As is true of most men who've read Wuthering Heights, I did so only because it was forced upon me in high school. (Wuthering Heights and 17-year-old boys: Surely there is no greater possible mismatch of book and reader, and if there is a hell, countless English teachers deserve to be sent there for that reason alone.) William Wyler's film version of the novel at least has the advantage of being shorter, covering only the first half of the book, and ignoring entirely the second generation of Lintons and Earnshaws.
No, this version is all about the tormented love of Cathy and Heathcliff (Merle Oberon and Laurence Olivier, each indescribably lovely), if "love" is the appropriate word for their neverending cycle of "I love you, I hate you, I love you, I hate you" mindgames. Such romantic psychosis will inevitably have victims among the innocent bystanders, and our focus today is one of these -- Isabella Linton, as memorably portrayed by Geraldine Fitzgerald.
Isabella is the sister of Edgar, whose marriage to Cathy is one of the many weapons with which she strikes at Heathcliff; Heathcliff will marry Isabella for pretty much the same reason. (Neither Linton sibling realizes until it's far too late that their spouse doesn't really love them; emotionally speaking, the Lintons are not the brightest of families.)
Fitzgerald's portrayal is shaped to an unusually large extent by the directorial choices made by William Wyler; our perception of Isabella is formed by the way he places her within scenes, and by the small bits of action she is given. The first few times we see Isabella, she is always doing something for someone else -- fetching tea for Lockwood, bringing brandy to Cathy, chasing after the doctor to confirm his instructions. If we see Isabella enter the scene, we are certain to see her leave it; she's always exiting the room for some reason. And if she doesn't actually leave the room, she draws attention away from herself in some other fashion; in one striking moment, she sits near Cathy and Edgar, and reclines in her seat, taking herself out of the frame.
She is, in short, presented as a subservient and self-effacing woman, so when she gets her first major bit of dialogue after Heatchliff's first visit to the newly married Lintons, it's a shock. It's not just that we're hearing her speak, but that she's actually scolding her brother and his wife for their rudeness. A little bit of lust -- I refuse to call it "love;" this is the first time she's met Heathcliff, and they've been in the same room for less than two minutes -- has brought Isabella to life.
Once awakened, she's a bold and forthright woman, telling Heathcliff, "I shall let you hold my hand underneath my fan" -- hey, by Emily Bronte standards, that practically makes her a whore -- and flirting shamelessly with him. (I love her disappointed look of disgust when another woman sits beside her in the seat that she had meant for Heathcliff.) Suddenly, we realize that Isabella is lovely; she and Wyler have so skillfully kept us from focusing on her that we hadn't noticed it before.
Not only does Isabella change, but the way Wyler positions her in scenes begins to change. True, she still exits the scene after her balcony conversation with Heathcliff, but she takes him with her, and by the time we reach the bedroom scene in which she tells Cathy of her engagement, it's the other characters who leave the room, and for the first time, there's a fadeout on Isabella.
(Notice, though, that even this key event in Isabella's life is of interest primarily for its effect on others, which is as good a definition of a supporting character as I can think of. At the moment she announces her engagement, her back is to the camera, and our focus is on Cathy's reaction.)
Our brief glimpse of Isabella after her marriage to Heathcliff is shocking; gone are the bright eyes and radiant smile. This Isabella is a gloomy, brooding frump; she's dressed so somberly that we could easily mistake her for a widow. Gone is the flirtatious confidence of the courtship, replaced with a desperate, frantic desire to please. "I'll be your slave," she pleads, not realizing that she's only reminding him of happier days with Cathy.
Fitzgerald's performance is lovely to watch, and Isabella's progression from naive child to lively flirt to devastated wife is always convincing. Many actresses would have begged for something more to do in the first half-hour of the movie, but for me, the transformation is all the more powerful because Fitzgerald has the confidence to let the shy, quiet Isabella establish herself in the background.
June 21, 2008
June 15, 2008
MOVIES: Smackdown 1939: Maria Ouspenskaya, Love Affair
I knew Ouspenskaya's name from crossword puzzles; there was a time when "Actress Ouspenskaya" was a common clue for "Maria." ("Actress Bello" has largely taken over these days.) But the name was all I knew until watching her performance as Grandmother Janou in Love Affair.
The story is something of a Hollywood warhorse, having been remade twice, in 1957 (as An Affair to Remember) with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, and in 1994 with Warren Beatty and Annette Bening. This version gives us Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne as Michel and Terry, who meet on a trans-Atlantic cruise. They fall in love, but each is engaged to another. They agree to meet in six months atop the Empire State Building, but on her way to that rendezvous, Terry is struck by a car. She is told that she may never walk again, and chooses not to tell Michel of her condition, not wanting to be a burden to him.
The first half-hour of Love Affair is absolutely delightful; Boyer and Dunne are superb at this light romantic comedy -- she is particularly delightful, and I really must see more of her work -- and their chemistry is palpable. Ouspenskaya enters the picture when their cruise ship stops briefly in Madeira, and Michel takes Terry to visit his grandmother.
Janou lives alone in her home at the top of a hill; she is largely cut off from the world, no longer able to climb the stairs that lead to her home. She has a gardener to tend to her needs and a private chapel, and spends her days in devoted mourning for her late husband. Ouspenskaya was 63 in 1939, but it's not hard to believe her as the grandmother of 40-year-old Boyer; I'd have guessed that Janou was a good decade older than the 77 years she tells Terry.
Janou exists in the movie for one purpose -- to validate the growing love between Michel and Terry. They are, after all, each about to break the heart of their respective fiancees for what may be nothing more than a shipboard fling, and we could easily hate them both for that. Grandmother Janou, so wise, so experienced in love and heartbreak, warms to Terry instantly, telling embarrassing little stories about Michel's childhood and sharing her fear that his womanizing will eventually catch up with him ("One day life will present a bill to Michel, and he will find it hard to pay.")
Ouspenskaya is such a warm and immediately lovable presence that Janou's instant acceptance of their relationship -- she promises to one day give a cherished shawl to Terry, who has admired it -- gives the audience permission to accept them as a couple, and to forgive them for the cruelty they are about to inflict on others. (The movie barely acknowledges the fiancees, not allowing them to register as actual people.)
Unfortunately, the entrance of Grandmother Janou also marks a major shift in the movie's tone. We're no longer in the land of frothy romantic comedy, with frequent references to pink champagne; we're now in a serious romantic drama, and the rest of the movie plods a bit too heavily to the obligatory happy ending.
I kept expecting another scene with Janou after the failed rendezvous. Perhaps she would give Michel an inspirational speech that would lead him to hunt down Terry; perhaps Terry, having recovered from her accident, would journey back to Madeira, knowing that Janou could tell her how to find Michel. But that scene never came; all we get is Michel's visit to the now-empty home of his late grandmother.
A shame, that; the last half of the movie could have used another dose of Ouspenskaya's warmth and charm. It's a tiny performance, barely a glorified cameo -- she's not on screen for more than ten minutes, if that -- but Ouspenskaya has tremendous impact in her brief appearance, and the movie sags a bit when she leaves it.
The story is something of a Hollywood warhorse, having been remade twice, in 1957 (as An Affair to Remember) with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, and in 1994 with Warren Beatty and Annette Bening. This version gives us Charles Boyer and Irene Dunne as Michel and Terry, who meet on a trans-Atlantic cruise. They fall in love, but each is engaged to another. They agree to meet in six months atop the Empire State Building, but on her way to that rendezvous, Terry is struck by a car. She is told that she may never walk again, and chooses not to tell Michel of her condition, not wanting to be a burden to him.
The first half-hour of Love Affair is absolutely delightful; Boyer and Dunne are superb at this light romantic comedy -- she is particularly delightful, and I really must see more of her work -- and their chemistry is palpable. Ouspenskaya enters the picture when their cruise ship stops briefly in Madeira, and Michel takes Terry to visit his grandmother.
Janou lives alone in her home at the top of a hill; she is largely cut off from the world, no longer able to climb the stairs that lead to her home. She has a gardener to tend to her needs and a private chapel, and spends her days in devoted mourning for her late husband. Ouspenskaya was 63 in 1939, but it's not hard to believe her as the grandmother of 40-year-old Boyer; I'd have guessed that Janou was a good decade older than the 77 years she tells Terry.
Janou exists in the movie for one purpose -- to validate the growing love between Michel and Terry. They are, after all, each about to break the heart of their respective fiancees for what may be nothing more than a shipboard fling, and we could easily hate them both for that. Grandmother Janou, so wise, so experienced in love and heartbreak, warms to Terry instantly, telling embarrassing little stories about Michel's childhood and sharing her fear that his womanizing will eventually catch up with him ("One day life will present a bill to Michel, and he will find it hard to pay.")
Ouspenskaya is such a warm and immediately lovable presence that Janou's instant acceptance of their relationship -- she promises to one day give a cherished shawl to Terry, who has admired it -- gives the audience permission to accept them as a couple, and to forgive them for the cruelty they are about to inflict on others. (The movie barely acknowledges the fiancees, not allowing them to register as actual people.)
Unfortunately, the entrance of Grandmother Janou also marks a major shift in the movie's tone. We're no longer in the land of frothy romantic comedy, with frequent references to pink champagne; we're now in a serious romantic drama, and the rest of the movie plods a bit too heavily to the obligatory happy ending.
I kept expecting another scene with Janou after the failed rendezvous. Perhaps she would give Michel an inspirational speech that would lead him to hunt down Terry; perhaps Terry, having recovered from her accident, would journey back to Madeira, knowing that Janou could tell her how to find Michel. But that scene never came; all we get is Michel's visit to the now-empty home of his late grandmother.
A shame, that; the last half of the movie could have used another dose of Ouspenskaya's warmth and charm. It's a tiny performance, barely a glorified cameo -- she's not on screen for more than ten minutes, if that -- but Ouspenskaya has tremendous impact in her brief appearance, and the movie sags a bit when she leaves it.
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Movies
June 09, 2008
BOOKS: Bonk, Mary Roach (2008)
Yet another marvelous journey into the offbeat corners of scientific research from Roach.
The subject this time is "the curious coupling of science and sex." The expected names appear -- Kinsey, Masters & Johnson -- but we also learn about Marie Bonaparte (the great-grand-niece of Napoleon), who decided that the key to female orgasm was the distance between the clitoris and the vagina, and had her own clitoris surgically moved to increase her sexual pleasure; Ahmed Shafik, the most prominent sex researcher in Egypt; and the Danish farmers who have been instructed to masturbate their sows to orgasm before inseminating them.
As always, one of Roach's great strengths is her sense of humor, which greatly lightens (or sometimes takes great advantage of) the "eeeww" factor. Talking about the natural expandability of the scrotum, she notes:
I was mildly disappointed in Roach's last book, Spook, about scientific exploration of the supernatural; the gap between science and psychic phenomena is simply too large to make for interesting reading, and Roach's own justifiable skepticism tinged the book in an unfortunate way. But this is a solid return to form; while you may have a few queasy moments, Roach will get you through them with grace and charm.
The subject this time is "the curious coupling of science and sex." The expected names appear -- Kinsey, Masters & Johnson -- but we also learn about Marie Bonaparte (the great-grand-niece of Napoleon), who decided that the key to female orgasm was the distance between the clitoris and the vagina, and had her own clitoris surgically moved to increase her sexual pleasure; Ahmed Shafik, the most prominent sex researcher in Egypt; and the Danish farmers who have been instructed to masturbate their sows to orgasm before inseminating them.
As always, one of Roach's great strengths is her sense of humor, which greatly lightens (or sometimes takes great advantage of) the "eeeww" factor. Talking about the natural expandability of the scrotum, she notes:
There are images on the Internet of men with scrotums the size of those inflatable hop-along balls of my youth, but this strays well beyond normal expandability. These men have elephantiasis, and if you know what's good for you, you will not do a Google search of "scrotum" and "elephantiasis."But there is a serious point to be made. Sex researchers don't have an easy job; their work is viewed with distaste; it's difficult to find human subjects; and they themselves are often seen as perverts, hiding their voyeuristic tendencies under the cover of science. It's a marvel that we know as much about sex as we do, given all of those attitudes, and the researchers who've made those discoveries have done their part to increase the amount of happiness in the world.
I was mildly disappointed in Roach's last book, Spook, about scientific exploration of the supernatural; the gap between science and psychic phenomena is simply too large to make for interesting reading, and Roach's own justifiable skepticism tinged the book in an unfortunate way. But this is a solid return to form; while you may have a few queasy moments, Roach will get you through them with grace and charm.
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Books
June 07, 2008
MOVIES: Smackdown 1939: Edna May Oliver, Drums Along the Mohawk
Here's the hardest part of doing a Smackdown: You occasionally have to sit through a movie you really don't enjoy, and try to provide a fair evaluation of the nominated actress who's in that movie. This was one such occasion. Drums Along the Mohawk is not one of John Ford's better films; it's a slow, creaky Revolutionary War drama in which the most exciting moment is a foot chase, and even that goes on for far too long.
Henry Fonda (almost cartoonishly noble and stalwart) and Claudette Colbert (looking bored, and desperately longing to be back in a good comedy) are newlyweds who settle in the Mohawk Valley in 1776. This was the frontier at the time, and so they think at first that they are far enough removed from society to be unaffected by the beginnings of the war. Such is not the case; the British and their Indian allies (who are depicted as the stereotypical savages one would expect in a movie of the period) burn them out of their farm, and they are forced to hire out as laborers to the local Cranky Old Widder Lady, Sarah McKlennar.
And that's where our Oscar nominee, Edna May Oliver, comes in. As Mrs. McKlennar, Oliver is a veritable prototype for generations of Cranky Old Widder Ladies to come -- severe features, sharp tongue, and no apparent filter between thought and utterance. Mrs. McKlennar says what's on her mind, regardless of whether it's appropriate or polite. To her credit, she is aware of this tendency; "I've got a long face and I poke it where I like," she says. "You may think I'm a nuisance."
It's never quite clear whether Mrs. McKlennar doesn't care about observing the social niceties, or if she simply isn't aware that there are niceties to be observed. Even when she tries to say the right thing, Mrs. McKlennar's affect is never quite right. Fonda mentions during their job interview that he had had a farm of his own. "Yeeeeeeess, I heard 'twas burned well that's too bad," says his new boss, in so cold and distant a fashion as to make Dick Cheney look warm and cuddly. Even creepier is the edge of triumph that creeps into Oliver's reading of the line, "I'm a widow," as though this was some sort of personal achievement; one fears for young Adam, the young man with whom Mrs. McKlennar has a vaguely flirtatious relationship.
The only times that Oliver allows any warmth to edge into her performance is when Mrs. McKlennar mentions her late husband, Barnabas ("Barney"). Even on her deathbed -- she's been shot by an Indian arrow -- her response to Colbert's tears is "Don't start tunin' up."
Oliver's performance is an interesting one, and it's certainly got more energy than almost anything else in the movie. But it feels more like something from a particularly bleak piece of Scandinavian drama than like something from a patriotic John Ford/Henry Fonda flick. Part of great acting is making sure that you're in the same movie as the rest of the cast; on that count alone, Oliver's performance must be judged an interesting failure.
Henry Fonda (almost cartoonishly noble and stalwart) and Claudette Colbert (looking bored, and desperately longing to be back in a good comedy) are newlyweds who settle in the Mohawk Valley in 1776. This was the frontier at the time, and so they think at first that they are far enough removed from society to be unaffected by the beginnings of the war. Such is not the case; the British and their Indian allies (who are depicted as the stereotypical savages one would expect in a movie of the period) burn them out of their farm, and they are forced to hire out as laborers to the local Cranky Old Widder Lady, Sarah McKlennar.
And that's where our Oscar nominee, Edna May Oliver, comes in. As Mrs. McKlennar, Oliver is a veritable prototype for generations of Cranky Old Widder Ladies to come -- severe features, sharp tongue, and no apparent filter between thought and utterance. Mrs. McKlennar says what's on her mind, regardless of whether it's appropriate or polite. To her credit, she is aware of this tendency; "I've got a long face and I poke it where I like," she says. "You may think I'm a nuisance."
It's never quite clear whether Mrs. McKlennar doesn't care about observing the social niceties, or if she simply isn't aware that there are niceties to be observed. Even when she tries to say the right thing, Mrs. McKlennar's affect is never quite right. Fonda mentions during their job interview that he had had a farm of his own. "Yeeeeeeess, I heard 'twas burned well that's too bad," says his new boss, in so cold and distant a fashion as to make Dick Cheney look warm and cuddly. Even creepier is the edge of triumph that creeps into Oliver's reading of the line, "I'm a widow," as though this was some sort of personal achievement; one fears for young Adam, the young man with whom Mrs. McKlennar has a vaguely flirtatious relationship.
The only times that Oliver allows any warmth to edge into her performance is when Mrs. McKlennar mentions her late husband, Barnabas ("Barney"). Even on her deathbed -- she's been shot by an Indian arrow -- her response to Colbert's tears is "Don't start tunin' up."
Oliver's performance is an interesting one, and it's certainly got more energy than almost anything else in the movie. But it feels more like something from a particularly bleak piece of Scandinavian drama than like something from a patriotic John Ford/Henry Fonda flick. Part of great acting is making sure that you're in the same movie as the rest of the cast; on that count alone, Oliver's performance must be judged an interesting failure.
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Movies
MOVIES: Supporting Actress Smackdown 1939
I'm delighted to have been invited to take part in another of StinkyLulu's monthly Supporting Actress Smackdowns, this time focusing on 1939. Over the next few weeks, you can look forward to comments on that year's nominees:
The only one of these movies I've seen is Gone With the Wind, and that so long ago that I have only the vaguest memories of it, so it'll be an educational month, if nothing else.
- Olivia de Haviland, Gone With the Wind
- Geraldine Fitzgerald, Wuthering Heights
- Hattie McDaniel, Gone With the Wind
- Edna May Oliver, Drums Along the Mohawk
- Maria Ouspenskaya, Love Story
The only one of these movies I've seen is Gone With the Wind, and that so long ago that I have only the vaguest memories of it, so it'll be an educational month, if nothing else.
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Movies
June 05, 2008
BOOKS: Down River, John Hart (2007)
This year's Edgar Award winner for Best Novel.
Adam Chase returns to his North Carolina home after five years in New York City, during which time he has not been in contact with his family. They are the standard-issue Southern thriller family: abusive father; borderline alcoholic stepmother; and her children, a jock who won't grow up and a fragile ingenue with emotional problems.
The plot is fairly standard stuff, too. Adam has a history of violence, and left town after being acquitted of murder charges (stepmommy was the prosecution's star witness, and she still thinks he did it); almost immediately upon his return, bodies start popping up everywhere. It all seems to be connected to a land deal; the power company wants to build a plant, and Adam's father is the last holdout, refusing to sell.
There's a neighbor girl of mysterious parentage (because you're not allowed to set a mystery in the South without at least one wild child of mysterious parentage lurking about); there's Dad's sidekick, positioned awkwardly at the intersection of best friend, family retainer, and slave; and there's the old woman in the wheelchair whose dialogue consists mostly of cryptic oracular pronouncements.
The shame of it all is that Hart can write; as familiar as his characters are, he does bring some depth to them, and they're convincingly real people. Even the plotting manages a few small surprises along the way. But telling a story well isn't enough if the story is so stale that it's not worth telling it again.
Adam Chase returns to his North Carolina home after five years in New York City, during which time he has not been in contact with his family. They are the standard-issue Southern thriller family: abusive father; borderline alcoholic stepmother; and her children, a jock who won't grow up and a fragile ingenue with emotional problems.
The plot is fairly standard stuff, too. Adam has a history of violence, and left town after being acquitted of murder charges (stepmommy was the prosecution's star witness, and she still thinks he did it); almost immediately upon his return, bodies start popping up everywhere. It all seems to be connected to a land deal; the power company wants to build a plant, and Adam's father is the last holdout, refusing to sell.
There's a neighbor girl of mysterious parentage (because you're not allowed to set a mystery in the South without at least one wild child of mysterious parentage lurking about); there's Dad's sidekick, positioned awkwardly at the intersection of best friend, family retainer, and slave; and there's the old woman in the wheelchair whose dialogue consists mostly of cryptic oracular pronouncements.
The shame of it all is that Hart can write; as familiar as his characters are, he does bring some depth to them, and they're convincingly real people. Even the plotting manages a few small surprises along the way. But telling a story well isn't enough if the story is so stale that it's not worth telling it again.
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Books
June 04, 2008
BOOKS: Windy City, Scott Simon (2008)
Chicago politics are at the heart of Simon's charming, witty novel, which focuses on one stressful weekend in the life of an alderman.
Sundaran "Sunny" Rupini represents Chicago's 48th Ward (of 50), and is also the vice-mayor. That's usually a ceremonial post, and Sunny's duties don't extend much beyond wielding the gavel during the mayor's bathroom breaks. But when the mayor is found dead in his office late one Thursday night, Sunny becomes the Acting Interim Mayor.
It's a temporary post, as the board of aldermen will meet on Monday to elect one of its own to be Acting Mayor until Chicago can hold a new election. But temporary or not, it's Sunny who's expected to deal with the surprises that pop up -- turns out the mayor's death wasn't so accidental, after all, and there's a pushy district attorney who'd been investigating corruption in the mayor's office. There are also two teenage daughters for the recently-widowed Sunny to take care off, a new security detail to adapt to, a restaurant to run, and various ethnic festivals and community meetings (not to mention the mayor's funeral) to attend.
But above all else, there are 49 other alderman to contend with, each one convinced that he or she is the best choice to be the new mayor. Everyone is choosing sides, juggling the need to play politics with the desire not to be seen playing politics with the mayor so recently deceased.
One of the strengths of Simon's novel is the skill with which his characters are drawn. The two principal contenders for the mayor's job, for instance, are a colorful pair, each so crisply imagined that you can hear their voices when they speak. Linas Slavinskas is a puckish fellow, whose natural impulse to mischief often leads his colleagues to underestimate him; Vera Barrow, the leader of the board's self-styled "African Queens" caucus, is a dynamic woman who does not tolerate stupidity and foolishness in her fellow aldermen.
With fifty aldermen, it's obviously not possible for all of them to be as thoroughly developed, but even those who are background figures are efficiently sketched characters, with more personality showing through than you'd expect. By the time of the climactic roll-call vote, we have a fairly good sense of who many of these people are.
You probably won't be too surprised by the outcome of that final vote, by the way; to his credit, though, Simon does a clever job of disguising and delaying the ultimate result until the last possible moment.
Windy City is a lively, funny piece of entertainment, a sharp look at the multi-ethnic politics of American cities, and I enjoyed it immensely.
Sundaran "Sunny" Rupini represents Chicago's 48th Ward (of 50), and is also the vice-mayor. That's usually a ceremonial post, and Sunny's duties don't extend much beyond wielding the gavel during the mayor's bathroom breaks. But when the mayor is found dead in his office late one Thursday night, Sunny becomes the Acting Interim Mayor.
It's a temporary post, as the board of aldermen will meet on Monday to elect one of its own to be Acting Mayor until Chicago can hold a new election. But temporary or not, it's Sunny who's expected to deal with the surprises that pop up -- turns out the mayor's death wasn't so accidental, after all, and there's a pushy district attorney who'd been investigating corruption in the mayor's office. There are also two teenage daughters for the recently-widowed Sunny to take care off, a new security detail to adapt to, a restaurant to run, and various ethnic festivals and community meetings (not to mention the mayor's funeral) to attend.
But above all else, there are 49 other alderman to contend with, each one convinced that he or she is the best choice to be the new mayor. Everyone is choosing sides, juggling the need to play politics with the desire not to be seen playing politics with the mayor so recently deceased.
One of the strengths of Simon's novel is the skill with which his characters are drawn. The two principal contenders for the mayor's job, for instance, are a colorful pair, each so crisply imagined that you can hear their voices when they speak. Linas Slavinskas is a puckish fellow, whose natural impulse to mischief often leads his colleagues to underestimate him; Vera Barrow, the leader of the board's self-styled "African Queens" caucus, is a dynamic woman who does not tolerate stupidity and foolishness in her fellow aldermen.
With fifty aldermen, it's obviously not possible for all of them to be as thoroughly developed, but even those who are background figures are efficiently sketched characters, with more personality showing through than you'd expect. By the time of the climactic roll-call vote, we have a fairly good sense of who many of these people are.
You probably won't be too surprised by the outcome of that final vote, by the way; to his credit, though, Simon does a clever job of disguising and delaying the ultimate result until the last possible moment.
Windy City is a lively, funny piece of entertainment, a sharp look at the multi-ethnic politics of American cities, and I enjoyed it immensely.
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Books
June 01, 2008
BOOKS: Monster, 1959, David Maine (2008)
After three fine re-tellings of Biblical stories, Maine turns to more contemporary mythology with a re-imagining of a 1950s monster movie from the monster's point of view.
Well, sort of. Maine's monster -- known as "K." -- isn't really intellectually advanced enough to possess anything as sophisticated as "point of view." And Maine's narrative voice acknowledges the limited viewpoint of his central character in the opening paragraphs:
Given the challenge of writing from so limited an intellectual perspective, it is remarkable how complete a character K. becomes, and how much personality and dimension Maine gives him.
The plot of Maine's story is borrowed roughly from King Kong. American visitors discover K. on a remote tropical island, take him back to the States, turn him into the centerpiece of a touring circus, and he escapes in New York City. K. himself, though, is a more elaborate creature than a large monkey; he's equal parts Kong, Godzilla, and Mothra, with a few other horrifying parts thrown in for good measure. There's the obligatory human love triangle (which is, of course, the proximate cause of K.'s destructive rampage), the monster's climb up a New York landmark (it's not the Empire State Building this time, but Maine's alternate choice is even more dramatically interesting), and the nearly operatic tragedy of K.'s death.
One of Maine's themes here is our tendency to tell only the most pleasant or interesting parts of the story, and the way in which those choices shape the reaction to the story. Certainly, the adventurers who capture K. and bring him to America aren't telling the entire truth about how he came to be there, or about how dangerous he really is. And as the story progresses through the late 1950s, Maine stops for periodic reminders of the real-world events -- wars, famines, disasters, tyrannies -- that were going on, things that are usually left out of escapist stories like these so that we can believe that imaginary monsters are the only ones we need to fear.
As always, Maine's writing is witty, irreverent, lively, and moving. I had found The Book of Samson to be a slight letdown from the level of Maine's first two novels, but Monster, 1959 is a fine return to form.
Well, sort of. Maine's monster -- known as "K." -- isn't really intellectually advanced enough to possess anything as sophisticated as "point of view." And Maine's narrative voice acknowledges the limited viewpoint of his central character in the opening paragraphs:
In his dream, K. flies.
Below him is the island: verdant and vertiginous, lunatic with creation, lush like a scrap of Eden discarded and forgotten in the ocean's endless tundra. Trees flash by, rainforest-dense, tropical growth shrouding the hills in overstuffed quilted folds. Flocks of birds glitter like refracting jewels, like op art on the wing, Vs and swarms and grand unruly mobs weaving from scarp to treetop to lakeside and up again into open sky. Toward K.
K. has no words for this. In fact K. has no words at all. The language center in his brain looks like a Jackson Pollack painting dropped from a great height. K. is preliterate, prelingual; in fact, pre-just about anything you can think of. His thoughts are the pictures he sees and the feelings they create. Sensation is his vocabulary: flavor, touch, sound, intuition, image. And smell most of all. In his dream, the heels-over-head feelings of floating, swooping, soaring are bereft of words to name them. The closest he can come is to grunt in his sleep, whimper and purr and coo and bleat. Slumbering high in his treetop nest, K. does just this. But in his dream, he flies.
Given the challenge of writing from so limited an intellectual perspective, it is remarkable how complete a character K. becomes, and how much personality and dimension Maine gives him.
The plot of Maine's story is borrowed roughly from King Kong. American visitors discover K. on a remote tropical island, take him back to the States, turn him into the centerpiece of a touring circus, and he escapes in New York City. K. himself, though, is a more elaborate creature than a large monkey; he's equal parts Kong, Godzilla, and Mothra, with a few other horrifying parts thrown in for good measure. There's the obligatory human love triangle (which is, of course, the proximate cause of K.'s destructive rampage), the monster's climb up a New York landmark (it's not the Empire State Building this time, but Maine's alternate choice is even more dramatically interesting), and the nearly operatic tragedy of K.'s death.
One of Maine's themes here is our tendency to tell only the most pleasant or interesting parts of the story, and the way in which those choices shape the reaction to the story. Certainly, the adventurers who capture K. and bring him to America aren't telling the entire truth about how he came to be there, or about how dangerous he really is. And as the story progresses through the late 1950s, Maine stops for periodic reminders of the real-world events -- wars, famines, disasters, tyrannies -- that were going on, things that are usually left out of escapist stories like these so that we can believe that imaginary monsters are the only ones we need to fear.
As always, Maine's writing is witty, irreverent, lively, and moving. I had found The Book of Samson to be a slight letdown from the level of Maine's first two novels, but Monster, 1959 is a fine return to form.
Labels:
Books
May 29, 2008
The inimitable StinkyLulu is hosting Madeline Kahn Appreciation Day today, and there are sure to be all sorts of insightful and entertaining commemorations. So you should stop on by and check it out, why don'cha?
May 20, 2008
MUSIC: American Idol 08: The Finals!
It's the second all-male final in Idol history, and going in, it looks to be the closest final since Clay & Ruben. But it won't look that way coming out.
The rundown:
We begin by establishing an uncomfortable boxing metaphor that will be clubbed into the ground all evening, as a boxing announcer introduces David "Sugarfoot" Cook and David "Baby Face" Archuleta, both wearing robes and boxing gloves, and both looking really embarrassed by such foolishness.
For Round 1, the barely mobile body of Clive Davis is wheeled out to make the song selections; he's joined by Andrew Lloyd Webber, who will offer advice to the singers throughout the evening. As much as I enjoy making fun of Clive, I am happy to see him back, as I think he is a master of picking the right songs for Idol contestants. (I maintain that Diana DeGarmo wouldn't have been a finalist but for Clive assigning her "Don't Cry Out Loud.")
Clive has chosen "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" for Cook, and it's a terrific choice. The first voice is goosebump-y good, and though Cook can't maintain that level throughout -- his enunciantion, as it so often does, gets a bit mushy when the drums kick in for the second verse -- it's a terrific performance. There's a silly bit of showoff gliding on the final note, but that's in the grand Idol tradition of pointless codas.
For Archuleta, Clive picks "Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me;" it's the right type of song for his style and for the sound of his voice. The problem is that Archuleta's a 17-year-old kid, and (if the horror stories about his overprotective stage dad are any indication) a sheltered one at that, so when a song comes along that's all about relationships, romance, other people, or emotion of any sort, he's at a loss. The song is a series of very pretty notes, but it's emotionally vapid.
Round one to Cook.
Round two: Instead of making both singers tackle the same insipid anthem, they've been allowed to choose their favorite from the top ten finalists in the Idol songwriting contest. This is, I assume, at least partly a reaction to last year's finals, when the sappy ballad chosen was so far out of Blake's comfort zone that he never stood a chance.
Cook has chosen "Dream Big," which is slightly less sappy than any Official Idol Anthem (OIA) from years past (or maybe it's just that he's giving it a bit more rock edge than any OIA has ever had), but it's still a remarkably bland song, and Cook can't do much to salvage it. He's at his best in the chorus; he's mushmouthed as ever on the verses.
Archuleta chooses "In This Moment," which sounds much more like a typical OIA. It's an adequate performance, but Archuleta looks (as he does all night) so tense and uncomfortable that he's having trouble selling the song convincingly. When the key line of the song is "I want to be in this moment," you have to actually look happy to be there; Archuleta looks like he'd rather be having a root canal.
Round two is a draw of dullness.
Round three is introduced, as all rounds have been, with comments from sportscaster Jim Lampley, who's helping to pound us over the head with that boxing metaphor. "The first two rounds may be about boxing," he tells us, "but the last round is always a fight." Anyone who can explain what the hell that means is smarter than I am.
The singers have been given free choice for the final round, and Cook chooses Collective Soul's "The World I Know." It is a god-awful performance. There are two pretty falsetto notes at the very end of the song, but he could have been singing in Greek for all of the lyrics that could be understood. I almost began to wonder if Cook is trying to lose this competition; he's never been as incomprehensible as this before.
Archuleta opts to return to a song from earlier in the season, giving us a second performance of "Imagine." The song isn't really the uplifting inspirational ballad that he thinks it is, but he manages to sell it as one (omitting the "imagine no religion" verse makes the task a lot easier). There's a bit too much frill and frippery for my taste -- this song works better the more simply it's sung -- but clearly, the audience and the judges love it.
Round three to Archuleta.
For the night, the winner -- largely on the basis of song choice -- is Archuleta, and though I think Cook has been the more consistent performer throughout the season, his performances tonight were weak enough that what should have been a close vote will likely be an Archuleta landslide.
The rundown:
We begin by establishing an uncomfortable boxing metaphor that will be clubbed into the ground all evening, as a boxing announcer introduces David "Sugarfoot" Cook and David "Baby Face" Archuleta, both wearing robes and boxing gloves, and both looking really embarrassed by such foolishness.
For Round 1, the barely mobile body of Clive Davis is wheeled out to make the song selections; he's joined by Andrew Lloyd Webber, who will offer advice to the singers throughout the evening. As much as I enjoy making fun of Clive, I am happy to see him back, as I think he is a master of picking the right songs for Idol contestants. (I maintain that Diana DeGarmo wouldn't have been a finalist but for Clive assigning her "Don't Cry Out Loud.")
Clive has chosen "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" for Cook, and it's a terrific choice. The first voice is goosebump-y good, and though Cook can't maintain that level throughout -- his enunciantion, as it so often does, gets a bit mushy when the drums kick in for the second verse -- it's a terrific performance. There's a silly bit of showoff gliding on the final note, but that's in the grand Idol tradition of pointless codas.
For Archuleta, Clive picks "Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me;" it's the right type of song for his style and for the sound of his voice. The problem is that Archuleta's a 17-year-old kid, and (if the horror stories about his overprotective stage dad are any indication) a sheltered one at that, so when a song comes along that's all about relationships, romance, other people, or emotion of any sort, he's at a loss. The song is a series of very pretty notes, but it's emotionally vapid.
Round one to Cook.
Round two: Instead of making both singers tackle the same insipid anthem, they've been allowed to choose their favorite from the top ten finalists in the Idol songwriting contest. This is, I assume, at least partly a reaction to last year's finals, when the sappy ballad chosen was so far out of Blake's comfort zone that he never stood a chance.
Cook has chosen "Dream Big," which is slightly less sappy than any Official Idol Anthem (OIA) from years past (or maybe it's just that he's giving it a bit more rock edge than any OIA has ever had), but it's still a remarkably bland song, and Cook can't do much to salvage it. He's at his best in the chorus; he's mushmouthed as ever on the verses.
Archuleta chooses "In This Moment," which sounds much more like a typical OIA. It's an adequate performance, but Archuleta looks (as he does all night) so tense and uncomfortable that he's having trouble selling the song convincingly. When the key line of the song is "I want to be in this moment," you have to actually look happy to be there; Archuleta looks like he'd rather be having a root canal.
Round two is a draw of dullness.
Round three is introduced, as all rounds have been, with comments from sportscaster Jim Lampley, who's helping to pound us over the head with that boxing metaphor. "The first two rounds may be about boxing," he tells us, "but the last round is always a fight." Anyone who can explain what the hell that means is smarter than I am.
The singers have been given free choice for the final round, and Cook chooses Collective Soul's "The World I Know." It is a god-awful performance. There are two pretty falsetto notes at the very end of the song, but he could have been singing in Greek for all of the lyrics that could be understood. I almost began to wonder if Cook is trying to lose this competition; he's never been as incomprehensible as this before.
Archuleta opts to return to a song from earlier in the season, giving us a second performance of "Imagine." The song isn't really the uplifting inspirational ballad that he thinks it is, but he manages to sell it as one (omitting the "imagine no religion" verse makes the task a lot easier). There's a bit too much frill and frippery for my taste -- this song works better the more simply it's sung -- but clearly, the audience and the judges love it.
Round three to Archuleta.
For the night, the winner -- largely on the basis of song choice -- is Archuleta, and though I think Cook has been the more consistent performer throughout the season, his performances tonight were weak enough that what should have been a close vote will likely be an Archuleta landslide.
BOOKS: Rolling Thunder, John Varley (2008)
Third in the Garcia family series.
Red Thunder gave us the adventures of Manny Garcia, one of the first men to land on Mars; Red Lightning was the story of his son, Ray Strickland-Garcia, a Martian (that's a human resident of Mars, not an alien indigenous to Mars) hotelier who gets caught up in the political intrigue after a (not entirely) natural disaster strikes Earth.
For this volume, we leap forward one more generation; our heroine is Podkayne Strickland-Garcia-Redmond. (Any more volumes/generations, and the last name will be too long to fit on a single page.) Yes, Podkayne, like in the Heinlein novel; that first generation of Martians got caught up in the whole "we are Martians!" thing. You know how it is.
And Poddy takes after the typical Heinlein heroine in more than just name.She's tall, smart, strikingly beautiful, and talented in multiple fields, though her specialty is music. It's as a singer, in fact, that she joins the Martian Navy, touring with her band to give morale-boosting concerts at remote outposts.
Now when you travel to remote military outposts on planets and moons that are still essentially untamed and incapable of supporting human life, some nasty shit can happen. Like, for instance, the mountainous life-forms of Europa suddenly erupting from the surface of the moon and flying through space to Earth.
What are they up to? Can we communicate with them? Will humanity survive? It's a good old-fashioned setup, Poddy's a likable character, and Varley's always an entertaining writer. But Poddy is oddly removed from the action; while those mountains are flying to (and landing on) Earth, Poddy is off stage, and doesn't return until the action is largely played out. And when faced with a crisis at the end of the book, which you'd expect to lead to the most creative and dazzling solution, Varley instead allows his characters to duck the issue, essentially just running away from it.
Rolling Thunder is fun from moment to moment, and I think those who enjoyed the first two volumes in the series (both of which I do recommend) will like this one, too. But if there's a fourth volume, and there's certainly plenty of room left for one, I hope that the plotting will return to the tautness of those earlier volumes.
Red Thunder gave us the adventures of Manny Garcia, one of the first men to land on Mars; Red Lightning was the story of his son, Ray Strickland-Garcia, a Martian (that's a human resident of Mars, not an alien indigenous to Mars) hotelier who gets caught up in the political intrigue after a (not entirely) natural disaster strikes Earth.
For this volume, we leap forward one more generation; our heroine is Podkayne Strickland-Garcia-Redmond. (Any more volumes/generations, and the last name will be too long to fit on a single page.) Yes, Podkayne, like in the Heinlein novel; that first generation of Martians got caught up in the whole "we are Martians!" thing. You know how it is.
And Poddy takes after the typical Heinlein heroine in more than just name.She's tall, smart, strikingly beautiful, and talented in multiple fields, though her specialty is music. It's as a singer, in fact, that she joins the Martian Navy, touring with her band to give morale-boosting concerts at remote outposts.
Now when you travel to remote military outposts on planets and moons that are still essentially untamed and incapable of supporting human life, some nasty shit can happen. Like, for instance, the mountainous life-forms of Europa suddenly erupting from the surface of the moon and flying through space to Earth.
What are they up to? Can we communicate with them? Will humanity survive? It's a good old-fashioned setup, Poddy's a likable character, and Varley's always an entertaining writer. But Poddy is oddly removed from the action; while those mountains are flying to (and landing on) Earth, Poddy is off stage, and doesn't return until the action is largely played out. And when faced with a crisis at the end of the book, which you'd expect to lead to the most creative and dazzling solution, Varley instead allows his characters to duck the issue, essentially just running away from it.
Rolling Thunder is fun from moment to moment, and I think those who enjoyed the first two volumes in the series (both of which I do recommend) will like this one, too. But if there's a fourth volume, and there's certainly plenty of room left for one, I hope that the plotting will return to the tautness of those earlier volumes.
Labels:
Books
May 19, 2008
MOVIES: Roman de gare (Claude Lelouch, 2007/US 2008)
The title doesn't translate precisely into English, but "airport novel" would have something of the same flavor.
Judith Ralitzer (Fanny Ardant) is an author of such novels -- thrillers with very little literary ambition --and we meet her in a police station where she is the prime suspect in a murder. She begins to tell the story of the events that led up to that death (claiming to be entirely innocent, of course), a story from which she is strangely absent for a very long time.
That story begins on a rainy night when a serial killer known as "the Magician" has escaped from a Paris prison. Pierre (Dominique Pinon) has stopped at a service station in the middle of nowhere, and we are given ample hints that he might be The Magician. A young couple has a frantic argument at the service station, and the man drives off, stranding Huguette (Audrey Dana). The couple had been on their way to visit Huguette's family, so that they could meet her fiance for the first time. Pierre offers to give her a ride, and eventually agrees to pose as her fiance.
Is Pierre The Magician, or is he (as he claims) Judith Ralitzer's secretary, and secretly the author of her most successful novels? And given that we're being told this story by a novelist, how much of it can be believed on any level? (The fact that Judith is the writer of cheap thrillers allows Lalouche to have great fun wallowing in some of the genre's cliches.)
The twists and turns aren't quite as clever as they might be, and there are a few spots where the storytelling drags a bit -- Pierre and Huguette take an awfully long time driving to her family's farm -- but there's enough style and wit here to keep the movie entertaining, and Pinon is particularly fine, bringing a creepy ambiguity to Pierre that keeps us wondering what he's really up to.
Judith Ralitzer (Fanny Ardant) is an author of such novels -- thrillers with very little literary ambition --and we meet her in a police station where she is the prime suspect in a murder. She begins to tell the story of the events that led up to that death (claiming to be entirely innocent, of course), a story from which she is strangely absent for a very long time.
That story begins on a rainy night when a serial killer known as "the Magician" has escaped from a Paris prison. Pierre (Dominique Pinon) has stopped at a service station in the middle of nowhere, and we are given ample hints that he might be The Magician. A young couple has a frantic argument at the service station, and the man drives off, stranding Huguette (Audrey Dana). The couple had been on their way to visit Huguette's family, so that they could meet her fiance for the first time. Pierre offers to give her a ride, and eventually agrees to pose as her fiance.
Is Pierre The Magician, or is he (as he claims) Judith Ralitzer's secretary, and secretly the author of her most successful novels? And given that we're being told this story by a novelist, how much of it can be believed on any level? (The fact that Judith is the writer of cheap thrillers allows Lalouche to have great fun wallowing in some of the genre's cliches.)
The twists and turns aren't quite as clever as they might be, and there are a few spots where the storytelling drags a bit -- Pierre and Huguette take an awfully long time driving to her family's farm -- but there's enough style and wit here to keep the movie entertaining, and Pinon is particularly fine, bringing a creepy ambiguity to Pierre that keeps us wondering what he's really up to.
Labels:
Movies
May 18, 2008
MUSIC: American Idol 08 (end-of-year awards)
And so, as expected for the last month or so, we're headed into the Battle of the Davids. My hunch is that the Official American Idol Anthem will decide the winner. The Anthem is always a gooey inspirational ballad, and that has been David Archuleta's specialty this year. David Cook won't struggle with the song as badly as Blake did last year -- he's a much better singer than Blake was -- but drippy sentiment doesn't come naturally to Cook, and that will be just enough to give Archuleta a squeaker of a victory.
But before we get there, it's time for the annual year-end awards. Only performances from the top 12 on are considered; the semifinalists aren't included.
Best performance: David A, "Stand By Me"
Runner-up: David C, "Billie Jean"
It is worth noting that there wasn't a single truly great performance this year; nothing to match the best of previous seasons.
Worst performance: Jason, "September Morn"
Runner-up: Ramiele, "Do I Ever Cross Your Mind"
Voted off too soon: Carly
Runner-up: Chikezie
Lasted too long: Amanda
Runner-up:Jason
Most disappointing: Brooke, who was so good in the semifinals and had a terrific first round in the finals with "Let It Be," but proved to have no versatility and a case of the nerves that got visibly worse every week.
Most pleasant surprise: David Cook, whose rock reimaginings occasionally felt a bit repetitious, but were still a fresh sound for Idol, and an unexpected treat from someone who originally seemed like a solid middle-of-the-pack contestant.
But before we get there, it's time for the annual year-end awards. Only performances from the top 12 on are considered; the semifinalists aren't included.
Best performance: David A, "Stand By Me"
Runner-up: David C, "Billie Jean"
It is worth noting that there wasn't a single truly great performance this year; nothing to match the best of previous seasons.
Worst performance: Jason, "September Morn"
Runner-up: Ramiele, "Do I Ever Cross Your Mind"
Voted off too soon: Carly
Runner-up: Chikezie
Lasted too long: Amanda
Runner-up:Jason
Most disappointing: Brooke, who was so good in the semifinals and had a terrific first round in the finals with "Let It Be," but proved to have no versatility and a case of the nerves that got visibly worse every week.
Most pleasant surprise: David Cook, whose rock reimaginings occasionally felt a bit repetitious, but were still a fresh sound for Idol, and an unexpected treat from someone who originally seemed like a solid middle-of-the-pack contestant.
May 14, 2008
MOVIES: Then She Found Me (Helen Hunt, 2008)
Helen Hunt is star, producer, director, and co-writer of this movie, adapted from Elinor Lipman's novel.
Hunt plays April Epner, a woman in her late 30s who suddenly finds her life falling apart. She's been dumped by nebbishy husband Ben (Matthew Broderick); her beloved mother Trudy (Lynn Cohen) has just died; and local TV celebrity Bernice (Bette Midler) has just revealed that she is April's birth mother. As if that's not enough, her biological clock is kicking in big time -- she desperately wants a child -- which she fears will scare off Frank (Colin Firth), the father of one of her elementary school students, with whom she's entering into a new relationship.
It's soap opera and nothing but, but Lipman's novel has a breezy enough comic tone and narrative voice to lighten the weight of the story. Hunt's adaptation loses that lightness entirely, and sinks under its own drabness. Hunt plays April in one of those performances that we're supposed to think of as brave -- little or no makeup, no flashy hairdos or wardrobe -- but she only looks weary and haggard, as if director-Hunt has been putting actress-Hunt through too many long days on the set. The movie itself has the same drab look and feel, like a particularly low-budget Lifetime movie.
The only burst of energy the movie gets is from Midler, who gives a relatively subdued performance (by Bette Midler standards) and still has more zing and pop than anyone else in the cast; I love her explanation to April of her youthful inexperience: "He told me I had a perfect body, and I was too young and innocent to know that he was right." Broderick is even blander than usual; Firth's ultra-decent Good Guy routine is rapidly becoming a cliche that he desperately needs to escape.
Not recommended.
Hunt plays April Epner, a woman in her late 30s who suddenly finds her life falling apart. She's been dumped by nebbishy husband Ben (Matthew Broderick); her beloved mother Trudy (Lynn Cohen) has just died; and local TV celebrity Bernice (Bette Midler) has just revealed that she is April's birth mother. As if that's not enough, her biological clock is kicking in big time -- she desperately wants a child -- which she fears will scare off Frank (Colin Firth), the father of one of her elementary school students, with whom she's entering into a new relationship.
It's soap opera and nothing but, but Lipman's novel has a breezy enough comic tone and narrative voice to lighten the weight of the story. Hunt's adaptation loses that lightness entirely, and sinks under its own drabness. Hunt plays April in one of those performances that we're supposed to think of as brave -- little or no makeup, no flashy hairdos or wardrobe -- but she only looks weary and haggard, as if director-Hunt has been putting actress-Hunt through too many long days on the set. The movie itself has the same drab look and feel, like a particularly low-budget Lifetime movie.
The only burst of energy the movie gets is from Midler, who gives a relatively subdued performance (by Bette Midler standards) and still has more zing and pop than anyone else in the cast; I love her explanation to April of her youthful inexperience: "He told me I had a perfect body, and I was too young and innocent to know that he was right." Broderick is even blander than usual; Firth's ultra-decent Good Guy routine is rapidly becoming a cliche that he desperately needs to escape.
Not recommended.
Labels:
Movies
May 13, 2008
MUSIC: American Idol 08: choice night
You'd think that once we were down to the final three, we could maybe count on getting at least one really exciting or interesting or memorable performance out of the evening. But no, we get a sadly lackluster evening of forgettable blandness.
The rundown:
Round 1: Judges' choice
David A, "And So It Goes," chosen by Paula -- The a cappella opening is impressive, and all of the notes throughout are lovely. But the performance is even more emotionally empty than usual for David, who shows no understanding of what the song's about. Paula calls him "a storyteller;" Paula is crazy. (The evening will be filled with moments that will grab the attention of the conspiracy-minded who believe that the producers are trying to manipulate the vote. Note that the sorority girls in the front rows have been instructed not to wave their arms during this ballad, so as not to distract us from David.)
Syesha, "If I Ain't Got You," chosen by Randy -- It's a solid, tasteful performance, but it's lacking in pizzazz; there's not much personality to it. It is perhaps emblematic of Syesha's artistic failings that when asked why she's peaking at this point in the season, she puts on a phony voice to tell us that she's started to "be myself, you know." (Conspiracy moment #2: Randy tells her that her impressive run late in the season is why she's "standing there number three.")
David C, "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," chosen by Simon -- The only really interesting choice of the round. It's pitched a bit too high for David in the quiet opening section, where his falsetto feels terribly forced, but the gradual addition of a rock beat works nicely, and the build to the big notes at the end is very impressive.
Round 1 results: Cook, Archuleta, Syesha
Round 2: Singers' choice
David A, "With You" -- Li'l Archie is so not an R&B/hip-hop singer, and he's not very convincing when he sings love songs, so this is a dreadfully dull performance. There's not much wrong with it technically (though his enunciation is unusually sloppy), but it's never interesting and I've forgotten it almost before it's over.
Syesha, "Fever" -- It's fun and theatrical, and I love the arrangement which has some nice retro touches (the baritone sax is fabulous) but still feels contemporary. Simon calls a "lame cabaret performance," which is a bit harsh -- there's nothing lame about it -- and Paula notes correctly that it doesn't really tell us much about who Syesha is as a performer.
David C, "Dare You to Move" -- The dullest song of the night. It's David's usual shtick, and it sounds like almost every performance he's given. I literally cannot understand a word he says in the chorus. A ghastly performance.
Round 2 results: Syesha, Archuleta, Cook.
Round 3: Producers' choice
David A, "Longer" -- David looks terribly tired here, and there's a pained expression on his face throughout. It's a love song, for heaven's sake, at least make the effort to look happy. His visible unhappiness -- with the song, with the way the night is going, with the backstage drama surrounding his dad, who knows? -- is so extreme that it distracted me from the singing; I had to rewind and listen again without looking to realize that it was, like many of David's performances, very pretty and very forgettable.
Syesha, "Hit Me Up" -- Conspiracy moment #3: The producers give Syesha a number that is entirely about personality. There's nothing of interest in the melody or the lyrics; it's purely about slinky and sexy. Syesha does her damnedest, but she can't make the song interesting, and she doesn't have enough charisma to make the performance interesting, either.
David C, "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" -- In contrast, the producers have given David a big, fat, juicy pitch over the middle of the plate. The first half of the song is particularly well done; the transition from string quartet to rock band is a bit awkward, and David sounds a bit strained in the rock half. Still, it's enough to win the round.
Round 3 results: Cook, Syesha, Archuleta
For the night: Cook, Syesha, Archuleta
For the season: Cook, Syesha, Archuleta
Deserving to go home: Archuleta, but that's not going to happen; we're going to get the all-David final that the show's been pushing for the last two months.
The rundown:
Round 1: Judges' choice
David A, "And So It Goes," chosen by Paula -- The a cappella opening is impressive, and all of the notes throughout are lovely. But the performance is even more emotionally empty than usual for David, who shows no understanding of what the song's about. Paula calls him "a storyteller;" Paula is crazy. (The evening will be filled with moments that will grab the attention of the conspiracy-minded who believe that the producers are trying to manipulate the vote. Note that the sorority girls in the front rows have been instructed not to wave their arms during this ballad, so as not to distract us from David.)
Syesha, "If I Ain't Got You," chosen by Randy -- It's a solid, tasteful performance, but it's lacking in pizzazz; there's not much personality to it. It is perhaps emblematic of Syesha's artistic failings that when asked why she's peaking at this point in the season, she puts on a phony voice to tell us that she's started to "be myself, you know." (Conspiracy moment #2: Randy tells her that her impressive run late in the season is why she's "standing there number three.")
David C, "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face," chosen by Simon -- The only really interesting choice of the round. It's pitched a bit too high for David in the quiet opening section, where his falsetto feels terribly forced, but the gradual addition of a rock beat works nicely, and the build to the big notes at the end is very impressive.
Round 1 results: Cook, Archuleta, Syesha
Round 2: Singers' choice
David A, "With You" -- Li'l Archie is so not an R&B/hip-hop singer, and he's not very convincing when he sings love songs, so this is a dreadfully dull performance. There's not much wrong with it technically (though his enunciation is unusually sloppy), but it's never interesting and I've forgotten it almost before it's over.
Syesha, "Fever" -- It's fun and theatrical, and I love the arrangement which has some nice retro touches (the baritone sax is fabulous) but still feels contemporary. Simon calls a "lame cabaret performance," which is a bit harsh -- there's nothing lame about it -- and Paula notes correctly that it doesn't really tell us much about who Syesha is as a performer.
David C, "Dare You to Move" -- The dullest song of the night. It's David's usual shtick, and it sounds like almost every performance he's given. I literally cannot understand a word he says in the chorus. A ghastly performance.
Round 2 results: Syesha, Archuleta, Cook.
Round 3: Producers' choice
David A, "Longer" -- David looks terribly tired here, and there's a pained expression on his face throughout. It's a love song, for heaven's sake, at least make the effort to look happy. His visible unhappiness -- with the song, with the way the night is going, with the backstage drama surrounding his dad, who knows? -- is so extreme that it distracted me from the singing; I had to rewind and listen again without looking to realize that it was, like many of David's performances, very pretty and very forgettable.
Syesha, "Hit Me Up" -- Conspiracy moment #3: The producers give Syesha a number that is entirely about personality. There's nothing of interest in the melody or the lyrics; it's purely about slinky and sexy. Syesha does her damnedest, but she can't make the song interesting, and she doesn't have enough charisma to make the performance interesting, either.
David C, "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" -- In contrast, the producers have given David a big, fat, juicy pitch over the middle of the plate. The first half of the song is particularly well done; the transition from string quartet to rock band is a bit awkward, and David sounds a bit strained in the rock half. Still, it's enough to win the round.
Round 3 results: Cook, Syesha, Archuleta
For the night: Cook, Syesha, Archuleta
For the season: Cook, Syesha, Archuleta
Deserving to go home: Archuleta, but that's not going to happen; we're going to get the all-David final that the show's been pushing for the last two months.
MOVIES: Sleuth (Kenneth Branagh, 2007)
Second film adaptation of Anthony Shaffer's twisty mystery play.
The first version (oddly enough, not yet available on DVD) came in 1972, and gave us Laurence Olivier and Michael Caine as Andrew Wyke and Milo Tindle, who become entangled in a deadly battle of wits when Milo visits Andrew in an attempt to persuade Andrew to give his wife a divorce so that she can run away with Milo.
For the new version, Michael Caine swaps roles to play Andrew, with Jude Law stepping in as Milo. Harold Pinter's screenplay keeps the bare bones of Shaffer's original, though there are a few substantial revisions, especially in the third act, which takes the subterranean homoeroticism of the original and makes it overt. This is not to the benefit of the movie, I don't think; as viciously as the men have been dueling for the first hour of the film, it stretches plausibility to have them suddenly outright flirting with one another.
Another big change -- the look of the movie. Olivier's Andrew lived in a cozy country home, cluttered with overstuffed furniture and an enormous collection of windup dolls and toys. In contrast, Caine's Andrew lives in an austere high-tech mansion, sparsely furnished and lit in cool blue, every inch monitored by security cameras.
Caine does fine work as Andrew, a sly conniver who relishes this duel with Milo; Andrew is a writer of mystery novels, after all, and this battle is essentially a chance to test his skills in real time. Law isn't quite at the same level, but has some nice moments as Milo; he's the more desperate of the two men, and it's easier to see the wheels spinning as he tries to keep up with Andrew. (As for Milo's most surprising moment, early in the second act -- which I'm trying not to give away here -- I watched the movie with a friend who wasn't familiar with the story, so didn't know what was coming, and Law fooled him completely in that sequence.)
The new Sleuth isn't an awful movie; it'll certainly keep you entertained. But its strongest effect on me was to make me want to see the original again.
The first version (oddly enough, not yet available on DVD) came in 1972, and gave us Laurence Olivier and Michael Caine as Andrew Wyke and Milo Tindle, who become entangled in a deadly battle of wits when Milo visits Andrew in an attempt to persuade Andrew to give his wife a divorce so that she can run away with Milo.
For the new version, Michael Caine swaps roles to play Andrew, with Jude Law stepping in as Milo. Harold Pinter's screenplay keeps the bare bones of Shaffer's original, though there are a few substantial revisions, especially in the third act, which takes the subterranean homoeroticism of the original and makes it overt. This is not to the benefit of the movie, I don't think; as viciously as the men have been dueling for the first hour of the film, it stretches plausibility to have them suddenly outright flirting with one another.
Another big change -- the look of the movie. Olivier's Andrew lived in a cozy country home, cluttered with overstuffed furniture and an enormous collection of windup dolls and toys. In contrast, Caine's Andrew lives in an austere high-tech mansion, sparsely furnished and lit in cool blue, every inch monitored by security cameras.
Caine does fine work as Andrew, a sly conniver who relishes this duel with Milo; Andrew is a writer of mystery novels, after all, and this battle is essentially a chance to test his skills in real time. Law isn't quite at the same level, but has some nice moments as Milo; he's the more desperate of the two men, and it's easier to see the wheels spinning as he tries to keep up with Andrew. (As for Milo's most surprising moment, early in the second act -- which I'm trying not to give away here -- I watched the movie with a friend who wasn't familiar with the story, so didn't know what was coming, and Law fooled him completely in that sequence.)
The new Sleuth isn't an awful movie; it'll certainly keep you entertained. But its strongest effect on me was to make me want to see the original again.
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Movies
May 12, 2008
MOVIES: Redbelt (David Mamet, 2008)
Not the best of Mamet's elaborate con-game stories, but not entirely without merit.
Chiwetel Ejiofor stars as Mike Terry, owner of an LA martial-arts school specializing in Brazilian jiu-jitsu (which is, apparently, not the same thing as Japanese jujitsu). Mike is a skilled fighter himself, and has been asked many times to take part in pay-per-view martial arts extravaganzas run by a sleazy promoter (Ricky Jay); he is, however, a deeply idealistic man, and has no interest in sullying his talent on such tacky events. As a result, the school is almost always on the verge of financial crisis.
Attempting to describe the plot at all would be futile, and any attempt would give too much away that should be surprising; it's a complex (though never hard to follow) story involving a naive young attorney (Emily Mortimer), Mike's materialistic wife (Alice Braga) and her bar-owner brother (Rodrigo Santoro), an aging action movie star (Tim Allen), and his shady manager (Joe Mantegna). As is customary in Mamet's con games, surface gestures hide deeper motives and trustworthiness is in short supply.
There are certain problems that almost always arise in con game movies. The biggest of them is that they rely to a tremendous extent on coincidence, or on the villain's ability to predict with perfect accuracy how everyone else will react to a specific situation. The best con game stories -- and I'd include Mamet's movies House of Games and The Spanish Prisoner among them -- juggle their narrative balls swiftly and gracefully enough that you don't really notice those flaws under you're leaving the theater, trying to figure out how all of that happened. That's not the case here; you're aware of the narrative gaps as they arise. Further, the final ten minutes of the movie are a plotting nightmare, a mess of unmotivated behavior and confusing action.
Still, the performances are fine. Chiwetel Ejiofor has the challenge of playing an essentially decent man without coming off as annoyingly sanctimonious, and he does that very well. Tim Allen is surprisingly effective in his small role, so much so that this could be the first step towards reinventing himself as a serious dramatic actor. Mamet regulars Joe Mantegna and Ricky Jay do precisely what they always do in Mamet films, and they are irreplaceable. (One of Mamet's other regulars, his wife Rebecca Pidgeon, is also on hand; fortunately, hers is a very small role, and she's not around long enough to ruin the movie as she often does.)
Not a great movie, but the things that do work work very well indeed, making it worth catching on cable or DVD.
Chiwetel Ejiofor stars as Mike Terry, owner of an LA martial-arts school specializing in Brazilian jiu-jitsu (which is, apparently, not the same thing as Japanese jujitsu). Mike is a skilled fighter himself, and has been asked many times to take part in pay-per-view martial arts extravaganzas run by a sleazy promoter (Ricky Jay); he is, however, a deeply idealistic man, and has no interest in sullying his talent on such tacky events. As a result, the school is almost always on the verge of financial crisis.
Attempting to describe the plot at all would be futile, and any attempt would give too much away that should be surprising; it's a complex (though never hard to follow) story involving a naive young attorney (Emily Mortimer), Mike's materialistic wife (Alice Braga) and her bar-owner brother (Rodrigo Santoro), an aging action movie star (Tim Allen), and his shady manager (Joe Mantegna). As is customary in Mamet's con games, surface gestures hide deeper motives and trustworthiness is in short supply.
There are certain problems that almost always arise in con game movies. The biggest of them is that they rely to a tremendous extent on coincidence, or on the villain's ability to predict with perfect accuracy how everyone else will react to a specific situation. The best con game stories -- and I'd include Mamet's movies House of Games and The Spanish Prisoner among them -- juggle their narrative balls swiftly and gracefully enough that you don't really notice those flaws under you're leaving the theater, trying to figure out how all of that happened. That's not the case here; you're aware of the narrative gaps as they arise. Further, the final ten minutes of the movie are a plotting nightmare, a mess of unmotivated behavior and confusing action.
Still, the performances are fine. Chiwetel Ejiofor has the challenge of playing an essentially decent man without coming off as annoyingly sanctimonious, and he does that very well. Tim Allen is surprisingly effective in his small role, so much so that this could be the first step towards reinventing himself as a serious dramatic actor. Mamet regulars Joe Mantegna and Ricky Jay do precisely what they always do in Mamet films, and they are irreplaceable. (One of Mamet's other regulars, his wife Rebecca Pidgeon, is also on hand; fortunately, hers is a very small role, and she's not around long enough to ruin the movie as she often does.)
Not a great movie, but the things that do work work very well indeed, making it worth catching on cable or DVD.
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Movies
May 11, 2008
MOVIES: Iron Man (Jon Favreau, 2008)
Standard-issue comic book adaptation, elevated only slightly by the presence of Robert Downey Jr. in the lead role.
Downey is Tony Stark, wealthy playboy and chief developer for the arms manufacturing company founded by his father. While visiting Afghanistan to demonstrate his newest weapon to the soldiers there, he's taken prisoner by local rebels who order him to build one of his missiles for them. (They are apparently very stupid rebels, who don't understand that one needs a factory and high-tech equipment to build such things.)
Instead, Stark builds a crude suit of armor which he uses to escape. The experience brings him to an epiphany in which he realizes that the weapons trade is Evil, and that he must atone for his sins, which he does by perfecting that armored suit -- essentially turning himself into a weapon (a contradiction that the movie never acknowledges, much less deals with).
Downey is very good as Stark, especially in the first part of the movie, when he gets to play the dissolute layabout; after he goes through his transformation and turns into the world's most self-righteous prig, the character is a lot less likable, and even Downey can't do much to salvage him. (And for me, at least, the parallels between Stark's story of redemption and Downey's own career, which have been pounded to death in the movie's publicity campaign, make the movie feel a bit too much like Downey's own personal psychodrama.)
The rest of the cast is made up of talented actors, wasted in cliche roles -- Gwyneth Paltrow as the Girl Friday, Jeff Bridges as the Evil Industrialist (we know he's Evil because he has a shaved head), and Terrence Howard as the Black Best Friend. There are relatively few action sequences for a comic-book movie -- probably a good idea, because every time Stark gets into the Iron Man suit, you lose all of the communicative force of Downey's face -- and they aren't very interesting or original.
There's a brief scene after the credits (and my lord, these are long credits) that makes it clear that a sequel of some sorts is already in the works; it was probably inevitable, given the movie's success, but I can't say I'm excited by the thought.
Downey is Tony Stark, wealthy playboy and chief developer for the arms manufacturing company founded by his father. While visiting Afghanistan to demonstrate his newest weapon to the soldiers there, he's taken prisoner by local rebels who order him to build one of his missiles for them. (They are apparently very stupid rebels, who don't understand that one needs a factory and high-tech equipment to build such things.)
Instead, Stark builds a crude suit of armor which he uses to escape. The experience brings him to an epiphany in which he realizes that the weapons trade is Evil, and that he must atone for his sins, which he does by perfecting that armored suit -- essentially turning himself into a weapon (a contradiction that the movie never acknowledges, much less deals with).
Downey is very good as Stark, especially in the first part of the movie, when he gets to play the dissolute layabout; after he goes through his transformation and turns into the world's most self-righteous prig, the character is a lot less likable, and even Downey can't do much to salvage him. (And for me, at least, the parallels between Stark's story of redemption and Downey's own career, which have been pounded to death in the movie's publicity campaign, make the movie feel a bit too much like Downey's own personal psychodrama.)
The rest of the cast is made up of talented actors, wasted in cliche roles -- Gwyneth Paltrow as the Girl Friday, Jeff Bridges as the Evil Industrialist (we know he's Evil because he has a shaved head), and Terrence Howard as the Black Best Friend. There are relatively few action sequences for a comic-book movie -- probably a good idea, because every time Stark gets into the Iron Man suit, you lose all of the communicative force of Downey's face -- and they aren't very interesting or original.
There's a brief scene after the credits (and my lord, these are long credits) that makes it clear that a sequel of some sorts is already in the works; it was probably inevitable, given the movie's success, but I can't say I'm excited by the thought.
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Movies
May 08, 2008
BOOKS: In the Woods, Tana French (2007)
This year's winner of the Edgar Award for Best First Novel.
Twenty years ago, three children disappeared in the woods near their homes on the outskirts of Dublin. After several hours of searching, Adam Robert Ryan was found; he was essentially unharmed, though his shoes and socks were filled with blood, and he was clinging so tightly to a tree that he had to be pried loose. He didn't speak a word for two weeks, and never remembered any of what had happened to him that day; the other two children were never found.
Today, Rob Ryan is a member of the murder squad on the Dublin police force. His partner, Cassie, is the only one of his colleagues who knows about that childhood experience, which is why no one objects when Rob is assigned to the case of a new child murder in those same woods.
This is a very fine book. The characters and relationships are fully drawn, the suspense of the police work is terrifically exciting, and the writing is lovely to read. Take, for instance, these paragraphs from early in the book:
Best of all, the relationships among the characters actually effect the way they do their jobs. There is a magnificent scene late in the book which finds Cassie interrogating the principal suspect while Rob and their boss listen in; the complexities of what Cassie is saying to the suspect, what she's really saying to Rob, and what she's not saying to their boss are intricate and beautifully played out.
This is not just an excellent police thriller; it's an excellent novel, even for people who think they don't like police thrillers. Recommended without reservation.
Twenty years ago, three children disappeared in the woods near their homes on the outskirts of Dublin. After several hours of searching, Adam Robert Ryan was found; he was essentially unharmed, though his shoes and socks were filled with blood, and he was clinging so tightly to a tree that he had to be pried loose. He didn't speak a word for two weeks, and never remembered any of what had happened to him that day; the other two children were never found.
Today, Rob Ryan is a member of the murder squad on the Dublin police force. His partner, Cassie, is the only one of his colleagues who knows about that childhood experience, which is why no one objects when Rob is assigned to the case of a new child murder in those same woods.
This is a very fine book. The characters and relationships are fully drawn, the suspense of the police work is terrifically exciting, and the writing is lovely to read. Take, for instance, these paragraphs from early in the book:
What I warn you to remember is that I am a detective. Our relationship with truth is fundamental but cracked, refracting confusingly like fragmented glass. It is the core of our careers, the endgame of every move we make, and we pursue it with strategies painstakingly constructed of lies and concealment and every variation on deception. The truth is the most desirable woman in the world and we are the most jealous lovers, reflexively denying anyone else the slightest glimpse of her. We betray her routinely, spending hours and days stupor-deep in lies, and then turn back to her holding out the lover's ultimate Möbius strip: But I only did it because I love you so much.
This is my job, and you don't go into it -- or if you do, you don't last -- without some natural affinity for its priorities and demands. What I am telling you, before I begin my story, is this -- two things: I crave truth. And I lie.
Best of all, the relationships among the characters actually effect the way they do their jobs. There is a magnificent scene late in the book which finds Cassie interrogating the principal suspect while Rob and their boss listen in; the complexities of what Cassie is saying to the suspect, what she's really saying to Rob, and what she's not saying to their boss are intricate and beautifully played out.
This is not just an excellent police thriller; it's an excellent novel, even for people who think they don't like police thrillers. Recommended without reservation.
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Books
May 06, 2008
MUSIC: American Idol 08: Rock & Roll Hall of Fame
Even if the singers didn't have access to all 500 songs on the Hall of Fame's list of songs that shaped rock'n'roll, they surely had a wide enough choice that there was no excuse for poor song selection or bad performances tonight. Sadly, though, while some of the would-be Idols lived up to their potential with some of the year's best numbers, there were also a pair of clunkers that made it clear who's the weakest of the pack.
The rundown:
David C: "Hungry Like the Wolf" / "Baba O'Riley" -- All those songs to choose from, and David picks Duran Duran? It's not his best performance; he's oversinging, making his voice unpleasantly harsh, and his enunciation is particularly bad. Voice and enunciation both improve significantly on the second song, but it's not a very interesting song to begin with, and David does nothing to make it so. I'm reminded of the disastrous attempts various Idols have made to sing Rolling Stones songs, which inevitably teach us that what we love isn't the song; it's Mick Jagger's personality, stage presence, and performance. Same thing with The Who, it seems.
Syesha, "Proud Mary" / "A Change Is Gonna Come" -- Syesha is, by far, the best singer left in the competition -- spectacular voice, great versatility, superb technique -- and I always enjoy listening to her sing. But I'm still not sure I know who Syesha really is as a singer. She's giving a fine series of performances, but I always feels as if she's playing someone else. Tonight, we got Syesha in the roles of Tina Turner and Sam Cooke. That's not to suggest that she's merely doing impersonations -- she's not -- but there is something of Syesha that she's still holding back. It'll be fascinating to see the finals (should she make it that far) when she's given the Official American Idol Anthem and has to sing a song that hasn't been done by someone else already.
Jason, "I Shot the Sheriff" / "Mr. Tambourine Man" -- A pair of disastrous performances. To be sure, there is a bit more power and force to Jason's voice than usual, particularly in his first number, but the effort of putting it there takes away what little breath control he has, forcing him into even choppier phrasing than usual. He badly bobbles the lyrics on "Tambourine," and the coda that's been attached to the song is stupid and unnecessary, even by the standards of stupid unnecessary Idol codas.
David A, "Stand By Me" / "Love Me Tender" -- David has seemed a bit complacent in recent weeks, coasting on his teenybopper appeal without really putting in a lot of effort. But not tonight. His "Stand By Me" is a superb song selection that suits his voice beautifully; he sings it with grace and ease, even playing with the audience ("all you beautiful girls") in a way he's never done before. This is the first performance of the year that I might actually go to iTunes and buy. "Love Me Tender" isn't quite as good, and he relies a bit too heavily on his soulful eyes to get across the romantic intensity that he can't quite communicate vocally. Further, if you're going to tinker with the melody to give yourself a showy money note, as David does (the second appearance of "...ALL my dreams fulfill..."), then by golly, you had better hit that note instead of falling flat. That's a quibble, though, as David is clearly the class act of the evening.
For the night: David A, Syesha, David C, Jason.
For the season: Syesha, David A, David C, Jason.
Should go home: Unquestionably Jason.
The rundown:
David C: "Hungry Like the Wolf" / "Baba O'Riley" -- All those songs to choose from, and David picks Duran Duran? It's not his best performance; he's oversinging, making his voice unpleasantly harsh, and his enunciation is particularly bad. Voice and enunciation both improve significantly on the second song, but it's not a very interesting song to begin with, and David does nothing to make it so. I'm reminded of the disastrous attempts various Idols have made to sing Rolling Stones songs, which inevitably teach us that what we love isn't the song; it's Mick Jagger's personality, stage presence, and performance. Same thing with The Who, it seems.
Syesha, "Proud Mary" / "A Change Is Gonna Come" -- Syesha is, by far, the best singer left in the competition -- spectacular voice, great versatility, superb technique -- and I always enjoy listening to her sing. But I'm still not sure I know who Syesha really is as a singer. She's giving a fine series of performances, but I always feels as if she's playing someone else. Tonight, we got Syesha in the roles of Tina Turner and Sam Cooke. That's not to suggest that she's merely doing impersonations -- she's not -- but there is something of Syesha that she's still holding back. It'll be fascinating to see the finals (should she make it that far) when she's given the Official American Idol Anthem and has to sing a song that hasn't been done by someone else already.
Jason, "I Shot the Sheriff" / "Mr. Tambourine Man" -- A pair of disastrous performances. To be sure, there is a bit more power and force to Jason's voice than usual, particularly in his first number, but the effort of putting it there takes away what little breath control he has, forcing him into even choppier phrasing than usual. He badly bobbles the lyrics on "Tambourine," and the coda that's been attached to the song is stupid and unnecessary, even by the standards of stupid unnecessary Idol codas.
David A, "Stand By Me" / "Love Me Tender" -- David has seemed a bit complacent in recent weeks, coasting on his teenybopper appeal without really putting in a lot of effort. But not tonight. His "Stand By Me" is a superb song selection that suits his voice beautifully; he sings it with grace and ease, even playing with the audience ("all you beautiful girls") in a way he's never done before. This is the first performance of the year that I might actually go to iTunes and buy. "Love Me Tender" isn't quite as good, and he relies a bit too heavily on his soulful eyes to get across the romantic intensity that he can't quite communicate vocally. Further, if you're going to tinker with the melody to give yourself a showy money note, as David does (the second appearance of "...ALL my dreams fulfill..."), then by golly, you had better hit that note instead of falling flat. That's a quibble, though, as David is clearly the class act of the evening.
For the night: David A, Syesha, David C, Jason.
For the season: Syesha, David A, David C, Jason.
Should go home: Unquestionably Jason.
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