Baal, by TUTA Chicago

TUTA Chicago has been devoted to Bertolt Brecht this year, with an excellent production of The Wedding a few months ago, and, now playing, Baal.  TUTA is one of my favorite Chicago companies for its exuberant, inventive stagings of classic and sometimes difficult plays (from Romeo and Juliet to Uncle Vanya) as well as its spirited approach to contemporary material (such as Huddersfield).  TUTA's production of Baal incorporates music by Josh Schmidt, whose score for the Writer's Theatre's  A Minister's Wife we loved so much.

The production is everything I expect from TUTA: ambitious, creative, musically surprising, and full of committed performances.  But I'm afraid I did not enjoy Baal that much--a difficult play--Brecht's first--centered on a supremely unlikeable character. Knowing it was a parody of German Expressionism--from reading the dramaturge's precis--was helpful; the actors don't play it like parody, though.  Doubtless quite right, but it makes the evening hard to bear.

Northerly Island, Rediscovered

The first time I was on Northerly Island, it was 2004 and I was lost. Victor and I were trying to take the lakefront bike path south, and somehow got sidetracked onto this narrow peninsula. We didn't know that it used to be an airport. We just knew we couldn't get where we wanted to go from there, and it was a windy day and we were tired. We ended up surrendering the attempt to bike south of the Museum Campus that day; we didn't try again for a few years. (Now we have a hard time imagining how we could have lost our way.)

On foot, I have returned to the mainland edge of Northerly Island a couple of times in the past few years to eavesdrop on concerts, but only ventured there by bike for the first time (since that 2004 confusion) as part of a Chicago Architecture Foundation tour. The tour had its drawbacks (rather long and slow and continuing right through lunchtime--enough to make anybody cranky), but I am grateful for the re-introduction to Northerly Island, which has become a stunning natural area with well-paved bike/walking paths and amazing views.

I went back to Northerly Island on my own yesterday morning and was thrilled to glimpse my first Dickcissel--a beautiful and persistent singer. I would have loved to linger and confirm the sighting, but the skies were dark and thunder rumbled; I headed home to avoid the storm.

This morning, with hardly a cloud in sight, I rode my bike there again, and this time looped the "island" three times, in my delight at being in such a gorgeous environment, full of wildflowers, bunnies, and birdsong. I easily confirmed the Dickcissel and added my first really positive identification of the Savannah Sparrow--I may well have seen one before, but now I'm sure I have. They were all over the peninsula, trilling from perches on bare branches, tall grasses, and even from mowed ground.

It was hard to make myself leave. Northerly Island has become one of my favorite places in Chicago, offering beauty, nature, tranquility, and views.

Clueless in the NYTBR

Find myself mildly annoyed by Jay McInerney's Sunday review of Ann Beattie's latest novel, Walks with Men.  The book, which I have not read yet, is apparently a coming-of-age-and-beyond story of a young woman who attaches herself to an older, prosperous man who promises to teach her things about men (secret things, things she needs to know), if only she promises not to attribute to him what she has learned. She leaves him when she learns he is married, and then marries him herself. 

My annoyance is that McInerney faults the book for insufficiently explaining why an intelligent, attractive young woman would stay with such a man:

...the maddening thing is that the narrator begins to see through her Henry Higgins early on, and is certainly wised-up to him as her narrating older self, and yet still allows herself to be Svengalied.

Could he be more clueless? You'd have to look long and hard for a Galatea who does not see through her Pygmalion.

They should have had a woman write the review.

Taming of the Shrew @ Chicago Shakespeare Theater

I had some trepidation about this show, since learning that new material for a "frame" had been written by playwright Neil LaBute.  While I have not seen his plays, I know them by reputation--they're famous for their nastiness, particularly in terms of relations between the sexes.

But in fact the frame story works beautifully: a contemporary company putting on The Taming of the Shrew features a female star who is bridling against the personal and artistic control of the director, who is also her lover. This conflict provides a terrific counterpoint to Shakespeare's drama of control (or taming); the conclusion is both startling and perfect.

It is wonderful when you go to see a play you think you know very well (after all, the story of the shrew transformed by forceful love into obedient beauty is told and retold throughout our culture) and wind up enthralled, surprised, and thrilled by new discoveries.  The performances were all terrific--and it was great to recognize some of the actors from other wonderful productions we had seen--but they did not draw attention to themselves so much as to the material. 

We walked out pondering, and we continue to ponder.

Lucky Day

Early this morning, back at the Bill Jarvis Migratory Bird Sanctuary, I watched as a flock of Cedar Waxwings landed in the treetops. Their stay around here is brief as they migrate through (I happened to catch them last spring, too, but at a different spot, the Alfred Caldwell Lily Pool, one of my favorite places), so I felt very fortunate to see them this year. It was otherwise kind of quiet, except for one bird's persistent singing: a Yellow Warbler. Which very kindly came out into the open and allowed me to watch its little throat vibrate as it sang.

In the morning I also discovered the hiding place of a little raccoon--in a hole about halfway up the trunk of a tree along the path--I can't imagine how it caught my eye, but it did. But the evening was even better. Because I saw something strange in the pond. A beaver? Gone too quickly. Couldn't tell. Later I saw a raccoon swimming. Must've been a raccoon. But then again... Beaver! Two beavers! Eating leaves, swimming in the pond.

And meanwhile the catbirds singing like crazy.

Lucky Morning

Today I was reminded of how useful it is to birdwatch with others--especially when the others know more than you.  I'm usually on my own, and my knowledge is limited.  I'm never without a field guide--the convenient iBird app is installed on my iPhone--but first-time bird identification is hard, even if you have great pictures to look at.  Nothing is better than a reliable companion who can say, "Yup, that's a Black and White Warbler" or "Nope, we don't get Blue Grosbeaks here; that's an Indigo Bunting."

Stopping by the Bill Jarvis Bird Sanctuary today, I encountered just such a person, and with her assistance spotted my first Blackburnian Warbler, Cape May Warbler, Tennessee Warbler, and Connecticut Warbler, learned to identify a Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher with more confidence, and hope to remember the distinctive call of the Great Crested Flycatcher. Together, we also spotted Palm Warblers, Magnolia Warblers, a Wilson's Warbler, and a Yellow-Rumped--I doubt I would ever have seen so many birds on my own.

Truly, a lucky morning and a lovely start to the day.

The Secret Lives of Dentists and We Don't Live Here Anymore

Without realizing it, I had these two movies right next to each other in our Netflix queue, so we watched one bad-marriage movie after another. The Secret Lives of Dentists is based on Jane Smiley's "The Age of Grief," which I read many years ago. We Don't Live Here Anymore is based on Andre Dubus' novella of the same name as well as his "Adultery," in the same volume. I remember trying to read "We Don't Live Here Anymore" once; found it too depressing.

Both movies are well written, and feature great performers and dialogue. While they deal with similar material, they are very different. In "The Secret Lives..." we get the impact of a wife's infidelity from the husband's point of view. His discovery of her affair renders him literally beside himself--he generates an invisible sidekick (based on a troublesome patient) who commiserates over his predicament and challenges him to confront his wife and move on. We get so deep into the husband's head that we even witness his fantasies about his wife's adultery (he doesn't know who she's seeing, so he imagines her with everyone they know, both individually and in combination).

In "We Don't Live..." we see two unhappy couples destroy their marriages. It's an upsetting movie to watch, but ultimately far more satisfying than "The Secret Lives..." because the action happens before us. We don't have to be told about the impact.

"The Secret Lives..." takes place in a space removed from the action--it's all aftermath. When it was over, I wondered, "Who could imagine this was a good idea?" The other movie made me want to try again to read Dubus' novellas.

Proof

This is a well-made film about unlikable people. A blind man with trust issues (Hugo Weaving), Martin, takes photographs so he can test the truthfulness of those who describe his surroundings to him. Constantly on guard against being deceived, he rejects the affections of the woman (Genevieve Picot), Celia, who cleans his house and does his errands but keeps employing her while claiming to detest her. Much of the film is taken up by their backbiting repartee.

After a chance encounter, he makes friends with a young dishwasher (Russell Crowe, almost unbearably young here), Andy, and decides to trust him.

Oops.

The plot is rather predictable from here: the heavily defended Martin lets down his guard with Andy, Andy betrays him, and Martin learns that being betrayed is part--not all--of friendship. Still, the story is compellingly told, with strong performances and snappy dialogue. The weakest aspect of the movie is that the characters are on the edge of being so dislikable that we don't care what happens to them.

Mostly, they stay on the correct side of that edge.

Artsy DC

The first time I went to Washington DC, at 13, I loved it. I had never seen a city so white (coming from New York in the 1970s), and I found the new Metro amazingly futuristic--so quiet! And the stations reminded me of scenes from Star Wars.

The second time I visited Washington, as a slightly older teen, I found it sterile. I couldn't fathom what I'd liked about it before.

I've been back a handful of times in recent years and with each visit I find more to enjoy. On this last trip I "discovered" the National Gallery. The East Building contains a really stunning collection of modern and contemporary art. The West Building has some wonderful Impressionist works. Also visited The Phillips Collection for the first time, which is a lovely small museum, focused on American modern art--a substantial exhibit of Georgia O'Keefe abstract paintings was ongoing. Liked it so much, I joined.

I felt like I was encountering new (to me) masterpieces everywhere I went. I'd never thought of Washington as a mecca for art--museums, yes, but the Smithsonian tends to come to mind more than the art galleries. Clearly my impression was incorrect. Look forward to returning and exploring further.

Iron Man 2

Who would've pegged Robert Downey, Jr., as an action hero? Perhaps part of the appeal of Iron Man is Downey's unlikeliness. We never get tired of this trope: the moral fuckup on the outside is actually a hero on the inside (see also The Scarlet Pimpernel). We love to think we are capable of more than we seem to be.

In Iron Man 2, the unlikeliness persists and even intensifies as Downey's/Tony Stark's self-destructive tendencies are boosted by his knowledge that the power source that keeps him alive is fatally poisonous. However, representatives of a mysterious group appear, providing Stark with hope that an alternative power source can be found, in the process hinting to Stark that his father was also perhaps more than he seemed.

While this movie is terrifically silly, it is also a great deal of fun. Scarlett Johansson joins the cast as an action hero in her own right, as does Samuel L. Jackson. Also new to the ensemble is Don Cheadle as Rhodey, which I found kind of shocking. As if audiences wouldn't notice that Terrence Howard was Rhodey in the first installment. You'd think they would have invented a brother or something...

Worth seeing if you enjoy comic book movies, especially if you are a Robert Downey, Jr., fan.

If not, not.

Girls vs. Boys by the House Theatre

This is an exuberant show about adolescent misery. A talented cast sings and dances their way through set pieces on first love, first sex, abandonment, the yearning for deep connection, and the desire to be grown, individual, and unique while also being "cool," or admired.

The House Theatre does its usual splendid job creating a dynamic production. I was disturbed at first by the glittery guns carried by all the cast members until I realized (it took me a long time--call me slow) that they were metaphorical--emotionally, teenagers walk around like loaded guns.

It's a great show for middle and high school kids. I was somewhat less entertained. In the past few years I've found myself not so interested in adolescent drama--even West Side Story, one of my favorite musicals. I lose patience with the histrionics, no matter well expressed.

Cabaret, by the Hypocrites

I never before saw Cabaret on stage, though I have seen Bob Fosse's movie multiple times, and read Christopher Isherwood's Berlin Stories with appreciation several years ago. So--knowing the movie was different from the stage production, and knowing that The Hypocrites were likely to make their own changes, I really didn't know what to expect from this show, which we went to see before any reviews had come out.

It's pretty thrilling With just a couple of spare settings, and some fabulous songs and terrific performances, The Hypocrites tell a raunchy, romantic, scary, and finally chilling story of 1931 Berliners (and Anglophone expatriates) trying to live round lives that don't fit in the square holes allotted by the rise of fascism. The show is more overtly political than I expected--my recollection is that the movie is pretty in-your-face about sex, but more indirect about politics.

The Hypocrites are in-your-face about both; being in-your-face is their signature. A troupe of outstanding performers delivers the goods: Jesse Fisher as the Emcee is especially noteworthy, and Lindsay Leopold as Sally Bowles has some really splendid moments. Jim Heatherly as Schultz and Kate Harris as Frau Schneider are also standouts in their romantic subplot, and there is not a bad performance in the ensemble. The band which sits just behind the action throughout the show, is also exceptional, creating and sustaining the feeling of being at a seedy cabaret for two and a half hours.

Can't recommend this too highly, but don't take your kids or your parents. It's not appropriate for children, and you'd be embarrassed sitting next to your parents during a lot of those dance numbers: the Kit Kat girls and boys nearly fall out of their clothes as they gyrate.

Social Media at Work

On Facebook, I recently became a fan of Millennium Park. This means that park news and events appear on my Facebook page; I don't need to remind myself to visit the Millennium Park site.

Yesterday, this meant that when I checked Facebook after my doctor's appointment, I learned that the crocuses have started to bloom in the Lurie Garden. What better place, then, to sit and eat my lunch?

And so I did, charmed by the sprouting crocuses (croci, if you prefer). I took a snapshot of one of them, and posted it to my Facebook profile, closing the social media circle in one sense and opening it further in another.

Chicago French Market

Victor and I used to live in a building directly across the street from the new Chicago French Market, so we have been waiting for it for a long time (we lived there more than five years ago, and even then there were signs promising, "Metra Market Coming Soon").

Chicago has long lacked a year-round multi-vendor market, and placing one adjacent to a commuter rail station (Ogilvie Transportation Center) seems like a smart idea. A block from the Clinton Green Line stop, it is also an easy destination for non-commuters (like myself) seeking better grocery options downtown (as well as a fun place for lunch).

The market includes at least three different produce vendors, one of them organic. Prices vary widely. An outpost of Devon Avenue's City Fresh Market seems to consistently boast the most reasonable prices, and also offers dairy products, meat (including Tallgrass Beef), and very nice looking fish and seafood. There are a couple of outlets for fresh bread (including Pastoral, which sells loaves baked by the award-winning Bennison's Bakery in Evanston), and several for sweet baked goods (Vanille Patisserie, Delightful Pastries), not to mention caramel corn, honey-roasted nuts, and artisan chocolates. A wide variety of cheeses are available from Pastoral and from a Wisconsin vendor. Also, a purveyor of smoked and cured meats, Fumare, carries a terrific inventory. (I am right now addicted to the Gypsy Bacon.)

But the market is not just about groceries to take home; you can also eat there. A sharp-looking Lavazza cafe serves up decent cappuccino and a varied assortment of stands offers Mexican, Indian-fusion, Korean, vegan-raw, Vietnamese, and other cuisines.

According to Time Out, more vendors are coming soon.

I visited the market for the first time on Tuesday and went back yesterday. Of course it is no Pike Place. It is not even as big as the North Market in Columbus. OH. Still, it is a fun, accessible grocery and lunch alternative in a neighborhood that is not exactly abounding with interesting options. I can easily see myself adding this venue to my grocery rotation; in fact, you could say I have already done so: I returned there yesterday to get some meat for tonight's dinner.

No Room for Kale or Chard at Jewel

For the past year or more I have been doing most of my produce shopping at small neighborhood markets rather than the corporate supermarkets. I bus out to neighborhoods like Andersonville and Rogers Park. But the other day, Victor and I were downtown and I really needed some greens for our next soup. I was thinking kale, or chard. There aren't a lot of grocery options downtown--Fox & Obel is great, but it was a little out of our way; Trader Joe's didn't have what I wanted; and then there's the Jewel at Grand & State.

Located in a busy, touristy, kind of ritzy neighborhood, this Jewel might be the nicest one in the city--clean, atmospheric. But despite its size (compared to the neighborhood markets where I usually shop), Victor and I couldn't find what I wanted in the produce section. Finally we tracked down an employee. He pointed at the torn collard greens packaged in plastic bags and said, "We don't carry chard."

Our mouths must have dropped open, because he then added, defensively, "They might carry it at some of our larger stores."

"There are larger stores than this?"

(Because you see, it had been a long time since we were in a Jewel.)

"This is the smallest Jewel in the city."

Oh. We thanked the young man, looked around, and realized every leafy green vegetable was packaged in a plastic bag or container. No loose heads of lettuce, no loose spinach, and no substantial greens at all, except the collards in the bag.

Since Consumer Reports recently published results of its study of cleanliness of bagged salad (conclusion--even if it says triple-washed, wash it anyhow), I haven't been keen on buying stuff in bags, but I didn't have much choice, so I picked up a bag of spinach.

And washed it before I put it in the soup.

Mushroom Choice As a Moral Issue

At the Green City Market, a mushroom vendor responded to a query about the difference between cultivated white mushrooms and creminis:

"It's like white bread and wheat bread. I hope you eat wheat bread, not white bread..."

John Henry Days

I confess to being awed by Colson Whitehead. This novel is just astonishing. I am pretty sure my mouth dropped open at several points. A sort of fantasia around the fictional release of a commemorative stamp honoring the folk hero John Henry, the book convincingly imagines a wide range of American lives--all the people associated with the festivities planned to launch the new stamp, including journalists, publicists, a small town's officials and citizens, assorted guests (such as a stamp collector and the daughter of a collector of John Henry-ana), and John Henry himself.

The book is full of really terrific writing: some of it satire, some of it straight-out storytelling, and some of it jaw-droppingly beautiful. I'm especially fond of a short section set at a fair, in which we observe individuals in the crowd from the inside as well as the outside (as though we're passing angels, as in Wings of Desire).

As I was reading this book, I thought, "This guy should get a genius prize." Turns out he did, in 2002.

Look forward to reading more of his work.

The Life of Pi

I read this a few weeks ago, feeling very late (the book came out in 2002, to enormous acclaim). I knew it had something to do with a young man on a boat with a tiger, in the middle of the sea, and I guess this seemed to me so odd on its face that I doubted I'd find anything to relate to in it.

Shame on me. Talk about failure of imagination!

Yann Martel's accomplishment is extraordinary: a deeply involving story as well as a philosophical meditation on the nature of Story. Beautifully written and (in this edition) illustrated.

Up in the Air

Victor and I had a free pass to see this movie last night; the latest work of Jason Reitman, who also made Juno and Thank You for Smoking. Like those movies, this one dips into the zeitgeist: our increasingly disconnected lives, the irony of "loyalty rewards" in an age where traditional kinds of loyalty are typically rewarded by a literal or figurative pink slip.

George Clooney plays Ryan Bingham, an avatar and proponent of the rootless lifestyle--he works for a firm that companies hire to carry out layoffs and travels around the country firing people. He is most comfortable when he's on the go, and he delivers termination news as if he's doing the employee a favor: offering the freedom to do whatever he/she really wants to do. Clooney even delivers inspirational talks on the subject--he asks his audiences to imagine carrying around everything important to them in a backpack and then tells them to burn the backpack.

While the movie is full of acutely observed, wry and funny moments about life on the go and the crappy way we treat each other, of course things come to a head for Ryan (otherwise, no movie). He encounters a woman with almost as many frequent flyer cards as he has; potentially a soulmate? Shortly thereafter, a scrappy young MBA in the home office argues that the firing process can be handled virtually, via teleconference--no need for Ryan and his colleagues to be jetting all around the country, blowing expense accounts. After Ryan demonstrates, in front of the boss, just how little she knows about firing people, the boss insists he show her the ropes, and they set off together on a whirlwind firing tour.

In the face of the innocent conventionality of his young colleague, the apparent perfection of his occasional lover, the likely termination of his current career once layoffs by teleconference take hold, and the impending marriage of one of his sisters, can Ryan continue to skate across the surface of his life, or will the lightness of his life become unbearable?

Watch this thoroughly enjoyable, smart, frequently laugh-out-loud funny, occasionally poignant and even sad movie to find out. Particularly recommended for frequent flyers.

Melissa Thodos Dance Chicago

Victor and I went to see this company's Fall Concert last weekend. The program included a series of short dances originally choreographed by Bob Fosse, and set on the Thodos performers by Ann Reinking. We have always liked Thodos' company (since we first saw them at Dance Chicago in 2004, where they really stood out), but we're by no means regulars...it was the fanfare for the Fosse dances that pushed me to get the tickets. Fosse directed Cabaret and All That Jazz, two favorite films of mine, and Pippin, a Broadway musical I've never seen but the flashy TV commercial for it thrilled me when I was a kid, and I taught myself to play most of the songs on the piano.

In the event, the Fosse stuff turned out to be the least interesting, though the most hyped. Prefaced by a short video documentary featuring interviews with Reinking and the dancers, the dances were recreations of short pieces created for Gwen Verdon to perform on the Ed Sullivan show. In the video, Ann Reinking suggested that if you hadn't seen the Ed Sullivan show, "you have never seen this."

But we had. Fosse's choreography may have been cutting edge in the 50s and 60s, but by now we have seen it all before: female dancers in bowler hats, muscular midriffs showing, wearing denim and leather. The rolled shoulder, the wink, the shadowed face, the snap. These pieces, designed for television, were mostly shine.

Whereas the other dances in the evening's program (two hours long, with an intermission) were full of beautiful, intriguing, moving, and even thrilling moments. We would certainly still return to Thodos, but not because of resurrected Fosse numbers--the company's own creativity and excellence is reason enough.

Radio Days

When we lived in Columbus, we listened to the radio a lot more. We were always in the car, driving to work, to shopping, to see friends. NPR was the soundtrack of our lives, or at least our Honda.

Here in Chicago, ,Victor wears radio headphones when he rides his bike to work, and we often listen together on weekend mornings (Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me is a favorite Saturday morning show, and we like to listen to the puzzle master while we read the Times on Sundays). But we sometimes go out on weekend mornings, and Victor travels a lot on business.

So we've been missing our radio, but lately we've taken steps to correct this. On black Friday, we made our contribution to the economy by buying a radio! While technically we can play our living room stereo or our spare room DVD player (which also has a radio) loud enough to hear it in our bedroom, we typically don't do it (and our neighbors are likely grateful). Plus, it's a radio that can dock my iPhone or our iPod, so we can have a wide selection of music in the bedroom, too.

Still, there's the issue of missing favorite programs. I figured there must be an app. And there is! The Public Radio Player app lets you listen live to stations around the country or just choose your favorite shows. I am so excited!

Now we just need a radio in the kitchen and life will be about perfect...

Switching to the Cloud

I used to love Microsoft Outlook. It has a pretty interface, especially compared with Lotus Notes, which was the application installed at work years and years ago. Compared to Lotus Notes, counterintuitive and clunky, Outlook seemed wonderfully quick and light on its feet.

Until fairly recently, when I began to notice Outlook activity slowing my computer to a crawl.

But in general, I remained comfortable with Outlook, which retrieved my mail from my Internet provider's server on a scheduled basis--every half hour, or every minute; however I requested. The obvious advantage of more frequent retrieval: getting my mail faster. The disadvantage: my laptop tended to pause for the occasion.

Then I got an iPhone. And wondered how I could get my Outlook mail synchronized with it. Certainly the mail came into my Inbox just fine, but the folders didn't match. A little research, and I discovered IMAP. And Gmail.

I had known of Gmail for a long time and found it resistible. The interface didn't attract me. Busy, dense with text...frankly ugly. However, since my alternative was sticking with email that didn't match my iPhone, or paying Microsoft $99 a year for a new email address (MobileMe), I decided to give Gmail a try.

I now use not only Gmail, but Google Calendar and Google Tasks, as well as Google Contacts. The advantage? All this information is simultaneously available not only via my iPhone, but via any computer, using my Google account. Further, I haven't opened Outlook in months and don't miss it. I've started using GoogleDocs more, too.

Now the application that slows my laptop most is iTunes.

A Slight Complaint

I have nothing to complain about, really. It's silly. But I will anyway: why does everything happen at the same time? During the Chicago Humanities Festival, I'm typically completely booked--how can you miss stuff like John Hodgman, or the Guerrilla Girls, or Robert Reich, or Irene Pepperberg, or Lynda Barry? Tonight, for example, I'm going to see Dave Frishberg, who I adore.

But this same evening, Jaume Plensa, who designed and created the Crown Fountain in Millennium Park, will be talking about public art at the Art Institute's Rubloff Auditorium, free. And all through these CHF weeks, there have been intriguing, though unrelated, programs--Margaret Atwood reading from her new book, backed up by a chorus. Science lectures, talks on Lincoln, readings by an array of novelists, a Parks Department meeting requesting public input on what should be done with Northerly Island. Why do they schedule everything at the same time?

OK, end of complaint. Really, I couldn't be happier. And Victor would probably explode, or collapse, or something if I dragged him to one more event.

The Hypocrites' Frankenstein

The Hypocrites has become one of our favorite Chicago theater companies--it's gotten so we'd hate to miss any of its productions. So that meant we went to see Frankenstein at MCA a couple of weeks ago, even though Frankenstein is not one of my favorite stories, and it seemed likely that the performance would be made especially spooky since it was running during the Halloween season.

Indeed, the production included lots of creepy touches, not least, a bunch of disturbing dolls hanging from the ceiling, as well as plenty of blood, and an old black and white Frankenstein movie playing overhead pretty much throughout. Like Oedipus, which we saw last season, it was performed in "promenade" style--meaning the play goes on as the audience promenades around the "stage." Also like Oedipus, anachronisms mixed with literary and historic references--you often weren't quite sure where/when you were supposed to be. Ultimately, though, as has happened for us in every Hypocrites show, we were finally, inescapably moved: the story was retold, and somehow strengthened by the fringe-y stuff.

While I liked other Hypocrites productions better (again, Frankenstein is not a favorite story of mine), Victor liked this one best (at least until I reminded him of Threepenny Opera), and we look forward to seeing what the company does with No Exit and Cabaret later this season.

Animal Crackers

Last month I paid to see this show twice. And enjoyed it enormously both times.

Animal Crackers is a musical originally written for the Marx Brothers to perform on Broadway, which they later made into a movie. So the key cast members of this show are not just playing their parts, but playing a Marx Brother playing their parts. (Even though cast members have repeatedly said they are not doing impersonations, of course they are--Groucho, Chico, and Harpo are recognizably on the stage.)

But the show's success is not just based on pitch-perfect impersonations (Joey Slotnick as Groucho is terrific, but my personal favorite, Molly Brennan of 500 Clowns, is a swell Harpo, and Jonathan Brody even plays the piano like Chico did), but also great music (some of the songs are still stuck in my head), and choreography. Who expected dancing in a Marx Brothers show? I didn't. The set was beautifully designed--everything made you feel like you were watching a show 80 years ago.

Except the jokes, which were as fresh as ever. (But for the one about shooting an elephant in his pajamas...nothing could make that new.)

This was just a completely outstanding production. I have heard no whispers about it going to New York, but it ought to...it ought to go everywhere.

Loud & Rich at the Vic

Last Thursday, Victor and I went to see Loudon Wainwright III and Richard Thompson at the Vic. I was conflicted about getting tickets for the show, not because I had any doubts about the performers--we've seen Richard Thompson a couple of times before, and he has always been electrifying--but because our live music experiences in the past few years have been less than rewarding. We've come to feel too old for pop/rock concerts--they start late, seats tend to be uncomfortable or nonexistent, we have no patience for junior opening bands, the regular act starts just around our bedtime, etc., etc. Basically, they make us feel like we're old fogies.

Well, perhaps one key to success is to see 60-something-year-old performers. More likely to start right on time because they want to make their bedtime. Also, know the opening act. Loudon Wainwright was outstanding, especially when performing his latest music, from a collection he's calling Songs for the New Depression. And the most important requirement is probably to make sure you're seeing someone who's terrific live...Richard Thompson is a thrilling performer. The new songs are all good, and he plays the old ones in such a way that you happily recognize them, but he also changes them--speeds them up, usually, or does something else to make you realize (and be glad) that you're at a live performance, not just listening to the same music you could've heard at home.

Much has been made of Richard Thompson's virtuoso guitar playing, and, indeed, it's great--especially compared with Wainwright's more straightforward strumming. But I'm also a big fan of Thompson's voice--it seems to me like nobody else's, and not something you particularly expect to hear based on his speaking voice (as opposed to Wainwright, who has an especially pleasant speaking voice as well as a lovely singing voice--they seem to flow into each other). I'm not sure where else these guys are taking their tour, but this concert should not be missed.

Irony

Victor and I went to see Jonathan Lear speak on irony at the Chicago Humanities Festival in Hyde Park last month. Lear is a philosophy professor at the University of Chicago who has made irony into a specialty.

It's a pleasure to listen to a really thoughtful person. Jonathan Lear reminded me that philosophers are concerned not just with ideas, but how ideas can fuel a good (or better) life. In his discussion of irony, Lear started with a dictionary definition, which I thought an unworthy sort of straw man, but as his argument developed, I appreciated the simplistic beginning. Lear argues that the ironic stance is far from unserious; the ironist may be absolutely earnest in his quest for genuine meaning. The ironist observes that in a roomful of "Christians" there is not a single true Christian; that in a hospital ostensibly devoted to the care of the sick, there are no real healers, that in the world's greatest democracy only a minority of citizens regularly vote.

It has often been said that we live in an age of irony; the ironic stance is seen as hip, perhaps, but lacking in substance. Certainly the ironist is seen as the opposite of sincere (after all, the dictionary definition insists that irony involves saying the opposite of what you mean). On the contrary, Lear argues that the ironist is the one who feels most deeply: unable to bear hypocrisy, he exposes it with assertions designed to make others as uncomfortable as he already is. Lear sees the moment of ironic recognition (for example, the moment the teacher realizes that all this effort he expends in grading papers really has nothing to do with students' learning) as a profound one; potentially the first step we can take toward living a more authentic life.

It is important, of course, not to get stuck in the ironic moment, but to figure out, once you recognize the fake, how to generate the real--how to be a real teacher, citizen, etc. Because when we call out something as fake, we implicitly acknowledge that the real thing exists. Somewhere, somehow.

So, in a way, ironists are actually romantics, in love with ideals. Disappointed romantics, perhaps, but also earnest romantics. (Things always contain their opposites.)

My Neighbor, My Killer

This documentary by filmmaker Anne Aghion (another Chicago International Film Festival screening) examines Rwanda as it recovers from years of genocide. It documents the system of informal, community-based justice--gacaca--that is being used to help reconcile Rwandans to their horrific past. While the very biggest offenders continue to be dealt with by Rwanda's formal justice system, the Rwandan government has implemented the gacaca system to deal with less serious criminals, based on the rationale that it doesn't help anyone for a huge proportion of the population to languish in jail--provided room and board on the public dime.

But it's crucial to recognize that these "less serious" criminals are only less serious in the context of widespread genocide. Often, the people being dealt with in gacaca are still mass murderers, or facilitators of mass murder. The documentary identifies the goals of the gacaca: that the accused will acknowledge, explain, and ask forgiveness for his crimes from the community; that the community has its say; that there is reconciliation, and the accused rejoins the community.

It sounds beautiful, but--as Aghion documents--it is easier said than done. We see several of the accused insisting on their innocence even when multiple witnesses identify them. More often, we see men (for only accused men are shown) admitting to lesser crimes, insisting they did their best; they didn't know, they were afraid...the Nuremberg defense.

In short, the process is less than satisfying. But Aghion allows us to see how the community seems to survive anyhow. Rwanda comes across as a gorgeous country; it is hard to reconcile past atrocities with the verdant scenery.

This beautifully done documentary is evidence of how we can really survive anything, if we have to.

Chicago Overcoat

This movie was a big favorite at the Chicago International Film Festival, largely because it was made here with a local crew and lots of local cast members, and written, directed, and produced by graduates of Columbia College, which is right downtown. Plus, it's a gangster movie, and Chicagoans are perversely proud of the city's violent heritage.

The movie turns on some pretty familiar situations: a retired hitman puts himself back into action to earn the cash he needs to make things right with his family and buy himself a more interesting retirement. At the same time, a lonely honest member of the Chicago police force sees an opportunity to redeem his sad career by connecting a string of 20-year-old murders with a couple of newer ones. In the process, he convinces his new, young partner to adopt his old-fashioned methods.

The movie is told in voice-over from the hitman's point of view. This is consistent with some noir traditions, but by the end of the movie I was finding the voiceover inconsistent with the hitman's character. He just didn't seem like an introspective guy--I couldn't fathom who he was talking to or why he was telling his story.

Also, I enjoyed the Chicago settings a lot less than I thought I would. Seeing a movie like Batman Begins in recognizable Chicago settings is one thing. That movie is obviously a fantasy. Chicago Overcoat takes place here and now, and it was jarring and unpleasant (rather than exciting) to experience for a while its vision of an an ongoing violent underworld in our own neighborhoods, facilitated by viciously corrupt police and elected officials. An alderman is murdered in his own office. A shootout transpires in a rooftop parking lot. Ick!

Maybe as I get older violent movies come to seem more real to me and less like cartoons. In any case, Chicago Overcoat is an admirable accomplishment for a group of recent film school graduates, but I wasn't a big fan.

Espion(s)

We caught this excellent French thriller last weekend at the Chicago International Film Festival. An airport worker, Vincent, gets caught up in a terrorist plot and is recruited--somewhat against his will--into spying for MI-5. From the start, we know the fellow is brighter than his job and companion would indicate (he's reading when we meet him, and can't put his book down), but it's impossible to predict how he'll do in the new situations he's thrust into.

This movie is full of terrific performances--particularly by Guillaume Canet, who plays Vincent; Geraldine Pailhas, who plays Claire, the mark he's meant to seduce and recruit in turn; and Stephen Rea, who plays Palmer, Vincent's MI-5 controller. It keeps you on the edge of your seat throughout. What more can you ask from a thriller?

Bellamy

We caught this rather slow-moving French movie by Claude Chabrol and starring Gerard Depardieu last week during the Chicago International Film Festival. The movie starts with a pretty conventional detective movie premise: a vacationing policeman is presented with a case he just can't ignore. There are lots of twists and turns, but they only matter if you care about the characters--Victor didn't and I did.

And I'm afraid I did only because Depardieu is such a favorite of mine--with anyone else in the lead, I probably would have fallen asleep, too.

Animal Crackers

I have paid to see this show twice in a week, and was glad to do it. The cast has brought the Marx brothers and the vaudeville era to life in a way I had not previously seen on stage. I was frankly amazed by the level of talent in this group of performers--actors, musicians, and dancers, not to mention the direction and choreography that shaped this realization of the 80-year-old show.

We experienced a couple of serious disappointments at the Goodman in the past and had largely avoided its productions for that reason.

We won't be avoiding it anymore.

Consequences

Penelope Lively is one of the most consistently rewarding novelists I know of. Is it a British female thing? Because it occurs to me I could say the same of Anita Brookner and Iris Murdoch (and Jane Austen, for that matter).

In Consequences, Lively's subject is how happenstance shapes our lives. In a way, it's a no-brainer: things happen, and so Things Happen. As the story begins, two young people from very different backgrounds happen to sit on the same bench in a London park and effect a very unconventional union--particularly unusual in the 1930s, I imagine. The novel essentially tells of the consequences of that meeting, for themselves, their families, and their descendants.

Beautifully written and deeply moving.

Mistakes Were Made

This play, put on by A Red Orchid Theatre, stars Michael Shannon (nominated for the Oscar last year for his turn as a mentally ill man befriended by the couple in Revolutionary Road) in a tour-de-force performance of what is almost a one-man show. Splendidly written, the play centers on a New York theater producer, Felix Artifax, desperately trying to make the deals necessary to bring to the stage an unlikely production about the French Revolution. Mistakes Were Made is often hysterically funny--Felix brags about having previously produced Medea, starring Suzanne Somers--but over the course of its nearly two hours, you get uncomfortable. Shannon brings tremendous physicality to the role, and it's a small theater. Some of the folks in the front rows were visibly disturbed. And after a while Felix's troubles come to seem anything but funny--even tragic. You wonder how the play can possibly resolve itself.

And then it does, with a deft gesture.

Highly recommended.

The Company

This movie is of interest for great performances by the Joffrey Ballet, but as a movie, it is a mess. Not recommended except for dance junkies.

District 9

We'd heard mostly good things about this movie, but the string of previews AMC put on before screening District 9 almost frightened us into leaving the theater: a revenge fantasy, a zombie horror comedy, an apocalyptic fantasy, and Saw VI.

I mean, would you find this encouraging?

In the event, though, we were pretty blown away by District 9. With an array of pretty cheap-looking special effects, and a spectacular script, this South African production manages to create a strikingly resonant metaphor for human bigotry and capitalist exploitation while also telling a very satisfying science fiction story about aliens who look rather like 6-foot-tall lobsters.

Recommended! Recommended! Recommended!

Am I Turning into Julie Powell?

Not really. But Victor came home from a business trip last night to find me cooking with a vengeance. I'd settled on ratatouille, and maybe some broiled chicken. When I decided on ratatouille, I was thinking of it as a sort of sloppy stew with eggplant, tomato, and zucchini, that you sop up with a nice arborio rice...easy. But the recipe in Mastering the Art of French Cooking is for something completely different: a composed casserole, with each vegetable distinct, in its place--you wouldn't believe the hours that go into making it.

However, the result was quite outstanding. Victor was not sure if it was outstanding enough to go through all that again, but I suggested it might be worth doing it for company (it doesn't just taste impressive, it looks pretty beautiful, too). And then after a few more bites, I decided it really might be worth doing again just for us.

By comparison with the ratatouille, the broiled chicken was a breeze. And its preparation neatly fit in the gaps of the ratatouille routine. Never broiled chicken before. Turned out delicious. But, overall, I have to say that cooking meat is a messy business. (We're not--by any means--vegetarians, but we cook mostly vegetarian at home.) All that grease! I remember thinking the same thing some months ago after I'd made a bunch of chicken stock...

So, what was so tough about the ratatouille? First you peel and slice the eggplant--quarter-inch thick, 3-inch long, 1-inch wide slices. Then you scrub and slice the zucchini--pieces roughly the same size. Toss the slices in a bowl with some salt and let them sit for half an hour, to draw the water out. Drain. Dry the slices with a towel. Then you separate the eggplant from the zucchini and saute the eggplant in olive oil in a single layer at a time, turning to brown lightly. Remove to a plate. Saute the zucchini the same way. I added a step, which was to layer the browned slices between paper towels to blot some of the oil.

All this browning takes a lot of oil.

Then you saute onions and peppers, throw in some garlic, pepper and salt. Meanwhile, you peel, seed, and juice a bunch of tomatoes. Cut them into strips. Lay them on top of the onion-pepper mixture. Season with salt and pepper. Cover, lower heat, wait for the liquid to be drawn out. When liquid has been drawn out, uncover, raise heat, and cook off all the liquid.

Take out a stovetop casserole. Divide your ingredients (fresh herbs (parsley, basil), tomato mixture) into thirds; divide the eggplant/zucchini slices in half. Put a third of the tomato mixture at the bottom of the casserole. Top with a third of the herbs. Then half the eggplant/zucchini (place the slices nicely). Then another third of the tomato mixture and another third of the herbs. Then the rest of the eggplant/zucchini. Then the rest of the tomato mixture and herbs. Cook covered on low heat till there's liquid at the bottom when you tip the casserole. Baste with the liquid. Then cook, uncovered, basting, till there's no more liquid.

When you're done, you have this very elegant, very beautiful, and very delicious casserole. In this case, taking all that care produces terrific results.

2046

Victor asked me to watch this one--a quasi-sequel to In the Mood for Love--without him. Probably a good decision. This movie has even less narrative drive than the previous one, but I was--if anything--more enthralled.

And are there any beautiful Asian actresses who aren't in this movie?

Recommended for Wong Kar Wai lovers. Others are likely to be annoyed.

Julie & Julia

Though reviews we'd seen were lukewarm (except for universal praise of Meryl Streep's turn as Julia Child) all our friends (and it really does seem like all our friends have seen this movie) told us it was great, so we went to see Julie & Julia last weekend.

We were not disappointed. It's a really enjoyable movie about marriage, finding your life's passion, and--of course--food. Also inspiring. After the movie, we took Mastering the Art of French Cooking off the shelf and started browsing through it again. And found some Julia Child snippets on YouTube. And found Julia Powell's blog, which is still online.

As a result, we ate well last weekend: Victor learned to make a really delicious omelet from this video and I made potage parmentier and a simple vinaigrette for a salad. The most important thing I learned was that adding butter to a boiled soup tastes as good as adding water (or stock) to sauteed ingredients.

But I digress. And that tells you something, doesn't it? It's nice when movies do that: give you an hour or two of enjoyment and then send you back, energized, into your own life.

Stanley: The Impossible Life of Africa's Greatest Explorer

This biography by Tim Jeal is sort of a biographer's biography, I think--it's not just the story of a life, but the argument of a man with a mission: to reform the reputation of Henry Morton Stanley (the "Dr. Livingstone, I presume" guy), who made not one but three great journeys into Africa, and died just at the dawn of the 20th century.

For those of us who weren't aware of Stanley's tarnished reputation (he was damaged by his association with men far more brutal and scheming than he) this thick volume is a bemusing read. From the book's Dickensian start, with Stanley--born John Rowlands--growing up in a workhouse in Wales, the author is at pains to do multiple things at once: tell the story of Stanley's life, point out that previous biographies have been wrong, and convince us of why he's right.

It seems that previous biographers have been misled because until recently many primary sources, including Stanley's own writings, have not been available. These cast light on the fact that Stanley lied a lot. He was ashamed of his impoverished, illegitimate background, and gave himself a new personal history as well as a new name. He was also prone to exaggeration. Also, others--for various reasons--lied about Stanley.

One gets the sense that Jeal is very proud of himself about finding the truth, and, indeed, it seems a very impressive accomplishment, but I would have enjoyed a more straightforward biography, I think. Too often it feels like the author is apologizing for Stanley.

Still, the content is fascinating, and provides some keen insights about how the explorations of the past helped create the Africa we see today.

Vera Drake

I remember when this movie made a big splash (way back in 2004!); it was nominated for a number of Oscars, but it did not win any (however, it won a bunch of awards in Britain and elsewhere). Imelda Staunton plays the title character, a working-class woman who cleans houses for a living, takes care of her aging mother, her husband, her two grown children, and almost everyone else she knows, with a smile on her face and a song on her lips.

Vera is one of those stalwart Englishwomen who think a cup of tea can fix anything--she's sympathetic to other people's problems and helps where she can, but she's so at peace with herself that other people's troubles don't take her down--they're an occasion to help, and also to recall her own good fortune.

Unknown to her family and all her acquaintance except one, her activities include inducing miscarriages in pregnant women who wish they weren't. She takes no money for the service. She sees it as "helping girls out."

Eventually she is caught, and the movie traces the impact of this conflict between personal conviction and the law on Vera and her family. By including a vignette about the daughter of one of Vera's employers, the movie also lets us see that things were very different for the upper class, so we feel that there are multiple levels of fairness (or unfairness).

In the end it's a grueling movie to watch. No one likes to see a good woman--a really good woman--ground down. But you feel it's true. The system has no mercy.

After checking what Vera Drake was competing against at the 2005 Academy Awards, it seems to me that Imelda Staunton was robbed (Hilary Swank won for Million Dollar Baby--she's good, but not that good) and Mike Leigh was robbed (Clint Eastwood can be a fine director--I really admire Mystic River and Unforgiven--but Million Dollar Baby is a tearjerker-and=nothing-but-a-tearjerker--set against Vera Drake, there is really no contest).

So this is the kind of movie Vera Drake is: you not only enjoy the movie--laugh, cry, empathize and all that--but it makes you want to fight for it.

The Minister's Wife

Once again, Victor and I went to see an acclaimed show just moments (OK, I'm exaggerating a little) before it was set to close. The Minister's Wife is a new musical based on George Bernard Shaw's Candida. I am not sure what I expected from the show, but I found it really unusual for a musical. For one thing, there were only three musicians, and they were invisible until curtain call. For another, the music was lovely, but not catchy. You're entranced while you're there, but you don't walk out humming under your breath.

Another way to put it is that the music enhanced the story, but it didn't outshine the story--out of context, what would you do with a song like "Candida's Coming" (in which three of the play's characters reflect on a fourth character's return home)?--it's not like, say "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair," which you could sing, enjoy, and understand without ever having seen South Pacific.

So glad we didn't miss this one, and hope to never miss another effort by composer Josh Schmidt (we didn't make his Adding Machine in 2007).

Flame and Citron

This 2008 Danish movie, now being released in the United States for the first time, is about two resistance fighters in Copenhagen toward the end of the Second World War. Essentially, they're killers for a good cause--Flame (a redhead) shoots and Citron drives.

Until things go a little screwy. Then they both shoot.

The movie is based on the lives of two real World War II heroes (both were posthumously issued the U.S. Medal of Freedom), and the story reveals the complexity of trying to be a hero in a world not sorted out into good and evil as neatly as we could wish.

It reminded me a bit of Army of Shadows, but it is even more grim. In Army of Shadows, no one survived the war and you weren't sure if their work had a lasting impact. But there is no question, really, about trusting the people in charge. In Flame and Citron, you meet some of the people in charge and you're not sure about them.

Imagine doing assassins' work for people you're not sure about. This is one of the saddest movies we've ever seen.

Beautifully, convincingly done, but sad, sad, sad.

Public Enemies

We saw this movie partly because it was filmed here in Chicago, partly because Johnny Depp stars in it, and partly because we usually like gangster movies (we recently watched namesake Public Enemy on DVD at home). As it happened, there wasn't that much Chicago background in it (I think a lot of the scenery was digitized), and--on the whole--the movie was a disappointment. Far more style than substance.

Which is hardly a surprise, when the movie was directed by Michael Mann, but we have liked some of his movies very much (e.g., Collateral, The Insider). Those movies had better plots, though, and more interesting characters. Depp does his best with Dillinger, and Marion Cotillard is wonderful as his love interest--when these two are on screen together, you're happy.

But mostly the movie is a grim, violent, stylish spectacle. There's little to care about here, though it's very pretty to look at.

In the Mood for Love

After a while, Victor lost patience with this movie, but I remained enthralled. It is a visually stunning, moody, romantic movie about a devastatingly handsome man, and a jaw-droppingly gorgeous woman who live next door to each other and come to realize that their spouses are having an affair with each other.

In trying to understand how their spouses could have embarked on the affair, they find themselves falling in love in spite of their resolution not to "be like them."

It sounds formulaic, perhaps, but it doesn't feel like that. The movie progresses dreamily, even lazily. Often, you are not sure what's just happened, but you are always sure what you feel. These two are meant for each other, but they deny themselves. (Mostly.)

Check out this movie if you don't mind seeing something slow and lovely. And also if you want to see an elegant woman in a succession of terrifically beautiful dresses.

The Challenge for Africa

Wangari Maathai, of Kenya, won the Nobel Peace Prize for her work with the Green Belt Movement in 2004. Victor and I had the opportunity to hear her speak here in Chicago last winter and found her tremendously inspiring. Almost as soon as we got home, I ordered a few of her books, and this one is the first I've completed.

It's not a long book, but not a page-turner, either. I read it in snatches while I ate breakfast or lunch at the dining room table. Maathai presents a lucid, convincing account of how Africa got where it is and how the continent as a whole can move forward. She is able to rationalize why Africa's people have tolerated so much bad government and still express urgency and hope about ending such tolerance.

Her vision for a sustainble future for Africa, one which encompasses environmental sustainability as well as economic growth, is persuasive. I was struck by the parallels between what she describes in Africa and what has been going on here.

We are really not so far apart.

Why Facebook?

I find myself repeatedly trying to articulate to others why I'm finding my first couple of weeks on Facebook so enthralling. I've decided that Facebook's genius is in virtualizing trivial communication--the kind of chat that happens when you see someone every day.

"I dreamed last night that everyone in the world sent me a french fry."

"On my long haul to the Bronx I get a lot of reading done. Now I am reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies."

"I almost fell down the stairs while looking at my iPhone with my reading glasses on. The dog looked away."

These are approximations of actual posts by friends I rarely see, or haven't seen in 20 years or more (OUCH!), but which make me feel they are still part of my life, even though they are not physically present.

These are folks with whom I'm unable to sustain an email relationship--either they don't write, I don't write, or there's not really enough to say. But if our life circumstances were different (still living in the same city, working in the same office, going to the same classes, not consumed by work, children, or other passions), we'd still be hanging out.

I've also rekindled a couple close friendships via Facebook, but find myself inclined to pursue those outside of Facebook. Email and phone calls are more appropriate for deep conversations and reminiscing. But for a virtual sense of community, virtual water cooler, or virtual corner cafe or bar, Facebook is consummately effective.

Dee Alexander at the Green Mill

With friends the other night, we went to see Dee Alexander at the Green Mill. We lucked out with perfect seats--a banquette close to the stage--and with a really stupendous performance. Dee Alexander's voice is everything you want in a jazz singer: warm, melodious, textured. But it is also surprisingly versatile. Alexander can--literally--sing like a bird, and in one self-written number, "Rossignol," she does just that. She can also sound like a trumpet--and I wouldn't be surprised if she harbors an arsenal of other musical instrument imitations. But she doesn't need to mimic a piano, bass, or drumset, because the talented remainder of her quartet is outstanding.

Going to this show reminded us that we don't see enough live music. Part of the problem is that we're no longer night owls--a lot of good shows start at 9, 10, or later, and we're generally asleep by 11.

So maybe we need to start taking naps...

A guy after my own heart

(via Daily Kos)

Retired U.S. Supreme Court Justice David Souter is moving from his famed rustic farmhouse in Weare, N.H., to nearby Hopkinton, where he's purchased a much larger, more modern Cape Cod because his current residence, which is 200 years old and has been in his family for generations, "wasn't structurally sound enough to hold the thousands of books that make up his library," according to the Concord Monitor. Now that is a true bibliophile: buy a new house rather than shed beloved books.

10,000 Birds

I was trying to confirm whether I'd seen a cedar waxwing or bohemian waxwing this morning over at the Jarvis Sanctuary, and came across this interesting blog as a result of this very helpful post. Nice to have a look at what really serious birders are doing...

Me, I'm pretty happy with my cedar waxwing (and catbird, and purple martins, and immature robins, and even house sparrows).

Reading on My iPhone

So I recently got an iPhone, which I'm satisfied really is the greatest thing since sliced bread. What's the greatest part? Oh, it's hard to choose: surfing the Web on a street corner, to find out whether the restaurant I'm thinking about going to is any good; using built-in GPS to make sure I'm walking in the right direction; being able to instantly find out whether my bus will arrive within the next 10 minutes; having access to my complete calendar wherever I go...let alone email and telephone functionality. It's like a tricorder on Star Trek (which seems to do just about everything), combined with a communicator, but it's real! And it's cool!

Plus, I can read books on it. So far, I have read HG Wells' The Time Machine and am in the middle of The Jungle Book. Reading on the iPhone is easy and fun (some of the reader applications have page-turning visuals and even sound effects), and best of all I don't have to carry an extra book around. If you know me, you know I love books, but the convenience of this device is just amazing. When I think of the pain in the butt it was to haul War and Peace around...

Also, am crazy about iBird Pro, a field guide app. Not only does it eliminate the need to lug a field guide along when birdwatching, but it plays bird calls. Totally cool!

Anyhow, I'm just enchanted with my new device. A bit too addicted to the Scrabble app, though...

All right, all right, I've joined Facebook...

And it is really distracting.

The Counter

Victor and I were on our way to a show when we passed by this new(ish) outpost of California-based The Counter, a burger joint. I hadn't heard of this place before, but our decision to stop was somewhat influenced by an ad posted several hundred feet east on Diversey claiming Oprah had called it "Best Burger."

Do I watch Oprah? No. But for some reason I imagine she knows her burgers.

So we tried it. The build-your-own-burger concept is way fun: you get a checklist and choose everything from meat (beef, turkey, veggie, chicken) to toppings (options include various cheeses, vegetables, and relishes--up to four of these are included), to premium toppings (such as sauteed mushrooms, bacon, or avocado--these cost another dollar each), to buns. We built one burger and chose their special burger of the day (or was it month?). We weren't so crazy, as it turned out, about the special burger of the month--it was a lamb burger, which sounded intriguing, but--who knew?--we don't much like lamb burgers. We built ourselves a burger with corn and black bean salsa, sprouts, avocado, tomato, and sauteed onions. Perfectly cooked and quite delicious. We had a side of fries and onion strings. The fries were fine, but the onion strings were excellent, if greasy. Beautiful crunch.

So. Not a virtuous meal, but very tasty. In future, we'd share a burger. (Even the smallest--1/3 lb--burger was plenty big.)

Pizza Roundup

So in the past few months, Victor and I have finally been to a few of the trendy new pizza places in town--spots that boast 800 degree coal- or wood-burning ovens that produce authentic Neopolitan pizza.

Trendy and new? I'm afraid we are rather behind the curve. They were trendy and new; they are now a Chicago institution.

Closest to us is Sapore di Napoli, which was the first one we tried. We ordered a Margherita pizza and liked it: particularly the tasty sauce. Not NYC pizza, but a nice alternative.

My painting class was very close to Spacca Napoli, so I went there once without Victor and had a pizza marinara (no cheese), which I thought was delicious. But yesterday evening Victor and I tried the Margherita and the one with mushrooms and sausage--we loved the crust, which was nice and chewy, but the tomato sauce and cheese were surprisingly bland.

And a couple of weeks ago, we checked out Coalfire, which recently made some list for best Chicago pizza. Our verdict: okay. Nice crust, but the sauce (again) didn't turn us on.

Wanted to love these places, but just...didn't.

On the bright side, we'll be in NYC this weekend, and I'm sure we'll be eating some real pizza.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

The fact that we saw this movie Saturday night and I'm only mentioning it now indicates something. Not that it was bad. No. On the contrary, the movie was fully engaging.

But quite forgettable.

It did make Victor want to peruse the book again, and so we learned that someone has borrowed it and not given it back.

I hate when that happens.

Assassin Tango

I think this is what they mean by "vanity picture." I have seen it described as Robert Duvall's tribute to tango, and the tango is, in fact, the best thing in it, but tango would have been better served by a movie showcasing tango, rather Duvall's moody acting.

Million Dollar Quartet

We saw this show last night. It's one of those productions that seems designed to be a hit--how can you go wrong with a show about an evening that Elvis Presley, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis make music together?

By presenting bad impersonations, no doubt. But in this case, the impersonators are superb, and the audience was mesmerized. While listening to old rockabilly songs was fun, I was most reminded of my fondness for Johnny Cash (the performer portraying him was particularly good) and today I have been listening to his gravely voice for hours (iTunes makes that easy).

Not much more to say about the show. Thin plot, but you don't go to see Million Dollar Quartet for plot. The music is just terrific. Absolutely recommended.

The History Boys

I went to this show without much idea of what to expect. Certainly I'd heard of it, and knew it had been a hit in New York and made into a Hollywood movie, and I knew it had been consistently sold out in Chicago (since the Timeline Theatre probably holds fewer than 80 audience members, selling out is not the challenge it might be), but I hadn't been thrilled by a couple of previous Timeline productions, so when the person at the ticket desk remarked that the production would be three hours long, my heart sank.

In the event, the play's length was no hardship. It's a spectacular--even thrilling--production, with terrific performances by the entire cast. Creative staging makes for a particularly involving show; while most of the action occurs in a classroom (situated in the middle of the theater), the boys' dorm rooms are reproduced in two levels at one end of the theater (so you see them retreat there when they leave class), and an upper-level set at the other end of the theater represents the headmaster's office and other out-of-class locations.

The subject matter of the play, is perhaps well known: a young history teacher is hired to help a class of grammar school boys get admitted to Oxford or Cambridge. While the boys are bright and competent, they face stiff competition from those who have been groomed from birth for attendance at the elite universities. Their young teacher, Irwin, suggests that--rather than focus on memorized facts--they should seek to entertain their examiners, so as to stand out from the crowd, by proposing unlikely ideas (whether or not they believe in them), and backing them up. Ultimately, Irwin calls the value of truth and sincerity into question.

This brings him into direct conflict with the boys' other (and beloved) English teacher, Hector, who valorizes and romanticizes Truth, which he finds (and insists the boys find) in poetry and literature that he challenges them to learn by heart. He is fond of paradoxical pronouncements; e.g., that schools are the enemy of education. He detests what Irwin is teaching the boys.

Frankly, I found the philosophical debate pretty uninteresting. It's something of a false argument: truth wears more than one dress. Instead, what was interesting was the action of the play--the behavior of the boys and their teachers in class, and the intimate dramas that unfolded. While I might not have been lit up by the play's intellectual content, I was lit up by my belief that the characters were (intellectually, spiritually) lit up.

Some great music, too, which was utterly unexpected.

Altogether, a terrific show.

What's So Great about Lurpak?

So Victor and I were in one of the nice neighborhood grocery stores I've started to trek out to (it was Andy's Fruit Ranch, on Kedzie near Lawrence), and noticed this Danish butter.

I should say right out, I'm a butter lover. You won't find margarine in my house; my mother can insist all she likes. Nothing will convince me that butter is bad. Luckily, Victor agrees with me on this, though for cooking we tend more toward olive oil than butter as a sauteing medium.

So after years of buying Land o' Lakes, or whatever organic product was available (when we were feeling flush) or whatever was cheapest (when we weren't), we decided to splurge on Lurpak, which we had seen before, and heard about (as in, "I knew it was a decent supermarket when I saw Lurpak in the cooler"), but never tried. When I saw the price (something like $3.69), for a moment I imagined it was cheaper than the more run-of-the-mill stuff I was used to (for which I've gotten accustomed to paying around five bucks), and then I realized that the Lurpak package contained only a half pound.

Ouch!

Still, we splurged. And it was good.

How good? Well, despite my fondness for butter, I'm not a connoisseur. There are doubtless specialized terms that demarcate the boundary between the good and the really good. One thing, though, is that it's remarkably creamy. Just out of the refrigerator, you can spread it on toast without much trouble (as opposed to a stick of Land o' Lakes, which is damned hard when it comes out of the fridge). It tastes great on toast.

But, finally, not great enough to spend almost twice as much for it. I might buy it again when we expect houseguests--guests we expect to serve buttered bread. Otherwise, when I'm feeling flush I'll buy organic.

Five Guys

We weren't intending to go to Five Guys. We were on our way to meet friends at Bar Louie in Oak Park, and as we were parking the car, I noticed the Five Guys sign across the street. Here's how I've heard of Five Guys: a mention of their great fries in TimeOut Chicago recently (can't find it now), and listening to two friends dish about the place. They turned to me at one point and said, "Have you been to Five Guys yet?"

No.

"Oh, you have to go."

So when we pulled up across the street from one, it seemed like kismet.

It's a retro little place, kind of like a Johnny Rocket's but without so many tables. Like any fast food joint, you give your order at the counter and get a number. There aren't too many choices: burgers, hot dogs, fries, grilled cheese (for, I suppose, the poor vegetarians whose omnivorous friends have dragged them along). But burgers automatically come with a host of toppings that many places charge for: sauteed mushrooms and sauteed onions, for example. And you can add other toppings just for the asking.

So, in a way, the Five Guys Burger is a burger version of a Chicago hot dog, if you want to eat it that way. And if you do, it's a very rewarding burger: messy, but tasty. Plus, the fries are hands-down the best fast-food fries I've tasted. Skin-on, crispy, potatoey.

Not to be compared with a steakhouse burger, or even a bar-and-grill burger--it's a different entity. But for a quick, $5 bite, this is a great addition to our burger options.

I guess I should be glad that there isn't one too close to our home.

Follow the Fleet

Last night, tired after a solitary evening putting away groceries and chopping vegetables, I put this DVD into the machine, and almost immediately started smiling. There is something about Fred Astaire--especially Fred Astaire singing (even more than his dancing, I think), that evokes a world of ease you can't help but want to sink into.

And then when Ginger Rogers joins him--well, if you can still worry about things like credit card bills and the state of the healthcare system, more power to you.

The movie is, truly, not much. A lot of good songs, sung and danced by a quartet of lovely people skating over a very thin plot. But there are particular charms--not least, the music of Irving Berlin. (Gershwin and Porter get so much attention, it's easy to overlook Berlin.) Also, a small role for a very young Lucille Ball, who apparently got an early start at perfecting the dumb look.

Still, it's Fred who makes this movie. Not from singing talent or dancing talent, but from sheer likability--when his face fills the screen, and he winks or even raises his eyebrows, you're in on the joke and out of whatever minor discontent you were in.

Oedipus, by The Hypocrites

Several months ago, Victor and I saw The Hypocrites' production of Threepenny Opera, and I was smitten. So when I realized Oedipus was closing this past weekend, I quickly got tickets for one of the final performances.

I was not disappointed. The Hypocrites are one of the most successfully inventive theater companies I have ever encountered. Plenty of theater companies have energy and creativity, but The Hypocrites really push the boundaries of what's possible--innovative staging, self-referential jokes, and frequent anachronisms. I call them successfully inventive because (like 500 Clown), they manage to effectively convey the source material's central themes and leave us profoundly moved by those themes, in spite of self-conscious theatricality and avant-garde gestures.

Next season, I think we're going to subscribe.

500 Clown and the Elephant Deal

This show, the most recent concoction by Chicago's 500 Clown troupe, closed this past weekend at Steppenwolf, where it was playing as part of the venue's Visiting Company initiative. If you missed it, too bad for you, because this was a terrific production.

I always find 500 Clown a little hard to explain. First of all, there aren't 500 clowns, only three. (Although, in this production, there are five; plus a small cortege of musicians.) Secondly, they aren't just clowns. The wonderfully talented performers sing, dance, act, perform death-defying leaps... The clownishness isn't only physical; it's also verbal. They sometimes make me think of Monty Python, sometimes the Marx Brothers, and sometimes Looney Tunes. (It doesn't surprise me that at least a couple 500 Clown members are going to be involved in this fall's Goodman Theatre production of Animal Crackers.)

The previous 500 Clown shows I've seen took an established work (Frankenstein, Macbeth) and retold it. Because clowns were doing the retelling, threads of the story inevitably got lost or knotted, but to me the brilliance of 500 Clown productions is that somehow via jokes, digressions, pratfalls, and death-defying leaps, they manage to convey the most central themes of the source works, profoundly moving the audience as a result.

Although I consider myself an enthusiastic fan, until this production I didn't know that 500 Clown's members could sing. Boy, can they sing! 500 Clown and the Elephant Deal is a musical, with clever, irreverent songs written by John Fournier and performed mainly by the remarkable Molly Brennan. While the show took Bertolt Brecht's Man Is Man as a jumping-off point, not much is left of the original source. Instead, what we have is a cabaret show--with hints of vaudeville and many interruptions, digressions, pratfalls, and death-defying leaps--that persistently nudges around concepts of identity: changed identities, what it costs to maintain your identity, under what circumstances you're willing to give your identity up.

High-energy, high-creativity, highly recommended.

Might Not Want to Buy Hershey Bars for a While...

Man dies at chocolate factory.