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Putting the Pee in Passive-Aggressive

November 11, 2014 in City Matters, Etiquette Matters

A one-act play to describe the general vibe of this day.

Scene 1: Chase Bank, 8th Avenue. Me, laden with three bags. She: Clad in workout gear, very high ponytail, mirrored glasses. Her head and hands buried in smartphone, she cuts in front of me and then lets bank door hit my face before I can rearrange my bags to catch it.

Me: Rude.
She: You know what’s ruder? Telling someone they’re rude!
Me: You know what’s ruder than telling someone they’re rude? Letting the door bang on them and then telling them they’re rude when they say you’re rude.
She: Get a life!
Me: I have one. And it’s not rude!

Scene 2: Subway entrance, 8th avenue, three minutes later.

She (appearing out of nowhere, cutting in front of me again): I hope you’re less crazy now.
Me (walking behind her half a step, deliberately): Sooo much less crazy. Thank you! It’s because I have you as a model. And you’re so sane, so pretty, so gracious, so kind….(I am still listing positive adjectives as she hurries away).

Epilogue:

Me (addressing imaginary audience that follows us all in the age of social media): Yes, I have put the aggressive back in passive-aggressive. No, I am not proud of my role in this story. Yes, I am still laughing. (Giant hook appears and yanks me offstage. Obviously.)  Om-shanti’d, I’m sure!

The Church of Sunday Vegetable

November 9, 2014 in Church Matters, Food Matters, Spirit Matters

There’s a reason that All Soul’s Day takes place this month. With the swift onslaught of darkness each day and the even-swifter wind, we can hear our ancestors calling from the other side. We certainly can feel them. They’re in that rush of grief and wonder that grasps us while we scurry from place to place, the cold whipping all around us. No wonder we create holiday after holiday to gird us against that good night. No wonder we cook long, elaborate dishes to warm our hearths, entice our senses. We are clinging to our corporeal selves.

To that end, I sharpen my knife and eye this intimidating stalk of brussel sprouts I brought home from the farmers market today. It is bright green and almost otherworldy in its formation, like a medieval weapon crafted by aliens. With smoked salt and thyme and chili pepper and olive oil and a whisper of honey, I plan to capture all the sunlight that helped it grow. I will roast it into something so bolstering that it will ease the melancholy of this long Sunday eve. Say amen, somebody: It’s the Church of Sunday Vegetable.

Of a Feather: Short Stories, ‘Birdman,’ and ‘Olive Kitteridge’

November 7, 2014 in Book Matters, Essays, Film Matters, Reviews

“Birdman” is being touted as one of the movies of the year. Certainly it is the best one by Alejandro G. Iñárritu since his 2000 feature, “Amores Perros.” Dizzying, stagy, and constantly on the move, this show-biz comedy turns all the director’s normal delusions of grandeur on their heads – and then levitates them. Literally. The film begins with a shot of Michael Keaton levitating in a dingy backstage dressing room.

Keaton plays Riggan Thomson, a Hollywood has-been who made his fortune playing Birdman, a screen superhero remarkably like Batman, whom Keaton played twice in real life. On a quest for artistic credibility, Riggan is putting on his first Broadway production, and the film takes place entirely in Time Square’s St. James Theater in the days leading up to the show’s premiere. As director, star, and producer, Riggan is bearing what seems like the whole world upon his shoulders. His male lead (Edward Norton) is a viciously talented saboteur who’s dating his female lead (Naomi Watts) and ogling Riggan’s daughter (Emma Stone), an angry waif recently sprung from rehab. Another castmember (Andrea Riseborough) announces she’s pregnant with Riggan’s baby. Critics and moneymen are circling Riggan like vultures, and – speaking of vultures – Riggan can’t seem to shake the ghost of Birdman. Literally, of course. Such flourishes of magic realism are both funny and ominous, though we don’t get the time to determine what they presage. Instead, the film is shot in what seems like one breathless, un-ending take; we never stop racing up and down stairs, darting into murky rooms, and, on one occasion, flying out the theater’s back door and through city streets. (Riggan is naked when this takes place.)

Even when they’re not onstage, the actors are hilariously melodramatic, especially Watts and Norton. Both capable of great subtlety, here they are wonderfully (rather than tiresomely) full of themselves. We can say the same for Iñárritu. A director who often brings sanctimony to a whole new level, for once he seems unwilling to take things as seriously as his protagonists do. A winking hamminess has supplanted the phony naturalism that usually seeps through every frame of his films.

So what’s changed? Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy