came time to plan the evening, I knew I wanted to take it easy with a classic dinner and a movie date.
Collecting my friend Gigi - currently afflicted with galloping consumption - I drove directly to Lemon Cuisine of India for dinner, just in case.
I had no smelling salts with me.
There, the waiter not only recognized her but knew her usual order (chicken tikka masala), a good thing since when she decided to break bad and order lamb masala for a change, he told us they were out of lamb on a Friday night.
"Someone forgot to order lamb," she sniffed.
I wasn't enough of a regular to know anyone. Well, except for the poet at the next table who chatted with me about the current VCU library renovations, promising the return of poetry readings in the Fall.
While I'm no fan of Fall (summer's my season), at least there's that to look forward to.
For dinner, I made an excellent choice with shrimp madras, a plate of jumbo shrimp sauteed in and topped by a crunchy, madras spice blend over pink peppercorn-mint raita.
The spice of her tikka masala acted like a tonic to her compromised body and before long we were carrying on about dullard exes, people who don't read and Kurt Vonnegut. She even spent time trying to convince me I should be on Pinterest.
I don't know about all that, but I knew we had a movie to see.
In line at the Westhampton, the guy behind us said loudly and sarcastically, "Richmond has such long lines!" There were four people in front of him, hence the joke, but it led to talk of why a town this size needs a traffic helicopter to see a three car backup.
Yes, I assumed he, like Gigi and me, is a come-here.
Full of Indian, we opted out of popcorn and found seats in the front row for "Begin Again," a film which had surprised Gigi when I suggested it.
True, it's got big name stars in it, but also it's by the Irish director of "Once" and music is involved, so I wanted to take a chance on it.
The little upstairs theater was surprisingly full considering what a beautiful evening it was, but since most of them appeared to be couples, it was more about date night than weather, I think.
Mark Ruffalo (whom I didn't recognize but Gigi insisted I'd seen before...only I looked up his films and I haven't seen a one) did a terrific job as Dan, the alcoholic, down-on-his-luck former record producer and Kiera Knightley bravely voiced her own songs as Gretta, the waifish (as if Kiera could play anything else) singer who refuses to sell out.
Adam Levine was the self-involved singer boyfriend whose career is just taking off and leaves her in the dust.
As someone who once sat through an amphitheater full of screaming girls at a Maroon 5 concert in August 2004, seeing it on the big screen was like deja vu.
The plot followed Gretta as Dan helped her make an album, recording each song in a different place in NYC over the course of the summer with a ragtag group of musicians.
So, yes, I liked the movie because it had to do with music. "You can tell a lot about a person by their playlist," she tells him, embarrassed at some of the guilty pleasures on her device.
In the olden days, we used to say that about a person's book and record collection.
My favorite scene showed the two of them walking down street using a splitter and headphones to listen to her music.
He was impressed with Sinatra's "Luck, Be a Lady," but it was when Stevie Wonder's "For Once in My Life" came on that she went crazy, half dancing as they walked.
"Okay, okay, we gotta go dance," she tells him and they duck into a nearby club, headphones still on, to dance to Stevie while all around them people are dancing to something else.
Very romantic, if you ask me.
She half apologizes for "As Time Goes By" but it leads him to talking about how music changes everyday banalities into transcendent pearls of wisdom as they watch the theater of the street elevated by what they're listening to.
Tell me something I don't already know.
And on a night when I don't intend to be out until 2 a.m. but still want to enjoy every minute, a movie about music will do nicely.
"Where are you going dancing after this?" Gigi asks when I drop her off.
That's for another night.
After concerns and re-testing - this time requiring not only X-rays but ultrasounds - my second medical appointment of the week ultimately delivered negative results.
After not seeing a close friend for a month, we managed to fit in a last minute, long lunch with her 10-month old crushing on me hard (perhaps related to me giving him not only his first captain's wafers but his first whipped cream) while leaving a minefield of sweet potato tots under his high chair.
When we finally parted, he gave me a look of betrayal for abandoning him to his mother. "Boys never like it when Karen leaves," she jokes.
And when it came time to plan the evening, I knew I wanted to take it easy with a classic dinner and a movie date.
Collecting my friend Gigi - currently afflicted with galloping consumption - I drove directly to Lemon Cuisine of India for dinner, just in case.
I had no smelling salts with me.
There, the waiter not only recognized her but knew her usual order (chicken tikka masala), a good thing since when she decided to break bad and order lamb masala for a change, he told us they were out of lamb on a Friday night.
"Someone forgot to order lamb," she sniffed.
I wasn't enough of a regular to know anyone. Well, except for the poet at the next table who chatted with me about the current VCU library renovations, promising the return of poetry readings in the Fall.
While I'm no fan of Fall (summer's my season), at least there's that to look forward to.
For dinner, I made an excellent choice with shrimp madras, a plate of jumbo shrimp sauteed in and topped by a crunchy, madras spice blend over pink peppercorn-mint raita.
The spice of her tikka masala acted like a tonic to her compromised body and before long we were carrying on about dullard exes, people who don't read and Kurt Vonnegut. She even spent time trying to convince me I should be on Pinterest.
I don't know about all that, but I knew we had a movie to see.
In line at the Westhampton, the guy behind us said loudly and sarcastically, "Richmond has such long lines!" There were four people in front of him, hence the joke, but it led to talk of why a town this size needs a traffic helicopter to see a three car backup.
Yes, I assumed he, like Gigi and me, is a come-here.
Full of Indian, we opted out of popcorn and found seats in the front row for "Begin Again," a film which had surprised Gigi when I suggested it.
True, it's got big name stars in it, but also it's by the Irish director of "Once" and music is involved, so I wanted to take a chance on it.
The little upstairs theater was surprisingly full considering what a beautiful evening it was, but since most of them appeared to be couples, it was more about date night than weather, I think.
Mark Ruffalo (whom I didn't recognize but Gigi insisted I'd seen before...only I looked up his films and I haven't seen a one) did a terrific job as Dan, the alcoholic, down-on-his-luck former record producer and Kiera Knightley bravely voiced her own songs as Gretta, the waifish (as if Kiera could play anything else) singer who refuses to sell out.
Adam Levine was the self-involved singer boyfriend whose career is just taking off and leaves her in the dust.
As someone who once sat through an amphitheater full of screaming girls at a Maroon 5 concert in August 2004, seeing it on the big screen was like deja vu.
The plot followed Gretta as Dan helped her make an album, recording each song in a different place in NYC over the course of the summer with a ragtag group of musicians.
So, yes, I liked the movie because it had to do with music. "You can tell a lot about a person by their playlist," she tells him, embarrassed at some of the guilty pleasures on her device.
In the olden days, we used to say that about a person's book and record collection.
My favorite scene showed the two of them walking down street using a splitter and headphones to listen to her music.
He was impressed with Sinatra's "Luck, Be a Lady," but it was when Stevie Wonder's "For Once in My Life" came on that she went crazy, half dancing as they walked.
"Okay, okay, we gotta go dance," she tells him and they duck into a nearby club, headphones still on, to dance to Stevie while all around them people are dancing to something else.
Very romantic, if you ask me.
She half apologizes for "As Time Goes By" but it leads him to talking about how music changes everyday banalities into transcendent pearls of wisdom as they watch the theater of the street elevated by what they're listening to.
Tell me something I don't already know.
And on a night when I don't intend to be out until 2 a.m. but still want to enjoy every minute, a movie about music will do nicely.
"Where are you going dancing after this?" Gigi asks when I drop her off.
That's for another night.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Permission to Mount
Love is the only interesting thing. It's far more difficult than sex.
When you've had a long three days - sore hamstrings, insufficient sleep, a packed schedule - there is no distraction quite like a British comedy and popcorn for dinner with a girlfriend.
Well, perhaps a weekend away with a boyfriend, but that seemed unlikely on a Tuesday night, so I invited Pru to join me for "Le Week-End," a bittersweet romantic comedy (drama?) at the Westhampton.
Given the nearly 80-degree weather, the patio at the Continental next door to the theater was mobbed with people quaffing a bevvy and talking loudly to each other.
Clearly, the goal of most people today was to enjoy the fine weather, while Pru and I closeted ourselves away indoors with maybe eight others for a film that unfolded like a series of life events more than a film.
Her: You make my blood boil like no one else.
Him: That's the sign of a deep and true connection.
The film was set in Paris where a Birmingham, England couple married for 30 years take a long weekend to celebrate their anniversary and/or end their marriage. The jury seems to be out on which one they'll do.
In terms of visuals, the film was beautiful, showing Paris as a place of grand hotels with flowering window boxes, close-up views of the twinkling lights on the Eiffel Tower at night and a series of bistros and cafes with chefs fileting fish and shucking oysters in front windows to tempt passers by.
You'll be sorry that you never loved me enough.
The acting was superb with Jim Broadbent and Lindsay Duncan conveying middle-aged people not satisfied with the status quo.
Experienced enough to realize the importance of having been together for 30 years but still adventurous enough to consider trying something different if it'll make them happier, the film struck a balance between what was and what might be.
Would it be okay for me to bravely mount you?
Besides terrific performances, the script was spot on, completely believable in how long-time couples can pick at each other and still be very much in love. Kind of like my parents twenty years ago. Or now, with more wrinkles.
At every turn, I was never sure what might happen next and found myself continually surprised at how this couple handled playing tourist, going to a party of strangers hosted by the reliably hilarious and handsome Jeff Goldblum (as an American in Paris) and dealing with each other when others intrude on their lives.
These days a man still wanting to make love to his wife is practically a far-out perversion.
Part of the film's appeal is the recollections of their youth, the '60s and '70s, when idealism still ruled their choices and they hadn't let the burden of life crush their spirits.
And yet, both know deep down that everything is still achievable. He wants to write a book, she wants to be a painter and dance more. He wants more sex, she wants more romance.
Pru and I agreed in our post-movie discussion that the beauty of "Le Week-End" was how vividly it depicted the challenges of middle-aged romance, a far cry from starry-eyed relationships of youth, but not without its own kind of optimism.
Mistakes made mean lessons learned and potential for relationship successes that weren't possible earlier.
Him: People don't change
Her: They do, they get worse.
Maybe that's true, but how else do old dogs learn new tricks? All I'm saying is, in my experience, old dogs can be very sweet.
Try me again and I promise I'll be more fun this time.
Tonight, just what I needed.
When you've had a long three days - sore hamstrings, insufficient sleep, a packed schedule - there is no distraction quite like a British comedy and popcorn for dinner with a girlfriend.
Well, perhaps a weekend away with a boyfriend, but that seemed unlikely on a Tuesday night, so I invited Pru to join me for "Le Week-End," a bittersweet romantic comedy (drama?) at the Westhampton.
Given the nearly 80-degree weather, the patio at the Continental next door to the theater was mobbed with people quaffing a bevvy and talking loudly to each other.
Clearly, the goal of most people today was to enjoy the fine weather, while Pru and I closeted ourselves away indoors with maybe eight others for a film that unfolded like a series of life events more than a film.
Her: You make my blood boil like no one else.
Him: That's the sign of a deep and true connection.
The film was set in Paris where a Birmingham, England couple married for 30 years take a long weekend to celebrate their anniversary and/or end their marriage. The jury seems to be out on which one they'll do.
In terms of visuals, the film was beautiful, showing Paris as a place of grand hotels with flowering window boxes, close-up views of the twinkling lights on the Eiffel Tower at night and a series of bistros and cafes with chefs fileting fish and shucking oysters in front windows to tempt passers by.
You'll be sorry that you never loved me enough.
The acting was superb with Jim Broadbent and Lindsay Duncan conveying middle-aged people not satisfied with the status quo.
Experienced enough to realize the importance of having been together for 30 years but still adventurous enough to consider trying something different if it'll make them happier, the film struck a balance between what was and what might be.
Would it be okay for me to bravely mount you?
Besides terrific performances, the script was spot on, completely believable in how long-time couples can pick at each other and still be very much in love. Kind of like my parents twenty years ago. Or now, with more wrinkles.
At every turn, I was never sure what might happen next and found myself continually surprised at how this couple handled playing tourist, going to a party of strangers hosted by the reliably hilarious and handsome Jeff Goldblum (as an American in Paris) and dealing with each other when others intrude on their lives.
These days a man still wanting to make love to his wife is practically a far-out perversion.
Part of the film's appeal is the recollections of their youth, the '60s and '70s, when idealism still ruled their choices and they hadn't let the burden of life crush their spirits.
And yet, both know deep down that everything is still achievable. He wants to write a book, she wants to be a painter and dance more. He wants more sex, she wants more romance.
Pru and I agreed in our post-movie discussion that the beauty of "Le Week-End" was how vividly it depicted the challenges of middle-aged romance, a far cry from starry-eyed relationships of youth, but not without its own kind of optimism.
Mistakes made mean lessons learned and potential for relationship successes that weren't possible earlier.
Him: People don't change
Her: They do, they get worse.
Maybe that's true, but how else do old dogs learn new tricks? All I'm saying is, in my experience, old dogs can be very sweet.
Try me again and I promise I'll be more fun this time.
Tonight, just what I needed.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Cut to Life
It was literally banner news.
Walking through my beloved Jackson Ward last week, I'd seen a sign hanging on Mama J's proclaiming, "Open on Monday."
They didn't have to tell me twice.
A) It's a few blocks from home and B) it's open on a night when so many are not.
Tonight's partner in crime and I rolled in early so we could catch a movie and, just in case, avoid the crowds.
At 5:15, we had our pick of seats and took two prime bar stools with a view of the cake cabinet.
By 6:00, every single table and stool were taken. It pays to know what you're doing.
And it helps to be a neighbor.
The bartender immediately recognized me and welcomed us back, detailing happy hour specials on libations and wings.
But the cakes in the cabinet were too alluring not to admire first, so we tried to figure out which cakes on the chalkboard were still available.
My companion was leaning toward the strawberry lemon cake when a server got it out of the case and cut the last two slices.
Knowing how it works at Mama's we immediately lamented not having called dibs on a piece of that cake.
The server took one of the two she'd cut and laid it in front of us. The last piece.
Whew, that was a close one.
Since he'd picked the cake, I got to choose dinner, opting for Mama's seafood salad followed by country fried steak smothered in onion and pepper gravy and mashed potatoes with more gravy.
It's rare that I can refrain from ordering Mama's fried chicken, but I stayed strong.
The reward was on the plate.
Mama's seafood salad combines elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a mayo and Old Bay-based dressing.
It's a fitting start to any meal at Mama's.
The fried steak had a wonderfully flavorful breading, perfectly fried and still crispy despite a liberal ladling of (red and green pepper and onion) gravy sitting atop it.
We were half way through when a server not our own came over to ask, "How are y'all doing with your food?"
"Great," the monosyllabic one said, while I went with, "Wonderful!"
"I like her answer," the server said, filling a water glass and smiling broadly. "She had to close her eyes to answer."
Yes, I did.
Say what you want about the lowly country fried steak (the inferior cut of beef, all the tenderizing required, the requisite gravy to hide any shortcomings), it's a tasty dish when done as well as this was.
Even the mashed potatoes were a treat, full of bits of red skin and seasoned to be a standalone and not just a vehicle for gravy.
While we ate, a woman came in for a piece of cake to go.
She requested the coconut pineapple and when our server went to cut it for her, he mentioned that it was his favorite.
After cutting and boxing her piece, he put the last piece of that cake in a box and set it behind the bar.
"Is that for you?" the customer asked, laughing.
"Yea, I've learned to cut mine early," he said. "Otherwise we run out and I don't get mine."
Leaning in conspiratorially, the woman confided, "I used to come down here every week after church and get a slice of that cake."
If she was looking for us to judge her, she'd picked the wrong people.
"I had to stop!" she finished.
It doesn't take many trips to Mama's to learn that the smart people choose their cake first and put it on hold for later, we all agreed.
Our cake was a two-toned and moist delight with strawberry icing on the lemon layer and lemon icing (my favorite of the two) on the strawberry layer.
We ate it down to the crumbs.
By then, the place had filled up with two large parties and our server confirmed that last Monday had been their biggest Monday ever.
Clearly I was late to seeing the banner, since this was their 6th Monday and I was just now taking advantage of it.
Now I know.
From Jackson Ward, it was on to the Westhampton theater for a beautiful and at times difficult-to-watch film about love and death.
"Amour" won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, all kinds of European film critics' awards and is nominated for scads more here.
Surprisingly, there was a decent crowd for tonight's showing, albeit a talkative one all the way through the opening credits.
Like the woman beside me who said loudly, "It's gonna be subtitled so it doesn't matter how loud we are," to her companion.
Actually, it does.
The story of an 80-something French couple deeply entrenched in their simple, cultured lives and long-time marriage was a revelation in acting and storytelling.
After the wife has two strokes and surgery fails to help, the loving husband takes on her care.
The beauty of the film was the lack of sympathy or any sort of overriding emotion in the way the decline of the wife unfolds.
When she directs her husband mid-meal to fetch the family photo albums, it is so that she can reminisce about their life together while she's still able to.
"It's beautiful," she says, turning pages of an album.
"What?" he asks.
"Life," she says simply, but devastatingly for the audience who, like her, knows she's not long for this world.
Because the movie allows each scene to unfold, there are many that would have those with short attention spans squirming in their chairs, itching for something faster to happen.
But life doesn't always move in quick cuts and the film's pace befits the character's mindsets, slow to accept the inevitable.
The enduring love shown between the couple, the way she chides him for being overly-attentive when she comes home from the hospital, the way he essentially gives up his life to provide her care, is what gives the movie its title.
It's an amour for the ages.
By the time they are both gone and the quiet, unhurried, music-less movie finishes, sobs and sniffles could be heard all over the theater.
Okay, so it wasn't a feelgood movie, just an unflinching look at a stage of life and infirmity that most people would prefer not to imagine, but as love stories go, it was exquisite.
A banner cinema experience even.
A reminder that even beautiful lives end and if that's not impetus to savor every bit now, I can't imagine what would be.
Walking through my beloved Jackson Ward last week, I'd seen a sign hanging on Mama J's proclaiming, "Open on Monday."
They didn't have to tell me twice.
A) It's a few blocks from home and B) it's open on a night when so many are not.
Tonight's partner in crime and I rolled in early so we could catch a movie and, just in case, avoid the crowds.
At 5:15, we had our pick of seats and took two prime bar stools with a view of the cake cabinet.
By 6:00, every single table and stool were taken. It pays to know what you're doing.
And it helps to be a neighbor.
The bartender immediately recognized me and welcomed us back, detailing happy hour specials on libations and wings.
But the cakes in the cabinet were too alluring not to admire first, so we tried to figure out which cakes on the chalkboard were still available.
My companion was leaning toward the strawberry lemon cake when a server got it out of the case and cut the last two slices.
Knowing how it works at Mama's we immediately lamented not having called dibs on a piece of that cake.
The server took one of the two she'd cut and laid it in front of us. The last piece.
Whew, that was a close one.
Since he'd picked the cake, I got to choose dinner, opting for Mama's seafood salad followed by country fried steak smothered in onion and pepper gravy and mashed potatoes with more gravy.
It's rare that I can refrain from ordering Mama's fried chicken, but I stayed strong.
The reward was on the plate.
Mama's seafood salad combines elbow macaroni with shrimp and crab legs in a mayo and Old Bay-based dressing.
It's a fitting start to any meal at Mama's.
The fried steak had a wonderfully flavorful breading, perfectly fried and still crispy despite a liberal ladling of (red and green pepper and onion) gravy sitting atop it.
We were half way through when a server not our own came over to ask, "How are y'all doing with your food?"
"Great," the monosyllabic one said, while I went with, "Wonderful!"
"I like her answer," the server said, filling a water glass and smiling broadly. "She had to close her eyes to answer."
Yes, I did.
Say what you want about the lowly country fried steak (the inferior cut of beef, all the tenderizing required, the requisite gravy to hide any shortcomings), it's a tasty dish when done as well as this was.
Even the mashed potatoes were a treat, full of bits of red skin and seasoned to be a standalone and not just a vehicle for gravy.
While we ate, a woman came in for a piece of cake to go.
She requested the coconut pineapple and when our server went to cut it for her, he mentioned that it was his favorite.
After cutting and boxing her piece, he put the last piece of that cake in a box and set it behind the bar.
"Is that for you?" the customer asked, laughing.
"Yea, I've learned to cut mine early," he said. "Otherwise we run out and I don't get mine."
Leaning in conspiratorially, the woman confided, "I used to come down here every week after church and get a slice of that cake."
If she was looking for us to judge her, she'd picked the wrong people.
"I had to stop!" she finished.
It doesn't take many trips to Mama's to learn that the smart people choose their cake first and put it on hold for later, we all agreed.
Our cake was a two-toned and moist delight with strawberry icing on the lemon layer and lemon icing (my favorite of the two) on the strawberry layer.
We ate it down to the crumbs.
By then, the place had filled up with two large parties and our server confirmed that last Monday had been their biggest Monday ever.
Clearly I was late to seeing the banner, since this was their 6th Monday and I was just now taking advantage of it.
Now I know.
From Jackson Ward, it was on to the Westhampton theater for a beautiful and at times difficult-to-watch film about love and death.
"Amour" won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, all kinds of European film critics' awards and is nominated for scads more here.
Surprisingly, there was a decent crowd for tonight's showing, albeit a talkative one all the way through the opening credits.
Like the woman beside me who said loudly, "It's gonna be subtitled so it doesn't matter how loud we are," to her companion.
Actually, it does.
The story of an 80-something French couple deeply entrenched in their simple, cultured lives and long-time marriage was a revelation in acting and storytelling.
After the wife has two strokes and surgery fails to help, the loving husband takes on her care.
The beauty of the film was the lack of sympathy or any sort of overriding emotion in the way the decline of the wife unfolds.
When she directs her husband mid-meal to fetch the family photo albums, it is so that she can reminisce about their life together while she's still able to.
"It's beautiful," she says, turning pages of an album.
"What?" he asks.
"Life," she says simply, but devastatingly for the audience who, like her, knows she's not long for this world.
Because the movie allows each scene to unfold, there are many that would have those with short attention spans squirming in their chairs, itching for something faster to happen.
But life doesn't always move in quick cuts and the film's pace befits the character's mindsets, slow to accept the inevitable.
The enduring love shown between the couple, the way she chides him for being overly-attentive when she comes home from the hospital, the way he essentially gives up his life to provide her care, is what gives the movie its title.
It's an amour for the ages.
By the time they are both gone and the quiet, unhurried, music-less movie finishes, sobs and sniffles could be heard all over the theater.
Okay, so it wasn't a feelgood movie, just an unflinching look at a stage of life and infirmity that most people would prefer not to imagine, but as love stories go, it was exquisite.
A banner cinema experience even.
A reminder that even beautiful lives end and if that's not impetus to savor every bit now, I can't imagine what would be.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Psycho Move, Qu'est-ce Que C'est?
The company was better than the movie.
My fellow Hitchcock fan joined me for a jaunt to the near west end to catch "Hitchcock" at the Westhampton.
She's the ideal film buddy because of our innate screen compatibility.
No movie I suggest is too outre for her, no foreign film too obscure.
We were made for each other cinematically-speaking, with one notable exception.
Inexplicably, she doesn't like butter on her popcorn.
She's perfectly normal otherwise.
So we compromised with less butter than I wanted and more than she cared for and proceeded to watch a 2012 take on a 60-year old director making his seminal film "Psycho" in 1960.
Which brings up my first complaint with the movie.
If you've ever watched a film from way back then, you know people looked differently than they do now.
Hairstyles, make-up, jewelry, even colors worn were different.
A crowd scene during the premiere of "Psycho" screamed "21st century people," the girls with coral lipstick and the boys with parts in their hair being the only concessions to mid-century looks.
Surely we can do better than that, film people.
But Anthony Hopkins and Helen Mirren are top notch actors, so at least there was that.
Mirren, especially, shone as Alma, Hitchcock's wife of many decades and a screenwriter and film editor in her own right before she married the master of suspense.
One thing the film did make clear was how much Hitch depended on her judgement and eye whenever he made a film, because both were unerring.
And, let's face it, we all know that behind every great man, there's a magnificent woman.
In this case, the woman was trying to lessen his corpulent frame by hiding the foie gras and serving him raw vegetables instead.
That is, when she wasn't putting up with his obsession with blonds.
And speaking of blonds, let's talk about casting.
James D'Arcy as Anthony Perkins not only convincingly looked the part, but conveyed the sense of a closeted actor uncomfortable in his own skin.
It was Perkins to a "T."
But Scarlett Johansson (as Janet Leigh) and Jessica Biel (as Vera Miles) were never even partially believable in their roles.
Not for a second could you forget who they were in the real world and it detracted from their performances.
I'd say in a case like this of a bio-pic, far better to choose a lesser-known actor (or even unknown) and let the character portrayed shine through rather than watching someone play someone else.
Unfortunately, director Sacha Gervasi didn't seek out my opinion before casting.
Once the film ended, my friend and I sat through the credits and beyond, discussing the film's shortcomings (the unnecessary Ed Gein character on which the book Psycho had been based showing up to advise Hitch) and strengths (Mirren and to a lesser degree, Hopkins).
Acting aside, I'd have to say one of my favorite parts was the idyllic beach house rental where typewriters and wine awaited Alma and her writer pal on a deck almost touching the ocean while they worked on a screenplay.
I say if you can't find your muse with wine, sunshine and crashing surf, it's time to head back down the Pacific Coast Highway, honey.
And back to a man who can appreciate buttered popcorn.
Sometimes it's the best part of a movie.
My fellow Hitchcock fan joined me for a jaunt to the near west end to catch "Hitchcock" at the Westhampton.
She's the ideal film buddy because of our innate screen compatibility.
No movie I suggest is too outre for her, no foreign film too obscure.
We were made for each other cinematically-speaking, with one notable exception.
Inexplicably, she doesn't like butter on her popcorn.
She's perfectly normal otherwise.
So we compromised with less butter than I wanted and more than she cared for and proceeded to watch a 2012 take on a 60-year old director making his seminal film "Psycho" in 1960.
Which brings up my first complaint with the movie.
If you've ever watched a film from way back then, you know people looked differently than they do now.
Hairstyles, make-up, jewelry, even colors worn were different.
A crowd scene during the premiere of "Psycho" screamed "21st century people," the girls with coral lipstick and the boys with parts in their hair being the only concessions to mid-century looks.
Surely we can do better than that, film people.
But Anthony Hopkins and Helen Mirren are top notch actors, so at least there was that.
Mirren, especially, shone as Alma, Hitchcock's wife of many decades and a screenwriter and film editor in her own right before she married the master of suspense.
One thing the film did make clear was how much Hitch depended on her judgement and eye whenever he made a film, because both were unerring.
And, let's face it, we all know that behind every great man, there's a magnificent woman.
In this case, the woman was trying to lessen his corpulent frame by hiding the foie gras and serving him raw vegetables instead.
That is, when she wasn't putting up with his obsession with blonds.
And speaking of blonds, let's talk about casting.
James D'Arcy as Anthony Perkins not only convincingly looked the part, but conveyed the sense of a closeted actor uncomfortable in his own skin.
It was Perkins to a "T."
But Scarlett Johansson (as Janet Leigh) and Jessica Biel (as Vera Miles) were never even partially believable in their roles.
Not for a second could you forget who they were in the real world and it detracted from their performances.
I'd say in a case like this of a bio-pic, far better to choose a lesser-known actor (or even unknown) and let the character portrayed shine through rather than watching someone play someone else.
Unfortunately, director Sacha Gervasi didn't seek out my opinion before casting.
Once the film ended, my friend and I sat through the credits and beyond, discussing the film's shortcomings (the unnecessary Ed Gein character on which the book Psycho had been based showing up to advise Hitch) and strengths (Mirren and to a lesser degree, Hopkins).
Acting aside, I'd have to say one of my favorite parts was the idyllic beach house rental where typewriters and wine awaited Alma and her writer pal on a deck almost touching the ocean while they worked on a screenplay.
I say if you can't find your muse with wine, sunshine and crashing surf, it's time to head back down the Pacific Coast Highway, honey.
And back to a man who can appreciate buttered popcorn.
Sometimes it's the best part of a movie.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Light Envy
I'm hearing an an awful lot about Italy lately.
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
Friends recently returned from a couple of weeks there and are still glowing from it, raving about it and recommending it.
With that in mind, a hot afternoon seemed like the ideal time to motor to the Westhampton Theater and see Woody Allen's "To Rome, with Love."
When I asked for two tickets to "To Rome," the ticket seller said, "Alright, if you want to," disdain dripping from his voice.
When I asked if he'd seen it, he got adamant. "I don't like Woody Allen and I don't like some life choices he's made."
Whoa.
How about you just hand us the tickets and keep your editorializing to yourself?
Shaking that off, we headed upstairs and took front row seats.
The movie was as convincing as my friends had been about Italy.
Between lingering shots of the architecture and the city's uniquely beautiful light, it'd be hard to walk out without at least dreaming of a visit to the land of adultery and ruins.
As a Woody Allen fan dating back to college, I got a kick out of Allen's role in the movie.
Once again, he played himself.
So he worried about airplane turbulence, questioned food he was offered and tossed off one-liners that made me laugh out loud.
"You want our little darling to marry into Eurotrash?" he asks in all sincerity when he meets her handsome Italian fiance.
Not necessarily, but I want Woody Allen to say things like that.
Like "Midnight in Paris," the movie is basically a love letter to a city and its people.
Of all the many subplots and threads dangling from there, I especially enjoyed the one about the young architect being tempted by his girlfriend's best friend.
It wasn't so much the tempting that amused me as the Alec Baldwin character, an older architect, who advises the young man along the treacherous path to adultery.
With his years of experience, he is the voice of reason as the young man falls under the spell of the erratic, glib and out-of-work actress.
Each time he warned him of what the woman was doing, whether throwing out one line of a poem to indicate familiarity she didn't have or making up lesbian encounters to get him hot, his advice came from the mind, heart and lips of a guy who'd been there.
We should all be so lucky as to have such an alter-ego/ghost/other self.
And, good god, Penelope Cruz has to be the most beautiful woman on the planet and I hope Allen never stops using her in his films.
If ever there was a woman I wanted to gawk at, it's her.
As a call girl who teaches a young newlywed how to properly make love, she undoubtedly left that poor guy wondering, "How did I get so lucky?"
Parts of the movie were downright ridiculous, like the Joe Average guy who ends up being hounded by the paparazzi (simply for being famous) and liking it.
Parts were funny in that Woody Allen-literate kind of way, with references to psychoanalysis, Rilke and Freud.
Everyone cheated on their wives (it was Italy, after all), all the women, old and young, were beautiful and Woody Allen never stopped with his self-deprecating shtick.
In other words, it was a thoroughly enjoyable Woody Allen movie.
And if I wasn't 100% sure I needed to visit Italy before I went into it, I'm quite certain now.
The requisite post-film discussion was done at the revamped Ipanema, positively beautiful after its recent renovation.
Walking in, the soft glow of the new light fight fixture globes reflected softly off the blond wood bar.
That's right; the dark, rec-room-like vibe of Ipanema is passe.
As in, so 1998 and so gloriously 2012 now.
Welcome to my favorite dessert and cocktail lounge, it seemed to say.
The well-lit back bar is sleek and black, vintage lamps adorn both ends of the bar and the tabletops are now a soft shade of dove gray.
There are even a couple of new two-tops, one near the front window and the other where the bench used to be.
I'm betting that those become the most desirable seats in the house: out of the way but with great views of the action.
A paisley curtain (made by a poor writer) hangs near the front and in the back, a green stenciled wall provides a homey touch.
We were there for wine and dessert and my choice was Vinho Verde and Mexican chocolate pie.
The music was set to Spotify (starting point: Future Islands) so we enjoyed Helio Sequence and XX, among others.
In other words, the music was as cool as the vibe.
In other breaking news, Ipanema now has paper menus so the era of the chalkboard menu is on its way out, much like paper library cards and corner traffic lights.
But don't worry, kids, Mondays are still $2 draught nights, so by 10:15, the place was awash in fresh-faced customers looking to find their beer goggles on a budget.
If they're lucky, their inner Alec Baldwin will give them advice about the members of the opposite sex who strike their fancy, saving them from unnecessary and potentially awkward life lessons.
If not, they can make their mistakes and learn the hard way like the rest of us did.
And, chances are, once they learn their lessons, they'll want to find someone with whom they can go to Italy.
Who wouldn't want to be seen in that light?
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Partner Trumps Assistant
I'm training to get in shape for the upcoming James River Film Festival.
So I figured the best way to do that was to go see my second movie of the day, albeit one 63 years newer than this morning's.
After having seen the previews to "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen" several times, it seemed like a pretty good bet for beautiful scenery, acting talent and romance.
Besides, you can't go wrong with a film shot partly in the wilds of Scotland
Apparently, atmospheric castles owned by Middle Eastern sheiks are the ideal place for unsuspecting Londoners to start falling in love.
The story of a filthy rich but empathetic sheik who wants to bring sport fishing to the desert was more about faith than fishing.
But that's faith in its broadest definition and not merely in terms of organized religion.
I related to Ewan McGregor's character, who observed, "I don't know anyone who goes to church anymore. On Sundays, we go to Target."
That's a different sort of religion, I think.
Kristin Scott Thomas had the funniest lines as the press secretary to the Prime Minister, saying, "Men like that are a species."
The romance unfolded exquisitely slowly given the complications of him having a wife (after they finish lovemaking, the wife says, "There, that should do you for a while." Yikes!) and her having a recently deployed boyfriend (who is presumed M.I.A. in Afghanistan after their brief a three-week courtship).
Once local terrorists have all but destroyed the dam and presumably the 10,000 shipped-in salmon, it looks like the futility of the whole project is finally clear.
But no, a lone salmon is spotted jumping in the water and the soldier boyfriend sees that she's in love with Ewan and departs.
Next thing you know Ewan's talking about giving the project another try on a smaller scale, working hand in hand with the locals and finally achieving the impossible, fishing in the desert.
She asks if he'll be needing an assistant and once he realizes what she means, he says no, he wants a partner.
And when a guy says "partner" with that look in his eye, you know what he means.
Cut to hand-holding shot reflected in the rippling, fish-filled waters of the dam.
Because nothing says true love like creatures willing to move against the tide to successfully mate.
The fact is, fish or female, that's what we call a romance.
Music swells. Fade out.
So I figured the best way to do that was to go see my second movie of the day, albeit one 63 years newer than this morning's.
After having seen the previews to "Salmon Fishing in the Yemen" several times, it seemed like a pretty good bet for beautiful scenery, acting talent and romance.
Besides, you can't go wrong with a film shot partly in the wilds of Scotland
Apparently, atmospheric castles owned by Middle Eastern sheiks are the ideal place for unsuspecting Londoners to start falling in love.
The story of a filthy rich but empathetic sheik who wants to bring sport fishing to the desert was more about faith than fishing.
But that's faith in its broadest definition and not merely in terms of organized religion.
I related to Ewan McGregor's character, who observed, "I don't know anyone who goes to church anymore. On Sundays, we go to Target."
That's a different sort of religion, I think.
Kristin Scott Thomas had the funniest lines as the press secretary to the Prime Minister, saying, "Men like that are a species."
The romance unfolded exquisitely slowly given the complications of him having a wife (after they finish lovemaking, the wife says, "There, that should do you for a while." Yikes!) and her having a recently deployed boyfriend (who is presumed M.I.A. in Afghanistan after their brief a three-week courtship).
Once local terrorists have all but destroyed the dam and presumably the 10,000 shipped-in salmon, it looks like the futility of the whole project is finally clear.
But no, a lone salmon is spotted jumping in the water and the soldier boyfriend sees that she's in love with Ewan and departs.
Next thing you know Ewan's talking about giving the project another try on a smaller scale, working hand in hand with the locals and finally achieving the impossible, fishing in the desert.
She asks if he'll be needing an assistant and once he realizes what she means, he says no, he wants a partner.
And when a guy says "partner" with that look in his eye, you know what he means.
Cut to hand-holding shot reflected in the rippling, fish-filled waters of the dam.
Because nothing says true love like creatures willing to move against the tide to successfully mate.
The fact is, fish or female, that's what we call a romance.
Music swells. Fade out.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
On Reading Camus Together
I wasn't the only one seeking subtitles at the Westhampton on a Sunday afternoon.
After taking my usual seat, front row center, a woman came down the aisle and said, "You're in my seat!"
Sorry, honey, you snooze, you lose.
But our encounter did lead to a talk about the necessity of sitting in the front row there simply for the leg room.
I once took a tall friend and she declined my suggestion to sit in the front row only to regret having to fold her legs into a pretzel for the duration of the film.
Today I wanted to see "My Afternoons with Margueritte," starring Gerard Depardieu, the iconic French actor who seems like he's been around my entire movie-going lifetime.
To say it was a simple story of an under-educated man who befriends a literate 95-year old woman on a park bench is an understatement, a concept explained in the movie to Depardieu's character Germain.
Germain was the result of a quickie by his mother and a stranger and ever since she'd been berating him, destroying his self-esteem but not his spirit.
When they meet, the old woman says, "I was born from a love story...like everyone else."
"Not everyone," Germain says, "Some people are mistakes."
And some people, like me, are both born of a love story and a mistake. It happens.
The movie moves at a leisurely pace (dare I say French-like?) and there are no big Hollywood moments as Margueritte reads Camus to Germain and life in the small village continues in the cafe, the market and the park.
The owner of the cafe is a 50-year old and her much younger Algerian boyfriend deserts her for a younger woman.
Big lug Germain tries to make her feel better by saying, "He'll be back. Everyone knows the best stews come from old pots."
As left-handed a compliment as that was, he's right and the boyfriend realizes the error of his ways.
But that's secondary and it's Germain's love stories with both his recently-pregnant girlfriend and the declining old woman that make up the heart of the movie.
Margueritte, lively, chatty and thoughtful, was described by Germain as loving nouns, surrounding herself with adjectives and living in a green field of verbs.
That's the kind of old-pot stew this mistake born of a love story aspires to be.
No understatement there.
After taking my usual seat, front row center, a woman came down the aisle and said, "You're in my seat!"
Sorry, honey, you snooze, you lose.
But our encounter did lead to a talk about the necessity of sitting in the front row there simply for the leg room.
I once took a tall friend and she declined my suggestion to sit in the front row only to regret having to fold her legs into a pretzel for the duration of the film.
Today I wanted to see "My Afternoons with Margueritte," starring Gerard Depardieu, the iconic French actor who seems like he's been around my entire movie-going lifetime.
To say it was a simple story of an under-educated man who befriends a literate 95-year old woman on a park bench is an understatement, a concept explained in the movie to Depardieu's character Germain.
Germain was the result of a quickie by his mother and a stranger and ever since she'd been berating him, destroying his self-esteem but not his spirit.
When they meet, the old woman says, "I was born from a love story...like everyone else."
"Not everyone," Germain says, "Some people are mistakes."
And some people, like me, are both born of a love story and a mistake. It happens.
The movie moves at a leisurely pace (dare I say French-like?) and there are no big Hollywood moments as Margueritte reads Camus to Germain and life in the small village continues in the cafe, the market and the park.
The owner of the cafe is a 50-year old and her much younger Algerian boyfriend deserts her for a younger woman.
Big lug Germain tries to make her feel better by saying, "He'll be back. Everyone knows the best stews come from old pots."
As left-handed a compliment as that was, he's right and the boyfriend realizes the error of his ways.
But that's secondary and it's Germain's love stories with both his recently-pregnant girlfriend and the declining old woman that make up the heart of the movie.
Margueritte, lively, chatty and thoughtful, was described by Germain as loving nouns, surrounding herself with adjectives and living in a green field of verbs.
That's the kind of old-pot stew this mistake born of a love story aspires to be.
No understatement there.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
A History of Sadness on CD
In terms of starting a new relationship, we are all beginners.
That's the crux of the movie "Beginners" at the Westhampton Theater, which is how a girlfriend and I began our evening.
Her new husband is away (motorcycling cross-country...in this heat...sleeping in a tent) and they never go to the movies, so she is busy doing fun stuff while he is away.
The kind of stuff he doesn't do. I'm just her willing accomplice.
The movie is not for those with short attention spans or a need to see things blown up. This is a smart movie.
It unfolds organically, telling the story of a 75-year old man who comes out after his wife dies.
His 38-year old son, meanwhile, is a serial failure at relationships (as are plenty of us) but finds himself inspired by his father's new-found enthusiasm for life and love.
But as those of us eager for a relationship but without one know well, wanting and achieving successful love are two vastly different things.
The son is an illustrator working on CD art for a band which, rather than the desired pictures of the band, ends up being a "History of Sadness" and what band wants that?
Okay, maybe an emo band, but not the band in the movie. Jonathan Vassar sings mostly sad songs and I don't even think he'd want it.
The arc of him learning to trust love and not be sad is the counterpoint to the newly-outed father going to clubs (and discovering house music), finding a handsome (younger) lover and eventually dying of cancer.
It's a lot like life, but I know not everyone wants reality in their movies.
I found the slice-of-life story moving, even when it ended on the uncertainty of two people in love and one of them unsure about moving forward.
Cinema verite, baby. The kind of movie I can relate to.
Walking out of the theater with cramped legs from the inadequate spacing of the rows (clearly people were shorter when the theater was built in 1938), we were faced with the obvious choice.
Blue Goat or Blue Goat? We chose Blue Goat, sliding into the bar and trying not to stand out too much amongst the West Enders.
We failed miserably, but found a friendly face in the bartender.
Looking at the cocktail menu, my friend ordered Bulleit bourbon, to which the bartender responded, "I love you!"
They'd just gotten Bulleit in today and she was a fan.
So she instead poured Bulleit Rye for us both to taste, commenting on its smoothness on the sides of the tongue, but absence in the center.
The vintage-looking brown bottle was a thing of beauty, like something dug up in a J-Ward backyard excavation.
My friend got Bulleit rye and I got Hornitos. Neither of us could imagine drinking the other's poison.
We had a small window during which to order before the kitchen closed, so we got two simple dishes, a salad (Manakintowne arugula, apple, avocado, Hanover tomato, house-made goat cheese, lemon herbed vinaigrette) and forest mushroom ragout with mascarpone polenta.
As we ate, the Rico Suave middle-aged guy next to us moved outside to work his magic on a table of girls, eventually succeeding.
The guy who replaced him next to us commented favorably on the choice of Bulleit. That was about as close as we came to fitting in there.
But as beginners, we fit in perfectly.
Despite our colorful life experiences (also a topic of much merriment and conversation tonight), we agreed that it can be scary to go forward with someone you love.
It's just that the alternative is completely unacceptable.
In the Venn diagram of life, it appears that beginners may overlap with hopeless romantics.
That's the crux of the movie "Beginners" at the Westhampton Theater, which is how a girlfriend and I began our evening.
Her new husband is away (motorcycling cross-country...in this heat...sleeping in a tent) and they never go to the movies, so she is busy doing fun stuff while he is away.
The kind of stuff he doesn't do. I'm just her willing accomplice.
The movie is not for those with short attention spans or a need to see things blown up. This is a smart movie.
It unfolds organically, telling the story of a 75-year old man who comes out after his wife dies.
His 38-year old son, meanwhile, is a serial failure at relationships (as are plenty of us) but finds himself inspired by his father's new-found enthusiasm for life and love.
But as those of us eager for a relationship but without one know well, wanting and achieving successful love are two vastly different things.
The son is an illustrator working on CD art for a band which, rather than the desired pictures of the band, ends up being a "History of Sadness" and what band wants that?
Okay, maybe an emo band, but not the band in the movie. Jonathan Vassar sings mostly sad songs and I don't even think he'd want it.
The arc of him learning to trust love and not be sad is the counterpoint to the newly-outed father going to clubs (and discovering house music), finding a handsome (younger) lover and eventually dying of cancer.
It's a lot like life, but I know not everyone wants reality in their movies.
I found the slice-of-life story moving, even when it ended on the uncertainty of two people in love and one of them unsure about moving forward.
Cinema verite, baby. The kind of movie I can relate to.
Walking out of the theater with cramped legs from the inadequate spacing of the rows (clearly people were shorter when the theater was built in 1938), we were faced with the obvious choice.
Blue Goat or Blue Goat? We chose Blue Goat, sliding into the bar and trying not to stand out too much amongst the West Enders.
We failed miserably, but found a friendly face in the bartender.
Looking at the cocktail menu, my friend ordered Bulleit bourbon, to which the bartender responded, "I love you!"
They'd just gotten Bulleit in today and she was a fan.
So she instead poured Bulleit Rye for us both to taste, commenting on its smoothness on the sides of the tongue, but absence in the center.
The vintage-looking brown bottle was a thing of beauty, like something dug up in a J-Ward backyard excavation.
My friend got Bulleit rye and I got Hornitos. Neither of us could imagine drinking the other's poison.
We had a small window during which to order before the kitchen closed, so we got two simple dishes, a salad (Manakintowne arugula, apple, avocado, Hanover tomato, house-made goat cheese, lemon herbed vinaigrette) and forest mushroom ragout with mascarpone polenta.
As we ate, the Rico Suave middle-aged guy next to us moved outside to work his magic on a table of girls, eventually succeeding.
The guy who replaced him next to us commented favorably on the choice of Bulleit. That was about as close as we came to fitting in there.
But as beginners, we fit in perfectly.
Despite our colorful life experiences (also a topic of much merriment and conversation tonight), we agreed that it can be scary to go forward with someone you love.
It's just that the alternative is completely unacceptable.
In the Venn diagram of life, it appears that beginners may overlap with hopeless romantics.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Give Me a Woody
"All cowardice comes from not loving or not loving well."
Not many films satisfy my inner art geek, my inner literature geek and my inner hopeless romantic, but I'd have to say that Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris" did the trick.
A girlfriend had suggested we see it tonight but then took a spill, putting her on crutches, so I ended up at a romantic comedy by myself. So what else is new?
For a Sunday night, the theater drew a good-sized crowd of mostly couples and post-twenty-somethings, so I at least fit into one subgroup.
To my delight, the time-travelling plot delivered all kinds of characters from art history like Picasso, Man Ray, Lautrec, Dali, Gauguin and Matisse.
Scratching my literature itch were F. Scott Fitzgerald (and Zelda), Hemingway and T.S. Elliott.
Along the way, we also got portrayals of Gertrude Stein, Luis Brunel and Cole Porter. What an era.
Of course, the entire film is a love letter to the city of Paris, which I've not yet seen, but shot so as to make it utterly desirable for so much more than just art and food.
As one who always enjoyed Woody Allen's acting, it was a pleasure to watch Owen Wilson do a superb Allen imitation, right down to cadence and delivery.
Surfer dude channels NYC nebbish and totally makes it work.
And as if I needed any reinforcement, the film's message about following your dreams in life and love got me all choked up about the here and now.
My here and now.
I pulled out of it by reminding myself that I am many things (nerdy, talkative, inquisitive and ever-hopeful) but not a coward.
Why love if not well?
Not many films satisfy my inner art geek, my inner literature geek and my inner hopeless romantic, but I'd have to say that Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris" did the trick.
A girlfriend had suggested we see it tonight but then took a spill, putting her on crutches, so I ended up at a romantic comedy by myself. So what else is new?
For a Sunday night, the theater drew a good-sized crowd of mostly couples and post-twenty-somethings, so I at least fit into one subgroup.
To my delight, the time-travelling plot delivered all kinds of characters from art history like Picasso, Man Ray, Lautrec, Dali, Gauguin and Matisse.
Scratching my literature itch were F. Scott Fitzgerald (and Zelda), Hemingway and T.S. Elliott.
Along the way, we also got portrayals of Gertrude Stein, Luis Brunel and Cole Porter. What an era.
Of course, the entire film is a love letter to the city of Paris, which I've not yet seen, but shot so as to make it utterly desirable for so much more than just art and food.
As one who always enjoyed Woody Allen's acting, it was a pleasure to watch Owen Wilson do a superb Allen imitation, right down to cadence and delivery.
Surfer dude channels NYC nebbish and totally makes it work.
And as if I needed any reinforcement, the film's message about following your dreams in life and love got me all choked up about the here and now.
My here and now.
I pulled out of it by reminding myself that I am many things (nerdy, talkative, inquisitive and ever-hopeful) but not a coward.
Why love if not well?
Monday, May 30, 2011
Plan A Must Go
I fear that today I was the weather wimp that I have teased other people about being.
Instead of carrying out the plans a friend and I had made days ago, we opted for late afternoon naps with a promise to talk later and make plans then.
By the time I woke up from mine, going to Belle Isle was the last thing I wanted to do, even at nearly 6:00. So I came up with Plan B.
Curious about the movie "Everything Must Go" showing at the Westhampton, I did some research to find out more about it.
Learning that it was based on a Raymond Carver short story, "Why Don't You Dance?" intrigued me. I knew to expect minimalist storytelling and drinking, the Carver hallmarks.
Discovering that it was about an alcoholic played by Will Ferrell (of all people) who hits rock bottom assured me that the story would be of interest to my friend, himself nearly three years sober.
But it wasn't merely a sad sack film about alcoholic binging and ugly behavior. It began the day he gets fired and his wife locks him out and leaves him; the bottom is in sight.
To the disapproval of his suburban neighbors, he sets up living quarters amongst his belongings which the wife has conveniently left in the front yard,.
His AA sponsor (he'd been six months sober before relapsing) is also a cop who tells him he has five days to hold a yard sale before he is breaking the law, so he reluctantly sets out to sell his possessions.
Along the way he finally gives up the multiple cases of PBR he'd been drinking daily because he runs out of money.
Watching the movie was interesting for me but I couldn't wait to hear my friend's thoughts because I knew it must have resonated with him in a way I could never understand.
Our discussion afterwards was illuminating, as has been our entire friendship.
I met him just before he marked his first year sober and I have watched him become a more thoughtful, confident and healthy person in the past two years.
But for him, the film had been downright painful in parts (and in ways it was not for me) encapsulating, as it did, the lowest part of an alcoholic's descent.
But it also had the effect I'd been hoping for, reminding him that the rough patch he's experiencing in his personal life is just one more part of the journey he's on.
I don't want to take too much credit, but I think he got even more out of Plan B than he would have out of our walk on Belle Isle. And I'm not talking about the buttered popcorn or the air conditioning that I got out of the evening, either.
As I like to tease him about so many things, "What would you do without women?"
Insert smiling, sober shrug. Sometimes we do know best.
Instead of carrying out the plans a friend and I had made days ago, we opted for late afternoon naps with a promise to talk later and make plans then.
By the time I woke up from mine, going to Belle Isle was the last thing I wanted to do, even at nearly 6:00. So I came up with Plan B.
Curious about the movie "Everything Must Go" showing at the Westhampton, I did some research to find out more about it.
Learning that it was based on a Raymond Carver short story, "Why Don't You Dance?" intrigued me. I knew to expect minimalist storytelling and drinking, the Carver hallmarks.
Discovering that it was about an alcoholic played by Will Ferrell (of all people) who hits rock bottom assured me that the story would be of interest to my friend, himself nearly three years sober.
But it wasn't merely a sad sack film about alcoholic binging and ugly behavior. It began the day he gets fired and his wife locks him out and leaves him; the bottom is in sight.
To the disapproval of his suburban neighbors, he sets up living quarters amongst his belongings which the wife has conveniently left in the front yard,.
His AA sponsor (he'd been six months sober before relapsing) is also a cop who tells him he has five days to hold a yard sale before he is breaking the law, so he reluctantly sets out to sell his possessions.
Along the way he finally gives up the multiple cases of PBR he'd been drinking daily because he runs out of money.
Watching the movie was interesting for me but I couldn't wait to hear my friend's thoughts because I knew it must have resonated with him in a way I could never understand.
Our discussion afterwards was illuminating, as has been our entire friendship.
I met him just before he marked his first year sober and I have watched him become a more thoughtful, confident and healthy person in the past two years.
But for him, the film had been downright painful in parts (and in ways it was not for me) encapsulating, as it did, the lowest part of an alcoholic's descent.
But it also had the effect I'd been hoping for, reminding him that the rough patch he's experiencing in his personal life is just one more part of the journey he's on.
I don't want to take too much credit, but I think he got even more out of Plan B than he would have out of our walk on Belle Isle. And I'm not talking about the buttered popcorn or the air conditioning that I got out of the evening, either.
As I like to tease him about so many things, "What would you do without women?"
Insert smiling, sober shrug. Sometimes we do know best.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
SuperMoon Over Romance and Jazz
Saturday night is apparently date night at the movies, or at least it was tonight at the Westhampton, where the audience was easily 90% couples, treading up the stairs in pairs as if to the Ark (except I don't think the animals brought buckets of buttered popcorn with them).
And it was crowd of a certain age because it was a movie about finding love after multiple failures. "Barney's Version" told the story of a flawed (overweight, alcoholic, smoker, curmudgeon) but ultimately likable man disappointed by past relationships who eventually meets a women who completely captivates him.
He pursues her until he wins her (necessitating a divorce before she will allow him to do so) and a long-term successful relationship ensues. Until, that is, this flawed man feels threatened and cheats on her; then she walks and he is destroyed at losing the love of his life.
His wooing of her, sincere, romantic and utterly convincing, is no doubt the reason that Paul Giamatti got a Golden Globe for the role, but much credit also goes to the script.
The dialogue between the two is completely believable for two people who meet as adults, with a fair amount of life experience behind them, but wide open to the possibility that great love is still possible.
The pleasure they demonstrated in each other's company was palpable and a real treat for any hopeless romantics in the audience besides this one. I did wonder briefly how it might have affected the less-than-happy couples there, though.
Walking out of the historic theater, the first thing I saw was the Supermoon and it was absolutely beautiful, incredibly big and bright. Scientific explanations aside, I prefer to think that it was further proof that something wonderful is out there.
My head full of romantic (and maybe even achievable) notions, I went to Emilio's to hear Moore and O'Leary for an evening of jazz. I think the last time I'd been there was for a Jazz Society show with my friend Dave and that had been a couple of years ago, so I was a tad overdue. Luckily, the gaggle of fourteen-year olds and their parents were on the way out.
My very talented friend Marshall (of local band Marionette) was playing saxophone (which I'd never heard him do) with his partner in jazz Jacob Moore on guitar; sitting in were C.J. Wolfe on drums and Wyatt Allen on upright bass.
I had met Wyatt at the Folk Fest last fall, where we'd discussed my live music frequency and we've since run into each other at loads of shows. But it was my first time hearing him play and, in fact, the first time these four had played together.
Beginning with "Beautiful Love," they did a great job working their way through a selection of jazz music described by Marshall as "normal jazz, nothing weird," and appropriately ending the set with "How Great is the Love?"
The short answer? Don't know, but open to finding out. Only then can I give Karen's version.
And it was crowd of a certain age because it was a movie about finding love after multiple failures. "Barney's Version" told the story of a flawed (overweight, alcoholic, smoker, curmudgeon) but ultimately likable man disappointed by past relationships who eventually meets a women who completely captivates him.
He pursues her until he wins her (necessitating a divorce before she will allow him to do so) and a long-term successful relationship ensues. Until, that is, this flawed man feels threatened and cheats on her; then she walks and he is destroyed at losing the love of his life.
His wooing of her, sincere, romantic and utterly convincing, is no doubt the reason that Paul Giamatti got a Golden Globe for the role, but much credit also goes to the script.
The dialogue between the two is completely believable for two people who meet as adults, with a fair amount of life experience behind them, but wide open to the possibility that great love is still possible.
The pleasure they demonstrated in each other's company was palpable and a real treat for any hopeless romantics in the audience besides this one. I did wonder briefly how it might have affected the less-than-happy couples there, though.
Walking out of the historic theater, the first thing I saw was the Supermoon and it was absolutely beautiful, incredibly big and bright. Scientific explanations aside, I prefer to think that it was further proof that something wonderful is out there.
My head full of romantic (and maybe even achievable) notions, I went to Emilio's to hear Moore and O'Leary for an evening of jazz. I think the last time I'd been there was for a Jazz Society show with my friend Dave and that had been a couple of years ago, so I was a tad overdue. Luckily, the gaggle of fourteen-year olds and their parents were on the way out.
My very talented friend Marshall (of local band Marionette) was playing saxophone (which I'd never heard him do) with his partner in jazz Jacob Moore on guitar; sitting in were C.J. Wolfe on drums and Wyatt Allen on upright bass.
I had met Wyatt at the Folk Fest last fall, where we'd discussed my live music frequency and we've since run into each other at loads of shows. But it was my first time hearing him play and, in fact, the first time these four had played together.
Beginning with "Beautiful Love," they did a great job working their way through a selection of jazz music described by Marshall as "normal jazz, nothing weird," and appropriately ending the set with "How Great is the Love?"
The short answer? Don't know, but open to finding out. Only then can I give Karen's version.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The Scotsman's Speech
Now I know what people do on New Year's Day night. They go to the movies, something that had never occurred to me until tonight.
I was just looking for something to do, but when I pulled up to the Westhampton Theater, I was greeted with a ticket line that snaked around the building. In the rain. Zero points for originality, Karen.
But I got in line with all the couples and groups of girlfriends, eventually scoring a ticket. Inside the concession lines were miles-long and the popcorn machine was malfunctioning at the worst possible time.
As I waited for popcorn, hoping I'd get mine before they ran out, people were coming out of one theater door and going in the other side looking for seats, not a good sign. Why had this ever seemed like a good idea I wondered?
Because I got to meet Rudy. When I entered the theater looking for a seat, I assumed I'd have an easy time of it since it was just me. Not so, but I finally saw an unoccupied chair and asked the dapper-looking older man next to it if it was free. It was and he waved me in.
As I sat down, I mentioned how surprised I was at how full the theater was. I've been going to the Westhampton for years and I'd never seen it all but sold out. He agreed, saying his wife had wanted to see The King's Speech, but that he was interested because he was a Brit.
How perfect to see a British movie sitting next to a native. I smiled at that and before I could even respond, he corrected himself, "Actually I'm a Scotsman from Edinburgh." Now we had our common ground, Rudy and I.
I told him I had a close friend who lives in Glasgow, or, more accurately, Barrhead, and he couldn't have looked more delighted. "You mean Barr-heed," he laughed, saying it like the locals do. Once he found out I'd been, he asked for my impressions of his homeland.
That led to a discussion of Scottish accents ("So Germanic-based," he told me, sharing words that sounded almost identical in German as when spoken with a Scottish accent). I told him how it had taken me some time to get used to my friend's accent, and even her word choices.
As I explained to him, the first time she referred to a dodgy neighborhood, I was lost. "Yes and there's lots of dodgy neighborhoods in Glasgow, so she'd know," Rudy said telling me about some he knew well.
He was full of surprises, informing me that he used to drink with Sean Connery back in the days when the actor was married to an actress but had not yet made it himself.
"Oh, he could be an unpleasant drunk," Rudy said. "I stayed away from him once he got in his cups. Got a temper and liked to fight, too."
He continued to tell me Sean Connery anecdotes (country club, Spain, eccentricities) until his wife returned with their popcorn. Glancing at my bag, she recognized me as being one of the last people to have scored a full popcorn; she hadn't and had settled for a partial portion and candy. I offered to share.
Her arrival coincided with the movie starting, which was too bad, because I could have gone on chatting with Rudy much longer.
The twinkle in his eye, that handsome wool driving cap of his, and the Scottish charm which I knew of first hand from my friend's brother, all combined to make him someone I wanted to know more about, even with his wife on the other side of him.
The King's Speech luckily provided an excellent two hours of entertainment with its superb British acting, truth-based story, a wealth of period details and wry British dialog. Definitely Oscar material.
When the lights came up, I immediately turned to Rudy and told him how very much I'd enjoyed talking to him. Doffing his hat at me, he insisted,"The pleasure was all mine."
Oh, no it wasn't, Rudy. Karmically speaking, I ended up at that movie tonight so I could have fifteen minutes of conversation with you. Seriously.
If it wouldn't have seemed untoward, I'd have given him my card and told him to call me so I could hear more of his stories and experience more of his charm.
But I'd probably already stretched my limits with his wife over the popcorn. No need to push my luck.
I was just looking for something to do, but when I pulled up to the Westhampton Theater, I was greeted with a ticket line that snaked around the building. In the rain. Zero points for originality, Karen.
But I got in line with all the couples and groups of girlfriends, eventually scoring a ticket. Inside the concession lines were miles-long and the popcorn machine was malfunctioning at the worst possible time.
As I waited for popcorn, hoping I'd get mine before they ran out, people were coming out of one theater door and going in the other side looking for seats, not a good sign. Why had this ever seemed like a good idea I wondered?
Because I got to meet Rudy. When I entered the theater looking for a seat, I assumed I'd have an easy time of it since it was just me. Not so, but I finally saw an unoccupied chair and asked the dapper-looking older man next to it if it was free. It was and he waved me in.
As I sat down, I mentioned how surprised I was at how full the theater was. I've been going to the Westhampton for years and I'd never seen it all but sold out. He agreed, saying his wife had wanted to see The King's Speech, but that he was interested because he was a Brit.
How perfect to see a British movie sitting next to a native. I smiled at that and before I could even respond, he corrected himself, "Actually I'm a Scotsman from Edinburgh." Now we had our common ground, Rudy and I.
I told him I had a close friend who lives in Glasgow, or, more accurately, Barrhead, and he couldn't have looked more delighted. "You mean Barr-heed," he laughed, saying it like the locals do. Once he found out I'd been, he asked for my impressions of his homeland.
That led to a discussion of Scottish accents ("So Germanic-based," he told me, sharing words that sounded almost identical in German as when spoken with a Scottish accent). I told him how it had taken me some time to get used to my friend's accent, and even her word choices.
As I explained to him, the first time she referred to a dodgy neighborhood, I was lost. "Yes and there's lots of dodgy neighborhoods in Glasgow, so she'd know," Rudy said telling me about some he knew well.
He was full of surprises, informing me that he used to drink with Sean Connery back in the days when the actor was married to an actress but had not yet made it himself.
"Oh, he could be an unpleasant drunk," Rudy said. "I stayed away from him once he got in his cups. Got a temper and liked to fight, too."
He continued to tell me Sean Connery anecdotes (country club, Spain, eccentricities) until his wife returned with their popcorn. Glancing at my bag, she recognized me as being one of the last people to have scored a full popcorn; she hadn't and had settled for a partial portion and candy. I offered to share.
Her arrival coincided with the movie starting, which was too bad, because I could have gone on chatting with Rudy much longer.
The twinkle in his eye, that handsome wool driving cap of his, and the Scottish charm which I knew of first hand from my friend's brother, all combined to make him someone I wanted to know more about, even with his wife on the other side of him.
The King's Speech luckily provided an excellent two hours of entertainment with its superb British acting, truth-based story, a wealth of period details and wry British dialog. Definitely Oscar material.
When the lights came up, I immediately turned to Rudy and told him how very much I'd enjoyed talking to him. Doffing his hat at me, he insisted,"The pleasure was all mine."
Oh, no it wasn't, Rudy. Karmically speaking, I ended up at that movie tonight so I could have fifteen minutes of conversation with you. Seriously.
If it wouldn't have seemed untoward, I'd have given him my card and told him to call me so I could hear more of his stories and experience more of his charm.
But I'd probably already stretched my limits with his wife over the popcorn. No need to push my luck.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Prabir and the Goldrush at Six Burner
It was my Beer Geek Friend's birthday and he wanted to see a movie, so we planned to see the 7:30 showing of "An Education" at the Westhampton.
We preceded that with a stop at Cafe Caturra, where I arrived first to a mostly empty room. The bar server suggested I spend the time waiting for B.G.F. by sampling some wines at her bar (the Jefferson Petit Verdot and the Sawbuck Cab) before making a decision.
I accommodated, my friend arrived and we ended up drinking a Zinfandel. Go figure.
To nosh, we had two crostini orders, one braised short ribs and caramelized onions and the other goat cheese, roasted red pepper and sweet balsamic reduction.
The crispiness of the bread made them a bit difficult to bite, but once bitten, the bread was deliciously chewy.It's safe to say we both enjoyed the contrast between the two toppings and demolished all.
The movie was good, full of realistic 1961 details such as men taking off their hats upon entering a building and the debate over a university vs. a Mrs. degree.
The plot could be loosely summarized as a story of the inner struggle between enjoying life now or planning for the future, a sort of journal of a young girl trying to establish priorities in her inexperienced life.
It wasn't nearly as cliched as an Americanized version of the same story would have been, and we agreed it was worth seeing.
Later I decided to swing by Six Burner to see Prabir and the Goldrush's set around 11.
This combination rock/classical group of musicians always packs the room; it's the makeup of the crowd that changes show to show.
Tonight, I would guess, there were a lot of visitors and out-of-towners in attendance and an enthusiastic bunch they were.
I ran into Andrew and C.B., which gave us a chance to talk tacky lights, seasonal activities and music until the performance began.
The boys had both worked today, though, so they were beat.
Luckily not too beat to enjoy dessert, however, and for me, it was my first look at new chef Philip Denny's dessert menu.
I had the Red Velvet cupcake, Andrew had the persimmon bread pudding with caramel sauce and C.B. had the eggnog creme brulee with mini gingerbread man cookie.
We all took our desserts down to the dish, as in no rinsing required.
Prabir and the Goldrush put on a rocking show again, using the violin as a kind of stand-in for keyboards.
Prabir loves to rock out (that's always evident) along with belting out his sad-sack, smart-ass and self-deprecating lyrics.
Not to be overlooked is the fact that 6B later in the evening is a great (and free) atmosphere for hearing this kind of music at the perfect volume.
No doubt Goldrush will be back next month with more of Prabir's classical hooks and if you haven't heard them yet, they're interesting enough to make a point of checking out.
If nothing else, it's great fun to watch Prabir enjoying himself so much.
We preceded that with a stop at Cafe Caturra, where I arrived first to a mostly empty room. The bar server suggested I spend the time waiting for B.G.F. by sampling some wines at her bar (the Jefferson Petit Verdot and the Sawbuck Cab) before making a decision.
I accommodated, my friend arrived and we ended up drinking a Zinfandel. Go figure.
To nosh, we had two crostini orders, one braised short ribs and caramelized onions and the other goat cheese, roasted red pepper and sweet balsamic reduction.
The crispiness of the bread made them a bit difficult to bite, but once bitten, the bread was deliciously chewy.It's safe to say we both enjoyed the contrast between the two toppings and demolished all.
The movie was good, full of realistic 1961 details such as men taking off their hats upon entering a building and the debate over a university vs. a Mrs. degree.
The plot could be loosely summarized as a story of the inner struggle between enjoying life now or planning for the future, a sort of journal of a young girl trying to establish priorities in her inexperienced life.
It wasn't nearly as cliched as an Americanized version of the same story would have been, and we agreed it was worth seeing.
Later I decided to swing by Six Burner to see Prabir and the Goldrush's set around 11.
This combination rock/classical group of musicians always packs the room; it's the makeup of the crowd that changes show to show.
Tonight, I would guess, there were a lot of visitors and out-of-towners in attendance and an enthusiastic bunch they were.
I ran into Andrew and C.B., which gave us a chance to talk tacky lights, seasonal activities and music until the performance began.
The boys had both worked today, though, so they were beat.
Luckily not too beat to enjoy dessert, however, and for me, it was my first look at new chef Philip Denny's dessert menu.
I had the Red Velvet cupcake, Andrew had the persimmon bread pudding with caramel sauce and C.B. had the eggnog creme brulee with mini gingerbread man cookie.
We all took our desserts down to the dish, as in no rinsing required.
Prabir and the Goldrush put on a rocking show again, using the violin as a kind of stand-in for keyboards.
Prabir loves to rock out (that's always evident) along with belting out his sad-sack, smart-ass and self-deprecating lyrics.
Not to be overlooked is the fact that 6B later in the evening is a great (and free) atmosphere for hearing this kind of music at the perfect volume.
No doubt Goldrush will be back next month with more of Prabir's classical hooks and if you haven't heard them yet, they're interesting enough to make a point of checking out.
If nothing else, it's great fun to watch Prabir enjoying himself so much.
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