Re-Seduced: Minnesota Fringe Festival, Day 1

So, I used to do theatre, right? And then, quite a while ago, I broke up with it. Mostly. I mean, sure, I have been doing reviews, but that's safe, right? I mean, it's not like I'd go crazy and see 7 plays in two days and then desperately miss doing theatre, right? RIGHT?

Insert insane cackle here.

So I went to Minneapolis for my bunny-faced friend's birthday, and this just so happens to coincide with the first weekend of the Minnesota Fringe Festival: 168 plays, each no more than 1 hour long, running in rotation at 18 different venues. Um . . . ok, when I write that out, I don't sound like someone committed to recovery and breaking with my codependent ways . . .

BUT NEVER YOU MIND THAT.

We were set up with a 10-show pass and 3 buttons initially, and on Saturday, we were headed to Intermedia Arts for I'm Making This Up as I Go on Saturday afternoon. It was not the most auspicious beginning. The crowd was small and the sets were . . . of uneven quality . . . however, the last comedian, Mike Lester, was bizarre and quite funny.

Next, we were off to the Minneapolis Theatre Garage for Vampire Lesbians of Sodom by Brazen Theatre. I'm pretty sure I saw this show in Chicago more than a dozen years ago, but couldn't remember much about it. Having refreshed my memory, that's not surprising—it's a funny concept with a lot of potential, but the show itself is a bit ho-hum. As for the production: Its wigs were truly magnificent and Mark Hooker/Margo Caprice was fantastic as one of the titular sinners. In fact, he was so fantastic, I nearly failed to suppress my fan-girl-itude when we saw him 112 Eatery later that night. (Fear not, my pathological introversion raced to the rescue once again, and he and his companion were left in peace.)

The highlight of Saturday was definitely Brain Fighters by Joking Envelope on the Thrust stage (aka STOLL!) at the Rarig Center on the U of M's campus. As you can see from the linked photo, this building was forged in the bowels of architectural hell.

When we arrived, there was a line out the door for securing tickets (the system for multi-show pass holders was to hand over the pass for the appropriate number of punches in exchange for tickets), and then we had to trudge through the belly of the beast to wait in a second line into the theater. With no real sense of how big the venue was, we were worried—so worried that we did not get ice cream from the ice cream truck, despite my having loudly yelled "ICE CREAM TRUCK!" upon seeing it. I had tweeted a couple of pictures of the lines and made public my fear of missing the show, but the lovely Sara Stevenson Scrimshaw responded to say that we should not fear, as the theater was large.

And it was! Despite the building being ugly and having nothing resembling a plan for flow of actual people, the space was great and the show was greater. It's a three-person, all-ages show written by Joseph Scrimshaw, whom you may remember from such awesome cruises as JoCoCruise Crazy. (Can someone please tell me why Joseph Scrimshaw is not superextradoublefudgey famous?)

The script was funny and wonderfully paced. The three actors (JS himself, Randy Reyes [whom we'd have the pleasure of seeing in another great show on Sunday], and Mo Perry) worked flawlessly together and nailed the physical requirements of the story (ok, that sounds weird unless you know the plot, which involves being able to turn yourself into anything you can convincingly imagine). Oh, just go see it if you possibly can.

We'd initially had a dinner reservation that would have conflicted with Brain Fighters, but we rearranged our schedule to support our local Sea Monkey. This left us with a 9:30 reservation at the aforementioned 112 Eatery (and I would like to note once again that I DID NOT fangirl all over anyone there) and time to kill in between. We'd intended to go to Moto-I on Friday night, but we were seduced by champagne cocktails, chocolate chip cookies, yoga pants, and Ike, who thinks he is a lap dog.


The downtime between theater and dinner on Saturday gave us, as a group, time for sake and snacks at Moto-I, and me, as an individual, time to contemplate breaking and entering so that I could pet Casper the Great Pyrenees, who IS SO FLUFFY! Really enjoyed the sake flight at Moto-I (Junmai Nama Genshu was the best!), and the many yummy snacks we had that are lost to the mists of the sake flight and the Ginger Mistress.

Fear not, puppy lovers, I did eventually get to cuddle Casper (who, as previously mentioned, IS SO FLUFFY!), however briefly, before we headed to 112.
A word about 112 itself before getting to the good parts: Loud loud loud loud loud. LOUD. I wish that it weren't so loud.

We shared a bottle of a Turley Old Vines Zinfandel and continued our communist ways all through the meal. We had truly amazing scallops with oyster mushrooms, frog legs that are very nearly as good as those at Brigtsen's (I do not say this lightly), the 112 steak tartare (which kind of buried the lede, if one assumes the steak is the lede—it was weirdly chicken salad–like, and we wished we'd gotten it "unprepared"), and fried Shishito peppers (we liked Moto-I's version better). For our mains, we shared the prociutto ahi tuna (amazing), the stringozzi w/ lamb sugo (amazing fresh pasta, but the lamb didn't shine through), and the nori encrusted sirloin w/ ponzu (good . . . not great, though).

For dessert, the butterscotch budino (I don't like butterscotch at all, but this was relatively tasty), the lemon cheesecake, and . . . this is not good: I cannot for the life of me remember what I had. It was good. It was probably chocolate based. it is not on the menu they have up online. Olive oil chocolate cake! (Thank you, bunny-faced one!)

Ok, this is already a bit long, so I'll do Day 2 later on.

Songwriter's Navel: Week 06, Hurtling Toward Failure

A new low in this project: I Tweeted my contemplation of seppuku by guitar headstock during the recording. What's it called when your self loathing makes you loathe yourself?

This was a rough week for my creative inner child. Initially our assignment was to write a song called "Thriving on Rejection" around a provided (lyrics and chords) chorus. The Kernel, who is jaunting about the continent this week and next, was consumed by second thoughts and sent an e-mail telling us we could just write a song around the general theme of rejection.

I gave writing to the chorus a try, but I admit I wasn't getting much of anywhere, so I started on the rejection-themed assignment. Unfortunately, I had nothing but half a verse and part of a chorus before I started feeling quite sick on Sunday night, courtesy of ridiculous food-and-drink-based overindulgence on Saturday. I tried to keep working, but it eventually got to the point where I couldn't concentrate at all. I scrawled down what I was doing on guitar (it was capo 3, and was doing some funky stuff with moveable shapes) and recorded the very brief snippets I thought I might now.

Monday morning, I worked on lyrics on the train, and I could see myself heading to a corner, full steam ahead, but did I try to turn things around? I did not. Of course, Monday was also Valentine's Day, which the ZK and I always use as an excuse to go out to a favorite restaurant. In this case, we had the phenomenal Valentine's Day menu at Big Jones Chicago. Om nom nom. As it turned out, I didn't get a chance to work on anything Monday night.

On Tuesdays, my commute is complex, so there's really no hope of working on the train. I had a student who needed to make up an exam, so I couldn't even plunk away during my office hours. I got to OTSFM and hied away to my bat cave, where I eventually accepted that this song was not going anywhere at all at this juncture. Partly it's because it's TRYING to be a sardonic, tongue-in-cheek song, and it was just getting more and more labored at every turn.

In the back of my head, my inner slacker kept whispering that I already HAD a song to play! (We never performed our "hook" songs in class.) My sloth and my fear of my sloth had a Bergmanesque chess game for my soul. While that was going on, I started playing around with a line that had made it into my notebook: "Black-Eyed Susan by the wall, in the corner, overlooked."

My private lesson time was fast approaching, but all of a sudden I had a melody and chords for a at least the first line of a chorus in my head. I very quickly hammered that out and cobbled together the rest of a chorus with some placeholder chords and recorded it on my phone:

Chorus
[F] Black-eyed [C]Susan of the [G] walls, oh [Am] won't you please
Pray for [F] these lost [C] souls, Oh [G] grant them [F] peace
Show your [Am] mercy to the [F] children of the [G] corners
[F] Black-eyed [G] Susan of the [C] walls


Lyrically I roll my eyes. I am more tired than anyone of the fact that religious metaphors are the first to present themselves. That said, I love the way "Black-Eyed Susan" sings, and hack that I am, I feel like the concept of the patron Saint of Wallflowers is kind of an interesting idea.

On the musical front, in my rush to get things down on the iPad, the melody stayed relatively solid in my mind (other than the last line), but the chords kept being interchangeable, which is never a good sign.

I went to my lesson, then quickly grabbed something to eat, then camped out on the floor in one of the wings of the balcony (the later in the day it gets, the more impossible it is to find any place quiet enough to really do any writing). I had a little over 2 hours to work, and the first verse ate up most of that time, as everything in it was more or less new, not something that I was poaching from the notebook or passing thoughts. I think that shows. It's conceptually loose, doesn't have much in the way of appealing imagery, and the melody is very blah.

[C] She dips her fingertips [F]into the dawn
[C] Lights an offering to the [F] saint of the unseen [G]
[C] Steels herself against the [F] day yet to come
[C] Draws the [C/B] shutters over [Am] all she must not [G] be

The second verse went more quickly, because it derived from an idea I had kicked around as early as Sunday night. I was thinking about rejection that brings relief, rather than pain, when it marks the end of a relationship (or a period at the end of a previously functional relationship) where one person is constantly picking at and digging into the other to find faults. I had initially written "flaw" in my notebook, then crossed it out and replaced it with "fault," which suggested a geological fault and what happens when you mess with one of those—something tectonic, volcanic, earth shaking. Again, conceptually I rather like that, but in the rush I damaged a lot of what I do like about it:

She sinks her roots into the lightless ground
Prying fingers leave no stone of her unturned
Bedrock trembles, her foundations tumble down
Along every fault line she can see the fires burn

Relatively short verses. Relatively short chorus. Feeling of failure given the sub-2-minute song from last week. I made an ill-advised attempt to build a bridge. The recurring theme of "I like this concept. Why am I fucking it up so very badly in the lyrics" returned. Lots of wallflower fantasy revolves around getting the world to see you. Being a mega-introvert, this fantasy is utterly alien to me. For a good 10 years of my life, my fondest wish every single day was that people would just leave me alone. So, that's where this came from:

[Am Our lady of the overl- [Em]ooked
We do beseech thee for the [F] bliss
Of one more [B7] day un- [Em] seen [G]

I wrote that at probably 7:43 (class starts at 8), finished scrawling my hand-written version to photocopy, and raced up to class. The fearless Tommi Zender was subbing this week.

Unsurprisingly given my near-nil practice time and the newness of the song, I butchered it in class, particularly the bridge. (Genius had failed to record it when she got the chords down.) But lots of helpful feedback. The chorus sounds a lot better, as I followed the suggestions not to switch chords quite so often. Today when prepping to record, I also found chords for the final line that I'm happier with than the misleading resolved progression that I had originally. Chords go like so now:

[F] Black-eyed [C]Susan of the [G] walls, oh [Am] won't you please
Pray for [F] these lost [C] souls, Oh [Am] grant them peace
Show your [Am] mercy to the [F] children of the edges
[Em] Black-eyed [G] Susan of the [Am] walls

Also changed the word at the end of line three to "edges," as a classmate pointed out to me the unfortunate "Children of the Corn[ers]" problem. Not really crazy about edges there, but certainly better than evoking Malachi.

Although I had originally worked out timing at the end of verse 2 so that "along the fault lines" worked, I could not make that sing either Tuesday or today so I rewrote as "Through every fissure she can see the fires burn." Meh, it's ok.

Tommi had suggested considering a wordless or shortened bridge. (He knows not my fear of the wordless bridge.) I feel confident that he's right, but I was really reluctant to lose the sentiment in the bridge. I experimented a bit with just a syllables sung over the bridge and a few other things. Ultimately, though, I was able to make what I had been hearing over that bizarre B7 chord happen again, so I just went with that in the recording.

As usual, recording was extremely frustrating. Guitar is mediocre at best and the vocals were fighting, fighting, fighting me. Trying to tell myself it's that it's a fresh melody I don't know yet, but I think it's most likely that this is just a terminally ill song that will be shipped off to my Parts: The Clonus Horror Daisy Hill Song Farm.

Anyway, the recording

Truth in Advertising: Atwood Cafe & Great Big Sea @ House of Blues

I have been having my ass kicked to an unreasonable degree by a cold this week. It has never been more than a cold, so I should have been able to function more or less normally, yet every time I've TRIED to function normally, it has been like, "Bitch, please." The timing on that is especially inconvenient, as I had a busy week in general and a house guest (Well, ok, "guest" is too strong was staying) scheduled to arrive in the crack den on Friday. Fast-forward cleaning montage!

So we (JRH and I, obviously the ZK, and our pal M) were having an early dinner at the Atwood Cafe. Dinner delicious as usual: I had the spicy, spicy mussels and yummy bunny with braised cabbage and spätzle (incredibly huge portion!), then the passion-fruit sorbet for dessert.

I'd had a massive parking fail before dinner. I was thinking that I wanted somewhere between the Atwood and House of Blues, because the ZK would need to drop off his laptop bag. I wound up parking (a) way too far West and (b) way too near an adult bookstore featuring a stripper pole in its window. For those of you who know JRH, well, 'nuff said. For those of you who don't, well I'm not sure I can explain.

Parking!Fail was complicated by my foolish, foolish vanity. In the fall, I was very excited to find a pair of knee-high boot that actually fit over my monster Neanderthal calves. The excitement blinded me to the harsh reality that said boots have a 4-inch heel. If I have to do any walking at all in them, I am faced with the very real possibility that my feet will actually snap off at the ankle. Last night involved not only a fair amount of walking, but standing for 3 hours. Standing for three hours, sadly, in the House of Blues.

I've never been there before. Based on last night's experience, I am not in a hurry to go again. We got there very shortly before the curtain time (7:30) listed on the tickets, and there was still a line outside having IDs checked and paper bracelets attached. We were not even sure we were in the correct line, but eventually established that, indeed, the queue was for Great Big Sea.

Now, we've been seeing GBS for a good long while, so the fact that those in the queue weren't readily identifiable as attendees of the Kitchen Party should have sent up a red flag. The fact that the couple behind us in line seemed desperate for assurances that this would be a "TCB, now! No New Crap!" show did raise a tiny flag with a slightly sanguine hue, but every show is bound to have attendees like that. After getting our bracelets of drinking power, next came the wanding. I had a pair of sunglasses in my jacket pocket, and they beeped madly. I started to explain this, which caused the security person to shoot me an annoyed look and wave me on. Next time, I'm totally bringing my bone saw, because you never know when that'll come in handy. "No, ma'am, I don't think I WILL pay five freaking dollars to check my coat!"

The inside of the House of Blues is, quite simply, hideous. I described it as the bastard child of the Metro and The Cheesecake Factory, and I've had little reason to amend that description. In addition to being an aesthetic nightmare, it's pathetic as a venue. The view from the balcony is nonexistent if you are behind the front row. The main floor has a tiny area in front of the soundboard that would afford unobstructed views of the stage, and the rest of the main floor is littered with fat, mushroom-stalk pillars that have flat panel billboards monitors and speakers on them, so you totally don't have to worry that your view is completely blocked by said pillars, because DUDE, you can totally watch the cheap-ass camera feed of a stage lit for a live performance!

I'd say we unfortunately camped out along a high traffic pattern, but I think the whole place is a high traffic pattern. There are three full-sized bars on the main floor: at the back, and along house right and house left. In case you need a bracing drink along the way, there are also bar outposts between these. We were near one of these. It was offering a variety of shitty canned beers, bottled water, and the foulest-smelling pizza I've ever had to share space with. But to cap all—TO CAP ALL—servers are constantly roaming through the crowd holding up cardboard cases of Bud Light to sell. All. Damned. Night.

Two positives: (1) The sound wasn't as terrible as it is at the Metro; (2) the flat panels are perfectly honest when they announce over and over and over again: Blues for Sale!

As it turns out 7:30 was the curtain time for the opening band, Scythian. (Only found out their name as we were leaving. The combination of the New Kids on the Block hat and the Bertie Wooster suit seems to have prevented any other information from taking root in my head during their show.) They weren't bad, but we three seemed to agree they weren't really to our taste.

The boys—the real boys—were all looking marvelous. Bob was actually wearing a suit jacket and button-down shirt (which led Sean to comment that Bob'd surely be getting into a better class of places than he would afterward). And speaking of Sean, I am relieved to say that someone seems to have held him down and shaved off the Bob's Big Boy Do before the tour. Kris seems to have gotten in on the shaving action as well. His dome was be-chromed, and he was wrapped up warm in a scarf that Alan persistently described as "Kinda French."

And yet it was toward Murray that Kris's aggression seemed to be directed all evening. Early on, Murray wandered over and appeared to be striking one of Kris's cymbals. This went on for several minutes, at there was definitely a point at which, were I Murray, I might have kept a close eye on my ass, lest a cap be busted in it. Meanwhile the pretty boys up front were having some giggly conversation when Sean suddenly announced, "I think the boys in the percussion section are ready! Let's go!" The ZK reports that Kris at some point later made a move for Murray's bass, which, shall we say, provoked a reaction. By the end of the show, they were shaking hands, heartily if pointedly. I assume that it was all in good fun. Moving on . . .

Alan! Alan Alan Alan! Well, Alan seems to have lost a great deal of weight since last we saw him in the good land. Being a woman who appreciates a doughy guy she can hide behind, I shouldn't say that I approve, but I do. Not just of his trimmer, more buttoned-down self, but even of the facial hair, which my male companions did scorn. What I suspect is the secret behind the trim new Doyle model was revealed about mid-set when Sea informed a disappointed crowd that he would NOT be doing any major motion pictures this summer. He polled the boys in the band, and Bob revealed that porn will be in his future. Neither Murray nor Kris had any plans (or any that they'd admit to) to break into film, but it seems that Mr. Doyle will soon be looking down the barrel of a pair of tights. (Wow, I didn't realize how disgusting that would sound until I typed it. Truly.)

The set opened with "Donkey Riding" and "Captain Kidd," both performed sans Kris. The ZK asked, "Do they usually play without a drummer?" leading me to wonder how he can have forgotten about threats of ass grabbing (although come to think of it, that was Murray, wasn't it?), Kris and the piano accordion, and . . . well KRIS, who is a rather memorable figure. Shortly after this silliest of questions, Kris and his scarf arrived on stage just in time for the back drape to flutter down dramatically, revealing the Fortune's Favour backdrop, as they launched into "Love Me Tonight."

This report was interrupted by a freaking magnificent dinner at Graham Elliot and an equally fantastic performance of Abduction from the Seraglio at Lyric Opera, not to mention two nearly sleepless nights (and an hour CRUELLY TAKEN FROM ME!), so set representation will not be all that it might have been.

I know that "When I'm Up" made an appearance fairly early on, and we giggled affectionately over Sean's struggles with math. (It was 11 days, not 9, until St. Patty's at the time, love, but math!fail had no bearing what so ever on "The Night Pat Murphy Died," I assure you.) We also heard "Ferryland Sealer" for the first time live, if my recollection is correct (and there's no particular reason to think it is). "Scolding Wife" definitely made an appearance, and there I was, once again, without my fire shovel! Not that there was room for chasing anyone up and down any room.

Other classics I can swear to: "General Taylor," and "Ordinary Day" (for the pre-encore finale); "Charlie Horse," (the only inclusion off The Hard and the Easy, other than "Captain Kidd"); "When I Am King" (this time with 100% less implication that it's all. about. Alan.), "Helmethead," "John Barbour," and "Something Beautiful" (obviously off the album with that title). "Consequence Free," with Alan looking uncertain about the state of his sign of the cross during the "Catholic conscience" bit, joined Ferryland Sealer to represent Turn. Oh! "Jack Hinks," too, I think.

Fortune's Favour seemed a bit underrepresented in the set. In addition to "Love Me Tonight," we had "Walk on the Moon," "England," "Here and Now," and "Oh Yeah." I'd really have liked "Company of Fools" and "Banks of Newfoundland," but it may be that they were keeping that in their back pocket because of their intention to do a very different set of songs on Saturday. No need to worry about up-selling, Alan, I would definitely have liked fries with my Friday night show if I hadn't been pre-engaged for opera on Saturday.

It was an enjoyable show, as always, but I have to admit that I felt a bit disengaged. The venue was unpleasant in the extreme (and it's worth noting that I'm pretty sure we've never before seen anyone bounced from a GBS show, and the one we did see was being AGGRESSIVELY bounced). The obstructed view and shitty monitors meant that I was missing a lot of the on-stage energy. I also realize in looking over my last 2 show reports that I was somewhat spoiled by the 2-set format. I also missed some favorites, like "Mari Mac," "Run, Run, Away," and the "Old Black Rum." Still they were adorable as always and all in fine, fine form.

Outta My Way, Nerdlingers: South Water Kitchen & Coraline 3-D

So my sweet boo-boo and I were apart for Commercial Love Holiday this year because I was giving a Darwin Day talk at not!church in Jesus Central, Real America. (This represents a substantial improvement over Commerical Love Holiday last year when we were together, but the ZK was mostly dead.) Anyway, we had a belated VD celebration last Friday when we went to South Water Kitchen for dinner and thence to River East for a showing of Coraline in 3-D. Which I liked, but didn't love. Please stop shooting me, Gaiman devotees!

Meal at South Water was terrific, which is good, because I was spitting mad when I got there. Traffic was a nightmare (bite me, Chicago Auto Show, have you heard about this little thing called a recession?), and furiously blinking cars were 9 deep at the Hotel Monaco with nary a valet in sight. Presumably the valets were attending to the complimentary fishies.

But! Screenwipe! New Scene! Dinner was marvelous. Every dinner is improved by the Jesus!Phone, which not only distracts from what would otherwise be awkward silences between this old married couple (Kidding, Kidding. Please recall, we often have other couples inching away from us when we are out or Certified Romantic Evenings, because our conversations are nonstop and strange), but also enables me to marinate all my food in the virutal tears of wire monkey mother's envy.

Twitterstream dutifully reproduced:
ZK begins with a trio of whiskey & orange cocktails. Shooting star blue franc for me.
ZK belatedly remembers that he isn't a fan of goat cheese. More flatbread for me.
Scallops with chanterelles & homemade bacon. Trayflicious! [NB: Mushrooms were simply "wild mushrooms, not chanterelles; also forgot the sunchoke puree. YUM!]
ZK's duck confit salad is good - very good - but tragically lacks homemade bacon
Entrees: sturgeon with yet more fabulous chanterelles, plus whole roasted & smashed baby reds. Ironically earthy fish, but fabulous!
Entrée for ZK: pork chop with cheese grits & creamed brussel sprouts + homemade bacon FTW!
For dessert: bittersweet chocolate cake with salted caramel and malted vanilla gelato. Cake edges a teeny bit dry, but lovely under gelato.
ZK's dessert: deep dish apple pie & toasted almond gelato. Also good, but sadly lacking in chocolate.
And they comped our dessert, which alleviates parking rage.

We weren't actually sure why the comped our dessert. The service was maybe a touch slow, but we weren't fussed by it. I took it as karmic repayment for the parking debacle.

So anyway, Coraline. Theater was completely packed. We weren't prepared for that and had to sit in the front row. (Other movies I've seen from the front row: JFK, Branagh's Hamlet.)
Visually, the movie is wonderful, and it is certainly true that it makes wonderful use of 3-D, rather than throwing gratuitous pick-axes at you. (Although as an avid Dead Rising fan, I am generally pro–pick axe.)

Continuing on the visual here's something deeply appealing about the way Selick renders human motion. It's sinuous without being at all fluid, and it feels like a loving homage to Rank-Bass, Harryhausen, and every other stop motion giant. But it's also not simply more of the same from The Nightmare Before Christmas, at least not when real people in the real world are being rendered.

It's a good thing that I didn't look to closely at the voice casting before going in. In fact, I only knew that Hodgman was the Father and Al Swearengen, now with 100% fewer references to snatch, was involved somehow. I am surprised to find that I hated War of the Worlds so much that I was comparatively speechless about it. (As anyone who has ever met me, literally or virtually, can tell you, hate usually makes me wax eloquent.) My entire review:

There is nothing to enjoy in War of the Worlds. It's two hours of riding on Tom Cruise's back while he trudges slowly from one special effects disaster to another, many of which seem not to have been edited down from the original prolific bad!fic version. There is no plot to speak of. It's the least suspenseful, least interesting Apocalypse on record (and I include The Nonsensical Mission-Statement-less, Highly Localized, Be-Platformed Shoed The Beast from Angel, Season 4 in that). The ending is not only ridiculous, it's a giant Republican "fuck you" to the scabby, the poor, and the ethnic as our clean-scrubbed Boston Brahmins emerge from their pristine brownstone, intact, coiffed, and manicured, giving their blue collar ex-son-in-law /ex-husband/subpar sperm donor a grateful elbow-elbow-wrist-wrist-wrist wave from an appropriate distance.

Do you see that? Not a SINGLE mention of how Dakota Fanning's character needed to die more than any annoying child in any movie ever—including Pia Zadora in Santa Claus Conquers the Martians—needed to die. But I can assure you that is true. So, no, I would not have cast Dakota Fanning. And let us not speak of Teri Hatcher, whose only enjoyable role ever has been as a corpse 15 minutes into Tomorrow Never Dies.

Wow, that was a little vehement, wasn't it? So you can see why not having paid close attention to casting was a good idea for me. As it turns out, Fanning was better than I expected. Hatcher was not quite as bad as I expected, although the performance deteriorates just when the movie most needs her to step up.

Hodgman was amazing, and I am not simply saying that because he had the good grace not to run screaming from the signing table when I brought him a giant stack of More Information Than You Require to sign. His Father was distinctly NOT Hodgman the minor television personality, and his Other Father was magnificent in its mix of chipper and creepy. McShane, French, and Saunders were likewise absolute gold, and the scenes of their performances in the Other World were easily the highlights of the movie. (Along with Coraline's ride over the garden on Hodgman's Magical Steampunk Machine.) Keith David? Well is it any surprise that Keith David rocks as the cat? Everybody wants to be a cat.

Before getting into why I liked it, but didn't love it, I should admit that I haven't yet read the book. That's unusual for me, as I am a neurotic spoilerphobe who doesn't even read book jackets. But the fact of the matter is I seem to be missing some crucial Gaiman receptors. I'm not trying to be too-cool-for-school by disdaining a popular-to-the-point-of-inspiring-fanatacism author. I don't hate him, I just . . . don't get the fuss. I've read American Gods (and I still think that SOMETHING should eventually happen in a 400-page book), Anansi Boys (better than AG, but its appeal for me was pretty superficial), and Good Omens (which I love, but one has to factor in Pratchett), so maybe I just haven't hit the sweet spot yet.

But I haven't read the book, it's true, so I am unsure whether to lay the things that left me cold at its feet or the feet of the screenplay and/or editing-room floor. The fact that Coraline the character starts off as rather a pill and is eventually revealed to have some frighteningly sociopathic tendencies (giving the forcibly muted Wybie the the thumbs up springs to mind, but her mean-spirited attitude toward her eccentric neighbors goes well beyond childish self-absorption into real cruelty) certainly seems to be a problem with the original text. I'm less sure whether Coraline's eventual face-turn-amid-the-rotting-vegetables is so pat and shallow in the book, or if the reasons she realizes that she'd rather embrace her life in the real world (as opposed to simply escaping from the scary button-eyed world) are better communicated in the original and were poorly translated to the screen. I have no problem with main characters that aren't all sweetness and light (in fact, Diana Wynne Jones and Terry Pratchett, two of my favorite authors, are masters at somewhat unlikable characters with whom one can emphathize), but it takes a defter hand than is evident in Coraline.

I wonder if the ZK will have more to say about the British fascination with truly horrible parents, but the Senior Joneses are truly horrible, narcissitic, VW-Bug-Driving poseur greenies. It's really no wonder that Coraline herself is such a beast, given that her parents are prone to foist her off on the neighbors for whom they have such ill-concealed contempt. Certainly I can see the eye-buttoning process as a strong motivator to get the hell out of the Other World, but it's not as though Coraline's real parents have anything to induce genuine, active longing to be reunited with them.

The Other Mother/Belle Dame was yet another problem for me. Perhaps it's just that Teri Hatcher always sounds like a complete raging bitch to me, but there seemed to be no appreciable reason to be attracted on one incarnation of the Raging Bitch over the other. Given that OM/BD's hedonism goes to 11 from the start, Coraline falling for it leads one to worry about head injuries. If there is anything that sells the sinister attraction of the Other world, it is Hodgman's performance as the Other Father. He's genuinely fun and affectionate, and yet the slight slow slur in his speech has warning bells clanging in the distance.

Unfortunately, the OF being a victim (or a tool? he seems to have been raised from a pumpkin? this also raises the question of who the hell is muted Wybie? How does the OM/BD create/control the Others in her world?), rather than an accomplice, gave the story a distincly misogynistic tinge in my opinion. Yes, it ties the story more closely to Keats' poem, but associating the OM/BD with the original Belle Dame Sans Merci, as well as the more generic Hansel & Gretl witch/Snow Queen/Shelob, etc. ends up feeling like piling on. Yes, we get it, she's an Evil Spiderwoman constructed from evil parts that look like Coraline's mother designed to do evil. We get it. I'm not doing a great job at articulating why the OF's enslavement changes the equation, but for me it did, and changed it for the worse.

Some of the disjointedness in the story may be attributable to lack of editing fu. For example, when Coraline soliloquizes about Mr. Bobinsky, she notes that Wybie, the story's only character who is even arguably sympathetic and narratively reliable, has been talking trash about Mr. Bobinsky being crazy. As far as I can recall, that conversation didn't make it into the dialogue, and it seems out of character and out of storyline for Wybie (after all, he isn't allowd in the Pink Palace). And speaking of Wybie, he's pretty poorly integrated into the story (again, at least the story we see on screen), and it feels like he could have/should have been important.

When I brought up the putative editing error to the ZK, he said he had the impression that we were not seeing all of a continuous stream of time, so there would have been conversations taking place off screen. (He cited Mother Jones knowing the downstairs neighbors well enough to snark about them before unloading her little shit on to them.) I, in contrast, felt that the story was pretty dependent on us following Coraline constantly for a couple of days in a row. Not adhering to the Aristotelian unities isn't exactly a deal breaker in a movie based on a children's book, but I think the lack of decisiveness about time contributed to the jerkiness of the plot, which kept me at least from understanding and being fully invested in the emotional forward progress in the story.

There are things that I did like about the story, even though I sound like a giant, sulking curmudgeon. Coraline has the potential to be a great, punky heroine, and there are moments when that shines through. Her "I like it" upon seeing Wybie with his sewn-up mouth, though, just left her dead to me. I love the unflinching attitude toward the terrifying in the story. I will say for Gaiman that he gives kids more credit for being able to handle an emotional roller coaster than they seem to get from most these days. The tone of the movie is exactly that of movies that both attracted and terrified me as a kid, and I think the world needs less milquetoast in it. Strangely enough, if it weren't for the absolute beauty of the art and the wonderful elements of the story, I probably would have been less discontented with the weaker elements of plot and acting.

There you have it. I liked it. I may have even like liked it. But I didn't love it. Commence evisceration sequence.

Follow the Person with the Outraaageous Franche Accent! A La Card #3: Bistro Campagne

In the month of January, I cleverly "planned" my schedule so that I was up in Lincoln Square at the OTSFM Monday (guitar lesson), Tuesday (Songwriting class), and Wednesday (volunteering at the Resource Center). I happen to love Lincoln Square (and, of course, the OTSFM), so this isn't a problem exactly, except that the place IS 150 blocks from the Acres, and I hate to drive. On a handful of nights, I was able to lure the ZK into driving me up there, offering the opportunity to use another A La Card as bait. FAIL! FAIL! SUCCESS!

The deck contains 3 options up in Hun Town. Ironically, none of the three is German. Tallulah is directly across the street from OTSFM, having replaced the short-lived Soirée about a year or so ago. Bistro Campagne is just down the street, and every time I see its excellent Zagat rating, I think it's stupid I've never been there. Chalkboard is about 2 blocks down Lincoln, and also a relative newcomer to the 'hood.

The two nights that I conned my spousal unit into chauffeuring me were both Mondays. That took Tallulah off the table, as it's closed. BC claimed to close relatively early, whereas Chalkboard was supposed to be open until 10 on Mondays. Hmmmm . . . The first Chalkboard fail was our fault really. Actually, it was the ZK's fault, as he deemed it "too fancy" for his mood. On the second occasion, though, we found the door locked tight at about 8:45.

On Friday the 30th, we had tickets to the Faculty, Staff, & Friends Tribute to the British Invasion. It made sense for me to drive up to Lincoln Square and the ZK to El it up there to meet me. I even remembered to grab the deck of cards on my way out the door.

We met up at about 6, and the weather and parking gods did their share in making our choice for us: Chalkboard was deemed too far to walk in the cold, and I had just wedged myself into a parallel parking space that I was NOT inclined to give up. We wound up at Bistro Campagne won the coin toss.

Interested parties should have a gander at the gallery on their website. They should then bear in mind that in focusing exclusively on the outside garden, what that doesn't show you is a really lovely interior. The wood beams and bay windows give it a very homelike feel. The walls are covered with low-key murals that feature beautiful mosaic pieces as accents. The tables are close together, but I never felt like we were sitting on top of our neighbors, even after the place filled up.

I noted on our way in (we were in the dining room at the back) that the bar is gorgeous, and the drinks menu proves it's not just a pretty face. I stuck with two glasses of the very good Autard Côtes du Rhône, but after exploring their cocktail list more thoroughly, I wished I'd tried their rendition of the sidecar. The ZK had a French Manhattan, and the Grand Marnier was an intriguing addition.

You know you've probably hit the jackpot when you are considering conscripting labor from the street to increase the size of your party and thus the number of appetizers and main courses that you can sample. Ultimately, I decided that I was NOT A SHARER and went with the escargot, which there was no chance of the ZK wanting to sample. He more generously went with the shrimp in ginger-champagne sauce, even though he knew he'd be surrendering a portion of that.

I'd hesitated for a brief moment in ordering the escargot because I wondered if the pernod would interfere with the divinely ordained role of snails as a vehicle for butter and garlic. It Did Not, I am happy to report. There was barely a hint of actual anise flavor (I'm not a big fan), but it seemed to give the sauce a sharp, almost astringent quality at the finish. Very pleasant, and it kept at bay the oiliness that can sometimes bog down escargot. Also, props to our server—she of the outrageous accent—for realizing that yes, I WOULD be needing another baguette for sopping-up purposes. The shrimp were likewise lovely, both in their perfect preparation and in the sauce that enhanced, rather than swamped, the flavor of the shrimp themselves.

For the main course, I was torn between the duck special (I am –15 versus spätzle), the cassoulet, and the rabbit. As in all times of doubt and uncertainty, I turned to the Jesus!Phone and the Twitterverse:
Mr. Wire Monkey Mother: THUMPER!
Wire Monkey Mother: i am sorry i am so late to the CASSOULET, YOU FOOL party

Although this input is invaluable, I decided to get the input of our server—she of the outrageous accent—who noted that the cassoulet is very big and heavy, plus the rabbit is her favorite. Cute and delicious bunny it was! The ZK's brain stuttered as he ordered his main dish. I believe he said quite clearly that he wanted the pork loin. Roughly 5 seconds later, just when our server turned away, he finished scrolling through his Terminator options and said, "I"m sorry. I meant the duck."

Everything about my rabbit dish was perfect. The roasted loin and braised leg provided nice variation in texture and flavor. I can imagine some people not liking the "shredded" aspect of the leg, it's much more a presentation issue than anything to do with mouth feel, nothing at all stringy or dry about it. The mustard sauce was subtle, but with a nice bit of bite to it. The potatoes were done to a turn and took on more of the mustard flavoring. Perhaps the best evidence of their attention to detail was the fact the brussels sprouts had been pulled apart into individual leaves framing the dish. I happen to like sprouts pretty well, but they can be difficult to eat and, worse, difficult to cook thoroughly without reducing some parts to bile-colored mush, and this approach avoided all problems. Even the ZK enjoyed his taste of them.

He was of the opinion that his duck was the winner. I'm calling it a draw. The duck was beautiful, and the red wine reduction was amazing. And spätzle and braised cabbage soaking in it? Pretty indescribable.

For dessert, my beloved spouse asked—rather snidely—which of the chocolate things I was getting. IT JUST SO HAPPENED that I wanted to the chocolate "soufflé" (sarcastic quote marks theirs), so BITE ME. He's a mad man and got the Financier de Poire (a white cake). The sarcastic quote marks around the soufflé, I think, are intended to denote that the cake is only about half an inch high, but it is plenty soufflé-y nonetheless. It also has a huge dollop of the smoothest, most beautifully melty and luscious ganache EVAR on top. And the strawberry port compote? Oh, the magnificent tartness of it! Mmmmmmm!

And despite my snarking about white things for dessert, the Financier was really good as well. Perfectly poached pears, cake delicate in both flavor and texture, and the crème fraiche ice cream did bring something more than just vanilla ice cream in French clothing to the party.

Bistro Campagne was thus a very nearly unqualified success for our third outing. The service was a little slow, and we were about 15 minutes late for the show (and, unusually for an "in house" show, the place was packed to the rafters). This seemed mostly attributable to a dearth of wait staff. Our server had at least the whole back room, comprising at least 15 tables, all of which were full by the time we left. I suspect that if we'd let our server know up front that we had a show to get to, there wouldn't have been a problem, so we'll chalk it up to not knowing any better on our first go. A La Card deck is definitely 3 for 3, though.

We're Gonna Need a Bigger Pestle: A La Card #2 @ Kitsch'n + Chandni Chowk to China

Today was mash-up day for the denizens of the Painful Acres. We used our second "A La Card" card for brunch at Kitsch'n (in its somewhat paradoxical River North location). We then repaired to Piper's Alley for a matinee of Chandni Chowk to China, which completely tickled my silly comedy–dumb action movie sensors.

It appears we've only been to Kitsch'n once before, and quite a while ago. I guess that's yet another point in the plus column for the A La Card Deck, as we had a great meal.

When we went in '05, I rather scoffed at the kitschyness of the Roscoe location, both on the grounds of my own desensitization to kitsch, and (I should have added at the time) on the grounds that it's in a very wonderfully kitschy area of the city to begin with. River North is antikitschy. Observer, for example, that this location of Kitsch'n is actually in the same building as Japonais. The interior of this Kitsch'n location reflects an awareness of a need to fit in. It's more that the booths are orange vinyl, the tables are chrome and formica, and there are groovy faux-vintage light fixtures.

Granted, immediately behind our table was a genuine, avocado green refrigerator, and there were shelves of self-consciously hipster toys, but it's a far cry from the concentrated, loving homage to the 70s at Roscoe. I also thought it was a little outside the mission statement to have large, shiny flat panels on CNN (and later on the playoff game, leading me to briefly wonder why in the hell they were letting Howie Long cover the inauguration).

Positively no complaints about the meal, though, unless we're allowed to complain that the portions are too satisfying, thus preventing us from trying the large number of things we'd love to try. I was lured in, once again, by the Green Eggs & Ham, and they were even better than I'd remembered. The potatoes that come with them are positively scrumptious, and I hadn't remembered the springs of rosemary, which were wonderful. I supplemented it with a simply marvelous $2 pomegranate mimosa. The ZK had the fried chicken and waffle, as well as a side of biscuits and gravy.

Another positive of the A La Card deck is that the $10 cards are for a variety of restaurants at a variety of price points. Whereas the card for Primehouse made a pretty small contribution to the total bill (although they seemed to have given us 10% off, rather than just $10), at Kitsch'n, it's a nice chunk of a really reasonable bill (even more reasonable, as our waitress, bless her, comped our coffee simply because there was a slight delay before we got our first cup). Yum!

Onward to the film, though! Despite a great trailer Chandni Chowk to China is getting savaged, rather, in reviews. What perplexes is me about the reviews is the frequent complaint that the movie is "stupid." Well . . . yes. It's a mash-up of a slapstick comedy, a typical Bollywood musical extravaganza, and a chopsocky movie. That's, like, stupid cubed!

It's exactly as formulaic as you'd expect: A complete loser (Sidhu) in a down-and-out part of India is constantly looking for a get-rich-quick scheme, much to the chagrin of his hard-working adoptive father (Dada). Said hard-working adoptive father is always there to (literally) kick Sidhu's ass all over town.

Meanwhile in China, downtrodden villagers under the evil thumb of Hojo (yes, really, Hojo), are looking for emancipation. Through various syncretic rituals, they believe they have located the reincarnation of Liu Sheung. They send an envoy to Chandni Chowk to retrieve their liberator.

Once the villagers arrive in Chandni Chowk, they enlist the help of Chopstick, a local con man who has been happy enough in the past to take Sidhu's money in exchange for amulets and other sure things, to explain to Sidhu what they want of him. Chopstick sees his own opportunity to ride Sidhu's coattails to prosperity in China. He tells Sidhu that "Dado Hojo (Kill Hojo)" means "Very cool." Although Dada's instinct is to continue kicking Sidhu and his Ganesh Potato (seriously, he has a Ganesh Potato, which you can go ahead and add to the list of things I wish I'd made up) all over town, father and son eventually conclude that Sidhu should head off for China.

While trying to get a visa for China, Sidhu encounters (and is conned by) "Miss TSM"—the spokesmodel for the Indian equivalent of QVC. She grabs his number in line and makes a break for China ahead of our boys. Initially obsessed with her hotness, Sidhu becomes obsessed with chasing down the cheater.

At the airport in China, Sidhu runs after a woman he thinks is her, but who turns out to be a pregnant Chinese woman. OR IS SHE?!? Sidhu is convinced that the "baby" is another con, and he runs after her, yelling, "Who cooked your bun?!?" The baby is indeed revealed to be a false belly filled with diamonds, and she is revealed to be Meow Meow, Hojo's answer to GoGo. Diamonds scatter everywhere, and soon Meow Meow's mug is on WANTED posters all over China.

As the villagers celebrate the reincarnation of Liu Sheng with a visit to his monument at the Great Wall, we stop back in with Miss TSM who is picking up a variety of samples (a universal translator that looks suspiciously like a bedazzled iPod nano, and a bullet proof umbrella cum parachute) from the nerve center of QVC. Someone asks a question roughly equivalent to "how's it going?" in conversational sincerity, and she answers with a 20-minute flashback montage to the day Hojo threw her twin sister and father over the side of the Great Wall, prompting her mother's suicide. So glad you asked!

Everyone who's anyone (or putatively been anyone in a past life) then converges on top of the Great Wall so that wackiness can ensue. Miss TSM (whose name turns out to be Sahki) is there to lay her father and sister to rest. Sidhu is there to get his Liu Sheng vibe on. Meow Meow (whose real name is Suzy) is there to kill Sidhu, presumably because the silliness of Liu Sheng reincarnate is just annoying in some unspecified way, and/or because Sidhu ruined her superfly diamond mule pregnancy belly. Oh, and by the way, Sahki/Suzy's father is there, too, because he's a bridge troll crazy amnesiac who lives under the wall.

Meow Meow fails to kill Sidhu. Sahki is mistaken for Meow Meow by the police. Meow Meow is mistaken for Miss TSM by Sidhu. Sidhu accidentally puts the police correctly on Meow Meow's track, thinking that she is Miss TSM.

Everyone except Meow Meow eventually repairs to the village. Meow Meow repairs to Hojo's lair, and Hojo sends her back out again to kill Sidhu, this time with poison lipstick.

Sahki tries to hide in a troupe of Chinese dancers, but she's eventually discovered in Sidhu's bed. Chopstick and Sidhu, now thinking that she's Meow Meow, subdue her and lock her in a wardrobe, vowing to turn her in for the bounty in the morning. Meow Meow shows up for the smooch of death, and Sidhu is frustrated with her slippery ways. Chopstick, presumably getting his first look at her, becomes a fan of her slippery ways. Nonetheless, Sidhu subdues her before she can kiss Chopstick, and they lock her in the other side of the wardrobe that already contains Sahki.

Sahki awakes and recognizes her twin through a hole in the partition between them. Before she can free herself, one of Hojo's minions arrives to rescue "Meow Meow." Meow Meow frees herself and is about to off Chopstick when he yells that Sidhu is nothing and Chopstick is everything. A lightbulb goes off over Meow Meow's head, and she drags Chopstick back to Hojo.

I honestly have no memory how the Mystery of the Duelling Meow Meows is solved. At some point, Sahki just . . . isn't there anymore . . . Oh, wait! She escapes and runs ahead of Hojo's EvilMobile to announce that he's coming. And indeed, he is coming, because about 3 minutes before this, Joey has somehow already returned from India and Hojo has a surprise guest: None other than Dada!

The villagers urge Sidhu to kill Hojo. Sidhu (very slowly) clues in that "Dado Hojo" might just mean something other than "Very cool," and Dada gets his throat slit. (But it's slit by a boomeranging bowler hat, and if you have to lose your great vessels, wouldn't you want to lose them with that kind of panache?)

Not content to also kill Sidhu on site, Hojo's help goes for narrative closure by chucking him over the side of the Great Wall, where he is miraculously caught and saved by Chiang, father to Sahki and Suzy (are you still a family if 66.67% of you don't know you are for one reason or another?).

Sahki vows to retrieve her sister. Chopstick goes to work as a spy for her in Hojo's organization. Sidhu and Chiang spend some time wondering why it is that Chiang seems to speak Hindi, and then they go for tea. (Seriously, I do not know why Chinese people even BUILD tea houses any more.)

From there on out, it's pretty much uncovered identities and training montages, you know? Oh, there's an opera, a codpiece, and a funny bit with a hot pink Razr that has an old timey bell ring. But you get the idea.

As I said: Formulaic. Twins separated in infancy? Check. Giant Albino Henchman? Check. Deadly haberdashery? Check. Training montage? Check. Dead mentors and multiple calls for revenge? Check. And so on and so on and so on.

But it's big fun! The whole cast is very good, and there are many stand outs in the supporting cast. Mithun Chakraborty as Dada is the film's emotional center, and it does have one. He's quite a wonderful hero very much in the style of Ben Parker. Roger Yuan is equally watchable as the drunk under the wall and as the kick-ass Police Inspector.

In the leads, Akshay Kumar and Deepika Padukone could easily have been either hate worthy or negligible, but they're both as charming as they need to be without fearing to be nerdy and inept as the situation demands. (It's also worth noting that Kumar is one of those people who is utterly transformed by clothing and facial hair. I was genuinely shocked that he's fairly attractive without the stache.)

I think it also has some more depth than it's getting credit for. Without hammering any kind of Message! home, it casts unbridled self-interest in a very negative light. In the end, it comes around to Dada's moral about hard work and belief in the self, rather than hoping for divine intervention.

I will concede that it's a bit overlong, although most critics seem to imply that the fights could be trimmed or more frenetically timed to cut some temporal fat. (Totally misses the glory of the chopsocky movie, where only ass-kicking, foley work, and long-armed yogis pad the film.) Some are more generous to the musical numbers, claiming these are the only charm the film holds. Were I to tighten it up, I'd probably have tried for a slightly less complicated plot, and although I love Dada, I'd have taken my merciless blue pen to the broad physical comedy at the beginning.

But for all its length and convoluted plot, it's a fun and charming movie. It's also a damned sight better than Paul Blart Mall Fucking Cop, and shame on you America for not knowing it.

"I have to get it: It comes with a syringe!": David Burke Primehouse

Note: I'm tired of replacing "The ZK" with "M." They are my spousal unit and one and the same.

The spousal unit and I became aware some time in November that we'd be celebrating our fourth anniversary a day early. Initially, we were slated to be on a plane to DC to meet up with The Wire Monkey Mother and her lad, as well as our friends L and N; after I'd booked the tickets, the announced that he had a final that evening. But no matter: We made reservations at Salpicón, did the tasting menu (ZOMG!), split a wine pairing (ZOMG!!!!!), the ZK got a Carl, and I got a Jesus Phone. No, life is not fair.

So why am I prefacing with something so last year? Well, I'd hoped to have this in time for our anniversary, but it was not to be. I did, however, transform the deck into a Christmas gift. Tonight, we decided to explore the deck for a restaurant that would fit in with our plan to see The Wrestler, and we hit on David Burke's Primehouse.

We were 10 minutes or so early, so it wasn't surprising that we were asked to grab a seat and a drink while we waited for our table. However, I got the sense that there were 3 or 4 parties that had had 8 PM reservations. The host seating them was gravely and profusely apologetic. I got the sense that the group of 8 or so young, entitled men who lingered loudly by the host station for no good reason on their way out had something to do with throwing off the timing of seatings.
We were at our table by 8:35 or so, though.

The dining room is not large, but the lighting and arrangement of the tables does a good job of leaving one group feeling as though they're in the lap of the group next door. Nonetheless, it is loud, and it was hard to hear both the servers and the ZK. Also—and I realize this is an odd criticism to make—there were smell issues. At one point, there was a strong smell of burned bread, and most unfortunately, after we'd finished our first courses, a couple of smokers came back to one of the tables near us, and my whole head was filled with the smell of stale cigarette smoke. The art work on the friezes is also . . . odd. We decided that it was kind of a white, cubist take on the "Good Times" mural.

We started with a manhattan for the ZK and a Cono Sur Pinot Noir for me (this never really opened up the way I'd hoped, but the Sangiovese I had with my main course was delightful). The bread arrived and solved a mystery that had begun to develop when the very large party near us began to receive what appeared to be individual soufflés. Sadly for the ZK, I incorrectly solved a second mystery regarding the bread based on some bad information.

Basically, every diner gets a stainless steel 1-cup measuring cup filled with a fantastic puff of crusty cheddar bread. This is accompanied by a slab of butter on a Burke-branded wood plank and another, smaller measuring cup filled with something granular. I was sure that the server said this was brown sugar, and thus it was dead to me in juxtaposition to bread. Having tasted the decidedly savory, cheddary delight, I wondered what kind of fiend would serve this with brown sugar. The ZK, not sharing my aversion to the mixture of sweet and savory, sprinkled his buttered bread. Those of you who are not complete yokels have probably already figured out that the granular substance was, in fact, the pinkish Himalyan salt crystals rather famously used by Burke. Oops. Delicious bread, though, and positively splendid presentation!

For our first course, the ZK had the special prosciutto salad (lovely, thin slices of granny smith apples and brilliant shavings of parmesan) and my surf and turf dumplings (the lobster dumplings were amazing; I wished the short-rib version had had a little more flavor, as I mostly tasted the admittedly tasty wrapper). The entree options, somewhat obviously, comprise steak, steak, and more steak. With my innate gift for contrariness, I was drawn to the classic filet, the waygu skirt steak (the only two items on the menu that aren't dry aged), and the wildcard, the duck breast. On the fly, I switched to the Delmonico, as I didn't think I could actually face 12 oz of something that wasn't the specialty of the house. The ZK went for the 44-day-aged ribeye. The chorizo whipped potatoes were a non-negotiable side option, but immediately after ordering the onion rings, we had regrets about not getting something green.

There was a bit of a lag between our courses, so we amused ourselves by watching the interesting presentation and table-side preparations being delivered to our neighbors. And, yes, we did take the opportunity to announce, "It's a rock. I can't wait to tell my friends. None of them has a rock this big," when the couple near us had their "Sticks & Stones" appetizer delivered (although, again, there were ensuing smell issues). We were also gratified to learn that the cart we'd been eyeing all night was, in fact, a mobile caesar-salad-making station.

As lovely as the presentation of the first courses is, the entrees were ultimately steaks on white plates and a bit stark in comparison. Mine was perfectly done, tender, and crazy flavorful. The ZK enjoyed his, but the cut on the ribeye is thick enough that to achieve medium rare, it gets pretty charred on the outside. I rather like that contrast, but he found the taste of the outer char overwhelmed the meat itself.

Dessert inspired the subject line. After spelunking around the menu a bit, the ZK decided on the Kickin' Doughnuts. I went for the special, which was a chocolate, macadamia nut cake with blood orange ice cream. (We'd have naturally tried the cake in a can if it hadn't been listed as appropriate for 4 to 6 people.) We ordered some decaf, which arrived promptly enough that mine was gone before my dessert arrived, and there was a lag before I could get a refill.

The "syringes" for the doughnuts actually turned out to be little plastic hair-dye type bottles with vanilla, caramel, and apple-ginger sauces. The caramel was the clear star, and the vanilla was good. The apple-ginger was . . . not. Granted, apple-ginger is unlikely to be my favorite, as it's almost guaranteed to have occult cinnamon in it, but it had a definite metallic taste, as though the apples had been left sitting out before the sauce was made. The doughnuts were, indeed, kickin'. As for mine, though? No complaints. The cake was a little crisp, and the chocolate and nuts blended into a really mellow, subtle flavor. It was a great contrast to the tartness of the ice cream and the dried kumquats added just a tiny bit of very pleasant bitterness.

When we handed over our a la card, it turned out that someone who works there had been the driving force behind it (or at least its Chicago incarnation). We chatted with our server about it, and she promised to pass along our feeling that it was a really neat idea.

Coming full circle to end on the cards themselves, I guess I've no one to blame but me for the fact that I assumed their dollar-sign pricing code would range from 1 to 4 (it seems to range from 1 to 3, and Primehouse is obviously at the top end). Both the ZK and I had been expecting it to be slightly less swank and less expensive than it was, because of the misunderstanding of the code.

We were talking about whether the restaurant was overpriced for what it was and came to a few conclusions: (1) It's certainly on par with places like Capital Grille and Ruth's Chris, price- and quality-wise; (2) for a steakhouse, it has more interesting appetizers, desserts, and sides than is usual, which makes us more likely both to try it again and to recommend to our meat-and-potatoes acquaintances as a means of getting them to try some more interesting things; (3) the service was very good, but the crowd seemed to lead to pacing issues (we ended up missing the movie, incidentally); (4) speaking for ourselves and no one else, if we're going for that level of foodie-ism, we're more likely to hit some place like West Town or Salpicón, which offer a bit more variety.

None of that is meant to detract from the coolness of the card deck. We're looking forward to exploring with it.

Radio . . . off? High Tea @ 103 and Radio Macbeth @ Court Theater

I recently inherited a very fancy Franklin Covey day planner from my sinister sweetie, who ditched the big 3-ring arrangement in favor of the spiral bound incarnation. Since I've begun to use it, I've double booked myself at least 3 times. And yet my gänger has remained stubbornly undöppeled.

The worst part of my double booking yesterday morning was the fact that I didn't feel like going anywhere at all. I recently incurred the rage of the karmic keepers of migraines by telling my doctor (at my long-overdue annual visit) that I hadn't had one in a long while. She didn't rewrite me a prescription for my medication, and thus I have had at least 2 since then, one of them yesterday.

Despite feeling pretty awful, and despite the fact that I should have been attending my song-writing class, I was determined to attend the high tea at Cafe 103, which had been arranged by the superexcellent owner of my beloved, doggie-friendly local yarn shop, My Sister's Knits.

As I was pondering my wardrobe for such an occasion on Twitter (I suppose it is possible to clothe oneself without recourse to cannabis [so far removed from Texas THC am I that it took me 4 tries to spell that correctly], government hand outs, and Twitter, but I don't recommend it), pointed out that high tea was definitely a hat-wearing occasion. I located the MPage Memorial Hat and finished it off with a skirt, tights (which definitely squish), my insaneoid (but oh-so-cute and oh-so-conveniently-mammoth-calf-fitting) boots, a black top, and my newly blocked dragon-scales scarf, and dived into my trusty Corolla with about 5 minutes to get me to the tea on time.

Foolishly considering the Bears' interception of the ball deep in their own territory to be some kind of good omen, I headed in and slotted myself into the Matilda axis. (The Cafe can seat 30, 3 of us were named Matilda, and we happened to be sitting next to one another.) My hat was widely complimented until someone turned up in a tiara. (Let the record show that I, of course, HAVE a tiara, but I had not gotten the memo that this was a tiara-wearing occasion.)

The tea was lovely. We started with a basket of miniature scones and various breads and cakes (lemon-poppyseed, pound cake, etc.) served with jams, lemon curd, and so on. Next up were mimosas (Carol providing the champagne) and the first course of finger sandwiches, which included open-faced cucumber-dill on rye, turkey with an apple-cranberry chutney on a whole-grain pita, and something else my sleep-deprived brain cannot recall at the moment. The second course of sandwiches included spinach-walnut minitarts in phyllo, classic egg salad on white roles, and chicken salad with smoked grapes and walnuts on a croissant. I was a huge fan of everything, despite the fact that both the chutney and the chicken salad are things I normally would have shied away from trying.

There were various door prizes from the shop. Winning seemed to be a function of proximity to her majesty with the tiara (although the last person picked her own name out!). In addition to the prizes Carol had arranged, the owner of Cafe 103 (who, as usual, had on perfectly beautiful jewelry) announced that everyone should check the bottom of her saucer, because one person at each table would find a sticker indicating that she had won the centerpiece, which was a lovely antique cup and saucer filled with unique and gorgeous arrangements from the Blossom Boys, the super-excellent florist's shop (and more) just 2 doors down from MSK.

Before we could to anywhere, there was, of course dessert. First up, both by choice and necessity, was ethereally delicious orange mousse served in a chocolate tulip cup: One million times better than the average dreamsicle in part because of the spot-on evocation of all aspects of the dreamsicle experience. Next I tried the caramel-apple square, which was a little over-cinnamony for my tastes (almost any cinnamon at all has this effect on me, though, so take that in context). The chocolate walnut brownie was a marvel of brownieosity: Chocolatey, rich, and wonderful without being at all overly sugary. I kept telling myself that it was so rich I could only eat a tiny portion, and yet the whole thing disappeared. The final dessert had (presumably in error) described to us as something strawberry based. It was, in fact, a kind of chocolate cream cheese brownie. The slightly sour topping was in perfect balance with the chocolatey goodness underneath. Oh, there was a lemon bar in there, too, and I am a failure because I did not try it.

They owners opened the Beverly pantry to us as well, and I did lumber over there briefly. (My crazy!boots proved to be particularly ill suited to conveying my post-tea bulk around a shop filled with fragile and expensive things.) Many of us headed back to Carol's shop, which she was opening to us for an hour after the tea. Of course in our eagerness to get some food-coma-combatting fresh air, we arrived at the shop well ahead of her. I had parked in front of the Blossom Boys shop and noticed that they had a picture of Barack and Michelle Obama on their door (a specific picture of the two of them going to or coming from the kids' parent-teacher conference right after the election), and I stopped to examine it. (Turns out that the lovely arrangement that Michelle is holding in the picture is one of theirs.)

In my food-induced haze, I failed to note that there was someone inside the shop, even though it was close. Naturally, my mug pressed to the screen door was sufficiently alarming that he came to see what was up. He immediately recognized our gaggle as having been at the tea and invited us to come in until Carol arrived to open her shop. I narrowly escaped buying a number of pieces of jewelry and some other things. I did not escape buying yarn, however.

In the car on the way home, I discovered the awful truth about the Bears game. We have no wish to discuss it.

In the evening, we were scheduled to have dinner chez Editrix, as she was eager to cook dinner in her new and improved kitchen, and thence repair to the theatre to see Radio Macbeth. We were of the impression that RM was not, you know, The Scottish Play, given the different title and all. In fact, we were under the impression that it was a play about a group doing a radio version of TSP, which would be interesting. Sadly, it is not. Not about a group doing a radio version of TSP and, really, not interesting.

It's important to note that the performance was by a group called SITI. Although this seems once to have stood for Saratoga International Theater Institute, it seems now to be SITI forevermore. SITI is dedicated to training actors in a combination of the Suzuki Method of Actor Training (which, apparently, has no relationship to the Suzuki Method of Musical Instrument training, although I think a foot-based approach to musical instruments will soon be sweeping the globe) and the Viewpoints method .

It is further important to note that Kate Bredeson, the dramaturg for RM says:

In the world of SIT, the Scottish play is a 1940s radio drama in rehearsal . . . the company tells the story of the play through the ebbs and flows of sound. As in the most masterful classic radio dramas, the focus on sound in lieu of sight creates a world in which chatter is heightened and screams are more devastating — a world where silence creeps and menaces. In this stylish take on Shakespeare's tragedy, SITI gives us a full, albeit subdued visual terrain as well. The resulting crash of sight, sound, and a classic, iconic text is pure SITI: grounded, full, stylish, smart, raw."

Um. Sure.

There's almost no set for the show. Which is fine. The black cinderblock wall is exposed from floor to ceiling, except where a single, paint-splattered white drape descends from the ceiling to puddle on the floor up left. An upright piano is against the back wall up right. Other than that, at the top of the play, a small table is down left with two folding chairs in front of a microphone upstage between it and the aforementioned drape. A long boardroom table is set diagonally, running from down right to up center, and a handful of mismatched folding chairs are around it.

As the audience filtered in, a lone individual was visible slumped in a folding chair at about center stage. As a crowd of people was heard off stage left, he jumped up and ran off stage as the lights went completely down.

Four people seemed to enter in the dark with only a lighter's flame to guide them. As the lights came back up, two women were revealed. One was a young Japanese woman in black plastic-framed glasses and a convincing 40s-era skirt suit, another was a young woman in high-waisted, wide-legged trousers and a blouse and scarf. The former bustled around helpfully, the latter sat at the small table, seeming to concentrated on spiral-bound script. Also on stage from the moment the lights came up was a small, dark man in an argyle sweater.

Shortly, a man (apparently the one with the lighter) entered from the right-hand wings, presumably having been responsible for getting the lights working. He wore a cap and flannel shirt and had a pencil tucked behind his ear. This group was soon followed by a man and woman, also entering from the right, who were altogether more flashily dressed. The man had a pin-striped suit, the woman a red wrap dress, very 40s hat, and a fur coat.

Probably close to 5 minutes elapsed during which the Japanese woman continued to bustle, the woman in the red dress stalked about giving people the hairy eyeball, the woman in the trousers continued to focus on her script, and the men seemed to wander around whispering to one another and making "whaddaya gonna do?" gestures at one another.

It did seem as though relationships among these people were being subtly established during this time. For example, it seemed to me that Trouser!Woman and Red!Dress Woman were being contrasted: T!W was clearly a METHOD! actor, whereas R!D was a soap opera diva type who relied on histrionics. The Japanese woman was a Girl Friday type intent on convincing everyone of her indispensibility. There wasn't much to go on with the men other than perhaps a class difference between the two men who had entered first and the man who entered later with R!D.

With little obvious impetus, W!T launched into "When shall we three meet again?" reading all parts with very little differentiation between them. She moved more into characterization as Macbeth (the richly dressed man in the pin-striped suit) and Banquo (the guy in the newsie cap) entered the scene. From there it seemed as though the players were established: Pinstripe = Macbeth; R!d = Lady Macbeth; W!T = witches (and later the Porter, Lady Macduff, and Lady Macbeth's maid); Newsie guy = Banquo, Malcolm, and a handful of other characters; Argyle guy = miscellaneous characters; Japanese skirt-suited woman (who turned out to have a very heavy Japanese accent) = Various characters.

EXCEPT!

Right around Act I, scene iv, when we see Duncan for the first time, the pinstripe guy started to read the part, pulling out one cheek and doing a very distinct voice for him.

AND THEN!

When Macbeth is next set to speak, the guy who was on stage before the lights when down appears at the top of the house left audience, starts to say Macbeth's lines over pinstripe guy, and does some directors' notes type dialogue about what the play is about.

So, thought I, we are finally, after four scenes, getting into what this play is about! Sort of a leisurely pace for self assertion, but now we're cooking.

Yeah, not really. The second guy just read Macbeth for the rest of the play, while pinstripe guy moved into playing Duncan and then Macduff, and no attention was ever paid again to this godforsaken mid-performance improv freeze tag. In fact, there seemed to be no further acknowledgment of any other identity for or interactions among these players. They just . . . did an abridged staged reading of the play. And lo! We were mightily confused in an apathetic way.

Certainly, they used those mics to good effects sometimes! There were person-created storms. To be sure, there were a handful of radio foley techniques—slapping the big table with a piece of 2 x 4 to simulate the knocking at the gate before Duncan's murder is discovered, for example. Yes, there were some coffee moments among the players, but they seemed reducible to nothing more than a minimalist way to stage the various banquets. But other than that it was just sort of Speed!Macbeth. Why the 40s? Doesn't matter. Why the markedly different styles of dress? Who knows? WHY GOD WHY DO WE HAVE 2 MACBETHS? This question is as elusive as the truth about the number of licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.

The performances weren't bad. In fact, I thought Barney O'Hanlon (newsie cap guy) was quite good in particular, and once I realized that nothing interesting in the way of interpretation was going to happen, I clung to hope that I'd at least get to see some of his Macbeth. The Editrix did forcefully question whether Elizabethan English is really the best medium for a non-native speaker with a very heavy accent. M and I were divided on whether Akiko Aizawa's accent was real or part of her character-not-really-within-a-character. (I gave up on this idea toward the end, but the ZK still thought he'd heard her making some accentless witch contributions.)

In terms of the text presented . . . I'm not sure why one would include the bulk of the extended witches scene that most agree was not written by Shakespeare and not performed by the company in his lifetime, especially if one is going to cut "Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" down to about five lines, delivered in painfully flat style that cashes in on none of the possible readings of that speech.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all a Bard purist, but the shaved down play, as presented, did little to make me think. The additions, which included random stage directions (more frequent toward the end), the aforementioned replacement!Macbeth entrance music and pyrotechnics, and W!T ending the Macduff/Macbeth confrontation with a whimper as she yelled "Enough!" (This last was particularly snicker-inducing for M and me, as the two men were facing one another with folding chairs raised in menacing fashion. Been there, done that, bought the Luchador mask.)

RM would probably have been disappointing to us on the grounds that it was not at all what we thought it would be, and I think that SITI bears some responsibility for creating those expectations and not delivering. Observe:

“A great ghost story is best heard in the dark or by the shadows of flickering candle light. Darkness plays tricks on the mind and the ear; the smallest rattle will make our imagination churn. Macbeth—in my mind the ultimate ghost story.”
–Co-Director Darron L. West


But despite being doomed to disappoint, it needn't have . . . bored . . . to the extent that it did. Perhaps if we'd arrived a little earlier (we were enjoying QUITE TASTY chicken with potatoes and kale chez editrix until sauntering theatre-ward quite late), the boredom would have been prophesied in this from the OTHER director:

In the heat of the shared theatrical experience, an audience becomes its own society. You are here with a roomful of other people. Can you handle that? We are a community of people dealing with one another and challenging one another. The theater is about social systems and how individuals in communities function in concert. Can the planet be shared or does it just belong to me?


Why I do believe those are the second worst director's notes I ever did see. I'd have said they were the worst, but I presume that they are directed toward agoraphobic virgin theater-goers from Mars, rather than, you know, normal people like us.

The Rock Loves Pie: Alton Brown's "Super Apple Pie"

Well who doesn't, right? But "love" is probably an inadequate term to describe the M's feelings about apple pie. Several years ago, he watched in awe as the Penis Lady decided on a slice-by-slice basis whether a particular apple was good enough for the pie she was making (making in an extremely old school and temperamental oven, I might add). So when the "Apple of My Pie" episode of Good Eats aired . . .

eing dewey-eyed optimists, we'd gotten esoteric software like Applejack, tapioca flour, and grains of paradise a while back, thinking we'd be able to saunter out to a Blood, Bath, & Beyond for other necessities. However, in an unusual turn for AB, the Super Apple Pie requires hardware not necessarily found by default in the standard American kitchen. Or in a standard (or nonstandard) American kitchen store. Specifically, one needs:

1. Not just any old apple corer/slicer, but the jumbo kind. By reducing the forbidden fruit to no fewer than 12 uniform slices, the jumbo corer unlocks the secrets of uniformly delicious filling.
   
2. A 2-part tart pan. Ok, I'm absolutely willing to own up to the fact that the number of tart pans in my kitchen is (was) zero, but had I had a tart pan, it certainly would not have been the right kind, as AB demands a tart pan that is 2 inches deep. Trips to several up-scale cooking stores and one cake-decorating store (hey, it's around the corner from my local yarn store, and I scored an awesome set of H. P. Lovecraft-themed cookie cutters for Chicagowench, what do you want from my life?) later, I can tell you that's not easy to find. But it was the Swedes (via Amazon) to the rescue.
   
3. And, of course, you'll need a pie bird. What's that? You're neither a spinster aunt nor a character in an Agatha Christie mystery and you've never heard of a pie bird? Fear not, once you're over your ceramic/glass hen dish obsession Amazon is there for you.
   

The hardware did all arrive eventually, and I decided that today was my day. I braved the positively disgusting weather to hit the local grocery store for the apples, apple jam, and a few other items not specifically devoted to this project.

I began with the dough and encountered my first hurdle: lack of a real food processor. We have one of those multi-attachment hand blenders, and it works just fine for many things. Blending pastry dough is not one of them, as the only real food-processor like arrangement with any appreciable capacity is a tall, narrow blender pitcher with the blade whirring very close to its bottom. I should've just done the dough by hand, but I was trying to adhere as closely to the recipe as possible. Anyway, I did eventually have two discs of dough WRAPPED IN PLASTIC in the fridge.

On to apple duty. I'd gotten braeburns, golden delicious, granny smiths, and in the absence of honeycrisps, something from New Zealand that sounded likely. In the process of peeling and coring/slicing those bad boys, I rediscovered that using those corer/slicer really takes some forearm strength that I haven't got. Also, I really hate peeling shit. Oh, and I managed to find a parallelogram-shaped apple. Seriously, the core of that bad boy was at a 45-degree angle to the horizon and took a left turn at Albuquerque. I was so disturbed by this freak of nature that I then forgot to peel the last golden delicious, meaning that I got to shave the peel off each individual slice. Aces!

Once the dough is chilling and the sugared apples are draining, there's kind of a lull in the proceedings, so I decided to try to get some things ready for dinner. This would prove unwise, but it seemed so simple at the time: Soak some corn in the husk for grilling; peel (grrrr, but I did it with my orange monkey peeler, and the orange-on-orange amused me inordinately) and parboil sweet potatoes, also for grilling; mix up some marinade for chicken and vegetables to be kebabbed.

So the sweet potatoes were ready to be drained just before I was ready to roll out the bottom disc of dough, except that they WEREN'T quite ready, so decided to set the timer for 3 more minutes for them. No problem, I thought, I can roll out the dough in 3 minutes! HEY, YOU! TROUBLEMAKER IN THE BACK! I CAN SEE YOU TWITTERING THAT!

The fact of the matter is, I COULD have rolled that dough out in under 3 minutes if (a) I'd checked before starting things to see that I had wax paper, (b) if my Oxo rolling pin—a rolling pin by a company that makes many, many fine kitchen products, and by those products I usually swear—if my Oxo rolling pin did not suck the testicles of the donkey ridden by Lucifer himself in hell, and (c) if I had not been attacked by peppercorns.

You see, the wax paper doesn't get a lot of use in my household (AB's chocolate chip cookies, of course, call for parchment paper). As stated above, I wasn't even sure I had wax paper, so when I spied wax paper at the back of the pantry, I was so innocently pleased at not having my baking project derailed, I failed to spot the peppercorn ambush.

Those peppercorns, I would also like to make clear, have been missing for at least 3 weeks. I was being stubborn and holding out on buying more because I knew, I knew that I had container filled to the brim with them. I did indeed, at least when they weren't away berry terrorist training camp. So, yes, just as I reached for the waxed paper, the container reappeared, lid loosened, and tipped over into the box of zip lock bags, on to the shelf, on to the shelf below that shelf, and the shelf below the shelf below the shelf, and so on. Naturally, a healthy amount made it on to the floor just in case I wanted to reenact the fight in the arcade from Thunderbolt. (I cannot believe that Google Image Search is letting me down on the pachinko front here.) I swept the floor. There are still roly poly peppercorns all over the pantry. They will be cleaned up, but today is not that day.

So after the peppercorn attack, I spent some time overhandling my already overhandled dough, as the dread hell-forged rolling pin kept tearing it up. But eventually I did get it into the pan. Sort of. I had a whole arc along which there wasn't enough dough to be pressed up and into the flutes, but I told myself I'd compensate with the top dough.

Now those of you who have been reading along with Og for a while might notice that all of this surely took a lot more than three minutes, and yet nowhere in the midst of the peppercorn onslaught did I mention the timer going off. It turns out that hitting start is crucial to timer use. Ah well, in a perhaps prescient moment earlier at the grocery store I'd bought some chipotles in adobo, so I figured I'd punt and make—you guessed it, AB's—chipotle-smashed sweet potatoes.

So, bottom dough is in, apples have drained for their required amount of time, drained liquid is transferred to a sauce pan for reduction purposes. It's time to turn my attention to the filling. Having tossed the apples once with just sugar, it's now time to toss them with a mixture of more sugar, tapioca flour, lime juice, apple jelly, apple cider (I just went with another TBS of applejack, as suggested in the episode), an eensy bit of salt, and those grains of paradise.

We'd found this in one of those built-in grinder jars at Whole Foods. Convenient enough, I suppose, unless the plastic neckband is impossible to get off. I struggled and struggled with it, finally ending by taking my paring knife to it. And with a sense of triumph, I pulled the neckband free! And the entire top of the fucking grinder came off, dumping easily a quarter cup of them into my mixture (the recipe calls for a quarter teaspoon). Fortunately, mixture take 2 was more successful, and it was time to layer in the apples.

Except I've completely forgotten how he did that in the episode and the recipe directions are not winding up with me having a heap that's higher in the center than at the edges. But eventually, I come up with a workable set of concentric circles and appropriate heaping. After another round of being cruelly used by the evil rolling pin, I got the top dough on and even managed to get a really good seal all the way around, even where my bottom dough had come up short.


For once, my somewhat temperature-twitchy (but much beloved) vintage oven had not wildly overshot its mark. It was sitting patiently at 425, waiting for my most beauteous pie. Cooking was completely uneventful. Pulling away the sides of the tart pan with the aid of my oatmeal can was completely uneventful. Cutting the first piece, sadly, resulted in all-too-eventful and unwanted tectonic activity (not catastrophic, but it wasn't the two pretty pieces I'd been hoping for). It also almost resulted in some quality spouse stabbing as M said, while I was still holding the damn serrated knife in my hand, "You're supposed to use a serrated knife."

Diagnosis? That is, excuse me, some damned fine pie.

Misanthropology: Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

So, the M's diet isn't nearly so restricted as it was earlier this year, but more adventurous meals still have the faintest hint of pins and needles to them. For a while, his eyes have been on the prize of Fried Chicken Mondays at West Town Tavern. When we realized that my birthday fell not just on a Monday, but on the very last Champagne and Fried Chicken Monday, our plan was clear and Crisp as Dom Pérignon '99.

Dinner was, of course, fantastic. I started with the Crispy Soft Shelled Crab BLT. Amazing and probably more difficult to eat if one was not committed to shoving one's entire face into the dish and commencing to chow. Fortunately, I am hampered by table manners. M had the flat bread, we both had the chicken, I had the Dom (ZOMG! So. Beautiful. And such a fantastic pairing with the fried chicken). For dessert, the Devil's Food cake with caramel ice cream for moi, and the strawberry rhubarb tart for him. Yum, yum, and again yum.

Time permitting, we figured we'd take in a movie after dinner, and things worked out conveniently for us to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull at Webster Place (which has been remodeled, either before or after becoming a Kerasotes Theater, I do not know, but the chairs are large and cushy and the arm rests go up).

As for the movie, it won't go down as the most triumphant return of a franchise, but it's entertaining enough. I actually loved the first 20 minutes or so on the strength of the look alone. I loved the toasted look of the lighting, the overly crisp lines of the Russians' costumes, the deliberate 2-dimensionality of the warehouse's interiors and exteriors, as well as the slightly over-the-top coloring to everything. It all worked together to place the story not just in the '50s, but to place Indy in an entirely new timeframe. I think this Jausz Kaminski kid could go far.

I think I might be an easy mark, though, because, despite its stagey-ness, I was thrilled every bit as much as Spielberg wanted me to be by seeing Indy's shadow on the car just a moment before we get to see the man himself.

For the most part, I liked the spin on archetypes, too. Even before the real action starts to unfold, the drag race between the lead car in the army convoy and the refugees from American Graffiti lets us know that the players in this movie will be different. Shia LaBeouf's The Wild One bit in the train station may have crossed the line between homage and slavish fanboying, but if one must introduce the new generation, as it seems Lucas, Spielberg, and Screenwriter David Koepp seemed to feel they must, locating it in the '50s and running with such a familiar archetype wasn't the worst decision they could have made.

The introduction of the Red Menaces as the new archetypal villain is less successful, but not for lack of effort. Part of the problem is the year: It's 1957. I'm certainly not trying to argue that the HUAC era and McCarthyism died out promptly by 1954, but the urgency of it is lacking, and not even Jim Broadbent could make me believe it wasn't. (And I have been eager to believe Jim Broadbent since he first asked "WHAT is he Looiiikkke in Bayyyyyyeeed?")

Disappointingly, they seemed to think that the entire weight of the villains' characterization could rest on the assets of Cate Blanchette in military drag, and I will say that her gauntlets in the opening might have been able to carry a lot of weight. But we end up knowing very little about her, and there's fairly substantial ambiguity about some important things that establish the rules of the universe in this installment. Can she, in fact, read minds? Can anyone?

On a related note, I don't object to aliens as a matter of principle. It's a good thing that I didn't know about the aliens going in, because I would have been worried about the racist bullshit Chariots of the Gods crap. A lot. I do object to aliens with so little plan and/or mission statement that they make the Orii look like the urban planners of early Indus Valley civilization. We never know who they are (except for Cate's clunky, out-of-the-blue dialogical exposition about hive minds), why they're here (other than to be archaeologists as terrible, without method, and mired in fucked-up classical archaeology's principles as Indy himself is) or what the shit is up with salting the earth upon their departure.

That said, I was relieved that the indigenous folks with artificially modified crania (a subject that is near and dear to my heart) were not, in fact, aliens themselves (they really skirt the edge of alien origin for the Nasca lines, though); I was relieved that the people to whom the glorious and powerful aliens gave farming, aqueducts, and other technology that is SO COOL and SO ADVANCED that we can't even TELL YOU WHAT IT WAS, but BOY is it SPIFFY! were fictional/mythological, rather than being an actual cultural group.

And speaking of culture, boy HOWDY is that a mess.

To: Professor Henry Jones, Jr.
From: ME
Re: Stop talking wrong culture history

(1) Peru is notable for many things. Not being in Mesoamerica is one of them.
(2) Not to dip into environmental determinism or anything (you certainly have that covered), but your people occupying mountainous areas are almost never known for running around in nothing but loincloths. If they did, we probably would not know about them, as this would be a career-limiting move in terms of cultural persistence.
(3) The Incas did not invent Quechua. Certainly they are a Quechua-speaking group. Certainly it was the language of the empire, but they didn't make it up.
(4) It's hard to know where, exactly, y'all end up, geographically speaking: The "natives" (classy, by the way, to let the Russians gun them down) rather look like Yanomamo (and if they are, they're a long way from home, yuppie boy), but they've apparently picked up a taste for scarification from somewhere else, and their blowguns and Capoeira-inspired superfly martial arts moves are from another area of Brazil and/or the lowland Amazon entirely.
(5) Wherever it is you are supposed to be, Mayan is going to be of no help whatsoever. Really. I promise.
(6) An offhand reference to Vere Gordon Childe does not qualify you as a natural-history-based, wild-for-context New World Archaeologist, you dirty, dirty classical archaeology bastard. (But you are still totally my Vintagey Serial Archaeologist Boyfriend. 4-EVAR!)
(7) Dude. Don't do that to a mummy. Ever. Not even to a completely silly, made-up Conquistador mummy. Just don't.

Seriously, that was wronger culture stuff than is usual (although the First Look stuff about the next Mummy irritated me more), but as long as one ignores that, the movie is plenty of fun overall.

I wish Indy and Marion had more to do together. I just love Karen Allen, and god knows I've loved the ass-kicking Marian for a long time. The moments they did get were nice enough (although the "They weren't you, honey," moment was too obvious and too drawn out). I get that this movie is really about eras ending, torches passing, and new archetypes emerging, still I had some resentment for the amount of time spent on the father/son issue, as it seemed inversely proportional to the time spent on a romance that I really love.

LaBeouf was fine, given that they didn't make the mistake of giving him too much character material to work with. I was grateful that no one pulled off his pants.

Also on the lack of characterization front, it's hard to be cranky about a reprise of John Hurt's role as the Fool in Olivier's Lear, but it would have been a kind attention to write a part for such an esteemed and talented actor. (Am I wrong to find it amusing that as late as April 5 of this year, the LA Times wrongly reported the role Hurt was playing?) Also, is it possible that only I really wanted the damned qipu he wears around his neck for the whole damned movie to become relevant in some damned way? Ok, so that's just me, then. FINE!

But the good news is they didn't forget to write Indy, and really, we're all here for the man himself, nu? Way back last year, I got my first glimpse of Harrison Ford back in costume over at blondeheroine.com. It was an incredible rush. There is nothing I don't love about that photo, and Ford's performance lives up to both it and to the living, breathing Indy.

The dialogue he has with BeoMac at the beginning is almost unnecessary, because everything about his performance communicates that this is an Indy who is slowing down. Every action sequence has a keener edge because you know he's pulling it off (or failing too, and I loved the epic fail of the whip stunt in the first action sequence) more through sheer force of will than through the easy physicality that sustained him through Raiders and Last Crusade. And as ridiculous as the surreal Atomic Bomb test scene was (seriously, Howdy Doody playing for no good reason on the television of the Mannequin family was just gratuitous), Ford's plays that slightly-comic-panic-before-the-gonzo-plan so well, and it's so big a part of Indy's charm.

It's by no means the best film in the franchise, but it is certainly a credit to it. As Roger Ebert put it: "I can say that if you liked the other Indiana Jones movies, you will like this one, and that if you did not, there is no talking to you."