Packed Saturday

Saturday really summed up neatly what New York is about: lots of great things to do and too many people wanting to do them. Ed and I had plans to meet my friends Courtney and Aaron, who were visiting from Boston, for brunch at a restaurant in Chelsea called Elmo. The hostess would not let us sit down until all four of us were present, though, and because of construction on the 1 line, Courtney and Aaron were taking so long to arrive that all of the empty tables - of which there were plenty when Ed and I got there - were soon full. We decided to ask them to meet us at a bagel place instead, thinking that this would be a faster option, but by the time everyone got there, stood in line, ordered and ate, I really think a sit-down brunch would have been about as fast. Next, we spent almost 15 minutes waiting for a train to Brooklyn (construction again).


Once in Brooklyn, we were joined by more out of town guests, Mike and Erin, and we all  thoroughly enjoyed the Brooklyn Museum of Art (which was not too crowded).  My favorite thing about it was the eclectic  nature of its collection. We saw a mixture of paintings, sculptures, furniture, silver, vases, Native American jewelry, film reels, and innovative old bicycles all scattered about in various rooms. It felt wonderfully like wandering through the home of an eccentric collector of antiques. I'd heard of very few of the artists whose work was displayed, though there were some paintings by Georgia O'Keefe, Paul Cezanne, etc., but I sort of liked that; I didn't feel obligated to be too reverent about a piece just because of the person who'd made it and so tended to look at things with a less biased eye. The museum is situated next to Prospect Park and the Botanical Gardens, and I look forward to going back in spring or summer when I can check out these outdoor attractions, too.

"Tour"

Next, we had to call a cab because the L train, the only way to get from place to place in that part of Brooklyn, was completely shut down for more transportation, and there are no cabs just wandering the streets there like we have in Manhattan. We waited outside for about 10 minutes, shivering in the biting wind. The cab took us to the Brooklyn Brewery, a very successful microbrewery that I've been wanting to visit for ages. They were supposed to have a great tour. We waited in a long line outside for about 20 minutes, again in the frigid wind, before we were finally let in moments before the tour was set to begin at 5:00. "Tour" turned out to be the wrong word. We gathered with about 75 other people in the middle of a room filled with pipes and shiny tanks and listened to a charismatic brewer talk us through the process of making beer and the history of the brewery. He didn't actually take us from place to place, but the facility was small enough that we could see most of it from where we were standing. He was very funny, and the presentation was interesting (and free).

Beer-making equipment

Following the tour, we joined our fellow tour-goers and several hundred other people in the adjoining tasting room where we waited in a long line to purchase wooden beer tokens (1 for $5 or 5 for $20), then waited in a much longer line to exchange them for beverages at the taps. It took somewhere between 15 and 20 minutes to finally get to the front of the line, and when we had our beer at last, we were faced with a conundrum: Each member of our party was holding either two or three cups of much-anticipated beer, but the place was so crowded that we didn't have a place to set them down. We jostled our way to an unused edge of a round table at the edge of the room, sipped, and tried to be cheerful. With six of us lined up side by side, though, conversation was tough in the noisy room.

Mike and Erin

Then, our luck changed. A party left a picnic table near where we were standing and we swooped in. The experience suddenly became incredibly pleasant. We enjoyed discussing the different brews and watching the antics of people at other tables, many of whom were playing drinking games and looked like they'd been sitting there for most of the day. My favorite beer ended up being the Weisse, a wheat beer, though I really enjoyed Mary's Maple Stout, too. It smelled of maple, but did not really taste much like it and was therefore not too sweet. Courtney and Aaron had to leave a bit early to catch their bus back to Boston, but Ed, Mike, Erin and I leisurely finished our beers before heading back into the city for dinner.

Courtney and I celebrate our good luck at our table.

Had the L train been running, it could have taken us back to Manhattan, but we had to take a cab instead, which took forever because of traffic on the bridge and Lower East Side. We found a great Indian restaurant for dinner, but before gorging ourselves, spent yet more time waiting in line for the bathroom (a necessity after all our beer-tasting) of which there was only one. Our last stop of the evening was Fat Cat, a bar and jazz club that happens to also be equipped with a bunch of pool, ping pong, air hockey, and fussball tables. Chess and Scrabble sets are also available for borrowing. Alas, we were not the only ones who'd thought of spending the evening at Fat Cat, and we had to stand in front of the stage area to watch the band for quite a while before a couch finally opened up. Ed also put our name down for a turn at one of the ping pong tables. We were #182, and the electric board read #138 when we arrived. By the time we left about an hour and a half later, it had gone up to #145. I spent about 15 minutes waiting to use the one unbroken women's toilet in the place. I was pretty ready to go home by 12:45, when it was finally time to escort Mike and Erin back to my apartment where we all collapsed onto various beds/air mattresses/couches, for which, thankfully, there was no line.

Love is in the Air

Last Thursday, the following note appeared in the elevator of my office building:

Missed Connection - To: The Cute Girl drinking coffee who I rode the elevator with this morning. Call me if you want to get a coffee or lunch at your new found [sic] coffee place. Ill [sic] even buy you a bananna [sic].  :)

I did not actually see the note (more on that later), but my coworkers and I discussed it thoroughly and quizzed each other on whether we were drinking coffee that morning. Lindsay was, but as she was not holding a banana, we determined that she was probably not the cute girl in question. She was not too disappointed, as anyone who misspells "newfound," "I'll," and "banana" in the same sentence, not to mention decides that posting his phone number and name in the elevator of a 12-story building for all to see is a good idea, was probably not her Prince Charming.

When I got into the elevator at 5:00 to go home, I saw this note:

Re: Missed Connection - Please keep us updated. -Your curious neighbors.

I snapped a picture of it, but had still not seen the original. When my elevator reached the ground floor, I poked my head into the other elevator, whose doors were still open. The man in it looked at me rather quizzically. "Oh, sorry," I said. "I was just looking for that note, but I guess it's already gone."  The man grinned at me and asked excitedly, "Was that you?!" I replied that I had not been drinking coffee that morning, so it couldn't have been.

As I withdrew from the elevator, a woman in the lobby looked up from her phone at me. She commented on the situation, and I said that yes, it was pretty funny, but that I had not gotten to see the original note and was disappointed. "Oh, I have a picture of it!" she exclaimed, and handed me her phone so that I could enter my email address. Moments later, a blurry image of the note was waiting in my Inbox. For the rest of the week, people in the elevators talked of nothing else.

I am sorry to report that I have no updates on Drew and can't tell you whether or not his plot was successful. But you certainly can't blame a guy for trying.

"There's Free Champagne in the Ladies' Room."

That's what our waitress told me when I asked her where the bathroom was, right before pointing me in the right direction. Ed and I were sitting down for a late dinner at the ultra-trendy Beauty and Essex, one of the most bizarre, glamorous, thoroughly New York-y restaurants I've visited in my coming-up-on three years of living in New York.  We'd been to see my friend, the fabulously talented and award-winning songwriter Greg Tannen, play a great set at the Living Room on the Lower East Side. (View a video from his show here.) B and E jumped out at Ed during his routine Zagat search for restaurants in the vicinity of where we happened to be.  We discovered that the first available reservation wasn't until 10:45 (on a Monday night?!) but determined to just go and try our luck as walk-ins.  The place sounded like a must see.

Accordingly, after the show we walked a block and found ourselves in front of a bright sign that told us we'd come to the right place. Visible through the window was the false pawn shop promised by Zagat through which one must walk to get into the restaurant. Really. Why? I have absolutely no idea, but on the way out after dinner I admired a Rock 'Em Sock Em' robot game in mint condition, a Fat Albert doll, and tons of costume jewelry and guitars. Two bouncers in suits escorted us through a door that led us from the somewhat garish (if stylishly so), brightly lit "pawn" shop into a dark, polished, unbelievably trendy bar area. A huge chandelier, nearly two stories high, graced the center of a staircase that curved up out of sight (and led, we were told, to another dining area and bar). We were deposited at a table right away by a young, fashionably dressed and made-up hostess, despite its being only 9:00.  Ed and I didn't talk much at first, overwhelmed by the blaring music, extensive cocktail list, tantalizing menu, and unparalleled people-watching. We seemed to be just about the oldest people in the place, and perhaps the most casually dressed, too. The waitresses were generally young and stylish in short dresses that draped off their shoulders and gathered at their waists. Female patrons were dressed to the nines, and their male counterparts were fashionable as well, though less overtly so. 

I finally settled on a drink called The Earl Pearl (or something like that) which featured, among other things, vodka and Earl Grey tea.  Ed ordered a tasty concoction in which Woodford Reserve was prominently featured. We then sipped, and sifted through the menu, which was dominated by tapas-style small dishes. Most offerings were intriguingly creative and it was tough to narrow down our choices. At last, we settled on an interpretation of tuna sashimi from the raw bar, fried oysters, a side of brussel sprouts served in hazelnut butter, and a lobster pot pie. And after the waitress had taken our order, we had the bathroom discussion.

Bathroom champagne bar

I eagerly trotted down a wide, curving staircase and through a door marked simply "W." The bathroom was enormous, given that it only had four or five stalls. Since my trip was motivated just as much  by nature as by the call of free champagne, I took care of business first.  My stall had its own small chandelier in it (seriously) and when I emerged, I found that there was another, much larger one above a lounge area consisting of several alluring couches. I washed my hands in a spotless sink, admiring the vintage, glass perfume bottles which decorated the wall in front of me. Then I made my way to a round red bar where I was handed a glass of prosecco by a smiling bartendress. Daaaaamn.

Main dining area

Back in the dining room, our food arrived in two courses and every mouthful was decadent. We had just enough room for dessert, so Ed ordered a box of doughnuts, which turned out to be six balls of fried, sugary dough slightly larger than golf balls, arranged in a box and filled with either Nutella or raspberry jam. They were delicious. I selected the butterscotch pot de creme, and the waitress congratulated me on a "good choice." It arrived in a jar with two "spoons" which tasted like ice cream cones and were too flimsy to use but very tasty nonetheless. There was a dollop of marscapone on top and a decadent layer of solid butterscotch at the bottom. It was absolutely heavenly. 

Beauty and Essex left us tipsy, stuffed, and full of things to talk about. Though it was pricey, I highly recommend it, for the experience if nothing else. A couple could order a cocktail and an appetizer or two, and the chance to view actual New York socialites (and wannabes) would make it well worth the price.

My dessert (with spoons)

How the Other Half Sweat

When my friend Isang and I made plans to go to a yoga class together, I envisioned my typical yoga-in-the-city experience: a somewhat cramped studio absolutely jam packed with harried people trying to regain some serenity after a day of work. My prediction was totally wrong for several reasons. First, the class Isang wanted to go to was at 6:00 in the morning. I woke at 5:00, and when I arrived at Pure Yoga West (there is another one on the East Side), it was still pitch black and I was too bleary eyed to register how gorgeous the entryway of this place was. Little did I know that I was entering a small oasis of tranquility rare for New York.

Isang met me in front and showed me to a gorgeous locker room, but I had little time to look around because I had to stash my bag and hurry after her to make it to class on time. We entered a serene, spacious studio that felt like it was about 90 degrees. Isang whispered to me that, despite the beads of sweat already forming on my forehead, this was not the famous "hot yoga" that is all the rage now. It was too early to get that hot, she said, because people have just woken up and would become dehydrated. This was fine by me, as I wasn't sure whether I'd be able to handle even the toned-down version. We unrolled mats and joined the rest of the class who were all breathing deeply under the guidance of a smooth-voiced teacher in yoga pants and a tank top. The room was softly lit, and there were electric candles arranged here and there along the walls.

The class itself wasn't all that different from other classes I've had (other than that fact that it was hot, which meant drinking lots of water and mopping off with a towel every now and then). We started off with sun salutations, then did some more relaxed poses intended for stretching and alignment. Having not shown my face in a yoga studio for a few months, however, it was tough and I was pretty sore the next day. Once class was over, Isang instructed me to leave my mat in the middle of the floor. I suppose they must clean them all somehow between users, which is nice given  how much the guy next to me was dripping all over his.

Common area, which looks much less pink in person.

After class, Isang showed me to a small refrigerator with a glass door in which a pile of small towels lay waiting. I wiped my face and neck with one, and it was deliciously cool and smelled like eucalyptus. We wandered around, checking out all the different rooms. In between the studios, there were common areas with comfortable looking, upholstered benches covered with throw pillows. The lines of the place were clean and simple, and it was spacious and utterly serene. Once I finally stopped sweating, Isang and I hit the showers in the flawlessly spotless locker room. The shower had one of those giant showerheads that dispenses a ton of gently flowing water, and there were shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, and shaving cream available in dispensers. (I noticed disposable razors there for the taking on the countertops outside, too.) I toweled off with a large, thick, and soft towel, which was a far cry from the tiny, rough shreds of fabric provided in my gym's locker room, and dried my hair with a quiet, powerful hairdryer tucked unobtrusively in a clever little cubby hidden in the wall next to one of the counters.

One could certainly get used to this, but in my case it would be best not to. Monthly membership to Pure is $125 for students, and I can't imagine how much for a normal, working adult. Still, I learned online that I can get three classes for free on a trial basis, which I may sign up for. If nothing else, I want to spend some more time relaxing in that decadent shower.

Axl 'N' Friends

On Saturday, Ed got a call from his friend Dennis and the next thing I knew the three of us had tickets to the Guns 'N' Roses concert the following night. Dennis lives in White Plains, so when his train arrived in the city the following evening, we met him for dinner, stopped at Duane Reade so Dennis could purchase earplugs and a box of Ferrero Rochere, and then hopped in a cab bound for Terminal 5, the venue where the band would be playing. It was one of the coldest nights of the year, which isn't saying much, but we were freezing as we walked and walked and walked towards the back of the security line. Terminal 5 is near the Hudson River, and wind whipped through the tunnel all around us and the other people in line. It was a motley crew. Some concert goers looked barely 20 and others were definitely in their mid-40s. There were leather jackets and crazy piercings, but there were also tasteful long coats and collared shirts. GNR's biggest album, Appetite for Destruction, was released in 1987, but their music is still relatively popular, so the wide age range represented there made sense. We passed the half an hour in line shivering and chatting with a Colombian girl and an Italian girl who were in line behind us. Towards the front of the line, Dennis realized that he would not be allowed to bring the candy into the venue and made more friends by frantically handing out chocolate; some people were suspicious about taking candy from a stranger, but it didn't take him long to empty the box.

We were hastily patted down, then allowed into the venue, where we learned that the opening act would not take the stage until 10:00 and GNR was not scheduled to start until 11:00. Of course anyone who knows anything about Axl Rose, the lead singer, knows that he is famously late for shows, often starting as many as three hours late. (Apparently his tardiness once cause a riot in Montreal.) We bought drinks and headed to an upper level where there were, surprisingly, couches, perfect for relaxing and watching the opening act via small screens hung here and there.

Axl Rose is in the black jacket and hat to the left of center stage.

A bit after 11:00, we headed down to the floor level in preparation for the main part of the show. We ended up standing next to a few guys in their 40s, one of whom was talking about his gall bladder surgery. Sheesh. GNR's fan base certainly had gotten older. After a mere 40 minutes of being buffeted on all sides by people trying to push past us to better viewing spots, the band took the stage. They started off with a song I'd never heard, then launched into "Welcome to the Jungle," one of their biggest hits. 

Axl Rose, the lead singer, is the only member of the original band on this tour, leading some people to sarcastically refer to the band as Axl 'N' Friends instead of Guns 'N' Roses. At first, I thought Axl sounded almost just like he had when Appetite for Destruction was recorded, which was rather amazing for a guy who'd turned 50 just a few years before. Though my view of the stage was severely compromised - more on that later - it was clear that he was still an electric performer. He dashed around the stage, gesticulating energetically as he sang. Ed, who could see better than I could, pointed out that two guitarists were playing the role that the legendary original lead guitarist, Slash, used to fill on his own; they'd pass portions of the solos back and forth between them.

Axl then.

Axl now.

Inexplicably, the band ended up doing a lot of covers. GNR had so many hits that they've inspired lots of their own cover bands, so it was a little surprising to hear them doing instrumental covers of bands like The Who, Pink Floyd, and the Sex Pistols. This was annoying. Also disappointing was Axl's performance. As the show went on, his voice seemed to lose more and more of its characteristic flair. Worse, it became harder and harder to hear him. Dennis yelled that the sound technicians must have been slowly turning his mic volume down as his voice slowly deteriorated over the course of the show, and for good reason. Near the end, the audience's singing nearly drowned him out completely.

One of the two guitarists who played Slash's part.

A Beth's-eye view of the stage.

And, alas, visibility proved to be a constant problem for me. There's no question that I'm shorter than the average person, but this concert seemed to be absolutely bursting with people who had left the six-foot mark in the dust. The result was that I'd get brief glimpses of the performers on stage when the heads in front of me aligned just right but spent the majority of my time staring at the backs of necks and shoulders. For at least half an hour, the couple in front of me made out without coming up for air, which was particularly unpleasant. Occasionally I'd hold my phone up above my head to take a picture of the stage, then look at the image to see what I was missing. There was a screen above the stage in the back which played, not the show unfortunately, but psychedelic light patterns or else strange music videos that featured women who were either very scantily clad, or weepy, or both.

At about 12:55, I yelled to Ed that I didn't want to stay any later than 1:30, as I had to work the next day. About ten minutes later, the band launched into "Sweet Child o' Mine," and as soon as it was over, Ed said that as far as he was concerned, we could go. Dennis joined us readily and we elbowed our way through the crowd and to the exits. I was glad to have gone to the concert, but I was also glad not to be a die-hard fan. I think I would have been disappointed to see only an aging portion of a band that used to be larger than life. 

Above is Ed's video of "Welcome to the Jungle."

Dickens at the Morgan

The atrium

About six weeks ago, Ed and I visited the fabulous Frick Collection where we marveled both at the art on display and at the museum itself. The collection is housed in the former abode of Henry Clay Frick, an exorbitantly wealthy art collector. His home and collection were given to the public, and visitors can now wander through the rooms and ogle whichever parts of his collection happen to be on display. Though Ed and I visited in winter, it was clear that the garden would have been lovely had we come during another season (which I intend to verify in a few months). Charming as the Frick was, however it has been ousted from its position as my favorite New York museum by the Morgan Library and Museum, which Ed and I visited on Saturday to pay homage to Charles Dickens on his 200th birthday.

J.P. Morgan donated his father's, Pierpont Morgan, impressive collection to the public, as well as the library which Morgan Sr. built to house it all.  Morgan was a collector of a variety of artifacts, but was most passionate about manuscripts and early printings, so anyone who knows me can imagine how gaga I was over the very idea of the place. Ed and I walked through a very pleasant atrium and made a beeline for Dickens . It was the last weekend the exhibit was scheduled to run, and so it was crowded, but not packed. The atmosphere of the room, and of the whole museum, really, reminded me of a library. People thoughtfully read through lengthy placards and pored over the documents with quiet excitement. Among the thrilling pieces we viewed were numerous original drawings made to illustrate A Christmas Carol, David Copperfield, and The Pickwick Papers; letters from Dickens to all sorts of people, including author and playwright Wilkie Collins, who seemed to be involved in stage productions of Dickens's work; original photographs of Dickens; and handwritten manuscript pages, including (eek!) the original manuscript of A Christmas Carol! I was less bowled over by the Dead Sea Scrolls! I actually read the words, "Marley was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that," in Dickens's own handwriting, there on the very page on which they first appeared! Ed was graciously tolerant while I swooned and squealed.

The first page of A Christmas Carol - apologies for the poor image quality.

Dickens, to my disappointment, had pretty awful handwriting, so it was a bit difficult to really read much of the displayed manuscripts and letters. I suppose I wouldn't do much better if I had to write with a quill pen dipped in an ink pot. (Interestingly, Dickens switched to a variety of blue ink midway through his career that dried faster and was therefore easier to work with and read. Also on display was his traveling ink pot, which had a hinged lid that closed securely for the times when he was on the move.) Happily, he used only one side of the page, unlike Thomas Jefferson. Ed and I viewed a letter penned in Washington, D.C. by this eminent master of the epistle to his daughter back at Monticello. Though his handwriting was gorgeous, he had used both sides of the paper and the ink had bled through, making it a bit tricky to read. I had never deeply considered what an important factor handwriting would be for early authors.

To make matters worse, Dickens, and other authors whose original manuscripts I got to view (like Jane Austen and Ben Johnson) made corrections on their original drafts and did not write final copies, making the work even more difficult to decipher. Still, it was interesting to see which words were struck out and replaced, and which passages the authors had deemed unimportant enough to cross out with impatient squiggles. We saw several original musical scores, including "Morgen" by Strauss and piece by Brahms, written by hand with the notes scrawled somewhat unevenly on the page. An older man standing next to me spent a good 20 seconds shaking his head as his eyes followed the notes. Finally, he leaned back and looked at me. "No computers back then!" he remarked, and moved to another display case.

I was tempted to just curl up and read in Morgan's regal yet cozy study, which was lined with bookshelves built into red upholstered walls and adorned by portraits. I noticed that he had multiple copies of most of his books; he must have collected different editions and bindings.  But my favorite room in the museum was unquestionably Morgan's library. There were floor-level bookshelves, then two sections of bookshelves above accessible by walkways apparently reached via hidden stairways. Ed and I found a break where the bookshelves probably swung open. Morgan had shelves full of all sorts of books, including many, many Bibles, Books of Common Prayer, and even a Koran. Many of these volumes were richly decorated with gold and jewels. Paintings decorated the high ceilings. What a gorgeous room! Choice pieces from Morgan's collection were displayed in glass cases here and there.

The library. I can't wait to hand this photograph to the architect who designs my house some day. 

I could hardly wait to get to the gift shop, and it did not disappoint. There was a huge collection of beautiful tote bags bearing the covers of books on them, coffee mugs decorated with rows of books, and bookends in the shapes of animals. Of course many actual books were also available. Some were coffee table books on a variety of topics, and some, housed in a display case, were rare collectors items, costing thousands of dollars. For example, I saw a copy of the first printing of Who's Afraid of Virgnia Woolf? signed by the playwright and the original cast.

Needless to say, I recommend this gem of a museum most highly to anyone fascinated by history or titillated by the idea of seeing a snippet of Steinbeck's handwriting.

"Other Desert Cities"

Last night, Ed treated me to a performance of a play called "Other Desert Cities."  I can say without hesitation that it was the best play I have ever seen.  This is what I always thought theater in New York would be like, and I just can't say enough about the script, acting, set, or costumes.

The fabulous Stockard Channing as Polly

The whole play is set in the living room of a house in Palm Springs over the course of Christmas Eve. Two adult children, Brooke and Trip, have come back to visit their aging parents, Polly and Lyman. Brooke is a recently divorced author who has moved to the East Coast and has a history of depression, while Trip lives in LA and produces a court TV show a la "Judge Judy."  Polly, a witty, sardonic Texas girl who moved to California to write movie scripts after college, is retired now.  Her husband is also retired, though in his youth he was a prominent movie actor until his buddy Ronald Reagan made him an ambassador. Both parents are thoroughly old school Republicans, and both children are more liberal, though Brooke can't keep her strong opinions to herself while Trip is kept busy defusing these tensions with jokes in an effort to keep the peace.  The fifth and final character is Aunt Silda, who lives with her sister and brother-in-law after a recent stint in rehab for alcoholism.  She's sarcastic, funny, and merciless, and is initially much more sympathetic than her sister Polly, though that dissolves as the story unfolds.  Obviously, there's already plenty there to make a plot, but the meat of the story comes to light when Brooke announces that her second book, the reason she was able to pull herself from a six-year spiral into depression, is a memoir focused on a dark chapter in the family's history.

Aunt Silda

So much was remarkable about this play that it's hard to know where to start.  It struck a perfect balance between being funny and deeply tragic.  Polly, Trip, and Silda all use black humor to deal with discomfort, and they were busy dealing out witty quips because this play was absolutely wrought with tension.  The dialogue was sharp and intelligent, but the characters made each of their lines completely believable.  The caliber of the acting in this play was superb.  I was curious to see how Stockard Channing, who was once Rizzo in the movie Grease, would pull off a role like this; little did I know that she's been a serious stage actor for most of her life.  The New York Times speculated that this may be the best performance of her career, and it's hard to imagine her being better than she was in this play.  Stacey Keach, who plays her husband, is at once lovable and formidable, and reminded me sharply of older, conservative men I have known.  The other three performances were stellar as well, but I was completely blown away by Channing and Keach.  Trip is clearly the wisest member of the family, but as he's also a wise ass, so his keen insight isn't immediately apparent.  My loyalties throughout the charged drama shifted continuously.  At first I sided with Brooke, then with her parents, then back to Brooke again, and then I wasn't sure who was right.  Trip found himself stuck in the middle most of the time, and Aunt Silda took Brooke's side until the unraveling of family secrets left her completely without allies.  One thing that was striking to me was the palpable love and anger with which each family member seemed to be overflowing.  It's a tough dichotomy to portray, but each of the actors on the stage accomplished it seamlessly.

Lyman comforts Brooke

And what a stage.  The setting included an exposed rock wall made of pale desert stones, a working gas fireplace, and a blue, rippling light off to the side of the stage that cast the kind of reflections on an outside wall you'd get from a swimming pool.  There were magazines on the tables and set of glass shelves on a side wall bearing an ice bucket and decanters of various liquids.  (All of the characters except Silda visited these shelves often.)  And Ed and felt like we were in the middle of this realistic living room. He got us second row seats, which was at once fantastic and wrenching.  We both commented during intermission that we felt as though we were guests at a family home in which a feud had broken out, and I couldn't shake the feeling that one of the characters was about to look right at me and ask me what I thought.  I can't think of a better play to be close to, though.  I was privy to the subtlest changes in the actors' expressions, and it was spectacular.

This show should win every award there is, and then some.

Sundance, 2012

A brief summary of our Sundance film selections, with my two cents:

Tuesday: Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry


All of us enjoyed this documentary very much, though after a day of traveling and skiing, I'm sorry to say that Dad and I catnapped through bits and pieces of it. This was not a reflection on the film, however, and more the result of being exhausted and sitting in a dark room. Ai Weiwei is a Chinese artist who has a long history of defying the oppressive government which tries to censor him. He is a brave and fascinating man who uses social media like Twitter to share his experiences of rebellion with the world in real time. His motto: Don't retreat. Retweet! This film is absolutely worth watching.


Wednesday: Where Do We Go Now?


I was really excited about this movie, but found myself just a tiny bit disappointed by it. It is set in a small village in Lebanon, populated by a mix of Christians and Muslims. The women in the village, tired of burying their warring men each time a spat ensues, resort to outlandish tactics to prevent their finding out that tensions between the two groups in other parts of the country have erupted (again) in violence. They stage a fake message from God, bring in Russian prostitutes to serve as a distraction, and take further zany measures which I will not give away here. Others in our group thought the movie was slow at times. I didn't think so, and I appreciated the way the characters were developed; the women were both tough and endearing and completely personable. There were two musical numbers cheesy enough to remind me of Bollywood, however, and while most of the movie did a good job of presenting a serious subject in a light-hearted manner, there were a few tragic scenes that were jarringly realistic and sad, which didn't seem to fit the established tone. Otherwise, I really enjoyed this film.


Thursday: Finding North


This documentary explored the causes and effects of hunger in America, revealing that it is a more pervasive problem than most people know. It primarily followed a fifth grade girl and various members of her community and a single mother in Philadelphia, with commentary from various experts on health, education, public policy, and social services. I especially appreciated that it explained the link between obesity and hunger, which seems to be contradictory before one digs below the surface.* While the audience seemed to be universally interested in and touched by the movie, certain members of our party were extremely critical because the film alluded to solutions to the problem without actually stating clearly what should be done. I thought it was an admirable piece of journalism designed to pique public interest in a major problem. Given the time constraints, I thought it was not feasible to thoroughly portray the causes and effects of hunger and present a comprehensive solution in the same film.


Friday: (Short Films)

When one buys tickets to a series of shorts, it is almost guaranteed that many of them are going to be fairly bizarre. This series was no exception. We saw 7 short films in the space of 100 minutes, which were shot in different parts of the world and explored a variety of themes. I particularly liked the one about the street children in Ethiopia, which did a good job of portraying the starkness of their lives but had an uplifting ending anyway. I'm still scratching my head at the symbolism from other films.


Saturday: Shadow Dancer and Elena


We had a double-header on Saturday. The first film, Shadow Dancer, was very well done. It told the story of an Irish woman who is part of a Republican family in Dublin. Her brothers are involved in acts of terrorism against the English, and she is dragged into the whole mess. The plot grew increasingly twisted, however, to the point that the four of us picked each others' brains for 20 minutes after it was over to try to explain it to ourselves. I am all in favor of intricate stories, but there are some things I never ended up figuring out, which was a tad frustrating. Still, I thought the acting was fantastic, and the themes compelling.

Our last film, unfortunately, was probably the worst of the whole festival as far as we were concerned. Interestingly, the director was not present for the Q and A at the end of the show because he was in Russia, his home country and setting for the film, collecting awards for best Russian movie and best director in their version of the Oscars. I can't imagine what the competition must have been like... Elena is the story of a woman from a modest background who marries a wealthy man late in her life. He refuses to help her support her delinquent, adult son and his family, and she has to choose whose side she will take. Although some people found the ending of the movie unsatisfying, I did not; it didn't answer all questions, but it left one thinking, which is an approach I like. My complaint was with the pace. This was one of the slowest movies I have ever watched, and could have been told in just about half the time without losing anything (in my opinion). It would have even made an interesting short.

Despite mixed feelings about many of the films from this year, I really enjoyed the whole experience. Discussing the films afterward, particularly if no consensus has been reached, is the best part of Sundance for me, and our selections this year left us with plenty to talk about. I look forward to doing it all again next year!

*With the prevalence of cheap processed foods, the coincidence of malnourishment and obesity is increasingly common. Foods high in calories, fat, and carbohydrates are cheaper than foods high in nutrients, so the poor often find they can afford soda but not milk, or ramen noodles and chips but not vegetables and fruit. This leads to extra pounds, but simultaneously results in people who are under-nourished and therefore lacking in energy and at risk for lots of health problems. Nutrient-poor diets are especially devastating to children, hindering physical and cognitive development.