Notes on a Scandal: Trust No One

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....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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:

1. 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.
2. 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!

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

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.

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

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

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!