The Limey

Sorry it's been so long since I've posted a Heavenly Hundred. I'm sure you've all survived somehow. Here's #98:


THE LIMEY

The 25: Blood-sprayed pulp weds genuine feeling in this mood-drenched late-90's rebel cry.

You know you've got screen presence when you can make checking into a hotel an act of total badassery.

In The Limey's opening minutes (set, like the rest of the film, to a soundtrack of blissfully buzzy 60's-garage-rock-oddities), our leading man, Wilson (Terence Stamp), doesn't do anything terribly interesting; he sits on a plane, exits an airport, hails a taxi, checks into a hotel, unpacks his things, washes up, and sits down for a quick smoke. But Stamp, with his chiseled face, laser-sharp eyes, and singular strut, exudes such star power that you can't take your eyes off him. In a modern movie culture sadly bereft of Great Screen-Filling Faces (compare Bogie to Brad Pitt-oh wait, there's no contest), Stamp's every glance is electrifying. It's that face-and the shadings of regret, fear, and rage that Stamp allows to seep into it-that fuels this wild ride of a crime drama.

Directed by Steven Soderbergh, a quiet, quirky mad scientist of the cinema who delights in hopping genres and defying categorization (wait, I thought he made psychological dramas?! But what about his action films?! Or his biopics?!), The Limey follows former criminal Wilson's simple two-part quest; 1) Find and force a confession from sleazy record producer Terry Valentine (Peter Fonda), who he believes killed his daughter. 2) Dole out a generous helping of sweet revenge. You've seen the plot done before, but not like this. Soderbergh, never one to take the straightfoward approach, deviates from the conventional approach to this sort of material in a few crucial ways:

Time. This is easily one of the most disorienting films I've seen. Notice I didn't say confusing. Disorientation occurs when the filmmakers give you all the puzzle pieces and ask you to put them together. Confusion is a result of the filmmakers not bothering to supply some of the pieces at all. The Limey holds your attention without ever quite giving you your bearing. For instance, instead of showing you an entire conversation, Soderbergh will splice it into several pieces, dropping bits of audio and video from that scene throughout other scenes. We're constantly cutting away from scenes, then returning to them later, which adds extra suspense to an already tense story. Additionally, random sounds from other scenes keep recurring-the sound of Wilson taking a shower fades in randomly, and in scenes that should be filled with noise, we hear nothing but the sound of an airplane lifting off. I don't get it either, but in both cases, its eerie as hell, and it ratchets up the mood considerably. Soderbergh's always been a fan of experimenting, and he's really going off the wall here in a wonderful, kinda brilliant way.

Humour. Screenwriter Lem Dobbs manages to get a few juicy satiric jabs into this fairly serious film. Most of them revolve around the partnership between Wilson and Eduardo (the reliable Luis Gusman), an old friend of Wilson's daughter who's helping him track down Valentine. Wilson's British. Eduardo's Hispanic. The former's Cockney slang and the latter's English-as-a-second-language diction put them in an interesting predicament; they have difficulty understanding each other, and, in even in the so-called "melting pot" of America, everyone else has difficulty understanding them. Other than My Fair Lady, I can't think of another film that takes such sardonic delight in mocking the follies of language. You'll find yourself laughing more than you'd expect in a so-called drama.

Visual Style. Mood, mood, mood. Every scene oozes with it. This is unmistakably film noir, and Ed Lachman honors that Old Hollywood visual style with sharp angles, Chiaroscuro lighting, and slow, deliberate camera movement. The aesthetics of this world-half opulent Shangri-La, half seedy-slum-are so clearly captured that, when someone takes a puff, you feel like you're getting secondhand smoke.

And finally,
Terence Fucking Stamp. I'll mention it again. Long underrated but, thanks to this picture, no longer overlooked, he gives the film its emotional center. He's not some robot with a gun out for blood (hi, Liam Neeson in Taken). He's tormented, wounded, and a bit psychotic. You get the impression that he's watched a few too many revenge flicks himself, and they've fed his desire to embark on this eye-for-an-eye mission. You also glean that he's powered not by some code of morals, but by sheer guilt. He couldn't make things right for his child in life. But, in regards to her death, maybe he can make all things fair. For once.

The Singular Scene: Stamp vs. Fonda. An all-out fisticuffs that ends by the ocean in a moment of quiet, poetic vision. God bless Soderbergh for it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3kqRctISwY&feature=related
Sorry about the Espanol subtitles.

How to Survive A Catholic Mass For (Jewish) Dummies

(I don't mean to offend Jews nor Catholics. I love them both, with some notable exceptions.)
That's right. It's finally here. It's been anticipated almost as much as the Ipad.
For all you Chosen Peoples enrolled in Catholic education programs, its-

HOW TO SURVIVE A CATHOLIC MASS FOR (JEWISH) DUMMIES.
I'll teach you, the Jesus School Jew, to survive a Catholic mass, avoid all the potential awkward turtles, and even add a few notches of spiritual and cultural growth to your belt in the process. (In some cases, these tricks work for ANY fish-out-of-water religious situation!)

TIP 1: PHASE OUT THE JEW HATE:
"Why don't Jews accept the New Testament?", I'm often asked. Well, kiddies, what I ask is, "Why doesn't the New Testament accept Jews?" While there's nothing blatantly anti-Semitic in the New Testament, there's plenty of stuff that implies an anti-Israeli bent. For example;
"Five times I received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one."
Note the way we're conveniently lumped into a category. A couple of Jews beat up Jesus, therefore, his blood is on ALL of our hands. It's like saying that, since I squashed a bug this morning, all Jews are murderers.
Naturally, this offends people. In fact, I've known some of my fellow Jews to walk out of Christian events when hearing these statements. I can certainly understand why they're angry, but these are just words! We've survived pogroms, Hitler, and two generations of skinheads, and we're gonna be floored by a literary generalization? Sticks and stones, people. Realize that such put-downs, intentional or not, are a part of almost all religious works (in fact, in the Jewish Talmud, there's a bit of skepticism directed at Christians and their newfound Messiah), and you can just sit back and-

TIP 2: TAKE IN THE LANGUAGE
No seriously. There's some beautiful stuff in the Bible. Even if you don't believe in its theological assertions, take it in as a story. Then, despite not cottoning to its messages, you can relish the beauty of sentences like these:
"The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart: his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords."
"They that sow in tears shall reap joy."
"Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant."
Even if you don't believe in the specifics of the deities and disciples the Bible lays out, ther's no doubt that the hand of a higher power crafted some of these sentences. While we're appreciating the beauty of words-

TIP 3: FACE THE MUSIC
This is a big one. Services themselves are only about 45 minutes. It's the music that fills the most space. Some of the best compositions ever written were created specifically for religious gatherings. Take Mozart's "Lacrimosa". Composed for a Catholic funeral mass, its the most haunting thing you're likely to hear in your life. "Ave Maria", when done well, sends chills up my spine. Leaning more towards the non-traditional, there's a soulful spiritual called "Rain Down" (I think?) that our choir always does-I loves it. On the flip side, Catholics marooned on Jew Island would be wise to not underestimate the mournful beauty of "Avinu Malkeinu" or the moving, militant "V'Shamru". Additionally, if you're ever exposed to "Tree of Life", you will never stop humming it. NEVER. In the last tip, I suggested looking past the messages and falling in love with the words. Here, I suggest bypassing the words entirely and deepening your appreciation of the melodies. Also, remember to-

TIP 4: FILL IN THE BLANK
This is where it gets tough-when the man in the robe starts talking about the "nature of Christ", etc. I've discovered a handy trick that does wonders for those of us who believe in a non-Triune god, or just a basic, intangible higher power. Pick a name, any name. God, Allah, "a spiritual being". Now substitute it for "Christ". It doesn't always work ("Eating the body and blood of God" just sounds nasty), but occasionally, it allows you to further delve into your relationship with that Spiritual Power that is present in your life in some way, shape or form (as far as my personal beliefs-that's another novel. Erm...post.) Finally, a bit of practical wisdom.

TIP 5: YES, THEY'RE GONNA TRY TO TOUCH YOU!
At some point in the Mass, everybody links hands. The first time I went to a Bishop Lynch High School mass, I did not know this. I'm just sittin' there, listening to our priest, and our of nowhere, people on all sides are going for my palms. What is this? A congregational mugging? A schoolwide rave?! STOP TOUCHING ME!!! Then, they began a communal prayer, and I understood the purpose-to join us together as Christians. Not wanting to be the weak link in the Holy Chain, I withdrew my hands politely. You may keep yours in if you wish. But I thought, fellow Jesus School Jew, you might like to know why they're touching you.

That's all I got. I'll write another Heavenly Hundred soon, but in light of a recent school mass, I thought I'd take a little detour. Thoughts? Snide remarks? Comment. Feed my ego. DOOOO IT.

Have a good week, dahlings!

What are you doing in this next 48 hrs? SEEING THIS SHOW.

Theatre geeks live for those moments-those once-in-a-blue-moon occurrences where every element of a production comes together, and we're reminded just how deeply this art form can touch us when it transports us to someplace vital and true. A great show might have one or two. Spring Awakening has scores of them, coming so fast that you're barely through riding one wave of wonderment before another sweeps you up into a tidal wave of passionate storytelling and thrilling experimentation. There are still, I believe, a handful of tickets for this show, playing at the Winspear over the next two days. Three reasons you should go-

The Story: Musicals are often frivolous escapism. Not that there's anything wrong with entering the worlds of Eliza Doolittle or Danny Zuko, but I long (often in vain) for something of more substance. Here, my longing was fulfilled-here's a show that's actually about something. It's a complicated tale, but the long and short of it is this. Germany. 1891. Young Wendla's mother has neglected to explain sex to her. So when she does the deed with the brilliant-but-rebellious hotshot Melchior, she hasn't a clue about the possible consequences. Because of this, the effects of their intercourse spiral out of control, setting off a series of debased, tragic acts that leave an indelible imprint on both their fellow students and their elders. Sounds like a soap opera plot, but Steven Sater's script uses it to explore crucial, timeless themes about identity, communication, the nature of parenthood, even the meaning of sexuality, and, yes, love itself. It all leads to a message about redemption and acceptance that's all the more affecting because it's imparted with a refreshing lack of sap-drenched platitudes and a refreshing plenitude of genuine feeling. It's the rare show where, if you go for drinks and dessert afterward, you'll have more to talk about than just the high notes and the hot dance moves. Having said that-

The Staging is like nothing you've ever seen before. Director Michael Mayer dares to totally eschew traditional sets-no painted storefronts or moving furniture here. Instead, lighting is used, in flawless conjunction with the music, to create mood. Luminescent bars turn a sinister red to underline anger, a melancholy blue to accent sadness. Sound obvious, but God, does it work. Occasionally, there are little surprises-a projection of a moon, a sliding door that opens to reveal an eerily backlit portion of backstage, a piece of the actual stage floor that hoists the characters of the ground in moments of great intensity or feeling. Each one takes your breath away without being so flashy that you're taken out of the moment. Then there's Bill T. Jones's choreography. He does something cool here. Rather than dip into a grab bag of dance styles, he establishes a single, prevalent movement motif and builds on it until it reaches glorious fruition. It starts off (in the show's opening number) as a series of small self-caresses-a visual representation of the town youth learning more about their body, and ultimately about themselves. As their desire to understand and ability to comprehend increase, the hand motions grow more complex, occur at greater speed and with more frequency, until, in the second act, at a crucial turning point that I refuse to spoil, they explodes, bodies rocking to strange rhythms, quaking in barely controlled spasms that manage to look both impressive and impromptu-the holy grail for Broadway shows. Into the technical side of theatre? Watch as the behind-the-scenes team turns the Winspear stage into a marvelous melding of pop art expressiveness and rock-concert pow. But, say you aren't into all this. Well, I bet you like music, huh? So, let's talk about-

The Songs I saved the best for last. Anyone with a passing interest in the magic of melody and harmony best check this show out, NOW. This is like no theatre music you have ever heard-gone are the show-boat belting jags, the peppy chorus lines, the jazz-handy big finishes. This is also like no popular music you've ever heard-you won't find any self-indulgent instrumentation or obnoxious screeching here. What we have instead is the best of both worlds. Composer Duncan Sheik works with Sater (also the lyricist) to blend cello, bass, and piano, with drums (both exotic and ordinary), guitars (electric and acoustic), and even some pre-recorded house beats to create some strange kind of grunge-folk-pop-punk fusion. From the weeping string lines of the opener, "Mama Who Bore Me" (and the rafter-shaking Afro-pop of its goosebump-inducing reprise) to the angular, head-banging fury of "The Bitch of Living" and "And Then There Were None", to the trippy-shoegaze brilliance of "The Mirror-Blue Night", the score is filled with gems that rank among the best music of any kind composed in the past 15 years. And then there's the infamous "Totally Fucked", undoubtedly the singular most raucous piece of work ever composed for the Broadway stage, and the recipient one of the loudest post-song ovations I've heard. But my personal favorite is "The Dark I Know Well", in which a duo of town girls reveal a past of incest and domestic abuse. The pounding drums, the hypnotic guitar, the chilling couplets ("You say all you want is just a kiss goodnight/Then you hold me and you whisper, child/The Lord won't mind")-it truly feels like we're watching raw feeling pour out of these women. It's a classic moment, as is the final number "Song of Purple Summer". After a dry-eyed evening, this song uncorked the waterworks for me in a big way. It speaks to the resilience of the human spirit not by beating you over the head with messages, but by reminding us that the beauty of life is its circular nature-dark times will ultimately be followed by days "so white, so warm". Its harmonies are so intricate that you could listen a thousand times, uncovering new treasures for the ear with each new listen. Like the show, it's a thing of beauty you lose yourself in.

In conclusion, some tickets are as cheap as $30 dollars. There are even seats on the stage, in the midst of the action. With great performances, stunning, innovative music, and a story that speaks to the common bonds we share and weights we carry, Spring Awakening earns its place among the Great Works of Theatrical Art. And when Great Works come on tour, you best see them-they're rare in these art-starved times.

SEEE ITTTTT