"To-morrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further...." (Gatsby and A Kind Of Goodbye)

I won't be so vain as to apologize for my absence from the blogopshere; I doubt any serious emotional agonies or medical emergencies were caused by it. I will, however, take a moment express my hope that all has been well with my readers (and my skimmers) since last I posted, and that those of you in Collegeville have successfully weathered the tempest that is finals season.

I also want to take a moment to make a pedantic, terribly unimportant announcement. I started the Jews In Mass Blog three-and-a-half years ago, beset with a tendency toward self-indulgent rambling and a hope that my writing "might cheer someone up, make them think, inspire them, change their life just a teensy-weensy bit for the better." The fact that it seems to have done a few of those things is no small source of joy. Yet that joy is tempered with a smidge of irritation; you see, I have not been, for the last several years, a student at a Catholic school. As those who know me are aware, I also have not been terribly Jewish, at least not in the traditional sense (that's for another post). Thus my blog title is inaccurate, which bothers me in a way that it can only bother an obsessive, slightly off-kilter writer such as myself. As such, this is my last post at Jews In Mass. It is fitting that said post is a movie review, and that the movie features Carey Mulligan. My first movie review on this site was of An Education, and in that review I praised the picture and Ms. Mulligan, its breakout star. Three years later, she's the female lead in one of the summer's biggest tentpoles, The Great Gatsby, which I review below. To paraphrase my favorite line from that Ulysses book I just finished: She has traveled. And so, I think, have I.

I will soon acquire a new blog, complete with a new title and a new URL. I'll link to my old stuff from this site, so those who wish to see it may do so. Finally: my boundless gratitude to all who've read this blog of their own free will, or who have submitted to my endless coercion. Your praise has done dangerous things to my ego; your criticism has done wonderful things to my writing. I'll close with a line from my favorite Dylan Thomas poem; 

"I who was rich
Was made the richer
By sipping at the vine of days."

Enjoy the review, my friends, and I hope to see you at the new blog! 
-----

The Great Gatsby

In my view, Baz Luhrman is unmistakably a magician of the cinema. No matter how flattering that statement sounds on its face, it must not be taken as an out and out compliment; after all, it gives no insight into the quality of the man's tricks. Every Luhrmann film (and I do mean every one) is an extended magic show, a splashy, dizzying assemblage of florid magic acts designed to draw the overpowered viewer into an ecstatic state of total surrender to a surreal, sensual unreality. Some of those acts are pure brilliance, Houdini-esque distillations of careful planning and ingenious execution. Others are underthought, sloppily-executed conceits that might make GOB Bluth blush in embarrassment. With this in mind, the criterion for evaluating a Luhrmann picture is pretty clear; do the dazzlers outweigh the duds? With Gatsby, the answer is neither an exultant "yes!" nor a shrill, Pauline Kaelian cry of "no!"; it is a resigned sigh, an admission that the whole affair is, as many of us expected, a minor disappointment.

Let us first dispense with the most obvious, and, indeed, inevitable disappointment--it's not as good as the book. Then again, how on God's green earth could it be? Fitzgerald's capital-G Great novel is the best work of tragedy in the entirety of American literature, just as Huck Finn is our best comedy. The story of the titular millionaire (played here by Leo DiCaprio), his lost love Daisy (Carey Mulligan), and the man who falls into their doomed orbit (Nick Carraway, portrayed by Tobey Maguire), Gatsby is a penetrating expose of the internal contradictions of our national identity. Better yet, it is an expose animated by Fitzgerald's distinctive prose style, one of the most eloquent and erudite you're likely to find in a modern author. The film does its very best to etch in images the sorts of deeply private yearnings and sharp social commentary Fitzgerald set up so deftly with his golden pen; heck, Luhrmann even shoves Word-Art-ified clumps of Fitzgerald's words up on the screen every now and then. But, like every adaptation before it, this Gatsby just can't capture the distinct feel of the novel, its ineffable blend of sacred and profane, the timely and the timeless. Then again, asking Luhrmann to do Fitzgerald's book justice is sort of like asking someone else to make my Grandma's patented beef stew; no matter what recipe you're working from or what utensils you're using, your hands aren't hers, so you can't pull it off. Gatsby the book is unmatchable. The movie doesn't match it. Surprise. I can't really fault it for that.

What I can fault Gatsby for is it, to borrow a phrase from Emperor Palpatine, its lack of vision. Sure, Luhrmann had an idea; to use contemporary tunes and music video editing to make the Jazz Age scandalous again, the same way he used Christina Aguilera and jump cuts to make the Moulin Rouge as scuzzily magnetic to us as it was to those 19th century men who came to watch the can-can dancers. In the latter movie, the modernizing approach worked; in the former, it does not. When Luhrmann was subversive in Moulin Rouge, he was clever about it; in Gatsby, the subversion comes off as half-hearted and arbitrary. The genius of Moulin Rouge (which is, by the way, one of my favorite films of the previous decade) was the way it took well-known songs and cannily recontextualized them. To watch that film is to marvel as how Luhrmann folded his anachronistic soundtrack effectively and organically into the story. "Look!", us fans thought, "They turned 'Roxanne' into a tango! Brilliant! Whoah! They put David Bowie and Dolly Parton in a medley, topped it off with a dash of opera, and somehow made it work!" Gatsby, by contrast, inspires no such sense of awe; for me at least, all it inspired was a series of chilly acknowledgments. "Oh. They're dancing to hip-hop. Instead of jazz. I get it."

It is saddening that Luhrmann's Big Clever Approach to this material isn't that Big or Clever; it is flat-out annoying to see it applied so haphazardly, so inconsistently. As Nick enters one of Gatsby's famed soirees, they're blasting Fergie; as he readies to leave, they're dancing to Gershwin. The picture is half revisionist, half-historically accurate. The visual style is similarly schizophrenic, sometimes awash in a soft, Golden Era haze, other times assailing us with choppy, pseudo-incoherent music video cuts. Speaking of music;  if you're going to have Florence Welch and Beyonce record tracks for your film, do more than play those tracks as incidental music underneath cocktail chatter. Say what you will about Moulin Rouge, but you must give Luhrmann credit for taking a bold concept and putting it front and center; the idea behind this Gatsby is much less bold, and it is enforced with such timidity and inconsistency that you just wish they'd made a straight-up adaptation and called it a day.

You may have noticed that I have, until now, avoided the actors. That is because I have saved the best for last. Set loose in Luhrmann's wild and maddening jungle, they have, for the most part, acquitted themselves well. Best of all is DiCaprio's Gatsby. From the moment he appears on the screen, his electric blue eyes gazing right into us, he is the character, plain and simple. Though we would not have guessed it from pretty-boy days in the 90's, it turns out that Leo's great quality as an actor is his intelligence, his ability to look as though he is constantly calculating or reflecting upon something never seen but eternally present. This quality doesn't always suit him well, but it is perfect for Gatsby, a man whose mind works so fervently and feverishly to present an outward appearance of effortless, good-humoured suavity. The film's other great performance is that of Joel Edgerton, who plays Daisy's unfaithful husband, Tom; he towers in his brutish anger, but takes care to show us every now and then how small this poor man really is. His climactic confrontation with DiCaprio is by far the best scene in the picture, and fans of the book should watch the film at some point just to see it. The other two leads aren't half bad either--Mulligan sells Daisy's "who, me?" sex appeal and nails her barely hidden neurosis, while Maguire, although a little too old for the part, is the first actor to really capture Nick's love for Gatsby, a potent concoction that's about one part homoerotic attraction and ten parts naive idol worship. Maguire reminds us that, when all is said and done, the narrator's heart is as broken as that of the man he's narrating about.

In the spirit of charity, I should also note that, at the film's end, Luhrmann scores a few points as well. As it all comes to a close around that famed, blood-tainted pool, the director summons his creative faculties and fires a strong, solid parting shot, one that shows us just how good the rest of the picture could have been if it had struck a similar balance of reverence and experimentation, restraint and innovation. As I reflect upon this honorable mess of a Gatsby, which has the notable yet dubious honor of being the best out of a string of failed film adaptations, I hear the voice of Louis Sachar; "If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs." But above all, I hear the voice of Fitzgerald's single most unforgettable character, saying in his distinctive cosmopolitan drawl; "Nice try, old sport." C+

The Oscars Are Coming, The Oscars Are Coming!: My Annual Predictions You Can Bet $$$ On

Below are my annual Oscar predictions. But first, my annual Oscar defense. Are the Oscars stupid? Kind of. Even the hosts think so. Are they totally useless? Hardly. They amplify the voice of the little guy; how many people had heard of, or cared about Amour before it netted a Best Picture nomination? When they work as they should (they often don't), they give us an opportunity to recognize truly exceptional work. You look at Daniel Day-Lewis's work in Lincoln and think: This guy's earned more than just a paycheck. Finally, the Oscars are, like every other awards show or competition, a narrative. They're chock-full of interesting characters (An aging starlet without an award on her mantel! A crap actor turned ingenious director!), intriguing plotlines (The up-and-comer versus the old pro! The scrappy indie flick versus the establishment!), and moments of galvanizing emotion ("You like me! You really like me!" Did Adrien just kiss Halle?!). We watch the Oscars to reflect upon the films released in the previous year. We watch the Oscars in hopes that those whose work means a lot to us gets recognized. But mostly, we watch the Oscars for the same reason we watch damn near everything we watch on television; to sit in front of a screen and feel something.

One more thing. I'm proud to be the guy who was shouting "Jean Dujardin!" last year, when many prognosticators were crying "George Clooney!" I'm also mightily embarrassed that I called the 2010 Best Picture race for Avatar. A look at my previous posts reveals that I am, more often than not, right about this stuff; it also reveals that when I'm wrong, I'm dead wrong. So kick back, relax, and take my predictions with a sense of trust and a grain of salt.


                                                                 Best Picture:

What Will Win: I tend to roll my eyes at Roger Ebert's Oscar predictions. After all, this is the man who vehemently and repeatedly asserted that the True Grit remake would fill its metaphorical hands come Oscar night. Yeah. About that. However, a mea culpa is in order: through the entire Oscar season, the man has been calling the race in Argo's favor, and it's looking like a very good call indeed. It's a decent choice; the film is overlong and historically dodgy, but it's also the rare thriller that's done with a mastery approaching high art. As literary critic Stanley Fish has pointed out, it's basically a meat-and-potatoes caper picture with a dash of topicality thrown in, but the thing is staged with a breathless immediacy and dazzling ingenuity that renders such griping irrelevant while watching it. In other words, the film's saving grace is its direction. So, naturally, Oscar voters elected to overlook the director. The guilt and embarrassment incurred by the Ben Affleck snub all but guarantee this movie a Best Picture Oscar--and its topical urgency and self-congratulatory, just-look-what-movies-can-do message don't hurt either. I won't be upset if it wins, but I won't be doing some sort of embarrassing happy dance either.

What Should Win: Lincoln could've been sap-happy, timid, and overly reverent. Instead it was one of the gutsiest historical pictures of recent years, a genuinely ballsy attempt to marry a warts-and-all portrait of a secular deity with a broader examination of our nation's system of government. Some found it terribly treacly, others bland and blah as cardboard. I found it a deeply moving, at times galvanically powerful portrait of a man and the political machine he mastered, one that acknowledged both the tragic flaws and the imperfect beauty of its dual subjects.

What Just Might Win: Lincoln is not the front-runner it once was, but it's still a biography of our greatest living president, starring our greatest living actor and helmed by the world's most famous director. The pungent smell of Oscar bait might be a little too much to resist. Les Miserables once had a shot at this category, but the nasty backlash against Anne Hathaway (mostly undeserved) and director Tom Hooper (somewhat deserved) have killed the Best Picture dream it dreamed.

Best Actor:

Will and Should Win: Daniel Day-Lewis for Lincoln. He's set to top Meryl Streep's victory tally, and deservedly so. I'm a Meryl groupie till the day I die, but no one, not even her, not even Brando, has ever approached the art of screen acting with anything near the emotional sensitivity and near-religious commitment that DDL has. By reviving and revitalizing one of history's greatest figures, he has done us all an immense service. Oscar voters will express their gratitude. So should we.

Who Just Might Win: If anyone has a snowflake's chance in hell of beating out DDL, it's Hugh Jackman. Anne Hathaway has become the face of Les Mis, but a great many people recognize that Jackman was its generous and genuine heart. Plus, I'd say a certain number of Academy members just flat-out cherish the rare opportunity to reward a male performer for his work in a serious screen musical. The question is: how many? The likely answer: probably too few.

Best Actress:

Will Win: Two of the big contenders in this category are Hollywood's two most prominent rising starlets, Jennifer Lawrence and Jessica Chastain. For both of them, clenching a victory would complete their transition from up-and-comer to full-on Big Name. Chastain's work in Zero Dark Thirty was a model of subtlety and steely reserve. But steely reserve doesn't win you an Oscar: emotion does, and J-Law's performance in Silver Linings Playbook was among the most nakedly emotional work done all year. It's not my favorite performance in the film, but it is a very, very good one, a bona fide star turn. The odds are ever so slightly in her favor.

Should Win: I'll raise my glass to a Lawrence win, but I'd really love it if the trophy went to Quevenzhane Wallis. She was a force of nature in Beasts of The Southern Wild, and hers is probably the best performance delivered by a child since Anna Paquin's Oscar-winning one in The Piano.

Just Might Win:  If you want to go cray-cray and bet on one long-shot upset this year, go for Emmanuel Riva in Amour. Last year, Christopher Plummer became the oldest person ever to win an acting Oscar. Riva would break Plummer's record. Plus, it's her birthday on Oscar night. Make of that what you will.

Best Supporting Actress:

Will and Should Win: Anne Hathaway. Not even a question. The surest thing since Heath Ledger won posthumously in 2008. The girl deserves it, too. Contrary to what some would have you believe, it's not the Best Performance Given In The History of Performing Evaaaaaar. But it's mightily impressive, for the same reason Jennifer Hudson's turn in Dreamgirls was mightily impressive; it injects fresh emotional energy into a song that's long been dangerously overplayed and ripe for mockery. It makes those lyrics and that melody mean something again. Anne hath a clear way to the stage come Oscar night.

Just Might Win: You're kidding, right?

Best Supporting Actor:

 

Will Win: In lieu of being productive or engaging in meaningful human contact, I've spent an enormous of time thinking about this category. I've come to two conclusions; firstly, it's the hardest race I've had to call since I started playing the Oscar punditry game. Secondly, I think  Tommy Lee Jones has about a .0000001% edge over three of his competitors (Christoph Waltz, Robert DeNiro, Phillip Seymour Hoffman), all of whom have a very good chance at winning. Only Alan Arkin is a real long shot. Jones hasn't hit up the interview circuit much, and he's known for being about as prickly as a cactus in a Texas desert. Still, his performance was the big, belligerent, showy kind that's absolutely made to win awards. It doesn't hurt that it's actually good, too, a perfectly calibrated marvel of sublime comedic timing and startling emotional depth. It's also worth mentioning  that Jones's penultimate scene is probably the most memorable moment in the entire picture, even moreso than that stuff involving the guy with the tall hat.

Just Might Win: It's been a long while since Robert DeNiro has given a really good performance in a really good movie. The Academy knows this. They also know he's aging, and fast. TLJ's still in front, but DeNiro's right on his heels.

Should Win: Both Jones's and DeNiro's performances resonated very deeply with this writer. I'd be pleased if either one of them won. I'd be duly delighted if the Academy pulled a Streisand-Hepburn and gave this award to both of them. Just think of it; two of the most greatest actors of their generation, sharing recognition for the best work they've done in my lifetime. Granted, that's only slightly more likely than a Herman Cain presidency, but hey, a movie lover can dream.

Best Director:

Disclaimer: Each year, three things are certain: I'll re-watch Casablanca at least twice, I'll get exactly two colds, and I'll get my Best Director prediction wrong. Seriously, I've been misreading the tea leaves in this category even since I started making Oscar ballots out of construction paper nine years ago. Trust me on this one at your own risk.

Will Win: This one comes down to two big contenders: Steven Spielberg, whose work on Lincoln was a thrilling return to form, and Ang Lee, the man behind the Herculean effort to shepherd Yann Martel's nigh-unfilmable novel Life Of Pi onto to the screen. Give the edge to Lee. Those who consider Life Of Pi an achievement know that it is first and foremost a directorial one--light on dialogue, free of showy acting, and almost entirely reliant on the vision of the man behind the camera.

Should Win: This wasn't a first rate year in Directorville. Peter Jackson, Quentin Tarantino, and, yes, even probable winner Ang Lee let me down. Among the few who didn't disappoint; Joss Whedon, who brought wit and humanity to the year's biggest popcorn extravaganza: Ben Affleck, whose protean command of the camera made a nuts-and-bolts thriller into something more: and Steven Spielberg, who reminded us what he's capable of when he tempers his knee-jerk inclination towards poetic grandeur with rationality and restraint. Of those three, only the Spielster is nominated, so I'll go with him.

Just Might Win: Spielberg has a fighting chance.

Best Adapted Screenplay:

Will Win: Chris Terrio for Argo. I've accepted that it's the likely victor in this category, but I don't wanna talk about it....


Should Win: ...Because Tony Kushner's borderline brilliant work on Lincoln should be the undisputed champion here. Kushner's one of the few true-blue geniuses in American letters today. Whether he's writing for the stage or for the screen, his scripts are gigantically satisfying, defiantly deep, and occasionally maddening personal epics that radiate raw emotion even as they dazzle us with their hyper-articulate braininess. Lincoln is no exception; in the span of two glorious hours, it manages to resurrect and reinterpret one of the Deadest White Men in American history. The script's historical errors, while disappointing, don't hold a candle to Argo's, nor do they truly mar the stunning scope of Kushner's overall achievement; he's created a work of art that's jam-packed with ideas, throbbing with earnest emotion, and free of his own reactionary politics. Improbably enough, he also manages to turn one of the most famous legislative debates in American history into something of a thriller; as Roger Ebert puts it, he succeeds "in taking a story marinated in history and viewing it as something that could have gone either way". Did any other script in this category achieve such a lofty goal? Certainly not. Will Oscar take note? Not likely. Will I throw a temper tantrum if this one loses? Definitely.

Just Might Win: *taps ruby slippers* There's no script like Kushner's, there's no script like Kushner's....

Best Original Screenplay:

Will Win: Quentin Tarantino for Django Unchained. After being overlooked for his exemplary work on Jackie Brown and Kill Bill, Vol. 2, and for his very good work on Inglourious Basterds, Tarantino will nab a trophy for a film that is structurally messy and at times morally repugnant. Don't get me started.


Should Win: Moonrise Kingdom was my favorite film of last year. This is its only shot at being recognized. It won't happen, but I'd very much like it to. I'd also love for Flight, perhaps last year's most overrated motion picture, to lose. Ahh, schadenfreude.

Just Might Win: It's not likely, but it's possible that Django's copious violence and liberal use of the n-word will somehow conspire to deny it a victory. In that case, Zero Dark Thirty will take the cake. However, the controversies surround that film's depiction of torture could possibly shut it out of an Oscar.

Quickie Reviews: Abbreviated Thoughts On The Best Picture Contenders

Les Miserables: Rough, flawed, often clunky. But also heartfelt, ambitious, and occasionally brilliant. Improves with multiple viewings. Definitely deserves its nomination. Didn't earn a win. A-.

Silver Linings Playbook:  Beautifully acted, tender-hearted look at the raw emotions that fray the fabric of a family, as well as the ones bind them inextricably together; in other words, a David O. Russell movie. Ending is a cop-out, and some of the characters are a touch underwritten. Russell's weakest film, but he's a good enough director that it's still the most lovable and honest comedy of 2012. A-.

Lincoln: Do I really need to say more about it? Loved it and will always love it, in spite of its myriad flaws. A.

Amour: Haven't seen it. Blame James Joyce and Business Statistics for that.

Beasts Of The Southern Wild: Saw it. Loved it. Put it on my Best of 2012 list hours after I finished watching it. Was bothered by it in the weeks afterward, and this article explains why better than I ever could. An affecting love letter to Louisiana, which is great; also, intentionally or not, a creepy pseudo-anarchist screed, which is not so great. A film surrounded by near-fatal flaws, but one with a must-see performance at the center, that of little Quavenzhane Wallis. Full disclosure; she had me bawling by the end. B. 

Argo: A extremely well-crafted, hugely enjoyable thriller. Nothing more, nothing less. A-.

Django Unchained: Lacks the cleverness of Inglourious Basterds, the zeitgeisty zing! of Pulp Fiction, and the heart of Kill Bill, Vol. 2 and Jackie Brown. Boasts crazy-good work from Leo DiCaprio and Samuel L. Jackson. Yet only Christoph Waltz gets nominated. Go figure. B-.

Life Of Pi-PG-ifies the book's darkness and irons over the complexity of its themes. Transfers the last section of the book to the screen with a dull thud. Transfers the famed tiger to the screen marvelously. A  better adaptation than expected, but far from the best one that could've been made. C+.

Zero Dark Thirty-Critics are saying it's better than the director's previous film, The Hurt Locker. Said critics are drunk. Still, a smart, often riveting look at the War on Terror that makes the bold and necessary decision to embrace ambiguity and uncertainty. A very good movie with a great, unforgettable last shot. B+.

Happy Oscar Day, folks! 

CINEMA EXTRAVAGANZA 2012!! (YOLO)

This year, a well-known prediction propagated by a cultish group of doomsayers was proven dead wrong. I am referring, of course, to the cadre of film critics and scholars who have insisted in recent years that film was on its deathbed--who cried the whole medium was slouching towards loud, dumb, popcorn-and-soda Gomorrah. 2012 proved that these folks weren't prudent prophets but Chicken Littles. I don't like to throw words like "great" around lightly, and I won't do so here. But I do think that this was a very, very strong year for cinema, the strongest since 2009, which was in fact great.

Before we jump in, a disclaimer; living away from home without a vehicle or a half-decent indie theater makes being Mr. Moviephile just a little harder. I haven't seen The Master. Or Cloud Atlas. Or Flight. Or Amour. Be forewarned; this list is imperfect, and incomplete. But it is also a celebration of an imperfect but thrilling year at the movies. It is a chance for me to reflect upon the year that was, and to preserve my opinions for posterity. And, most of all, it is my belated New Year's gift to my beautiful readers, most of whom do double duty as incomparable friends. As always, I'll cite Barbra here: "May all your storms be weathered/and all that's good get better!" And now, without further ado, the list.

Which is very long. But not that long. Seriously. To make this less daunting, here's a picture of it set next to Anna Karenina.

Okay. As my good buddy Bane says, "Let the games begin!"

Runner-Up: Skyfall--

007 is still absorbing the shock to the studio system wrought by Christopher Nolan's Bat-trilogy; as such, this film's final thirty minutes are a good deal darker than they need to be, and a bit less clever than they think they are. But the film's first two hours are something wholly, gloriously new--a distinctly British action movie, marked not by go-for-the-jugular shakycam shots but by an artful, almost lyrical restraint that turns every fight scene into a piece of poetry in motion. Standing in stark contrast to that restraint is Javier Bardem, relishing every delectable bite of scenery as a top-notch Bond baddie who comes off like a fabulously freaky hybrid of The Joker and Miami Vice.

10. Les Miserables

 
The discerning critic in me gave it a B+, but the everyday moviegoer in me loved the hell out of it, and repeat viewings further accentuated the positive...so yeah, I caved. However, I don't feel too bad. Admittedly, Russell Crowe sounds like he wandered in from a movie about the British Invasion, and yes, Tom Hooper needs to get a tad more acquainted with his tripod, but one of the great purposes of the cinema is to amaze us, and Les Miserables does something truly amazing; it makes one of our most ubiquitous musicals galvanizingly fresh again. The former heir to the Genovian throne is getting all the attention, and it's true that Anne Hathaway has earned her Oscar by making the most famous of musical theater songs a full-on leap into the void, devastating and thrilling us all at once with the furious passion she puts into the jump. But let's also hear it for screenwriter William Nicholson, who deftly adjusted this story for the screen, and for Hugh Jackman, who carries the whole enterprise with his confidence, sensitivity, and sheer emotional commitment. At the end of the day, it's a sterling, stirring adaptation.  

 9. Silver Linings Playbook

 

No gimmicky setups. No high concepts. This is that rarest of cinematic creatures--a mainstream movie about nothing more or less than a couple of people and how they interact with one another. It had the year's best soundtrack (sorry, Django Unchained), and its best climax, a wordless dance-off that's both a slam-bang comedic setpiece and a thrilling, cathartic release of carefully built tension. It also had some of the year's strongest performances; heartwarming work by a reinvigorated Robert DeNiro, a commendably go-for-broke performance by Jennifer Lawrence, and, best of all, a star-making turn from Bradley Cooper, who, with his stunted eyes and tremulous voice, is the quiet, heartbreaking center of this smart, sweet film about the traces of madness in all of us.

 

8. Bernie

The true story of Bernie Tiede, a mortician and small-town social butterfly turned murderer, could be told as a crime thriller, a tragic romance, or a dark comedy. Director Richard Linklater's stroke of demented genius was to make a film that was a combination of all three, to cast a never better Jack Black as the titular character, and to enlist the real-life residents of said small town to act as a riotously funny Greek chorus.

7. Footnote

 Israel continues to come into its own cinematically with this venomously incisive, brilliantly acted tragicomedy. It's a wickedly clever riff on the insanities and absurdities of religious scholarship, but at heart it's really a deeply troubling examination of the absurd and sometimes abominable ways in which we wrestle with that complicated thing called legacy.

6. Perks Of Being A Wallflower

 
Mean Girls gave the Facebook generation our Heathers, and in this touching and assured adaptation of Stephen Chbosky's best-seller, we have our Breakfast Club. Like that film, this tale of a few high school outcasts deals honestly and forthrightly with the fiery eruptions of confusion and self-doubt that characterize the high-school experience--and also with the fragile beauty of the once-in-a-lifetime friendships forged amidst the flames. Centered by Logan Lerman's deeply felt lead performance and anchored by the sturdy direction of Chbosky himself, Perks also benefits from a revelatory supporting turn by Ezra Miller, as well a typically brilliant Emma Watson, who masters an American accent faster than you can say "Wingardium Leviosa".

5. Looper

This is heavy, deliciously geeky sci-fi, complete with invented weapons (I want me one of them blunderbusses!), flying motorcycles, and telekinesis. But if you strip away the gunfights and the what-just-happened twists and the Bruce Willis scowls, you find a movie that is, at heart, a love story, a film about the ways in which a world of ever-increasing danger demands ever-greater acts of compassion and sacrifice.

4. Argo

 It's about fifteen minutes too long, and its history-be-damned third act has deservedly raised a few eyebrows. Still, there's no denying that Ben Affleck's terse, tense hostage thriller is yet another testament to his strengths as a director; his knack for staging nervy, complicated, see-'em-on-the-big-screen setpieces, his impressive attention to local color, and his downright masterful ability to get our adrenal glands going. The dude from Gigli is now the heir apparent to Martin Scorsese. Pinch me.

3. Beasts of The Southern Wild 

In a phenomenal year for non-professional actors, this film boasted the best of them all: 6-year-old Quevaenzhane Wallis, a naturalistic knockout as Hushpuppy, who struggles to stay afloat in the midst of Hurricane Katrina while fleeing the mystical titular creatures--creatures that are both wonders of low-budget special effects and potent symbols of the random, violent world that our heroine must ultimately confront. Beasts is somehow raw and fanciful all at once. It is also a distinctly American triumph.

2. Lincoln-

First, some concessions; this film's on somewhat shaky historical footing, and, like every critic who's seen it, I am shocked, shocked that a director as great as Steven Spielberg didn't know to end the thing with that indelible shot of our 16th president walking alone down the hallway, and instead kept going. But forgive this movie its very real flaws and you'll see a masterpiece, one that engages eternal questions of governance and human nature while never losing focus of its central figure, who, thanks to the peerless Daniel Day-Lewis, becomes a person again, a sublimely sly and savvy politician whose warmth masks a stone-cold intellect, and whose rapier wit is a defense mechanism against his volcanic, indignant anger at God and man. Day-Lewis's adjective-defying work alone renders Lincoln a must-see, but the brilliance of the behind-the-scenes talent makes it a candidate for classic status. Spielberg has a tendency to weigh his movies down with treacle, and screenwriter Tony Kushner sometimes tramples delicate human emotion with his brainier-than-thou verbosity. Just as they did on Spielberg's last great movie, Munich, they correct each other's weaknesses and play off of each others strengths; here they create a film that is booth (Freudian slip?) deeply sentimental about the possibilities of democracy and unstintingly honest about the pain, guilt, and insurmountable loneliness that await those elected to run a democracy. It's hopeful, haunted, and smart-as-a-whip--in other words, it has an awful lot in common with the man it chronicles.

1. Moonrise Kingdom

Stylistically, Wes Anderson's movies come off like cinematic equivalent of the artwork done by  children during therapy--they tell stories of unspeakable emotional turmoil with vibrant, fanciful flourishes that both express pain and redeem it by refashioning it into something beautiful. Not surprisingly, that style is extremely well-suited to this tale of troubled children. Moonrise Kingdom is a breathtaking ode to nature, an examination of the Typical American family, a piece of metafiction about the glorious escape provided by good art. But it is, first and foremost, a movie about kids who try to emulate adults while fearing adulthood. That's a conceit rich with comedic and dramatic potential, and the movie mines it for all it's worth. As little Sam and Suzy flee their idyllic island town to start a new life together, they do their damnedest to imitate an authentically adult runaway romance, and the results are often flat-out hilarious, with Anderson affectionately poking fun at noir, melodrama, and even French avant garde while still creating something entirely original. That said, he never once forgets the serious, bittersweet truth hiding just beneath the laughs; these kids are on a doomed mission to live a world apart, to create a space big enough to crowd out reality. They're playing grown-up in hopes of avoiding the agony of actually growing up.

But adulthood is not a living thing to bargain with; just like the movie's masterfully metaphorical climactic flood, it is a force, an event that will happen whether one wants it to or not. The journey to maturity is a wrenching existential crisis; it's also funny as hell. Part of the key to Moonrise's greatness is the way it acknowledges these contradictory truths and brings them together. The other essential ingredient is the cast, especially the two non-pros who play our protagonists. They share a quick look in the film's final scene that hits on the kind of elemental emotional truth many seasoned thespians spend years trying to grasp. They're a big part of what makes this Wes Anderson's best film, and, although there isn't much competition, probably the best movie ever made about puberty.

Coffee break recommended here. Yes, there's more. But here's a picture of this blog compared to one of the Hunger Games book, and those aren't even that long!

The Magnificent Ambersons Awards

This part of the post is named after Orson Welles' 1942 film, which is, famously, half flop and half masterpiece. Thus, here's where I'll talk about some movies that weren't exactly great, but had some truly noteworthy aspects...

Performances

Leonardo DiCaprio, Django Unchained--The bright-eyed wonder boy from Titanic has shown an impressive willingness to get his hands dirty, and rarely have they been dirtier than in Django Unchained, where, as conniving slavemaster Calvin Candy, he raises sliminess to an art form. His third-act monologue is a sick, twisted showstopper, and DiCaprio goes above and beyond scenery chewing to demonstrate just how deranged his character is, just how thoroughly he's convinced himself that his barbarity is merely good common sense.

Selma Hayek, Savages--It was a banner year for villains--The aforementioned DiCaprio earned his place in the Tarantino Rogues Gallery, and the two Toms (Hardy and Hiddleston) successfully brought two of the campier comic book baddies to the screen. However, my favorite baddie flew under the radar. Playing a doting mother who doubles as a murderous drug lord, Hayek turns in a fiercely intelligent performance that constantly prompts the viewer to ask; is she really being sweet, or is she just quietly going in for the kill?

Behind-The-Scenes Talent

Marc Streitenfeld, Prometheus--I think I overreacted just a wee bit when I called Prometheus a modern-day successor to 2001: A Space Odyssey. A critic makes mistakes. I'll make no apologies, though, for praising Streitenfeld's score, which was epic, distinctive, and richly thematic in an era where most are repetitive, generic, and packed with oversimplified action cues.

Rhythm and Hues Effects, Life of Pi--If you thought Gollum was the apotheosis of CGI, wait till you get a load of Richard Parker. That's the name of the majestic, terrifying tiger at the center of this survival story, and, thanks to the good folks at R&H, he's not just real enough to touch--he's real enough to emote, and, as a result, we're emoting right there along with him.

Scenes

Bane's Opening Salvo, The Dark Knight Rises--The occasionally wondrous but sometimes wobbly conclusion to Chris Nolan's Batman trilogy did boast a few truly unshakeable scenes--especially this go-for-the-jugular attack on a football stadium. As a boy soprano sings "The Star-Spangled Banner", Nolan reminds us that we're not just in some fictional comic book city, but in a real place--one that's about to go up in flames. After a cleverly edited bit of cringe-inducing suspense (oh my GOD, is that poor boy gonna die?!?!), Bane blows the entire field mid-game, a symbolically loaded gesture that literally shatters one of our most basic social structures and, in the process, gives a crowd who came to witness some NFL-sanctioned action a lot more violence than they'd anticipated.

Maya's Flight, Zero Dark Thirty--Unlike every other living human, I don't think Kathryn Bigelow made all the right decisions when bringing the hunt for Bin Laden to the screen. But she did get a lot right, including this whopper of an ending. After the hunt, we're aren't treated to rah-rah triumphalism; all we get is an unblinking shot of Jessica Chastain's CIA agent, weeping in exhausted gratitude. It hammers home the point that the fight against radical Islam is a wholly new kind of war, one where there is no clear-cut victory--only temporary relief.

Billy's Turn, Seven Psychopaths--Martin McDonagh's madcap follow-up to his crazy-profane-brilliant In Bruges loses considerable steam in its third act, but the film's middle section is a wonky wonder. The highlight is Sam Rockwell's five-minute monologue, a tremendously funny riff on action cinema that mocks shoot-em-up tropes even as it embraces them with an almost religious zeal.

Hulk Smash!, The Avengers--The title says it all. Joss Whedon finally figured it out--the Hulk works best on film not as a lead character, but as an occasionally featured scene stealer whose chief function is to hit stuff real good. Better luck next time, Loki.

Trend of the Year: "You Hate Me! You Really, Really Hate Me!"

Perhaps as penance for being the most gorgeous blonde in all of Hollywood, Charlize Theron is constantly seeking out the most unflattering of roles, and this year was no exception. In Young Adult, which went into wide release early this year, she played a vapid former high school prom queen who made Regina George look like St. Francis of Assissi. In Snow White And The Huntsman, she spent half of the film gasping and wretching in hideous old age makeup, and the other half plotting to nom on Kristen Stewart's heart. Finally, she took a supporting role in Prometheus, one that consisted entirely of barking mostly incorrect orders. She's the meanest person in each of these films, and the best part of them as well, creating genuinely interesting women who provoke hatred but also earn more than a little pity. It was one heck of a comeback year for everyone's favorite MRF.*


*Arrested Development reference. Haven't watched Arrested Development? Look who has a new New Year's resolution!!

The End. If you've made it to here, tell me and I'll give you a hug. Happy 2013, folks! 

Wolverine sings, Streisand saves, Fiona Apple stuns

Here are reviews of Les Miserables and The Guilt Trip, as well as some of my favorite books, albums, and songs of 2012. As the year grows shorter, my posts grow longer. Well, hey, it could be War and Peace!

Les Miserables

 

While writing Les Miserables, his 1,100 page tale of morality, mortality, and class struggle, Victor Hugo probably never once stopped to ask himself; "Will this story sell a lot of T-shirts?" And yet, God on high, it has. Since it opened in 1987, the through-sung musical adaptation of Hugo's novel has become not just a classic but an out-and-out brand name. Its most iconic image, that of a sad-looking little girl with windswept hair, has been plastered onto thousands of T-shirts and posters and coffee mugs. Its most iconic song, "I Dreamed A Dream", has been performed by everyone from Neil Diamond to Celtic Woman. This three-hour orgy of famine, despair, and death has been brilliantly saluted at Royal Albert Hall, touchingly referenced on Glee, and mercilessly mocked in American Pyscho.  The very best thing about Tom Hooper's massively ambitious and mostly satisfying adaptation is the way it makes you forget about all that. Not every scene works and not every song stuns, but the entire film radiates a surprising feeling of freshness--improbably, we feel as if we're witnessing this 20-year old take on a 200-year old story for the first time.  

How does Hooper pull it off? He works with screenwriter William Nicholson to smartly streamline some of the show's famed talk-sung exposition. With the aid of a dedicated yet commendably unshowy design team, he shows us the slums of Paris as they really were, favoring grit and grime over Oscar-bait ostentation. And, most importantly, he casts seasoned screen veterans who know their way around a camera, and then---here's the clincher--records their vocals live. This ingenious decision has two beneficial effects. Firstly, it immediately relieves lifelong Les Mizzers from the duty of obsessively comparing the stage cast to the movie one. It's clear from scene one that most of these folks are imperfect singers, and that Hooper and co. won't be using digital fairy dust to alter said imperfection. Freed from the trouble of contrasting an apple with an orange, we're able to simply get lost in the timeless tale of Jean Valjean (Jackman), an escaped convict trying to raise his adopted daughter Cosette (Amanda Seyfried) while on the run from the relentless Inspector Javert (Russell Crowe). The other benefit of recording the musical numbers live is that it allows the actors, to, well, act, to authentically express the lyrics and melodies in a way that's awfully difficult to do when mouthing to a pre-recorded vocal track (see: Evita, Phantom of the Opera). Freed to sing and act all at once, this exceedingly committed cast gives it their all. Tears swell, jaws quaver. And yes, throats tense up and voices break, but for me that only heightened the experience. Hooper and his cast understand that a musical about agony should not be sung perfectly--it should be sung truthfully.

No one gets this better than Anne Hathaway. As, Cosette's ailing mother, Fantine, she's only in the movie for about the first half hour, but she's without a doubt the number one reason to see it. You've heard this from every media outlet ever, but when she takes on "I Dreamed A Dream", she doesn't just nail it, she reclaims it, wrestles it out of the hands of pop culture ubiquity and makes it ache and smart anew. Her body wracked by violent coughing, her jaw working furiously to keep her scalding anger in check, Hathaway reminds us that the song is not meant to be a power ballad--it is, for all practical purposes, a death scene, a metaphysical surrender to the encroaching darkness. Mia Thermopolis has earned her inevitable statuette. But enough fangirling--I suppose I should mention that many of the other actors are real good, too! As the tender-but-tough Valjean, Jackman makes good use of both his Oscar-host charm and Wolverine fury, and masters the taxing demands of his solos like the Broadway pro he is. As Marius, the object of adult Cosette's affection, Eddie Redmayne does star-making work, enlivening and intensifying a character who can come off as a straightforward goodie two-shoes. And I can't go without mentioning Daniel Huttlestone, a sly, scruffy wonder as the young street urchin Gavroche. He steals the show whenever he's onscreen, and, best of all, he delivers a new piece of music which helpfully clarifies that, contrary to popular belief, this show is not about the French Revolution.

This is a remarkably strong ensemble. It is not, however, a perfect one. Crowe offers a radical reinterpretation of Javert, playing him not as a villain with an introspective side but as an earnest, well-intentioned soul with a bit of a mean streak. It's a commendably unique approach, but it takes some of the air out of his confrontations with Valjean. As Cosette's conniving former foster parents, the Thernardiers, Helena Bonham Carter and Sacha Baron Cohen are on mug-for-the-camera autopilot, milking their characters' comic potential while totally ignoring their darker sides. The film is occasionally hampered by behind-the-camera mistakes as well. Like far too many modern directors, Hooper is comfortable with spectacle, but struggles with shooting a couple of people alone in a room. He stages some truly unforgettable, money's-worth set pieces (especially "Look Down" ), but he also botches some of the musical's more intimate moments by throwing in extraneous camera shake or, conversely, sticking the lens a few inches away from the actor's face. But these are, for the mostpart, quibbles. The movie stumbles over a handful of minor obstacles, but dodges most of the big ones handily. It doesn't always shepherd the beloved musical to the screen masterfully, but it still does so impressively. If you appreciate musicals, enjoy a good cry, and can stomach a few flaws, then I'd really recommend going to hear the people sing. See what I did there? Movie: B+ "I Dreamed A Dream": A+

The Guilt Trip (A Haiku) 

Babs wrings modest laughs

From lines that are not that funny

Please be my grandma

 (C+)

---
The best.....

Books I Read During 2012

EM Forster, Howards End--Bookwise, 2012 will always be the year I fell hard for the Europeans--DH Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, and James Joyce. But I fell hardest of all for Forster's magnum opus, a sophisticated and deeply touching romantic drama that uses a squabble over the rightful owner of a country estate to symbolize the struggle for Britain's political future.

Rebecca Skloot, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks-You wouldn't expect a 400 page book about cell research to be a Potter-esque page turner, but this one is. As Skloot reports on the story of a dying black woman whose cells were taken from her body and experimented upon without her knowledge, she deals honestly and thoroughly with knotty questions of ethics and science, but smartly leaves the task of answering them up to us.

Annie Proulx, Close Range: Wyoming Stories-It's best known as the book of short stories from which "Brokeback Mountain" originated, but the other tales in this collection are equally stunning, each one a quietly tragic, darkly funny, dazzlingly poetic mini-epic of thwarted love and lingering loss.

Albums of 2012

Fiona Apple, The Idler Wheel---At long last, a new album from one of the ballsiest and most beguiling pop artists of the last several decades, who warbles and croons like a 30's chanteuse even as she spits out madly inventive, heavily rhythmic couplets worthy of a modern-day rapper. Sample lyric: "We can still support each other/All we gotta do's avoid each other/Nothing wrong when/a song ends/in a minor key."

Gregory Porter, Be Good--There are plenty of great vocal jazz singers out there, but few great vocal jazz writers. With his second album of soulful originals and ingenious covers, Gregory Porter reminds us that he's both.

Alabama Shakes, Boys and Girls--Forty minutes of nuts-and-bolts songwriting and clear-cut guitar riffs, blissfully free of digital overproduction or hipsterish irony. At the center of it all is Brittany Howard's one of a kind voice, a decided unladylike instrument that comes at you like a runaway freight train.

Songs of 2012

Norah Jones, "Miriam"--The highlight of Jones's comeback album is this delectably creepy electro-folk ballad in which the singer stalks and murders her husband's lover.

The Lumineers, "Stubborn Love"--This year, the founding fathers of the folk revival (Mumford and Sons, The Avett Brothers) released long-anticipated new albums, but they were actually bested by these scrappy Colorado up-and-comers. "Ho Hey" is getting all of (and I do mean all of) the attention, but this gorgeous ballad, which gathers aural and emotion steam before exploding into an acoustic-rock sing-along, is just as good if not better.

LP, "Into The Wild"--Like all of indie-rock goddess LP's songs, this one is so catchy that you only realize how utterly heartbreaking it is after a few listens. I wish this woman would release an LP!

There And Back Again

Merry Christmas, dear readers! I hope everyone had a wonderful apocalypse. For those who made it, I offer you some light reading to help you pass time in your underground bunker. Below is my review of the new Hobbit movie, as well as the first of my semi-popular end-of-year lists--The Most Memorable Moments of 2012. If you aren't interested in the list, enjoy the review. If you aren't interested in The Hobbit, we need to talk.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey

I never thought the sight of a door could move me so. Yet there I was, my throat welling up at the mere sight of the entrance to Bag End. Oh, to be reunited with that that sturdy, circular object! Oh, to gaze oncemore upon that doorknob, placed squarely and indelibly in the middle! Such is the power of Middle-Earth as imagined by Peter Jackson. Because his Lord of The Rings trilogy was such a cultural paradigm, such a monolithic, generation-defining event, every familiar face or object or strain of music that pops up in this long-awaited prequel pulsates with nostalgic emotion, charged with the kind of meaning we attribute to our own lived experiences. We know this universe. We love this universe. Thus, one of the joys of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, which tells the story of Frodo's Uncle Bilbo, is seeing that universe both preserved and extended--returning to the radiant elf haven of Rivendell while being introduced to the the rough-hewn dwarf stronghold of Erebor, reacquainting ourselves with the slyly ebullient grin of Ian McKellen's Gandalf while encountering for the first time the moody, mysterious scowl of Richard Armitrage's Thorin Oakenshield.

Indeed, both preservation and extension are at the heart of the director's vision for The Hobbit, which attempts to reclaim the epic grandeur of the Rings movies while also staying true to the playful tone of the source material, which Tolkien wrote as a bedtime story for his kid. By inflating his adaptation of a 300-page novel into a trilogy,  and borrowing liberally from Tolkien's insanely detailed appendices, Jackson aims to tell a simple, sprightly tale of a hobbit and some dwarves on a quest, while also chronicling the darker, more complex events that conspired to make Frodo's walk to Mount Doom a terrifying necessity. Simply put, the movie wants to have its tonal cake and eat it too. Do Jackson and his Kiwi Crew get away with it? Yes and no. Taken individually, both the heavy material and the lighter stuff work. Chronicling the great battles and contentious councils of Middle Earth's storied past allows Jackson to remind us that he can still shoot a charging army or a mountain trek like no one else alive. It also gives him the opportunity to bring back a few welcome faces, including Cate Blanchett's luminous Galadriel, whose dialogue with Gandalf is one of the film's most poignant and memorable moments. By contrast, telling the story of Bilbo's quest (he's out to help the dwarves slay a nasty dragon) allows him to showcase his heretofore untapped knack for genuinely clever physical comedy. Fans of the novel's famed troll scene will not be disappointed, and nor will lovers of the Gollum chapter, which is brought to the screen with just the right touch of morbid wit.

However, knitting such disparate narrative threads together into one movie does have a significant and already much-criticized drawback; all that extra backstory, fascinating as it may be, impedes the momentum of the central narrative. At the film's end, we're only six chapters into The Hobbit, and consequently the film's ending gives us the impression that, for all the sound and fury of the preceding three hours, we haven't really gotten all that far. The film's other major problem is perhaps an innate one; the twelve (twelve!) dwarves Bilbo travels with just aren't as interesting or easy to empathize with as Frodo's fellowship. Still, surely Jackson could've used action or dialogue to somehow get us emotionally invested in these characters. By the end of Fellowship, almost every individual had a story and a personality. By the end of An Unexpected Journey, only Thorin has a story. Another disappointing aspect of the picture (I can't believe I'm saying this), is the score, which is bombastic and repetitive where the LOTR trilogy's was nuanced and multifarious. Quick, name more than one memorable motif from this picture. Go crazy.

Still, don't get me wrong; The Hobbit is no Phantom Menace. It's not the kind of runaway success that the previous Middle-Earth movies were, but it does succeed, and for the same reasons those movies succeeded--it employs special effects in the service of a good story, it dodges manipulative  cliche for honest emotion, and it makes good use of a dream team of committed actors--especially Martin Freeman, in whose capable hands Bilbo becomes a more dynamic and flat-out likeable character than Frodo ever was. If The Lord of The Rings was as looming and magisterial as Gandalf the White, this first part of The Hobbit is Gandalf the Grey--a bit messy and a hare less impressive, but more often than not a good deal of fun to spend time with. B.

----

 Most Memorable Moments of 2012

Personal

(You've already read enough about Barbra, so I'll leave her out. You're welcome.)

A Happening In Zilker Park--When I look back on 2012, I'll remember it as my concert year, the one where I was lucky enough to see one of my favorite bands (Coldplay) as well as my all-time favorite artist (I'm confident you can figure this one out). Sandwiched between those two indelible performances was my very first trip to a music festival. In mid-October, I journeyed to the state's capital with some of my very favorite people to attend the three day concert series/hipster convention known as Austin City Limits. On the day I attended, the madly talented, female-dominated lineup played music that miraculously mirrored the changing weather; Swedish folkies First Aid Kit strummed sweet, lyrical serenades that matched up with the gentle warmth of the day's early hours, alt-rock goddess LP and soul-jazz starlet Esperanza Spalding played with a white-hot emotional intensity that nearly outshone the blistering afternoon sun, and the ever-entrancing Florence Welch used "Cosmic Love" as an otherwordly lullaby, singing the day to sleep as that same sun set over thousands of blissed-out concertgoers. I suppose I should also mention that this was also the place where I first purchased and consumed something known as "boxed water".

Booked for the Summer--I spent a hefty chunk of my summer as Barnes and Nobles' official music cashier and de facto receptionist. It was my first time working for someone not directly related to me--and it was a doozy. It had its ups (debating Woody Allen's oeuvre with a retired movie buff) and downs (cleaning up after a customer whose liberal attitude towards bodily fluids would've made the Farrelly Brothers blush), but it was rarely boring and often entertaining. Did I mention the employee discount?

Public

The Year of The Shooting--I wrote about the Aurora shooting. I considered writing about the Wisconsin shooting, but I was still too wrung out from writing about the Aurora shooting.  I felt the need to write about the Connecticut shooting, but what was left to say after the Aurora shootings and the Wisconsin shootings and the Oregon shootings? In 2012, we lost more than mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. We lost our sense of security, our feeling that certain places--shopping malls, movie theaters, first grade classrooms--were somehow sacred, somehow inviolable. Let's hope that 2013 is the year we regain that sense of security. Let's hope it's the year I don't have to write about a single mass shooting.

Karl Rove's Meltdown--- I was tempted to choose Obama's victory speech, but I feel it's more appropriate to include this already-immortal moment in cable-news history, one that taught me the true meaning of schadenfreude. As GOP strategist Karl Rove offered an interpretation of the election results that eschewed math, statistics, and common sense, his Fox news flunkies did something incredible; they stood up and shut him down. This year, Republicans ran on a platform that, like Rove's, spat in the face of logic--one that feared gay marriage, preached knee-jerk austerity, and insisted that covering a few paltry tax reforms and haphazard cuts to health and safety were the best way to reduce our deficit. Like Rove, this year's GOP offered bad ideas. Like those Fox News hosts, the American people said "Thanks, but no thanks." As a result, my guy was re-elected, and, perhaps more importantly, many in the Republican Party are returning to Planet Earth. People like Jeb Bush and Bobby Jindal are trying to steer the party back to the center, focusing on conservative solutions instead of far-right obstructionism. Obama's win is a big deal, but the way in which the other party responds to its loss may very well be just as historic.


The Olympics--As I watched Michael Phelps swim, I cheered his victories--and the fact that I'd finally found a sport worthy of my short attention span. As I watched Usain Bolt sprint into legend, I remembered that our love of a great success story is one that transcends national and cultural boundaries. And, as I watched the opening ceremony, I finally learned what happens when you combine a flash rave, a history lesson, and a fairy tale on qualuudes.

The One Where I See Barbra Streisand

Prelude

 

Before heading to the MGM Grand to make my dream come true, I had lunch with my 94-year-old Great Aunt Esther at a hole-in-the-wall deli in suburban Nevada. As with most of conversations one has with old Jewish women, this one featured plenty of inquiries about the present ("What subjects are you taking?") and common-sense suggestions for the future ("From now on, wash your hands with lemon. It does wonders, I'm telling you!"). But over the two-plus hours we dined together, the conversation kept coming back around the reason I was in town to begin with.

"I can't believe you're seeing Barbra", she said, italicizing Mrs. Streisand's name by making a sweeping gesture with her little hands. "You know, I'll never forget the first time I saw her."

Then, leaning in conspiratorially--her favorite way to begin any story--she told me what she remembered. She grew up in a cramped New Jersey household with seven siblings, a chornically ill mother, and an Orthodox Rabbi for a father. Not surprisingly, theirs was a supremely religious abode; murmured prayers were a constant, and the hum of the newfangled television was a rarity.

"But Papa made an exception for Barbra", she said wistfully. "We watched all her TV specials, everything she was in. When he listened to her sing 'Happy Days Are Here Again', Papa was in awe. He said 'Kids, you need to watch this'. He said it sounded a little bit like davening." Davening, for those who don't know, refers to the entrancing lilt with which Jewish clergymen and women intone prayers. In other words, Esther's father believed what many of Barbra's most ardent fans believe--that her voice isn't just one of the wonders of our world, it's somehow otherworldly. She sings like Shakespeare wrote, like Liszt played, not just beautifully but somehow transcendentally. In an uncharacteristic burst of eloquence, fellow fan Rosie O'Donnell put it this way: "She's definitely channeling something. She's a huge satellite dish."

We love Barbra for her rags-to-riches story, her striking individuality, her groundbreaking charity work, and her status as one of the last surviving stars of Hollywood's Musical Golden Age. But most of all, we love That Voice. We love its unmatched tonal purity, its unimpeachable sense of rhythm. We marvel at its versatility, the way it can tackle a Hebrew hymn or a Stevie Wonder tune with equal success. We stand in awe of its burnished lower register, and break out into goosebumps as it slides seamlessly into the upper octaves, never once cracking or breaking. We tear up at the miniscule but monumentally important details, at the poignant pause during a ballad or the bitter laugh during a torch song. And, of course, we piss our pants when it goes for those high notes, neither scooping up to them or riffing them into incoherence but hitting them with all the clarity and profound power of a church bell.

What do we do when we aren't busy worshiping the voice? Bitch about how hard it is to hear live. After she flubbed lyrics and faced down assassination threats at her famed 1968 Central Park concert, Streisand ceased performing live altogether, showing her face only for the occasional thousands-of-dollars-per-seat fundraiser. Determined to overcome her iconic stage fright, she embarked on some hugely successful touch-and-go tour dates in the mid-to-late 90's, and in 2006, she mounted her first ever big-time world tour at the age of sixty-three--a tour that, as luck would have it, culminated mere months before I watched Funny Girl, the gateway drug to my full-on Streisand addiction. So, when she announced that she'd be embarking on another tour in 2012, I went meshugenah for two reasons; because it was her first tour since I fell in love with her, and because, with the singer pushing seventy, it might very well be her last. Damned if I'd let seeing my musical idol in concert crop up on my list of could woulda shoulda's, I scraped together some of my savings, assembled an itinerary, and, called up an equally ardent Streisand fan by the name of "Mom". Three months later I was at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, Nevada, waiting with bated breath to see Barbra Streisand perform live. Just me, my mother, and 12,000 of our closest friends.

Those friends, by the way, came in all shapes and sizes. There was the young Polish woman who grew up with A Star Is Born, the Japanese couple treating themselves for their anniversary, and even a couple Real Housewives of New Jersey lookalikes who sent my blood pressure soaring to untold levels when they attempted to jack our seats. Mostly though, there were Jewish Women of A Certain Age (JWCA), the kind Mike Myers made fun of so brilliantly in his Linda Richman SNL sketches. These were the true fans--the ones who knew which album came out when, who brandished comprehensive lists of Barbra's dreamy male co-stars, who'd committed her family tree to memory. As I listened to them, I was occasionally tempted to interject, to make my own contribution to their Encyclopedia Streisandia. Indeed, my interest level in their conversations grew so high that I feared for a moment that I might leave the building as a JWCA, adjusting my shawl and muttering about how they got the lox-to-bagel ratio wrong. My fears turned out to be wholly unfounded--I did, thank God, remain a twenty-year old boy, albeit one who screamed like a thirteen-year-old girl when the overture ended and a spotlight came up to reveal Streisand standing center stage, mic in hand.

Act I

After what seemed like a yearlong standing ovation, the orchestra cued up, and Streisand stepped forward for her first song, the titular tune from her 1971 film On A Clear Day You Can See Forever. It's one of the Big Guns in Barbra's Greatest Hits Arsenal, and as she eased into the opening lines, I bet we were all wondering the same thing; could she still nail the song's famous belt-it-to-the-rafter climax? A few minutes later, we had our answer; absolutely. The Voice was still there, a realization I emphasized by tapping my mother on the shoulder so hard she almost fell out of her seat. Not surprisingly, Barbra remained in complete control of her craft. What was surprising, however, was her newfound ability to cut loose. Streisand, long known for her slavish adherence to the script, no longer seemed like the imposing diva who's rehearsed every little note and gesture to death; with a handful of wildly successful live tours under her belt, she's noticeably more relaxed, still decidedly the Reigning Queen of Song, but also more than willing to come down off her pedestal every now and then to commiserate with the commoners. She cooed at a youngster in the crowd ("Oh, sweetie...this is a three-hour show. I hope you don't get sleepy!"), cracked wise about the famous to-the-left-of-left political beliefs ("Now, I wouldn't dream of telling you who to vote for..."), and even paused multiple times just to thank us for being there ("Touring isn't easy for me, but you guys make it so gratifying..."). As a long-time fan, it was positively thrilling to see Barbra open up like this; nearly forty-five years after Central Parkgate, she's finally learned to love live performance, finally developed a knack for working a crowd.

It sounds strange to say, but I was proud of her. After all, part of the magic of Streisand is that her persona invites such intense identification--her triumphs and tribulations become your own. When she dedicated a stripped-down version of "The Way We Were" to its late composer, Marvin Hamlisch, her grief was palpable, and her very real ache filled the room. Her "Smile" was so pure and playful that by the end of it we were all just as full of sap-free happy juice as she seemed to be. The most interesting iteration of this effect for me, however, occurred during "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered", an old Rodgers-and-Hart chestnut that she first performed during the New York City jazz club dates that launched her career. To watch Streisand perform this song was to catch her in the fascinating act of watching herself, of thinking back to the days when she was merely a gawky Brooklyn kid with a big nose and bigger voice trying to make it to the top. She was lost in the revery of her past, and so were we, if the ten seconds of silence before the standing ovation were any indication. And, of course, when she closed the first act with "Don't Rain On My Parade", we were right there alongside her, riding high on the here-I-am-world thrill of the ultimate underdog anthem. Admittedly, she now delivers it less like a spitfire up-and-comer and more like the world's most belligerent Grandma, but when she reaches that climax, no one cares. Thousands of theatre kids have belted out this anthem in their cars, but no singer of any caliber can do it quite like Barbra, can come at those final phrases with such dizzyingly emphatic energy:

"Nobody, no no-body
Is gonna-
Rain on my-
ParaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAde!!"

The lights go crazy. The orchestra goes for broke. The crowd goes wild. I have a series of small seizures. End Act I.

Act II

The second act began with a double whammy, featuring both the show's funniest moment and one of its most touching. Before Streisand returned to the stage, the video screens descended, but instead of the interviews or photo montages that normally precede her second acts, we got a YouTube video of--you guessed it--Duck Sauce's "Barbra Streisand", a techno smash that pokes glib hipster fun at the iconic diva. Even if it left some of the older crowd looking as if they'd wandered into the wrong part of the hotel, it was an appreciable nod to her younger fans, and a welcome display of self-deprecating humour from the woman who once insisted that she be photographed only from her "good side". As the last strands of the Duck Sauce song faded away, the screens transitioned to something a little older; the final scene from Funny Girl, with Barbra's Fanny Brice character getting dumped by Omar Sharif's Nick mere minutes before she's due onstage for a concert. Sitting in her dressing room in shock, Fanny sweeps back her hair, blinks away the tears, and marshals her remaining strength--after all, the show must go on. Then, as the twenty-five year old Barbra onscreen walked onstage to perform "My Man", the lights came up on the real stage, and there stood seventy-year-old Barbra, singing the opening bars of the same song. 

It was magic, pure and simple, and so was her rendition of the tune. Over forty years later, she still tears into this greatest of torch songs with all she's got, leaning into that surging finale ("The world is bright/Alriiiiiiight!") with enough force to prompt a mid-song outburst of applause and holding that final note a few seconds longer than the orchestra just to prove she can. It was an indelible highlight of the evening, and just one of the countless moments that left me in awe of a voice that still throbbed with the power and potency most singers start to lose in their mid-50's. If anything, she sounded even better than she did during her last tour, having settled into the deeper, warmer timbre that's come with age. This was clearest of all during her heartfelt rendition of her signature song, "People", performed with a slower, string-driven arrangement that allowed her to really belt out that penultimate portion like never before. Of course, the Streisand magic isn't just in the Big High Notes, it's in the little details as well. She turned "My Funny Valentine" into a deeply haunting tragedy in miniature, using her exquisite legato to turn words like "favorite" and ""smart" into self-contained pleas. On "How Deep Is The Ocean?", a duet with none other than her son Jason, she pulled back, delivering Irving Berlin's lyrics with soft, honeyed, unforced affection. On "Here's To Life", she drew out the final phrases, doing justice to the song's celebratory lyrics by offering up each word like a little toast.

When it comes to singing, every lyric is a symbol, and Streisand, like all great vocalists, makes us understand what those symbols mean.

Never was this truer than during the evening's sterling finale. I swear, if the prior two hours had been a combination Justin Bieber-Ke$ha concert, it still would've been worth the exorbitant ticket prices just to see Barbra perform her eleven o' clock number. You'd expect one of her chart-topping hits. But among Barbra's innumerable talents is a knack for surprise, and she didn't disappoint. Instead, she trotted out "Make Our Garden Grow", a poignant Leonard Bernstein ballad that she recorded in the early 90's but never released. About half a decade after she committed it to wax, it made its way onto the internet, eventually becoming a fan favorite--and a personal favorite of mine. You don't expect your favorite artist to sing a song of theirs that never even technically saw the light of day, but there she was singing it all the same. I couldn't help but think of that old Tennessee Williams quote; "Sometimes there's God so quickly." The song, taken from the musical adaptation of Candide, is as touching as anything ever written for the theatre, a full-throated ode to the small, fragile joys that keep us afloat throughout life's raging storm;

"We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good
We'll do the best we know.
We'll build our house and chop our wood
And make our garden grow."

Gently caressing the song's tender opening passages, Barbra built smartly and steadily to the operatic conclusion, delivering that earth-shaking final note with her singular power--the kind that, in Richard Rodgers' words, resembles nothing so much as "the lift of a climbing bird." Then, amidst an eruption of applause, she segued seamlessly into one of her greatest hits, "Somewhere", just as deeply affecting and defiantly hopeful as it was when she recorded it for The Broadway Album thirty long years ago. For those who were curious, here's where the tears finally fell. And here's where the crowd shot up out of their seats for the loudest ovation of the night.

After a seemingly endless series of bows, Streisand briefly vanished from the stage, then returned for two encores. The first was "Happy Days Are Here Again", which she famously duetted on with the late Judy Garland. Here, Barbra invited her sister Roslyn onstage to sing Judy's part, and their interplay was endearing as it was adorably genuine. The final tune was "Some Other Time"--a jazz standard like the kind a teenaged Barbra used to perform in crowded piano bars tucked away on bustling street corners. As I listened to the wistful lyrics ("Just when the fun is starting/Comes the time for parting"), I reflected back on the evening that was. It wasn't a perfect one; bringing along popera phenoms Il Volo to sing backup didn't detract from the show, but it didn't add much either, and it seemed rather silly to invite trumpeter Chris Botti along without having he and Barbra perform any of the pieces they've recorded together. But perfection was never what I was looking for. I wanted confirmation--confirmation that this woman who's inspired, intrigued, and moved me so was just as peerless onstage as she was on screen and on record. By the end of the night, I had that assurance and then some.  

Here she is, I thought as she took her final bow. Here's the woman whose voice got me into singing, and whose extraordinary story reminds me and countless others that marching to the beat of one's own drum isn't a mark of shame but a badge of honor. Here she is. And there I was, the luckiest person in the world.