REVIEW: "NINE"

NINE
Nine is half the movie you hoped it would be, half the movie you dreaded it would be. What did you want?? To swoon at the beauty of the Italian locations, be blown away by Daniel Day Lewis's latest thespian high-wire act, applaud the twelve musical numbers arranged by the guy who gave you Chicago, and, let's face it, see if all these famous people would A) give competent or better vocal performances or B) bellow and bleat like dying animals. And, in it's glorious first fifty minutes, the film totally delivers. We are introduced to (friggin' deep breath) Guido Contini (Lewis, turning in a nicely shaded, if not earth-shaking performance, sporting a competent tenor) , the inspiration starved director, his costume designer Lilly (Judi Dench, a sassy wonder with a decent alto), his late Mama (Sophia Loren, whose stylish screen presence makes up for her nip-and-tucked facial features and husky singing voice), his mistress, Carla (Penelope Cruz, sexy, with a purring soprano that could hold its own in a piano bar), a whore who haunts his memories (Fergie, who does come-on carnality well, but you already knew that), a flirty American journalist (Kate Hudson, hot as the month of August and a Broadway-worthy belter), and his sweet, wounded wife Luisa (Marion Cotillard, best in show) in a flurry of spangly songs, drool-worthy costumes and witty dialogues. Fellini, who directed 8 1/2, upon which the musical that this film was adapted from is based on (got that?), would be proud. A few special shout-outs are necessary here; Marshall gives the film a fantastic prologue featuring all the leading ladies, devises brilliant jungle-gym choreography for the famous "Guido's Song", imbues Fergie's number with a fiercely erotic flair worthy of Chicago, and then smartly steps back and leaves Cotillard alone onstage to do her thing. Cotillard, whose lack of English-language mastery I bitched about when reviewing Public Enemies , is now not just comfortable with said mode of speech; she is a master, turning in a performance as grabbing and heart-breaking as her Oscar-winning one in La Vie En Rose. But oh snap. We've reached the second half, where the film becomes what you feared; an aimless excuse for a lot of famous people to prance about looking lovely. Nicole Kidman is introduced as an actress, and she looks lost-rightfully so. The movie has re-jiggled the structure of the stage show and original film, and she no longer fits in. But she's there, because that lady who was so hot in Moulin Rouge sells tickets, dammit. Having established all these characters, Marshall doesn't really know what to do with them. They all yell at Lewis alot and look luxurious sitting next to pretty scenery and feel awful but don't sing about it, because there's apparently some unwritten rule that each actress is only allowed one number. Songs are cut-off awkwardly mid-sentence, as if the editor just wanted to get this whole thing over with. Guido's crucial final epiphany, the thing he's supposed to be building towards throughout the past 90 minutes, comes off as murky. A film's message. Murky. Not good. Nine had some similar issues onstage. Perhaps this is the best film that could've been made of what is ultimately a very average stage musical, and I guess it's appropriate for a movie about searching for elusive meaning that I don't know quite what to think. I'm dissappointed and fulfilled all at once. I so thoroughly enjoyed the first half of the film, and found a little to like in the second (Hudson's runway strut, mainly), that I'll leave it at this; it's a movie about a Roman Catholic. So perhaps it's appropriate that it's best enjoyed with the spirit of forgiveness in mind. B-
PS. When you're making a musical called Nine, cutting the musical number "Nine" that fills you in on the movies title is probably not the best idea. Upon my exit, I heard someone say matter-of-factly, "it's the number of girls in the movie, stupid." There are seven. I'm losing my faith in humanity, people.

BEST OF THE NOUGHTIES (00'S): MUSIC

Not sure if you've heard, but the decade's almost over. As has been the case with art over the years, this was a decade where the best was better than ever before, and the worse even more stunningly godawful. So, three lists over the next three days. We begin with Music. We'll continue with film. Then we'll end on a third list topic that will probably come to my head whilst I go on the 800-hour trek with my parents to reclaiming my newly repaired car (I'll write a post on my wreck when I can address it with something resembling sanity).
BEST ALBUMS OF THE DECADE:
10. Late Registration-Kanye West: Look, I hate the guy too. But yet when he's at the mike, he unleashes a breathless flurry of lean, clever hip-hop couplets that remind the listener that rap CAN be a perfectly valid art form. I want to punch him in the FACE. I want to shake his hand and congratulate him. I want to CUT him. I want to gush like a little fangirl about the inspired slice of ego-tripping funk that is "Touch the Sky", the scathing social commentary of "Gold Digger", the larger-than-life masterpiece that is "Diamonds from Sierra Leone" (which is so badass and delectably dangerous, it could be a James Bond theme like the song it samples), his flawless transition from melody to spoken word and back again on "Hey Mama" (one of the more emotional rap tracks out there). I want his career to end, for him to get his comeuppance...but, considering how desperately the music scene needs original artists with artistic visions to match their commercial clout, imma let him finish.
9. Next To Normal-Cast Album: "Broadway" rock is often a synonym for zzzzzzzzBORRRINGzzzzzzz. Not this show. It keeps what's great about "real" rock-the unfiltered emotion, the robust melodies-and adds to that the gravity and grace of the theatre. Songs like "I Am The One" and "Superboy and the Invisible Girl" are transporting pieces of harmonic heaven all by themselves. Add the story behind them-the tragic tale of a bipolar mother in modern America-and you've got the most dynamic score written for the theatre this decade.
8.Lord of the Rings: Return of the King-Soundtrack: In a decade where the great cinematic composers, from John Williams to James Horner, just started repeating themselves, Howard Shore created a trio of indelible scores for the much-loved epic fantasy films. The first two scores are brilliant, but play like five-finger exercises compared to this one. Listen to "Minas Tirith", which starts off with a keening crescendo of mounting dread, then explodes into an all-out action piece, bursting with militant urgency until...it becomes a goosebump-inducing choral solo. All this in three minutes. Even if you haven't watched the film, you're guaranteed to cry by the final strains of the mournful, majestic closer "Into the West" (featuring appropriately ethereal vocals by Annie Lennox). A stand-alone orchestral masterpiece in its own right.
7. My One and Only Thrill-Melody Gardot: While everyone from Diana Krall to Queen Latifah (?!) put out albums packed with old-time standards, a sunglasses lovin', guitar strummin' youngun named Melody Gardot was busy inventing new ones. Though, as of now, no one but Gardot has sung "The Rain", "Lover Undercover", or "If the Stars Were Mine"-not that I'm complaining, I could listen to that supple, sultry voice forever and ever-but the strength of their lyrics and their shimmering, evocative melodies assures that they will be covered for years to come-perhaps the greatest compliment an artist can be paid.
6. White Blood Cells-White Stripes: Yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone's favorite country-tinged-bluesy garage band with lyrics nonsensical enough to give Dr. Seuss a run for his money cranked out another masterpiece this decade, the knockout Elephant. But while it's also a glorious collection of rock stompers, it didn't have quite the devil-may-care brilliance of this record, a gritty, loud howl breaking the dull hum of what now passes for rock. In a decade where that genre found itself watered down by Disney and overdone by a hoard of screamo sensations, the Stripes gave us a pretension-free reminder that, when done right, the glorious release produced by wailing guitars and shout-out-loud choruses can sometime be no less then sheer bliss.
5. Love Is The Answer-Barbra Streisand: I'm the biggest Barbra Streisand fan in the world. Even I must admit she's made some boo-boo's lately. From her godawful foray in country (!) in the late 90's to her 2005 bring-disco-back CD (!!) to her Christmas Memories debacle...who wants an album full of Christmas chestnuts from the world's most successful Jew?! (!!!!!!!!!!!!) She'd cheated us Streiso-phytes out of a truly great album thus far this decade. My heart was breaking. But, in the final months of these 10 years, she delivered. There's nothing truly exceptional about the material here; it's the usual Streisand hodgepodge of smartly arranged covers and dug-up oddities. What is mind-blowing is the way she handles said material. No one can interpret a song like Streisand, wring from it every last drop of emotional depth. She's in perfect control here, knowing when to hold back-her heartbreaking rendition of "If You Go Away" finds her pleading to a lost lover in a throaty, raw whisper that's all the more affecting because it's what we don't expect-and when to let loose (Every Barbra album has one good Belt-That-Fucker-Out! song. "Make Someone Happy" more than fits the bill.) This isn't a groundbreaker. This isn't a game changer. It's simply the greatest traditional vocalist alive today, proving without a question she's still relevant, still in peak form, and still touched by God. *END BARBRA WORSHIP*
4. Detours-Sheryl Crowe: Not the best decade for Lil Miss Crowe. For she got dumped by her man, 9 billion-time Tour de France win Lance Armstrong. Then her party, the Democrats, get pwned in two consecutive elections. She was pissed so she went and wrote some songs. They are the best she's ever written. We see a side of this surprisingly versatile songwriter we never have before-she has a knack for writing diamond-sharp, angry songs that resonate in your gut even while you tap your foot and sing along. "Gasoline" is the protest song of the decade, an absurdist blues-rock anthem that imagines a future of oil induced rioting. In "Shine Over Babylon", she spends four cathartic minutes putting the blame on everyone from oil drillers to businessman who "Go up and hand ya/the very thing that should've damned ya." But even when deal with her typical topic, love, Crowe is breaking new artistic ground-there's an ache in "Drunk With the Thought of You" that provokes an emotional response her earlier work never did. The first cut wasn't the deepest for this wounded chanteuse-here she goes deeper than ever before, slicing open our country and examining the damaged contents with awesome results.
3. Back to Black-Amy Winehouse: Make fun of her all you want, but she cranked out the most flat-out fun album of the last 10 years. Singing in a distinctive, alluring croon, she relays her tales of lovers, liars, failures drunks, and whores-music's 5 great subjects-with a refreshing vulnerability and an acid sense of humour (one word: "fuckery"). No matter what becomes of Madam Beehive's troubled personal life, songs like "Rehab" and "Back to Black" will always be landmarks of edgy, conked-out bliss. Being bad never sounded so good.
2. Magic-Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band-Try though they may, no one's ever quite matched the Boss's lyrical prowess. In his trademark spare, stunning couplets, Springsteen can paint a portrait of a dead solider ("Speculators make their money/on the blood you shed/Mama's pulled the sheets up off your bed"), extol the beauty of small town America ("A kids rubber ball smacks/Off the gutter 'neath the lamp light"), and, as always, write about women like nobody's business ("The dust of civilizations/And loves sweet remains/Slip off of your fingers".) The band is as tight as ever, and some of the best hooks in the history of rock music appear here (good luck getting "Livin' in the Future" out of your head. Seriously. Try.), but the great pleasure of this album is seeing that America's vocal poet, far from shrinking into irrelevance, is aging with the sharpness and strength of a good wine.
1. Extraordinary Machine-Fiona Apple: How do you earn the title Album of the Decade? Well, producing one of the all-time best albums of original thought sure helps. While Fiona had written some very strong stuff prior to this release ("Sleep to Dream", "Paper Bag"), this was the one where she truly found her voice, and, by God, used it. This album is an explosion of passion, pain, joy, wit, and sheer ingenuity. This is the kind of music you just let wash over you. I envy those who have yet to listen to "Get Him Back" and the inspired four-minutes that is "Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song)", and how their minds will be blown when they experience such genius. But at the same time, I could listen to "Extraordinary Machine" a thousand times and find new things to love about it each listen. "Not About Love" and "Window" are post-breakup songs that roil with a righteous rage that has to come straight from the heart-where else could such superb work come from? Oh, and then there's "Please Please Please", where she rides a percussion-heavy earworm of a hook while diagnosing the malady of our world with the succinct, says-it-all refrain "Keep us steady...steady goin' nowhere". Fiona writes THAT kind of song, the kind that Michael Jackson or Joni Mitchell or Ray Charles wrote-the kind you live inside. I dunno what defines a great album, but this is one. Period. The end.
SONGS OF THE DECADE:
10. "London Skies", Jamie Cullum
9. "Chasing Pavements", Adele
8. "Killing the Blues", Robert Plant and Allison Krauss
7. "Your Heart Is As Black As Night", Melody Gardot/"If You Go Away", Barbra Streisand
6. "Sitting, Waiting, Wishing", Jack Johnson
5. "Gold Digger", Kanye West
4. "You'll Be Coming Down", Bruce Springsteen
3. "Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It"), Beyonce
2. "Tymps (The Sick in the Head Song)", Fiona Apple
1. "Rehab"-Amy Winehouse

November Movie Roundup

AN EDUCATION:
I already wrote about this one in my last post. Suffice to say it's one of the year's very best, the very definition of an instant classic. Carey Mulligan, Alfred Molina, and the rest of the flawless ensemble astound. A.

PRECIOUS:
This movie is so hyped that it'd have to cure the common cold to meet everyone's astronomical expectations for it. I don't know if Precious will change your life. It didn't change mine. But it did challenge me, repulse me, move me, and occasionally frustrate the hell out of me. This is a movie spilling over with heart, ambition, and good intentions. While telling the story of the titular character (Gabourey Sidibe), an illiterate 16-year-old pregnant with her second child and living with her monstrous mother Mary (Mo'nique), director Lee Daniels sometimes dives off the deep end, indulging in absurdist fantasy sequences and false uplifts that have no place in this story. Other times he errs in the other direction, showing too much of Precious troubles and coming off as lurid and exploitative. Even with the movie is all over the place, what stays solid are the performances. Let's start with Sidibe, a major major MAJOR discovery. Rather than Hollywooding her way through what could've been one hell of a showboat role, she plays Precious organically, eschewing Big Moments for a knockout of a cumulative effect. Mo'nique, the most buzzed-about actress of the year, lives up to all the hoopla. Mary is a broken woman who seems to have nothing left to do other than break those around her. Mo'nique captures that aimless, hungry drive so fully that the mere sight of her character entering a scene frayed my nerves. Mariah Carey and Paula Patton, given thankless roles as inner-city educators, do impressive work. The film's visual style is striking, and for once here's a pop soundtrack that enhances a film rather than distracts from it. Precious is a sloppily structured mess, but as far as messes go it's one of the best I've seen. B+

PIRATE RADIO:
This is the story of (Tom Sturridge) a teen growing up in the 60's who escapes his mother (Emma Thompson) and is brought back to life by the spirit of rock, the promise of love, and the sheer badassery of Philip Seymour Hoffman. And it's not Almost Famous, although I liked the film better when it had that name. No, this is Pirate Radio, an amiable, faux "bawdy" ensemble piece that must've been twice as much fun to film as it is to watch. As the characters buck the British establishment by blasting illegal rock music from their "Radio Rock" boat, director Richard Curtis puts them through a series of absurd situations, most of them involving those old comedy warhorses of Sex or Fat People (or fat people having sex), none of them as funny as he thinks they are. These characters do degrading, silly things in the name of music. But we never get how much the music means to them. Without motivation for said farting and frolicking about and sexual wackiness, the whole thing wears you down, the very opposite of what a good comedy should do. Props to Kenneth Branagh, genuinely hilarious as a government baddie, and Emma Thompson, who chews the scenery for five blessed minutes. But for the mostpart, Pirate Radio invites us to watch an A-game cast and crew show us their B-game. C-

THE ROAD:
This is not No Country for Old Men 2. This is not the Best Movie Ever Made, though the book it was adapted from is one of the best ever written. This is not destructo-porn. What this is is a movie about hope, and a very good one at that. The Father (Viggo Mortensen) and The Boy (Kodi Smit-McPhee), journey through the bombed-out remains of a world that's almost totally destroyed. They're headed to the sea, for no other reasons than that they hope something's there, something of worth and humanity in world without either. This is not a movie world; this is a real world, so ashen and spare that the chill of it all seeps into your bones. In this world they meet awful people, good people, wounded, desperate, hurting people, and they pray they'll never have to use the two bullets they have left, least of all on themselves. The trailer sells this film all wrong-it's not an action flick. It's a saga of Father and Son, and one that could've very well fallen apart had even the slightest casting error been made. The two's duet, however, is absolutely flawless. I envisioned Mortensen as the Father when reading the book, and was thrilled upon hearing of his involvement in the movie. Here he has exceeded even my high expectations. The man is a master, and he is in peak form here, giving the kind of understated, quietly astounding performance that too often gets overlooked. Smit-McPhee gives the best youth performance of the year, showing impressive range for any age. There are scenes of gut-wrenching tension, cathartic tears, even laughter. The full spectrum of the human emotion is covered here. The production values are commendable without being intrusive; these people know when to just stand back and tell a good story. The only mistake Hillcoat makes is inserting a series of sunny flashbacks to The Father's past life with his wife (Charlize Theron). These seem to interrupt the story, not enhance it. Still, Hillcoat has fallen into only one of the millions of potholes he could've tumbled down in adapting such a demanding, unique book. Most great movies make use of the idea of Discovery; Luke Discovers the message from Leiah, Rick Discovers Ilsa's past, Oskar Schindler discovers the true extent of Nazi injustice, etc. Here, two people discover that, no matter what else is pried away from them, Hope cannot be stolen, and can be held onto, can be used as both a comfort and a fuel to keep on goin'. Today's movie audiences don't know how to shut up; this one simply sat there for a while as the credits rolled, totally silent, shaken and stirred by the power of art. A-. (PS. READ THE BOOK, DAMNIT.)

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens...

The status is witty because here are a few of my random FAVORITE THINGS. I know, I know. I'm here all week. This are pieces of music, film, etc, that I truly do recommend and that deserve your attention because they truly are FANTASTIC. I'll do this every once in a while to call attention to great art and all that good stuff.

Michael Jackson: Live In Bucharest.
Those hankering to see a full-out MJ concert afterThis Is It need look no further than this DVD. The lights and effects are as groundbreaking as one would expect, but, not surprisingly, the real show is the man himself. He was the best dancer of our time, going through move after fluid move with such dexterity and speed that the cameras have to strain to keep up. To see him damn near burn a hole in the screen during "Smooth Criminal", to get chills listening to his quivering falsetto on "Human Nature", to watch him hold the audience in the palm of his hand as he does his immortal "Billie Jean" solo is to be reminded that, for 50 years, we lived in the presence of one of our planet's last great geniuses.

An Education-
My parents generation left us young'uns Star Wars, Chinatown, Michael Jackson, the James Bond series. With more and more assembly-line CGI-fests hitting screens, I fear that when our children kneel before the Altar of Pop Culture to partake in the art of OUR time, we'll have nothing to offer them but...Paul Blart; Mall Cop. But, occasionally, a movie comes along that gives me hope. An Education belongs in that category. Set in Beatles-era Britain, it's the tale of the relationship between studious schoolgirl Jenny (Carey Mulligan), and David (Peter Sarsgard), a wealthy Jewish man twice her age. I didn't specify what kind of relationship, and neither does the movie. That's what makes it so fascinating. The relationship touches on a father-daughter bond, occasionally appears platonic, and flirts, sometimes disturbingly, with romance. These are two people who feel a deep, inseparable bond between them, but aren't quite sure what kind of bond it is. As they two repeatedly hit the town with David's pals (Dominic Cooper and Rosamund Pike, both superb), this strange relationship lends the film a fascinating mystique; we learn to love them both, but regard them with a sort of suspicion, too. Things progress in this way for a while, until we learn that one of the two parties has an ulterior motive and a devastating secret. It's not a particularly surprising one-that would be too cheap for this film. Instead, what stuns is the characters reaction to this great reveal-the choices they make shake you. This is a delicate emotional tightrope walk of a story, requiring the best actors to bring it to life. That they do-Mulligan makes Jenny one of those movie characters that lives in your head long after the lights come up. Sarsgaard brings complexity to a role that could've wrecked the film if played badly. Emma Thompson and Olivia Williams do impactful work in small roles as schoolteachers. Cara Seymour underplays effectively as Jenny's mother. Alfred Molina plays her father, and, if there is any justice in the world, here is this year's Oscar winner for supporting actor. He steals some of the films best scenes with his comedic timing, and in the final moments, he surprises us by tugging at our hearts. The script is a witty wonder, the soundtrack evocative, Lone Scherfig's direction impeccable. I'll admit, I have issues with the ending. Whatever. I'll let it slide since this one's an instant classic.

The Stranger-Billy Joel
There are a few perfect albums out there. Thriller. When The Pawn Hits The King. Acoustic Soul. The Stranger is another one of 'em. Every song on Billy Joel's 9-song opus is hummable, relatable, intelligent, and groundbreaking. Joel's mellowed out, sometimes even sold out to the Man in recent years. This was his golden hour. From the moment I heard the opener, "Movin' Out", I was blown away. That badass intro, the pulsing beat, the way Joel drags the word "attack" across four glorious syllables-this was something special. "Vienna" is the best melancholy tune pop's ever given us. "Scenes from An Italian Restauraunt" is an 8-minute master stroke that seems to pull back the curtain and reveal an entire lifetime. "Just The Way You Are" will be the slow dance at my wedding, and my bride will take it and like it. "Only the Good Die Young" is the definition of Cool-not "cool", Cool, genuine Cool. "Get It Right The First Time", featuring the catchiest bass line since "Billie Jean", is a toe-tapping, feel-good free-for-fall. Each song here does what every good pop album should do-take human experiences, set them to a great melody, and inflate them to theatrical proportions. Those needing a reminder of what a great song sounds like should pick this up for 9 reminders.

Regarding That Rare Scientific Specimen, The Show Person

So, I'm not sure if you heard, but now in then I like to dabble in the world of Thee-a-ter. You know, just a musical or twelve every now and then. But it was just recently I realized WHY I love it! Recently, at a celebratory gathering of Jews--which, believe it or not, is like any other holiday celebration, albeit with more wine and less good conversation--an acquaintance who deserves a good beating explained to me that actors were spoiled, insecure dolts who took to the stage only because they needed the mass approval of an audience. Businessman, doctors, lawyers, live without that approval just fine, thanks very much. I didn't have a very good counter-argument (it consisted mainly of incoherent stammering, frustrated sighs, and, oddly enough, the repeated exclamation of "Jesus!"). But never fear, I do now. Why do I perform live? The reasons are twofold (is that grammatically correct? I haven't the slightest idea);

1) SPONTANEITY MAKES FOR BRILLIANCE-I realized this recently, whilst watching Barbra (we're on a first name basis) sing "Papa, Can You Hear Me?", from Yentl. Lit by moonlight, camera slowly inching towards her, the titular character laments the loss of a parent, praying that his wisdom will "Illuminate the night the way your spirit illuminates my soul". If this ain't the cloth a good tearjerker moment is cut from, I don't know what is. But yet I didn't cry. Then, I went out an bought the DVD recording of "One Voice", a social activist event/mini-concert Barbra did way back in the 80's-I'll write a book...erm...blog about it later. Against the ethereal canvas of the stars and moon, lit only by a candle, she re-created the moment from the film for an adoring audience. This time....Niagra Falls. I was incredibly intrigued; what made me cry this time around?? I watched both scenes back to back. Admittedly, I didn't shed any tears for either version the second time 'round, but the live video still eliciting a more potent reaction. Today, whilst I was in the midst of consuming a generous helping of chips and queso, it hit me. The movie version was too...good. She held every note without straining, emoted convincingly, was photographed gorgeously. But their was no ache in her voice, no true effort in her rendition of the song-she'd probably recorded it about 800 times in some walled-off room until it became nothing more than a mechanical reproduction of the same notes and phrasings. But singing it live, in front of an appreciative audience, with no shot at a re-do, she stuns. She compresses her lips, casts her eyes skyward, and, it would seem, erases any kind of middle ground between her heart and her throat. Unable to have a second shot at the vocal dynamics, she feels what she sings. Her hands bob to the rhythm, stretch and spread during the high notes as if she's grabbing for the heavens themselves. Her irises glisten as the lilting melody touches even her. And on the final note, something remarkable happens-she closes her eyes, shrugs her shoulders, stands up as if physically keening toward the note, and...her voice cracks. But alas, it's that very voice crack that gets me every time. It's human. It's vulnerable. It's REAL. All entertainment is about creating some sort of emotion, some connection to life. Life, like theatre, happens in the moment, and it's thus the most emotionally transportive of all the arts. We do it because people NEED that transport, and because there's nothing like performing in the moment-it comes with a unique thrill that you can't get on a set or in a studio.
2) COLLABORATION-
You can be a movie star and go your whole life without forming a friendship. Scenes are filmed out of sequence. Sometimes-think Meryl Streep and Amy Adams in Julie and Julia, the performers playing the leads don't even meet! Even if you DO share a scene, you can shoot it separately and be cobble together via blue screen. The writer;s BFF is a computer screen and a cup of coffee. But the live performer can't do it alone-thank God. From a solo monologue to a concert to a full-blown ensemble show, it takes an enormous amount of man and woman-power to mount a live performance. DIrectors, actors, chorus members, crew-you're all in the same boat, headed toward the same goal. That kind of experience is bound to form powerful bonds. In the world of performing, these are the people you travel with to places you've never been before-to 1800's England, 1960's Boston. Here are the folks that help you cope with exploring uncharted emotional terrain-playing a member of the opposite sex, crying in front of an audience. These are the people from whom you learn a thousand things-actorly things, also life things. These are the people who become your family. These are the people who love creating as much as you do, because, while fewer people enjoy it than say, football, those who DO love it...well, it runs in their blood. These are the people who spend so much time with you that than know you inside out, both as a performer and as a person, and help better you as both. These are the people that change you, really change you, for the better. These are show people.

Now what did you say your hobby was again?

MASON WALEKR OUT.

1. In Which I Explain What I'm Doing...and Why It's So Crazy It Just Might Work!

NO ANIMALS OR CELEBRITIES WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS BLOG.

OBVIOUS QUESTION #1:
WHY A BLOG?
After seeing Julie and Julia I wanted to do one of two things; learn to cook, or start a blog. I've tried both, coming to the solid conclusion that I can offer you either my heartfelt thoughts or a plate of burnt toast. (And by burnt I don't mean pleasantly crispy. I mean it looks like Chicken Fried Toast. Gross.) After about eight seconds of consideration, I went with option A. As Amy Adams so succinctly puts it in the movie, "I can write a blog. I have thoughts." And I do--thoughts I consider pretty deep for a person my age. Orrrr at least pretty weird. Sooo in this Blog-o-rama I will share these thoughts. Stupid, sincere, weird, incendiary-and always honest. Anyway, I'm writing this for fun, for memories, and to busy my way lazy self. But it's not totally selfish (only ALMOST totally selfish)-cause I honestly hope something I write or say-on this blog or elsewhere-might cheer someone up, make them think, inspire them, change their lives just a teensy-weensy bit for the better. Plus, I like to ramble. Perhaps you've noticed.
OBVIOUS QUESTION #2:
WHY CATHOLIC SCHOOL?
I considered a crapload of schools in 9th grade when I was eyeing a transfer-Catholic school, Episcopal school, public school, everything short of charm school. I can't tell you why Bishop Lynch Catholic High School appealed so much to me. Maybe it was the community-the considerable warmth I felt even in the largest private school in the state. Maybe it was the generosity of the faculty and admins. Maybe it was the fact I noticed they had a "Taco Tuesday" on their lunch menu. But regardless, as the timeless lesson of Michael Jackson and his glove teaches us-when something fits just right, you don't deny it.
OBVIOUS QUESTION #3:
WHO AM I?
The basics; I'm Mason Walker, a Jewish kid in a Catholic school (um...duh.). I'm totally unathletic, an only child with a burning love for the page and stage. I've been in about twenty plays and mu-si-cals, most recently Grease with an ah-maaazing adult theatre company. As for writing, I TRY to write everything from music to novels to instructions manuals (erm...just kidding). But I haven't ifnished anything. That may change soon though *WINK WINK*! You'll learn more as I post; presuming you don't already know me and I'm not mercilessly forcing you to read this.

That's all for now. More soon.
MASON WALKER OUT