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.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Marie Antoinette: What it feels like for a girl
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.
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.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
The Prestige: Hey, it's magic!
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.
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.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Do you even KNOW what rock and roll is?
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.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Whom does The Queen love?
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.
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.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Let's eat: 25 degrees
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 $$ there and it'll cost you $2. you can always get a cream puff at Beard Papa for dessert).
My burger was a little closer to rare than medium rare, but I'm not complaining. I added Neal's Yard cheddar, which was crumbled on top but had not melted -- I like my cheeseburger with melted cheese, thanks. A Russian-dressing type sauce, which was fine, was included. The buns are big, glazed brioche-type items, and the burgers come wrapped in what I can only think of as burger paper, as they do at In 'n' Out. The beef had good flavor, although I still want to go back to BLD to do a comparison study. The fries are thin, and parsley-dusted; they're good but not exceptional.
C ordered the iceberg wedge salad with yellow tomatoes, creamy dressing, Point Reyes blue cheese, red onion, and Nueske bacon. Her plate was nicely composed, and had two (count 'em!) wedges of the berg -- half a head of lettuce. Although she enjoyed the salad, the Wedge (as she called it) was not as crisp as it usually is -- and, frankly, if iceberg isn't crisp, what is it?
Wine list was appealing, to the point that C wondered, what with all the fine cheeses on the add-on list, would they offer a cheese platter? Would be a quite pleasant way to while away some time there. The decor is goth coffee shop -- deep red half round sized booths, dark mirror tiles on the wall. There are not so many booths, but there's a long counter.
Verdict: I'll go back. Gotta try the turkey burger and the onion rings.
Location: 7000 Hollywood Blvd, inside the Roosevelt Hotel. Valet parking in the back for $ , park on the street (good luck) for only an hour, or--as I did--park in Hollywood and Highland and hoof it (validation if you spend any $$ there and it'll cost you $2. you can always get a cream puff at Beard Papa for dessert).
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Jon Stewart on September 28
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."
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
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.
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
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.....
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.....
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Jet Li's Fearless...starring Jet Li
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
DVD Cinema: Le Cercle Rouge
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 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.
Friday, September 22, 2006
The Black Dahlia: all dressed up and nowhere to go
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.
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.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
DVD Cinema: Nathalie
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.
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.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Blogs for Writers
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
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.
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.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Best album title
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...
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...
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Let's eat: Barney Greengrass (and some thoughts about California produce)
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."
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."
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Let's eat: Tiara Cafe
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.
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.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Those darn snakes...
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.
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.
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