tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85665540393642619352024-03-04T23:39:29.332-08:00Lisa Jensen Online - ExpressAdventures in writing with Lisa Jensen, Author, Columnist and Film CriticLisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.comBlogger779125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-9866950084687155022023-08-14T11:20:00.001-07:002023-08-14T12:23:19.705-07:00CLAY SERA SERA<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></p><a href="#"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWfWEpRNsqCgw_Z_PpItG-U30OyOi15khNWxyUPUufCsNW8tRDkuV3NkOztYE--BQhP6OVPpkIdoHyJitPFKyyPMWdUJX9fVqXk33ckte_JEkzQ-uOJB2MhfjTmb-tabwawgvuJHFxAWqtNZloDmN8nzW2FLpYpZbhrGyW-ZWyatKJn-5JnuQSA6_tD4/s1136/Colour%20poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1136" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWfWEpRNsqCgw_Z_PpItG-U30OyOi15khNWxyUPUufCsNW8tRDkuV3NkOztYE--BQhP6OVPpkIdoHyJitPFKyyPMWdUJX9fVqXk33ckte_JEkzQ-uOJB2MhfjTmb-tabwawgvuJHFxAWqtNZloDmN8nzW2FLpYpZbhrGyW-ZWyatKJn-5JnuQSA6_tD4/s320/Colour%20poster.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>Hey, folks, check out <i>The Colour Room</i>, now streaming on Amazon Prime. It's a drama about the early career of the wonderful Clarice Cliff, a working-class factory girl in the north of England who became one of the most renowned ceramic artists of the Art Deco '30s. <br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Her work is
distinctive, not only for the vivid colors on her hand-painted pieces, but the
abstract geometrical shapes she pioneered for everyday household items like
cups, plates, teapots and creamers. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">The movie is long on atmosphere — those
giant kiln chimneys belching smoke into the sky day and night — and cheerworthy
in the way the audacious young Clarice rises above her station painting
pottery on an assembly line at the Wilkinson company to become one of the
company's top designers. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">And while her work confounds most of the stodgy male
board members, she perseveres by rallying her fellow "paintresses" to
produce her line and market it to an enthusiastic demographic of women. (Not
unlike the Girl Power motif of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Barbie</i>
movie!)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE85T7-y0hZ9Z76JTq16ElEkHwzQUSj3h-gC2dnuIRvak0i42kwegXyX2nZpswkUvFV2r1BJKQk8BwAQuy_0RtJeDFMjDQ4x5Qqc_qiq7hxMroh3LLs5pFvyb1NbaJVL6Mx971dg1Kl9Wzt1nMJMwJQ9TP0cP71-69rqg_mrJ-VQS-wBqRn3uHQyZ_LBQ/s664/Colour%20still.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="664" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE85T7-y0hZ9Z76JTq16ElEkHwzQUSj3h-gC2dnuIRvak0i42kwegXyX2nZpswkUvFV2r1BJKQk8BwAQuy_0RtJeDFMjDQ4x5Qqc_qiq7hxMroh3LLs5pFvyb1NbaJVL6Mx971dg1Kl9Wzt1nMJMwJQ9TP0cP71-69rqg_mrJ-VQS-wBqRn3uHQyZ_LBQ/s320/Colour%20still.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">But beyond that, the movie was nostalgic
for me (or possibly triggering), since my first summer job out of high school
was painting bisque ware on the line at the funky Metlox Potteries factory in
Manhattan Beach. Company designs were stamped on the pieces, which we girls had
to paint in, not only in preordained colors, but in a precise number of brush
strokes. Mess up, and your work was relegated to the (dreaded) seconds store. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxdvtF17SbpCjUNiogLICTX8Id1MRuVQ9pYDJ951STbCAyZ18kc0ritNMIh8rL115onZmJoFxnjepZxlMjnwiqQk58shvBU4TEucs0zKOyh79LU1yJb3f0rrDvMCzaaatE-npmsWjcL9Nt3_3ZtbJ3sp7OUm8yTo9Hq09sRKSlQvw4vE4X81LSaDStlc/s2016/Metlox%20plate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsxdvtF17SbpCjUNiogLICTX8Id1MRuVQ9pYDJ951STbCAyZ18kc0ritNMIh8rL115onZmJoFxnjepZxlMjnwiqQk58shvBU4TEucs0zKOyh79LU1yJb3f0rrDvMCzaaatE-npmsWjcL9Nt3_3ZtbJ3sp7OUm8yTo9Hq09sRKSlQvw4vE4X81LSaDStlc/s320/Metlox%20plate.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Not all that creative, except that it prompted me to start drawing a comic
strip about my adventures in the working world, which I just dug out to look at
for the first time in (ahem) 50 years.</span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">In the strip, I called it Hotbox Pottery
because it was always sweltering in the workplace in summer, with the kiln
roaring away. The paint room was a couple of rooms away, but the bisque grading
department, where my mom worked, adjoined the kiln room and was blistering in
all seasons; the foreman handed out daily rations of salt tablets to keep the
work force up and running.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAkRcWIH8940GFlUNkpjL8HnKGbzkwZB2SsKTQHkcJZD1K0TRktvi5LzpZd0cA_xBFV6wRUY2kRS4iZbmY9A9VwOXlIA4O7R0E-az1n4KmJ3INMqoYG6DSLKi5taUBVFFJjMmB8DXrGeW3Wk4u_g2YeALFZ5nTskuZMWmLj1Z-miOM-5fCMFS4skWRgHU/s2016/Metlox%20Reverse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAkRcWIH8940GFlUNkpjL8HnKGbzkwZB2SsKTQHkcJZD1K0TRktvi5LzpZd0cA_xBFV6wRUY2kRS4iZbmY9A9VwOXlIA4O7R0E-az1n4KmJ3INMqoYG6DSLKi5taUBVFFJjMmB8DXrGeW3Wk4u_g2YeALFZ5nTskuZMWmLj1Z-miOM-5fCMFS4skWRgHU/s320/Metlox%20Reverse.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span><p></p><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">The owner's initials were ES (Evan Shaw,
who had bought the company from its original founders), so we always referred
to him as Ebenezer Scrooge for his miserly policies. But looking back, it
wasn't such a bad place to start my working life, earning my own paycheck (such
as it was ), and doing my own banking. Except for the heat, painting pottery
was more fun than slinging burgers at McDonald's or any kind of retail job
where I'd have to confront a cash register. </span>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Sadly, nothing I painted is ever likely
to turn up on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Antiques Roadshow</i>
(unlike Clarice Cliff). We never got to paint any of the cool Atomic '50s
designs; most of our work was the prosaic Rooster or Fruit Basket patterns.
Still, newcomers were allowed to sign and keep their first successfully painted
plate, which I still have. And in retrospect, I'm pleased to think I had some
connection, however tenuous, to what I realize now was the fabled Mid-Century
California art pottery scene. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Who knew?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLZi52EhlzXk63ED1n4mf9c9eh8z_YkfdAmqFvWQimUHy-76U3KXJzZR-aT17s_0CUz8sJ9jgQ7ItkUqmaPzXOrwTpsmpAtSxdUP2G3pTaTFFxpooePshAriFM_PKN_S6LmZiTC9_oDQaDJppSeFMIAGFo4Tk_6C-Euou4oiJk9MkwT7HO2dJ52zPxm4/s2016/LL%20Komix%201.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigLZi52EhlzXk63ED1n4mf9c9eh8z_YkfdAmqFvWQimUHy-76U3KXJzZR-aT17s_0CUz8sJ9jgQ7ItkUqmaPzXOrwTpsmpAtSxdUP2G3pTaTFFxpooePshAriFM_PKN_S6LmZiTC9_oDQaDJppSeFMIAGFo4Tk_6C-Euou4oiJk9MkwT7HO2dJ52zPxm4/s320/LL%20Komix%201.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVbVgmaIC0WPbuptbvyg4BH2TUi0gTbHL-1s3Okzjcp_C70y6b3vZFi5-MVETLU9V0vpKF5WbKksPSs51bved_eFrT64TfpGEdDGNv0owGPXMSG9cEDyr53gkOhgP-bp2SajKrkonRJm21yCfVIz5LpWI2mluZi5xajb_6Wzcryc7pbc55yR53_HEFQc/s2016/L%20L%20Komix%202.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJVbVgmaIC0WPbuptbvyg4BH2TUi0gTbHL-1s3Okzjcp_C70y6b3vZFi5-MVETLU9V0vpKF5WbKksPSs51bved_eFrT64TfpGEdDGNv0owGPXMSG9cEDyr53gkOhgP-bp2SajKrkonRJm21yCfVIz5LpWI2mluZi5xajb_6Wzcryc7pbc55yR53_HEFQc/w237-h323/L%20L%20Komix%202.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; 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mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiViS5svh3vrbgh81X3TqIXq5vZOXaheakYRXw6IORz4FpXgY5v5Er6mE_4IgOcK8sHQeGWWbwhypIrfEJqO9pCzga5jz2vdFEcQamUCrsIoTeDALlwaX_x0eBZrUNHglWINYSSMBzqRi7yB-8FuROyEdZ-VjEbX6wxRV78tHEnAFT96WgEETlCZ0o9on4/s2016/L%20L%20Komix%203.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiViS5svh3vrbgh81X3TqIXq5vZOXaheakYRXw6IORz4FpXgY5v5Er6mE_4IgOcK8sHQeGWWbwhypIrfEJqO9pCzga5jz2vdFEcQamUCrsIoTeDALlwaX_x0eBZrUNHglWINYSSMBzqRi7yB-8FuROyEdZ-VjEbX6wxRV78tHEnAFT96WgEETlCZ0o9on4/s320/L%20L%20Komix%203.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>
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{page:Section1;}</style></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-69886502456584231582023-08-13T16:12:00.000-07:002023-08-13T16:12:35.439-07:00WORD PLAY<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh18iaQHHvz8QczzZGWhvEs_FeCSB5QbRt9PR-sgPw7yRKhcisjSms3ixa6oYuGcG6Caio2T2Asm87PhYxQk0iU_ihHhcjZJ2Aa6QW9_9VwdMsxqLH1uh0m_J2aBc7QscoN9n4fgF5bFQlsr3ozfYu0xNC_UcaPEf_vZLHXhUC-RXw0RmmfcpFPNgIwRAU/s977/Will%20KL2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="977" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh18iaQHHvz8QczzZGWhvEs_FeCSB5QbRt9PR-sgPw7yRKhcisjSms3ixa6oYuGcG6Caio2T2Asm87PhYxQk0iU_ihHhcjZJ2Aa6QW9_9VwdMsxqLH1uh0m_J2aBc7QscoN9n4fgF5bFQlsr3ozfYu0xNC_UcaPEf_vZLHXhUC-RXw0RmmfcpFPNgIwRAU/s320/Will%20KL2.png" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br /> SCS stages smart, witty story of the actors who saved Shakespeare</i><br /><br />You couldn't imagine a better production to capture the spirit of this pivotal Santa Cruz Shakespeare season than <i>The Book of Will</i>. Lauren Gunderson's contemporary play about the creation of the First Folio of Shakespeare's texts is all about the power of words — to inspire and excite, to celebrate and educate, to comfort and heal. And it provides the perfect vehicle for outgoing Artistic Director Mike Ryan to hand over the company reins to incoming AD Charles Pasternak, playing the two real-life actors whose persistence, against all odds, preserved Shakespeare's splendid words for all time.<br /><br />Ryan and Pasternak play John Heminge and Henry Condell, two Elizabethan actors, friends and colleagues of the recently deceased Will, who hatch a scheme to collect and transcribe all the scribbled-down versions of Shakespeare's play texts they can find to produce a single, official volume of his work in print. This is no easy task. Complete playscripts were rare in this era; normally, actors only copied out their own parts to learn, partly to save on time and the expense of materials like parchment and ink, and partly to prevent other companies from stealing a complete script and producing their own versions. Not that it worked very well, as companies who only had a few scenes of a play to work with cheerfully made up the rest.<br /> <p></p><p>This point is made painfully clear in the very first scene as a young actor from a rival company (Mariana Garzon Toro) energetically murders Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech with some random improvised filler. Heminge and Condell, of the King's Men theatrical troupe, and celebrated actor Richard Burbage (played with bombastic verve by Rex Young) gather in a tavern run by Heminge's daughter, Alice (winsome and spirited Allie Pratt) to bemoan the evident deterioration of Shakespeare's plays in performance some seven years after the author's death. Some ardent players like Burbage have memorized entire plays as written, but their generation is aging out, to be replaced by their less-well-schooled heirs.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFn6PlfEqOPloI2jk59ZlpNtzpl9AX9FVwWONwxlXETvgznUcHbEQZ-n43dFYbE4aDyHAbyPkw_Muxpe0pR-Y7TZM1pZYJB6NmyLxSFoPaKtw3dN5y8-aKmAqMSxk2FJtMQp367AWOargyOUdb1LMOLDAgMUELL3cCFqoddPHBJ1fTZ1whxT-j9u_2oM/s708/Will%20RR.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="708" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFn6PlfEqOPloI2jk59ZlpNtzpl9AX9FVwWONwxlXETvgznUcHbEQZ-n43dFYbE4aDyHAbyPkw_Muxpe0pR-Y7TZM1pZYJB6NmyLxSFoPaKtw3dN5y8-aKmAqMSxk2FJtMQp367AWOargyOUdb1LMOLDAgMUELL3cCFqoddPHBJ1fTZ1whxT-j9u_2oM/s320/Will%20RR.png" width="320" /></a></div><br />It's Condell who first proposes the crack-brained idea of collecting Will's plays into a single volume, in his own authentic words — while people still remember what they are. Heminge, who has also become the troupe's business manager, is more tentative, cost-wise. But the enthusiasm of not only Condell and Alice, but Condell's amiable wife, Elizabeth (Paige Lindsey White) and Heminge's own wry, stout-hearted wife, Rebecca (Amy Kim Waschke) convince him of the urgency of preserving Will's thrilling words. <p></p><p>It all comes home to Heminge in a deeply moving late-inning monologue about the power of words to express the inexpressible and give vent to the otherwise unbearable burden of heartbreak.<br /><br />The supporting cast is terrific, as usual. Young doubles in the role of the publisher, Jaggard, who's been blithely profiting off the sale of bastardized version of Shakespeare's plays. Ben Jonson (a suitably flamboyant David Kelly), Shakespeare's friend and rival, makes a guest appearance. <br /><br />Director Laura Gordon is also an actor (she was Prospero in last season's <i>The Tempest</i>), and her staging makes the most of all the comedy and dry wit, as well as the more subtle, poignant moments in the plot. And for us grumpy traditionalists who pine to see Shakespeare performed in Elizabethan-style dress once in awhile, B. Modern's costumes evoke the period while retaining an unfussy, lived-in aesthetic.<br /><br />Believe it or not, this is the 10th anniversary of Santa Cruz Shakespeare (emerging phoenix-like from the ashes of the well-beloved Shakespeare Santa Cruz), and the company's 8th season in the lovely Audrey Stanley Grove up in Delaveaga Park. We have Mike Ryan to thank for shepherding the company through these most tumultuous times to bounce back stronger than ever, even now, when the pandemic and its ongoing aftermath continues to wreak havoc in the arts. With Charles Pasternak at the helm (who acted as co-Artistic Director with Ryan this season, before stepping into the job full time next year), we can expect the festival to continue to build on its impressive past while eagerly embracing the future.<br /><br /><i>Top photo: Kevin Lohman</i></p><p><i>Above: R. R. Jones </i><br /></p><p><br /></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-32716920302686376352023-08-10T11:48:00.002-07:002023-08-14T12:40:46.818-07:00LOVE CRAFT<p><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzQ-VkWCOfk7SfSuLtVboUAfttVeYFzz57drmy_2QTiI9j3EQC2yn8sMi1Y9-4qRyZxRQDwBf7Ufd7BAjSdNhKW1s9Q7RDtZdCnyrTzfgsZ9GpGLLX7xmmP8jjrj_Pvm4_BIcgaEX3iGJsGQEvDXEx0oVWIRd02fFwUqpweqB_SH9Jfo3h6XzEmKkAhQ/s842/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-06%20at%2012.14.20%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="842" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXzQ-VkWCOfk7SfSuLtVboUAfttVeYFzz57drmy_2QTiI9j3EQC2yn8sMi1Y9-4qRyZxRQDwBf7Ufd7BAjSdNhKW1s9Q7RDtZdCnyrTzfgsZ9GpGLLX7xmmP8jjrj_Pvm4_BIcgaEX3iGJsGQEvDXEx0oVWIRd02fFwUqpweqB_SH9Jfo3h6XzEmKkAhQ/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-06%20at%2012.14.20%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></i></div><i><br />Complicity, not compliance, highlights spirited SCS offering</i><p></p><p>There's a telling moment near the end of <a href="https://santacruzshakespeare.org/season-2023" target="_blank">Santa Cruz Shakespeare's</a> current production of <i>The Taming Of the Shrew</i>. It occurs in the climactic speech by Kate, the designated "shrew," delivering her manifesto on the state of her consciousness after having been "tamed" by her new husband, Petruchio, and it involves the tiny alteration of one single word. <br /><br />In the line that has given feminists fits at least since the "Women's Lib" '70s, Kate declares, "I am ashamed that women are so simple." Except, here, director Robynn Rodriguez swaps out the word "women" and replaces it with "people," which, coupled with the rest of Shakespeare's verse, "To offer war when they should kneel for peace," seems less like a call for female subservience to men than an observation on the regrettable human instinct to lash out in the face of any perceived opposition. Kate advocates for the gentle art of compromise — in love, in marriage, in society in general — as a means of achieving one's goals. Which are, in the case of Kate and Petruchio, individually, and, finally, together, the subversion of social conformity in pursuit of a more authentic life.<br /><br />This SCS production gives us an exhilarating pair of non-conformists on this collision course. Boisterous Petruchio (M. L. Roberts) has come to town to snag himself a rich bride and expand his own substantial properties. Katarina (Kelly Rogers) is a caustic young woman whose wealthy father, Baptista (Derrick Lee Weeden) has decreed that his pretty and obedient youngest daughter, Bianca (Yael Jeshion-Nelson), can't be wooed or wed until her older sister, Kate, is married off. To this end, Bianca's many would-be suitors conspire with Petruchio to woo Kate and clear their path to Bianca.<br /><br /> But what begins as a business proposition levels up as soon as Petruchio gets his first look at his quarry — and feels her first verbal sting. In Kate, he recognizes a fellow iconoclast, despite their different approaches; he cheerfully flaunts the rules of polite society to declare his plan to "wive it wealthily in Padua," while she resorts to waspish sarcasm. Profoundly unhappy in her domestic role from which there is seemingly no escape, she's so used to being mocked for her sharp tongue and unvarnished opinions, she assumes Petruchio's attentions are another cruel joke and launches a preemptive verbal strike in self-defense.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3eg763CbuR0vD04XRhgs_K-DlWvgQyKk3YXkyRvxqsohNud63LO1oxNuvZwSGiN-QrClZfXL0HfqqisssKdm1lhJRYhQ6SB_jvxjWt2FRJ1iMO0cT7FFNkvdx5O-KTzGnD2fGmVZQw2Zc-weOwtd61UrN9UAoFmU1BppuUG1DNGB4FQC0TPpkimhJ6Ww/s1209/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-08%20at%204.52.04%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="1209" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3eg763CbuR0vD04XRhgs_K-DlWvgQyKk3YXkyRvxqsohNud63LO1oxNuvZwSGiN-QrClZfXL0HfqqisssKdm1lhJRYhQ6SB_jvxjWt2FRJ1iMO0cT7FFNkvdx5O-KTzGnD2fGmVZQw2Zc-weOwtd61UrN9UAoFmU1BppuUG1DNGB4FQC0TPpkimhJ6Ww/w640-h310/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-08%20at%204.52.04%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><p><br />Roberts gives us a roistering, irreverent Petruchio, antic enough to wear a suit of Harlequin motley to his own wedding, yet seriously delighted to find in Kate a temperament so well matched to his own. (Kudos to Pamela Rodriguez-Montero's costumes that aren't rooted in any particular time or place, but are consistently true to the comic and narrative undercurrents in any given scene.) Rogers' Kate is an uncut gem of wit and passion whose only outlet is anger. In sparring with Petruchio, she is not so much "tamed" as liberated from the habit of mistrust. Even his most ridiculous commands — his insistent that the sun is, in fact, the moon, for example — become a test not of Kate's compliance to his whims, but her complicity in his vision of a less conventional and more rewarding alliance. It takes her awhile to learn to trust the one person who understands and values her, but there's great fun and blossoming joy in her discovery that they are kindred spirits, and that their best escape from restrictive social conventions is each other. <br /><br />Scene-stealing Patty Gallagher shows off her flair for physical slapstick as Petruchio's loyal servant, Grumio (in one scene, she stands, er, gallops in as his horse), and Sofia K. Metcalf's Tranio is our stalwart guide, helping to keep track of the busy plot; he disguises himself as his scholarly young master, Lucentio, while the real Lucentio (Junior Nyong'o) disguises himself as a humble tutor to Bianca in order to court her in secret.<br /><br />On the night I went, there was also a special guest appearance by Jewel Theatre Artistic Director and founder Julie James in a featured role as both a hapless tailor, and a scornful widow who foolishly attempts to match wits with Kate. The lively ensemble keeps the action fast and funny right through to the spirited finale that will have you cheering for the art and craft of love.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Photos by RR Jones</i><br /></p><p></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-4615262204478344312023-07-30T16:30:00.002-07:002023-08-14T12:43:16.570-07:00KING of FOOLS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gjcFMncgwbW-xV5T35yIRyjOq9z4N8QSq5SeDOczWPWa6IlMClmUdVA0ygmHYbwPp_S76RxsyYFf_A0bqqbk3kVP2QJNrSuwFvHHRWkhHjAPVPRf3EWPQmiN_Jnn43FsaM8MvMu0tiWhqWJU8he7CzhtEMHEBVE_cslu5uy7rdCLdLbvdxDMEbsca9Q/s703/Lear%20PW.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="703" data-original-width="595" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_gjcFMncgwbW-xV5T35yIRyjOq9z4N8QSq5SeDOczWPWa6IlMClmUdVA0ygmHYbwPp_S76RxsyYFf_A0bqqbk3kVP2QJNrSuwFvHHRWkhHjAPVPRf3EWPQmiN_Jnn43FsaM8MvMu0tiWhqWJU8he7CzhtEMHEBVE_cslu5uy7rdCLdLbvdxDMEbsca9Q/s320/Lear%20PW.png" width="271" /></a></div><br />Shakespeare season is now in full swing in Santa Cruz, with the premiere of <i>King Lear </i>last week joining <i>The Taming of the Shrew</i> and <i>The Book Of Will</i> in repertory at <a href="https://santacruzshakespeare.org/season-2023" target="_blank">Santa Cruz Shakespeare</a> (through August 27).<p></p><p>This is a milestone season for the entity formerly known as Shakespeare Santa Cruz, celebrating ten years since it re-emerged, phoenix-like, in the Audrey Stanley Grove at DeLaveaga Park, under the stewardship of Artistic Director Mike Ryan. It's also a milestone production of <i>Lear</i>. As the rampaging old king driven mad by his duplicitous, ungrateful daughters, longtime SSC Artistic Director Paul Whitworth is making his debut on the Grove stage. It's interesting to note that way back in 1995, when the company was still Shakespeare Santa Cruz, it mounted a production of <i>Lear</i> with Whitworth in the small but plummy featured role of the king's Fool. So it's fascinating to see how Whitworth has aged into the role of Lear in real time, almost 30 years later.<br /><br />Whitworth brings his entire range of vocal acrobatics to the part; he's particularly effective in the first act, shamelessly wheedling empty flattery out of his two eldest, false-hearted daughters, and in the mad scene in the second half, his wits flown, barefoot, dragging around a few meagre possessions in a cart, vocally caressing each antic observation. <br /><br />In this production, the philosophical young Fool banished from court with the mad old king is played with tremulous wit and tenderness by Sofia K. Metcalf. In a parallel story of parental foolishness, the Duke of Gloucester's scheming bastard son, Edmund, convinces him that his legitimate son, Edgar, is plotting to kill him, so Edgar flees into the wild with a price on his head, disguising himself as raggedy madman Tom O'Bedlam. Junior Nyong'o is terrific as Edgar/Tom, his madcap exuberance layered over a foundation of aching nobility. </p><p> </p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3yzqTtPfgV6pqBgN9spjz93RmJSjqLG80OPR6QzCOYk8nrFx3HChdoD9d1qST1iyoDSnZqNLe7H3yEoFfvgLywEDk2-5yo8KgIFykycj9BiUSK_zPAURyDT-lxIR4jLJwqVlaI3FF4o310vnQh2E4xn2EpWZP8bJKirFN3-gprs_wv8aCC4Ur-W8Lg0/s1141/Lear%20quartet.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="746" data-original-width="1141" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3yzqTtPfgV6pqBgN9spjz93RmJSjqLG80OPR6QzCOYk8nrFx3HChdoD9d1qST1iyoDSnZqNLe7H3yEoFfvgLywEDk2-5yo8KgIFykycj9BiUSK_zPAURyDT-lxIR4jLJwqVlaI3FF4o310vnQh2E4xn2EpWZP8bJKirFN3-gprs_wv8aCC4Ur-W8Lg0/s320/Lear%20quartet.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Metcalf, Nyong'o, Whitworth, Gallagher: heart and soul<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p>The ever-reliable Patty Gallagher pops up as Kent, the loyal courtier who disguises herself as a rustic to tend to Lear in his wandering exile. This quartet of the keenly observant Fool, the king sliding into madness, the pretend lunatic, and the stubbornly sensible shepherd of this mismatched flock is the heart and soul of this production. Derrick Lee Weeden deserves honorable mention not only for his formidable presence and pathos as the duped and repentant Gloucester, but for having the most majestic and commanding voice in the Grove.<br /><br />Unbeknownst to me at the time, I attended the first pre-premiere performance of Lear at a 2pm matinee, which I do not recommend. The production was not lacking in luster, quality or intensity, but if ever a Shakespearean play needed to be staged and seen at night, it's <i>Lear</i>, with its raging midnight storm mirroring the imploding disintegration of the old king's wits at the betrayal of his daughters and his own foolishness.<br /><br />Watching it in full, simmering sunshine is an entirely different experience — especially when the characters onstage complain about the bitter cold. Yes, awnings erected at the Grove for matinees provide intermittent shade for the audience as the sun moves, but the shifting sun and absence of stage lighting for daylight performances leaves some key scenes to play out in shadow onstage that would likely be spotlighted in the dark of night.<br /><br />Still, even if I wasn't getting the optimum viewing experience, most of the upcoming performances of <i>King Lear </i>are at night, where dark and possible fog and chill will complement the action onstage. While audiences are unlikely to experience an actual thunderstorm in the Grove in August (although the way the weather has been acting out this year, who knows?), this production generates its own atmospheric river of dramatic turbulence.</p><p></p><p><i>Photos by RR Jones</i><br /> </p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-6092734375301085042023-06-14T12:08:00.000-07:002023-06-14T12:08:01.149-07:00HE THOUGHT HE COULD<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YYggcJS7MWwOYd1oAuYjF-Sy1YLFaF5w_zOAdEU_zwZzyfxO3iRlXvzZgcBicoAfaJc5fI8z1xHCc2McUhUvf6cfVNWom7c7XzQhP74V1IHnnCzIQlGwsHGoFNQ6hT9A4mExudlGf5ReqYspAtcqavXGmNh_MOHwIjt3zAEBg4wAugOAz7y5p4Ew/s2016/Engine%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4YYggcJS7MWwOYd1oAuYjF-Sy1YLFaF5w_zOAdEU_zwZzyfxO3iRlXvzZgcBicoAfaJc5fI8z1xHCc2McUhUvf6cfVNWom7c7XzQhP74V1IHnnCzIQlGwsHGoFNQ6hT9A4mExudlGf5ReqYspAtcqavXGmNh_MOHwIjt3zAEBg4wAugOAz7y5p4Ew/s320/Engine%20cover.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />I was clearing out James' toy cabinet when, just like a box of Crackerjacks, I found a surprise inside. Tucked away behind the monster models, robots and ray guns was this unassuming little red story book from his childhood:<i> The Little Engine That Could</i>. <p></p><p> It wasn't something he picked up the flea market. Right there inside the front cover, somebody had written in, "Jimmy 1953." He'd had it since he was two years old. </p><p> I don't know if he brought it with him the first time he drove out west to California from Illinois, or whether he snagged it from his mom's things in storage when the family moved her into assisted living. I never really noticed it before, but what surprised me was that of all the storybooks he must have had as a child (and since he was the fourth of five siblings, the house must have been full of them), this was the one he decided to keep. It's about a train; there are no cute or funny animals, no spunky children, no magic, no whimsical trips into outer space. The illustrations aren't especially beguiling. Why this book? </p><p>So I read it. And now I think I get it. </p><p>To refresh, a train carrying toys and "wholesome food" to children waiting on the other side of a mountain suddenly breaks down. A snooty Shiny Passenger Engine and an arrogant Big Strong Freight Engine refuse to help, and a Kind Engine is too old and rusty. Then along comes a Little Blue Engine that has never been over the mountain and is only used for switching in the yard. But she hitches herself to the train and pulls it up the mountain, chugging along to the refrain, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can . . . ." </p><p> Consciously or not, I can see how my Art Boy might identify with that plucky Little Blue Engine. Consider the parallels! </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhad27WuPxdy0DSH8O-2VEhoC-ZRTQAYaWDX22K7b2KVLIxeVM_qeqeQBObYz99hIZOPjVCGh-DE0UdMW02E0kKu6KT_dRjyVlkiWt1LlOkPEDnraWKPI62XcWBtxcwMya_E0Dt68Vgf6o0S-wbQE57Foc4ylrR48sWMGozL1bf7W4paq0QvxeHjO4m/s1974/Engine%20front%20page%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="1974" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhad27WuPxdy0DSH8O-2VEhoC-ZRTQAYaWDX22K7b2KVLIxeVM_qeqeQBObYz99hIZOPjVCGh-DE0UdMW02E0kKu6KT_dRjyVlkiWt1LlOkPEDnraWKPI62XcWBtxcwMya_E0Dt68Vgf6o0S-wbQE57Foc4ylrR48sWMGozL1bf7W4paq0QvxeHjO4m/s320/Engine%20front%20page%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As an incoming college freshman, he declined his counselor's advice to start with introductory classes and signed up for advanced courses instead.
Seemingly on a whim, he shocked his friends and family (who had lived in the same Chicago suburb for generations) by moving to California when his girlfriend at the time got accepted to UCSC. For a year, he made a living scouring the flea market for paperbacks to sell to his mail-order client list of collectors. Until he met singer, musician, and comics fan Joe Ferrara; together (with zero retail experience between the two of them), they decided to open a comic book store. <p></p><p>A year after that, I met him, and a year after that, we were married. Four years later, when the landlord of our (two-bedroom, one bath, plus office and breakfast nook) rental house in Live Oak threatened to raise the rent from $400 a month to a whopping $500, James decided we should buy a house. He sold comic books. I wrote movie reviews. Interest rates were almost 20%. You'd think any self-respecting loan officer would laugh us right out of their cubicle. And yet, not only did we persist, we put on an addition, refinanced, and paid off the mortgage in six years.</p><p> At which time, he decided to sell his half of the (now thriving) comic book business to Joe and become an artist. He wa 40 years old. He had no art training whatsoever. He was always the first to admit he didn't know how to draw; he had never even doodled in the margins. </p><p> He just thought he could. </p><p>(Years later, people often asked me if I freaked out when he told me he was quitting his business to make art. I could honestly say, nope. It never even occurred to me to doubt him, given his track record for bucking the odds and making it work.) </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AEwHT5xX4JLxmWHbHgoeIBNHCFCwkn39JSkgXJ-2YGj6HLfVjEJkWg6kIOKkHXTFwgOsBhYG6DLr6pD10J4FAttYOSuRvUooN_YY1yNXuat2u1HXHivDAd2x3JhrPU7lAAuK74KEA4tfJ95ct0Ci4VP6Fkd_TkwM6ADrIaMyJOTxq-tN3aXsVMwl/s1891/Plaza%20Lane%2098.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1198" data-original-width="1891" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6AEwHT5xX4JLxmWHbHgoeIBNHCFCwkn39JSkgXJ-2YGj6HLfVjEJkWg6kIOKkHXTFwgOsBhYG6DLr6pD10J4FAttYOSuRvUooN_YY1yNXuat2u1HXHivDAd2x3JhrPU7lAAuK74KEA4tfJ95ct0Ci4VP6Fkd_TkwM6ADrIaMyJOTxq-tN3aXsVMwl/s320/Plaza%20Lane%2098.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>As an artist, he floundered around for awhile until he came up with the technique of layering acrylic paint over oil-based spray paint. Had he ever taken an art class, he would have been instructed that you can't mix oils with acrylics, but since he didn't know the rules, he was free to break them as he invented a style that was so distinctly his own. <p></p><p>Ten years into his art career, he was commissioned to create his first public mural in Plaza Lane, in downtown Santa Cruz. He tried to hire a professional muralist to paint his design, but when he found out the muralist would charge as much as James himself was making on the project, he figured out a way to transfer the design himself, and employed a much cheaper crew — me — to help him paint it. A technique he perfected over the next ten years, painting murals at schools and public buildings all over the county. </p><p>It's not that he had so much arrogant hubris that he couldn't even imagine failing. Rather, he had no fear of the possibility of failure. If one plan didn't work out, he figured he could always do something else; he had the confidence to adapt. He never paid any attention to people who told him he couldn't or shouldn't do something, so it never occurred to him not to try. </p><p>He thought he could. And he did.
</p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-41309982824950679812022-10-30T15:08:00.000-07:002022-10-30T15:08:22.891-07:00STONED SOUL PIZZA<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCHZtpFqeq1ZRZfWOBsPpYxncAMJl8dAfwDc5sJUU87eqxlv6fHgy5saEbEKPYAohYTlo2VMLPbg7wEIfnQ6HSXQkDAg1XrqZuKbhkgNq_fp-GNC6fjMMuYXfnyt_8bufQxKg0PWuyAHlLz1x8QLsSBkIPNarkJ0xDdEOI50fc92G7mwgWy0ZnHqL/s798/SSP%20banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="798" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkCHZtpFqeq1ZRZfWOBsPpYxncAMJl8dAfwDc5sJUU87eqxlv6fHgy5saEbEKPYAohYTlo2VMLPbg7wEIfnQ6HSXQkDAg1XrqZuKbhkgNq_fp-GNC6fjMMuYXfnyt_8bufQxKg0PWuyAHlLz1x8QLsSBkIPNarkJ0xDdEOI50fc92G7mwgWy0ZnHqL/s320/SSP%20banner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Hold the pepperoni!<br /><br />Pizza may be no more than snack food (or, worse, junk food) to you. But to the six extraordinary craftpersons featured in the Netflix series <i>Chef's Table: Pizza, </i>making pizza has become a life-altering ritual at the intersection of Life, Art and Identity.<br /><br />The long-running Master Chef series profiles renowned chefs from around the world in tasty one-hour docu-bites. In its current (seventh) season, the focus is on maestros of the pizza arts, not only in Italy, but from such unexpected regions as Minneapolis, Phoenix, and Kyoto, Japan. The notion of what pizza is, can, or should be (along with an amazing diversity of ingredients, from flower petals to Korean kimchee), varies wildly from one pair of flour-encrusted hands to the next. But all agree that pizza is the ultimate soul food, expressing not only the soul of the pizza chefs themselves, but of the people and community that inspire them. <p></p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6AbEG36xY4L9CqR7KWopUfvMQhthTf_p_yPiXnl_U_-TW8UJ40Awjt3DTg3-rTapQGUDH44j9H7DL7LQ2GKzgcDoi8TkcmL2nuGOSJrR3epQRldv4fv7t3W6k0rhj2oOX7MFBtOzYe6wzd_P227Dir-m3z52u5FH6czKMSkcSd88xIAgF0DOV9iv/s1200/SSP%20Bonci.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN6AbEG36xY4L9CqR7KWopUfvMQhthTf_p_yPiXnl_U_-TW8UJ40Awjt3DTg3-rTapQGUDH44j9H7DL7LQ2GKzgcDoi8TkcmL2nuGOSJrR3epQRldv4fv7t3W6k0rhj2oOX7MFBtOzYe6wzd_P227Dir-m3z52u5FH6czKMSkcSd88xIAgF0DOV9iv/s320/SSP%20Bonci.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bonci: Revolution on a plate<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />That may seem like a lot of symbolism to heap on top of a humble pie, but every pizza tells a story — of drama, displacement, family, culture — and the stories are fascinating.<br /><br />Native New Yorker Chris Bianco left the city trying to find his place in the world. From his first boyhood job hauling flour sacks up out of the basement in a pizza joint in the Bronx, he landed in Phoenix, selling home-made mozzarella out of his apartment to Italian restaurants and finally graduating to pizza chef. At his own restaurant, he concocts a signature pizza, the Rosa, made with hardy wheat grown in the sandy soil outside Phoenix, red onions sliced as thin and curly as potato chips, pungent rosemary, and crushed pistachios, that "tastes like the desert."</p><p><br />Hailed as "The Michelangelo of pizza," Gabriele Bonci became a celebrity TV chef in Rome (with his own irritatingly bouncy theme song), until he realized the TV persona was devouring him. Painstakingly weaning himself off of fame, like any other addiction, he shed a great deal of physical weight while also streamlining his purpose in the pizza kitchen, promoting the ethics of sustainable agriculture and thoughtful food consumption. He buys all natural ingredients from small farmers, raises his own sheep for cheese, and only buys the meat of animals that have "lived well." He says, "I decided that pizza would be my weapon. On top, I could put a revolution."</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15LG6XiElIcrZMspI5BImwSMDUcdaOLqgEj3YYd1aRn21A80cLBBykdXsl_opWcAJaMgpizlyjdqqVDA5I124scsoqCNRM0B6_EVlfZF19ktDGMbDT3j-Oz6EJRQAD1ps3qRN1TqVeGIPDqXk_OUSYlRQNVW9kHru6fkKfSr7PeRCJUWWq1S8LXT5/s1469/SSP%20Kim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1469" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh15LG6XiElIcrZMspI5BImwSMDUcdaOLqgEj3YYd1aRn21A80cLBBykdXsl_opWcAJaMgpizlyjdqqVDA5I124scsoqCNRM0B6_EVlfZF19ktDGMbDT3j-Oz6EJRQAD1ps3qRN1TqVeGIPDqXk_OUSYlRQNVW9kHru6fkKfSr7PeRCJUWWq1S8LXT5/w320-h261/SSP%20Kim.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kim: Trusting herself<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>On her first day of school in Minneapolis, Ann Kim, daughter of Korean immigrant parents, saw that the bento box lunch so lovingly packed by her grandmother did not look or smell like the other kids' lunches; embarrassed, she threw it away, and spent years being ashamed of her heritage. Vigorously assimilated, she took a detour into theater to submerge her identity, but grew disillusioned with the limited roles offered to Asian women. </p><p> At a bleak crossroads in life, she thought, "Either you can live in the unhappiness, or you can change it. You just have to trust yourself." Impressed with the melting pot vibe in New York City, from her student days at Columbia (summed up in her first slice of sidewalk pizza), and realizing the one constant joy in her life had always been cooking with her mother and grandmother, she decided on a new direction. "I said, fuck it," she laughs, "I'm going to put kimchee on a pizza!"<br /><br />Franco Pepe and his brothers grew up in their father's pizzaria in Naples. All three sons had different career paths lined up until their father's death brought them all back to run the family business. Conflict arose when Franco left to open his own shop featuring his own innovative ideas. His Margharita Spagliata (Margharita Mistake), literally turns the classic pizza upside down, with the layer of mozzarella cheese on the bottom, and infusions of crushed (not cooked) fresh tomatoes and basil striped across the top. <br /><br />Yoshihiro Imai came from a family of dentists in Kyoto, Japan, but a chance encounter with a library book on breadmaking prompted a passion for dough and pointed him onto a new path. He was in training to become a master chef in Europe until news that his girlfriend was pregnant brought him home. Miserable working in a fast-food cafeteria to support his new family, he opened his own pizza restaurant, foraging for wild mushrooms at dawn and fishing for a lowly species of river trout to invoke the flavor and serenity of his beloved forest. "The path itself," he says, with Zen-like aplomb, "is the meaning and the goal."</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWkoUQ7wGsFkuNdqD90wMGwxWDeNFAhu2MilPayhJWNOZPCoY-tRUNE11TTGB8tUHyZ9GqkC3ZAGGvmgC9ibtYHSqoAQNNczQm-ct1oMtpgVed4P-79N_caUT9w61tQSPWMffVolxTkXabjm_p69qBqZXD2QPAHoH0c4EztbXdPo9_vgnKS_O1xgA0/s448/SSP%20vat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="448" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWkoUQ7wGsFkuNdqD90wMGwxWDeNFAhu2MilPayhJWNOZPCoY-tRUNE11TTGB8tUHyZ9GqkC3ZAGGvmgC9ibtYHSqoAQNNczQm-ct1oMtpgVed4P-79N_caUT9w61tQSPWMffVolxTkXabjm_p69qBqZXD2QPAHoH0c4EztbXdPo9_vgnKS_O1xgA0/s320/SSP%20vat.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pepe: Vats of bubbling alchemy<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Trained as a painter, Sarah Minnick discovered the joy of cooking when the work-study program at art school landed her in the campus kitchen. Deciding food was more fun, and inspired by the DIY, pop-up restaurant scene in her native Portland, Oregon, she turns her artist's eye to pizza with a pallette of "weird weeds," wild edibles, colorful flower petals snipped from her garden, and other impressive "veggie-centric" concoctions.<br /><br />All of them share a common passion for locally sourced ingredients, and each has forged close relationships with the small farmers, ranchers, foragers, herbalists and millers who provide them. All of them craft their own dough from scratch, by hand, growing the living dough from regional, stone-ground wheat every morning for the day's pies. Their immersive relationship to the dough is irresistible, gleefully plunging in elbow-deep to massage, roll, tweak and shape their humble ingredients into great vats of breathing, bubbling, alchemy.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglIgTBD6-Q0LK6NssdEQ98wjO5y3rZgT19gZdhUdvRZDM4yKBM5ud-lNw-HFbq_809eWWPISu95sXOb_CNjWvjQQc3D2r0vwd27coNaPszZI66DxLLPUmSTlUlwGoBI1M_O4gGv6gwdhnvhFZusA7ck90AfI9QX2V0jAHGFpUwA7rHQfBYUQDozUVw/s2016/SSP%20Pizza%20Prep.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglIgTBD6-Q0LK6NssdEQ98wjO5y3rZgT19gZdhUdvRZDM4yKBM5ud-lNw-HFbq_809eWWPISu95sXOb_CNjWvjQQc3D2r0vwd27coNaPszZI66DxLLPUmSTlUlwGoBI1M_O4gGv6gwdhnvhFZusA7ck90AfI9QX2V0jAHGFpUwA7rHQfBYUQDozUVw/s320/SSP%20Pizza%20Prep.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stepping up my pizza game<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Of course, pizza is the stuff of ritual in my house too, a way for me to commune with my Art Boy over the pizza board he built and painted so lovingly for our Monday night pizzas. He estimated he'd made a thousand pizzas on the broken, blackened (and beloved) pizza screen I still use. Ridiculously inventive and intuitive with his own toppings (leftover Thanksgiving mashed potatoes and stuffing; razor-thin lemon slices), he never met an ingredient he couldn't put on a pizza, which is why he would have loved the <i>Chef's Table </i>series. Whenever I get too melancholy wishing he was still here to watch it with me (reason #4972 on my list of Why I Wish James Was Still Here), I remind myself to Be Like James and get inspired instead.<br /><br />Encouraged by my Spirit Guide, I'm stepping up my own pizza game. Yes, I'm still buying one-pound dough balls from Trader Joe's, but I'm trying to approach it less like a fearful supplicant, afraid of messing up, and more like a confident explorer, establishing a partnership with the dough, not a contest. <br /><br />My efforts may not yet be vat-worthy, but the journey of a thousand pizzas begins with a single slice.</p><p></p><p>PS: Do NOT watch this show hungry!<br /><br /><br /></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-32639770766229480152022-10-08T13:05:00.000-07:002022-10-08T13:08:32.575-07:00RANT, REFLECT, REPEAT<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG95F1nQqnkZ87SOSnGBfdg52by9xeS6VtVAMCVMwUzkXNYDbPZMwg_FuwJzj85qTFIsBzMswuhge1Q7okGA2nMOR0KuEbgVBbAvji3w_igD281HAbvdQ2OVbpVKCFF9h8mwOzUurNBUza9ma8k-THdKEdbJYfkY9r91YqeCNmIKl2AYCVe-Z1a3nD/s475/Nemesis.jpg" style="clear: left; display: block; float: left; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="475" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG95F1nQqnkZ87SOSnGBfdg52by9xeS6VtVAMCVMwUzkXNYDbPZMwg_FuwJzj85qTFIsBzMswuhge1Q7okGA2nMOR0KuEbgVBbAvji3w_igD281HAbvdQ2OVbpVKCFF9h8mwOzUurNBUza9ma8k-THdKEdbJYfkY9r91YqeCNmIKl2AYCVe-Z1a3nD/w320-h280/Nemesis.jpg" width="320" /></a>
</div><p> On Turning 70 </p><p>Just like Halley's Comet, tearing up the sky every 75 years. Or
Cicadas, emerging every 17 years to blanket the Midwest with their irritating
noise. I'm on a similar schedule: every 20 years I subject readers to the
ongoing soap opera of my advancing age. </p><p>(Way) back in 1982, I wrote a cover
story for <i>Good Times </i>about the angst of Turning 30 — the age after which no one was to
be trusted, according to the '60s pop culture I grew up in. In 2002, when I was
writing a biweekly, non-movie-oriented column for GT, I wrote <i>Vintage 1952</i>,
grappling with the surprising revelation that I had somehow become an official
Golden Oldie at age 50. </p><p>It hadn't really occurred to me to continue the saga in
print this year — possibly because it hasn't quite sunk in that I'm on the cusp
of yet another scary birthday that ends in a zero. Well, let's not say scary,
but <i>momentous.</i> At the close of one decade, you're supposed to take stock of The
Story So Far, while advancing glib strategies on forging ahead into the next
one. </p><p>My first two articles were determinedly upbeat in tone, genial pep talks
for embracing the ongoing adventure of life. They seemed to resonate with the
vast Boomer demographic of which I am smack in the middle. But life has thrown
me a few curve balls since then, including a surprise diagnosis of MS at age 62,
and a sudden, unexpected plunge into widowhood. I wondered if my experience had
become too specific for readers to find "relatable." </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdA9ZtD1rwBrp3lZWvxMoY_BV0Z2MEXtGS45AYYJ7GDf08zFXq53VjS8TDTgKjJuzAQ9sQgyvKP-CengRE0wXAER6_coS1n5F9BId1x5US2BPfw-LxAC689ygKjB1EHpAkXkkJfEzgg2VBaB5vCQoyOxjMQdHQlz1oUPoCBfi4N5NPwfoJsE68qkC/s2016/GT%20cover%2082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdA9ZtD1rwBrp3lZWvxMoY_BV0Z2MEXtGS45AYYJ7GDf08zFXq53VjS8TDTgKjJuzAQ9sQgyvKP-CengRE0wXAER6_coS1n5F9BId1x5US2BPfw-LxAC689ygKjB1EHpAkXkkJfEzgg2VBaB5vCQoyOxjMQdHQlz1oUPoCBfi4N5NPwfoJsE68qkC/s320/GT%20cover%2082.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Then I was messaged by a
reader who remembered <i>Vintage 1952</i>, and asked point blank if I had penned any
further reflections on turning 70. <p></p><p>So. On further reflection, I realize you
don't get to age 70 without a few battle scars, visible or otherwise. (Unless
there's a portrait of your glamorous youthful self crumbling away in an attic
somewhere.) In the immortal words of Gilda Radner, it's always something. At
this age, everybody has issues — that's part of the deal. Besides, given the
global upheaval of these last two years — not to mention the previous four —
maybe my sense of personal upheaval isn't so unique after all. </p><p>Still, how deeply
did I want to plumb the roiling murk of my psyche at this turning point in my
life? Did I have the insight, the courage (the gall?) to produce my personal
<i>McCartney III? </i></p><p>As I noted in <i>Vintage 1952</i>, age alone does not necessarily confer
wisdom and dignity on a person, but the very fact of your persistent existence
earns you a few perks. I know several women my age who have joyfully stopped
wearing bras, mostly retired professional women (as opposed to hobbyists) whose
jobs required a dress code. Unlike me; when your workplace is a dark movie
theater, who's going to see? I still wear a pull-on sports bras most of the
time, but they're mostly decorative, since time and age have so radically
realigned what used to go in them. Glimpsing myself in the mirror, I'm
astonished to see how far south their contents have descended, taking my
cleavage with them. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvizJFrtXuVLidDoKcgh-PGW4P_0cS8frTJsjokHuZxLpIh_ahnr2D_iOdIXoCl_qhSxRLA8rqXySWu5mJB_h8qQjEFUYk1d22lYOyoPtL6s6Lhj8I9N72OLhWOoC_vGFMorQux6soQKonBOOqetF1R8dwjl9lbbiylXmvAR1_3sCoKQpsunu2rNUu/s2016/GT%20Vintage%2052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvizJFrtXuVLidDoKcgh-PGW4P_0cS8frTJsjokHuZxLpIh_ahnr2D_iOdIXoCl_qhSxRLA8rqXySWu5mJB_h8qQjEFUYk1d22lYOyoPtL6s6Lhj8I9N72OLhWOoC_vGFMorQux6soQKonBOOqetF1R8dwjl9lbbiylXmvAR1_3sCoKQpsunu2rNUu/s320/GT%20Vintage%2052.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>The only parts of my upper body that are still nicely
rounded are — surprise! — my biceps, accidentally toned in the daily act of
gripping my rollator as I drag myself around. <p></p><p>But I'm not here to take inventory
of my mutating body parts — isn't that what "old people" do, drone on and on
about their ailments? I promised myself I was never going to be <i>that </i>kind of old
person! But the truth is, none of us ever expects to actually be an old person
at all, despite all evidence to the contrary. And it's funny how our concept of
what constitutes "old" recedes like a bad hairline the closer we get to each
chronological milestone. </p><p>Meanwhile, our inner 17-year-old (that imaginary friend
no one else can see) assures us that old age only happens to other people; if we
take spin classes, do crossword puzzles, go gluten-free, we can beat the rap. </p><p>The calendar, however, does not lie, and no bribes, threats, or claims of
executive privilege can slow its inexorable course. Age sneaks up on us when
we're not looking, so the question becomes not if we're going to age, but how
we're going to do it. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ppwxdKjwr08Hd0_wIBKw1Y4vqtC-JsqBbrxfLYHi1r3G5_badbpvToXKFkyT9RxWeCNS_Fn0eAOCBiGwS5po4Raq653r6X70-vIaoUlH-cZh5oBrZ4AgQwRUJ_wB_MoWyq3ViY2R6E_x9wdLZd2XF3nyKbkS6BVlTdjx9CUp5MMYsEAP14Fnl_ls/s571/Aztec%20calendar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="567" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ppwxdKjwr08Hd0_wIBKw1Y4vqtC-JsqBbrxfLYHi1r3G5_badbpvToXKFkyT9RxWeCNS_Fn0eAOCBiGwS5po4Raq653r6X70-vIaoUlH-cZh5oBrZ4AgQwRUJ_wB_MoWyq3ViY2R6E_x9wdLZd2XF3nyKbkS6BVlTdjx9CUp5MMYsEAP14Fnl_ls/s320/Aztec%20calendar.jpg" width="318" /></a></div> Let's face it, getting older is ridiculous, so maintaining
a sense of humor about it is more essential than ever. The more you can laugh at
it, the less power it has to terrify you into submission. Of course, at this
age, not even the most delusional among us can pretend that the best is yet to
come. But tempting as it is, you can't stay mired in the past, or you risk
becoming a relic yourself, like pay phone booths or videotape. <p></p><p>Back when Gloria
Steinem turned 50, someone tried to compliment her by saying "You don't look
50." To which she replied "But this is what 50 looks like." </p><p>No one else gets to
tell you how to look — or act — your age. That's your privilege; if you've made
it this far, you've earned it. It's up to you to show 'em how it's done. At
fifty, I joked that thirty had once been the absolute dividing line between
fresh, hip youth and the "vast nothingness that came after." But what's out
there now, looming in the darkness after this particular milestone? </p><p>Ask me when
I'm ninety.
</p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-83811539873743737332022-04-01T12:19:00.001-07:002022-04-01T12:24:28.362-07:00ALIENS ATE MY BODY<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMVkfNzZY5shlbVF99VmvPmVMGPW5YyssE7F_jnkUzKZxDuPDpfwuFh66PBNyRVR63OCXtncaxSCjoUVSLOUdXU25PKXm1UmFkfhfuTZgWQNHuTthCkVPb26zalha_jArGkwsXf4XNiIE3wDezcWYO52KHRrmO5-V_5K_PTcikU0VVIanPLE5iOlA/s636/AAMB%20Wall-E.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="636" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMVkfNzZY5shlbVF99VmvPmVMGPW5YyssE7F_jnkUzKZxDuPDpfwuFh66PBNyRVR63OCXtncaxSCjoUVSLOUdXU25PKXm1UmFkfhfuTZgWQNHuTthCkVPb26zalha_jArGkwsXf4XNiIE3wDezcWYO52KHRrmO5-V_5K_PTcikU0VVIanPLE5iOlA/w320-h187/AAMB%20Wall-E.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="account-numberpmask"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><i>Wall-E</i>: Upweirdly mobile</span></span></span>
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{page:Section1;}</style></td></tr></tbody></table> Late in life, when the great Katharine Hepburn was asked if she ever watched her old movies, she said no —explaining something along the lines of, "There is very little pleasure in watching oneself rot."<br /><br />I get it.<br /><br />At least Hepburn had decades-worth of glamour images through which to chart her oh-so-subtle decline — photographed by George Cukor, gowned by Edith Head. </p><p>But with a persistent autoimmune disease like MS, you don't get to review the progress of your life as a gracefully unspooling montage. It's more like time-lapse photography where everything changes in seconds.<br /><br />My body is becoming an alien life form, in an ongoing, unpredictable state of metamorphosis. Rising from a sitting position requires 15 minutes of standing in place to see if all pertinent body parts are on the same page before I dare a step. My shoulders and upper arms have grown taut and sinewy from clutching my roallator for dear life as I drag my clumsy body around behind me like a tail. <br /><br />I don't do fast. I have only two ambulatory speeds: shuffle and lurch. Except when one or the other (or both) of my legs launches into an unprovoked series of random spasms, when I look like a refugee from the Ministry of Silly Walks. </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3qoiqmmZUuWHtQbOQhRE-NEmc2F4JUUWukvADCHFOO8K-OyPiQ7YplTkHNv4IAmaG_OKBKNen9qTHpzqLssfioESZit4AHYwteteCggsF6vIh6uTdhHUfbUGyIXsdrBJahA3LGWA6tRI17SAxOAU_rt8dRyUyT9hvrLCYKx7qvPR_1hi8r-xcqtc/s409/AAMB%20maze.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="409" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij3qoiqmmZUuWHtQbOQhRE-NEmc2F4JUUWukvADCHFOO8K-OyPiQ7YplTkHNv4IAmaG_OKBKNen9qTHpzqLssfioESZit4AHYwteteCggsF6vIh6uTdhHUfbUGyIXsdrBJahA3LGWA6tRI17SAxOAU_rt8dRyUyT9hvrLCYKx7qvPR_1hi8r-xcqtc/w200-h159/AAMB%20maze.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="account-numberpmask"><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><i>The Maze:</i> Night and Frog</span></span></span>
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{page:Section1;}</style></td></tr></tbody></table> In one of my Art Boy's favorite (justifiably) unsung '50s monster movies, <i>The Maze</i>, a young woman arrives at a stately country manor house whose reclusive lord is never seen. But late every night, from her sumptuous chamber (mysteriously locked from the outside), she hears a lubricious schlep-schlep-schlepping down the corridor outside her door. Turns out the lord of the manor is an overgrown amphibian (as in giant frog, not Jason Momoa in sexy scales) whose handlers drag him through the halls in a huge sheet and outside to rehydrate in a secret pool hidden within a maze on the grounds. I think of that movie every time I hear the sound of my slippered feet scraping along in the wake of my rollator.<br /><br />Remember <i>Wall-E</i>, where technology has rendered future humans so sedentary they can only get around on individual little jet pods? That’s what I need!</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJunyWQECZdRMgqAY7KyHZ1ktR9_DOX01ukLS1qmGhas1mnG1mJqenKrCrSes1kxwTYMcLhb_37ZH_rUfhx0PrZPKCu8qxtdchYfZdPz6FNkt8nOZL_nH-3WthUN-u_JfpytCn1krsHiQsw0HTHu-sfdIFHyiy3Y0eL2npfKzN_Ga4Acat6N8n9vK/s570/AAMB%20Brain2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="570" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWJunyWQECZdRMgqAY7KyHZ1ktR9_DOX01ukLS1qmGhas1mnG1mJqenKrCrSes1kxwTYMcLhb_37ZH_rUfhx0PrZPKCu8qxtdchYfZdPz6FNkt8nOZL_nH-3WthUN-u_JfpytCn1krsHiQsw0HTHu-sfdIFHyiy3Y0eL2npfKzN_Ga4Acat6N8n9vK/w200-h153/AAMB%20Brain2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I can still pass for normal from the waist up, as long as I'm sitting down. But I envision the day the only part of me still mobile will be my head, hooked up to banks of various communication devices like <i>The Brain That Wouldn't Die</i>, spitting out caustic remarks.<br /><br />Meanwhile, navigating the world of visiting home health care, I find myself teetering at the edge of a new reality where "toilet" is not only a verb, but a team sport. After spending 40 years as somebody's sweetie, it's weird to think of a future as somebody's client.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwa239LW7sB8hz1yVgfUl9PLa74pk2nff9PKPMVH89rBfo2jExBdX4cSGxoIw-6a1PPYunpYnqO_cwjNJzPQPWQnF_XhVhCHde9Wl6QwCmFLh-xTYnMZF8p8IGygkn9kRkk5U_P6s1FdiTzJ4xhgRJZF4wkwoD8hfYucppHGnTVbMEenFllBMO1nS4/s556/L%20Warhol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="556" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwa239LW7sB8hz1yVgfUl9PLa74pk2nff9PKPMVH89rBfo2jExBdX4cSGxoIw-6a1PPYunpYnqO_cwjNJzPQPWQnF_XhVhCHde9Wl6QwCmFLh-xTYnMZF8p8IGygkn9kRkk5U_P6s1FdiTzJ4xhgRJZF4wkwoD8hfYucppHGnTVbMEenFllBMO1nS4/w173-h200/L%20Warhol.jpg" width="173" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="account-numberpmask"><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">How much me is too much</span>?</span></span>
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{page:Section1;}</style></td></tr></tbody></table>Back when I was still relatively ambulatory, I figured the only way to keep things running around here was to get myself cloned. Clearly, I need a staff — Financial Advisor Me for bills and business; Chef Me for meal prep (and Sous Chef Me for back-up and clean-up); Secretary Me for emails and correspondence; Medical Me for doctor's appointments and health issues; Money Pit Me to deal with homeowner issues like peeling paint, disintegrating deck furniture, busted window shades, antique plumbing — well I could go on and on. <p></p><p> And while all these clones were running around, maybe — just maybe — Actual Me could carve a couple of hours out of the day to write.<br /><br />The problem with the Clone Theory is that I've become such a crab, I don't want any more than one of me around.<br /><br />If only I'd thought to have James cloned while he was still here. My body might be rotting just as fast, but at least he'd find a way to make me laugh about it!<br /><br /></p><br /><br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-36903024529097534632021-07-25T17:15:00.000-07:002021-07-25T17:15:02.754-07:00PRIVATE RITUALS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjA9yf79mPZXqIPF6bvizF9V1lg4lhPLoOW1yOf6ZiRpLWeoU4p9uecEz8MmiDIAVysRt_9KuNMM4bRFGqaL8l5jmZkOhS1q0vUxHUU7dqp7LJtojgm4fDHZOcTIwBjohBqDuZonmKq_c/s1280/J+deck+aah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjA9yf79mPZXqIPF6bvizF9V1lg4lhPLoOW1yOf6ZiRpLWeoU4p9uecEz8MmiDIAVysRt_9KuNMM4bRFGqaL8l5jmZkOhS1q0vUxHUU7dqp7LJtojgm4fDHZOcTIwBjohBqDuZonmKq_c/w400-h240/J+deck+aah.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> "Come out here."<br /><br />It was never a command, only an invitation, delivered in a subtle tone of voice that seemed to promise something wonderful. <br /><br />On the afternoons when James took his daily walk to the harbor and back alone (in earlier years, because I was too lazy or preoccupied to go with him; more recently because I only had the stamina to go every other day), he would come home, kick off his walking shoes, grab his first glass of bubbly, and head out to the deck.<br /><br />The kitties came scampering around, delighted to have a human out on their turf, putting on their usual show — racketing about, stretching out like little fur rugs in the sun, launching stealth aerial attacks on each other.<br /><br />It was the hour that most people were transitioning into dinner mode, so it was usually pretty quiet in the neighborhood. No lawn mowers or gunning engines. Maybe some distant laughter a block or two away, maybe a neighbor's radio, but mostly birds and leaves rustling in the breeze. James always looked forward to this evening ritual, a chance to just sit down and savor it all.<br /><br />On mild summer nights, after dinner, when I'd finished washing the dishes and he had dried enough to make room in the drainer, he would disappear outside again with his, er, next glass of bubbly (who's counting?) while I was still puttering around in the kitchen. "Come out here," he would urge me from the deck. "Come see the stars."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg0zT-Q2UidDt3uFm0OjPl34OU4634qZLyHaiKZ5FGE7WGvBH2gOTWwXcO-yUu8Zlza44kGHy-6ubG-vfRBd4cCW2O5m4iZTPD_K-wOt3AUj7Jg-lBwlanrhWvdh55lXWnDhZsxuDYvFQ/s512/Orion.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg0zT-Q2UidDt3uFm0OjPl34OU4634qZLyHaiKZ5FGE7WGvBH2gOTWwXcO-yUu8Zlza44kGHy-6ubG-vfRBd4cCW2O5m4iZTPD_K-wOt3AUj7Jg-lBwlanrhWvdh55lXWnDhZsxuDYvFQ/s320/Orion.png" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p>He knew I had a thing about the stars. I was always threatening to buy an astronomy book so I could identify all the constellations, although, like so many other things, I never quite got around to it. I knew Orion, however, which was always rising over the neighbor's roof at about this time, mainly because the three-star pattern of Orion's Belt is imprinted in freckles on my forearm. But whether or not we knew all their names, any summer night when the stars were visible before the fog rolled in was cause for celebration!<br /><br />Of course, I always had some lame excuse. Okay, but just let me finish this one sentence, answer this one email, make this one note for tomorrow. <br /><br />Okay, but just let me finish up in here, wipe down the counter, put on a sweater. What did I do with my shoes?<br /><br />It was always something. Something I felt I had to do right this minute, one last chore before I'd permit myself to get out there and enjoy some down time. With you. Listen to the birds, laugh at the kitties. Gaze at those beautiful stars cocooned in black night. Cuddle up to my sweetie.<br /><br />We thought we had an infinity of time, back in those days. Next time you ask, I thought, I'll be ready.<br /><br />In retrospect, I'd say that 75% of the time, I finally managed to get out there with you. To take a break and just enjoy the peace and contentment, our reward for this life we somehow managed to cobble together from scratch. Against all odds.<br /><br />But that means I squandered 25% of the time I could have spent with you. I regret every minute that I put you off with some feeble excuse. It appalls me that all those times when I still had the chance, I thought I had something more important to do.<br /><br />Ask me again.</p><br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-64895670659771736322021-04-24T17:10:00.000-07:002021-04-24T17:10:30.275-07:00EXTREME BARBITUDE<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIWm9R1HWBDIKNGm_9sPcx_9CB9_Y8W-opV-zmu-XRXlXyG_ysw9fv3ULosNOIHqh_kstHlZ8GcZ_RciQOnpEObYEJcVljCp1uBe4FuFJ34NtU3CjmMnj-bju1vviFM3B4LNk4p8GHCU/s1632/OB+2021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuIWm9R1HWBDIKNGm_9sPcx_9CB9_Y8W-opV-zmu-XRXlXyG_ysw9fv3ULosNOIHqh_kstHlZ8GcZ_RciQOnpEObYEJcVljCp1uBe4FuFJ34NtU3CjmMnj-bju1vviFM3B4LNk4p8GHCU/w400-h300/OB+2021.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">But all seriousness aside, at my house,
the only thing that really matters at this time of year is the (dreaded) Oscar
Barbies!</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">I managed to do four out of the five Best
Actress nominees this year — not bad since I've only seen two of the movies.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Hopefully, you don't actually need a
program to tell who the players are, but just in case:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Frances McDormand, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nomadland</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Andra Day, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The United States vs. Billie Holliday</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Carey Mulligan, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Promising Young Woman</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">Viola Davis, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ma Rainey's Black Bottom</i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">As usual, it's all about the props!</span></p>
<p><style>@font-face
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{page:Section1;}</style></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-16848100569937021212021-04-24T10:15:00.000-07:002021-04-24T10:15:57.820-07:00CHAOS(CAR) THEORY<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9YO0e3d9ecKTW4BsSKxsTRbiO8oYCLE8k94y2JgtKUr_GzfjRoxlXqHQ38AR4ebjUmB7P5Hg6MhTwDZC8aKu1TtFFI37gLygiwsJJ9DNtgGZFNnZgZ0IGCUXDxa6pQ1EMZzq98X4Iwk/s1200/Oscars+2021+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt9YO0e3d9ecKTW4BsSKxsTRbiO8oYCLE8k94y2JgtKUr_GzfjRoxlXqHQ38AR4ebjUmB7P5Hg6MhTwDZC8aKu1TtFFI37gLygiwsJJ9DNtgGZFNnZgZ0IGCUXDxa6pQ1EMZzq98X4Iwk/s320/Oscars+2021+logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> This used to be the time of year when I would post my fearless Oscar predictions — even as recently as (the dreaded) 2020, when the little gold guys were handed out in mid-February, about a month before the pandemic shut everything down.<br /><br />Everything has changed since then, of course, including the alarming fact that I have not personally set foot inside a movie theater in almost 14 months. Movies that debut on home screens via Netflix, Prime, Hulu, etc., don't seem as real, somehow. Norma Desmond's classic line in <i>Sunset Boulevard </i>has become literally true (and prophetic): the pictures HAVE gotten small.<br /><br />Nevertheless, filmmakers, actors and craftspersons have continued to churn out quality work, and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has persisted in its nominations for this year's Academy Awards. The drawback for this would-be prognosticator is that, without benefit of a smart TV (mine still has a picture tube; look it up, kids), and after a year in lockdown, I haven't seen most of the nominees.<br /><br />But do you think that's going to stop me? Hah! Thanks to indulgent (and similarly double-vaxxed) friends who subscribe to streaming platforms, I've managed to see seven movies nominated in some category or other. Not exactly a comprehensive overview of this year's contenders, but just (barely) enough to indulge in some random observations, as if I knew what I was talking about!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7eAW34gXXAzy1FL1SkE74rXlj5H4wuQhlORKWl8L5TWwb6MqOWlcRm1mGrpaPNDH-9wywSo3OuYMiamwrPCAPbUAMDjdT01hKqXkUEzuAGfmB10UngCydsH1mo5y4d0Q6nn305_nA3Q/s740/minari+y+y-j.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="740" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7eAW34gXXAzy1FL1SkE74rXlj5H4wuQhlORKWl8L5TWwb6MqOWlcRm1mGrpaPNDH-9wywSo3OuYMiamwrPCAPbUAMDjdT01hKqXkUEzuAGfmB10UngCydsH1mo5y4d0Q6nn305_nA3Q/s320/minari+y+y-j.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yuh-Jung Youn, <i>Minari</i>.</td></tr></tbody></table> <p></p><p>How chaotic has this year been for the movies? Just look at the mashup of colors, graphics and patterns on this year's Oscars logo. Or maybe it's an artistic expression of diversity as the Academy struggles to refute the charge of #oscarsowhite — a diversity that is (for once) reflected in this year's nominees. (Here's the <a href="https://www.imdb.com/event/ev0000003/2021/1/?ref_=ev_eh" target="_blank">complete list</a>.) Meanwhile, here's what I expect on the big night:<br /><br />Supporting Actress: Yuh-Jung Youn, <i>Minari</i>. Full disclosure: I haven't seen <i>Minari</i>, but it looks like the veteran Korean actress' indomitable matriarch is the glue that holds this much-lauded immigration drama together.<br /><br />Supporting Actor: Daniel Kaluuya, <i>Judas and the Black Messiah</i>. Okay, I haven't seen this one either, but Kaluuya has already racked up the Golden Globe, Screen Actors' Guild, and British Academy of Film and Televison Arts (BAFTA) awards in this category, playing martyred Black Panthers deputy chairman Fred Hampton.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjOUQfuwqCGGvJiUzoviRRQfsoxOEaWfT7zyOvsN8cbitIUcRP2JGt8AP-X1znSKVdlGIzO0wKOtEFJ_kyH_P6YRW1Fcp-BaoFGtLYnw7mmp5iEJ-PjmVZ302TYLtRQ7tprsIE8hIsLXk/s1200/Ma+Rainy+C%252BV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1200" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjOUQfuwqCGGvJiUzoviRRQfsoxOEaWfT7zyOvsN8cbitIUcRP2JGt8AP-X1znSKVdlGIzO0wKOtEFJ_kyH_P6YRW1Fcp-BaoFGtLYnw7mmp5iEJ-PjmVZ302TYLtRQ7tprsIE8hIsLXk/w320-h178/Ma+Rainy+C%252BV.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oscars not quite so white: Boseman and Davis<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Actress: Viola Davis, <i>Ma Rainey's Black Bottom.</i> This category is full of wild cards this year. Frances McDormand and Davis are frequent nominees, but McDormand won three years ago for <i>Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.</i> Davis won the year before for <i>Fences,</i> but that was in the Supporting Actress category.<br /><br />Davis is an extraordinary actress who deserves every accolade, and her tough, imperious and curmudgeony blues legend, Ma Rainey is an audacious stretch from anything she has done before. (And, yes, I did see this one!). However, Andra Day walked off with the Golden Globe playing another immortal vocalist in <i>The United States vs. Billie Holliday.</i> And while she hasn't won any of the seasonal awards, here's a shout-out to Carey Mulligan in <i>Promising Young Woman. </i>Mulligan's psychological complexity is mesmerizing in the role, her seamless gear-shifting from perceived victim to avenger absolutely bone-chilling.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQPtYAKwWMSjK-WikV97Ln9aD9kkCCQXjmxsQstwLbk03u2R2psLzGLHj-m5NQ6hby0l59dXvb_2cX4GwXAJG5O87DYQvrpdRQG0_qzqrkDrtOKb0QwSDxV7_kdm1yOCmo2UNVFQ6HHI/s2000/PYW+CM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="2000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQPtYAKwWMSjK-WikV97Ln9aD9kkCCQXjmxsQstwLbk03u2R2psLzGLHj-m5NQ6hby0l59dXvb_2cX4GwXAJG5O87DYQvrpdRQG0_qzqrkDrtOKb0QwSDxV7_kdm1yOCmo2UNVFQ6HHI/w320-h213/PYW+CM.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mulligan: Would-be victim-turned-avenger<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Actor: Chadwick Boseman, <i>Ma Rainey's Black Bottom</i>. This rather stagebound adaptation of the August Wilson play is not his best vehicle, by far, although the late and sorely missed Boseman, as always, delivers every ounce of nuance and bravado required of him. But no power on Earth or the Cosmos can stop his momentum — and why would they? Who doesn't want to see T'Challa claim his final victory?<br /><br />Director: Chloe Zhao, <i>Nomadland</i>. Chinese-born Zhao, who has lived and worked in the States since high school, caused a stir with her acclaimed modern cowboy drama, <i>The Rider,</i> in 2017. And now that we're all feeling a little rootless and dispossessed, her tale of nomadic wanderers living out of their vans in heartland America has really struck a chord. The first woman of color ever nominated in this category (and one of two women nominated this year — another first — along with Emerald Fennel of <i>Promising Young Woman</i>), Zhao is the right face, with the right movie and the right story at exactly the right time.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2cXLoaYAyNPNUd3BbHJEnmxvfUI7y2fSAhY_8mrrj0JOtYBD9E4NFSnBE13QqprmSdw8Nz57owOJpcOK3XwAOdq-a49DKR6smidEM03nVWmpjDSov81fSSUjGTOHlNd08iIDTzPscI-s/s400/C+zhao.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2cXLoaYAyNPNUd3BbHJEnmxvfUI7y2fSAhY_8mrrj0JOtYBD9E4NFSnBE13QqprmSdw8Nz57owOJpcOK3XwAOdq-a49DKR6smidEM03nVWmpjDSov81fSSUjGTOHlNd08iIDTzPscI-s/s320/C+zhao.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Director Zhao: The right story for the right time.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Movie: <i>Nomadland</i>. It has powered through the awards season, collecting Globe and BAFTA recognition. True, Aaron Sorkin's entertaining <i>The Trial Of The Chicago 7</i>, won Best Ensemble at the SAGs, often the most reliable predictor of Academy favor. But <i>Nomadland</i>, with its largely non-professional cast, didn't fit the nomination criteria for the pro screen actors' organization. It's a perfect fit, however, for this year's Oscar gold.</p><br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-84887174883740858702021-02-26T16:40:00.001-08:002021-02-26T16:40:52.229-08:00RETURN of the BEAST<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mnarZ7TMYFkOaVP96cmqo_Gq_y8htyPZsgfvrxGBZf2jCvhieYgUSy0LzAjx0F1fUUnB1pY7BrfVRW5k9TfVG9Hp9jKLCX99pdNGdH0jwYFZb-gaUl2y63m6Z9jdeQTX3tCsYV8PWwM/s2048/BEAST+pp+cover+shadow2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_mnarZ7TMYFkOaVP96cmqo_Gq_y8htyPZsgfvrxGBZf2jCvhieYgUSy0LzAjx0F1fUUnB1pY7BrfVRW5k9TfVG9Hp9jKLCX99pdNGdH0jwYFZb-gaUl2y63m6Z9jdeQTX3tCsYV8PWwM/s320/BEAST+pp+cover+shadow2.jpg" /></a></div><br />Behold: the new Beast on the block!<br /><br />Almost three years after the initial release of <i>Beast: A Tale of Love and Revenge i</i>n hardcover, the long-awaited paperback edition is finally here! <p></p><p>Well, almost. Official release date is March 9, but it's available for pre-order as we speak!<br /><br />In a perfect world, it would have come out in the middle of last year, but COVID-19 had other ideas; the wheels of publishing slowed to a crawl during the pandemic, just like everything else. <br /><br />One big change you may notice is the cover of the paperback edition is completely different from the original fabulous cover. (Check it out, over there in the right-hand menu.) It surprised me to learn that this is a thing in publishing at the moment, completely reimagined artwork between original hardcover and subsequent paperback editions.<br /><br />(As a point of historical reference, <i>Alias Hook</i> came out in paperback almost exactly one year after the hardcover edition — with the same gorgeous cover!)<br /><br />But as different as they are stylistically, in mood and even color palette, my two Beast covers share the same essential thematic elements— a ferocious-looking Beastly shadow in silhouette, and a candlestick. What I like about the new paperback artwork is the wraparound effect: turn it over and there's an equally shadowy and mysterious silhouette of a young woman. <br /><br />A woman, a Beast, and a candlestick with secrets of her own. Let the games begin!<br /><br />You can pre-order right this minute from <a href="https://www.bookshopsantacruz.com/book/9781536215731" target="_blank">Bookshop Santa Cruz,</a> and other discerning booksellers everywhere!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhootCLCh1OFR6BuE663W7mU0RV6NFcX7y6ebgbCaTYn4mVF3Zzpc0IyPSiudmdUncvmuMZMYcXhYb4GOlWi14NhrZMvrP_Du35lIS2Q5ZCJaK0zcrIhtgi5KDKxoC03eIPPywA20OM70E/s1374/BEAST+pp+wraparound.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1164" data-original-width="1374" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhootCLCh1OFR6BuE663W7mU0RV6NFcX7y6ebgbCaTYn4mVF3Zzpc0IyPSiudmdUncvmuMZMYcXhYb4GOlWi14NhrZMvrP_Du35lIS2Q5ZCJaK0zcrIhtgi5KDKxoC03eIPPywA20OM70E/w400-h339/BEAST+pp+wraparound.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-60050953211546837952021-02-22T11:29:00.000-08:002021-02-22T11:29:28.510-08:00THE GOODBYE GIRL<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiXtthJ3-vAMRljOHRmfqg2zFXt2K2oXhU845s6D2Xk3fjLEhuB0QnC_Y_mEazDujifV-d5pGtYN97bJZ0HxmWnin5B3hDq-sE_2tPFEWo6L04FBFV9FIQv_JcyPfJJLGtIbvfX-rRWk/s1280/GT+ad+ca+1977.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="787" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAiXtthJ3-vAMRljOHRmfqg2zFXt2K2oXhU845s6D2Xk3fjLEhuB0QnC_Y_mEazDujifV-d5pGtYN97bJZ0HxmWnin5B3hDq-sE_2tPFEWo6L04FBFV9FIQv_JcyPfJJLGtIbvfX-rRWk/s320/GT+ad+ca+1977.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />45 years and 4 months.<br /><br />No, that's not how long we've all been sheltering in place. It's the length of time I've been writing for <i>Good Times.</i> To put it in perspective, my very first movie review (<i>Monty Python and the Holy Grail</i>) was published in GT in October, 1975. Which was a year and a half before I even met my Art Boy, in the spring of 1977.<br /><br />We moved in together in February, 1978, and got married 7 1/2 months later. We were together for 40 years, 'til death us did part.<br /><br />That was almost three years ago. And before, during, and after all that time together, I've been writing weekly film reviews for <i>Good Times</i>. <br /><br />Until the Attack Of COVID-19, in March of 2020, when my career came to a screeching halt. I haven't set foot inside a movie theater since March 13 of last year, about four days before they all shut down.<br /><br />Talk about an identity crisis!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUj7gS8oazOGGMMefGRV6kVhOzEYt1sTnFlgT3bpFMk9DFMnIRJPon7-AjwPJn_FbE1PLk29gNqhGROsjUtNVRxOnFbeoOmKECxokKEM0VBrUOjB06FQVhsD_BasChtticb9_B9PMk_HY/s1280/adios+Fab+52.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUj7gS8oazOGGMMefGRV6kVhOzEYt1sTnFlgT3bpFMk9DFMnIRJPon7-AjwPJn_FbE1PLk29gNqhGROsjUtNVRxOnFbeoOmKECxokKEM0VBrUOjB06FQVhsD_BasChtticb9_B9PMk_HY/s320/adios+Fab+52.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> <p></p><p>I was a fresh-faced 23-year-old just out of UCSC, in my embroidered hippie overalls, when I started my stint at GT. I figured going to the movies would be a fun way to make my rent until I had to go get an actual job. (Historical note: Rents were a lot cheaper in those days.)<br /><br />On the face of it, I had zero qualifications for this job. I wasn't a film scholar, had never even taken a journalism class. But I'd spent my entire childhood watching old movies on TV with my mom. In those days, you couldn't just dial up something on demand; you had to be prepared to stay up to 1 AM on a Saturday night, for instance, for the weekly movie classics on The Fabulous 52, in L. A., which began at 11:15 PM, right after the news. My mom popped the corn, and my night-owl brothers and I would settle in.<br /><br />For a couple of years, the series MGM Classics played every Sunday afternoon in syndication, and another station (possibly an early PBS channel) played classic foreign movies with subtitles. Musicals, monster movies, Errol Flynn swashbucklers, even cheesy Italian gladiator movies, my mom's appetite was inexhaustible, and we watched them all!<br /><br />The rest was on-the-job training. Fortunately, I was inspired by how amazingly diverse the Santa Cruz movie scene was in those days. Besides mainstream movies at the chain theaters, there was the original single-screen Nickelodeon, and the repertory-style Sash Mill Cinema for art house fare, the plucky, independently-owned Capitola Theater (which persisted in showing double-features with cartoons, and 15-cent M&Ms, well into the '80s), a thriving drive-in, even a venue for X-rated "adult" movies at the old Cinema Soquel.<br /><br />So, ten years after my first byline at GT, I was still at it. Back then, I used to joke that I'd been with the paper so long, people meeting me for the first time expected me to be 80 years old.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFT_m__uF2cFaBIkLHno_knmyab3YJEkyfCyS_v9ZCqjS1o8tjqxeFNzJdNl1VDiwmvuUko0N71HvyhNwX3XmqPPBJFWcmNvFZWcCxHGcjZ2vTYfE8iampOVm_2fdRbprnr5sB7M1oXc/s546/adios+KRUZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="546" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiFT_m__uF2cFaBIkLHno_knmyab3YJEkyfCyS_v9ZCqjS1o8tjqxeFNzJdNl1VDiwmvuUko0N71HvyhNwX3XmqPPBJFWcmNvFZWcCxHGcjZ2vTYfE8iampOVm_2fdRbprnr5sB7M1oXc/w400-h176/adios+KRUZ.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Once, in the mid-'90s, a young writer who had recently joined our editorial pool asked around to find out how he could get some film review assignments. Somebody told him, "Lisa Jensen would have to die." (He told me this story later, and we both laughed. I never did find out which colleague made that pronouncement.)<br /><br />When Siskel and Ebert were all the rage, I appeared on a similar movie review program with fellow critic, Rick Chatenever, then at the Sentinel, on local TV station KRUZ. One early evening, as I emerged from a screening at a downtown theater and started walking past the folks lined up for the next show, an older woman I didn't personally know broke into a merry grin as I went by. "It's our movie girl!" she cried. <br /><br />During a few flush years, I wrote two reviews a week, and sometimes three, if this or that indulgent editor could figure out how to lay them all out on the same page. For a couple of years, early in the Millennium, when Greg Archer was our fearless leader, I also wrote a bi-weekly opinion column about any damn thing I wanted, which I loved.<p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;">True, there have been times when I flirted with the possibility of retiring from the fray. The closest I came was after my first novel was published, back in 2001. The dangling carrot of writing fiction full-time, without having to stop and expend brain cells on a movie review every week, was tempting. After all, Art Boy had given up the comic book store to pursue art full-time, and, boy was he loving it! Still, it's just as well that I didn't follow that carrot off a cliff, since it took another 13 years to get my next novel published!</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBLZJcjD2RauQl3zDIegF6cNpZ-X_v9FDbZzzjVrD9DmEEH5j_BeoLZ9n0EFsxiFn3GcbZJJvcxScFFDspnBhqjx_dJsLoKmXsonVQA15uk5AsbwVrLJnT1dEzyNkF8jyCz8feReiFfk/s689/adios+Cin9.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="415" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBLZJcjD2RauQl3zDIegF6cNpZ-X_v9FDbZzzjVrD9DmEEH5j_BeoLZ9n0EFsxiFn3GcbZJJvcxScFFDspnBhqjx_dJsLoKmXsonVQA15uk5AsbwVrLJnT1dEzyNkF8jyCz8feReiFfk/w241-h400/adios+Cin9.png" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marquee de Sad: Not coming soon<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">But now that I actually <i>am</i> 80 years old, I find myself at a crossroads. COVID-19 has wrought havoc in all facets of the movie business: productions have been halted, release dates postponed, and movie theaters closed. New movies are being released directly into the privacy of viewers' homes, as they shelter in place. It was almost a scandal when last spring's big-ticket releases, like Disney's live-action <i>Mulan</i> and Christopher Nolan's mind-bending <i>Tenet</i>, finally went direct to streaming platforms after postponing their release dates for months. (<i>Tenet </i>actually played in cautiously-reopened downtown theaters for about 15 minutes until they had to shut down again.) By the time <i>Wonder Woman 1984 </i>came out at Christmas, direct-to-streaming had become (yet another) new normal.<br /></div><br />And this week comes the news that the Cinema 9 in downtown Santa Cruz, smack in the middle of Pacific Avenue, is now <a href="https://lookout.co/santacruz/coronavirus/covid-economy/story/2021-02-17/santa-cruz-downtown-cinema-9-regal-closes-covid" target="_blank">closed for good</a>. It has not yet been officially confirmed, but word is that Regal Cinemas, the parent chain that operates it, is pulling out; employees have been given notice, while the company reportedly is offering to transfer them to other Regal theaters. Of course, most other Regal theaters nationwide have also been shut down since October, but that the company may be abandoning the Santa Cruz venue entirely has an extra ominous ring of finality to it.<br /><br />The venerable Nick and Del Mar downtown, as well as the Cinelux theaters at 41st Avenue and in Scotts Valley, also remain dark, although their websites maintain that their closures are only temporary. So far.<br /><br />But after a year-plus on hiatus, what will the future of movie theaters even look like? Millennials are leery of anything that takes them out of their comfort zones, like driving (hence Google buses and Uber). They may have not yet developed the habit of congregating with their fellow humans in a public space with a big screen; they’d just as soon watch movies on their phones. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEdtGBPo4_wm7sUMiPy1-CdFARFqmFJpxv6X-aLr38qUyl6uNNEa5klw228_e7jlXAjFf7Sw7LIOevZ7zgDXla7ezemms1dDq9KZcFO5fzDTiIdKMIOxSoXLAVft1XelSI975sZ_n9Xo/s430/adios+RT.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="361" data-original-width="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEdtGBPo4_wm7sUMiPy1-CdFARFqmFJpxv6X-aLr38qUyl6uNNEa5klw228_e7jlXAjFf7Sw7LIOevZ7zgDXla7ezemms1dDq9KZcFO5fzDTiIdKMIOxSoXLAVft1XelSI975sZ_n9Xo/s320/adios+RT.png" width="320" /></a></div>Meanwhile, I know plenty of people in my age group (the Stone Age) who have long since given up movies in public for Netflix, et al, in the privacy of their own living rooms. Especially now that what used to be called "first-run" movies are instantly available on the home screen.<br /><br />I volunteered to review movies going straight to streaming, although it seems a little superfluous to review a movie that's already beaming directly into your home. Who needs my opinion? If you don't like it, switch the channel!<br /><br />But <i>Good Times</i> is more concerned with supporting and promoting local businesses that are still open to some degree, and available to our local readership, like restaurants, bookstores, and farmers' markets.<br /><br />So is this my cue to exit, stage left?<br /><br />After all these years, I had hoped to be able to leave <i>Good Times</i> on my own terms. But now it seems that decision is mostly out of my hands. <br /><br />We can't know what the future will bring. Once we're all vaccinated, maybe movie theaters will stage a miraculous comeback. Maybe I'll still dabble in the occasional review, if there's something I really don't want you to miss. Maybe I'll finally have new stuff to post on my <a href="https://www.rottentomatoes.com/critic/lisa-jensen/movies">Rotten Tomatoes page</a>!<br /><br />But in the meantime, treasured readers, know this: It has been my very great pleasure to be your movie girl for all these years. This community of dedicated, opinionated, and unrepentant movie fans means the world to me.<br /><br />Thanks for all your support, your encouragement, and your letters, even when you disagreed with me. My favorite, in the very early days, was the reader who objected to "the jejune jottings of Ms. Jensen." Fair enough — you can't get much more jejune than age 23! (I got better — I hope.)<br /><br />But mostly, as always, thanks for reading. <p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhccqitZJ-tkA_T4EV363tLg06KxSfJvIcqJB0b3iOSnprSh4CbxHs6MAJTaaAnoP6sLoTGUpa4_eL9UKJBJJlNlXz6_SOAHXA8dGhQ_LwARKrMmiBxcfF0-lT1p0B2XeEJqlgl8Rz99V8/s640/L+Nick+popcorn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="503" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhccqitZJ-tkA_T4EV363tLg06KxSfJvIcqJB0b3iOSnprSh4CbxHs6MAJTaaAnoP6sLoTGUpa4_eL9UKJBJJlNlXz6_SOAHXA8dGhQ_LwARKrMmiBxcfF0-lT1p0B2XeEJqlgl8Rz99V8/s320/L+Nick+popcorn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> (Top: <i>Good Times</i> promo, ca 1977)<br /><p></p><p>(Cinema 9 photo by Shmuel Thaler, <i>Santa Cruz Sentinel</i>)<br /> </p><br /><br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-13108044256788632602021-02-14T13:20:00.004-08:002021-02-14T13:25:59.225-08:00LOVE IS IN THE AIR<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc_Xb_y6XEBbuK9lxL4FMxSinmpeqOdp_KdC4yJ5DjHd2Gs9R19jR8zw3Hbls3QPSv4dI3IzIMJJCmQgXgrGn4VI_Jv-r6seBTPaF3XXZtV04S0fPtB3dNLdmg3VE7t-ngquFEi3761g/s640/AB+Love+in+Air+lge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="640" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNc_Xb_y6XEBbuK9lxL4FMxSinmpeqOdp_KdC4yJ5DjHd2Gs9R19jR8zw3Hbls3QPSv4dI3IzIMJJCmQgXgrGn4VI_Jv-r6seBTPaF3XXZtV04S0fPtB3dNLdmg3VE7t-ngquFEi3761g/w320-h313/AB+Love+in+Air+lge.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Love is in the Air</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />This year I'm celebrating Valentine's Day by sharing some of my happiest memories of my Sweetie, James Aschbacher. There are so many more to choose from over 40 years, but (right now) these are my Top Ten:<br /> </p><p><b>MARCH OR DIE</b> It wasn't even a date. I had only recently met James at the comic book store, and I asked if he wanted to come to a movie I had to review. It was <i>March Or Die,</i> a French Foreign Legion movie (a throwback genre if ever there was one, in the 1970s) starring Gene Hackman as an American soldier-of-fortune off fooling around in the desert. It was largely preposterous, but I was "at work," so we were slogging through. At one point, as the camera panned across the vast, golden desert landscape, three figures in shimmering electric-blue satin, sheiks or Bedouins, or something, appeared on the distant crest of a dune. James and I leaned our heads together and whispered, in unison, "Look, it's the Andrews Sisters!" <br /><br />Okay, maybe not screamingly funny, but the fact that we made the exact same joke in the exact same instant suddenly felt — momentous. <br /><br /><b>MY FORMER/FUTURE GIRLFRIEND</b> We were at a comics convention, one of the many we attended in the spring and summer before we got married. We would haul dozens of boxes of comics from Atlantis Fantasyworld to the con in James' gutted Econoline van (two front seats, and absolutely nothing in the back) to sell at our table in the Dealers' Room. During a slow period one day, probably when some popular interview or panel was going on in some other room, James covertly drew my attention to a pretty young woman with long hair strolling past the tables. What he meant to say (I think), was "She looks like my former girlfriend." What came out of his mouth, however, was, "She looks like my future girlfriend." Did I mention we weren't married yet? I suppose there were many snarky, irate, and/or cutting remarks I might have made in response, but I was too busy laughing.<br /><br /><b>MY WIFE </b>We were prowling through an antique store one day during our 4-day honeymoon in Carmel at the Casa Munras Hotel. We were murmuring together about something, and the friendly clerk over at the desk asked if she could help us with anything. "No thanks," said James, "I was just talking to my wife." <i>My wife.</i> We looked at each other and tried not to giggle.</p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigkmEnaZT0rY18y5ryMYFSmN_WC5Rbpf_vHW6vQ7_OkZD3-s_EAaRdnqQrK7pdkzD5SYoTgZ0viE55Hk34V5ZKp6eaG4p8dnkcYTa46eLG4tUf2md2mFTmt3h22FI3YxUc0Ri-Wv8FB-k/s1150/AB+Into+Night+%2528hearts%2529+02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="932" data-original-width="1150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigkmEnaZT0rY18y5ryMYFSmN_WC5Rbpf_vHW6vQ7_OkZD3-s_EAaRdnqQrK7pdkzD5SYoTgZ0viE55Hk34V5ZKp6eaG4p8dnkcYTa46eLG4tUf2md2mFTmt3h22FI3YxUc0Ri-Wv8FB-k/s320/AB+Into+Night+%2528hearts%2529+02.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Into the Night</i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>REDDING </b>We had been at a weekend comic convention in Portland, Oregon. The event closed at 5pm Sunday evening, and since we were packed up by 6, we decided to head out immediately to begin the long drive home. That first night, we stopped in Eugene. The next day we got as far south as Redding before the ferocious midsummer heat (the van didn't have AC) forced us to stop at a motel. Our room was upstairs, with an exterior staircase right outside that led down to the parking lot, with a Denny's or HoJo's, or something, on the other side of the lot.<br /><br />Our plan was to cool off in the blissfully air-conditioned room, then go down and eat so we could get an early start in the morning. But first, there was that bottle of champagne that we'd lugged upstairs in our cooler. (Don't leave home without it, that was James' motto.) We were watching an old Star Trek rerun on TV and I remember a long discussion about comic artist Steve Leialoha's slender, long-fingered hands; he'd been sitting adjacent to us at the con, sketching for the fans. Between the heat and the bubbly, we found we no longer had the enthusiasm, much less the ability, to navigate those stairs, so we went to bed instead, hoping it wouldn't be too hot to sleep.<br /><br />In the middle of the night we woke up freezing! The sun was down, the earth had cooled, and our AC unit was still roaring away. James got up to adjust it, but none of the controls worked; either it was busted, or the knobs were merely decorative and the machine was permanently set to 'Arctic.' James even tried beating on it with his shoe. We had to bundle up in the one pair of pajamas we had between us: I wore the shirt, he put on the pants; we felt like Rock Hudson and Doris Day. We ransacked the closet for the one extra blanket we could find and piled all the rest of our summer travel clothes on top of that. Next morning we could not get out of there fast enough! <br /><br /><b>FAVORITE MOMENT</b> A friend is a music producer with a recording studio in his garage. One night, over dinner, he mentioned that his favorite moment of the morning was when he took his second cup of tea into the studio to go to work. Without missing a beat, James said, "My favorite time of the morning is when my wife comes out of the shower naked and gives me a big kiss."</p><p><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO25Rp1AIuTCblx9jXZUauxeRCos1vA38THdsoO1B14SgOqh57G-VC_KAPLQ55qPlQErJFwk4r8vkmKC_H_COAvBeD2jRVB5fHVcb0OQvjPCmNnjOnq0lcDUciw91t-95IbRih0IcFTf8/s480/10+Mems+flutes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO25Rp1AIuTCblx9jXZUauxeRCos1vA38THdsoO1B14SgOqh57G-VC_KAPLQ55qPlQErJFwk4r8vkmKC_H_COAvBeD2jRVB5fHVcb0OQvjPCmNnjOnq0lcDUciw91t-95IbRih0IcFTf8/s320/10+Mems+flutes.jpg" /></a></b></div><b><br />FUR FOR BREAKFAST</b> One night in bed, we were discussing upcoming travel plans. (Well, I was; James, a notorious homebody, was expressing dismay.) At one point I said, "You know, some people actually like to travel." To which he retorted, "Well, some people eat fur for breakfast!" There was a beat of stunned silence as our brains digested his words, then we both exploded like Vesuvius — breathless, shrieking, helpless. We laughed until we cried.<br /> <br /><b>SO(HO) FUN</b> For awhile, James belonged to a loose collective of local artists calling themselves SoHo Beach who once put together a weekend pop-up art gallery in a Watsonville parking garage. He was off somewhere schmoozing and I was sitting in the booth one day when a beloved local matron of the arts stopped in; she had never seen James' work before, and she couldn't stop smiling and raving about it. Finally she turned to me and said, "Oh, I bet he's so much fun!" "Well, I think so," I agreed. "I married him!"<br /><br /><b>STARS OVER SWANTON</b> We had lazed poolside all afternoon up Swanton Road with our friends Bruce and Marcia, and Mort and Donna. (Donna and I actually got wet; everybody else kept to the shade, sipping margaritas!) As dusk fell, we all drifted upstairs to the wrap-around patio just outside the kitchen, claimed patio chairs, and gazed out over the green hills and treetops of Swanton to a glimpse of horizon beyond, watching the stars wink to life, one by one, in the vast, darkening sky. No conversation, no one-liners, nobody said anything. Just enjoying a magical moment with people we loved.<br /><br /><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4j0n8AWjWHYOoGpSbinMuQ8kN_2dzXB1BbuDTo_fqU25K2NzD6GTmIFVeujy6OiG1899YrqFlpKlepct2lZAH9m4XGwp4H8kC8QoZFD5xkwrX9x-YCUas7OpVXa18GTickvnItuheYa8/s640/AB+Trampoline+Love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4j0n8AWjWHYOoGpSbinMuQ8kN_2dzXB1BbuDTo_fqU25K2NzD6GTmIFVeujy6OiG1899YrqFlpKlepct2lZAH9m4XGwp4H8kC8QoZFD5xkwrX9x-YCUas7OpVXa18GTickvnItuheYa8/s320/AB+Trampoline+Love.jpg" /></a></div>THE BUBBLE TEST</b> One day, we set out to buy ourselves the perfect champagne glasses — flutes, of course, narrow enough at the base to keep the bubbles bubbling, and not so wide at the top that the bubbles would dissipate too quickly. But there isn't any way to gauge how bubbles will behave in a glass without taking it on a test drive. And since nothing else bubbles quite like champagne, we brought a well-stoppered bottle along with us to try them out, visiting kitchen stores and housewares departments, pouring little tots of bubbly into prospective glasses to see how they performed. We asked permission first, of course, but not a single sales person objected; they got a lesson in the aerodynamics of sparkling wine, and half an hour of entertainment!<br /> <br /><b>LA VIE EN LA MOULIN</b> James and I spent five days alone together at the Moulin, our friends' centuries-old mill house on the Yonne River in the Burgundy region of France. It was an excessively hot June, and we were pretty torporous during the day. But one evening we found an Edith Piaf CD and played it through the open door as we sat out on the back porch overlooking the river. Dark was just beginning to fall around 9 pm, we were sipping champagne (of course!) and I was fooling around with a set of Tarot cards in French we'd found, with Piaf's throaty vibrato carrying splendidly over the water. We noticed an older gentleman had pulled a deck chair out onto his little dock down the river, as the bedazzling stars emerged in the sliver of black night visible between the tree tops. When Piaf concluded her last song, with a rousing flourish, and all was again silent along the river, the man downstream quietly folded up his chair and took himself and his memories back inside. <br /><br />"Everybody needs his memories," says author Saul Bellow. "They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door."<br /><br />Wishing you many happy and significant memories in this season of love.<br /><p></p><p><i>(Paintings by James Aschbacher, of course!)</i><br /></p><br /><br /><br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-1516643751108062312021-01-04T17:07:00.000-08:002021-01-04T17:07:56.349-08:00GREAT PLATES!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkDxWvyOYd7ygAidqB_DQSC3XboJ0JK7juIQU8wuVtiwPcdb1-eNUiOGO7N_Ey7gHwVci26HximlDb7Zou7ma3MFVAo5UibLO2TaaG3p7KrhKq_85BzzoiCGGv1qpeh9ypECSTxTmvYmQ/s1632/Felix+12-31-20.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1224" data-original-width="1632" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkDxWvyOYd7ygAidqB_DQSC3XboJ0JK7juIQU8wuVtiwPcdb1-eNUiOGO7N_Ey7gHwVci26HximlDb7Zou7ma3MFVAo5UibLO2TaaG3p7KrhKq_85BzzoiCGGv1qpeh9ypECSTxTmvYmQ/s320/Felix+12-31-20.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>New Year's shout-out to the Great Plates Program, which obtains grants for local restaurants and catering services to keep their cooking staffs employed creating weekly meals to be delivered to area seniors who may need a break from cooking. <p></p><p> Lucky me, they hooked me up with <a href="https://colectivofelix.com/en/" target="_blank">Colectivo Felix,</a> a catering kitchen run by chef Diego Felix, who delivers substantial dinners with a fun, inventive Latin American accent. (He hails from Argentina.)<br /><br />Goodie bags typically contain a small bag of salad, dressing, and fresh fruit, alongside the meals. One of my recent faves was the Argentine Christmas Dinner (roast loin of veal with creamy tuna sauce). There have also been some holiday surprises: a little cup of Christmas cookies; a split of sparkling Sauvignon Blanc for New Year's Eve.<br /><br />Each delivery comes with a menu and a delivery schedule for the next week. (They will also deliver breakfast and lunch, although I like to do those for myself.) </p><p> Calling themselves Culinary Troubadours, the folks at Colectivo Felix cater all sorts of private gatherings (when such things were still possible, and hopefully will be again), and offer various goodies to go four days a week, through their website, among many other activities. They also participate in the Empanadas For Farmworkers campaign, cooking and delivering empanadas to farmworkers in the field, courtesy of local sponsors.<br /><br />Since I actually do like to cook (when I'm up to it), I've been meaning to see if I can arrange to get a few less meals a week. No point in being greedy! But the food is so good, I haven't done it yet — I don't want to miss anything!<br /><br /></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-69951083125557669332020-09-13T15:52:00.000-07:002020-09-13T15:52:49.760-07:00DICKENSIAN RHAPSODY<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqcImqh-uvyyV9r6sBr23r_bg50rLep4Hlg6JtVN73K2pBLaAOLfJi1C3FHtqPh3GonXXBgixGtShK8_7_cVjvQHoeFJV5vopcp6jVD5NhmcgydjgJnTy8E6S1zx4r5xwWs7nLNhJQSs/s454/DC+poster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="303" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqcImqh-uvyyV9r6sBr23r_bg50rLep4Hlg6JtVN73K2pBLaAOLfJi1C3FHtqPh3GonXXBgixGtShK8_7_cVjvQHoeFJV5vopcp6jVD5NhmcgydjgJnTy8E6S1zx4r5xwWs7nLNhJQSs/s320/DC+poster.jpg" /></a></i></div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />Diverse cast, soaring spirit, fuel joyous</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"> 'Personal History of David Copperfield'</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Anglo-Indian actor Dev Patel may
not be the most obvious choice to play David Copperfield, one of Charles
Dickens' most beloved and most autobiographical heroes. But casting the popular
Patel is but one of many inspired and audacious choices made by Armando
Iannucci in his smart and highly entertaining adaptation, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Personal History of David Copperfield</i>.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Director Iannucci and his
co-scenarist and frequent writing partner, Simon Blackwell, are best known for
sly political satires <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Death of Stalin</i>,
and TV's <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Veep</i>, created by Iannucci.
In their hands, Dickens' classic coming-of-age tale gets and energizing
makeover that is absolutely true to this spirit of the novel. While
unapologetically diverse in its casting, it never feels unduly PC, and is often
brilliant in the originality of its storytelling.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsbhOHjeOtrTgB7SoAuAfaZYNKTyHnqdw_HVXY8A4CfzrhemBraVopN_vzLX1Fp7x0qP7c36-yRxj6jpdigBvqM8ZYhLnBeTjvS2EHzyYhSx-hwzCr2pD-lo7L5aJHp-7ctg6Y02xJf8/s1000/DC+Dev+papers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEsbhOHjeOtrTgB7SoAuAfaZYNKTyHnqdw_HVXY8A4CfzrhemBraVopN_vzLX1Fp7x0qP7c36-yRxj6jpdigBvqM8ZYhLnBeTjvS2EHzyYhSx-hwzCr2pD-lo7L5aJHp-7ctg6Y02xJf8/s320/DC+Dev+papers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Patel as Copperfield: Noteworthy<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> The movie is framed as a theatrical
recitation by acclaimed author Copperfield. (A nod to the kinds of public
readings Dickens himself staged for his rapt admirers throughout his career.)
As he narrates his life story, beginning with his birth, it unfolds onscreen,
with the adult David popping up in the shot with commentary— one of the movie's
many charmingly surreal touches.
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><p>David's idyllic childhood with his
loving young widowed mother ends abruptly when she marries grim Murdstone, who
arrives with his equally sour sister (an unrecognizable Gwendoline Christie).
The spirited child David (Jairaj Varsani) is banished to London to work in a
grimy factory. He's a teenager (now played by Patel) when he learns his mother
has died, and walks all the way to Dover to throw himself on the mercy of his
only relative, the formidable Aunt Betsey Trotwood (a delightful Tilda
Swinton.)
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_SqXI3OYJoubibpwgw3mMqlWZmAZszs4Vm0n7aajxBx62kCeSn0RXtbf7LI6VMJT9AtHiueU9Uiu04RIhuP-ab-odKt3dqNxpqMrGd0Asn6B-dO6ZaPoWdiISg81qHN__7khYbW6XAk/s1800/DC+picnic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1800" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs_SqXI3OYJoubibpwgw3mMqlWZmAZszs4Vm0n7aajxBx62kCeSn0RXtbf7LI6VMJT9AtHiueU9Uiu04RIhuP-ab-odKt3dqNxpqMrGd0Asn6B-dO6ZaPoWdiISg81qHN__7khYbW6XAk/w256-h170/DC+picnic.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swinton, Patel, Laurie, Eleazar: al fresco<br /></td></tr></tbody></table> Peter Capaldi is droll and
wistfully philosophical as the impecunious Micawber, and Hugh Laurie is
wonderful as the mostly befuddled but sometimes gently insightful Mr. Dick,
Aunt Betsey's distant relation. He and David share a love of writing things
down (David obsessively records his life in notes and sketches), giving the filmmakers ample opportunity to weave Dickens' delicious prose
into the fabric of the movie. Ben Whishaw is unctuously oozy as conniving Uriah
Heep, although there's not enough time to convey the full menace of his crimes.
Aneurin Barnard is impressively grand as Steerforth, David's elitist schoolfellow, but he seems more of a poseur than
genuinely charismatic; David's attachment to him never quite feels earned.
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Meanwhile, the narrative strides
boldly forward through Dickens' busy plot, hitting most of its emotional high notes, yet boisterously funny throughout. Quick and clever editing keeps the pictures moving with
smooth dissolves and ingenious expositions. When David falls instantly in love
with porcelain, childlike Dora (Morfydd Clark), daughter of the lawyer who employs
him, he sees her face painted on a pub sign in the street, and her blonde curls
adorning a passing cart driver. To keep the narrative moving, the filmmakers
even have the nerve to write out a key character, at her request. ("I
really don't fit in.") I doubt if Dickens would approve, but it's a smart
way to keep the movie's tone consistent and focused.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3sgS6RODCTlgaK8euMWj9wLs_nHiBxhbMtkDszWURn-B4Cpw8AylFEdz1gsWMgpQZib-qVXfEy6xFB3s0m7xHfLz-PT2ekXWLF2UuyZss1tqQ91nkDYCBAd-5YJT5Eo3vsFPaBHKmAw/s1600/DC+boathouse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3sgS6RODCTlgaK8euMWj9wLs_nHiBxhbMtkDszWURn-B4Cpw8AylFEdz1gsWMgpQZib-qVXfEy6xFB3s0m7xHfLz-PT2ekXWLF2UuyZss1tqQ91nkDYCBAd-5YJT5Eo3vsFPaBHKmAw/s320/DC+boathouse.JPG" /></a></div><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">The movie
looks terrific, from teeming London streets to the fresh, open countryside to
the seaside. Motherly Peggotty </span>(Daisy May Cooper)<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">, David's former nurse, </span>lives with her family under the
upturned hull of a boat on the beach at Yarmouth<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;">. </span>(A magical place vividly realized by production designer
Cristina Casali.) In addition to the Micawbers, Aunt Betsey and Mr. Dick,
David's surrogate family includes his aunt's tippling but well-meaning
solicitor, Whitfield (Benedict Wong), and his daughter, Agnes (played with
good-humored warmth by Rosalind Eleazar).
<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">Patel plays David with the right
balance of open-hearted exuberance and dawning maturity. The non-traditional
casting also highlights the story's core question of identity. David earns many
nicknames on his journey through life — Davy, Trot, Daisy, Doady — which are
more expressions of who others need him to be than who he actually is. It's a
nifty little victory when this David finally discards his nicknames to proclaim
himself simply David Copperfield— the hero (at last) of his own life.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGlxqJ_sHMF14z-vqwXCT3Ir39HG36yjuqnmXK842KenxRYAi2aAq6_6be3mpNRBF35968covmeyD1yGixYdHOyVoLuWG9wPDu_e5DXA0OfXmlE60l7wAbz4Eoz6my5nT2FdDH93hxMo/s1200/DC+cast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRGlxqJ_sHMF14z-vqwXCT3Ir39HG36yjuqnmXK842KenxRYAi2aAq6_6be3mpNRBF35968covmeyD1yGixYdHOyVoLuWG9wPDu_e5DXA0OfXmlE60l7wAbz4Eoz6my5nT2FdDH93hxMo/w400-h200/DC+cast.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
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{page:Section1;}</style></p>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-1303603122810280892020-07-02T17:35:00.000-07:002020-07-02T17:35:22.531-07:00AUTO-IMMUNE<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofFWQiAJPyZRJFFM2pQazz04Q2UaTr06xZH9Sv2Yd5g7bdKeb31NgrDZM0Yk0Q5KyTuEMrotWumHSWUlD78imI9Os8-6fblEkbxuPn-mTfgvIRl6GZOeE_pGYREEtnd1CREdN15fvRl0/s1600/addams+car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="512" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofFWQiAJPyZRJFFM2pQazz04Q2UaTr06xZH9Sv2Yd5g7bdKeb31NgrDZM0Yk0Q5KyTuEMrotWumHSWUlD78imI9Os8-6fblEkbxuPn-mTfgvIRl6GZOeE_pGYREEtnd1CREdN15fvRl0/s320/addams+car.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was glad to leave the driving to him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My name is Lisa, and I don't drive.<br /><br />There's no 12-step program for it, but I might as well confess myself an alcoholic or a junkie.<br /><br />It's especially weird for someone born in Southern California, and raised in outer Los Angeles, Freeway Capitol of the Known World. Remember the movie <i>L.A. Story</i>, with Steve Martin? Off to visit a neighbor, Martin's character jumps in his car at the curb in front of his house, and drives 12 feet to park in front of the house next door.<br /><br />That's what it was like. Angelino babies are born with a silver set of car keys clutched in their tiny fists.<br /><br />Except for me. Even in the throbbing heart of America's most turbo-charged car culture, I was resolutely auto-immune.<br /><br />To be absolutely clear, it's not that I <i>can't</i> drive. I am in possession of a valid driver's license. I've aced every written driving exam I've ever taken, and passed my first (and only) test behind the wheel on the first try. (Okay, I only scored a 73, but it was a pass!)<br /><br />It's just that, like Bartleby the Scrivener, I prefer not to.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_MzjtpnLovYJC8ksdNaacccNdW6nx08ImlairWtGrQ0x_2EM0E0ypB7n4hEkrPxx3knRUZRiOArsNu6igDgdhpEAxfxQwmrDCisbE9qiqcM3qjxWRO9wIuc6gOx7skTM_IACRqZ3jUc/s1600/delhi+getty+images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="960" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9_MzjtpnLovYJC8ksdNaacccNdW6nx08ImlairWtGrQ0x_2EM0E0ypB7n4hEkrPxx3knRUZRiOArsNu6igDgdhpEAxfxQwmrDCisbE9qiqcM3qjxWRO9wIuc6gOx7skTM_IACRqZ3jUc/s400/delhi+getty+images.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delhi: With and Without cars (Getty Images)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
(Random English Lit Alert: Is Literature still taught in schools? Let alone Melville. Google it, kids.)<br /><br />Well, that was true for most of the last 40 years, anyway, when Art Boy took over the household driving chores in his Art Boymobile. He was not a car guy. (He killed his very first car, a Camaro he bought from his older brother, because he didn't know he had to put oil in it.) He didn't love driving any more than I did, but it was one of the things he did more competently than me, so I was glad to let him.<br /><br />I got to ride shotgun, and say "Home, James!"<br /><br />In recent years, however, I've developed a much more compelling, even insurmountable excuse that has nothing to do with preference. One of the many disadvantages to MS, at least in my case, is the declining ability to lift my right foot. Whenever I'm extra tired and have to use a walker to get around, I drag my right foot like Quasimodo.<br /><br />When people don't understand the connection between MS and driving ability, I say, "Have you seen me walk?"<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJB1Em7b5eos-aDY1K0ZjCfROwPd1R8_tpDVWVcZ0gk_ZmflQNdU9u4fSgbAiwo0IKXmeZP5UwDdetw6iHSMhSrA5Vh9U_B2Y3TpJW-vYgQyYyNfef3gWBLZK-W2pV6uNhZE_Xre4nFM/s1600/leech+woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="655" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzJB1Em7b5eos-aDY1K0ZjCfROwPd1R8_tpDVWVcZ0gk_ZmflQNdU9u4fSgbAiwo0IKXmeZP5UwDdetw6iHSMhSrA5Vh9U_B2Y3TpJW-vYgQyYyNfef3gWBLZK-W2pV6uNhZE_Xre4nFM/s640/leech+woman.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>
My MS buddies in yoga class have the same right-side affliction, but they've been driving consistently all their lives, so they've learned to compensate for it behind the wheel. But after my late-inning diagnosis (I was 62), if I tried to drive the way I used to — with the right foot shifting between gas and brake —it was my foot, not the gears, that got stuck in neutral.<br /><br />In an emergency, I don't want to be that dodderer who can't get her foot on the appropriate pedal in that crucial nanosecond, and ends up rear-ending someone, or plowing through a bunch of pedestrians on the sidewalk. Talk about a weapon of mass destruction.<br /><br />So, instead, I've been leeching shamelessly off my friends for rides to the movies, or the market. (I'm surprisingly fine grocery shopping, as long as I have a cart to hold on to.) But now that movie theaters are closed and we're sheltering in place, like, forever, I have to depend on my village to do my shopping for me, and deliver the goods to my porch. I pay for my own stuff, of course, and I usually try to bribe, er, I mean tip my designated drivers/shoppers with home-baked cookies and cinnamon apple crumb cake. <br /><br />Meanwhile, I try to delude myself that my not driving is good for the environment. We've all seen those photos of places like Delhi, before and after the coronavirus lockdown removed a majority of cars from the road. Not only is the sky suddenly visible at all, it's blue! In my old SoCal stomping grounds, you can see the San Gabriel Mountains rising above the L. A. basin from the beach! <br /><br />That's my contribution to the fight against climate change, I think smugly: one less vehicle on the road. You're welcome. <br /><br />But then, reality, that old killjoy, reminds me that somebody is burning fossil fuels to get me my groceries, even if it's not me. Until they start shipping my stuff via transporter beam, I can't pretend that my aberrant car-free lifestyle is in any way a virtue.<br /><br />In the meantime, just call me the Leech Woman.<br /><br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-71051369635659245362020-05-29T16:36:00.001-07:002020-05-29T16:36:29.028-07:00BETA BOY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKlw7PwRZwYELg3Xy7OjUHXBlTUrvYIwZE6ZmSgCSLsvRfwLndh-pUIFPqnkRQhEUNNxXRhVI0-AWvhXOkjBbDtyjQstAYEZIz1ZdLcO1Mizf-lV1_1VHj5fgtQ0DW4mjrEIs__XBLvE/s1600/AB+Book+Wondrous.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1151" data-original-width="1208" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuKlw7PwRZwYELg3Xy7OjUHXBlTUrvYIwZE6ZmSgCSLsvRfwLndh-pUIFPqnkRQhEUNNxXRhVI0-AWvhXOkjBbDtyjQstAYEZIz1ZdLcO1Mizf-lV1_1VHj5fgtQ0DW4mjrEIs__XBLvE/s320/AB+Book+Wondrous.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
"We could've written this!"<br /><br />This refrain was often heard in our kitchen (usually over a glass of bubbly) when James and I came home after a movie and started analyzing where it had gone wrong.<br /><br />Maybe there was a specific turning point in the narrative that shifted the whole story in the wrong direction. Maybe a character did something so inexplicably out-of-character that the whole thing lost its credibility.<br /><br />But sometimes, as we went over plot points, themes and epiphanies, it seemed like the scriptwriter simply had not made the best use of all the elements that had already been set up and established in the storyline.<br />
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If this character had done this or that in the first quarter of the movie, we reasoned, then this exposition in the third quarter would make a lot more sense. Or this action that feels completely arbitrary might have been salvaged if it was done by a different character or from a different motivation. We often found everything needed to make the story work right there in its narrative bones, but it just hadn't been put together correctly. <br /><br />After we'd figured out where it had gone wrong, and worked out the fix that could have saved it, it was time to clink those glasses. "Hey, we could've written this!"<br /><br />I miss those critical download sessions, especially now that I'm grappling with my own busy fictional narrative that needs to be shaped into a coherent story. After my 187 years in journalism, I can still pretty much figure out what does or doesn't work in a movie. But I'm all at sea confronted with the unwieldy text of my own next book.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrixHKxKrzel3m50gL41nYl7E3pSdqu81z6dkoN3nRWqUC2sPa52UvGPpiSisl18RqBmfi_sKrVyPdMmTcyXOEeFzLl6lzr50VQoyjbfJrWxTnkZRlGBWMxLrWBM1prei-rjoZGmuwAo/s1600/le+mot+juste.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRrixHKxKrzel3m50gL41nYl7E3pSdqu81z6dkoN3nRWqUC2sPa52UvGPpiSisl18RqBmfi_sKrVyPdMmTcyXOEeFzLl6lzr50VQoyjbfJrWxTnkZRlGBWMxLrWBM1prei-rjoZGmuwAo/s320/le+mot+juste.png" width="274" /></a></div>
Among so many other metaphorical hats that my Art Boy wore around here, he was also my most trusted beta reader. If he didn't understand a plot point, even after the long-winded explanation in Chapter 21, or he questioned why a character said or did something peculiar, and my only defense was "because the author said so," I knew it was time to go back to the keyboard.<br /><br />It was also at his urging that I started reading early drafts of my manuscripts out loud to him. Okay, he just didn't want to have to slog through all those pages in a box, himself, but it turned out to be great for me. If a word or sentence or passage felt clumsy in the mouth, or sounded tinny out loud, even to me, then out it went. Or, at least, it had to be finessed.<br /><br />We were partners in my literary adventures, just like we were partners in everything else. Flying solo into new terrain still feels weird to me, but I just have to start viewing my own work through the lens of James' logical common sense and healthy skepticism. <br /><br />Think of all those movies we saved, I tell myself.<br /><br />We can write this!<br />
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(Top: <i>A Book Is a Wondrous Thing,</i> by James Aschbacher)<br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-54012413936757303902020-05-07T16:21:00.000-07:002020-05-08T15:49:00.155-07:00MAIN STREAM MOVIES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKPoFWiA6myJyKOLqd7tTzi1b5fkgydg6aiSjVr9Cp1iERTAC9Fe7YddgR8nJxgsJWEt0LBhrijSvNOSaglo_gcCLClYyLTPh43dxhNr3yVEXh-gOsWl7RzLpieGp5IVfSVfsGy7eB2A/s1600/SongSea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYKPoFWiA6myJyKOLqd7tTzi1b5fkgydg6aiSjVr9Cp1iERTAC9Fe7YddgR8nJxgsJWEt0LBhrijSvNOSaglo_gcCLClYyLTPh43dxhNr3yVEXh-gOsWl7RzLpieGp5IVfSVfsGy7eB2A/s320/SongSea.jpg" width="168" /></a></div>
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Regular readers will note that I prefer watching movies on a gigantic screen, the way God intended. In the future, no doubt, movies will be digitally implanted directly into our lobes, but at this historical moment, we are somewhere in-between. Move theaters are closed thanks to COVID-19, so we're stuck watching movies on our home screens. With a zillion options, some are more worthy than others, but here are a few titles I've notice popping up on streaming platforms that might be worth your time!<br />
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<b>THE ASSISTANT</b> Her new job as office assistant to a famous movie mogul ought to be a dream come true for a bright young college graduate with ambitions to produce her own movies. But it's a nightmare for the conflicted protagonist who discovers enabling her boss's sexual conquests is the unspoken part of her job description in this taut, claustrophobic and entirely effective drama from filmmaker Kitty Green. The focus of her story is not on predators or their victims, but on the system of silence and complicity that allows such misconduct to happen. Julia Garner has the pale, porcelain face of a Renaissance angel, darkening with visceral anxiety over the course of her workday. (R) 87 minutes. (***) (2020) (Amazon Prime)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4sE3OmoQussxvizlYUChacOzkFXAZvzMIZ1WA83NTr1i5sAh-GC6RqcauivpDcnrD_USdxHuOk-IcvG6RaCxbAHE9ITBmBN6i7q_mFargHqGiglJoXurO23ErxpnuJvRkMkSLrHC67w/s1600/handmaiden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1108" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-4sE3OmoQussxvizlYUChacOzkFXAZvzMIZ1WA83NTr1i5sAh-GC6RqcauivpDcnrD_USdxHuOk-IcvG6RaCxbAHE9ITBmBN6i7q_mFargHqGiglJoXurO23ErxpnuJvRkMkSLrHC67w/s320/handmaiden.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>
<b>THE HANDMAIDEN</b> It may seem like an odd collaboration: bad-boy Korean filmmaker Chan-wook Park, famed for the violent male revenge melodrama Oldboy, and British author Sarah Waters, whose femme-centric erotic thrillers are set in the Dickensian underworld of Victorian London. But it turns out to be a surprisingly happy match-up in Park's Asian riff on Waters' novel Fingersmith. Filmmaker and source material are both edgy in complementary ways. Gorgeously shot and composed, audacious, and full of witty visual asides, it's a sly entertainment of sex, larceny, deception, double-crosses, and female liberation. (R) 144 minutes. In Korean and Japanese with English subtitles. (***1/2) (2016) (Amazon Prime)<br />
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<b>THE LAST BLACK MAN IN SAN FRANCISCO</b> This first feature from director Joe Talbot is remarkably assured and absorbing meditation on the mythology of the city's fabled past while its characters — two young black men born and raised in the city — reckon with the uncertainty of its present. As a semi-autobiographical version of himself, Jimmie Fails' character is obsessed with a stately Victorian-style house built by his grandfather that his family no longer possesses. Jonathan Majors offers poignant support as his best friend in this dreamy, splendidly composed mood piece about the search for home and identity in the rapidly evolving city they love. (R) 120 minutes. (***1/2) (2019) (Amazon Prime)<br />
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<b>MILLIONS</b> Money doesn't grow on trees, but it does fall out of the sky in this wonderful film from the ever-surprising Danny Boyle, about the comic misadventures of two young brothers in the working-class north of England when they find a mysterious suitcase stuffed with cold cash. Little Alex Eitel is terrific as the boy whose superheroes are the Catholic saints; he's up on all their biographical stats (birth, death, martyrdom), and they keep popping up in the story to help him figure out how to use the money to do good. Boyle's fresh, kinetic filmmaking style complements a touching story that's acute, funny, sophisticated, and full of imagination. Not a kids' film per se, this is a story told from a child's perspective that beguiles viewers of all ages (****) (PG) 97 minutes. (2005) (Disney Plus)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwhCU86kVXkwMBzygFYL7wt2kJz30M6q8EW8Uy837Q30GDbsh0Y7r5_NL9bcdw1dCFshOa5rbha-VV2q44oZP2lZ0QWgv8BFjDKtdhfSh_5eE_Ywx_yuyNzkUBWQI2nw4MFODSkoig4WM/s1600/millions.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="625" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwhCU86kVXkwMBzygFYL7wt2kJz30M6q8EW8Uy837Q30GDbsh0Y7r5_NL9bcdw1dCFshOa5rbha-VV2q44oZP2lZ0QWgv8BFjDKtdhfSh_5eE_Ywx_yuyNzkUBWQI2nw4MFODSkoig4WM/s400/millions.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Peter (Alun Armstrong) (note keys and halo) instructs Alex Eitel in <i>Millions</i></td></tr>
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<b>SONG OF THE SEA</b> Anyone who loves seals, ancient Celtic folklore, fairy tales or mythology will be utterly charmed by this magical Irish animated feature. Directed by Tomm Moore, whose previous film was the lovely Secret of the Kells, inspired by the famed illuminated manuscript, this Oscar-nominated fable combines traditional tales of the selkies (seals who transform into humans on land) with a stunning visual palette, and an endearing tale of a young girl and her destiny. Every hand-drawn frame of this movie is ravishing — even on a small screen! (PG) 93 minutes. (****) (2014) (Netflix)Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-62403885572109072472020-04-26T16:34:00.002-07:002020-04-26T16:34:39.878-07:00FREE BOOK!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSurviaVhez2yWK-glCAXDqy3lQ4WJJPEwmtS2zhwkT6-GMuxCLyB4HsSHdVOmfMA3nyGb46PBXW0ndIeI5hJbdDB5UiBIPlghBh50J5OQ9E-pmDXxdfys8-qs3n5rEvWTXcIXLqS7Bfo/s1600/R+Hangman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="376" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSurviaVhez2yWK-glCAXDqy3lQ4WJJPEwmtS2zhwkT6-GMuxCLyB4HsSHdVOmfMA3nyGb46PBXW0ndIeI5hJbdDB5UiBIPlghBh50J5OQ9E-pmDXxdfys8-qs3n5rEvWTXcIXLqS7Bfo/s320/R+Hangman.jpg" width="188" /></a></td></tr>
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Hey, if the Rolling Stones can jam with each other online from their rec rooms, what am I waiting for?<br />
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Here's my response to the global coronavirus shutdown; my "lost" second novel available in its entirety online — for free!<br /><br />Now that we're all sheltering in place with time to spare, it's the perfect opportunity to revisit Tory Lightfoot and Jack Dance, protagonists of my first published novel <i><a href="http://witchfromsea.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">The Witch From The Sea</a>.</i><br />
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(Pirates! History! Romance! No Zombies!)<br />
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I always envisioned their story as a trilogy, and although the next two novels were never published in book form, they do exist. <br /><br />So I've decided to bring Tory and Jack and their further post-pirate adventures in the tropical West Indies back into the public eye.<br />
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Borrowing a leaf from the Charles Dickens playbook, I posted the entire second novel in the trilogy, <a href="http://runaways-jonkanoo.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><i>Runaways: A Tale of Jonkanoo</i></a>, in serial chapters online.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_NA2_j88xzyIAq4mzn7ajMN0hh7ptZDrSLzo9AUS4Y3p50ak4kjLmL6Bf_lrLSJSmDv0l1zL3V97cA5vzfRanNsxNX4EaMCqrey3JX2dR1kI-zQqz39QJvUMQ9SUgRQWODPBDKp2fuA/s1600/R+Jonkanoo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="485" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih_NA2_j88xzyIAq4mzn7ajMN0hh7ptZDrSLzo9AUS4Y3p50ak4kjLmL6Bf_lrLSJSmDv0l1zL3V97cA5vzfRanNsxNX4EaMCqrey3JX2dR1kI-zQqz39QJvUMQ9SUgRQWODPBDKp2fuA/s200/R+Jonkanoo.jpg" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jonkanoo parade, Jamaica, 1838</td></tr>
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In the coming weeks, I'll be posting links to each successive chapter on my <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1131057.Lisa_Jensen" target="_blank">Goodreads</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lisa-Jensen-Books/326174064165389" target="_blank">Facebook</a> pages for anyone who wants to follow along.<br />
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Just doing my bit to provide a little escapism in these anxious times. <br /><br />Nothing to join, nothing to buy, no passwords required. Just follow the links and enjoy!<br /><br />Here's the <a href="http://runaways-jonkanoo.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Introduction</a> to the story. (Find out just what the heck "Jonkanoo" means, anyway!) <br /><br />PS: The entire novel is already up, as regular readers of this blog probably know (if you've ever scrolled all the way down to the murkiest depths of the right-hand menu). So feel free to binge away if you don't want to wait for my prompts!<br />
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<i>(Above L: </i>Runaways <i>Frontispiece by moi.)</i><br />
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<i>(Above R: Belisario 08, as shown on www.slaveryimages.org, sponsored by the Virginia Foundation for the Humanities and the University of Virginia Library) </i><br /><br />Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-57682817089126902742020-04-19T15:41:00.000-07:002020-04-22T16:55:58.493-07:00HOLD THAT (DEAD)LINE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiHXcEjhp2VYACPA9sVCaDGQukDpAVk7Q3lOY1Q0HinwgOfJRzCLWjN5mEpk5LeKP8xNXx_zdaqPBP_tSmlfM1X_9qpdfzmNjUsl4htQdkdhVXfF3YLLte5E7eWLkFnKnUPH3VOJQ4qw/s1600/Gal+Friday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiHXcEjhp2VYACPA9sVCaDGQukDpAVk7Q3lOY1Q0HinwgOfJRzCLWjN5mEpk5LeKP8xNXx_zdaqPBP_tSmlfM1X_9qpdfzmNjUsl4htQdkdhVXfF3YLLte5E7eWLkFnKnUPH3VOJQ4qw/s320/Gal+Friday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
After 40-odd years in journalism (some of them damned odd), I respect deadlines.<br />
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It's not that I grudgingly obey them, or that I've had to coach myself to accept them. I need them. I cling to them. They are the dangling carrot that propels my life forward.<br />
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Obviously, deadlines determine when I go see a movie (remember going to the movies?) in order to get my review in the paper. Sometimes, they influence which movie I see, depending on which showtimes are more favorable to making my deadline.<br />
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My entire week is orchestrated around seeing a movie on Friday, writing my review on Saturday, and sending the finished piece to my editor by Sunday afternoon — all to make my Monday morning deadline.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RdPgiMxXvgVHWcnRyfNWHxVXThfCyXLcmaXzJVEDvLXboJsrm-Ir3YiZ5md0xZoZRrHvXd9AI2yp9wJ0cIk-Z-rtgtPb43CB9qmAL5rV3zDB6xkmt4bw5oEZuxXDMpBqAVmi_zXFbag/s1600/Deadline+MStevens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="640" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1RdPgiMxXvgVHWcnRyfNWHxVXThfCyXLcmaXzJVEDvLXboJsrm-Ir3YiZ5md0xZoZRrHvXd9AI2yp9wJ0cIk-Z-rtgtPb43CB9qmAL5rV3zDB6xkmt4bw5oEZuxXDMpBqAVmi_zXFbag/s320/Deadline+MStevens.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The entire book-publishing industry also runs on deadlines. They exist for turning in that first draft, for each new revision, for providing front and back matter, author photos, Q&A guidelines, PR material — everything depends on each successive deadline being met in a timely manner. Miss one, and the entire infrastructure stutters to a halt.<br />
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The habit has spread to every other part of my life. I pay bills according to which due date is looming next, and plan meals around which item in the fridge is most likely to rot if ignored much longer. I'm inspired to clean house when I know visitors are coming, and dress according to whatever events are going to take me out into the public eye.<br />
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But now all that's changed. The coronavirus pandemic has claimed yet another casualty: the deadline.<br />
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Five weeks into lockdown, and my schedule is completely out the window. Movie theaters are closed and I'm taking my yoga classes on Zoom, so I'm liberated from the task of having to actually go out in public. I don't drive any more, so I'm not even shopping; kind-hearted friends are picking up my groceries and bringing them to me. Some are intrepid enough to come in the house; others do a porch drop. Most days, the only one I interact with is my cat.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuU9jMSRkB5upC9YDXuWG-v1gXOKyX_LNjVeP6za6uAGzp-bdugyNq8K6X9ldnX_c1ucf3nCBcNU7pwRrXth5P15cKdd_HPuucXDKuliV6dfF7Nxx4eEvZ8DFrsoO32v5xz7UcCTBtnw/s1600/book+bracelets+cropt+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="801" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuU9jMSRkB5upC9YDXuWG-v1gXOKyX_LNjVeP6za6uAGzp-bdugyNq8K6X9ldnX_c1ucf3nCBcNU7pwRrXth5P15cKdd_HPuucXDKuliV6dfF7Nxx4eEvZ8DFrsoO32v5xz7UcCTBtnw/s320/book+bracelets+cropt+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Did I say "liberated?" I'm in freefall. Without deadlines, where's my motivation?<br />
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The decline was gradual. First, I stopped strapping on what I call my ID bracelets every morning, vintage Celebracelets by Faye Augustine with my book titles spelled out in tiny silver alphabet-block beads. I never used to appear in public without them, but now . . . <br />
<br />
Then, I stopped washing my hair every single morning, a big adjustment for someone as psycho about her hair as me. Maybe once or twice a week, if it doesn't look too hideous, I dare to let it go. Who's going to see me?<br />
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Some routines are still inviolate, in the absence of actual deadlines. I have to get dinner on the table by 7 pm in time for <i>Jeopardy,</i> and cleared away at least by 8:30 to have time to read before bed. Monday night is still <a href="http://ljo-express.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-legend-of-monday-night-pizza.html" target="_blank">Pizza Night, </a>without fail — but the rest of the week, all the days tend to run together.<br />
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I don't go out, so the clothes I wear in public (you know, the ones that are still intact) stay in the closet, while my comfort outfits (sweatshirts, jeans, pom-pom slippers) get worn all day. I still wash my clothes every Saturday — even though the loads are smaller — but I'm down to washing my sheets only every other week.<br />
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I used to make jokes about Miss Havisham — until she popped up in my mirror.<br />
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Meanwhile, my living space is showing signs of — let's call it benign neglect. If those discarded slippers are littering the stairs all day, or a cobweb the size of a volleyball net is hanging from the hallway ceiling, who's going to know?<br />
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I'm starting to feel like that tree that falls in the forest. Am I still a sloth if there's no one to see me?<br />
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<br />
(Cartoon by Mick Stevens) <br />
(Helena Bonham-Carter as Miss Havisham, <i>Great Expectatons,</i> 2012) Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-15211283631354360672020-04-06T16:11:00.001-07:002020-04-19T16:33:07.381-07:00THE IMPOSSIBLE MEME<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Okay, we've all seen that meme: William Shakespeare wrote <i>King Lear</i> while under quarantine in London during the Bubonic plague.<br />
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The intention of circulating this (probably relatively true-ish) factoid, of course, is to make us all feel like a bunch of whining slackers. Want to feel even worse? Remember that Anne Frank wrote her famous Diary while hiding from the Nazis in a cramped attic in Amsterdam with her family of four and three other people. For two years. <br />
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The fruits of these labors, composed under impossibly stressful conditions, are inarguably masterpieces, Frank's Diary for its honesty, optimism and compassion, and <i>Lear</i> for its brilliant and enduring insights into the human condition.<br />
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So what are the rest of us waiting for? Now that we're all under house arrest, we have nothing but time. <br />
<br />
But consider too that <i>Lear</i> is one of Shakespeare's darkest plays, in every respect. It's full of howling storms and furious rages, delusion, betrayal, calamity, madness, folly, treachery and despair. Hard not to see at least a psychological parallel between the work itself and the temper of the times in which it was written.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Colette: Holed up like a Parisienne</td></tr>
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So, if I wanted to write something gloomy and despondent, this would be the perfect time to do it! Indeed, there would be no excuse not to spend these grey, wet, solitary days hammering away at the keyboard, grappling angst and uncertainty into something (hopefully) brilliant.<br />
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But, no. Me, I'm trying to cobble together a lighthearted romantic comedy, full of magic and music, for Young Adult readers.<br />
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It's the second book (although not a sequel) stipulated in my contract for <i>Beast: A Tale of Love and Revenge,</i> which was already too dark and perverse for the general YA readership, according to my <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31019831-beast" target="_blank">Goodreads reviews</a>. This new one is supposed to be fun and upbeat.<br />
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Hah.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blissfully untarnished by reality</td></tr>
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Not that it couldn't be done. When the Nazis marched in to occupy France, the celebrated novelist Colette was 67 (the same age I am now), and nearly bedridden. Yet, holed up in her Paris apartment for the duration, she produced <i>Gigi.</i> Harking back to France's golden age of the Belle Epoque, it told the sunny tale of a spirited teenage girl raised to be a courtesan who defies expectations by charming her designated client into marriage.<br />
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And I have no doubt that if my Art Boy was still here to shelter in place with me, he would have turned out three or four of his magical paintings by now, and sketches for many more.<br />
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His work was always blissfully untarnished by everyday reality; his ideas bubbled up directly out of the teeming wellspring of his own imagination — flying fish, joyous dancing figures, pink bunnies and all. How he would have relished the excuse to stay home and paint all day!<br />
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I'm trying to view this temporary (we hope) dystopian sojourn as an opportunity to be relished. That's what James would do! And who knows? If the present coronavirus lockdown stretches on for another eternity, a deep plunge into the imagination might be just the escape I need.<br />
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(Above: <i>Act of Creation</i>, James Aschbacher)Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-59672832498479809692020-03-29T17:30:00.000-07:002020-04-19T16:33:48.408-07:00I WAKE UP STREAMING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It’s official — I’m superfluous!<br />
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With theaters shuttered (temporarily, we hope) due to the coronavirus, and no one going out to the movies, nobody needs to know my opinion of a movie they can stream from the privacy of their own couch.<br />
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It’s not like they have to pay to get in!<br />
<br />
So my column in <i>Good Times</i> is suspended until further notice. If we, as a town/state/country/planet ever achieve normalcy again, I expect to be back on the job. But who knows how long that will take?<br />
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In the meantime, I encourage housebound film fans to boldly go into the archives of the product-delivery service of your choice — Netflix, Amazon, Hulu, You Tube, Viewmaster, whatever — and explore titles from over a century of vibrant cinema.<br />
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Silent films, for instance, are astonishingly creative! Check out anything from about the turn of the last century through the 1920s, back when the pictures were first learning to move, and they were making it all up as they went along. You’ll be amazed at their ingenuity!<br />
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Then there are Errol Flynn swashbucklers, Film Noir, MGM musicals, French New Wave, Hitchcock, Fellini, the Marx Brothers; they’re all out there, just waiting to be discovered.<br />
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Be adventurous! If something doesn’t grab you in the first 20 minutes, dial up something else. There won’t be a quiz, and there isn’t anywhere else you have to be.<br />
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Me, I’ve been catching up on movies I missed the first time around. Last night it was <i>The Greatest Showman</i>, an utterly berserk fantasia on the imagined life if P. T. Barnum, staged like a Hollywood musical.<br />
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Famed 19th Century opera diva Jenny Lind (Rebecca Ferguson) sings a power ballad. Keala Settle as the Bearded Lady leads a chorus of Barnum’s circus sideshow attractions in an empowering Millennial-style anthem.<br />
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But, hey, in the midst of it all, there’s Hugh Jackman in the top hat and ringmaster’s outfit, singing and dancing up a storm. I’m home alone — I have to have <i>some</i> fun!<br />
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Sure, I’d much rather be watching movies the way God intended, on a great big theater screen. And I fervently hope all this enforced home viewing doesn’t signal the end of the neighborhood movie house down the road, by giving viewers one more excuse not to interact with each other in public.<br />
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Still, there’s something to be said for watching a move with a cat on your lap — as long as she doesn’t mind the occasional popcorn kernel bouncing off her head.Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-27293978530935199832020-03-22T13:37:00.000-07:002020-04-19T16:34:37.897-07:00FEMME NOIR<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Mayhem, matriarchy merge in entertaining</i> Blow the Man Down<br />
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With movie theaters temporarily closed and everybody cocooning at home, the best way to see a movie right now is curled up on your own sofa. Okay, lots of us have already figured this out — there's no dress code and no assigned seating. Even better, with the rise of so many streaming platforms, there's plenty of new product out there too, just waiting to be discovered. <br />
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Just released last week on Amazon Prime, <i>Blow The Man Down</i> is an entertaining New England chowder of black comedy, femme-noir, and mood-making from co-writers and directors Bridget Savage Cole and Danielle Krudy. Set in a small fishing village on the rugged Maine seacoast (is there any other kind?), the story revolves around family legacies, deep, dark secrets, and fish — lots of fish, chopped, sliced, and pan-fried.<br />
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As the story begins, most of the denizens of Easter Cove are filling up the parlor of the Connelly sisters after the funeral of their beloved and respected mother, Mary Margaret. Now, responsible older sister, Priscilla (Sophie Lowe), and her more rebellious sibling, Mary Beth (Morgan Saylor) — who's had to postpone her freshman year at college — have to figure out how to maintain the family home and fish market on their own.<br />
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After the sisters' private spat away from their guests — Mary Beth is so done with Easter Cove and wants out — the younger sib stomps off to the local bar, just looking for trouble. She finds it. But when the chips are down, it turns out, a girl's best friend is her sister.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saylor and Lowe: Bundle up</td></tr>
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Life in Easter Cove is beautifully realized — you can almost smell the raw fish, and you might find yourself shivering from the snowy chill. (Better bundle up while you watch.) The mood is heightened by a chorus of grizzled fishermen singing sea shanties (like the title tune) deftly salted into the action. But it's the women who really run things; men are relegated to the (largely ornamental) police force, the bar, and the fishing boats. <br />
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This subtle tweaking of gender expectations gives the movie its own lively viewpoint. As the entwined dramas and dueling mysteries play out, one character notes, "Lotta people underestimate young women. That's why they get away with a lot." Women of all ages emerge as a collective force to be reckoned with in this diverting fish story of a movie.<br />
(<a href="http://goodtimes.sc/santa-cruz-arts-entertainment/film-review-blow-the-man-down/" target="_blank">Read more)</a> Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8566554039364261935.post-4124156435900094052020-03-17T11:59:00.001-07:002020-04-19T16:35:38.862-07:00KIDDING AROUND<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Children vs, grown-ups in modern Peter Pan remix</i> Wendy<br />
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Benh Zeitlin has very specific ideas about how a movie should look and feel, and what kind of story it tells. His first movie, the dreamy, impressionistic <a href="http://ljo-express.blogspot.com/2012/07/water-baby.html" target="_blank"><i>Beasts of the Southern Wild,</i></a> explored themes of childhood resilience, the power of Nature, adult frailties, and community. All of which ideas resurface in his sophomore effort, <i>Wendy.</i><br />
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As the title might imply, Wendy is the filmmaker's nod to the Peter Pan legend. It's a modern remix of the story of children who refuse to grow up, relocated to an uncharted island off the southern wild of America (it was shot largely in and around Louisiana bayou country), told not from the viewpoint of Peter, but from the little girl who, along with her two brothers, is caught up in his dream of eternal childhood.<br />
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Written by Zeitlin and his sister, Eliza Zeitlin, the movie stays grounded as much as possible in everyday reality — the kids' mom runs a diner at a whistle-stop on a freight train route; they hop a slow-moving train to "fly" away — kissed with a dash of magic realism. Their take on familiar Peter Pan tropes is often deftly done, from the fate of Lost Boys who outgrow Peter's tribe, to an eerie, unsettling origin story for Captain Hook. <br />
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But trying to shoehorn his unique sensibility into the existing structure of the Pan legend seems to dampen the audacious originality displayed in Zeitlin's earlier film. How well the story works may depend on whether or not you think the idea of never growing up is a good thing. <br />
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Young Wendy (Devin France) and her twin brothers, Douglas (Gage Naquin) and James (Gavin Naquin), have grown up in the diner run by their mama (Shay Walker). The train rattles by every night, and when they see a giggling figure scampering over the boxcar roofs one night, luring them to come away, they clamber on board.<br />
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He is Peter (Yashua Mack, a native of Antigua with a head of bouncy rasta dreads), who leads them to a mysterious volcanic island far out below the train trestle where he and his tribe of unsupervised children play all day long and never age.<br />
<a href="http://goodtimes.sc/santa-cruz-arts-entertainment/film-review-wendy/" target="_blank">(Read more)</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsDH2Go8gz3HFVNgW3QPwmr69uvTURnfTPdy-TWGhDJ7Lxq_lCFXF_kwKpaUHmNBZcWIOdXKkjB-gC8DJgnmdW62OLR9-n0OxgE0AjNCfGIBh7laHI2kAjuHgIK3wRHC7cAL9pqnUJk4/s1600/Wendy+kids%252Bboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="770" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsDH2Go8gz3HFVNgW3QPwmr69uvTURnfTPdy-TWGhDJ7Lxq_lCFXF_kwKpaUHmNBZcWIOdXKkjB-gC8DJgnmdW62OLR9-n0OxgE0AjNCfGIBh7laHI2kAjuHgIK3wRHC7cAL9pqnUJk4/s320/Wendy+kids%252Bboat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Having tinkered so shamelessly with the dans macabre between Captain Hook and Peter Pan for my own purposes in <a href="http://ljo-express.blogspot.com/search/label/Alias%20Hook?updated-max=2014-02-17T19:16:00-08:00&max-results=20&start=60&by-date=false" target="_blank"><i>Alias Hook,</i></a> I'm always fascinated to see what others bring to the story. And it strikes me that, in the end, the Zeitlins make the same mistake as plenty of other recent Peter Pan retellers — promoting this half-baked notion that Hook should just let go of his grumpy adult perceptions and embrace the unalloyed joy of spending the rest of eternity playing pirates with a gang of mangy boys.<br />
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Hey, wouldn't that be fun?<br />
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Here's what my James Hook has to say about that: <br />
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<i>It is my fate to be trapped here forever in a nightmare of childish fancy with that infernal, eternal boy.</i>Lisa Jensenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14504224527064407167noreply@blogger.com0