Biffles at the Bijou

Manfred the Wonder Dog

2008-04-05T09:17:00.000-07:00

When was the last time you thought of Tom Terrific...and his sidekick (here, serving as office equipment) Manfred the Wonder Dog?

Quite some time? I thought so.

I have always thought that "Manfred the Wonder Dog" would make a great name for a cat. Don't you think....or don't you?

Book Review: Wonderful Tonight by Pattie Boyd

2008-04-05T09:05:00.000-07:00

Those of us who grew up as Beatle fans have grown up since, and what with the way of the world and all that, our hearts may not pound as they once did at any news of a....BEATLE! Nevertheless, when Pattie "ex-Mrs. George Harrison" Boyd's memoir came out last year, I bought it immediately and devoured it faster (if such can be imagined) than a big bag of potato chips, turning each page eagerly, as if at last I might discover the secret of....the BEATLES!

Ironically enough, one of the things I realized from Pattie Boyd's narrative (which is decently written, although a little heavy on the girlish breathiness) is that is was not easy to be a BEATLE! The now well-trodden territory of losing most or all of one's privacy to the press was relatively new, especially in Britain, especially for what most establishment people viewed as a passing trend. George (always my fave rave), Paul, John and Ringo were ill-prepared and basically, flummoxed on many levels by their rapt public, while the government (remember those drug arrests) basically fucked with them at every turn.

Read my full review of Wonderful Tonight here on LAist, and do go see the show at Morrison Hotel Gallery on Sunset (same block as Toi, across from Meltdown), which opens this Sunday and runs for a few weeks (there are links to the Gallery in the LAist piece). And the book is being issued in paperback in late May, just in time for the beach.

Anne Enright: The Gathering

2008-02-20T20:30:00.000-08:00

So, I've been busy...elsewhere. Yes, writing for LAist and neglecting my own blog. Rather than have you chase my review of Enright's Booker Prize-winning novel over to that other website -- which presumably you just did because you absolutely wanted to read my cookbook lists -- I'm reprinting it here. Just for you. This novel surprised me with its directness; my brain was holding on to some embarrassing notion of the Irish novel through a soft-focus and fond lens. Enright's book is disturbingly clear. (For more clear, modern Irish fiction, read Colm Toibin.)

The Gathering, by the Irish writer Anne Enright, won the 2007 Man Booker Prize, one of the most prestigious awards for a writers who is “a citizen of the Commonwealth or the Republic of Ireland.” Enright’s win was a long shot; although she’s published plenty, she isn’t one of the usual suspects, like Ian McEwen or J.M. Coetzee, who tend to pop up on the Booker shortlist regularly. The Booker Prize can make an author. Enright is now on a world tour that one suspects her publishers didn’t plan until she won.

The Gathering is a simple story, narrated by a middle-aged woman named Veronica, who begins: “I would like to write down what happened in my grandmother’s house the summer I was eight or nine, but I am not sure if it really did happen.” Veronica’s brother, Liam, her closest sibling among 10, has died; she must go from Dublin to Brighton, England, to collect his body. Liam’s death leads Veronica to a lengthy meditation on what long-ago, half-remembered events may have led to Liam’s death and shadowed her own life. Her assured cadence belies her confusion about what really did happened in her childhood, and makes for 261 compelling pages.

Veronica is a reliable narrator who traces her shaky memories along with the untruths her parents and grandparents have sustained for reasons she discovers as she tells her story. The sins of the fathers haunt Veronica; she is grieving, we learn, not just for Liam, but for her own lost soul. In the imprint of his suffering, she discovers the hard truth about her own sadness.

Enright’s tone in The Gathering is cool and relentlessly honest. In her journey of revelation, Veronica spares no one, and her observations are both painfully clear-eyed and nastily funny. This is not the whimsical Dublin of Paddy Doyle, nor the grim but lace-edged world of William Trevor. The Gathering is a closer relative to James Joyce’s pitiless view of how his beloved country killed and ate its young.

All that said, The Gathering is not depressing to read, and has its own humor. Enright deserves applause for taking on one Irish family’s sadness without portraying them as pitiable victims.

A blog you MUST check out

2008-02-20T20:15:00.000-08:00

For vulgar humor
Of the highest quality
Read Daily Haiku.

In this noble poem
Liza meets Laura
Mano-a-mano at last!

Best cookbooks: Don't miss these lists!

2008-02-20T20:00:00.000-08:00

What you're looking at on the left is a plate of Very Chocolate Cookies, with cacao chips inside that lend a wonderful slightly bitter chocotaste to a buttery bite-sized nibble. You want to eat these cookies. There's even a variant that includes piment d'Espelette, a Basque hot pepper that is A.O.C., meaning in part that it is hard to find and expensive.

You will find this recipe -- the one you want so very much -- in Chocolate and Zucchini, a cookbook by a French blogger, Clotilde Dusoulier, who didn't wake up to her culinary heritage until she lived in San Francisco for two years. It's a great cookbook and a great blog, (and all you Francophiles and Francophones can read the version francaise) and was #1 on my list of Best Cookbooks of 2007.

Read the whole article and find the links here, on LAist.

A few weeks later, I posted a list of five rediscoveries, cookbooks from the past that I really adore. This list includes homey, fun books like the late Laurie Colwin's Home Cooking, as well as Sophie-daughter-of-Jane Grigson's Sophie's Table. (If you don't have it, you ought to get Jane Grigson's Good Things, right now.) Sophie's cookbook has all manner of recipes, including -- since we're talking about cookies -- an oatmeal chocolate chip that includes no flour and is buttery and delicious.

Einstein: April 6, 1990 - February 13, 2008

2008-02-17T21:27:00.000-08:00

Einstein, Thanksgiving 2007
No, I am not going to look up until you take the damn picture!

A Nutmegger by birth, Einstein started life amidst humble beginnings in New Britain, Connecticut on April 6, 1990. Firstborn among his siblings Greystoke, Soupy, Peewee, and the Dalai Lama, Einstein was always the first kitten in line for everything. Shortly after learned to toddle around, he adopted one of his human caregivers, another firstborn, to be his lifelong assistant. He was eternally grateful to her for teaching him to use a litter box.

Einstein used one of his lives early on when he fell three stories from a window screen and survived unscathed. (Why he was clinging to the screen remains unknown.) He cultivated a relationship with his indifferent father, Jim, sitting at the closest distance Jim would tolerate (about 3 feet) and staring into the same space as his dad. For his mother, Kitchen, Einstein expressed unqualified affection (even though she refused to teach him to use the litter box), attempting to nurse long after all his other siblings had been weaned. He would slide in to her teat as if he was reaching home plate. Kitchen was not amused.

A move deeper into New England – to Morrisville, Vermont in December 1992 – offered new opportunities for adventure. Shortly after he recovered from a brief and almost deadly bout with diabetes, Einstein slaughtered his first small creature, leaving only the tail and the gall bladder, and no mess whatsoever. Subsequent encounters with small rodents proved almost consistently successful on Einstein’s part, although his human’s eleventh-hour save of a barely-maimed mouse that he had planned to finish off later destroyed his consistent record. Each winter in Vermont brought swarming cluster flies, like a weeklong bonus of flying potato chips. He particularly enjoyed watching large creatures like moose from his Vermont windows, and never tattled when the moose asked him to keep their frequent visits to the spring outside the house on the q.t.

In his East Coast years, Einstein often enjoyed visiting Cedar Grove, New Jersey for the holidays, where he became acquainted with the Queen of Snacks, who offered him smoked salmon and other delicacies, and the Endless Lap, who watched television unmoving for periods of time long enough to allow adequate napping time. He also encountered a sage elder who correctly perceived what Einstein would say first if he could speak (as animals are reputed to do at midnight on Christmas eve): “So, what have you done for me lately?”

A move to Arlington, Massachusetts in 1995 provided windows on three sides of his living space and thus much more activity and information to manage. Although small creatures apparently ran rampant in the cat-patrolled space above, Einstein’s presence created a force field that kept all the mice away from his home. Life was peaceful in Arlington, save for an alleged “play date” with another cat (with the questionable name “Cookie Dough”) arranged by misguided humans. This “play date” did not end in disaster, as Einstein had sniffed Cookie Dough’s scent on bags brought to the location by an individual known and barely tolerated by him and because Ms. Dough offered proper respect, leaving his litter box and food untouched. Thus the incident ended without incident.

Relocating across the river to the South End of Boston meant a nerve-wracking moving day spent hiding behind the toilet in a new bathroom. But it also brought new opportunities. The tiny city mice were unprepared to encounter the mighty Einstein, and he learned that a light touch could be just as effective as a nasty slap when controlling vermin. Barely had this native New Englander settled on Milford Street, where there was much outside traffic to patrol from the windows above, when the appearance of boxes boded more disruption.

Whisked from his native New England to a brief stop in New Jersey and then on not one, but two, airplanes – where first class did not appear to involve cats – Einstein arrived in the Golden State in March 2001 and remained in a boarding house for a week. While the accommodations were not gracious (other cats were present!), life was peaceful enough for him to catch up on his sleep, and by the time he was taken to a spacious apartment on a street that was busy enough to keep his powers of observation honed, Einstein was ready to settle in to the life of a SoCal retiree, lying in the sun and chasing imaginary foes. But no real foes materialized, and one of Einstein’s regrets was that he never got the chance to kill any small creatures during his days as an Angeleno.

A health crisis in May 2005 (a bum liver, possibly from too much partying) led to many tiresome trips in the car, often to visit a horde of women, one in particular who poked and prodded him endlessly and seemed to expect his affection in return. Hah! His requests to avoid car travel went unheeded; however Fancy Feast was offered at reasonable intervals and the many comfortable chairs (and a new extralarge bed!) made life quite posh, notwithstanding his ignored requests to move to 90210, or at least Beverly Hills P.O.

Einstein preferred to mishear the name of his neighborhood, Los Feliz, as “Los Felix,” named after the “Righty-O!” cat. In March 2006 Einstein received an unexpected bonus when his human left her job and took a year off from working. She readjusted her life to become more like his, taking naps and following no particular schedule. It was as if sixteen years of subliminal messages had at long last proved successful. Had the bipedal mammal come to her senses? Had centuries of feline efforts been successful?

For a long time, the answer seemed to be yes, and then no, as the human started to disappear again, although this alternated with intervals of cat-pleasing behavior that Einstein taught her himself. For his part, life was mostly pleasant, although he found that his frequent bouts of upchucking often led to long car trips and visits to those fussing women. He also had to tolerate having pills tossed down his gullet, although he avoided biting the human in retaliation because of her ability to provide Fancy Feast at intervals. Also, as he became older, he appreciated her company much more, especially in the evenings, as well as the simple pleasure of walking across her lap once, twice, three times before settling down.

As time passed, Einstein began to consider a broader range of options. An upchucking incident on Sunday, February 10, 2008 left him feeling diminished, and he decided, after another forced visit to those infernally cheerful and caring women, to stop taking in food and drink. That, combined with the progression of other health problems, left him feeling completely unwell, unable to sleep, and frankly so preoccupied with his own problems that the affection of the human was no longer inspiring. On Wednesday, February 13, just after 11 p.m., he gave up the good fight.

Einstein's great skill was for simply BEING -- in the moment, on the chair, at his water dish, on the bed taking a nap. Like many cats, he did not see any necessity for DOING. This is probably the strongest lesson I learned from him, other than the constant need to check your perimeters.

Let's eat and drink way too much: Sgt Recruiter

2007-12-19T12:38:00.000-08:00

Not all that long ago, L and I visited Sgt. Recruiter, a new wine bar next to Cobras and Matadors, and also run by Steven Arroyo, in Los Feliz (although some would peg that block as East Hollywood). We drank. We ate. We drank some more, and then some more. At some point onion rings became dessert (I know, highfalutin' tastes).

In any case, my review of Sgt. Recruiter ran in LAist here and was also linked to EatingLA here. FYI, I made the evening sound a lot less bibulous than it was, and left out the mention of staggering home up the hill on Vermont while the ground somehow reeled beneath my feet. But go and try the Gruet Blanc de Blancs, fab bubbly from New Mexico and sold out on the winery's website!

Photo from Gypsy D's photostream on Flickr.

I love Christian Lacroix

2007-11-19T10:33:00.000-08:00

No, it's not just his name, which you can repeat sonorously over and over like Edina on Absolutely Fabulous: "Christian Lacroix, Christian Lacroix. It's Lacroix, sweetie."

I love Christian Lacroix's responses to the London Daily Telegraph's questions. On exercise: "I don't do it. It would hurt me. I would die from it, I'm afraid." Exactement!

The rest of the piece is just as delicious. He loves the films of David Lynch...and he designs poofy skirts! Could he be more fabulous? Read the piece and go out and buy one of his pieces, for God's sake, sweetie darling!

photo of Lacroix boutique on the Rue de la République - Arles, France by Kahala via Flickr.

90 Year Old Author Writes a Damn Good Book!

2007-11-05T13:01:00.000-08:00

Now that I've gotten your attention, you can find my review of Bowl of Cherries here on LAist.

Let's eat: Sanamluang Cafe

2007-09-29T10:43:00.001-07:00

It's not that I haven't been blogging at all....it's just that I've been blogging...elsewhere. Recently I reviewed Sanamluang Cafe for LAist, as part of our "Thai One On" project in which we endeavored to review EVERY restaurant in Thai Town. A noble goal, in which we pretty much succeeded -- and I discovered a new favorite place. Read my review here.

Your favorite chefs are from New Jersey; or, more shameless Garden State flackage

2007-09-01T19:20:00.000-07:00

Massive thanks to fellow Blogspotters Amuse-Biatch for linking to this article in the September New Jersey Monthly -- not a journal I normally peruse unless I'm visiting the 'rents and have read every Gourmet in the place.

So, who hails from the same state as me?

Anthony Bourdain, Leonia: You know his badass attitude can only come from a state whose official song almost was "Born to Run."

David Burke, Hazlet: Snooty restaurants from a nonsnooty background.

Tom Colicchio, Elizabeth: quote: "there's nothing on earth like fresh Jersey tomatoes and corn." Amen!

David Drake, Madison: I am sure he is a fine chef, but his restaurant is in New Jersey. He needs to hit the road. See the song referenced in #1.

Alice Waters, Chatham: So often I forget that Alice Waters, the patroness of the American food revolution, grew up in my home state. And here she says she grew up getting ice cream at Gruning's! Excuse me while I have a nostalgic moment.

New Jersey, represent! Yet more evidence that much that is good and strong grows up in New Jersey, then gets the hell out to share with the rest of the universe.

Photo of Alice Waters taken June 2007, from David Sifry's photostream via Flickr.

Death at a Funeral: More like a short nap....

2007-09-01T19:07:00.000-07:00

I didn't dislike the recent, Frank Oz-directed Death at a Funeral; dazed by the heat, I felt that seeing the new Jet Li movie War was more than I could handle. I wanted diversion and amusement. I got it, but just.

The film's been out for a while so I won't go into much detail. Suffice it to say that this is British humor, both broad and gentle, and the premise (who has not participated in craziness at a family funeral) is promising. But the main gags -- Valium that isn't, and a dead man's secret -- wear out rather sooner than does the film's running time. The cast is game, with numerous barely recognizable British actors joined by Americans Peter Dinklage and Alan Tudyk, who has a hilarious turn as a solicitor sent round the bend by the non-Valium. Kris Marshall is excellent as the source of the homemade pharmaceuticals. And my day was cheered immensely by the beauteous Jane Asher as the materfamilias; she doesn't have enough lines, but delivers the few putdowns she has with great panache.

Special bonus points to me for: Recognizing the British (excuse me, naturalized Canadian) actor John Neville -- the "Well-Manicured Man" from The X-Files -- among the mourners in the outdoor scenes. He's uncredited, but look carefully and you won't miss him.

I suppose the fact that I got excited about seeing John Neville proves that Death at a Funeral didn't wholly capture my attention. This heat is going to continue; I may spend tomorrow afternoon with Jet Li.

Rock and roll never forgets: The Zimmers

2007-08-11T20:07:00.000-07:00

Here, new proof that a heavy sense of irony and a love of rock and roll can carry you forward well into your tenth decade.

Alf, the lead singer, is 92.

I personally am planning an "A" side of "Don't Dictate" by Penetration, b/w "Whips and Furs" by the Vibrators.

Napa Farmers Market: Good morning!

2007-08-11T11:01:00.000-07:00

Earlier this month I spent yet another fun-packed week up in Napa visiting L and J, eating, drinking, and listening to music. When I rolled out of bed on Tuesday morning and heard that we were heading to the farmers market in downtown Napa, so we could return with our vegetables and get to Quixote winery for a 10 a.m. tour, I thought, well, OK, whatever, so long as there are snacks. But my casual attitude was totally blown away by the reality. The Napa market, located in a parking lot across from Copia, totally rocks, and not just because I was well fed in a single walk-through.

To start with, the vegetables are, as one might imagine, gorgeous and varied. One man was selling baby corn -- the size of the canned Chinese variety, but fresh and toothsome -- and paused from his reading of the new Harry Potter to give us samples. Later, L stir-fried these after I shucked them (lots of work for an astonishingly small pile of ears) and they were tasty but not mindblowing, although a good base for herbs or spices.

But it was the prepared items at this market that really woke both of us up, especially when handsome young men (L assures me they are different and even more handsome every week) offered us nonstop samples. Bolani, a Concord-based producer of "East & West Gourmet Afghan Food" has a stand that features bolani, which are flatbreads about the size of an extra-large flour tortilla folded in half over vegetable fillings. Along with these bolani, they sell a yogurt-based garlic/mint cheese and a variety of sauces, including cilantro pesto and many varieties of hummus. The young men spread the cheese and cilantro pesto on the spinach bolani; the combination of an assertive green flavor and the snap of garlic exploded in my mouth. Of course, I bought some of each and am using the cilantro pesto as a spread, a sauce, and a marinade. All items are available on their website.

Two more great sources at the market were Ridgecut Gristmills from Arbuckle, where I scored some stone ground cornmeal (they have a website, too, although I don't see the cracked corn there), as well as Humble Beginnings Napa Valley (no website yet), a family operation from Fairfield, where the dad and daughters made a very good case for their hot pepper jelly, which we ended up using to glaze the grilled duck breasts that evening.

Finally, I found nirvana, which foodwise often translates for me into The Products of the Pig: The Fatted Calf Charcuterie. Their Petit Jambon, a tiny ham about the size of a large fist, is flavorful but not oversalty, and has hundreds of uses, as I am working to prove. Their Mortadella is liverwurst-sized and tasty, although not so peppery as I would like. (I was thwarted in my mission to try the artisan mortadella at Dean and DeLuca in St. Helena by the snotty clerks who clearly thought that L and I were not worthy of their fine products -- ha!) The charming and much-tattooed Fatted Calf lad also had small dried sausages, like healthier Slim Jims, that were $1 and irresistible.

As you might imagine, I was practically overcome by the goodies at this market. But wait, there's more -- freshly roasted coffee beans, fresh eggs, and a tamale lady who gave us samples. Is there anything better than a tamale for breakfast at a farmers market in California? I don't think so.

Napa will be getting a higher toned, year-round location for the charcuterie and some other producers when the Oxbow Public Market opens this fall. But there's even more! Fatted Calf will sell Steve Sando's Rancho Gordo beans. If you haven't tried Steve's "New World" beans yet, by all means go to his website and wander around (his recipes are great). L and I visited Steve while I was in Napa and I picked up a variety of beans, including a new one called Pebbles that comes in multiple colors from the same plant. Steve, whose cookbook is in process, threw in some Mexican vanilla and his new "Gay Caballero" hot sauce, which I think he ought to be selling in West Hollywood.

Photo from Metin.Sozen via Flickr.

Summer Reading: Odds, ends, and the last of Harry

2007-07-15T17:43:00.000-07:00

When I look at what I recommended last summer -- One Mississippi, by Mark Childress, out in paperback in September -- I feel a little chagrined that I'm not up on the new hardcovers this summer. Or just not yet. Certainly I have ordered the new, the final Harry Potter from my favorite independent bookstore, Skylight Books here in Los Feliz, but other than that, my reading seems to be catchup from the spring as well as from years past.

No matter. Here's what's on my shelf:

Alice Munro, The View from Castle Rock
Munro transmutes her family's history, which includes emigration to Canada from Scotland, into fiction in these linked pieces. Her ability to convey oodles of information in a single sentence is, at times in this book, almost overwhelming. You'll read, you'll ponder, you'll have to lie back in your chaise and recover.

Lydia Davis, Varieties of Disturbance
Davis' short stories are untraditional yet not incomprehensible; in fact, she's able to take the simplest of ordinary experiences and make them frighteningly explicit in a few sentences; the story titled "Lonely" begins "No one is calling me. I can't check the answering machine because I have been here all this time," and wraps up in two more astute sentences. There are a few longer stories; all are full of a gentle laughter at humanity and deep understanding of how neuroses affect us all.

Maile Meloy, Liars and Saints and A Family Daughter
Fortunately by the time I got around to reading these two books (Liars was Meloy's first novel), I forgot how they are connected. All I can say is, read them in the order I've listed them for the most enjoyable literary ride you'll have for a while. Meloy creates, in succession, two different worlds with the same characters, all of whom have intriguing, Catholicism-fueled, secrets. Given that Meloy's characters often face considerable challenges or complications, her writing is amazingly easy, almost light-hearted. (And yes, her brother Colin is in the Decembrists.)

Marina Lewycka, A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian
Lewycka's story, as I read in the Guardian (follow the link, the essay is worth reading), is one to which I'm sympathetic and may eventually be empathetic: first novel when she was over the age of 50, nomination for the Booker Prize, translated into more than 20 languages. But the novel, while diverting, is not so well written or structured as one might wish. Two warring adult daughters deal with an aging widowed father who is being hoodwinked by a zaftig gold digger; there's a subplot involving the younger daughter and narrator's eventual discovery of what really happened back in the Old Country, but somehow it doesn't seem like enough. Possibly a good beach read, but rather predictable and less for it, although the tractor info is captivating.

John Gregory Dunne, True Confessions
No less a crankypants than the New York Times' Michiko Kakutani called this book "pitch perfect." The story of two brothers (maybe you've seen the movie with Robert deNiro and Robert Duvall, truly born to play siblings) in 1940s Los Angeles, this is a compelling and sordid tale of the Irish Catholic power structure and how little it has to give, both believers and nonbelievers. A great book.

Bitten: Yet another thing I do, so you don't have to

2007-07-15T16:50:00.000-07:00

Or you might want to. Sarah Jessica Parker, of Square Pegs and, of course, Sex and the City, recently unveiled her new fashion line. Much to my and probably your surprise, the line, Bitten, is not just discounted but cheap, and the designs are rather practical -- certainly nothing you'd ever see Carrie Bradshaw wear: t-shirts, tanks, blouses of Indian cotton in solid colors, little skirts, chinos, and jeans comprise the line and, get this, nothing costs more than $20.

Well, naturally I was skeptical, as a long-ago housewife impersonated by Lily Tomlin would say. So when I saw the Bitten logo in the window of where the Old Navy used to be at the renovated-but-still-inexplicable Beverly Connection, I trouped in, dragging S along after lunch (at the Grand Lux Cafe, the overdecorated diner that supports the possibly-just-as-inexplicable-but-more-successful Beverly Center).

Well, ladies -- this is a women's line only -- the clothes are worth checking out. Stretchy jeans for $14.98 in at least three cuts (low, medium, and up-to-the-waist -- remember your waist?). And they were true to size, not skinny mini as Miss SJP is. T-shirts were cute with interesting detail. Cheap flats and flipflops, and a few jackets, some in denim, round out the line. Sizes seem to go from 0 up to 16.

Here's the deal: Bitten is carried exclusively by Steve and Barry's, which -- for those of you who have spent time in New England -- is rather like Bob's Stores, writ small, meaning jeans, shirts, maybe some skirts, etc. Practical wear. The one in the Beverly Connection is the Steve and Barry's closest to most Los Angeles locations, although there's also one in the Fox Hills Mall in Culver City.

Forgive me for sounding like Daily Candy (I'm not a shill! I bought those jeans with my hard-earned credit!) but these clothes are worth checking out.

Just suppress your inner Carrie Bradshaw long enough to find something that doesn't pinch. You can suffer for beauty tomorrow.

Book Review: I read "The Manny" so you won't have to

2007-07-13T18:31:00.000-07:00

Earlier this month, J and I went to a book party in Beverly Hills, at the Ralph Lauren store on Rodeo. As the Lauren employees politely cringed, a select but completely uncohesive -- and therefore uncharacteristic -- group of Angelenos and visitors nibbled snacks and drank champagne. Too much, in my case, but that was a story for the next day.

The book, The Manny, is a supposed must-read for this summer, especially on the beaches of the Hamptons (so we're exempt in L.A. Yay!). I read the book so you won't have to, and wrote up both the tony reception (Dominick Dunne! Downtown Julie Brown!) and the interminable and ill-written volume.

Just for once, I'd like one of these socialites with literary pretensions to write a work of literary fiction instead of, er, that crap they write.

Or maybe not.

Read my review here on LAist.

Photo from Holly Peterson's MySpace page.

Let's eat: The Colony Cafe

2007-06-23T20:40:00.000-07:00

The Westside-Pavilion adjacent Colony Cafe is, as famously described in the Los Angeles Times magazine before its demise, a project that Lily Tartikoff conjured up for her daughter Calla. My take: Colony Cafe isn't a vanity project: It's all about the food.

Colony Cafe features sandwiches, burgers, and dogs; its other side, Papa's Porch, features sweets, including a pomegranate limeade that is tart and delicious (I could easily alternate between this and Clementine's ginger limeade like, forever). S and I met there on a recent Saturday; at 12:30, the mostly outdoor tables were not crowded, and we lazed on the front porch, oblivious to the noise of Pico just a few steps away, over our lunch.

S went for the vegetable sandwich: veggies, hummus, and sprouts on whole-grain bread, wholesome and delicious. At the other end of the spectrum, I had a chili dog; the Nathan's dog had bite, the chili was mild but not wimpy, and the matchstick fries I had alongside were difficult to stop eating. They come in a garlic version, too, pictured above -- but that's where I wimped out. There was Nordstrom to conquer across the street, preferably without fire breath.

The Colony Cafe is at 10937 West Pico, near Kelton, across the street and a little west of the Westside Pavilion, and is open daily 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. I will certainly be back; nice to have another choice in that nabe for the weekends when the Apple Pan crowd gets aggressive.

photo from supermod via Flickr.

Eagle vs. Shark: Crazy, in love

2007-06-23T20:07:00.000-07:00

In Taika Waititi's brilliantly, hysterically funny Eagle vs. Shark, Lily (Loren Horsley) and Jarrod (Flight of the Conchord's Jemaine Clement) meet cute: She crashes his animal costume party, her older brother in tow. Oh, and she's dressed as a shark; the host, her longtime crush, is dressed as an eagle. When her shark (who uses a great nom de game) beats almost all comers at Fight Man, Jarrod falls in like. Well, sort of.

This is a cockeyed romantic comedy about two oddballs who would seem like total losers if the rest of the New Zealand that Waititi shows us wasn't so weird all around them. Like characters in a song by They Might Be Giants come to life, Eagle vs. Shark and its characters have nuance and rhythm, and a completely nutty logic. All of the homes we enter have images of animals on their walls: Jarrod has a cougar head above his bed, and at his father's house, there's a German Shepherd on the wall like a family portrait (let's not even mention the card-playing dog tapestry). The animals aren't just there for entertainment purposes: Everyone in this film envies their power.

The characters all want to be more than they are; they want to step forward, but they can't. Jarrod takes an ill-advised step but can't back up; he's too committed to the wrong story. Lily can't speak up for herself for the longest time, until Jarrod challenges her with his illogical behavior. Then she is not only able to act, but also gives Jarrod the empathy he doesn't get from his loopy family.

"I'm a loser," he says to her.
"Doesn't matter," she replies.

Eagle vs. Shark makes that one of the most satisfying romantic exchanges all year.

Both Clement and, especially Horsley -- who displays a range of emotions while distractedly chewing her lower lip -- shine in their roles. The supporting cast is fine, too, from Cohen Holloway's porn-obsessed hacker, whose computer appears to be an old 286, to Rachel House's seen-it-all, tracksuit-dealing older sister. The music, largely by The Phoenix Foundation, moves things along nicely.

And, even if the quirky couple's bizarre charms begin to wear on you, Waititi has kept his film admirably compact: it's just under 90 minutes long.

Another New Jersey Moment

2007-05-20T11:23:00.000-07:00

On Saturday Night Live last night, host Zach Braff, South Orange native (and, unless I am misremembering, a graduate of Columbia H.S. in Maplewood), gave a shout out to the Campus Sub Shop in South Orange -- home of an excellent cheesesteak (probably the first one I ever experienced).

Hey, it's just a sub shop, but of these moments is New Jersey lore made, and Braff sent up the Garden State amusingly, and -- more to the point -- ironically, as he sang to the tune of Long Island native Billy Joel's "New York State of Mind."

Which reminds me of the time when, in high school, my brother walked into the Seton Hall gym, only to find the aforementioned Billy Joel at the piano doing a sound check for his concert that evening. And what was Billy Joel singing, you ask. Why, he was singing Bruce Springsteen's New Jersey anthem "Born to Run."

Only in New Jersey, kiddies, only in New Jersey.

Once: a musician's life

2007-05-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

Once, a new film by the Irish director (and former member of the Frames) John Carney, chronicles a week in the life of a musician, played by the Frames' Glen Hansard, in which he busks in downtown Dublin, repairs hoovers (vacuum cleaners) with his dad, meets a Czech immigrant played by Marketa Irglova, and repairs her vacuum. They fall in love, which neither one of them wants to admit it, and collaborate (she was classically trained on the piano back home; now she cleans houses) on a CD's worth of tracks that he hopes will make his name. We never learn either of the characters' names.

Sounds simple, even sentimental, but it's not. As far as I can recall, Once is the most clear-eyed view of an ordinary musician's life that I've yet seen on the screen. Hansard's character, serious and a bit depressed, is obsessed with making his songs better. When Irglova plays for him, in a beautiful scene inside a music store, she gets the same bug he does. No, there are no cliches about either making beautiful music with the other -- they misunderstand each other but work it out, culminating in a long recording session with musicians they pick up busking on the street. Hansard acts with his soulful eyes and his height, creating a character who wants his work to succeed because it is the only way he can speak deeply; his battered guitar is a external manifestation of his psyche. Irglova convincingly creates a young Eastern European woman whose life is much more complicated than the Irishman can comprehend, despite his genuine like for her. The way she nonchalantly drags a canister vacuum cleaner down the high street in Dublin speaks oodles about what she's been through and how much it takes to ruffle her.

Amazingly, every time Hansard or Irglova plays a song, we hear the whole thing, not an excerpt, nor does their work run primarily as background, although there are some montages. While this is a boy-meets-girl film that will appeal to many romantics, it's also a feature for musicians, and those who love them. Carney hasn't compromised in making it clear that, to these musicians, love and music are essential, even when music comes first.

Hansard and Irglova wrote most of the songs in the film, both separately and together; the soundtrack is well worth checking out.

Photo of Glen Hansard performing in Central Park last summer by Gisele13 via Flickr.

R.I.P. Isabella Blow (updated)

2007-05-07T19:21:00.000-07:00

Insofar as hats go, this is mild stuff for Isabella Blow, the style icon who passed away in Gloucester, England, earlier today. Blow was essentially a talent scout for fashion; she could sniff out a fledgling designer from twenty paces. Famously, she bought Alexander McQueen's entire graduation fashion show from Central St. Martin's School of Art; her long and fruitful collaboration with Philip Treacy began when he designed the hat for her marriage to Detmar Blow.

There are many great stories about Ms. Blow, her style, and especially her wearing of eccentric hats. She was the kind of person who turns up completely unexpectedly, as she does, exiting a church, in the film The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. The Guardian (U.K) describes many of her hats in the three articles devoted in Tuesday's paper to Ms. Blow. Alexander McQueen called her a "cross between Lucrezia Borgia and a Billingsgate fishwife." The Times has a tad more about Ms. Blow, nee Broughton, and her colorful family: her grandmother claimed to be a cannibal, and her grandfather was embroiled in the "White Mischief" scandal in Kenya that was the subject of an entertaining film. The Times also spends a bit more time talking about the hats. Blow's discoveries brought her notoriety, which she enjoyed, but little money, which toward the end of her life is said to left her depressed; she died of cancer at the age of 48. The photo above was taken in March.

Update: Subsequent stories in the British press revealed that Ms. Blow died from ingesting paraquat, an insecticide, that she drank during a weekend house-party at her home. Her father-in-law committed suicide the same way.

Photo by Piers Allardyce via Flickr.

Book Review: The Beautiful Fall: Lagerfeld, Saint Laurent, and Glorious Excess in 1970s Paris

2007-04-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

I know, I've been a little quiet lately. Blame it on the fact that I'm employed again and haven't been roving around as much as I usually do, as I get used to early rising and being in an office. However, as part of LAist's tribute to the L.A. Times Book Prizes, I posted a review of this nominee in the Current Interest category. Alicia Drake's book didn't win (Ian Buruma's book about the death of Theo van Gogh did), but then what chance does fashion have against brutal reality? (Too bad we can't ask Karl Lagerfeld that question.)

I'll reprint the review here, as I can't seem to link to this piece on LAist.

In 1954, two fledgling fashion designers won awards from the International Wool Secretariat: Yves Saint Laurent, age 18; and Karl Lagerfeld, age 21. The tenuous friendship they developed – as exiles, prodigious talents, and gay men at ease with their sexuality – matured into a fierce rivalry, a competition for friends, clients, and in one instance, a lover.

Alicia Drake’s book tracks the parallel careers of Saint Laurent and Lagerfeld from 1954 through 1989 and beyond. She spends most of her time describing the over-the-top 1970s, when work and play in Paris were given over to a dérèglement des sens in which each designer realized his shadow self: Saint Laurent’s overindulgence in drugs and alcohol fueled his bipolar episodes; while Lagerfeld tended to be more of a spectator than a participant, his controlling coldness hardened into the faux aristocratic persona he still affects.

Drake’s book is fashion history and a compelling character study, with some excellent dish served up along the way (think of the film The Damned). Certainly many fashion designers concoct a mythic past (Coco Chanel, Ralph Lauren), but few as entertainingly – in Drake’s telling – as Lagerfeld, who tells a fellow party guest about a nineteenth-century painting his mother gave him when he was a child, neglecting to mention that she gave him a cheap reproduction. Along the way, Lagerfeld snips a few years from his age; although he is allegedly 3 years older than Saint Laurent, as recently as a March 19, 2007 profile in The New Yorker, he claimed an age that is 3 years younger.

Lagerfeld’s focused upward bound activities are balanced against the passionate life of Saint Laurent, from the start a design supernova who lapsed into emotional free fall with each collection, demanding great obedience from his friends and breaking with them when he perceived the slightest disloyalty. One might argue that Saint Laurent’s individual influence on fashion is more definitive (he set trousers in the center of a modern woman’s wardrobe), while Lagerfeld’s work did not achieve wide notice until 1982, when he began to design for Chanel, despite his fine earlier work for Chloé. Drake provides plenty of fodder to examine each of these arguments in detail.

What Drake did not do is interview either of the designers; both agreed to talk to her, but neither ultimately returned her calls. As her narrative is quite personal and specific, one wonders to what extent the reader can rely on the memories of friends and clients, as fabulous as sources like Paloma Picasso and Loulou de la Falaise may be. The book’s text is also full of errors: the director William Friedkin’s 1980 gay S&M film Cruising is inexplicably called Closing; and the ballet genius Nijinsky is twice called “Nijinksy.” Does Little, Brown’s staff lack access to the internets for quick fact-checking? Drake’s descriptions are awkward, at times, e.g. describing a ground floor apartment as having a view of the dome of Les Invalides (if you stick your head out the window and look straight up…).

Despite those drawbacks, Drake’s chronicle is an enjoyable read and a touching portrait of two of fashion’s most distinct and charismatic talents. How closely her tale approaches the truth is known only to Saint Laurent, who isn’t talking, and Lagerfeld, who took Drake to court for invasion of privacy (that age issue again) and lost.

I Need More: Best music writing of the week

2007-04-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

Iggy Pop titled his 1982 autobiography I Need More (out of print; Amazon has it in French). Which of us cannot identify with this feeling, and thus -- in a way -- with the battered yet curiously pumped James Osterberg? He is "the world's forgotten boy" and so personifies the ugly and unpopular side that each of us has but doesn't want to acknowledge. You heard it here: Iggy stalks the dark side so we don't have to.

In this past Wednesday's New York Times, music writer Ben Ratliff got it right. His review of Iggy and the reunited surviving Stooges at the United Palace Theater in NYC was titled "Chaos at the Line Where Performer and Audience Blur." I'll quote extensively, since the piece is now hidden behind the dread wall of TimesSelect:

A show by the reunited Stooges deals with the boundaries of the self; it’s about private-made-public and public-made-private. It airs ideas (and parts of the body) that usually aren’t laid open, and turns the hey-ho communal experience of rock into an inner monologue.

Over tribal drum rhythms and monstrous guitar riffs, it’s also a choreographed re-enactment of chaos, rude and simple and immaculate. It represents a total thesis on rock ’n’ roll — not by any means the only possible one but a great one....Iggy Pop, now 59, is the captain of these inside-outside actions. Try to take your eyes off him. How he re-enacts fear, rage, sex, abject boredom, universal love and lethal cynicism, while dancing with originality, remembering lyrics and maintaining the delicate middle-state between having pants on and not having pants on, is why he is he, and you are merely you.

To reiterate: "maintaining the delicate middle-state between having pants on and not having pants on" -- see the photo above, and ponder on this Deep Thought as you enjoy your Sunday.

Photo of Iggy in Barcelona by frecklescorp via Flickr.

Flashback: Disco Tex and His Sex-O-Lettes

2007-03-30T21:32:00.000-07:00

Say it slow, say it fast: Disco Tex and His Sex-O-Lettes. Sounds crazier each time you say it, doesn't it? Back in 1974, when there was money to be minted from disco, Four Seasons producer Bob Crewe formed this "group" as a showcase for hairdresser Sir Monti Rock III, aka 60's teen idol Joseph Montanez, Jr., aka Disco Tex. Here's some more choice play-by-play on the single.

And hey, respectable rock critic Chuck Eddy (scroll down this page) can hold forth admirably on the virtues of Disco Tex, the plastic qualities of a disco album at a time when disco was not quite defined. Thus, Disco Tex/Sir Monti Rock/Joseph Montanez, Jr. and Bob Crewe made an album that was a whole lot better than it had to be to succeed as a disco album, the purpose of which was mainly making money. Can it be that they made....art? Find a download (or the way I found "Get Dancin'," on a cheesy 70s compilation I got at Amoeba) and judge for yourself. And while we're passing the time admiring Monti Rock III, do visit his website. He is still letting his freak flag fly.

Book Review: The Lost, A Search for Six of Six Million

2007-03-28T21:24:00.000-07:00

Follow this link to LAist to read my review of this extremely well-written, well-pondered and precise memoir, in which literary critic Daniel Mendelsohn goes looking for what happened to grandfather's brother, the brother's wife, and their four daughters, who perished in the Holocaust in Poland, and along the way finds out a good part of the truth, and learns to live with uncertainty and mystery.

Peeps triumph again!

2007-03-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

The considerable Peep Posse is at it again, urging me to post about their favorite seasonal marshmallow friends. And who does not love Marshmallow Peeps? They are sugary sweet; they can be microwaved into a puddle or catapulted across vast distances. They can be squashed flatter than a pancake with, so to speak, nary a peep from them. They are junk food that is easy to love.

Not for me. If I were to be faced with the Peepmobile to the left -- which apparently dispensed candy treats to all visitors -- I would run in the opposite direction. One of the leaders of the Peep Posse once covered my desk, computer monitor and all (this was before flatscreens) in shocking pink Peeps: Very funny. Plus the sugary coating is like gritty sand, and the interior showcases the worst possible quality of marshmallow.

Bah, humbug, you say. However, since I am fond of the Peep Posse, I give you the following, as a special Eastertime gift from me to you.

Here's where you can see the newest hybrid, Cocoa Bunny Peeps, via Slashfood.
Here is the official site for the purveyors of Peeps, a company ominously titled Just Born. As you might imagine, the Peeps have their own website, with a section called "Featured Recipes and Crafts." Go crazy, Peep-ple.
And for those of you who just can't get enough of a) Peeps and b) the late candy confection Anna Nicole Smith, here is a loving memorial sculpted in Peeps.

I hope all you peeps (and Peeps) are satisfied. Happy Easter, Happy Passover, and eat yourselves into a sugar coma that lasts until Memorial Day.

photo by Crowbert via Flickr.

Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction

2007-03-12T22:10:00.000-07:00

Yes, another awards ceremony, this one a bloated (yes, I mean you, Jann Wenner) dinner ceremony. But it's a live feed! And those of us without massive satellite dishes don't get live feeds in Los Angeles. So I watched, and took notes -- all so you won't have to. You are quite welcome.

We begin with Jann, who talks too long (and the mike is so sensitive that we can hear every hesitation, every lick of the lips. Yecch). Then a quick memorial section, with photos, where -- to my ears, or perhaps my imagination -- Syd Barrett and Arthur Lee get the most applause. Until we get to ...Ahmet Ertegun. Filmed highlights; then Aretha Franklin comes out and sings. She's clearly got a cold or something, but she still sounds good. Aretha does a shout-out to Mica Ertegun, calling her "Mrs. Ertegun," and asks her to stand. Mica, who looks uncomfortable, does what the queen tells her to do.

Now here's Keef, Keith Richards, here to induct the Ronettes. First he credits "giant strides in medical science" that allow him to join us. Oh, Keef, you derelict, you! It's not so funny when you're the one joking about it. Anyway, film clips, then Ronnie, Estelle, and Nedra come out. Ronnie is called Ronnie Bennett, not Spector, although Paul Shaffer reads a brief tribute from probable-murderer Phil, to minimal applause. Ronnie and Estelle have coordinated their outfits and are wearing black pantsuits. Nedra is wearing a golden gown, with cape, that looks like she's ready for the Rapture. Ronnie shouts out to Bruce Springsteen, Southside Johnny, and "Miami Steve" (how many of us remember Mr. Van Zandt that way?) and to Joey Ramone. The Ronettes sing and everything old is new again; they do "Be My Baby," "Walking in the Rain," and "Baby I Love You."

Next, the inductee I've been waiting for: New Jersey native Patti Smith. Great vintage footage. Patti, obviously very moved, thanks Clive Davis; the no-longer-with-us members of her band, Ivan Kral and Richard Sohl; ex-boyfriends (although she doesn't identify them as such) Oliver Ray and Tom Verlaine; her crew; her family, including her son, Jackson, who plays bass in her band; and her present band, including Jay Dee Daugherty, who has played drums with her for 30 years (!) and of course Lenny Kaye. Patti is overcome; I'm overcome. Patti thanks her late husband Fred "Sonic" Smith. She accepts the honor in his name. She thanks her fans for remembering the words to her songs when she doesn't.

Then Patti and her band play, starting with a cover of the Stones' "Gimme Shelter," and moving through an OK version of "Because the Night," with shout outs to Bruce and to Jimmy Iovine for making the song possible. (Yes, this ceremony has some of the lesser qualities of a testimonial dinner.) Then, Patti says she's going to play her mother's favorite song. She talks about her mother, who answered all Patti's (actually, her family seems to call her Tricia) fan mail for 25 years. On her deathbed, her mom asked, "Did they save the Stone Pony?" (Just another New Jersey rock and roll mom.) So this is the song her mother liked to vacuum to: "Rock and Roll Nigger." Lenny is in fine form, as is his hair. The song totally rocks.

Barely 7:15 and I'm exhausted. When I saw Patti Smith at the Wollman Rink in the summer of 1978 my life changed. Sure, I knew women could be professionals or whatever else they wanted. But Patti Smith pissed off the side of the stage, right in front of everybody! What freedom! I have never done it, nor do I plan to --- but somehow seeing her do that gave me a sense that I could do whatever I wanted.

Back to the show. Al Sharpton talks about James Brown, who apparently was like a father to him. Sharpton is good, of course: He's a preacher. Then Van Halen is inducted and I leave the room to make dinner. Sorry, Van Halen fans! As y'all know, Eddie is in rehab and David Lee Roth didn't show, which left one guy and Sammy Hagar.

Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five are inducted by Jay Z. They're the first hiphop group in the Hall. Melle Mel -- still very buff --appeals for hiphop that does not glorify violence. "I'm 45 and I don't have a police record," he says. Then they perform, and doesn't Grandmaster Flash start by shouting, "New York, just like I pictured it." If you don't get that reference, I can't help you. (Stevie Wonder, "Living for the City") These guys are awesome.

And already it is time (but believe me, we are several hours into this -- I spared you the "highlights of previous shows" interludes while they changed the stage) for our final inductees, REM. Eddie Vedder does the honors. He talks too long, but who cares, because he is intelligent and interesting and just spacy enough to be engaging. I might as well confess that, at this late date, I have developed a crush on Eddie Vedder. I'm late to the party, what can I say?

REM performs, among other songs, "Man on the Moon" with Michael Stipe and Eddie Vedder trading vocals. They sound great! Then Patti Smith comes out and she and Michael Stipe and all sing "I Wanna Be Your Dog." Lenny Kaye has a great guitar solo. As they wrap up, before they start the final jam, Patti yells, "Have a great night everybody! Drink plenty of water! Take care of yourselves!" Jeez, Patti Smith, punk poetess, is telling me to hydrate.

The final jam, not so star-studded this year, but sturdy nonetheless: "People Have the Power" from the Patti Smith album Dream of Life. Patti namechecks Fred again. Everybody's on stage -- even Keef and Steven Stills have strapped on the ol' guitars. Patti sings. Michael Stipe sings. Ronnie formerly Spector sings. Sammy Hagar sings and Patti hugs him -- he's just a big ham, isn't he? -- while Michael Stipe looks askance. While everyone bops, Michael Stipe sits off to the side and watches. He's a Boy with a Problem, to quote Elvis Costello, isn't he? Celebrity I'm-too-sensitive match: Michael Stipe vs. Morrissey.

And there you have it, folks. A motley crew this year, but all deserving and I am certain that most if not all of them are still toasting their success and God knows what else. Keef has to do it for science, after all.

The Host: Don't go near the water

2007-03-12T10:40:00.000-07:00

As The Host (or as listed in Korean in the new IMDB, Gwoemul) begins, an arrogant American military guy (Scott Wilson, best known recently as Catherine Willowes' ring-a-ding-ding daddy on CSI) orders his Korean underling to pour hundreds of bottles of formaldehyde down the drain. "But these drains empty into the Han River," protests the underling. Exactly.

When we flash forward, we're on the river shore in Seoul, where a fractured and amusingly fractious family (Grandpa, Hie-bong Byeon; slacker Dad, Kang-ho Song, with a peroxided fringe; and sweet granddaughter/daughter, Hyun-seo, played by Ah-sung Ko) run a snack stand. But barely have we figured out the family relationships when a huge nasty sea creature that looks like a ferocious polliwog and runs like a lizard on speed crawls out of the ocean, threatens tens of funseekers, and grabs Hyun-seo, diving back into the Han with her in his ugly mouth.

The Host follows what happens to threatened schoolgirl Hyun-seo, who survives being grabbed by the sea monster, while focusing mostly on her family, both grandpa and slacker dad, along with slacker dad's siblings -- his sister the national bronze medalist in archery and his brother the snotty and unemployed college graduate -- as they discover that their beloved Hyun-seo is alive and plot to save her. At top and bottom, The Host is a creature feature, with excellent production values and a scary creature that moves so quickly that we never get a real fix on its appearance, which makes it seem even scarier. This is not Godzilla, except in the beast's origins; this is a very well-made film.

In its middle, however, The Host offers not just suspense but hearfelt family comedy; while this is not Little Miss Sunshine transposed to Korea, this family is both challenged and contentious. A brawl at Hyun-seo's memorial, before her slacker dad discovers she is alive, is dark fun. The clearly focused satire on Korean government officials, who are either bumblers or nefarious plotters, is entertaining and pointed, as is the presentation of the Americans as the people who create the problem, then rush in and take over to supposedly solve the problem. (You think?)

Who is scarier, a mutant river creature or the American military? That's the question that The Host asks, and, given this film's basis in history (a U.S. military official did indeed order the disposal of formaldehyde in the sewer system leading to the Han), it's not difficult to conclude that the latter is a greater threat.

Clatterford: Beyond the Waterloo Sunset

2007-03-09T18:47:00.000-08:00

The newest program on BBC America begins, very appropriately, with a cover (by Kate Rusby) of the Kinks' "Village Green Preservation Society":

Preserving the old ways from being abused.

Protecting the new ways, for me and for you.

And indeed, we are in England, in the country, amidst the vicars and jumble sales, looking fondly on the women of a village that is more Ray Davies (existential ruefulness) than Barbara Pym (old-fashioned befuddlement). The first figure we see in Clatterford, pumping away on a bicycle that appears to be perennially out of gear, is a decrepette played by Joanna Lumley, once AbFab's Patsy, whose fineness as a character actor is immediately apparent. (If you saw her in Cold Comfort Farm you know what I mean.) And then we wander on to the meeting of the Women's Guild, and a pop in to see the vicar, followed by an amble into the local doctor's surgery.

Jennifer Saunders (aka Edina on AbFab) created this gentle, yet occasionally sharp, look at village life in contemporary Britain. Saunders plays a harried namedropping mum: "It was a lovely evening [chez Madonna] until Sting played the lute." The men are all professionals, such as they are in any small town; the women seem to be support staff -- a nurse, a grocery clerk, a jill-of-all-trades like Joanna Lumley's character. Most of the women are blonde, or blondish. You've got to pay attention to pick up on the laughs: a moment in church when no one in the congregation seems to know the responses (do they ever attend?), and a counselor from Grief Group (leave it to the English to create a snappy category for everything) who tells a widow that she simply cannot go through the stages of mourning in anything but the prescribed order.

Is Clatterford worth watching? Yes: Joanna Lumley's free-of-vanity expression, Jennifer Saunders' tone of voice, and the other quirks of this really capable cast make the show an easy, amusing, and stress-free 40 minutes.

The only down side is that BBC America now seems to have pulled the Friday night AbFab reruns. Sweetie darling, what will I do?

Clatterford airs on BBC America on Friday evenings at 10 p.m. Pacific time, 9 p.m. Eastern time.

Let's eat: I seafood, I eat it

2007-03-07T16:19:00.000-08:00

Recent dining plans have taken me to casual seafood joints on either coast, giving me the opportunity to (drum roll) compare and contrast!

In Hollywood, The Hungry Cat is a venture of David Lentz (that's Mr. Suzanne "AOC" Goin to you) that faces towards the east coast but now seems a little more west-facing despite the persistence of the lobster roll (and that's not a complaint). It's a mini-empire, with a Santa Barbara outpost opening sometime soon.

Recently, C and I had a fishy feast there, beginning with a shared half dozen oysters: Stingray (named because that's what critter likes to eat them) and Old Salt from Maryland, as well as Malpeques from New England (forgive my not remembering their exact address). The oysters were distinctly flavorful, each memorable in its own way; the bartender's description (without reservations, you eat at the bar) was helpful. We then shared the dungeness crab w/ black rice and spicy blood orange sauce. This was my first experience with the western crustacean of choice, and it was a tasty one. We also tried the chorizo stuffed squid, which I'd rate at a B; tasty, but dressing squid up too much is, to me, not worth the effort. Like my grandfather told my brother when he bought his starter house: Don't overbuild.

The dessert of assorted cheeses with walnuts and honey was a great finish. Generally, Hungry Cat has gourmet ambitions that it generally fulfills, with the lobster roll and Pug Burger as delicious exceptions. As it expands into the former Schwab's space, including an oyster bar, we'll see how those ambitions play out.

On the other coast, in Cambridge, Jasper White's ambitions have always been clear -- he is the Cooking from New England guy, an early friend-to-Julia-Child who has long been a presence (both physical and theoretical) on the Boston food scene. Half a decade ago, White opened the first of four Summer Shack locations at Fresh Pond circle, across from the historic former location of Joyce Chen (I know my Boston food history) and in what was for years the Polynesian party joint Aku Aku. With one of Aku Aku's Easter Islandy heads recast as an old salt, White created a casual seafood place that's a cross between Legal Seafood and any lobster pound in Maine.

Summer Shack had a long specials list of raw oysters, with more variety than Hungry Cat, plus littleneck and cherrystone clams. All were fresh and perfect. The steamers, an east coast staple, were sweet and not at all sandy. The fried oysters were very good, as was the lobster roll, and our youngest guest enjoyed his fried calamari (not overbuilt, this squid) after he polished off umpteen raw clams. If the fries were undistinguished, well, the fries at Woodman's, up in Essex, aren't anything to rave about, either; the seafood is the point. The one gourmet excursion, a sauteed sea bass on top of garlic mashed potatoes with lobster bearnaise, was good, but monochrome in appearance (browned fish, white mashed, deep brown sauce) and possibly out of place on the menu. And the dessert selection, which includes soft-serve ice cream, is just what's needed. Summer Shack also offers a full clambake; east coast lobsters of various sizes, from modest to gargantuan, are offered steamed or cooked in less simple ways.

So where's the compare-and-contrast? It's not rocket science: east coast seafood is better on the east coast. West coast seafood places, like the Hungry Cat, like the phenomenally good Water Grill, are their own creatures. All together, class: Comparisons are odious. When I seafood, I eat it, wherever I happen to be.

photo by sooz via Flickr.

R.I.P. Ghost Parking Lot

2007-03-07T15:21:00.000-08:00

AFTER: Hamden, Connecticut, March 2007

BEFORE: Hamden, Connecticut, 1978 - September 2003

Once upon a time, the New York design firm SITE was famous for a series of stores designed for BEST products; anyone who's read Learning from Las Vegas (and if you haven't, you should) has seen photos of the decorated sheds, one with a peeling facade, another with a forest growing out of the store. In fact, the firm seems to be thriving and continues to design institutions, restaurants, and residences, as well as Danny Meyer's Shake Shack in New York's Madison Square.

Back in 1977*, the seven-year-old firm created a work of public art called the Ghost Parking Lot, which was both a totally cool thing to view and a perhaps-biting commentary on the domination of car culture. The Ghost Parking Lot was essentially a parking lot full of various old cars (a Chevy, a VW bug, etc.) that had been drenched in asphalt. One could imagine that the road had reclaimed the vehicles for its nefarious purposes, although many other interpretations are possible.

I saw the GPL for the first and only time in 2001 before I moved west; its dreary Hamden, Connecticut location added to the general sense of weird despair that the piece conveyed.

And now, the Ghost Parking Lot is gone. Actually, it's been gone, as noted above, since September 2003. The excuse given was that the "cost of preservation" was too high, approximately $175,000, although one wonders why preservation was necessary. The asphalt was peeling off, and the cars emerging from not primordial, but civilized, muck.

What has replaced the Ghost Parking Lot, you ask? More parking.

*SITE's site lists the Ghost Parking Lot as created in 1977, not in 1978 as Roadside America claims. There's more art in that Hamden Parking Lot of the Damned; further report, with photos, in a later post.

AFTER photo copyright Chris Kopley; BEFORE photo copyright Roadside America.

Literary Oddities: Derrida and the vampire, Wystan's cabbies

2007-02-26T14:55:00.000-08:00

1. Derrida and the vampire, in Orange County yet
So...the controversy whereby the family of deceased deconstructionist Jacques Derrida is trying to keep the balance of his papers away from U.C. Irvine, to which he'd agreed to leave them, involves a....vampire?

Maybe not, but the story (detailed in yesterday's Los Angeles Times) is just as strange as that sounds. Derrida was part-time at Irvine for many years. In 1990, he signed an agreement to leave the university his papers, until in 2004, as he was dying of pancreatic cancer, he heard that a Russian Studies professor and Serbian native was under fire for seducing a grad student (with "Transylvanian wine," the Times notes). Although neither student nor prof got UCI's backing, the prof was demoted. The student sued and settled.

In the meantime, Derrida used the case as an excuse to withdraw his papers from UCI. After his death, the family pursued the suit. Looks like UCI will have to share with an institution in France.

Although one of the commenters on this mess asked why a deconstructionist would ever honor an agreement, that elides the point. In the moment that Derrida made the commitment, he believed it. Many millions of moments later, he changed his mind. Oops. For bad or ill, the law tends to value commitments over arbitrary units of meaning.

2. Wystan Hugh Auden and the cabdrivers*
Buried in an article in the Guardian Unlimited about Auden's centenary is the Fun Fact that cabbies in York, England, Auden's birthplace, are memorizing his poetry so that they may entertain tourists to the city. (No doubt most of them are sweatsuit-wearing poetry fans, that rowdy lot.)

York is a lovely city, a refuge of sorts for me while I was at grad school in Leeds. Imagine if you will, however, hopping into a cab at the train station, only to hear "Lay your sleeping head, my love/Human on my faithless arm" before you can tell the driver where you want to go.

*Yes, there's a joke of the general "hello sailor" sort there somewhere, but you can do that for yourself.

The Oscars: Not much to blog about

2007-02-26T14:06:00.000-08:00

The most entertaining moment was possibly in the ABC red carpet coverage, when Sally Kirkland (look here), a winner in the batshit insane sweepstakes if ever there was one, literally swooped in, saying that her sheer-dress-with-attached-cape was the meeting of "a reverend and a rabbi," and had been designed by her Kabbalah advisor. Let's just leave the Kabballah free and clear of this -- I think Miss Sally ought to take responsibility for her costume, which indeed it was, all by herself.

Unforgettable: The outsize Andre Leon Talley, on the 5 p.m. preshow, taking Jennifer Hudson by the hand and ushering her around Oscar de la Renta's studio. Why Oscar? Jennifer's dress was OK, but the beam-me-aboard jacketlet on top was not.

What else? The main surprise re: the awards was Eddie Murphy NOT winning. Did the recent premiere of Norbit, Murphy's latest forced comedy in latex, hurt his chances? Al Gore looked about as excited as Al Gore can look. Ooh, now he can move to L.A., and maybe Tipper can get a job in the music industry. (Just kidding.)

When Richard Roeper, on the red carpet and Ebertless, asked Catherine Deneuve what the hell was going on with her dress (it had a rose and a sword on the front), she said simply, "Jean-Paul Gaultier." Sometimes it helps to be able to pretend you are not fluent in English.

On E's red carpet special, the interviewer pointed out to Meryl Streep that she had 14 Oscar nominations. Streep said, "and I'm a size 14, so it all fits, doesn't it?" Great non sequitur (and does she really wear a 14?) Miss Size 12 Jennifer Hudson wants to know! (And p.s., that kinda frumpy outfit Streep wore was indeed Prada. I'm beginning to think she has a subtle yet wacky sense of humor.)

And I'd like to note that the introduction "Academy Award-winning screenwriter Ben Affleck" made me giggle endlessly, 'though indeed the phrase is true. Overall the ceremony was as boring as usual. Ellen DeGeneres was okay, although the constant in-audience shtick was a pain in the arse, and the long filmed tributes, except for the obligatory "here's who died this year," were snooze-making, although by and large well done. Much as I love Pilobolus, the dancers were extraneous, but the one musical number that wasn't a nominated song -- featuring Will Ferrell, John C. Reilly, and Jack Black -- was actually funny. Who knew Will Ferrell could kind of sing?

Let me not forget to mention that Michael Musto's nomination predictions were all on target. No fool he -- he'd have to be smart to survive at The Village Voice -- Musto did NOT predict the winners.

Extra added bonus: Get yourself to Go Fug Yourself for hours of merriment on Oscar outfits!

Let's have a beer: The Village Idiot

2007-02-20T10:04:00.000-08:00

I hope shortly to review the food at The Village Idiot, the new gastropub in the thick of it on Melrose, but wanted to post briefly about the bar. C and I embarked on a loooong walk on Sunday afternoon. About halfway through our big loop, we found ourselves in need of refreshment...and what is more refreshing than a cold one on a warm afternoon? (That's a rhetorical question.)

Beers on tap include Pilsner Urquell, Guinness, an IPA I don't recall, and something tasty-sounding from Pasadena's Craftsman Brewing....we went for the Pilsner, which (sorry for the cliche) hit the spot. The bloody marys looked good, and so did the food. When the bartendrix asked the guy next to us if he enjoyed his burger, he said it was the best burger he'd ever had. (Which reminded me of the years-ago New York Post in which Marla Maples announced that Donald Trump was the "best sex I ever had," but that's just the convoluted way memory works.)

But that burger comment, Trump or no, will bring me back for a taste test. Fish 'n' chips looked good, too. All indications are good: high ceilings, great raised booths along the open windows on Melrose, attentive service. The Village Idiot is at 7383 Melrose Avenue, at Martel; (323) 655-3331.

Breaking and Entering: Jude Law wants (yet) another chance

2007-02-14T14:10:00.000-08:00

What is most interesting about Breaking and Entering, written and directed by Anthony Minghella (Cold Mountain, The English Patient, Truly Madly Deeply) is its setting and the social construct in which the film takes place. The architect Will Francis, played by Jude Law, and his partner are working on an immense plan to redevelop the area around London's Kings Cross station, previously a "marginal" area of warehouses and cheap housing. Francis and co. have recently moved offices to a redeveloped warehouse, with an unfortunate glass roof that leaves them prey to casual thieves -- hence the title -- who twice steal the firm's new Apple computers. The geographical upheaval is echoed by social and class upheaval (the thieves are teenaged Bosnian refugees) and personal upheaval, as Will's half-Swedish longtime girlfriend Liv and her troubled gymnast daughter Bea are both unhappy with Will's lack of presence in their lives.

All could have made for a great film. Unfortunately, centering the film on Jude Law's character Will Francis weighs it down. Will is unhappy with Liv; he is inconstant and can't be trusted with the fragile Bea, who suffers an accident when left in his care. He meets the mother of one of the young thieves and contrives to start an affair with her; the fact that she's played by Juliette Binoche makes their coming together, in the tired logic of this film, inevitable. So what happens? Will eventually does the right thing in a number of ways, but doesn't seem to have changed. He's still a boy who won't or can't grow up. Minghella doesn't give us any evidence that Will wants to change or even recognizes what he's lacking, other than a trite, "I almost lost the love of my life" speech at the end. And Robin Wright Penn's Liv, although strong with her daughter and on her own, takes him back after one final outburst of rage against him. We don't get a sense that he's changed, really, other than he's had some experiences that caused him to 'fess up perhaps for the first time.

There's some annoyingly heavy symbolism. A few scenes after she gives a speech about how she's the one holding the family together, Penn tries to reassemble a broken dinner plate on the kitchen table. In another scene, Penn and Law lean against opposite ends of a mirrored door; we can see half their faces, and half their reflections. Ooh, arty. Also, there's the matter of their names: Liv, with her naturalistic response to life, and Will, who's all infantile urges. Binoche's character is called Amira, which leaves her out of this naming mess altogether. Ironically (that's one heavy iron), Binoche's son is remarkably well adjusted, although he's a thief; Penn's daughter is given to exercising 24 hours a day and doesn't sleep, and she has all the upper middle class advantages. Doesn't that just go to show you.

Jude Law's performance is, well, another Jude Law performance; he acts the right shit, then boyishly tries to make up for it. Robin Wright Penn is an interesting actress to watch, mercurial and tricky. Juliette Binoche doesn't have much to do, other than look bereaved or joyful, but she is a high point. Vera Farmiga is over the top, in a good way, as a car-pinching streetwalker who thinks that the English all talk too much. Juliet Stevenson is terrific in a small role as a child psychiatrist who sees through Law's baloney in two seconds.

One regrets that Penn's character didn't do the same. By the end of the film I was daydreaming about Penn and Binoche getting together over a bottle of vino and having a good laugh about what a silly boy Law is. He's so insubstantial that you believe more willingly in the women he attracts, but you can't really believe in them, because they're hung up on him.

The Grammys: Postblogging

2007-02-11T20:56:00.000-08:00

Here in L.A., I can't liveblog the Grammys. By the time we see the show, it's over, even though it took place this year just a few miles away downtown.

Police reunion: Stewart Copeland, the drummer, is hot, although we've all seen Sting's muscley bod enough times not to be impressed by it any more.
Stevie Wonder towers over Tony Bennett. Who knew? Guess I took that "Little Stevie Wonder" thing literally.
Beyonce, doing "Listen," from Dreamgirls, gets the love that Oscar didn't show her. Good performance, forgettable song.
Quick quiz: What singer's sister was married to Booker T. Jones, of Booker T. and the MGs, here getting a Lifetime Achievement Award? That's right, Rita Coolidge's sister Priscilla.
The idea of putting Corinne Bailey Rae, John Legend, and John Mayer together in a medley may have been a good idea on paper, and I like the first two artists a lot, but in reality this number sent me to the kitchen looking for snacks. Dullsville.
Shakira, showing us her bellydancing chops while Wyclef toasts (and does backflips) is awesome. Unlike Beyonce, she does not give the impression that she is always thinking about how great she looks.
Another mismatched pair: Seal towers over Burt Bacharach, who seems minute. In self-defense, Bacharach asks Seal to write a song with him.
In case we can't figure out how they feel about the Bush administration and/or the Country Music Association, Grammy voters let us know by awarding Song of the Year to the Dixie Chicks' "Not Ready to Make Nice."
Some tots from a TV sitcom announce that the Grateful Dead have won a Lifetime Achievement Award; Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzman are in the audience. Where's Phil? I still miss Jerry.
Gnarls Barkley does "Crazy" as a dirge, complete with choir, but Cee-Lo and Danger Mouse rock in airline pilots' uniforms.
"You Don't Know Me: Songs of Cindy Walker" by Willie Nelson does not win for best country album, but you should definitely download the title song if you have not done so already.
Bob Wills gets a Lifetime Achievement Award; Carrie Underwood, backed by fine musicians, barely makes it through "San Antone."
Ornette Coleman! Cooler than anyone there, and wearing an embroidered black satin suit as he gets a Lifetime Achievement Award from Natalie Cole (how many of these do they give out?)
In a tribute to James Brown, Christina Aguilera belts "It's a Man's, Man's, Man's World" so convincingly that Jamie Foxx sits up and takes notice.
The memorial segment wraps up with early footage of James Brown doing his moves. As the film fades, one of the members of his band (I didn't know who it was) brought the Godfather of Soul's red glitter cape upstage, held it out for all to see, and draped it on the microphone stand.
James Blunt, who allegedly threw a snit fit when told he'd have to make his long song snappy, dedicates the interminable-at-any-length "You're Beautiful" to Ahmet Ertegun, who minutes earlier was seen on film talking about the primacy of black music -- which this, er, is not.
It's 10:50, here's Jennifer Hudson to announce the talent contest winner, and Beyonce is no longer in the building.
Talent contest winner Robyn Troupe sings "Ain't No Sunshine" with Justin Timberlake. Fun Fact: the original Bill Withers version of this song was produced by Booker T. Jones.
A highly caffeinated, at the least, Quentin Tarantino announces Record of the Year with Tony Bennett, who indeed is compact. Or is QT tall?
Props to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who did their melodic and athletic thing in front of a clearly improvised sign that read "LOVE TO ORNETTE COLEMAN." At least someone else realized he was the coolest dude in the room.
Finally....Al Gore presents with Queen Latifah. They are the same size and shape. I'm not sure which of them this bodes ill for.

To the moon, Adam Gopnik, to the moon

2007-02-07T14:01:00.000-08:00

This week's must-read is Vanity Fair crankypants James Wolcott's review of Adam Gopnik's most recent book, Through the Children's Gate: A Home in New York, published in The New Republic and available on its website (registration required but no obligations are entailed; the piece was posted February 2). Those who are skeptical of the way Gopnik filters the entire world (as he did earlier in Paris to the Moon) through his upper-middle-class colored preciousness will find much to amuse them as Wolcott swipes his paw at just about everything about the book.

Is Wolcott a charter snark, old-school division? Yes, he is. Is much of what he says on the mark and worth considering? Oh my, yes. Plus Wolcott gets megapoints from me for his reference to the Gilbert Sorrentino novel (actually, it's a roman a clef) Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things and its finely-honed portrait of writers and their sensitivities. Don't waste any time, oh ye writers among my readers, at least skim Wolcott's piece for a giggle.

Notes on a Scandal: Trust No One

2007-01-31T14:35:00.000-08:00

Notes on a Scandal has been in release long enough, and won enough awards, for me to avoid doing a full-court press review. But I finally saw it (at the Arclight, not via one of the screeners that are ubiquitous at this time of year) and just want to say: Wow.

Judi Dench, uglied up as a repressed busybody-and-then-some of a teacher at a comprehensive (what we would call a public school) in Islington, northish London, is terrifyingly good. She's a totally self-delusional creature. Cate Blanchett, as an upper-middle-class Bohemienne art teacher, demonstrates again her essential bravery as an actress, throwing herself into a part in which she not-so-sympathetically has an affair with a 15 year-old who is younger than her teenaged daughter.

A big chunk of the subtext here is class: Judi Dench's Barbara is clearly a petite bourgeoise who has worked her way up to her basement flat and longtime teaching position. She's resistant, as one would imagine, to the airy charms of Blanchett's character, Sheba, but at the same time attracted by her upper-middle-class trappings: a row house, and a vacation home in the Dordogne (and the different way Blanchett and Dench pronounce that tricky French word is a key to their class differences). Dench envies Blanchett's entitlements, and in a way wants to prove to Blanchett how unnecessary they are to her; the tough life that Dench has set out for herself is much better. Class envy, repressed lust: Notes on a Scandal has it all.

What it also has is a very impressive Philip Glass score that at times overwhelms the action on screen. Glass' music is relentless and, as it tells a story all by itself, the score has trouble standing aside to let the tale unfold through visuals. Much as I like Glass' work, I'm not sure it functions fabulously here.

Even better than herding cats....

2007-01-31T14:33:00.000-08:00

If anything could persuade me to move to Chicago, this job listing might just do it.

R.I.P. Charlotte Lesher, Joey's mom

2007-01-29T16:25:00.000-08:00

Charlotte Lesher, the endlessly supportive mother of Joey Ramone and Mickey Leigh, passed away on Saturday. From people who had met her, I always heard good things; one friend reported that she assiduously tried to fix his sister up with Joey. According to Ramones, An American Band by Jim Bessman, on the "Heavy Metal Moms" segment on Geraldo, Charlotte appeared with Joey and sang one verse each from "I Wanna Be Sedated" and "Beat on the Brat" (my mom's favorite Ramones song). Given how amazing it was that the OCD-afflicted Joey ever got himself out of the house, Charlotte had much to be proud of.

Catch and Release: When bad things happen to okay people who insist on smiling anyway

2007-01-29T10:25:00.000-08:00

In Catch and Release (yes, the title made me grimace, too), Jennifer Garner plays a woman, probably in her late twenties, whose fiance dies in a sporting accident a day or so before their wedding; their ostensible wedding day is thus the day of his funeral. At the funeral, Garner, playing a character named Gray Wheeler, bravely holds back tears, which enables her to act mostly with her upper lip; seeking escape from the sympathetic crowd, she hides in the bathtub to cry in private, and mistakenly witnesses her dead fiance's best friend having a quickie with a cater-waitress.

And from there, we're off. Garner retreats to the house her fiance shared with roomies played by Sam Jaeger and Kevin Smith, and eventually resumes speaking to the quickie-prone pal, played by the toothsome Timothy Olyphant from Deadwood. Olyphant has a nervous grin that seems to appear whether his character is actually grinning or not; he ought to check that, because otherwise, his performance is respectable.

The problem with Catch and Release is that, on the one hand, the complications that ensue in the plot -- the possible redemption of the quickie pal, the bad, then good, behavior of Garner's to-be mother-in-law, played by premier Shakespearean actress Fiona Shaw (why?), her discovery that she didn't really know her fiance, a suicide attempt -- are pleasingly realistic, supporting a clear-eyed view of life's multidimensionality, which makes sense even more when one considers that the principal characters (Garner, Jaeger, Smith, Olyphant) all seem to be in their late 20s and hence at the time of their Saturn return, a time when, astrologically speaking, the shit hits the fan.

But something happened between the actual story and the film we see, and I'm not holding Susannah Grant (who also wrote Erin Brockovich; this is her first write/direct effort) wholly accountable. Although a lot of things that most people would classify as "bad" happen to these very likable characters, nothing seems to have much of an impact on them. It's not that they're not drama queens; it's that they don't show any hint of the deep emotions that, say, a suicide attempt would bring up in a real person. They bounce back too quickly, with just a bit too much bounce.

The film is set in tie-dyed Boulder, Colorado, which seems like Vermont with better mountains (just substitute Celestial Seasonings tea for Ben and Jerry's ice cream, and you'll get the idea). Maybe there's lithium in the water. Or maybe Susannah Grant allowed her arm to be twisted to get her film made (imagine! could that happen?).

Despite my criticism, I enjoyed the film. Kevin Smith, whose character works at Celestial Seasonings and is constantly spouting quotes from the tea boxes, steals every scene he's in; he's a lively and interesting Big Guy, like Donal Logue in The Tao of Steve. Jennifer Garner is okay, which I think is the best she can do, but she's the right type for the part -- a girl jock who tries not to dwell on things -- so she acquits herself well. I wondered about the names Gray Wheeler (Garner) and Grady Douglas (her deceased fiance). Gray 'n' Grady? Why don't people in films have real names?

In conclusion, if what you need is a feel-good film, Catch and Release is a safe bet. Be warned, it IS a chick flick, despite the presence of Kevin Clerks Smith. But within those limitations, it's entertaining.

Let's have a cocktail*: The Whisper Lounge

2007-01-24T17:36:00.000-08:00

When shopping fatigue hits at The Grove, one's drinking options are plentiful. Surely one can have a cocktail at The Cheesecake Factory (a sombrero with that Oreo cheesecake, perhaps?) or Morel's (which has a not-awful wine list). But each of those, for its own various reasons, is a little unreal -- like drinking in a shopping mall.

One's realistic drinking options are these: head to the Farmer's Market and order a pitcher at one of the two bars, have a glass of wine and some very fine cheese at Monsieur Marcel, or stay in the Grove and head for the Whisper Lounge, my location of choice when the Grove's goodwill and fake neighborhood quality (see? we're in L.A., but it's really like New York, sort of) gets overwhelming.

The Whisper Lounge is at the end of the walkway to the left of J. Crew; a secluded u-shaped bar with a marble counter surrounded by banquettes, with some tables and chairs; proper restaurant tables are on the far side of the bar. There's a menu of specialty cocktails (the current menu is NOT on the website) for grownups, e.g. none of them are too sweet. I had a Salty Dog that was essentially a grapefruit-vodka martini, rimmed with salt, that offered the soothing vodka juggernaut with the nutritional advantages of juice. C had a blood-orange cocktail that she liked a lot.

Bar food (some of which is priced lower during Happy Hour, as are beer and well drinks and a few wines) is what you need, priced right and -- again -- keyed to grownup needs. Our artisan cheese platter, new since my last visit, featured three excellent cheeses, all North American, along with fig jam and other pleasant accoutrements. I've had the pizzas and they are good foils to a voluminous and well-selected wine list. The dinner and lunch menus look good and I'd expect good results based on my appetizer experiences.

I always seem to be there in the late afternoon/early evening, so if things get crazy later don't say I didn't tell you, because I just don't know. But the late afternoon cocktail is a fine practice, and the Whisper Lounge is a good choice for it when you happen to be at the Grove. An added entertainment item is that the soap opera casts from CBS tend to hang out here...even if you don't know who they are, they are entertaining to watch, as the drama seems to continue once the cameras stop rolling.

*I'm renaming my bar reviews under the heading "Let's have a cocktail," which will apply perfectly to many of the places I visit and be descriptively generous to some of the dives...but I am nothing if not generous toward dives.....

Photo by Xina at USC via flickr

Zadie Smith on being a writer and a critic

2007-01-20T11:23:00.000-08:00

In two installments in the Guardian, last Saturday and today, British writer Zadie Smith takes on myriad topics especially relevant to writers, as well as writers who critique, whether as book reviewers or in writing groups. This long essay is honest and straightforward, unpretentious and jargon free. Smith addresses issues that writers don't talk about often enough, e.g. how it is entirely possible to complete a manuscript that others rave about but deep inside consider it to be a failure since it is so, so far from the novel we had in our heads. Smith also talks about the responsibility that each reader brings to the text. A great read...check it out!

Photo from Wolf Gang via flickr

Mr. Howell, er, Mr. Magoo, gets delicious

2007-01-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

Jim Backus as you've never heard him before.....

This piece is crying out to be sampled!

*more info: the lady is Phyllis Diller, and you can find the lyrics, such as they are, here.

Oscar Predictions: What He Said

2007-01-18T09:56:00.000-08:00

The Village Voice, now completely denuded of most of its longtime talent (nice to hear Christgau on NPR now, 'though, isn't it?) has so far retained its "It" boy gossip columnist/social commentator Michael Musto (who has a new book, too). Musto offers his Oscar nomination predictions in this week's Voice, explaining in often-excruciating detail why certain films, actors, and actresses will NOT be nominated. Here's his take on the Best Actress non-Nominees:

Tumbling into non-recognition will be: BEYONCÉ KNOWLES, Dreamgirls (they nominated the real Diana Ross, but she had to shoot up and throw up and give it up for over two hours. Beyoncé's part doesn't allow her to wallow nearly enough); CATE BLANCHETT, The Good German (the bad casting); ANNETTE BENING, Running With Scissors (terrific, but most observers feel the movie collapsed under its own weirdness); MAGGIE GYLLENHAAL, Sherrybaby (she appealingly elevated it from a Lifetime movie, but I'm one of three people who saw it, and the other two weren't thrilled); RENÉE ZELLWEGER, Miss Potter (Are we even sure it is Renée and not Grey's Anatomy star Ellen Pompeo?): NAOMI WATTS, The Painted Veil (tramp finds redemption in China, but is hungry again an hour later)

It's an entertaining read and I agree with most of what he says. Read the whole column for a laugh; page down for his comments on the Golden Globes telecast for even more fun.

Read me at LAist

2007-01-18T09:49:00.000-08:00

Apologies for light posting lately; I'm on it. Part of the reason Biffles has been rather subdued lately is that I've begun posting on LAist, mostly about food but occasionally on other subjects. I may begin cross-posting, as well, bringing my LAist stories back to this blog after the statutory 48 hours (LAist's exclusive window) expires. Being on LAist is great for me; the "Ten Best Bistros in LA" list, which I will post here as well, got linked by EaterLA and summarized (in a very funny snarky way) by Gridskipper.

Together again for the first time, the very first time

2007-01-15T23:37:00.000-08:00

Cambridge band The Decoders reunited for a special concert last June at the Western Front...fans from across the country, a motley yet distinguished crew that included one Talking Head and Boston's own original scenester Billy Ruane, witnessed the spectacle in all its improvised glory.

And now, through the magic of YouTube, you can too.

Objects on the screen may be far fuzzier than they appear.

Curse of the Golden Flower: Intrigue in the Forbidden City

2007-01-06T16:50:00.000-08:00

Zhang Yimou's Curse of the Golden Flower takes place in what seems to be a 24-hour span preceding the Chrysanthemum Festival in the year 928 A.D. at the end of the Tang Dynasty. We are immediately plunged into action: The empress (Gong Li) is unwell, despire her daily medicine, and the emperor (Chow Yun-Fat) is returning. The crazy psychedelic colors of the palace's jade walls, accentuated with red and gold, swirl us into melodrama: sons in revolt, incest both witting and unwitting, plots and poison, and at the top of the pyramid, an unhappy autocrat.

Despite the lurid story and socko colors, the story plays out as an affecting drama, not as soap opera. The rituals of the court and Confucian mores dictate how the family acts and reacts, even in revolt, and Zhang shows us that. What he also gives us is spectacle: the codified life of the royal court, the sweep of the breathtaking landscape outside the palace, and of course some beautifully-orchestrated battle scenes, as well as some more intimate action moments. The film is pure entertainment served up on a historical platter, with action and intrigue enough to keep a non-Chinese audience enthralled. This is a knights and ladies costume epic, in essence.

Chow Yun-Fat is masterful as the embodiment of absolute power, never letting go or slipping. Gong Li is strong as the empress; she is the queen of hysterics as an actress. The actors who play the threee princes do well, too, although I preferred Liu Ye's beset Crown Prince to Jay Chou's warrior Prince Jia. In essence, Curse of the Golden Flower is a costume epic of kings and queens, creating its own world. And it's an engrossing one.

Dreamgirls: Tales from the Motor City

2006-12-28T17:06:00.000-08:00

or more specifically, Tales from Motown (or more honestly, What Crossover Hath Wrought). As those of you who've been paying attention (as well as those of us who remember the Broadway show, produced by Michael "Chorus Line" Bennett), know, Dreamgirls is a thinly-disguised story about the birth of the Supremes, the rise of Diana Ross and the dumping and decline of Florence Ballard. Now, after many attempts and go-rounds, David Geffen -- also a producer of the original show, and owner and defender of the rights since then-- has brought Dreamgirls to the cinema, thanks to director Bill Condon.

Dreamgirls has been marketed as an event film; in the three-city exclusive release leading up to its release on Christmas day, the tickets were $25 and you got a souvenir program. (Remember souvenir programs? I have ones for The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins.) On the Cinerama Dome screen at the Arclight, the film reads big, with sweeping gestures, generous run-ups to each big number, and performances that call out to Oscar in a shout, not a whisper.

Which is both Dreamgirls' strength, and its weakness: there's no room for nuance in this musical. It's all show and tell; we're not left to figure anything out for ourselves. Similarly, there's no subtlety in the big performances. I'm not saying they're not good; some are excellent. But in the grand tradition of the American musical, excepting Stephen Sondheim, Dreamgirls doesn't assume its audience would like to bring something to the table, as it were. And as I do with all fairytales, I loved it (girls from the projects find success! Uplifting!) and hated it (all the men behave badly! Still, we all smile! Depressing!). But don't mind me.

On to the performances. Eddie Murphy is phenomenal as James "Thunder" Early, who is systematically deprived of his mojo by every attempt to sound whiter and whiter. When Eddie lets loose on stage, he is a dynamo; when he falls apart offstage, he is moving. Two observations: It's great that he can sing (No, "Party All the Time," which he sang in a girly falsetto, doesn't count); maybe he could be James Brown in the film that Spike Lee has agreed to direct? And, secondly, just seeing him doing well on screen makes all those damn films in which he plays forty characters with all variety of padding seem even more ludicrous. The man can act! Think twice (oops, too late!) before you take on more alimony or child support, Eddie.

Beyonce Knowles does what needs to be done to show Diana's, whoops, Deena's, journey from backup singer to expensive and beautiful object. I can't imagine anyone else being gorgeous enough to play the part, although apparently years ago Whitney Houston was talked about and perhaps she could have done it. Deena is prissy and proper, and Beyonce does that well. Anika Noni Rose hasn't gotten enough attention for her good work as Lorell, who can hold her own with James Early. And Jennifer Hudson has the oomph, the balls, and the power to play the mulish Effie--her pout is magnificent, and her singing voice (she's a belter, not a thrush) blows Deena, whoops Beyonce, away.

Jamie Foxx is fine as Curtis Taylor, the Berry Gordyesque svengali, but he doesn't connect with either of the ladies he's supposed to be devoted to. The character is mostly interested in his own snakiness, but the actor doesn't give us any sense that he might be up for caring, or even pretending that he cares.

By the end of the film, all the Dreamgirls have left is their talent and their own amour-propre; the men have all betrayed them in various ways, although the film doesn't moralize on that. But we get it. One of the original tunes for the film, "Listen," in which Beyonce finally gets to let loose, sums all that up.

So, yes, multiple thumbs up for Dreamgirls. My advice is to see it on as large a screen as possible, since the film was clearly made for that (it'll lose a lot on video).

Final shots: It was a nice touch that Loretta Devine, who created the role of Lorell on Broadway (check out that cast--Candy Darling was in it), played a singer in one scene. One wonders why Condon didn't cast Jennifer Holliday, the original Effie....perhaps JH is a bit too Effie for him. And let's not forget Florence Ballard, either, and the tragedy that crossover meant for many, many African-American artists.

P.S. I went to download a few tracks from the show...I ended up going for the original Broadway cast, not the film. Liked the orchestrations much more; they're a little less bombastic, and since the songs aren't top tier, anyway -- they're thin imitations of Motown -- away from the film the big treatment doesn't hold up for me.

R.I.P. James Brown

2006-12-28T11:40:00.000-08:00

Yesterday in Hollywood, on the west side of Vine just north of Sunset, C and I paid our respects to James Brown in the traditional way: by stopping at the memorial on and around his Walk of Fame star.

In this second photo, the "floral tribute" (as they are called) on the right has a card signed Johnny Grant; the one on the left had no card, but the message on the ribbons fabulously reads: "Mr. James Brown/We Lost Someone/You'll Be Missed Hey!" (I think you'll agree that the "Hey!" and its concomitant lack of punctuation makes this verge on a found poem.)

Thanks to C for her photos.

Merry Christmas from Biffles

2006-12-24T20:06:00.000-08:00

And how better to celebrate the merry season (if indeed you do) than with our friends (one, sadly, no longer with us) Run DMC?

Let's eat: Oyster night at Lou on Vine

2006-12-21T15:08:00.000-08:00

Astonishingly, I haven't previously posted about Lou, which has got to be my favorite new restaurant of the last year. Lou is a wine bar, with premium snacks, that scores high on the Biffles scale all around, not least of all because of two things:

The decor is design-y and chic without that self-conscious too-cool-for-school (or perhaps more accurately, I'm-too-sexy-for-you) vibe that can be absolutely oppressive in L.A.
The Lou menu, from the pig candy through the rillettes, is a tribute to the products of the pig. (I come from a family where the holiday dinner options generally are roast pork OR roast pork.)

This past Wednesday, C and K and I went to Lou's first Oyster Night as a little holiday celebration, and then some. Three types of West Coast oysters were featured; we each started with a mixed half dozen. The Kumamotos were sweet and delicate, as expected; the Hama Hamas were mild and tasty; the big hulking Sunset Beach oysters were the main surprise, as they weren't briny like many large varieties but instead pleasingly flavorful.

Three different flights of whites had been assembled to accompany the oysters. C was very happy with her Zippy French flight, which was dry and minerally. K and I had the Nutty, Nervy flight; the Soave was sweetish but so dry that it didn't cloy; the Riesling was shy, with only a second sip revealing a citrus forward and spicy back that was satisfying; and I cannot report on Nutty/Nervy #3 because I didn't abscond with a menu since they seemed to be short. (What comes first, the needs of the blog, or common courtesy toward restaurateurs? A real question for Miss Manners.)

After the oyster orgy, we found it in ourselves to move on, sharing a green salad, the charcuterie plank (the rillettes and the pate, which featured festive pistachios, were fab and balanced the astringent oysters well), wrapping up with the sticky toffee pudding. None of us had ever had this English holiday staple; I wouldn't call it overwhelming delicious, as was the strawberry crumble that K and I had at Lou last summer, but on the other hand the pudding was tasty in a spicy fall kind of way.

Verdict: No need to ask. I will be back. Check the website, there will be more Oyster Nights as well as varying Monday Night suppers (I missed the cassoulet!).

For Your Consideration....give it a shot!

2006-12-20T15:23:00.000-08:00

Checking the reviews of Christopher Guest's latest in his self-created mockumentary genre, For Your Consideration, one wonders why the buzz (at least what I've heard) has been so lukewarm. FYC isn't another This is Spinal Tap, but it's still yards funnier than much of what's out there, and has the usual crack repertory company that Guest uses, with special guests, including Ricky Gervais, who could find a home with this clan.

Since FYC was released a while back, I'm not going to post a full review. All I want to say is, it's hilarious. Jennifer Coolidge once again proves that you can be a Boston Brahmin and be funny, and Jane Lynch, Fred Willard, and Harry Shearer are all terrific. Catherine O'Hara is indeed marvelous as a not-terribly-successful actress whose head is turned (and then some) by Oscar nomination buzz.

Guest's script, written with Eugene Levy, is just so literate and funny. In an early scene, John Michael Higgins' out-of-touch publicist says he wants the campaign for the film-within-a-film (originally called Home for Purim) to be "orotund." Orotund? And any film that includes the phrase "It's a mitzvah" (wouldn't that be a great name for a game show?) has me laughing already.

Today's Etiquette Lesson: How to address the Poet Laureate

2006-12-20T15:19:00.000-08:00

Robert Birnbaum interviewed incoming U.S. poet laureate Donald Hall. Hall revealed how to address him in his new position:

Robert Birnbaum: How does one address the Poet Laureate?
Donald Hall: PLOTUS. Poet Laureate of the United States.
RB: As in the acronym for the President of the United States, POTUS?
DH: Yeah.

Congrats to PLOTUS Donald Hall. Long may he, er, reign. (And thanks to The Elegant Variation for bringing attention to this important statement.)

The Backstage: Please take your hand off my arm. Thanks.

2006-12-19T00:04:00.000-08:00

Off to The Backstage (slogan on the bartender's official T-shirt: Dedicated to Pleasure) nestled alongside Sony Studios on Culver Boulevard in the eponymous city. Another dive bar that was way too clean to be a dive; however, the behavior of the male patrons made it seem very divey.

Bartenders were great and poured well. The ambiance of the room was basic rec room; we could have been in New Jersey or Ohio; the upcoming karaoke promised holiday fun. But such was not to be.

Look, I will chat with just about anybody in a bar, and I like to flirt. But I hate being hit on, full force, no preliminaries. It's just annoying, and can be demoralizing -- although such hijinks rarely get to me like that these days. When the first hitter finally went away (I am not going to repeat the dumbass things he said, although they were epically rude and stupid; at one point I was laughing hysterically at the ridiculousness of the entire situation), I thought I was free and clear. But no, another hitter zoomed up, and then another.

There's a special place in hell for the final hitter, who sat and watched and waited until C and I had had a few drinks and, thinking he'd get lucky if we were plastered, buzzed in for what I can only imagine he thought were his just deserts.

A little trip to the Comparisons are Odious Department: At The Chalet in Eagle Rock, I talked to many many men, and some women, too. All were pleasant, some were flirtatious and some pushed it -- but no one hit on me in a crass and crude way. Backstage is beyond on notice with me; it's banned. No more Biffles for you!

Let's eat: Ford's encore

2006-12-18T23:53:00.000-08:00

C and I visited Ford's Filling Station on Saturday night. Yes, we had a reservation but there was still a wait for a table....not ten minutes into my martini, however. Notable was that we shared three appetizers and an entree.

Here's the dish: Garlic breadsticks on the table were OK, but scarily reminiscent in appearance if not taste of.....(cover your ears, young people), the Olive Garden. (Since I've been baking bread from that NY Times recipe (registration required), I've gotten all high-and-mighty about how relatively simple it is to prepare one's own excellent breadstuffs.) The Ipswich fried clams were perfect, crispy and clammy, and tasted like the North Shore of Massachusetts, if such a thing is possible (as a Woodman's fan, I'd go for Essex fried clams, but I guess that doesn't sound as evocative). Warm dish of sliced beets topped with a glob of burrata was also very satisfying, and I was so pleased that some beet greens (highly underrated!) made it into the dish, too.

The special of lamb sweetbreads did not work. Here's why: Lamb sweetbreads, as opposed to the usual mild calf sweetbreads, are rather strong. The sweetbreads were paired with sauteed fennel and chopped apples--neither assertive enough for this strongish meat. So no go on this one. For dinner we shared the beef cheeks....still good.

Wines excellent as before. I went with a light Dolcetto (after my first martini in God knows how long, good thing) and C had a fine French Chablis, nice and dry, never knowing oak or pear.

Ford's has got it going on...I'll be back.

Let's eat: BLD encore

2006-12-15T12:45:00.000-08:00

I've had occasion to return to BLD twice in the last week. Last Wednesday, C and I met at 5 for a quick drink and snack and had the BLD charcuterie experience. I would never abandon Lou, but I have to admit, at BLD the charcuterie is primo. One orders each item individually, which is how they are priced, and all items are then assembled on a stone platter, with quince jam and toasted bread, all very civilized. We had the lomo (cured pork loin) and Fra Mani sopressata, with Epoisses and California's own Lamb Chopper for our cheese selections. All were very fine and a good assortment. The sopressata is the apotheosis of salami. Wine selection is great, too.

Yesterday I was recovering from a migraine and needed comfort food. S (who understands, as a fellow migraineuse) and I met for lunch. I ordered the Eggs Florentine, which at BLD come in a cast iron cup (cute!) with steamed broccoli rabe and red pepper underneath the eggs, and topped by hollandaise. So satisfying to dig into that cup o'goodness, not to mention the home fries (with more lomo!) and the chive biscuit. Post-migraine, I always need carbs (macaroni and cheese is a favorite) and this meal hit the spot. Bravo, BLD!

Let's eat: Bin 8945

2006-12-15T12:23:00.000-08:00

I'd noticed Bin 8945 when trapped in traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood (it's just east of Robertson) -- when you spend that much time moving at 5 miles an hour, you tend to notice the comings and goings of restaurants. Then S. Irene went there this summer and everybody knew about it.

The menu at Bin 8945 is organized by the size of portion, smallish to largish (the large plates are full dinner portions), which makes a good case for sharing or even just for a nosh. There are 5 cheeses to choose from, and a similar list of charcuterie. The wine list is voluminous, with tabbed sections that made me wonder when the quiz was coming up.

My friend J is meticulous (which I prefer to "fussy") so we shared a cheese plate with Cabrales (very good) and two other cheeses, a gruyere and an Italian soft cheese that was so outstanding that I've completely forgotten its name. She moved on to the 8945 salad, butter lettuce, Gorgonzola, and walnuts, which she liked very much with the dressing on the side, and a roasted garnet yam, ginger butter on the side, which looked delish. I went for the small size (it wasn't small at all) of mussels in coconut milk and red chili paste with spicy sausage made on site. With them, our barkeep suggested an order of the duck fat frites....difficult to resist. The frites alone would probably make a meal; they were crisp, light, and had a ducky wisp of flavor.

Our wines were great: J had Morgon, a light French red, that suited her fine; I had a Parador tempranillo from Napa that packed rather a big round cherry punch, followed up with a Caselle from Italy's heel that went great with the mussels.

The barkeep's wine suggestions were right on, and he poured tastes with great generosity. Sitting at the bar is fun, but the stools are VERY uncomfortable -- one feels as if one's behind is sliding away from the bar, and the backs are awkward, so either one sits up straight without support or slumps. Not good, but extra points for the hooks under the bar for one's items. Also: Make a reservation. If we had, we wouldn't have been sitting at the bar.

Verdict: I'll be back. Vin et frites, here I come!

The Cha Cha Lounge: trying just a little too hard

2006-12-05T10:42:00.000-08:00

In my ongoing pilgrimage to all bars of interest east of Cahuenga, C and I visited the Cha Cha Lounge at 2375 Glendale Boulevard in Silverlake (diagonally across the street from Gingergrass) on Saturday night. Once again, we arrived just in time to snag prime seats on the far side of the bar.

The bar, an oval full-tiki concept with grass roof, is oddly pushed to the side, so that the inside stools have only a narrow pass-through between them and the wall. Odd. Meant that we made the acquaintance of all who passed, but still odd, since there's lots of room between the other side of the bar and the wall o' red vinyl booths against the opposite.

This is a BIG room, with booths, tables, two Foosball tables in the back, but no pinball (which is OK), no jukebox or DJ (not OK, we'll get to that), and annoyingly, a one-stall ladies room that meant an inevitable lineup. Tchotchkes and gewgaws hanging from the ceiling, walls, and any other surface. Tacky Christmas decor in full force. Bartenders are quick and pleasant. Crowd is mixed, agewise, to a point.

Great people watching and one observation: What's with the Jesus look? We spotted at least 5 guys who were rocking the long hair, beard, mustache combo, and not in a stylized way, but in the unmistakable Jesus configuration. For someone who's still recovering from Catholic school many years later, this is unsettling. Guys, love the hair, lose at least some of the facial sprouts!

My verdict on the Cha Cha Lounge: Good, not great. Unpretentious, but what with the decor and the selfconscious hipsters, too much of an air of trying. One wants to be in a bar with hip people, but not all people who are hip need to assume the hipster persona to get through the night, know what I mean?

And the music: There was a turntable, but nobody personning it. Music was a bartender's iPod hooked up to the sound system....would've been fine if he just put it on shuffle, but no, we had to listen to the "best" of Wings, straight through, and then a Phil Spector anthology. My brain can handle the occasional Wings song in rotation, but a whole procession of that pap? No way. I warned the other bartender that my head might explode...he apologized repeatedly and even once more when I paid up. Points for politeness but do something about the music, please.

Comparisons are odious department: The age spread and ethnicity is more varied at the Chalet, pleasantly so. Also, the Chalet is confident enough in its Chaletness not to need tchotchkes. Will I go back? Well, it's right handy to Gingergrass, so parking the car just once has its attractions...probably.

X-Ray Spex: (Self) Censorship at The New York Times?

2006-12-01T18:46:00.000-08:00

So today's New York Times has the requisite holiday CD gift suggestions (subscription required).

I felt such joy to see an anthology of work by earlyish British punks X-Ray Spex, led by subsequent (and now, I believe, reformed) Hare Krishna Poly Styrene.

But, reading Jon Pareles' review, I found something most distressing....censorship. Pareles refers to X-Ray Spex hit single "Oh! Bondage, Up Yours" -- not a cherished sentiment, but surely not obscene -- as a "mocking hit single whose title begins “Oh! Bondage." And he leaves off the rest of the title.

I'd hate to imagine that Pareles censored himself to be polite, but it sure looks that way.

"Pale barbarian rock dude" at the Wiltern: Another triumph for the Garden State

2006-12-01T18:38:00.000-08:00

For someone who doesn't own any Misfits albums, at least not that I can locate at this time, I sure am becoming a quasifan of New Jersey native Glenn Danzig. I guess I'm a fan more of his essence, his Glenndanzigness, than of his actual performances. For me, he just has to BE.

However, he makes his living playing music. (Gotta keep that house up.) So what a delight it was for me to read today's review by Steve Appleford in the LA Times of Danzig's concert with his current band at the Wiltern LG last night. "Pale barbarian rock dude," Appleford calls him, "stomping across the stage mucho-macho like" (maybe he's been lifting...bricks).

Bravo, Glenn! The accompanying photo was rather fetching (paleness works on stage; he's a Goth, after all) but wasn't on the website. Use your imagination.

The First Bobblehead Lady's History Lesson

2006-11-30T12:07:00.000-08:00

This morning on Good Morning America, first lady Laura Bush welcomed the aforesaid America into the White House for Christmas. The theme is -- and I am NOT kidding --
"Deck the Halls and Welcome to All." (Is that really bland enough?) But Gawker gets an A for the day for highlighting this lovely segment in which Mrs. Bush gets Anjelica Huston, the living actress, mixed up with Angelica Van Buren, long-deceased first lady. See it on YouTube. Please also note the alarming way her head moves, like one of those lawn reindeer.

And I thought people only had this problem with American history in Hollywood. Could be a trend, let's wait six months and then when it's good and over the New York Times can announce that it exists!

Book Review: The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

2006-11-29T11:03:00.000-08:00

In The Road, Cormac McCarthy tells of a father and son who walk south, through a ruined, dead America. They are heading toward the coast. Few buildings remain. Everything is covered with ash. They are threatened, menaced, by others. They often go hungry. The only sustaining note is the father's protective love for his son.

Much is left unexplained, or half-explained, in this powerful novel. McCarthy scatters clues about what has happened in America; his real subject is the tenderness between the pair, and the humanity each is able to summon despite the horror made commonplace around them:

In a pocket of his knapsack he'd found a last half packet of cocoa and he fixed it for the boy and then poured his own cup with hot water and sat blowing at the rim.

You promised not to do that, the boy said.

What?

You know what, Papa.

He poured the hot water back into the pan and took the boy's cup and poured some of the cocoa into his own and then handed it back.

I have to watch you all the time, the boy said.

I know.

If you break little promises you'll break big ones. That's what you said.

I know. But I wont.

McCarthy's language echoes the blasted landscape, direct and mesmerizing. He communicates fear, and cold, in a way that transmutes directly to the reader (I shivered as I read, in sunny Los Angeles). Like a latter-day Donner Party, this pair struggles through challenges previously unimaginable to the father. The son knows nothing else. But unlike the Donners, these pilgrims have no idea what they will find when they get where they are headed.

The journey of The Road is the point, a journey that McCarthy takes the reader on, step by painful step. Despite its gravity, the tale is not depressing; it is what it is, testimony to what is rare yet endures. The Road, in its plain language and stark narration, is one of the best books I have read this year.

Correction o' the day: Bialysearch update

2006-11-29T09:55:00.000-08:00

From today's New York Times:

An article last Wednesday about Jim Leff, a founder of the Internet discussion group www.chowhound.com, misstated the number of continents on which the food writer Mimi Sheraton has searched for bialys. It is five, not two.

Yes, and the pancake-sized thangs they try to pass off as bialys in Los Angeles are unspeakable. Why search the continents? Either bialys are from NYC, or they aren't. I don't know that I'd even trust a bialy from Bialystok.

The Chalet: No attitude and a great jukebox

2006-11-27T12:59:00.000-08:00

The Saturday Eagle Rock adventure didn't end with Cafe Beaujolais, as C and I ventured just two blocks down to The Chalet (1630 Colorado).

This is the kind of bar that you wonder why you didn't know about, while at the same time you don't want anybody else to know about it (so don't tell anyone). It's like a low-key ski lodge, rock walls and comfy seats, and with a GREAT rock and roll jukebox (3 songs for $1).

We got there JUST in time, probably around 9:30, to get the last seats at the bar. The bartenders, two rocking blonde ladies, kept us happy, and the barback kept us chatting about music all night (my radar for musicians--what is this with drummers?--working spot on). We had many various chats with the rest of the patrons, who were of all ages (gotta love it!) and similarly friendly.

I did all I could to dominate the jukebox, although with the fine selections therein, one cannot go bad. Imagine Serge Gainsbourg, the Cars, the Zombies (yes!), Muse, and many eighties faves including Echo and the Bunnymen all together in one big party. My only complaint: No Ramones.

The place filled up quickly, so if you want a quiet evening, one would probably do best to hit The Chalet on a weekday. Overall a GREAT bar.

Let's eat: Cafe Beaujolais

2006-11-27T12:32:00.000-08:00

Venturing forth into Eagle Rock on Saturday night (Hollywood on a Saturday night being too full of people who are NOT locals), C and I cruised into Cafe Beaujolais (1712 Colorado) with no reservation. Appropriately insouciant, C asked how long the wait would be; the waiter was French, as most there are, and provided the requisitely sneering "you have NO reservation?" before quickly moving a party of three (I hope he gave them free drinks) and separating two tables to seat us and the older couple who had been waiting there for a while before we breezed in.

Before I describe our meals, I ought to explain that C and I were recovering from Fake French Restaurant Syndrome. After Casino Royale last week, we somehow couldn't drag ourselves from the Grove to BLD just a few blocks away in the real world, and instead ate dinner at Morels there. The food isn't real French food, the frites were awful, the mussels were just OK, and the endive salad had no character. Only the wine was good (and thank Bacchus for that). Overall, not a great experience especially for us snobby Francophiles (see? I admit it).

So we came to CB (as I will abbreviate it) with a certain set of expectations, and indeed they were met. A traditional French menu, escargots,onion soup and whatnot? Check. Actual French waiters who have attitude, but can be badgered with bavardage to behave like near-humans? Double check.

C started with an endive salad with blue cheese and walnuts; it had the je ne sais quoi that the Morels salad lacked. My spinach soup (yes, eating on the wild side) was a puree and lovely, salted just enough in the French way. C enjoyed her halibut with mashed potatoes and something green that also looked mashed (Message to C: Write in a comment and tell me what that was). I had the special, coq au vin, which was delish -- came with a very fine polenta that was terrific.

The wine list is great, mostly French and California. The waiter informed us that my Pinot Noir was "the best wine ever." He had a thing about superlatives. When we asked him what the best dessert was, he said, "Me." Neither of us really had him in mind at the moment, and he didn't offer to provide selections from the rest of the waitstaff. He did go on to list a few other items, creme brulee, tarte tatin, mousse au chocolat, etc. We had the profiteroles, which were freshly-baked (they often aren't) and had great fudge sauce on top, marred tremendously by the spray whipped cream all over, my only complaint.

Finally, a real French restaurant to cure the Fake Syndrome!

Verdict: I'll go back. Maybe I'll even make a reservation.

Let's eat: Ford's Filling Station

2006-11-22T12:45:00.000-08:00

Here I feel I can't do a full post since L and I, tipsy from the Redwood Bar and the unfiltered sake at the Dosa holiday party, went straight for the entrees (plus wine. it's important for good health, you know). Ford's is worth a stop. My Kobe beef cheeks (they are the cheeks on the cow's face, not the others, you scamp) were the essence of beefness, almost overwhelming since the most beef I've had in the last few months is a very occasional burger. The sauce, enhanced with truffle essence, made this a rich meal. L's (and this is yet another L, I must try and differentiate you all) fish 'n' chips was in fact fish 'n' mash since she needed mashed potatoes for the usual comfort food reasons, were an exemplar of the genre.

Menu looked great; would comment more but the link is broken on the Ford's website, and I didn't "borrow" one. I know that I could easily have made a meal from the first courses and/or the salumi and cheese selections. Two of us were seated, without a reservation, between 8:30 and 9 p.m. on a Thursday night. I think much of the hyped hysteria has died down, so now's the time to go. Waitstaff were attentive and had good senses of humor. Wine list is great and well-priced.

Verdict: I'm heading back there soon.

Casino Royale: It's a Man's, Man's, Man's (etc.) World

2006-11-22T12:28:00.000-08:00

Here we go with another film I can't really advise you on: Either you want to see the latest entry in the Bond genre, or you don't. Some quick notes:

Titles, 'though animated and expensive they may be, just look tacky. Song, by Chris Cornell of Soundgarden, is awful. Bond demands a female singer. Maybe Beyonce is too busy, but what about Mariah Carey or some other songbird looking for the attention? What's Sheena Easton doing these days? Or how about (groan) Kylie Minogue?
It's all uphill from there, however. After a needless but entertaining prologue, the action kicks in and doesn't stop. Judi Dench hams it up as "M" while giving her character a sense of depth (plus we get an inkling that, surprise, there's a Mr. M. What does he do? My money's on his being a retired don from Cambridge or Oxford).
Daniel Craig nails Bond. He may be the best Bond since Sean Connery. Connery had a working-class edge to him, as if his playboy gloss was something precarious and hard-won, while his ease at killing, regardless of his license, was instinctive. Craig's got the up-from-nothing attitude. (Yes, I know Ian Fleming preferred Roger Moore, but --speaking as a writer -- we don't always know who will work best on the screen. There's almost a sterility to Moore's performances.)
And Craig is, to bring this down to the nitty-gritty, a major babe, compact and well-built, as Private Eye might say. Ladies and gentlemen, we get to see him pretty much in the altogether, and sweaty, too. Enjoy.
The Bond women (I won't call them girls, as they are all thankfully legal) in this are counter trend; Eva Green rocks some 80s eye makeup that doesn't flatter her. She's far more beautiful without it. But I rather thought the new Bond deserved more glamo(u)rous ladies...as well as a better song.

The film is about 20 minutes too long; we don't need the prologue, and Bond's oasis of bliss with Eva Green's Vesper Lynd could be a little snappier, since we know this Eden can't last. Action scenes are plentiful and great. We see too little of the always-excellent Jeffrey Wright as an American compatriot. Overall, however, this is a great new installment in the franchise, and good holiday fare -- if exploding and collapsing things and major mortality rates is your distraction of choice.

Stranger Than Fiction: The Authorial Voice Intrudes

2006-11-18T17:21:00.000-08:00

What if, one day, you heard a narrator describing your every action, including the precise number of strokes, both up-and-down and across-and-back, with which you brush your teeth? And what if you were not a imaginative sort who'd like to play along--or who, like some of us occasionally, narrate our own lives and thus welcome the assistance--but were instead an auditor for the IRS?

That's the premise of Stranger Than Fiction, in which Harold Crick, played by Will Ferrell, discovers that, not only is his dull life a story, but also that he has a narrator, Kay Eiffel, played by Emma Thompson. His discovery of the narrator's voice drives Crick to react, possibly for the first time in his life, and ask for help, surely for the first time. He starts, involuntarily, with the office's Human Resource counselor, played by a determined-to-hug Tom Hulce with crunchy glee. Harold then is compelled to visit the wry Linda Hunt's therapist; when he insists that he's not a candidate for medication, she sends him to a literary scholar played by Dustin Hoffman because, after all, a narrator is a literary device.

Such is the loopy but perfectly reasonable logic followed by this piquant and imaginative film. Zach Helm's script is crisp and fresh; the direction, by Marc Monster's Ball Forster, follows. The film's big revelation is that Will Ferrell can do subtle comedy; he isn't limited to running amok in his tighty whities. In fact, he can ponder the meaning of life (even the Monty Python film) with pathos and NOT lose his sense of humor. Hearing him use the word "ogled" in a sentence, when speaking to the object of his crush Maggie Gyllenhaal, playing an anarchic baker, is a delight. When he picks out a Wreckless Eric tune on her guitar, he transports himself and the audience to another plane.

Ferrell isn't the only one who does his best and clearly enjoys his role here, as well: Thompson, another actress who never lets vanity get in her way, is the strung-out author who writes and narrates Harold Crick's tale. Thompson, who has been known to pick up a pen and acquit herself quite well, positively radiates authorial despair. Hoffman's scholar is a close relative to Bernard, the existential detective he impersonated wholly in I Heart Huckabees. His quirks are many. Gyllenhaal is quirky and charming.

The only one who seems miscast is Queen Latifah, as Emma Thompson's assistant, sent by her publisher to make sure she finishes her manuscript. The Queen seems uncomfortable and never really makes much of, admittedly, not a big role. But it could have been played with character, and she stays as stiff as those pantsuits she's costumed in (tell me, would Queen Latifah button the buttons on a suit jacket? No way!).

I won't describe the plot any more. It's got a satisfying number of twists and turns, along with the terrific performances. Driving home after the film, I found myself surrounded by characters--not from any of my writing, but clearly people who figure in some narrative, somewhere, or perhaps just in their own. Stranger Than Fiction is a fun little meditation on the nature of literary reality.

Avast, ye mateys: The Redwood Bar & Grill

2006-11-17T14:19:00.000-08:00

On downtown's Second Street, between Hill and Broadway, the Redwood Bar & Grill has stood for years as something of a canteen for the Los Angeles Times. With a recent renovation, promised as a "pirate theme," the Redwood seemed poised to enter the age of whimsy--a tragedy for a joint in which many fictional detectives (Harry Bosch?) have bent an elbow.

Such is not the case. The Redwood has dark paneling, ship's wheel chandeliers, barrel-shaped tables, furled sails hanging from the dropped ceiling, and a certain amount of decorative brass (the metal, not the cops). But there's no silly pirate gear about, and the booths are covered in canvas, too.

There's no drink menu, other than a table sign offering a few rum drinks, which made it difficult for L to find a white wine she liked (it took two tries). I went with the Craftsman 1903 Lager on tap, made in Pasadena; liked it, but would've liked to choose from a list (it was the first one the waitress mentioned--guess I'm just that easy). We looked at the bar menu; there are separate lunch and dinner menus, for which you can check the website. Our wings, deep-fried (mmmm!) and soaked in barbecue sauce, with a fresh-tasting ranch dressing for dipping, were above average. We saw quite a few burgers go out to the tables. Each had a steak knife driven through its middle like a stake in the heart of a vampire (not the pirate theme. maybe too much time spent thinking about Glenn Danzig). Next time, the burger.

Verdict: I'll go back, in fact, I'm planning to move in. If they have wireless, I'll be set.

The name's Elizabeth.....Queen Elizabeth

2006-11-17T14:11:00.000-08:00

Check out the Queen checking out the new James Bond, Daniel Craig, in this photo from The New York Times. He is being properly respectful: Note that lowered chin. And she looks as delighted as she ever does.

Questions: Where did the Queen get that dress, which might resemble an embroidered nightie if not for the (opera length?) gloves? Is that gentleman to her left REALLY Buck Henry? And, when she attends a premiere, does the Queen stay for the entire film?

Borat: can $67 million gross (domestically) be wrong?

2006-11-13T17:36:00.000-08:00

Those of you who know me, even only through the blog, know that I am an enthusiastic fan of sixth-grade boy humor. Talladega Nights? Loved it. Snakes on a Plane? Tolerated it well, and shouted back at the screen frequently. Wedding Crashers? Old School? South Park? Love them all. And I actually like the Three Stooges.

So my reaction to Borat (look it up if you want the full title) was a surprise. Sure, there was some funny stuff; a chicken always makes for laughs. And I like Sacha Baron Cohen, who is clearly a Smart Guy; he made a great fake Frenchperson in Talladega Nights. But there's broad ethnic satire, and then there's Borat.

My chief complaint: the film is dumb dumb instead of clever dumb. The naked fat guy wrestling with Cohen is just gross, not funny. And yes, lot's of stuff is offensive--in a very stupid way. Yes, I know that the anti-Semitic jokes are supposed to be OK because Cohen is, duh, Jewish, but I don't buy that. Plus the jokes are stupid. Yet, the audience -- a goodly number of people for a Monday matinee -- was going wild, laughing hysterically.

Which leads me to wonder: Have I in some way jumped the shark, personally, if I don't think Borat is funny? Have I reached the point at which the leading cultural phenomena no longer amuse or entice me?

Naah. Not yet. I just don't like extended, and extended, and extended jokes that rest on the discomfort of more and more and more people. So Borat shows off about how crude and stupid he is, while speaking what sounds like a fake Slavic language (his greetings are mispronounced Polish). My reaction was a big, so what? I don't feel particularly indignant about this, just baffled.

But I'd go back to see the chicken star in a movie in an instant.

H&M: Shopping review

2006-11-13T10:50:00.000-08:00

Numerous readers have requested that I blog from time to time on my shopping adventures, so here goes:

H&M has finally opened in Los Angeles.

To those of you on the East coast, who have gotten accustomed to a) picking out H&M items on passers-by while thinking, "I know YOUR secret," and/or b) enjoying the sweet sensation when some ostensible fashion snob assumes you bought that blouse at Gucci and NOT H&M, this is NOT news. Sure, I've been augmenting my wardrobe with nuggets from the Manhattan and Boston H&Ms for years....now I guess I can easily be found out.

But what I want to focus on is the nitty-gritty. The rest of you can worry about whether the knockoffs are accurate enough to wear to, say Beverly Hills, or whether you ought to keep them in, say, Santa Monica, where people are a little less snobby about these things. What I want to discuss are....tactics.

OK, so I went to the store the day it opened. Turned out not to be a big deal, whether due to luck or my innate hunter-gatherer shopping instincts, I don't know. The line at 3 p.m. was not too bad, stretching across the front of the store from door to door. I estimated I'd be waiting half an hour, but hadn't counted on the fact that the guards let lots of people in at the same time. Total wait: ten minutes.

Inside, there was a fair amount of pandemonium, but not so crazy that I couldn't assume Zen shopping mode and focus only on the merchandise. I immediately got a wrap dress for 9.90, opening day special--Diane von Furstenberg wouldn't be fooled, but I'll be sure and wear Etro or something else pricey the next time she and Barry pop by for tapas. It wasn't too difficult to negotiate the rest of the store. The women's clothing is at either end -- regular stuff, including the feature pieces by Viktor & Rolf, to the left as you enter, the teenier trendier stuff to the right, with the men's department in the middle. In the back of the store is a smallish children's department.

This store, compared to Pasadena, is much better stocked, bigger, and easier to negotiate. The downside is NO lingerie department, which is sad because H&M has great bra/panty combos that are glam, fit decently if not perfectly, AND cost about $20 in toto. I wondered if the V&R "boutique" might become a lingerie department at some point.

So what do I recommend at H&M? You can always, always find an inexpensive, decently fitted t-shirt in a range of colors. My experience is that they last for a few seasons, a real plus for schmattas. Likewise a cardigan, with Lurex thread or not. The jewelry is cheap and fun, although in London last fall I bought beads that fell apart immediately upon contact. Not a place to make a major investment, although it'd be difficult to do that. The pants fit in capricious ways, so not my favorite. I've found cute and funky dresses there on occasion, that no one would suspect came from H&M.

Other advice: Buy it and try it on at home. The try-on line is endless, and the return policy is a decent 30 days (contrast that with Forever 21's policy). And, please, use the cash register against the wall in the trend department. On Thursday and again on Saturday afternoon, this was the absolutely shortest line.

Can't comment on the men's department...too focused on my own needs. Next time...

Volver: Life among the women

2006-11-08T09:15:00.000-08:00

In Volver, Pedro Almodovar continues his ever-deeper explorations into the world of women. Women are the keepers of secrets; they are the dependable workers upon whom the family depends. They support and encourage each other, and are each others' best audiences. All this is explicit in his earlier films, but perhaps never so seriously as in Volver.

Which doesn't mean the film is a weepie without any fun. Penelope Cruz plays Raimunda, whom we meet when she and her sister Sole (Lola Duenas, underplaying skillfully) and Raimunda's adolescent daughter Paula (Yohana Cobo, the youngest of the ladies) are cleaning off the graves of their parents in a country graveyard. The wind blows continously and ominously (in these Santa Ana days, Angelinos can relate). The scene is ironic and funny, as women of all shapes and sizes, many wearing Almodovar's near-trademark polka dots--albeit in solemn black and white--hurry to defy the wind and sweep off the huge marble slabs.

A visit to their ancient Aunt Paula (Chus Lampreave, a veteran of small roles in numerous Almodovar films) in their ancestral town nearby raises some questions, and when the trio return to their shabby apartments in a town near Madrid, the story continues to unfold. I won't describe any more of the plot, although some reviewers have, for fear of giving any of the secrets away; they are there for you to figure out or not, or wait to be told. But when Irene, the mother of Raimunda and Sole, appears in ghostly form as a very real Carmen Maura, mayhem of various sorts and intensity ensues.

What I want to comment on are a few notable aspects of Volver:

Penelope Cruz is, as advertised, notable in this film. What I saw was that, for the first time--and despite other decent performances--she is allowing herself to play a woman, not a girl. Raimunda is beautiful, but she doesn't flirt; of course, she dresses to enhance her cleavage, but she has deeper concerns in mind.
I nearly subtitled this review "Women moving heavy objects," because they do, alone and together, in this film. This is a very real detail that Almodovar depicts in all its tiresome detail. (A friend and I moved her dining room table last summer, up and down stairs and in and out of a truck. Not a pretty sight.)
Carmen Maura, reconciled with Almodovar, is amazing. In our first sight of her, she has long gray hair and a complexion made up to look decrepit; after color and a haircut from her daughter Sole, she looks much younger. I will admit that I panicked when I first saw Maura because she looked so OLD--until I reasoned that Women on the Verge, when I first saw her, was made more than 20 years ago. Maura is now 61, and looks it; she hasn't had work done, more power to her, nor has she stopped working. Here, she is so much the master of every scene she is in, her mischievous grin and goggle eyes detracting not a bit from the serious matters she has returned to resolve.
There's a lot of food in this film. When Penelope Cruz chops red peppers, they seem dewier and sexier than any red peppers that, say, I have every chopped.

All in all, Volver is a serious but not heavyhearted journey ever deeper into the world of Pedro Almodovar, an excursion that might take a tissue or two, but one that isn't without its quirky amusements.

Not so fast with those bricks...

2006-11-07T22:08:00.000-08:00

Well, I guess it was too good to be true. Or, if not good, then too much of a sign of progress at the Glenn Danzig Haunted House. Remember the bricks I saw the guys loading off about a week and a half ago? While the guys and their pickup may have taken a few bricks, the big neatish pile is still in Glenn Danzig's front yard.

Why, oh why? Let's speculate.

1. Glenn still intends to build a patio one of these days.
2. Yes, the bricks will be ballast, but the ship hasn't been built yet. It's coming in. Soon.
3. If the bricks were gone, he'd miss them.
4. Too much change at one time is more than Glenn can handle.

Personally, I vote for #4. Ya know, you come from Jersey, you get used to things a certain way, even here in Sunny California, and then people (and who the hell are they?) want you to move your bricks. Sheesh!

Don't worry, Glenn. Los Feliz accepts you, your fine haunted house (the overgrowth is doing really well!) AND your bricks, wherever you choose to keep them.

Glenn Danzig moves his bricks

2006-10-30T19:50:00.000-08:00

On Franklin Avenue in Los Feliz, in between Vermont and Hillhurst, on the south side of the street, stands the Haunted House of Glenn Danzig. (I can't take credit for the name; for that, see Losanjealous.) The house isn't quite the Munsters mansion, but it's close in its decrepitude; it's totally grown over with vines and flowering plants, and encircled by a cast iron fence with spikes.

Sounds gothic and scary, although usually the Jaguar of Lodi, New Jersey native Glenn Danzig is parked outside, and in fact, the flowering plants are attractive. Not everybody has to have a lawn, and just growing up in New Jersey, where lawns are an obsession, is reason enough to let your house go. For me, anyway.

In the five years I've lived in Los Feliz, there has been a large pile of bricks on the dead grass in Danzig's front lawn. The first time I saw them, I thought, ooh, a patio. But the stack stayed there, not moving, not being built into anything.

Suddenly, things are different. Late last week I was moseying by, heading to Alcove for afternoon snacks, when what did I see but Glenn Danzig himself, all pasty-faced and in black, directing two guys with a mini pickup who were....loading the bricks into the back of their truck. I did NOT call out, "way to go, Glenn," or even, "Garden State, represent!" but slithered quietly by.

I figure I have to go back this week and see if the bricks are gone. Maybe he just had them moved around the yard.

Marie Antoinette: What it feels like for a girl

2006-10-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

Marie Antoinette, Sofia Coppola's third feature, is like a cross between The Virgin Suicides, her first film, and a music video. There's one thing she does really well, which is understand and depict certain critical moments in the life of an adolescent girl: the moment when she realizes her power, and the subsquent moments when she learns, over and over, the limitations of that power, how much in her life is really out of her hands.

It wasn't Marie Antoinette's fault that her husband, Louis XVI, didn't consummate their marriage for seven years--but she is made to suffer for it. Kirsten's Dunst's queen is a kicky young Austrian who runs up against grim reality at the court of Versailles, trapped in arcane and seemingly purposeless rituals in an airless society in which every word spoken and not spoken counts. She copes with the help of sweets, clothes, and a Swedish lover; she accustoms herself to French customs; she playacts life as a well-off shepherdess in the Petit Trianon. The court and the French people blame her for the excesses of the monarchy.

Of course they do, because she's an outsider. The outside is always blamed, and in Sofia Coppola's world, the adolescent or postadolescent female is always the outsider. Marie joins those doomed sisters in The Virgin Suicides and Scarlett Johansson's character in Lost in Translation as women who feel too much and can't or won't do enough to save themselves.

Feeling is something Coppola transmits successfully on the screen. Her visuals are all pastel confectionery, with the help of Laduree and Manolo Blahnik, and do most of the storytelling, along with period music and 80s hits, from bands like The Cure and Gang of Four, as well as a more recent cut from The Strokes. Oddly, the music doesn't jar; although many of the visuals approximate historical accuracy, it's clear from the beginning that what we are seeing is stylized, a director's vision, and it's not difficult to embrace that.

What the film is, is too long. The parties with which Marie amuses herself go on just too long on the screen. She can gamble all night, but we get numb watching her. While the story is told with great feeling, there is little depth--more surface emotion and not much reflection on what it all means, even on the small scale. Marie Antoinette is not for everyone, but if you're willing to jump into the cotton candy, it's a fun two hours that certainly left me intrigued as to what Sofia Coppola will take on next.

The Prestige: Hey, it's magic!

2006-10-21T12:10:00.000-07:00

The Prestige concerns an all-encompassing fierce competition between magicians—Alfred Borden, played by Christian Bale, and Rupert Angier, played by the ubiquitous Hugh Jackman—in late nineteenth-century London. Directed by Christopher Nolan, from a story concocted by Nolan and his brother Jonathan Nolan, based on a novel by Christopher Priest, The Prestige has the viewer in its grasp from its beginning through to the end of its two hours plus, leaving one breathless and perhaps just a few steps behind the secrets within secrets within secrets.

As is of course not surprising for a film about magicians. Bale, one of Nolan’s favored actors, is brooding and dark, playing a working-class striver. Jackman plays a toff with great ease, who resists performing, until he can’t resist trying to best Bale at his own game. Caught up in their rivalry, we follow, with wonder and amazement, but no real emotional involvement; this is not a film that inspires catharsis.

The story is crosscut between and among the distant past, the more recent past, and the present, but is not difficult to follow thanks to Nolan’s assured storytelling skills. Bale and Jackman do well by their characters, aided and abetted by Michael Caine as an ingenieur (he builds magic tricks) who knows more than anyone else how the story will turn out, and another memorable, quirky performance by David Bowie as electric genius Nikola Tesla (what has happened to David Lynch’s Tesla film?), who figures in the plot, as well. The scenes at Tesla’s hideaway laboratory in Colorado Springs are beautiful to watch; the echoes of his lifelong and real-life rivalry with Thomas Edison echo the plot nicely.

The women associated with these men live lives that are far less magical, including Piper Perabo and Rebecca Hall, both overwhelmed by poetic curls; the latter, especially, emotes all over the place but doesn’t get much from her spouse Bale, which is the point. The also-ubiquitous Scarlett Johansson fares better as a magician’s assistant who functions in the story. This time around, coming off of her Black Dahlia role in tight sweaters, Johansson is perennially costumed in fetching outfits that appear to be one size too small, especially on top. (Something for everyone, I guess; there is also the near-obligatory shot of Jackman, shirtless and hirsute.)

I won’t go into specifics of the rivalry, because that unraveling is one of the principal delights of the film, which I recommend highly.

One comment about accents: The Prestige is set in London, so one would expect a range of upper- and lower-class and perhaps even regional accents. Johansson works hard to maintain her accent, and of course Michael Caine doesn’t have to. But Jackman, who grew up in Sydney and whose parents are English, sounds completely American at this point, and Bale, who is Welsh and English, sounds as if he’s swimming somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. This all-over-the-place isn’t as distracting as it sounds, but it did lead me to wonder to what extent the director ever addressed the issue of how he wanted his cast to sound.

Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa

2006-10-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the lack of posts lately. I'm working on it.

Do you even KNOW what rock and roll is?

2006-10-09T16:57:00.000-07:00

In this SNL video, courtesy of YouTube (soon to be GoogTube?), Lou Reed (Fred Armisen) and Patti Smith (Amy Poehler), remind you that they are much cooler than you could ever be.

Whom does The Queen love?

2006-10-08T22:16:00.000-07:00

The Queen, directed by Stephen Frears, purports to show us a crisis in the British monarchy when Princess Diana died in a car accident in Paris in 1997. The crisis is not, however, with the monarchy, but with the monarch, Queen Elizabeth, played with great depth of feeling by Helen Mirren. Diana, to the Queen, is an ex-daughter-in-law; the mother of the heir to the throne, to be sure, but unmissed as an individual personality. The Queen proceeds in the wake of Diana's death as if the personal Diana that she knew is the only one that matters. Her miscalculation leads her to discover that, horror of horrors, she is out of touch with her subjects, and she therefore must change. She listens to the advice of the new Labor Prime Minister, Tony Blair, and commemorates the public face of the "people's princess." Crisis averted.

It may seem odd to note that Mirren plays the role feelingly, but it is not, because the Queen's feelings are at the heart of this very clever, very entertaining film. For whom does the Queen love but her people? It's clear from the outset that her marriage is now a ceremonial matter; James Cromwell adroitly captures Prince Philip's impatience and distance from actual matters of state, although it's always been my impression that Philip is even more of a boor than Cromwell plays him. The Queen's son and heir, Charles, has the temerity to presume that he may take The Queen's Flight to Paris to retrieve the body of his ex-wife. Alex Jennings, although given often to a Bertie Woosterish grimace, demonstrates Charles as a man who is essentially soft of heart.

But the Queen is not. The only one who sees her way in things is "Mummy," as she calls The Queen Mother. Mummy counsels that the stiff upper lip is best. Elizabeth, on the other hand, is a woman who will do anything to keep the love she needs. She returns to London from Balmoral (lovely Scottish scenery in those scenes) and, amazingly, gets out of the car in front of Buckingham Palace to read the tributes to Diana and greet the crowd. This is just not done, as they say, but do it she does, and regains the admiration of her subjects -- which is what she wants.

Tony Blair, a perky Michael Sheen, presumes that the Queen listened to him because she thought highly of his advice. Not really. It was the advice she needed, and for it she owes him nothing. Her power, which Mirren acts subtly and convincingly, is derived from God, hence the divine right of kings. Yes, in this day it may sound a bit daft, but it doesn't matter if you or I believe in it. Elizabeth does, as does Mummy, and this is the reason for her lifelong dedication, meaning in this context that she has given her life to her people until she dies, not that she'll do a nice job and retire to Scotland someday.

An especially moving scene takes place in Scotland when the Queen, driving like a dynamo through a river, hits a rock and disables her Land Rover (interesting and not surprising that she can tell the gamekeeper she phones exactly which part is broken). She fumes for a minute, then relaxes and appreciates the beauty of the natural landscape around her. Tears fall -- probably not for Diana, perhaps for the frustration and loneliness of her role, which is the same as her life. A beautiful stag appears, one that Prince Philip has talked of bagging, and the Queen is transfixed by the handsomeness of the creature. When the stag next appears, he galvanizes the Queen into action. The scenes and the metaphor are beautifully done.

The pomp and ceremony of British royalty are interestingly rendered, as is the immediate post-Diana climate. There is rather too much television news footage to provide context and mood. Overall, however, this is a fine film, and one for which Helen Mirren may indeed receive an Academy Award nomination. Although one does not expect the stiff upper lip to win, as Best Actress is usually rather more given to an hysterical role.

Let's eat: 25 degrees

2006-10-07T11:08:00.001-07:00

25 degrees (the name refers to the difference in internal temperature between a rare and well-done beef -- go figure) is a burger bar in the revived hip and happening Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. The menu is quite simple: sirloin or turkey burger or hot dog (no word on its origins) with gourmet add-ons, including a vast range of cheeses like Cowgirl Creamery's Red Hawk. There are a few burgers already composed, but by and large one can put it together oneself, a la Santa Monica's The Counter. Fries and onion rings are ordered separately, and are served in quart-sized Chinese takeout boxes. There are some salads, a grilled cheese sandwich served with tomato soup, and milkshakes that looked, well, properly milkshakey. (Someone can do a comparison with the super shakes at Lucky Devils, a few blocks east, but that person is not me.)

My burger was a little closer to rare than medium rare, but I'm not complaining. I added Neal's Yard cheddar, which was crumbled on top but had not melted -- I like my cheeseburger with melted cheese, thanks. A Russian-dressing type sauce, which was fine, was included. The buns are big, glazed brioche-type items, and the burgers come wrapped in what I can only think of as burger paper, as they do at In 'n' Out. The beef had good flavor, although I still want to go back to BLD to do a comparison study. The fries are thin, and parsley-dusted; they're good but not exceptional.

C ordered the iceberg wedge salad with yellow tomatoes, creamy dressing, Point Reyes blue cheese, red onion, and Nueske bacon. Her plate was nicely composed, and had two (count 'em!) wedges of the berg -- half a head of lettuce. Although she enjoyed the salad, the Wedge (as she called it) was not as crisp as it usually is -- and, frankly, if iceberg isn't crisp, what is it?

Wine list was appealing, to the point that C wondered, what with all the fine cheeses on the add-on list, would they offer a cheese platter? Would be a quite pleasant way to while away some time there. The decor is goth coffee shop -- deep red half round sized booths, dark mirror tiles on the wall. There are not so many booths, but there's a long counter.

Verdict: I'll go back. Gotta try the turkey burger and the onion rings.

Location: 7000 Hollywood Blvd, inside the Roosevelt Hotel. Valet parking in the back for $ , park on the street (good luck) for only an hour, or--as I did--park in Hollywood and Highland and hoof it (validation if you spend any $$ there and it'll cost you $2. you can always get a cream puff at Beard Papa for dessert).

Jon Stewart on September 28

2006-09-28T23:58:00.000-07:00

Of course, it makes sense that Jon Stewart would interview former Governor of New Jersey Jim McGreevey, given McG's book and the previous closet-induced kerfuffle. But did anyone besides me notice that McG is the third former Governor of the Garden State that Stewart has interviewed? He had Tom Kean on a while back (Stewart confessed that he worked in the State House in Trenton during Kean's administration, when--full disclosure--I worked for a major state cultural institution, and thus had truck with the Governor's office), and Christine Todd Whitman, as well (best moment was when he said to Whitman: your successor [McG] resigned under somewhat complicated circumstances...is there something you'd like to confess to us?).

New Jersey is a prime source of entertaining political figures...why not more entertainment from the Garden State? Ugly Betty is set in Queens, as was, famously, All in the Family and various other shows. You could, for example, set a sitcom in Hoboken in the 1970s and call it My Building's on Fire. Or bring back the state tourism slogan from the Kean administration, when the patrician-sounding, r-dropping Governor intoned on endless TV commercials, "New Chuhsey and you--Puhfect togethuh."

Ugly Betty

2006-09-28T23:43:00.000-07:00

Biffles, as is evident, is a big fan of the bijou. I've also confessed to an inordinate attachment to the entire Law & Order franchise, as well as to the original version (only; I'm with William Petersen on this one) of CSI. I watch sitcoms but not consistently.

On the other hand, Ugly Betty might just keep my attention. America Ferrara, from Real Women Have Curves, is a pleasure to watch as she struggles to work as an assistant at Mode Magazine, seemingly the only non-airbrushed woman there. She's a gawky nerd, but she has reserves of savvy in a crisis, and she may seem like a doormat, but she's on the verge of discovering her own power. The promos for this show made her seem like a geek freak, but she's not; Betty's experiences on her first job aren't so far off from mine--and I'd guess, any woman's. (If I had a dollar for every actionable remark that has ever been made to me....)

About that fashion sense: In the first episode, Betty is befriended by the few normal sized (and I don't mean fat) women on the staff. The keeper of the closet, where the fashions are amassed for photo shoots, etc., is Betty's new pal--how long will it take until she finds Betty some treats from that closet?

Brava to Salma Hayek, the executive producer of Ugly Betty, for bringing an American version of a Colombian telenovela to the smallish screen. And more points to Salma for appearing in the telenovela to which the TV at Betty's house in Queens always seems to be tuned. It's been a long time since I laughed out loud to a sitcom that wasn't a Seinfeld rerun. Pathetic, I know.

Weird moment at IKEA

2006-09-28T23:37:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I slogged over to IKEAon a quest for shelf extensions to my bookshelves. No more silver; I'd have to buy white or beech shelves to be added on top. Though I need the extra book space, I don't think I could live with how this would look.

Anyhoo, while I was fruitlessly searching for more of the black and white salt and pepper mills that look like bowling pins (genius! except that they're out of stock in Burbank), the perky sound system piped up with "I Touch Myself" by one-hit wonders The Divinyls.

Is this really what you want to hear while shopping for oddly-shaped Scandinavian-designed items? I dance to the song all the time at S Factor, but in IKEA?

A woman also perusing the condiment-container shelves cracked to her adult daughter, "I always hear this song when I'm in here." Hmmmm.....

Jet Li's Fearless...starring Jet Li

2006-09-27T10:29:00.000-07:00

This is Jet Li's final martial arts picture -- he will continue as an actor -- so seems to me that he can call the film, directed by Ronny Yu, anything he wants to call it. Fearless is a fit ending to this phase of Li's career, since it's essential a biopic of Master Huo Yuan Jia, a wushu master who founded the still-extant Jin Wu Sports Federation, the significance of which was to establish martial arts competitions as displays of skill, rather than battles to the death.

In Fearless, Huo Yuan Jia learns the hard way, growing up as a hothead who will leap into battle with an opponent at the slightest slight. His hubris brings tragedy (and shame) on his family, and his story is subsequently one of initiation into what constitutes true heroism. The historical context is made clear: in a China pockmarked with foreign concessions, there is little national pride, another achievement of the Federation.

This is not the easiest film to sell to the unconverted, although it would be an excellent place to start, for those who are eager to dive in. Although it does have touching character development, plot, and historical context, the wushu competitions are the recurring high points. But there are tender moments and subtle humor, as well. As a child, Huo Yuan Jia's friend Nong Jinsun does his calligraphy homework for him; when we see Huo Yuan Jia's calligraphed signature, the strokes are broad and artless. He's a fighter, not a writer, is probably what he'd say, but we are shown that in a low-key way, not told.

The film ends with a transcendent scene in which Jet Li practices his wushu moves, dressed in white, against a clear night sky. Although the scene figures in the story, it is also a fitting coda to the enduring career of a great martial arts star.

DVD Cinema: Le Cercle Rouge

2006-09-26T11:44:00.000-07:00

My love affair with Jean-Pierre Melville continues. Le Cercle Rouge is his penultimate film, originally released in 1970; although the original 140-minute version, with subtitles, wasn't shown in the U.S. until a re-release in 2003.

The plot, convoluted in description but not so on the screen, concerns two men, the just-released from prison Corey, played by Alain Delon at his coolest, and the escaped prisoner Vogel, played by Gian Maria Volonte, volatile and loyal. Both are men of honor; Vogel, and consequently Corey, are pursued by the detective Mattei, played by Bourvil, another man of honor. Corey and Vogel resolve to pull off a big jewelry heist (echoes of Bob le Flambeur and his one last job), and they involve Jansen, a failed cop with a serious drinking problem, played by Yves Montand.

Melville's films are mesmerizing to watch, in part, because the characters who inhabit his world are so deliberate and focused. In Le Cercle Rouge, no man speaks any more words than he has to; there is no small talk because these men have no small concerns. Staying alive, with task accomplishment a close second, occupies each one of them.

The color cinematography is gorgeous. Deep colors predominate: the saturated green of a field in the mist, across which Vogel escapes; and the hallucinatory blue and green striped wallpaper of the bedroom in which Jansen has literal hallucinations (this is an incredible scene, with real bright green lizards and other beasties). The caper, pulled off in the early-morning light of the Place Vendome, is suspenseful and astonishingly silent (the men have nothing to say to each other; they know what to do).

All men are guilty, announces the police inspector general to Mattei: tous les hommes sont coupables. But, although his bleak view of the world shadows the film, it doesn't keep each man from upholding his honor (a long-held French ideal, ruptured by all that happened in World War II) as best he can. And each of the men, from Mattei, who loves his three cats and feeds them gently each night, to Corey, who has no fear of robbing a crime boss who stole Corey's girlfriend while he was in prison, has a humanity that endears him to us (all except for the inspector general, who seems no longer human).

As in Le Samourai, Melville uses a made-up quote from the Buddha to begin his film, something about men meeting in a red circle (it even sound fake). What is not fake is the conviction each character in this film has that he must live wholly in the moment, that he must uphold the honor of his chosen profession, be it policeman or thief, and that the world in which he does this will neither help nor hurt him--it will remain indifferent. Le Cercle Rouge is another completely absorbing and rewarding Melville film.

The Black Dahlia: all dressed up and nowhere to go

2006-09-22T20:48:00.000-07:00

Given that the Black Dahlia case is one of L.A.'s most notorious unsolved murders, you'd think that a director with as sinister an imagination as Brian DePalma could make an interesting and suspenseful film from the material.

And you'd be wrong. The Black Dahlia is like someone with a great wardrobe who can't coordinate or accessorize. The production values are high; some performances are good, and even with those that are so-so, the actors look good; but overall the film is dismal.

I don't want to go into too much detail, for those of you who just have to see things for yourselves, or for those who see it for the one quick shot of Josh Hartnett's cute butt, but (haha) I'll mention a few items to try and discourage you.

The Dahlia doesn't even come into the picture for half an hour. Instead we spend way too much time establishing the relationship between Hartnett's Bucky Bleichert and Aaron Eckhart's Lee Blanchard. Then we get an overhead visual of Elizabeth Short's body, a woman runs off screaming, and we never see where she runs to -- we have to endure several minutes more of what BleichBlanch are up to around the corner (relevant to the overall plot, but not to the Dahlia) before we finally go to the primary crime scene.
So the Dahlia seems almost beside the point. We find out who did it, and why, and where in a next-to-final scene that is completely over the top. But it's too little, too late.
As other reviewers have commented, Fiona Shaw--who is a great actress--seems to be in another movie, maybe a remake of Rebecca as Mrs. Danvers.
As another reviewer has commented, and I don't remember who (although I'd gladly take credit for this one), Scarlett Johannsen plays a sweater. Much as I like her in some things, here she's just miscast.
Josh Hartnett seems to have one expression, an agonized scrunch of the face. Aaron Eckhart has a few, but all are smirk-based.
Hilary Swank is pretty okay, but given the general mess of this film, her performance comes off as better than it really is. It's just that all around her, not much else is going on...
One of the only amusing scenes is one in which Bleichert questions an extra in full Egyptian dress. She's played by Rose McGowan, who is sassy and snappy and to the point, everything this film is not. I was sorry she wasn't involved with the crime; at least she would have been amusing company.
There are lots of little continuity problems; one especially bothered me. The Scarlett character, Kay Lake, wears red red lipstick; every time she went to kiss someone, the lipstick seemed to magically disappear from her lips in the clinch shot. Is Josh allergic to Cherries in the Snow?
Note to Brian DePalma: Atmosphere is great, but it's no substitute for decisive storytelling . I think you could have made a better movie.

So see The Black Dahlia at your own risk. Or don't.

DVD Cinema: Nathalie

2006-09-17T23:23:00.000-07:00

My march through French film, abetted by Netflix, took me this weekend to Nathalie, a 2003 film directed by Anne Fontaine. Hmm, I thought, French woman director, could be interesting. Not exactly, or rather, although I watched Nathalie with interest, the film wasn't all that compelling.

To explain: Fanny Ardant plays Catherine, the longtime wife of Bernard, played by (yes!!!) Gerard Depardieu, whom she suspects of cheating on her. Catherine hires a young prostitute from a high-end private club to seduce her husband; she then meets with the young woman, whom she calls Nathalie, to listen in detail to what Nathalie has done with Bernard, where and when. Kind of like Scheherazade, but not.

Nathalie is played by the luscious Emanuelle Beart, here in full slut makeup: red red lips and kohl-rimmed eyes. She's just one or two steps away from resembling a raccoon. Fanny Ardant looks long-suffering -- valiant, brave, crestfallen-- but there's no range of emotion in her acting or the character she's portraying. Why is Catherine setting Bernard up? I came up with several hypotheses (titillation and/or revenge being the primary ones) but it became clear that neither applied, or if they did it was all highly conceptual and above ma tete.

Fanny Ardant has little to do. She's so damn respectable--her character is a gynecologist, which might have offered opportunities for metaphor, non?--that she began to annoy me. Poor Depardieu is the suspected adulterer and has even less fire in his eyes than does Ardant. Beart is slinkily enthusiastic in her role, but her character is the only one who's having a good time--at whose expense, we eventually discover. There's a red theme going on: the club where Nathalie works is all red upholstery and walls, her lipstick is red, and from time to time Catherine wears a red sweater (her clothes are understated but lovely). One might suspect that all this red is leading somewhere (hidden desires? ladyparts?) but it doesn't.

Also, Catherine/Fanny makes so much of her suspicions that Bernard/Gerard is cheating that I was thrown off. I thought the French were cool about adultery, especially since Bernard tells Catherine that he doesn't intend to leave her and he loves her. So what gives? I wanted to interrupt and ask. Before I wrote this post, I checked some of the French reviews of Nathalie, since I figured that maybe something was lost in translation, but their response was pretty much the same: Quoi?

Demicelebrity note: Catherine picks up a cater waiter at a reception and spends the night at his place; the waiter, listed in the credits so gracefully as "l'homme d'un soir" is played by Ari Paffgen, Nico's son with Alain Delon (and not acknowledged as such by Delon). See the documentary Nico Icon for more about Ari's difficult, to say the least, upbringing.

True confessions: Part of what attracted me to the film was the cover photo of Beart clinging to a pole; the copy calls her a stripper. Wow, I thought, French pole tricks. Foreign exchange! Such is not the case. Beart drapes herself around a pole at one point, but her tricks are the other kind (no, not the Silly Rabbit, either). Unless in France all strippers work as prostitutes, she isn't a stripper. I'll just have to keep getting my exotic ideas from the films of Pedro Almodovar.

Blogs for Writers

2006-09-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

Occurs to me on a Friday afternoon, when one so easily, so seamlessly, can spend time goofing off on the internets, that I ought to share some of my favorite writing/publishing-related blogs. There's good info, as well as entertainment, to be had on each of these sites.

Miss Snark, one of my Blogspot neighbors, is a literary agent who blogs about the publishing process, and rules on matters of etiquette, especially for the unpublished, as well as on grammar and punctuation. In short, Miss Snark is a Miss Manners for litterateurs and litterateuses. She may scare the bejesus out of you, but you will always know where she stands in her stilettos.
The Elegant Variation is Mark Sarvas' blog about all things literary, especially new fiction. Based in Los Angeles--the few but high-quality comments on the August 29 reading by latest literary hottie Marisha Pessl are well worth reading--the blog is not overly L.A.-centric. A recent guest blogger was Martha Southgate, who teaches at Brooklyn College, on the Other Coast.
Emdashes is wholly New Yorker-centric, for moments when one wants to read the amusing Q&A with the New Yorker's librarians, or to ponder issues raised in the magazine. Emily Gordon is a smart and generous blogger; how I feel about The New Yorker depends on the day and the issue.

That's all for now. More treats in the future.

It's all over but the mozzarella

2006-09-15T10:39:00.000-07:00

This seems to be my season for demystification. After the discovery that Robert Plant, a.k.a. the Golden God, is a regular bloke at least most of the time these days, another of my crushes has been demolished with an in-person sighting.

Last night when J and I were standing outside Dominick's on Beverly waiting for our cars, I realized that standing ahead of us in the line was star chef Mario Batali. "Why, Mario," I might have said, "I was just speaking fondly of your dad's salumi." But no, I was dumbstruck, as I have had a crush on Mario since the days of "Molto Mario."

Except that just like my previous illusion perdu, this one was a bit of a disappointment. Everyone knows Mario is largish in volume....I'd assumed he was tall, as well. Well, he's not diminutive, but he's not the larger-than-life person I'd imagined. He is, to quote They Might Be Giants, actual size. Shorts, clogs, and all.

Which scuttled my crush. My relationship with Mario has now entered the platonic phase. All the better to clear the decks, I suppose, so that I may better enjoy Mozza, his forthcoming venture with Nancy Silverton, whenever it opens.

Best album title

2006-09-10T23:31:00.000-07:00

of the year so far is the new (New Jersey's own) Yo La Tengo album, released Tuesday:
I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass

Favorite album title from 2004 is from Jim White:
Drill a Hole in that Substrate and Tell Me What You See

One might deduce that I like full-sentence album titles that make definitive statements. I'll have to think about that...

Let's eat: Barney Greengrass (and some thoughts about California produce)

2006-09-09T11:33:00.000-07:00

On the top floor of Barney's in Beverly Hills sits the only branch of Barney Greengrass, New York's monument to smoked fish, a.k.a. "The Sturgeon King." Of course, as we are in Beverly Hills, the restaurant would be unrecognizable to any habitue of the Upper West Side mothership, which is a typical deli, unglamorous, clean (but don't look too close), and noisy -- more like a crowded agora, patrons coming and going, waiting for deli orders and sitting to nosh, than ritzy cafe. The B.H. menu, too, is gentrified. No tongue omelet (also known as a heart attack on a plate) for this crowd.

Nothwithstanding the sophistication of this west coast residence of The Sturgeon King, I adore it, because I love their sable. Sable is smoked black cod (yes, the fish that Nobu Matsuhisa treats with miso and offers as a delicacy) and it is silken, with a delicate thrilling taste.

So when C and I lunched yesterday, of course I ordered the sable. As an appetizer, sable costs 50 cents less than the sable sandwich, or $14. This time around, the 4 to 5 slices of fish seemed a little sparse. Seems to me one used to get more fish on the Appetizer, but then again it's an Appetizer. The platter adds several dollars to the tab, along with unneccessary items like cole slaw. With the perfect smoked fish, who needs cole slaw? I need only champagne (West Coast advantage: a liquor license) or perhaps a white wine...yesterday it was a Pinot Gris from Fess Parker called Epiphany. I'm not too fond of winemakers giving their wines intellectually cute names (e.g. the Conundrum juggernaut), but God knows I could use an epiphany.

My sable was perfect. The onion bagel was adequate. C's smoked salmon salad had excellent fish and included other tasty items (avocado, fresh corn kernels) that wouldn't know from smoked salmon in New York, but welcome to L.A., Mr. Nova.

Our slight disappointment was the lack of flying crockery. Thursday's brawl at Barney Greengrass, well documented by Defamer, wasn't repeated. Oh, and there was the dessert, which brings me to the reflective portion of this post.

We ordered Peach Cobbler, to share. There was rather too much of the cobbler itself on top, but that was okay. The fruit inside was another story altogether. "Are these peaches...canned?" C whispered. And indeed they were. At a time of year when fresh California peaches are everywhere, The Sturgeon King opened a can.

As C said, we should have ordered the cheesecake. For truly, why would the King care about fresh fruit? However, if you're going to serve a fruit dessert for $7.50 in a city where there is major access to fresh produce, I expect fresh fruit, not something from a can.

I feel so fortunate to live in California when I go to the Farmers Market. Not just two varieties of avocado, but many; strawberries in April, when people on my native East Coast can't even yet plant their radishes. Fresh greens year-round. While native Californians may take it for granted, the availability of fresh produce is not to be underappreciated. Esteem those fruits and vegetables! And, damnit, use them in your cobblers or don't offer cobbler!

Thus ends today's sermon. Please rise for a chorus of "I Heard It Through the Grapevine."

Let's eat: Tiara Cafe

2006-09-05T22:10:00.000-07:00

Tiara Cafe, the most recent project from Fred "62" Eric, has something for everyone: for me, stylish interior and salad/sandwich menu that isn't run of the mill; for L, today's lunch companion, pastry.

L is the kind of person who reads the dessert menu before she decides on an entree...and bases her selection on how much room she needs to leave for dessert. She is not the only person I know who does this. So far as I know, none of them are yet seeking professional help.

So L ordered a "Fresh'wich": grilled shrimp, apple, papaya, and greens wrapped in rice paper (says the menu, although the waiter mentioned soy. Hmm.) Notwithstanding the questionable use of an apostrophe, L was happy with her choice, which came with a nuoc mam based dipping sauce, a very green sauce, perhaps full of cilantro.

While reserving the right to order dessert, I don't hold back on the main course. Oh no. I had what essentially aimed to be a Cuban sandwich, or media noche, made with duck, which the menu bafflingly describes as "Press'wich with smoked and roasted duck media noche" -- oh no, there's that apostrophe again. But calling it a whatever-wich AND a media noche, is rather like calling them "The La Brea Tar Pits", n'est-ce pas?

OK, enough semantics: How was the damn sandwich? Great: the "smoked" duck is better known as duck pastrami, and the roast duck was tasty, as well; the cheese was Monterey Jack, which melts well. One quibble: the menu mentioned "jalapeno butter pickles," which would have made this a proper Cuban sandwich -- not quite proper, but in the neighborhood. But...my "Press'wich" lacked pickles! Somehow I managed to consume all of this largish and, to be honest, rather caloric sandwich.

My iced tea came with a glass, lemon, and a full wine bottle of tea, a nice touch for someone like me who likes to refill her glass when she feels like it, thank you very much. Likewise, my water-swilling companion got her own bottle of the local product, straight from the tap.

And all at once, time for dessert. L ordered the berry cobbler, which comes a la mode, and BARELY offered to share with me. She was obviously planning on hosing it all down herself. So I got her. I ordered my own cobbler. For several minutes after dessert arrived, the table was silent, the only sound the scrape of our spoons on the ceramic plates. All was well.

Tiara Cafe's motto is "Eat healthier more often and diet less." Well, yes, but there's also a burger on the menu, and fries as well (those are for the next visit). It's a good fresh menu, including prepared salads, take-out, and delivery. Tiara Cafe is in the New Mart Building (it's labeled as such; even I, a total spazz downtown, found it) on Ninth Street between Main and Los Angeles. Street parking or find a lot.

Verdict: I plan to go back for the burger and who knows what else; L is clearly anticipating a long-term relationship with the dessert menu. And I am available to discuss punctuation marks with Fred Eric whenever he has time.

Those darn snakes...

2006-08-31T14:33:00.000-07:00

Kudos to my friend C -- not her real name -- who agreed to accompany me to see Snakes on a Plane yesterday. We'd each seen everything else that we agreed was of value, and what better way to wind up the summer than with a scary film of questionable quality?

It's inevitable that the buildup would be more fun to savor than the film itself. Films like SoaP (summer thrillers is the category, I guess) are akin to rides on a roller coaster. First, it seems like a good idea. Then, once you get on the ride or in the theater, it seems like not such a good idea -- in fact, you remember ten other things you'd rather do. After the first thrill -- a good long drop or, say, an attacking reptile -- you start feeling like maybe this isn't so bad after all. Then you get all caught up in the motion and come off the ride or out of the film with a big smile on your face.

Thus it is with Snakes. The initial story, necessary though it is, drags. FBI guy Samuel L. Jackson saves Surfer Boy, who witnessed a nasty crime in Hawaii. Instigator of said crime is established as a nasty and connected dude. Time to fly Surfer Boy to L.A. to testify. Ominous music finally starts....we see the cargo hold, but not what's in that mysterious cabinet behind the boxes of leis sprayed with snake pheromone.

After much delay the plane takes off and (groan) so does the movie. A special feature is what I'd like to call Snake-o-Vision, where we see the snake's point of view through what looks like muddy night-vision goggles. That way, alas, we always know who's going to get it, and when. That is, if they don't escape certain death by chance or purpose. The scariest attacks are the ones without Snake-o-Vision because they are total surprises, duh.

Once the snakes get out, mayhem ensues, in several stages. Most of the characters who seemed doomed at the beginning, or who are annoying enough to "deserve it" in the logic of these films, do indeed meet a snakey end. The final scenes, with a unique solution to getting rid of all the snakes, is fun and seems ingenious, although who knows or cares if it would work. Samuel L. Jackson is properly authoritative, Julianna Margulies is game (surely after the E.R., a crippled plane is a piece of cake), and all else acquit themselves well. (No one has to work particularly hard to do this.)

Major disappointment: Snake-o-Vision gives too much foreshadowing before a snake strikes.
Minor disappointment: Samuel L. Jackson doesn't say, to paraphrase, "Get these mofo snakes off this mofo plane" until rather late in the film.
Don't be scared: The snake closeups are obviously all animated fakes; still, next time I see a rattlesnake on a hike I am going to give it even more space.

Let's eat: Napa, Sonoma, San Francisco

2006-08-29T13:43:00.000-07:00

During my recent visit north, I had a few culinary experiences worth noting....

Bounty Hunter, Napa. Smack in the middle of Napa's revived downtown, Bounty Hunter is a wine store that became a wine bar with snacks, that became a restaurant of sorts...while remaining a wine store. The menu is limited and often features The Bounty of the Grill -- beer can chicken is a perennial -- all of which goes well with the wines by the glass, the half-glass, or the flight. There are always nightly specials; I went for the grilled sausages with sauerkraut. Hearty fare for the summer, but great with the wines I drank (and next time I'll write them down...memories are hazy, no doubt in part because of the superiority of the adult beverages we consumed). My point is, in the city of Napa, Bounty Hunter is the place to be. It's always convivial, whether or not the room is crowded (which it often is), and you will always feel as if you are the scene there.

El Dorado Kitchen, Sonoma. Plopped right on the square in Sonoma is the recently renovated El Dorado Hotel -- sleek, clean, light -- a contemporary boutique hotel feel and, dare I say it, something approaching an L.A. vibe. Lunch on the patio was great, in the shade of an ancient tree I had a deconstructed Chicken Caesar Salad: hearts of romaine, tossed with dressing, piled in a neat stack at one end of the white oblong plate; a perfectly roasted boneless breast o'chicken at the other end, punctuated by an olive crisp. (See what I mean about the L.A. vibe?) A great "Gazpacho Bloody Mary" -- don't know quite what made it that, but man, it went down nicely on a Sunday afternoon. The menu featured some other stylized treats, including all-day breakfast.

Plouf, San Francisco. Belden Place is now a little restaurant row; Plouf, a bistro, was the pioneer. I'd been wanting to go here for several years. L and I sat in the bar; the high tables are fine, the seats (are they from an old laboratory?) are shaky -- so much so that I wouldn't want to try and balance on one of them after a few too many cocktails. We shared the mussels Poulette (shallots, wine, cream) after the fried fennel and calamari. All were delish, as were the accompanying pommes frites. Considering that half of the approximately $90 bill was wine (we sprang for 4 glasses of the better Cotes du Rhone), a good deal. Just be careful if you sit at a high table.

Ferry Market, San Francisco. Aisles of plenty...I don't know how all these high-end gourmet stores are faring, but while they are there, enjoy! There's a McEvoy olive oil store (we'd passed the farm, with its acres of trees, the day before on the road from Point Reyes Station to Petaluma), a Cowgirl Creamery store, butcher shops, and lots more. Even a bookstore, where I finally bought the biography of Sylvester (!) I'd wanted (and what better city to buy it in!). There's a farmer's market more than once a week just across the street; L and I were too late for it, but an added attraction nonetheless.

Fun Friday entertainment!

2006-08-25T14:10:00.000-07:00

Although -- full disclosure! -- I live with a cat (obviously not the way he sees it), I am averse to and immune from the cutesy cat stuff that proliferates wildly on the internet. However, the cats on this particular website, The Official Record Store Cats, seem more akin in spirit to Zippy the Pinhead's martini-swilling cat, Dingy, whose tagline is "Cats are not cute."

Talladega Nights: If you have to think twice...

2006-08-22T22:56:00.000-07:00

I am not going to persuade anyone to see or not see Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. In the immortal words of Samuel L. Jackson, "Either you want to see that movie, or you don't." If you do, here are some highlights:

Loud cars zipping around the track for many, many laps.
Lots of yee-ha, not to mention hee-haw, humor.
Not one but two iterations of Will Ferrell, aka Ricky Bobby, running around nearly nude, in his not-so-tighty whities.
Almost more non sequiturs than a film this light can handle. Best example: Ricky B. (R. Bobby?) goes to visit his French rival, Jean Girard. Sitting at a table in Girard's well-landscaped yard: Elvis Costello and Mos Def. Ricky: "Was that Elvis Costello and Mos Def?" Jean: "Non."
Speaking of Jean, Sacha Baron Cohen totally rocks as Jean Girard, who races while reading "L'Etranger." (Hey! Maybe that's where Bushie got his summer reading idea!) Girard is so oozy, over-the-top, fake French that he almost steals the show.
The film gets slight props for having R. Bobby end up with his former assistant, the brainy one. Slight. (His previous wife is a pit-honey bimbette.)

If Will Ferrell makes you laugh, this will, too. Sacha Baron Cohen is just the icing on the cake, or the STP topping off the tank, or something like that.

DVD Cinema: In a Lonely Place

2006-08-22T09:17:00.000-07:00

Directed by Nicholas Ray and released in 1950, In a Lonely Place is a film noir that doesn't doom one or another of its characters to decay, depravation, or death at the hands of a seductive other. Instead, and strikingly, the film depicts two very complicated characters, a man and a woman, and lets us watch their relationship play out. Dixon Steele, played by Humphrey Bogart, is a lonely, angry writer: He's smarter than everyone else, and although he desires women, by and large they bore him. Laurel Gray, played by Gloria Grahame, is an unsuccessful (but in a non-cliche turn, not down-on-her-luck) actress who lives across the way in a Beverly Hills courtyard apartment complex (the building is charming; looks like one of those on Sycamore that David Lynch used in Mulholland Drive).

Dixon is such a cad that he brings a coatcheck girl home to tell him the story of the book he's supposed to adapt into a script. He doesn't want to read the book. She tells him the story, they don't connect in any other way. He says he's tired, and there's a cab stand around the corner. (Sheesh!) So he's in hot water when she's found dead later that night, and his response to police suspicions is to be as flippant as possible. Luckily, he's got an old army buddy on the force, and his neighbor Laurel Gray, who provides him with an alibi (she was on her balcony in her negligee; he was checking her out).

Dixon and Laurel start a relationship: She types his script and provides all other loyal-helpmeet type support. He falls in love with her, poetically. We learn via her thuggish masseuse that Laurel ran away from her fiancee, who built her a dream house in the hills. In the meantime, Dix periodically erupts in fits of inchoate rage. As his agent Mel (Art Smith) says to Laurel, "You knew he was dynamite. He has to explode sometimes."

Yes, they both have issues--he may be a murderer--and neither is especially attractive. But the two leads spar believably, his anguish (but not remorse) over his anger is real, and she's convincing as a woman who might cut and run anytime she gets too scared. In a Lonely Place is compelling, psychologically real (that's what got me), and there IS the matter of who killed the coatcheck girl hanging over everyone's head practically until the final frame. This film is not dated at all, in many ways. See it.