The Tempest

It looks like you kids are all as busy as I've been, but I'm finding that blogging can be entirely necessary in the valiant preservation of sanity, so I'm going to keep trying to move ahead with it.

All week, I've been trying to come up with a word to accurately describe Steppenwolf's production of The Tempest. I've come to the conclusion that there isn't one. A word has yet to be introduced into the vast English language that will appropriately describe this production. I'm thinking of making one up, for this very purpose. But I don't know if Merriam Webster is that into suggestions. But please understand before I go on that this word, whatever it is, would be positive, not negative.

I saw the show on Tuesday night, the one night a week I don't have class. And I find that if I go on a Tuesday, I'll have an easier time getting student tickets - boy, did I. I was in center orchestra row D, for $15. The folks sitting next to me probably paid at least $60. Would have been worth $60 though.

...Even as I'm sitting here typing, I'm having a difficult time reviewing this play. It's extraordinary, first of all. It commands your attention literally within the first second (it also may well be the loudest play I've ever seen - the woman beside me jumped a foot when it began). There should be a warning - this play is not for the weak of heart. It's certainly the most exciting production of a Shakespeare play I've even seen. And easily the most daring. The way it's done, it's almost a musical. A hip musical. There's a dance sequence in the second act that you really and truly need to see to believe. Even as I was watching it, I had to blink and remind myself that I wasn't experiencing some kind of tremendously entertaining acid trip.

If you're in Chicago, see this. That's about the best I can do. I recommend it, highly, though I'm having no luck at all conveying it. Just see it.

The song of forgetting

I still exist, I promise. I've just been trying to get through this semester. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and it's becoming increasingly frustrating that it's taking me so long to get there.

I changed my major, which was an extremely monumental step for me. I never thought I would want to do anything other than screenwriting, but after I lot of soul-searching, deep thought, and a long string of conversations with people I trust and admire, I have changed my major to Theater, with a concentration in Directing. And it feels more right than anything I've done in a long, long time. I'm disenchanted with film, and theater is a thrill that never goes away. I want that. And also, I feel like it just makes sense, because I'm in the perfect place to do this - not only am I in Chicago, but I'm at Columbia, which an extraordinary school for theater. My directing role model, Tony winner Anna D. Shapiro, graduated from this school. I consider that to be a very good omen. And like I said, it feels right. How often does that happen really?

Beyond that, I've been going to shows constantly, escaping, spending money I don't have. Met some fantastic people. I'm planning to go see The Tempest at Steppenwolf sometime this week. Possibly tomorrow. I'm excited for that. And I'm still having a consummate love affair with Chicago. I can't believe I'll be leaving it in less than a month only to be stuck at home in Philadelphia for three. Fortunately, Philly is where my best friends are. But still...Chicago...

A weekend of theatre

Cynthia Nixon and Josh Stamberg, in Distracted.

I'm "home" in Philadelphia for spring break. Philadelphia means nothing to me. Its close proximity to New York City does. Thus, I spent the entire weekend there seeing shows. Three shows in two days.

First up was Roundabout's Distracted at the Laura Pels, starring Cynthia Nixon. I love the Laura Pels Theatre. So many good times there, seeing the great Blythe Danner in Suddenly Last Summer (twice!), and The Marriage of Bette and Boo last summer. I wasn't sure what to think of Distracted, because I had intentionally not checked out any reviews. I was stunned by it. It was fabulous. The set...cannot be described without pictures. I've never seen anything like it. Unbelievably high tech, and way too cool. Cynthia Nixon, as expected, was wonderful - and very unlike anything I'd seen her in. The entire cast was great, and the play was both thoughtful and funny. I highly recommend it.

Saturday night was 33 Variations, starring Jane Fonda, Colin Hanks, and Samantha Mathis. Well. I don't think I need to tell you about the brilliance that is Jane Fonda. That goes without saying. She was outstanding, as were Colin Hanks and Samantha Mathis. The set and the direction of the play - fantastic. Almost awe-inspiring. The play itself, I thought, was lacking however. I found my attention veering off now and then, which is rare for me in the theatre, and it seemed almost contrived in its attempt to align the life of Jane Fonda's character with Beethoven himself. The writing just seemed...lazy to me, reliant on conventions. That said, that's no excuse to miss this play. You don't miss Jane Fonda. You just don't.

Sunday, we took in a matinee of Exit the King, which officially opens later this week. The show starred Oscar winners Geoffrey Rush and Susan Sarandon (both of whom I have adored for years and years), as well as Lauren Ambrose (from one of my favorite shows, Six Feet Under) and the always hilarious Andrea Martin. With a cast like this, I was convinced the show couldn't fail. But the play is just one giant question mark. From beginning to end, you have absolutely no idea what's going on, or what the point is. It's an absolute farce, but there's no substance there. And the ending, while somewhat riveting (thanks to the nuanced acting of the play's two formidable leads), comes out of left field and is altogether baffling. I admire the effort - and the performances are all absolutely winning (I had no idea Lauren Ambrose had a flair for the melodramatic and nonsensical - she's fantastic) - but the play itself, unless I missed something somewhere along the way, is rather pointless.

I have been obscenely blessed by the theatre gods the last couple weeks, and I have to be thankful for that. But I do have to say that the shows I've seen in Chicago recently really do eclipse what I've seen in New York of late. I wonder what that says. As I noted to my mother this weekend, I wish Broadway was in Chicago and Chicago was in California. Then life would truly be perfect.

in memoriam

RIP, Natasha Richardson.

You were loved, and you will be missed.

A political bloodbath

Last night, I had the enormous privilege of seeing Bill Maher and Ann Coulter claw each other's eyes out at the Chicago Theater. I shouldn't say that. They were relatively civil, considering.

The theater - huge, gorgeous, and legendary - was packed to the gills with Democrats and Republicans alike (mostly Democrats, given that this is newly victorious Chicagoland), all of them older than my roommate and me. We took pride in being the youngest folks there, because we were also possibly the most excited folks there. Alex and I are what you might call Bill Maher freaks. Real Time, Politically Incorrect, podcasts, opening night of Religilous. And, like probably all Democrats, we are likewise Ann Coulter haters. We were practically giddy sitting in that audience.

And what a fun audience it was. Screaming, clapping, booing, whistling. The speakers could hardly get a word in. Fortunately, Bill Maher and Ann Coulter are experts are getting words in. Throughout the evening, it was obvious that they respected each other. They even made a point of noting that they respect each other. But that didn't keep them from tearing each other a part. Which was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I surprised myself by actually listening to Ann Coulter. Until she called the audience stupid. She said to Bill Maher, and I quote, "Look at you, you're just playing to a stupid audience." That was the moment she lost everyone. But she had lost me a few moments earlier when she went off on single mothers and how children of single mothers are by and large failures. As a child of a single mother, I just about ran up to the stage and tackled her.

Bill Maher, on the other hand, was brilliant and hilarious as always. Yes, I'm biased and yes, I'm okay with that. To my chagrin, he wasn't able to talk much about religion, just as Ann Coulter wasn't allowed to talk much about gay marriage. The topics centered mostly around the Obama Administration, which was admittedly mature if a little disappointing.

All in all, a fantastic night. I never thought I'd be in the presence of Ann Coulter in my lifetime, and especially not alongside Bill Maher, so this'll be a story for the grandchildren.

And now comes the weekend, which will consist of cleaning, sleeping, hair cuts, working on my screenplay for class, and Magnolia at the Goodman. Should be a good last weekend in Chi before spring break hits on the 20th.

People are meant to go through life two by two

Our Town at Lookingglass was last night. I was ushering, so I had the fantastic opportunity to see the cast warming up beforehand and doing some last minute rehearsing. David Schwimmer walked past me in a track suit. You know, the usual. I really love ushering. I love feeling like I'm a part of the whole theatre experience. Really, all I'm doing is stuffing playbills and ripping tickets, but it's kind of nice to feel like you have a little authority even if you really don't. And Lookingglass is so great to usher for, because it's such a cool set up, and so intimate.

Onto the show itself. I need first to talk about the set. Or lack thereof. There was nothing on the stage but a couple of chairs and two tables. No props. All the women wore the exact same outfit, the men did mostly. The actors essentially pantomined everything. They went through the motions of cooking breakfast, eating, drinking, all with only their hands. And here's the kicker - the entire set, the props, endless furniture, etc., were all hanging from the ceiling. Literally. There was a bathtub hanging above my head. It was unbelievable, and too cool. Here's a picture.

All of the actors were essentially the same age. You have David Schwimmer - who's got to be about forty by now - playing a 17-year-old, and so on and so forth. It was all very simple, very minimalist. And absolutely fantastic. You could see that this was lost on many people in audience. But the ones who got it seemed to really, really enjoy it.

I had never seen Our Town performed prior to this. But I remember the exact day when I read it. I was in Ocean City, Maryland with some friends - back when I was going to school in DC - and I read it on the beach. Because clearly, Thornton Wilder is appropriate beach reading. I fell in love with it then, a love that has only been strengthened after seeing it live. I can't recommend it enough.

This is such an excellent theatre month for me. Up next: a Bill Maher/Ann Coulter bloodbath at the Chicago Theater on Wednesday night.

California girls

This is what my fridge looks like at home. Home, as in not my apartment in Chicago but as in the place where my mother pays the bills in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. We have a magnet for every place we've ever been, and they all go right here, along with the occasional embarrassing photo of me and my cousins. I asked my mom to take these pictures the other day, because I've been thinking a lot about it. The places that I've been, and the places I want to go.

People shake their heads at me when I tell them I want to live in Los Angeles. "It's not all it's cracked up to be," they say. Well, no kidding. There isn't a place in the world that is. It's the same way with people who romanticize New York all out of proportion. I tell them, "Hey, it ain't so great." But we want what we want, for whatever reason.

I've been to Los Angeles once, last September. I said to hell with class, and met up with a few of my closest friends there, from all over the country. I flew in from Chicago, there was one in from Texas, three from Washington, D.C. We were there for not more than four days. And we were supertourists. We hit the Chinese Theater, the Walk of Fame, we took the WB studio tour, the obnoxious double-decker bus tour, everything. It was completely kitschy and we loved every minute of it.

I've never been happier. See, I'm an East Coast girl. I was born and raised in Boston, then moved to Philadelphia, then went to school in D.C. before settling on school in Chicago. The landscape in California blew me away. We drove from Santa Monica through Malibu and I was just lost for words. We had dinner one night in Venice Beach, which was...an experience to be sure.

I have been all over the world. Well, okay, that's a lie. I've been all over Europe and the Caribbean sea. I've been to Prague, I've been to Budabest, I've been to Vienna. Rome, London, Paris, Edinburgh, Barcelona, Athens. (My mom is obsessed with travel, it's always been our one extravagance.) But I had never been to the West Coast before. And I was so convinced that I'd never seen anyplace more beautiful in my life. I still believe that.

I've done my time as an East Coast girl. I can deal with the smog. I want to be a West Coast girl now.

My Sophie's Choice

On Wednesday afternoon, I took a surprisingly interesting walk. Lately, I've been taking walks either down State St. or Dearborn towards the canal, despite freezing cold that defies imagination, to clear my head. On this particular afternoon, I was on State, about three or four blocks from my apartment and I was stopped by a representative from Environment Illinois. I hadn't really been paying attention, I had my iPod on - probably listening to some embarrassing '80s tripe as I tend to do while walking - and stopped without thinking. When she told me which organization she was from, we had a nice, long talk about their goals and strategies. She was really and truly surprised that I didn't walk away, and moreso that I was willing to have a serious and engaging conversation about the issues - and that I was comparatively well-educated on them. And I couldn't help but think how sad it was that she had to be surprised about something like this. It says some terrible things about our nation.

In any case, the problem with this is that they want money. Not that I fault them for this - money really is the only thing that actually gets things done - but if you're haunting streets in the South Loop of Chicago hoping for financial supporters, you're in the wrong place. You're only going to hit college student after college student and we are dirt poor. It bummed me out quite a bit, because I wanted so badly to help, but I just can't afford $15 a month. I can't say that it's, to quote the old cliche, hard to find good help these days, but rather hard to help period these days.

After our somewhat lengthy encounter, I ran into Kristen Wiig from Saturday Night Live. So. It was a helluva walk. Anyhow, I got back to my apartment about an hour later and I started to feel guilty. Granted, I have had a lot on my mind this week - far more than I'm used to ever having - but the guilt was still there. I thought, "Well, I can spend money I don't have on a seemingly bottomless pit of theatre tickets but I can't afford $15 a month for the environment? Really, Self?"

So then I started to wonder: what's more important? My rabid, almost chemical need to see every single play that comes through Chicago, or...saving the planet? An age-old question, I'm sure. The answer should be pretty clear and, I guess, it is. I'm just ignoring it.

...In other news, I'm seeing Our Town at Lookingglass on Friday! Actually, I'm ushering for it, which in some ways is even better. You don't get the relaxing, recreational theatre experience, but you get to be a part of it, and see the show for free! And usually all of the volunteer ushers at Lookingglass are upwards of sixty and those kids are the best. I'm rambling now. Ta.

Meaningless ramblings

I can't sleep. Normally this would be of little consequence to me, but I have therapy early in the morning. And I have a headache plaguing me somethin' fierce. So what do I do? Blogville, USA.

I haven't been posting as frequently as I used to. This may be either due to the fact that I have nothing intelligent to say, or the fact that I'm busy. But who am I kidding? I'm a college student. I'm not busy. I sit on my computer all day when I'm not in class and not "partying." Don't ever let a college kid tell you that they're busy. Because it's a lie. Nine times out of ten they're spending the majority of their day on Facebook and/or lounging in their apartment watching Comedy Central or something equally mindless.

In other news, my roommate and I went to Second City on Tuesday night. I hadn't been since September, and the show was even funnier than the last one I saw. Taylor and I were crammed together at a table with two guys in their late '20s, who bought us drinks (Second City makes a mean strawberry daquiri, by the way), and we all managed an intelligent conversation about Saturday Night Live vs. SCTV. As much as I love SNL, I'll take Catherine O'Hara and Andrea Martin over anyone from SNL any day. I wish there had been a sketch show comprised entirely of Catherine O'Hara, Andrea Martin, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, and Martin Short, just for kicks.

Also, we got lost and ended up taking a $3 cab ride because the theatre was literally two blocks from where we finally broke down and hailed a cab. Classy, right?

Apropo of nothing, I want to talk about Big Love. I don't know if any of you watch it, but this season has just been blowing me away. The show is finally exploring so many of the issues that have needed to be address in the past, and bringing so many fascinating emotional conflicts into the fray. It's better than it's ever been. It's always been brilliant, but I really cannot get over how flawless it's been lately. If you don't watch it, consider this my recommendation.

Okay, that's it for me. I'll save my Los Angeles longings for next time. That's a loaded topic.

I want your soul.

It's true, I have been lazy of late. I had a real bummer of a week, for no real reason. I think I just had a case of the "mean reds," as Holly Golightly would say. But I think I'm done wallowing now. I'm ready to come out of my Bat Cave, and I wish that was a metaphor. But I really have a Bat Cave in my room. Instead of having a bed underneath my bunk bed, I have a dresser topped with endless dvds and a pink chair...and Batman sheets draped over the back. Yep. Bat Cave. That was obviously something you needed to know about me.

Anyway. Tuesday night, I went to go see The Seafarer at Steppenwolf. Finally. I went by myself, which is something I've never done, and it was surprisingly nice. I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't gotten over to Steppenwolf since August, so it was nice and nostalgic. I ate at the same restaurant down the block I ate at that, and passed the spot where I saw Kathy Baker after the show back in August, at which time it was all I could do not to "JILL BROCK!" her. And the people who work at Steppenwolf are supremely sweet. I had some enlightened conversations with those working the box office and some ushers. I just adore theatre people, and the whole atmosphere really. There's no better feeling in the world.

The show itself was phenomenal, and I had surprisingly perfect seats considering I got student rush tickets. But that's the nice thing about Steppenwolf's downstairs theatre - there really isn't a bad seat in the house. John Mahoney, from Frasier, was in the show, to the sheer delight of my Frasier-worshipping friends, Haynes. He was fantastic, as was everyone in it, especially the actor who played Mr. Lockhart, who I immediately recognized as Ben's lawyer from LOST, which may or may not be to my credit.

The first act is admittedly slow, and has you wondering where this is all going because it seems rather aimless. But by the end of the first act, I was literally on the edge of my seat and when the theatre goes black it's a bit of a shock to the system. The second act is brilliant and intense and staggering. I believe there were several instances when I forgot to breathe. I highly recommend it.

We're watching It Happened One Night in class tonight. Oh, Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert, how I adore you both.

Slice of life

Typically, I don't post about "real life" other than the casual throwaway line, but today it's necessary.

I'm sure Chicago isn't the only place around that experienced a serious rise in temperature this weekend. But Chicago being what it is, it took the city by storm. We're used to the kind of freezing wind that rips the flesh off your face. And today, we didn't even need our winter coats. People came out of the woodwork. Children roamed the street! Do you know how long it's been since we've seen children?

My roommate Taylor and I walked a total of four miles this afternoon, down the Magnificent Mile to the Water Tower and back. Granted, whatever weight was lost with the exercise was regained thanks to Chipotle, but it still felt fantastic. Completely exhilarating. And as we crossed the canal, this sight awaited us and I just had to take a picture:



But somehow, despite this good weather, we still ended up at the movies. (Story of my life.) Revolutionary Road, finally. Fantastic film, if incredibly depressing. It took some time for it to truly hit me, but once it did, I was knocked out and dragged off. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I was grateful. I mean, these two characters in the film were so phenomenally and profoundly unhappy that it makes you grateful for even the tiniest bit of happiness.

The day ended as all days ought to - watching Barbra Streisand. My friends Kate and Brooklyn demanded my copy of The Mirror Has Two Faces, so we watched that, followed by Streisand's "Timeless" concert on dvd.

Really, it was a perfect day. Too bad now I have a mountain of work to complete for my Monday morning Fiction Writing class. Joy.

Sad.

I don't know if anyone out there is following the Dunaway/Duff Feud of '09, but it's getting ugly.

Check this out.

I'm quite thoroughly baffled by the fact that Hilary Duff thinks it's okay to talk about a screen legend that way.

I'll find something more eloquent to say soon.

He adored Manhattan

I admit to being a devoted Woody Allen fan. I could not possibly care less about what he does in his personal life, his films are incomparable. The good ones anyway.

Here, Paste magazine has listed its opinion of Allen's top ten. The article goes into a deeper explanation, but here are the listed ten:

10) Sweet and Lowdown
9) Match Point
8) Love and Death
7) Vicky Cristina Barcelona
6) Bullets over Broadway
5) Crimes and Misdemeanors
4) The Purple Rose of Cairo
3) Annie Hall
2) Hannah and Her Sisters
1) Manhattan

Before I go into my thoughts on the list above, I should preface this by noting that I have a very clear bias for his films with Diane Keaton, and against his films with Mia Farrow. I always have. Which is why I would immediately strike The Purple Rose of Cairo from the list, and in its place insert Play it Again, Sam.

That said, I'm extremely pleased to see Manhattan at number one, a place which is typically occupied by one of the two that precede it. It had always been one of my favorites, but last semester in my Aesthetics of Cinema class, I had to dissect it (specifically the cinematography) for a ten-page paper and I discovered that it really and truly has to be his best film. It's exquisite. And I would admittedly place Annie Hall ahead of Hannah and Her Sisters, though I suppose it doesn't really matter any.

I don't know if any of you are Woody Allen fans or would have an opinion, but I'd love to hear it.

Genius at work

I'm abusing this blog and posting this video for no other reason than I want you all to see it. Why? Because it's brilliant and Madeline Kahn is made of epic stuff. Also because I have nothing better to say today. And because I'm being a very prudent student of procrastination.



Enjoy...!

An analysis of thought

There are moments in life, too many perhaps, when we are forced to pause and confront our own thoughts. It may sound strange, but consider it. Of all the things we think about, how much of it actually has an impact? How much of it do we remember the next day? How much of it do we really say out loud? So many thoughts simply come and go, swift and easy.

I think the best thing about having this blog is that it's been encouraging me to gather my thoughts. Even if hardly anyone reads them and even if no one cares, it's an important exercise for me and that's why I do it. At the risk of sounding like a commercial for an emergency cleaning product, life happens fast. Not everything that happens to us is significant enough to be remembered twenty years from now, but that doesn't necessarily mean we would prefer it that way. Writing them down gives us the option to remember them if we wish.

Tonight, I had the great fortune of seeing the phenomenal Anna Deavere Smith speak at my school. The school I go to is well-known for its emphasis on diversity, among other things, and diversity was the subject of her lecture. Although lecture is hardly the correct word for it - she spent the evening doing monologues from reality, imitating perfectly those whose words she spoke, right down to the accents and mannerisms. Everyone from Studs Terkel to Margaret Mead. It was astonishing to watch, and even more astonishing to think about afterward.

When I got back to my apartment, my roommates and I had a fairly lengthy discussions about gender and sexual orientation stereotypes that made us consider and reconsider our own views. We are, all of us, guilty of automatically placing people into stereotypes, even small ones. But we don't realize it because in our minds, it's normal. We don't question, we don't think.

It's normal to assume that blondes are stupid and redheads are fiery and dynamic. It's normal to assume that gay men love musical theater and lesbians are butch. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. Stereotypes are everywhere. I think some of us even stereotype ourselves.

I want to end this very jumbled and possibly pretentious post with a quote from Anna Deavere Smith, who was actually quoting Rabbi Menachim Mendel.

"The only whole heart is one is a broken one."

Why? It's that crack which lets the light in.

Zip!

I'm back in Chicago now, back to a dreaded 8:30 am class on Mondays, and back to roommates. But Saturday night, I was in New York. Funny, to think in the last three days, I've gone from Philadelphia to New York back to Philadelphia and finally to Chicago.

I spent all of six hours in New York, after taking the train up with my friend Leslie to see a show. Which, of course, is typical. Aside from the theatre scene, New York means very little to me. The show we saw was Pal Joey, currently doing a limited run at Studio 54.

My thoughts on the show are quite mixed, though more on the favorable side. Both Martha Plimpton and Stockard Channing were fantastic, despite not being known for their musical talent, and Matt Risch, the newcomer who played Joey, was fine. Now, I adore Rodgers and Hart, and of course the music was absolutely sublime - but I think the problem was more with the libretto. Much of the time, the story felt incongruous with the music, as if the music had to reach in order to seem even vaguely in context with the content of the scene. Like one of those jukebox musicals - i.e. Mamma Mia! and Crazy for You. This detracted a lot from my enjoyment of the show, but not fortunately not entirely.

I would recommend seeing it, for the performances of Martha Plimpton and Stockard Channing, and for the experience of seeing the inside of the legendary Studio 54, which truly is a sight to be seen. But the music is the heart of Pal Joey, so if you can't see it, it's no extraordinary loss. Just run out and buy the wonderful 1995 recording starring Patti LuPone, Peter Gallagher, and Bebe Neuwirth.

The next shows are my list are, hopefully, The Seafarer at Steppenwolf, the Chicago leg of the Spamalot tour with Richard Chamberlain, and Our Town at Lookingglass. And over spring break, the epic-ness that is Jane Fonda on Broadway in 33 Variations followed by Susan Sarandon and Geoffrey Rush in Exit the King. Should be a good season.

It's a joke nobody knows

My head is full. Sometimes I feel that if I think anymore, I'll explode. But then of course, I can't afford not to think. I've been thinking about politics, award season, theatre, recycling, religious abstention, my imminent return to Chicago on Sunday, and of course, the ever-childish feeling of being left out.

Last year, I went to school in Washington, D.C. before transferring to school in Chicago this year. Some of my closest friends are, predictably, still there. And thanks to the strange and addictive networking tool that is Facebook, I've been bombarded with endless tales of their Inauguration adventures. It's hard to be happy for them when you're standing just outside the circle. I'd like to stop being human, just for a moment, and be able to jump for joy with them, but I can't.

I've been thinking about the new administration and the faith I have in them. The game is on now. I've been thinking about the film industry and its annual tradition of shameless self-congratulation. It's amazing how I managed to get so wrapped up in it. I'm thinking about the integrity of the struggling theatre scene, the show I'll be seeing in New York this weekend, and the shows I'm planning to see in Chicago as soon as I return. And I've been thinking about how much I can't afford it, and how little I care. [Incidentally, I've also been thinking that more people need to come to Chicago because it's incredible. And there's my obligatory Chi-town plug.]

I go to a pretty eco-friendly school, but I've been thinking about ways I can enhance that. I hate being just one person. Then again, that's all it takes. I've been re-reading The God Delusion for the third time, and thinking about minorities and being one. I've been thinking about school, and whether I could be successful in my chosen field without it.

And most importantly, I've been thinking that LOST will finally be on in three hours, and I can escape for a little while. Oh, entertainment. How I rely on you so unreasonably.

Raising the level of debate

Inauguration is (technically) tomorrow. As if you weren't aware of this previously, did you know I do newsflashes too, courtesy of Captain Obvious?

Anyway, redirecting back on point, none of it feels real. We've been anticipating this day for eight years, most of us, and now that it's finally here it feels like some gag piece out of The Onion. Is this really happening to us? Are we really about to have a Democrat in office again? Is it really time for a black president? Finally? I can't bring myself to get excited, because it doesn't feel like something I'm living.

I'll be honest. I was a Hillary supporter. Sometimes, I feel like that's a feeling that doesn't really go away. Once a Hillary supporter, always a Hillary supporter. I didn't like Obama until Election Night, despite voting for him. And let me just mention - not being ostentatiously gung-ho about Obama in Chicago is like being a Democrat in Alabama. It just isn't done. But being at Grant Park that night, hearing that extraordinary speech, being among all that celebration, living it...it's hard not to be won over. The screaming in the streets that night - you wouldn't believe it unless you were there. I would call the whole thing a religious experience if I wasn't an atheist. But in its own way, it was.

Since that night, Obama has been all over my life. My apartment building is directly across the street from the Chicago Hilton, which is the venue from which Obama has given all of his speeches during this transition period. When he and Joe Biden announced Hillary at Secretary of State, they were all right across the street from me. Walking to class every morning, I would pass a long long of news truck boasting gigantic satellite dishes. It's impossible not to be swept up in Obamanation Fever when you're stalking his motorcade with your roommates, bonding with various Obama fans on the streets. After awhile, it consumes you, whether you like it or not.

That said, I still have my problems with Obama. He can talk the talk, but I need to see him walk the walk, which has always been my main concern with him as a candidate. But he's surrounded himself with a fantastic team, and that's the first step, so I have faith. And really, right now, faith is the best we can do, and most he can ask of us.

On Tuesday, millions of people will line up behind this man and ask him to lead us. Expect him to lead us. And, in a way, to save us. On Tuesday, the work begins.

And so, to borrow the words of the greatest leader we never had --

"Break's over."

Thanks, President Bartlet.

Last Chance Harvey

I'll make a real post soon, but I need to take a quick moment to recommend a movie currently in theatres.

Last Chance Harvey. See it. "Sublime" is really the only word I can think of to aptly describe it. It's like the Godiva chocolate of movies.

So do yourself a favor: see it, love it, pass it on. That's all.

Two Humourous Shores, One Pond

I was raised on the BBC. This is in part because my mother preferred to pretend she was British. Although this was true in heritage, she was born in Boston and therefore not of the directly British persuasion. When I was younger, I watched Casualty instead of E.R. I lived on Absolutely Fabulous, The Vicar of Dibley, Keeping Up Appearances, As Time Goes By, and more. French & Saunders was my life. American humor, at the time, was virtually lost on me. Unless of course you count Rugrats and Doug, and the occasional Kenan & Kel.

Last night, late in the evening when sleep was an elusive beast, I decided to have myself an Ab Fab marathon, beginning from the premiere episode of season one. It occurred to me as I was watching - and feel free to refute this statement if you disagree - that British comedy is just flat out funnier than American comedy.

I've been trying to discern why, both for my own knowledge and the benefit of this post, but it's still a little unclear. Maybe it's simply by default. Maybe British people think American comedy is funnier, who knows? Hell, maybe it's the accent.

Although I think it's possible that the British style is humor is a bit less crass. As Americans, we're so focused on being funny, in finding humor in odd places, while the British just seem to find humor wherever they go. Would Monty Python be as funny if it were done by Americans? Probably not. Would a show as brilliantly funny as Keeping Up Appearances be a success in the U.S.? Doubtful.

If you notice, Britcoms are exceedingly simple in terms of plot. An wildly immature mother and her stern daughter, a female vicar, an inexplicably haughty old woman and her classless sisters, a couple who reunites after forty years of leading separate lives. Simple, brilliant, and shockingly hilarious. Most episodes of Ab Fab don't have much going on in them. Often there are ten minute scenes of Edina and Saffron having an extended exchange in the kitchen, about nothing. And it's utterly hilarious. In the U.S., we don't laugh unless Jack McFarland puts on a gay spelling bee or Tracy Jordan dresses up like Thomas Jefferson. We laugh at what people do rather than what they say.

And then of course you have movies like This Is Spinal Tap, made by Americans about British people, that completely cast my theory to the wind. Damnit. Back to the drawing board.

...that's probably why he killed himself.

The initial plan was to make a post about the Golden Globes. How much Kate Winslet rocks, how much I adore Emma Thompson, how Sally Field was robbed, how Colin Farrell won something (seriously how did Colin Farrell win something?), and how Meryl Streep lost. Twice. But this has all been done to death already, I think.

So. This instead.

As a film student, folks are always asking me for film recommendations. I was on a cruise recently, and when my tablemates at dinner heard I was about this, their first remark was: "Name your top five films."

My response: "Uhhh...uhhh...well...let's see...hmm..."

Word to the wise: don't ask a film student for their favorite films. They will spontaneously combust before your very eyes. And while that would certainly be a sight to see, it's inadvisable for obvious reasons. That said, I think I'm going to start doing film recommendations here. Why? I don't know, because it's my blog and I'll do what I want! Or something.

The first film that has the honor of receiving my esteemed recommendation: The Big Chill

I recommend this film for many reasons, the first of which is it's relevant to everyone. If you have friends, it will mean something to you. And for most people, it will mean a lot. I could watch The Big Chill every single day (and go through periods when I do). I would still laugh, still cry, still be overwhelming attracted to Kevin Kline.

This movie is about people. How they change, and how they stay the same. The things that keep them alive, the things that they would die for, the things that make the in-between worthwhile. And it has some of the best one-liners in movie history. Not to mention one of the greatest ensemble casts ever assembled.

And to borrow a relatively new cliche: It's funny because it's true.

Fiddler Off the Roof

Clearly, the writers of Saturday Night Live read my thrilling post about Broadway and the economic crisis.

For those who didn't see, a hilarious sketch from last night's episode hosted by Neil Patrick Harris about the fate of Broadway:



Also, because this shouldn't be ignored: A typically pantsless Liza Minnelli makes an appearance with her best friend, Tomato.

Lastly, the following shows close today: Gypsy, All My Sons, Spamalot, and the L.A. run of Wicked.

A Tough Act to Recognize

I have always belonged to the Court of Unpopular Opinion. I'm aware that isn't a real thing, but let's make it one for the purpose of this blog.

Grey's Anatomy? Hate it. The Hills? What, are you kidding? Despise it! Harry Potter? Over it! Twilight? You know the drill.

Meryl Streep? Okay, here we go.

Last night, watching the Critics' Choice Awards, I found myself face to face with a very real fear. Is it possible, is it really and truly possible, that Meryl Streep might win yet another Oscar? Am I the only one who is just a wee bit terrified of this prospect?

Now before you start jumping down my throat, I think Meryl Streep is fantastic actress. It's hard to deny this. But is she the greatest actress of all time? ...No. It's important to mention that I don't think it's possible to determine the greatest actress of all time in general. That's like trying to determine the best sex you've ever had or the greatest voice in a generation. It cannot be accurately and definitively done. Some actresses are better than others are comedy, some at drama, some on stage, some on film. Some are subtle, some are ostentatious and in your face. There are different styles, different fortes.

The Trouble with Meryl is that her talent has become assumed by the majority of moviegoers. It is assumed her performance will be brilliant, it is assumed that any film she deigns to appear in will be brilliant. No one actually stops to judge whether or not either or those things are true. Was Mamma Mia! a good movie? Great god in heaven, no. It was a terrible movie. It was a painful and cringe-worthy movie. Was Meryl Streep good in it? No. Let's be honest here. She was not. And yet you still see her racking up Golden Globe nominations and the like. For a performance that was not in any way worthy of an award.

If I were Meryl Streep, I would be insulted by this. I would be insulted that everyone just naturally assumed I was brilliant rather than really judging and analyzing my hard work for what it is. It's almost as if she need not put any effort into it at all. Look at The Devil Wears Prada - fun movie, good performances. But to receive an Oscar nomination for something like that? It's a joke. To be nominated alongside Helen Mirren for The Queen? Laughable. When I think of the other actors who are being robbed of nominations simply because it is in vogue to nominate Meryl whenever possible, it's embarrassing. Lavishing this woman with praise has become more of a tradition than a true honor.

I hate to rant and rave, but I just think it's a shame that it's come to this. And I'm relatively certain that, if they wanted to, Meryl Streep and Oprah could take over the world.

What a world it would be.

[I should note that this post is inspired in part by Nellamity Jane, who brought it to my attention that I am not all alone in my winter of Meryl discontent. And I'd like to take a second to pimp out her fantastic blog, Rogue Valley Girl.]

A Slump Grows on Broadway

In the course of journeying through the internet - which I am in the habit of doing, something tells me you are too - it occurs to me that The Hip Thing to blog about right now is the economy.

I could dip my foot into this esoteric pond of bitching and moaning - not to be confused with the proactive pond of doing - but then the terrorists win. But since they are persuasive terrorists, I'll meet them halfway. (Possibly someone from Homeland Security will stumble upon this and I'll be on my way to Guantanamo within the hour.)

Let's talk theatre. I'm an admitted theatre junkie. Philadelphia is my homeland, though I live primarily in Chicago these days, and New York is that one and a half train hour ride I take only when there are shows to be seen. I've never been to the Statue of Liberty, I have little interest in Central Park, and the Empire State Building is just that skyscraper I catch a glimpse of on my way from 42nd Street to Penn Station. Some might say I have a bias.

However. I often hear people complaining about the high price of theatre tickets these days - "astronomical!" they say, "sky high." Maybe. But these are live shows we're talking about, comrades. This isn't like going to the movies. Do you have an idea what it costs to put on a production eight times a week? Actors, crew, ushers. And these people are not rich, let me tell you. You do not do theatre for the money, you do it purely for love.

On January 4th, nine Broadway shows closed for good. Nine. In the coming weeks, quite a few more shows will go dark. Why? Because the first casualty of an economic crisis is entertainment.

Well. I hope you'll all be satisfied with your joyless existences, listening to the radio for entertainment like your forefathers did while you watch Broadway come crashing to its knees. But seriously, folks? Once you've taken care of the rent, groceries, and your electric bill - buy theatre tickets. Think of it as supporting a good cause.

At the very least, the experience will last you a lot longer than Pay-Per-View wrestling or porn.