Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens...

Happy summer, everyone! Now that I got time to breathe, think, and even form coherent sentences, it's time to discuss some of MY favorite things.
Oprah ain't got shit on me.

1) Jizz-worthy international posters-back in the day when rat-a-tat dialogue was banged out on typewriters and "Technicolor" was a buzzword, film posters were hand-drawn, in painstaking detail. Because of this, several films have stunning, unique posters created specifically for their runs in other countries. They're normally hard to find, but the good folks at dominiquebesson.com gots 'em all in one place. They're priced in the hundreds, but until I've accrued the money to fill my room with these pieces, I'm content to just look up at them in awe as they fill my computer screen-



Get ready for an orgasm, Bogie devotees-

I think I might sink a chunk of leftover Bar Mitzvah change into buying the Chinatown one. Whaddya think?

2) "Stay With Me"-One of my good friends, former fellow Jesus School attendee Trevor Garza, directs some pretty badass shorts. We've collaborated before, and we plan to again this summer on a project I'll talk about at length in a future post. "Stay with Me" is my favorite work of his. If Charlie Kaufman skimped on his Prozac, he might come up with a heady, ravishing fever dream like this one. Trevor and I share a fascination with the life of the mind, the way it can adapt to seemingly any situation. He explores that concept here with no dialogue, and its a thrill to see a film that revels so astonishingly in the purely visual capabilities of the medium. It's something his favorite director, Stanley Kubrick, liked to do. Look at Trevor's confidence with the camera, and you'll see some similarities between the two.

Stay With Me from Obsessive Imagemaking on Vimeo.

How does the mind perceive Love?

3) Raya Yarbrough (Demit, what a name!)-Jazz fans (Erin Little/Karen Hess COUGH) take note. Yarbrough is part of a school of artists-Spalding, Gardot, and Peyroux amongst her cohorts-who are reinventing the form by dispatching album after album of original, intelligent, pop-inflected soon-to-be standards. Yarbrough, an Armenian vocalist and guitarist who looks like Maya Rudolph after a few chasers, delivers sultry string-driven ballads with a striking plaintiveness that reminds me of Stevie Holland. In her own works, the lyric imagery is stunning-"Vice and Vanity" plays like a Maya Angelou poem set to music-and the melodies are memorable-the bass-driven "Sorrow's Eyes" is as slyly sexy and hummable a jazz song we've had since Norah Jones's "I've Got To See You Again". Her covers are few, but well-chosen and delivered with impeccable phrasing-one of my favorite oldies, "Early Autumn", is given a lush, laidback treatment here that recasts the bitter ballad as a sweetly melancholy depiction of post-heartbreak laziness. No genre has a past like jazz, and thanks to Yarbrough and her ilk, its got a helluva future as well.

4) Cindi's Challah french toast-Eat it before the summer ends. Challah is a Jew bread with extra egg and a little soethin' sweet that, when properly prepared makes for an orgasmic, melt-in-your mouth rendition of my favorite breakfast item. This item was once only available during Jew gatherings at the Walker house (thanks, Grandma Sally), but now the unbeatable Cindi's has it on their menu, and I'm proud to say it comes with my stamp of Yid approval.
and of course,
5) My HEAVENLY HUNDRED PICK OF THE WEEK-

Good Morning Vietnam

The 25: Williams gone wild.

I've got no pretenses here. This film purports to be about Adrian Cronauer (Robin Williams), a military DJ stationed in 'Nam who riles the tight-assed officers in charge when he breaks the Lawrence Welk mold and provides a radio hour jam-packed with four-letter words and rock music. It does a reasonable job of telling this story, getting from scene to scene without choking on much sentimental sap (though, as is usual in this type of picture, the Establishment is painted in frustratingly generic colors of black and white only), but its real purpose is this; it allows our greatest living comedian to riff like a modern-day Marx Brother for nearly two hours. There was a script, yes, but its our great good luck that Williams basically refused to stick to it. He riffs on everything-fashion, bad sex, Elvis-and director Barry Levinson, luckily, was shrewd enough to leave Williams alone and just shoot what he saw. Fans of comedy in general-prepare to have your funnybone broken.

Fans of Williams himself (like me) just sit there scratching their heads every viewing-how does this man come up with jokes of such broad relevance and scathing specificity at the same time? How does he nail the articulation of every phrase while never seeming smug or pedantic? And how in God's name can one man impersonate so many others SO flawlessly?! Williams's talents are normally mishandled-in films like Patch Adams or Flubber, his motormouthed talents are toned down to fit this conceit or that plotline-his raunchy style of comedy canNOT be made accessible to all audiences, no matter how hard the suits of the screen try to fight that fact. But for this film, this one film, Levinson, for the mostpart, lets Williams off the leash, letting him revel in R-rated heaven... that is, until the script saddles him with one subplot too many, and the proceedings get a tad too maudlin for my picky tastes. But for its golden middle act, Good Morning Vietnam, picked with golden 60's rebel-rock and thrilling to its stars comic invention, is a prime exhibit of one man's dirty, delicious genius.

The Singular Scene: The first time Williams shouts out those immortal, titular words. He's dropped a bomb of a different kind-a verbal one. The intercutting of Cronauer's wild-man routine with the stunned reactions of listening soldiers gives us our first taste of the movies spicy sense of humour.

Of Shitbag Sequels and Samuel L. Jackson

Summer is upon us! (Movie-wise, if not I'm-free-and-clear-of-the-deadweight-on-my-back-known-as-secondary-education-wise). As such, I'll be going to the movie films alot. I'll post brief reviews of what I see, so's as you know whether to see or skip it.
Let's start with:

IRON MAN 2: Like a cinematic piece of swiss cheese; it's not bad, and it's got some bite, but you can't ignore all the holes. The film is impressively designed and surprisingly well-acted-Robert Downey Jr. and Mickey Rourke are on fire here as our hero and villain, especially when they share the screen, Sam Rockwell and ScarJo are welcome additions to the fold, and returning actors acquit themselves honorably. However, it's also quite dumb, something part uno of the Tony Stark saga never was. Some of the plot machinations here make the James Bond films look like exercises in logical soundness. It's passable, silly summer fun, but from such an illustrious cast and crew I expected smarts as well as snazz. B-.

Ah, yet another disappointing sequel. But what are the most disappointing of all time? In recent years, Quantum of Solace and, of course, Star Wars: Attack of the Clones let me down, but the biggest kick in the teeth so to speak is, without a doubt....


Spider Man 3, which played like a cut-rate Scary Movie parody of itself. Spidey gettin' down to "Stayin' Alive?". Pass the Pepto-Bismol, por favor! What's YOUR pick? (Hint: I'm subtly suggesting you comment upon this blog.)
But enough of the shit. Let's talk of the sugar, the cream of the cinematic crop, the HEAVENLY HUNDRED! This week;

EVE'S BAYOU:

The 25: Think Voodoo's just hammer-horror hokum? This engrossing backwoods barnburner makes you think twice.


Toni Morrison, eat your heart out. This picture is everything that Morrison's books are, and that the adaptations of her books are not; excitingly intelligent, intriguingly mystical, and deeply, deeply disturbing. We start with a simple, shocking revelation; Eve Batiste (Jurnee Smollet), accidentally killed her father at 14. From there, we spiral backwards into a twisty plot that involves several generations of a French-American black family, and effortlessly incorporates a range of supernatural elements, from prophesy to, yes, voodoo dolls. I won't say much more about characters or specific moments in the picture. It's a blast going into this one without knowing what's going to happen or who's who-thanks to a richly detailed, dialect-heavy (but always accessibly) script by director Kasi Lemmons, and note-perfect work from the ensemble (especially Smollet, who carries the proceedings on her small but more-than-capable shoulders), these characters and surroundings are so fully realized that you feel as if you're reading a novel about them, for rarely does a movie manage to provide such depth of insight into the people who populate its world. Even the smallest character is fascinating in their own way; even locations that only function as backgrounds shimmer with a you-are-there shantytown allure.

What pulls you in and floors you, although the sweeping visuals don't hurt, is its novelistic quality, the fact that its filled with the kind of shades-of-grey complexity the cinema tends to shy away from in order to provide cheap laughs or luxuriant tears. In this film, you won't cry at all, and you won't laugh much. What the film provides instead is a sense of wonder; it bequeaths unto us the thrill of discovering a staggeringly original universe the likes of which we can only stumble upon in the movies. You've never seen a world like the one Eve calls home, and I guarantee you never will again. How often can one say that?!

(PS-I couldn't fit this anywhere else into the review, but as a philandering doctor, Samuel L. Jackson forever proves he's not just a cariacature; here, he provides an unflinchingly portrait of self-rationalizing evil that deserves to be remembered. Fans of black music history will be interested to know that the great Diahann Carroll makes a scene-stealing appearance here as well.)

The Singular Scene: As Eve's Aunt Mozelle (Debbi Morgan), reveals how one of her many husbands was killed, she walks directly into a mirror, re-living the memory as Eve watches in the reflection, mortified and spellbound...just like us.

Fun Fact: The L in Jackson name stands for Leroy.

Movie Mamas and Jailbirds!

"Mama who bore me, mama who gave me..."

That's right, its the week to honor the woman from between whose legs you oh-so gracefully emerged. In honor of this occasion, I present a tribute to the greatest maternal mistresses ever to hold their own in a darkened theater.

Oh, so many to choose from! Elaine from Almost Famous, Edna from Hairspray (whether its Travolta OR Divine filling those high heels), Beverly in Serial Mom, Erin in, well, Erin Brokovich, all come to mind. But in the end, I gotta give pride of place to these two lovely ladies:


Aurora Greenway (Shirley Maclaine), Terms of Endearment

If the film doesn't quite live up to its reputation, Maclaine's performance certainly does. You think your mum is clingy? Take a look at this woman. She often insists on sleeping in the same bed as her daughter, automatically disapproves of every single penis-bearing personage she brings home, and refuses to attend her kid's wedding because of the groom's low-paying job. Aurora's helicopter-mom antics are a hoot, until the films final half-hour, when the story slides into tragic territory, and her fierce, wolf-like devotion to her offspring becomes heart-tuggingly touching. When she dishes out an exquisite helping of hellfire to the nurse who won't give her ailing child pain meds, we find ourselves wishing our mom would behave the exact same way under the circumstances.

And, of course,

The Bride (Uma Thurman), Kill Bill Films
The killer formerly known as Beatrix Kiddo takes loyalty to new levels in Quentin Tarantino's pulp epic. Don't you wish your mother would slice and dice her way through 88 crazy Asians, a rock-salt wielding hick, and a one-eyed skank with a Hanzo sword in the name of love? And after all that, as evidenced by the film's final scenes, she looks to be a pretty good mama as well (awww, they're watching cartoons together!) Exuding blood-pumping ire and parental warmth all at once is quite a task. And, being a Tarantino film, she does it all barefoot, cold-eyed, and with sex appeal to spare.


Now, on to this week's film:

O BROTHER WHERE ART THOU

The 25: The Odyssey in overalls, and the first of many Coen works to make my list.


There are about 5 filmmakers that will make this list several times each, for they are, after all, my favorite filmmakers. Look for lots of Altman, Allen, Spielberg, Tarantino, and, the makers of this oddball crowd-pleaser, the Coens.

You keep rubbing your eyes in this movie (films that make you want to rub other parts of your body will be addressed in future posts), not because you're tired, but because you can't believe what you're seeing. The Coens are adept at exploring the dark side of human nature in their work, poking fun at it without ever skimping on the bone-deep honesty needed to make their point. But here, they're really just cutting loose, spinning a great American yarn with all the skill of an ace magician.

The film is an uber-loose retelling of The Odyssey, set in the 1930's Deep South, with George Clooney as a Ulysess Everett McGill, jailbird fleeing home to return to his wife (Holly Hunter). He's accompanied by a pair of yokels, Pete (John Turturro)and Delmar(Tim Blake Nelson), because, well, they're literally chained to him. I suppose McGill's quest to reach wifey is really the "plot" per se, but here, as my sophomore English teacher liked to say, The Journey Is The Reward. The Coens (who also wrote the film) use each new destination on our hero's road home as an opportunity to stage one hysterical comic setpiece after another-we're talking belly-laugh material here. The fugitives encounter famous bluesman Robert Johnson (or do they)? They accidentally crash a KKK rally. They get caught in a car with a cow-slaughtering would-be gangster. They get the shit beat of them by a half-man, half-animal entrepreneur (John Goodman ftw). They unintentionally sabotage a political campaign. Hell, they even lay down a hit record!

The Coens are masters of comedic timing as always, and all the actors do a bang-up job, which isn't surprising considering they're playing archetypes more than people. What's surprising about the picture is the way it becomes more than situational comedy-there's a mystical element here. There's a discussion about the nature of the devil, a baptism, a sudden, larger-than-life occurrence that takes the plot in an entirely different direction. The filmmakers manage to create one of the flat-out funniest films of the past decade, and to wrestle-playfully, yes, but palpably-with the supernatural at the same time. This element renders the movie too substantial to be a here-today, gone-tomorrow comedy.

But forget all the spiritual shtuff. The simple fact of the matter is watching this movie is such a flat-out fun experience it'll give you a warm tingle. It's a joy to look at-great actors cut loose, captured by the best cinematographer of his generation, Roger Deakins, who makes the ol' South magical and menacing all at once. There's a nice big bowl of ear candy for you to snack on as well-the dialogue, shaped by two writers who have a unique, visionary way of working with the language, the Grammy-winning musical accompaniment. In the end, this film about a bunch of unshaven po' boys is, ironically, an embarrassment of riches.

The Singular Scene: Clooney and Co. perform the film's signature tune, "I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow", at a political rally, in a moment of sheer exuberance the likes of which we don't see on screen much anymore. Gotta love them Soggy Bottom Boys.

The Face Debate

I made a comment last post about the lack of Great Movie Faces current gracing our silver screens. It provoked a small (and I do mean small-three people were involved) uproar. Nein, nein, nein! They shouted! Robert Downey Jr. and Brad Pitt sure possessed top-grade movie mugs. Oh yes, yes, yes, I replied. Those faces are nice-lookin', sure (I have a man-crush on Downey's, if you must know), but they lack something. It's not that they're unpleasant to look at. It's that you don't conceivably have to look at them-they don't exude that unnameable magnetism many Old Hollywood-ers did.

A great cinematic face dares you not to look at it-fills the the screen so totally and vibrantly that every emotion, every tiny expression, every detail registers. Even looking at the shape of their facial features is, in its own way, a pleasurable act-pleasurable enough to carry us through mediocre material, and to elevate great material to stratospheric levels of excellence.

The two all time greats?

Bogie.

Audrey.


Alas, no such faces grace our screen today. I should note, while few actors come close to the Classic Hollywood Face Template, a couple of stars exude their own unique kind of power-I'm thinking the aforementioned Terence Stamp, the lovable, wounded-puppy charisma of John Cusack, the cool-cat allure of Uma Thurman, and the beacon of sensual ravishment also known as Cate Blanchett. However, the best Screen Face in the world right now belongs, I think, to this guy;



Oh, Georgio. You throw effortless confidence and world-weary vulnerability into a blender, and somehow produce the Best Movie Face of your generation. It made
Ocean's 11 good. It made the two sequels...watchable. And, in that tour de force final act (filled, mind you, with close-ups and one-shots designed specifically to show off that visage) it made Up In The Air great. Those are my thoughts on The Faces of Film. Your turn.

Ah, but I'm not done, faithful reader. Let's talk for a bit about #97 on my Heavenly Hundred List. We've had a group of Yiddish-influenced space rebels, a French chanteuse, and a Cockney gunslinger. Now (continuing through Europe, unintentionally, I assure you) we have an Irish busker who makes beautiful music in the quiet triumph that is-

ONCE

The 25: Two musicians flirt with the notion of romance. Their music, meanwhile, flirts with brilliance.

What makes this movie notable is not what it has, but what it doesn't-no major stars (or even B or C listers), no prestigious director, no acclaimed screenwriter or cinematographer. It was directed by a music video artiste, and stars two musicians who never acted before and probably will not act again. It's one of those happy accidents that occurs when people with no experience in an art form manage to master it anyway.

Once, the sweetest, most unassuming movie I can imagine, belongs to the Guy (Glen Hansard), an Irish street singer, and the Girl (Market Irglova), a Czech immigrant who plays the piano and hides a shocking secret. They fall in...well not quite love. They can't seem to work out the nature of their relationship, and (SEMI-SPOILER) they really never do. But this picture isn't really about a story. It's about feelings, about capturing that tentative hope with which broken-hearted people eye each other, and their silent desperation to mend. It achieves this, mostly, through the music, which is folk-rock at its finest-comparisons to Ray Lamontagne and Damien Rice come to mind, but this score is a thing of beauty all on its own. Director John Carney made a crucial decision regarding the use of said score; the characters sing, yes, but not frequently. We get only a handful of songs, all seen in realistic settings such as rehearsal rooms or the alley where the Guy plays. The thing is, we get all of them-Carney doesn't cut away mid-song, but instead stations his camera right up in his performers faces, so close that the emotion seems to seep out of their eyes and into our souls.

Sounds cheesy.
Holds true.

Credit is also due to the principles. Hansard and Irglova weren't really acting-they were trying to figure out their own feelings for each other during the shoot (offscreen, they dated for a short time, then sadly, split). As such, the usual problems that plague romances-the overacting, the forced attempts at "eloquence"-are nowhere to be found. Neither actor feels compelled to shout-they talk as normal people would talk, stuttering, mumbling, letting thoughts stream out in messy strands of shabbily disguised longing and need. They seem to be not Movie People, but real life people, scrappy, good-hearted beings of hidden hurts and treasured little joys. You wouldn't be surprised to see two people just like this on the street. Who knows how much behind-the-scenes emotions informed the onscreen interaction, but who cares!The two of them sell this film, helping it to pull off a plot twist that would sink many a Big-Budget Weepie.

Once is a mere 89 minutes, was shot mostly in one-take snippets with primitive hand-helds, and consists of little more than two person conversations punctuated by the occasional musical interlude. It sounds slight, like one of those art-house trifles that vanishes from your conscious when the lights come up. But this one stays with you. You won't necessarily think about it much-its not an intellectual work. It's a work about feelings. And the emotional impact of this one is subtle but strong, true, and long-lasting.

THE SINGULAR SCENE: The two perform "Falling Slowly". I wish you could've seen this scene in a theater. 15 minutes into the film and already we were all engulfed by stunned silences, started by our quickened pulse, embarrassed and excited by our silent tears.

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