On a walk a couple of weeks ago, I was delighted to see that the Common Goldeneyes have returned to Belmont Harbor. We first noticed them two falls ago, and it still astonishes us that some creatures find winter in Chicago to be perfectly comfortable. This year, though, we were especially struck by the presence of a solitary Hooded Merganser keeping the others company. Certainly, the Hooded Merganser has much in common with Common Goldeneyes--black-and-white color scheme, fishy diet, diving talents--but why isn't it hanging out with its own kind? Turns out, it was probably born in a Common Goldeneye nest. Is it such a stretch to imagine it THINKS it's a Common Goldeneye?
25 January 2007
24 January 2007
Niagara Falls All Over Again
It had been a while since I'd read a good story. Instead I'd been reading nature stuff, political stuff, magazines, newspapers, but hardly any fiction.
Didn't want anything too challenging, though. Not to put too fine a point on it, I wanted to be carried away.
Elizabeth McCracken's Niagara Falls All Over Again does just that. This is the story of a fictional vaudeville comedy duo--one fat, one thin--that transitions to legitimate theater, film, radio, and television. The tale is told in the wistful voice of the thin one, born Jewish in small-town Iowa, who ran away to vaudeville as a teen to escape a future as a shopkeeper.
What makes a good read? Engaging, fast-moving writing, compelling plot, characters you fall in love with... I stayed up past midnight to finish this one, and the next day my groggy brain was full of vivid images--as if I'd been up late watching a movie, not reading a book.
You don't need to be an Abbott and Costello fan to like this, either.
Didn't want anything too challenging, though. Not to put too fine a point on it, I wanted to be carried away.
Elizabeth McCracken's Niagara Falls All Over Again does just that. This is the story of a fictional vaudeville comedy duo--one fat, one thin--that transitions to legitimate theater, film, radio, and television. The tale is told in the wistful voice of the thin one, born Jewish in small-town Iowa, who ran away to vaudeville as a teen to escape a future as a shopkeeper.
What makes a good read? Engaging, fast-moving writing, compelling plot, characters you fall in love with... I stayed up past midnight to finish this one, and the next day my groggy brain was full of vivid images--as if I'd been up late watching a movie, not reading a book.
You don't need to be an Abbott and Costello fan to like this, either.
Filed in: Books
22 January 2007
4-ish
I picked up tickets for this event via Goldstar (indispensable source of cheap tickets) without realizing that it was being presented by the Chicago Children's Theater. All I thought was: hip-hop, dance, fun!
I guess that's also what kids 6 and over think. But regardless of the audience, which largely skewed I-won't-say-how-many years younger than me, it was a terrific performance--just over an hour--of exhilarating dance, acrobatics, a bit of Three-Stooges-style silliness, very impressive human beatbox feats; most breathtaking--for me--were two champion rollerbladers, who sailed down one ramp and up the other, and into the air, as if they were birds rather than boys.
The show's only up for one more weekend, at the Harris Theater at Millennium Park. Whether or not you have children to entertain, this is worth seeing.
Chicago Children's Theater
773/227.0180
I guess that's also what kids 6 and over think. But regardless of the audience, which largely skewed I-won't-say-how-many years younger than me, it was a terrific performance--just over an hour--of exhilarating dance, acrobatics, a bit of Three-Stooges-style silliness, very impressive human beatbox feats; most breathtaking--for me--were two champion rollerbladers, who sailed down one ramp and up the other, and into the air, as if they were birds rather than boys.
The show's only up for one more weekend, at the Harris Theater at Millennium Park. Whether or not you have children to entertain, this is worth seeing.
Chicago Children's Theater
773/227.0180
Filed in: Dance
21 January 2007
The Sparrow
I'd heard about this play, put on by the acclaimed House Theatre, a while ago, but the synopses I'd seen turned me off. A play about a telekinetic high school girl? Seemed kind of over the top, and I was skeptical about how telekinesis was going to be managed in a storefront theater.
I will no longer be skeptical about anything the House Theatre chooses to do. With a talented cast, highly creative staging, a compelling script, good music, effects, and really moving performances, this group makes magic on its little stage at the Viaduct. Perhaps the story doesn't quite hold together 10 minutes after you leave the theater, but through the performance, you're riveted.
It's only around for a few more weeks, so go see it.
Viaduct Theater
3111 N. Western Ave
773/251.2195
I will no longer be skeptical about anything the House Theatre chooses to do. With a talented cast, highly creative staging, a compelling script, good music, effects, and really moving performances, this group makes magic on its little stage at the Viaduct. Perhaps the story doesn't quite hold together 10 minutes after you leave the theater, but through the performance, you're riveted.
It's only around for a few more weeks, so go see it.
Viaduct Theater
3111 N. Western Ave
773/251.2195
Filed in: Theater
29 October 2006
ShawChicago
Going to see a play can be a hit or miss affair, but ShawChicago has always offered a consistently splendid theater experience. In spite of the fact that the performances we've seen have been staged readings rather than fully realized productions, the performers' talent and skill are so strong that we're totally absorbed.
Of course, the material--plays by George Bernard Shaw--makes a contribution as well.
Still, material isn't all. Yesterday we went to a production of Moliere's The Miser--fully staged, but so poorly executed that we left after the first act. Experiences like that always make me doubt my affection for theater.
This afternoon that affection was renewed. A marvelous performance of You Never Can Tell. These actors are just phenomenal.
Of course, the material--plays by George Bernard Shaw--makes a contribution as well.
Still, material isn't all. Yesterday we went to a production of Moliere's The Miser--fully staged, but so poorly executed that we left after the first act. Experiences like that always make me doubt my affection for theater.
This afternoon that affection was renewed. A marvelous performance of You Never Can Tell. These actors are just phenomenal.
Filed in: Theater
28 October 2006
My Life without Me
It seems to be weeping season. This was quite a wonderful movie, but I cried and cried.
Filed in: Movies
25 October 2006
Penelope Lively's The Photograph
I still remember how devastating Moon Tiger was, and I must have read it 20 years ago. Granted, I don't remember much else, except that it was devastating.
This novel was also devastating, it its way; as I read the last sections I was almost continuously in tears. Victor says, No more sad books for a while.
He suggests rereading The Hobbit.
I'm thinking more along the lines of Middlesex. But first, some magazine reading to catch up on...
This novel was also devastating, it its way; as I read the last sections I was almost continuously in tears. Victor says, No more sad books for a while.
He suggests rereading The Hobbit.
I'm thinking more along the lines of Middlesex. But first, some magazine reading to catch up on...
Filed in: Books
20 October 2006
Nicole Krauss' The History of Love
It's possible I read a more moving novel this year; but if I did, I can't remember it. This is a book I never wanted to put down, and when I was finished I went right back to the beginning and started again.
Weeping.
Weeping.
Filed in: Books
16 October 2006
Operation Shylock
It's hard to know how to read this novel, which bills itself as "A Confession," purports to be true in its explanatory preface, and features characters named after Philip Roth, Claire Bloom, Aharon Applefeld, and other real people. You know it's fiction, so you want to avoid questions of what really happened, but the autobiographical manner and the recurrent references to real people and events make this difficult.
So when a doppelganger is introduced, you're feeling surprisingly credulous, and you're drawn into an outlandish story step by plausible step. Author Philip Roth has a double, also named Philip Roth (and representing himself to be the author), who is in Israel launching a movement to send its Jews back to Europe. In the process, Roth 2 has made an odd set of alliances—with Lech Walesa, the JDL, and the PLO. Roth 1, in Israel to interview the novelist Aharon Applefeld for the Times, confronts Roth 2, who refuses to desist. Outraged and bemused by turns, Roth 1 allows himself to be mistaken for Roth 2, and even actively impersonates Roth 2.
Adventures ensue.
The story ends with a big chunk missing, it is explained, for security reasons. On the endleaf, a standard disclaimer reminds you that the book is, after all, fiction.
An interesting, well-written novel, but rather unwieldy and exhausting. It's been a while since I've read any metafiction, so I guess I'm out of practice.
So when a doppelganger is introduced, you're feeling surprisingly credulous, and you're drawn into an outlandish story step by plausible step. Author Philip Roth has a double, also named Philip Roth (and representing himself to be the author), who is in Israel launching a movement to send its Jews back to Europe. In the process, Roth 2 has made an odd set of alliances—with Lech Walesa, the JDL, and the PLO. Roth 1, in Israel to interview the novelist Aharon Applefeld for the Times, confronts Roth 2, who refuses to desist. Outraged and bemused by turns, Roth 1 allows himself to be mistaken for Roth 2, and even actively impersonates Roth 2.
Adventures ensue.
The story ends with a big chunk missing, it is explained, for security reasons. On the endleaf, a standard disclaimer reminds you that the book is, after all, fiction.
An interesting, well-written novel, but rather unwieldy and exhausting. It's been a while since I've read any metafiction, so I guess I'm out of practice.
Filed in: Books
Oryx and Crake
When a "serious" writer engages in science fiction, I'm not sure how to take it. Is science fiction being legitimized, or is the writer slumming?
In Margaret Atwood's case, the genre offers an opportunity to follow current trends to their logical (and deeply unpleasant) conclusions. With Oryx and Crake, she presents us with a fairly standard post-apocalyptic last-man-on-earth story: we get glimpses of the world-that-was (very similar to ours) in flashback and these hints highlight the way that world sowed the seeds of its own destruction.
All well and good; there is nothing in the story that is not compelling.
Unfortunately, there is nothing in the story that is very complicated, either. Which seems a strange thing to say about this author, who, in books like Cat's Eye and The Blind Assassin, has shown herself capable of conveying enormous complications. It's as if the effort of creating a different and believable world has been so great that nothing's left for creating complex characters. Instead, the bad guys are bad, the nuts guys are nuts, the good guys might be confused, but they're good.
The result is an exceptional and thought-provoking science fiction story, not a great novel. The characters don't live, though their dilemmas do.
In Margaret Atwood's case, the genre offers an opportunity to follow current trends to their logical (and deeply unpleasant) conclusions. With Oryx and Crake, she presents us with a fairly standard post-apocalyptic last-man-on-earth story: we get glimpses of the world-that-was (very similar to ours) in flashback and these hints highlight the way that world sowed the seeds of its own destruction.
All well and good; there is nothing in the story that is not compelling.
Unfortunately, there is nothing in the story that is very complicated, either. Which seems a strange thing to say about this author, who, in books like Cat's Eye and The Blind Assassin, has shown herself capable of conveying enormous complications. It's as if the effort of creating a different and believable world has been so great that nothing's left for creating complex characters. Instead, the bad guys are bad, the nuts guys are nuts, the good guys might be confused, but they're good.
The result is an exceptional and thought-provoking science fiction story, not a great novel. The characters don't live, though their dilemmas do.
Filed in: Books
27 July 2006
Why Cities Should Fight to Keep Their Middle-Class Residents
Maybe I have a problem with economists, more than anything else. They talk as if all that mattered were growth. Sometimes you need to look past immediate benefits (rich folk move in, drive up prices, buy more products, pay more taxes), and think about the losses: what happens to society when people don't mix anymore—rich live with rich, poor with poor.
The miracle of cities, the energy of cities, the thrill of cities, come from their diversity, not from shiny commercial constructions that cater primarily to the very rich (e.g., New York's Trump Tower and Chicago's 900 N. Michigan). Such luxury super-malls can be (and are) constructed anywhere—in
Cities are special for their ability to contain juxtapositions of glitter and grime, glamour and grit. The glue that holds those contraries together is the people at the middle of the economic spectrum, those who daily traverse the worlds of rich and poor, riding public transit to jobs that pay decently, buying groceries in cheaper neighborhoods, frequenting public parks and beaches, splurging at an expensive department store at Christmas, going out to a fancy restaurant once or twice a year for a special occasion. Without these folks, we eliminate any sort of connection between the extremes, because public amenities tend to deteriorate without their support, enforcing social as well as economic segregation, depriving the poor of hope for a better life, and limiting the rich to a narrow (private) set of activities, interactions, and destinations.
Meanwhile, the middle-class, living in the boonies among the enclaves of the super-duper-rich, become the most isolated group of all, commuting in private vehicles on suburban freeways, never interacting with anyone outside the circles of family, colleague, neighbor, or church. Safety is a value prized above rubies, and the city, with its crime and expense, exists as a place that the middle-class is lucky to be free of; its charms and satisfactions are forgotten, and notions of interdependence, cross-fertilization (of people and ideas), and public good are discarded.
(By the way, this is how Republicans are made.)
19 June 2006
Wakamono
This tiny sushi place recently opened up around the corner from our apartment. It's run by the same folks who run Ping Pong, across the street, which is a tiny pan-Asian place. The scene is just a little too hip for the likes of me (as is the scene at Ping Pong), but the fish is fresh and tasty enough that we've been back four times in three weeks.
Drawbacks: a bit pricey, pounding music, spotty service, indifferent (and pricey) non-sushi items.
What I mean about service: when my mother-in-law ordered a scallop handroll, it arrived with the scallops cooked. What's with that? Upon complaint, the waitron agreed, O yes, it's cooked. As if sushi places normally cook scallops for handrolls.
On another occasion, I ordered salmon, mackerel, and white tuna over the phone (for delivery). We got salmon, regular tuna, and white tuna. Upon complaint, Victor was told they thought I said maguro. I understand that "mackerel" and "maguro" could sound similar over the phone, but I made my order in English.
Regarding non-sushi items: we keep trying stuff from the "japas" (Japanese tapas—get it?) menu, too, but have found nothing worth getting again (nothing, really, worth getting the first time). So far we've tried wasabi noodles, jalapeno (!!) miso soup, and sunomono (normally a great favorite of ours). We will keep trying, because sibling Ping Pong does such a good job with its small plates, but we are losing hope.
Our repeat visits in spite of these minor but irritating drawbacks testify to the quality of the sushi. We will just be increasingly careful about how we order.
Wakamono
3317 N Broadway
773-296-6800
Open daily, 4 PM to midnight
Filed in: Food
Drawbacks: a bit pricey, pounding music, spotty service, indifferent (and pricey) non-sushi items.
What I mean about service: when my mother-in-law ordered a scallop handroll, it arrived with the scallops cooked. What's with that? Upon complaint, the waitron agreed, O yes, it's cooked. As if sushi places normally cook scallops for handrolls.
On another occasion, I ordered salmon, mackerel, and white tuna over the phone (for delivery). We got salmon, regular tuna, and white tuna. Upon complaint, Victor was told they thought I said maguro. I understand that "mackerel" and "maguro" could sound similar over the phone, but I made my order in English.
Regarding non-sushi items: we keep trying stuff from the "japas" (Japanese tapas—get it?) menu, too, but have found nothing worth getting again (nothing, really, worth getting the first time). So far we've tried wasabi noodles, jalapeno (!!) miso soup, and sunomono (normally a great favorite of ours). We will keep trying, because sibling Ping Pong does such a good job with its small plates, but we are losing hope.
Our repeat visits in spite of these minor but irritating drawbacks testify to the quality of the sushi. We will just be increasingly careful about how we order.
Wakamono
3317 N Broadway
773-296-6800
Open daily, 4 PM to midnight
Filed in: Food
Col-ubas Steakhouse
Victor and I were biking yesterday and stopped at a very pleasant café off Granville that turned out to have a not-very-impressive menu. So after reading the paper there for a couple of hours, I was hungry. We took an exploratory ride south on Clark and parked by a cluster of restaurants in Edgewater. After due consideration, we stopped at Col-Ubas Steakhouse, having never tasted Colombian food, and having a fondness for Cuban.
This place is definitely not for vegetarians, but omnivores will be delighted. We shared a mixed appetizer plate (platillo variado) that included a Colombian beef empanada, ham croquetas, fried yuca, and tostones. We also ordered a papa rellena. This was all very delicious: crispy and savory. But the highlight of the meal was definitely the steak sandwich (pan con bistec), which was just perfect: marinated steak, savory sauce, sautéed onions, crisp grilled bread….One of those sandwiches you must finish eating, no matter how full you are. All this goodness for under $15.
Col-Ubas also offers an extensive menu of dinner items that includes traditional Cuban dishes like Ropa Vieja and various Colombian combination plates (mostly mixed grills). We are eager to go back to try some of those. Also, I'm tempted to try their lunch buffet, offered weekdays from 11 AM to 3 PM, for $5.95, with a different selection each day.
Col-Ubas Steakhouse
5665 N. Clark Street
Ph. 773-506-1579
Fax. 773-506-1579
Open daily: Su 8 AM to 8 PM; M, W, Th 8 AM to 9 PM; Tu 8 AM to 5 PM; F, Sa 8 AM to 10 PM.
This place is definitely not for vegetarians, but omnivores will be delighted. We shared a mixed appetizer plate (platillo variado) that included a Colombian beef empanada, ham croquetas, fried yuca, and tostones. We also ordered a papa rellena. This was all very delicious: crispy and savory. But the highlight of the meal was definitely the steak sandwich (pan con bistec), which was just perfect: marinated steak, savory sauce, sautéed onions, crisp grilled bread….One of those sandwiches you must finish eating, no matter how full you are. All this goodness for under $15.
Col-Ubas also offers an extensive menu of dinner items that includes traditional Cuban dishes like Ropa Vieja and various Colombian combination plates (mostly mixed grills). We are eager to go back to try some of those. Also, I'm tempted to try their lunch buffet, offered weekdays from 11 AM to 3 PM, for $5.95, with a different selection each day.
Col-Ubas Steakhouse
5665 N. Clark Street
Ph. 773-506-1579
Fax. 773-506-1579
Open daily: Su 8 AM to 8 PM; M, W, Th 8 AM to 9 PM; Tu 8 AM to 5 PM; F, Sa 8 AM to 10 PM.
Filed in: Food
Rashomon
For years I have been familiar with the term "Rashomon" more as a cultural touchstone than as a dramatic or cinematic artifact—a sort of super-signifier of the idea that everyone has her own way of seeing the same situation: truth is in the eye of the beholder.
So I had always thought that Rashomon (the film) showed that different people could accurately account for the same event in profoundly different ways. The movie doesn't quite live up to this expectation. Each of the four accounts (of a woman's rape and her husband's death) could be simultaneously true only in the most metaphorical sense. Really, there are three contradictory and self-serving accounts, and one account likely to be closest to the truth because the speaker was not involved—the events he described didn't touch upon his ego.
"Rashomon," then, refers less to multifaceted truth than to how we reshape reality as we remember it, to preserve our sense of self. Rashomon (the movie) is beautiful and engaging; directed by Akira Kurosawa and starring Toshiro Mifune in a very stylized performance. The DVD includes a short, interesting introduction by Robert Altman.
Filed in: Movies
09 June 2006
Sylvia
I just checked for this movie on Rotten Tomatoes and was rather stunned at the poor reception it got. Victor suggested I see it without him after he read he description on the Netflix wrapper:
Sylvia isn't as bad as all that. The tensions of a romance between writers are well portrayed. But the movie was irritating in its (lack of) analysis of the roots of Plath's depression. Often she just seems like a nutcase. The central relationship is treated as a great love that would have been ideal, if only Ted had been faithful and Sylvia hadn't been bonkers. Ugh.
The film shows none of Plath's humor and little of her intelligence. Upon her marriage to Ted, she becomes a caricature of the jealous wife, with no self-consciousness, which is hard to believe.
Still, Sylvia is worth seeing if you've any interest in Plath or Hughes. Gwyneth Paltrow is a pleasure to watch (amazing how much she looks like her mother, Blythe Danner, in this), and Daniel Craig is magnetic as well.
Filed in: Movies
…[Plath and Hughes'] marriage was rocky, and they eventually separated in 1963 when Hughes broke her heart by taking on another lover. Crushed, Plath committed suicide by sticking her head in her unlit oven.
Sylvia isn't as bad as all that. The tensions of a romance between writers are well portrayed. But the movie was irritating in its (lack of) analysis of the roots of Plath's depression. Often she just seems like a nutcase. The central relationship is treated as a great love that would have been ideal, if only Ted had been faithful and Sylvia hadn't been bonkers. Ugh.
The film shows none of Plath's humor and little of her intelligence. Upon her marriage to Ted, she becomes a caricature of the jealous wife, with no self-consciousness, which is hard to believe.
Still, Sylvia is worth seeing if you've any interest in Plath or Hughes. Gwyneth Paltrow is a pleasure to watch (amazing how much she looks like her mother, Blythe Danner, in this), and Daniel Craig is magnetic as well.
Filed in: Movies
A Chicago Addition to My Life List
There's more nature available in urban Chicago than you would think. Sure, the most common wildlife here is probably the pigeon, but the city is full of surprises. For example, earlier this week I was walking along the lake shore and heard an unfamiliar noise: some kind of bird call. I looked around and saw some fluttering around a couple of huge white bird condominiums.
My first purple martins!
My first purple martins!
Where Has Louis Begley Been All My Life?
The question is the more facetious because I've tried to read Louis Begley before and couldn't get anywhere. But in the past couple of days I've read Wartime Lies and As Max Saw It and was wowed by both. Begley is a splendid writer, and Wartime Lies (a Holocaust story) is particularly haunting. I'm now anxious to read his other books.
Filed in: Books
Updike in Person
John Updike has never been my favorite writer…my taste runs to styles less lapidary and more immediate—but I couldn't miss seeing him at the Harold Washington Library Sunday afternoon. While not my favorite, he's certainly a writer I've admired, and how could I not? He's an icon of contemporary fiction—I don't think anyone else is so consistently serious, prolific, and good.
So I took a friend to see the great man—elderly, as he called himself: raised in the Depression as my parents were. He talked a good deal about his new novel, Terrorist, and also spoke interestingly about writers of later generations than his own. It seems that younger writers lack staying power: they shoot their wad with their first book, which is usually extremely impressive in its ambition, and they typically fail to meet their early promise.
I find myself wanting to argue one side or another of this, but it's just silly: why argue a generalization?
Asked if writing is easier for him at this stage, Updike spoke of the challenge of finding fresh material. Indeed, a number of his recent books have felt to me like self-challenges: let's see if I can write a magic realist novel; what happens if I novelize Hamlet from his mother's perspective? Terrorist sounds like a similar writerly dare.
But when my friend expressed skepticism at this 70-year-old man's ability to convincingly portray a teenage Islamic fanatic ("I can't imagine it, how could he?") I pointed out (and reminded myself) that getting into other people's heads is Updike's job.
So Terrorist is probably a very good read and not necessarily worse for being the result of a thought experiment.
Still, it's not at the top of my list.
So I took a friend to see the great man—elderly, as he called himself: raised in the Depression as my parents were. He talked a good deal about his new novel, Terrorist, and also spoke interestingly about writers of later generations than his own. It seems that younger writers lack staying power: they shoot their wad with their first book, which is usually extremely impressive in its ambition, and they typically fail to meet their early promise.
I find myself wanting to argue one side or another of this, but it's just silly: why argue a generalization?
Asked if writing is easier for him at this stage, Updike spoke of the challenge of finding fresh material. Indeed, a number of his recent books have felt to me like self-challenges: let's see if I can write a magic realist novel; what happens if I novelize Hamlet from his mother's perspective? Terrorist sounds like a similar writerly dare.
But when my friend expressed skepticism at this 70-year-old man's ability to convincingly portray a teenage Islamic fanatic ("I can't imagine it, how could he?") I pointed out (and reminded myself) that getting into other people's heads is Updike's job.
So Terrorist is probably a very good read and not necessarily worse for being the result of a thought experiment.
Still, it's not at the top of my list.
Filed in: Books
31 May 2006
On Rereading Tolstoy
I just finished rereading Anna Karenina. Victor teases me for rereading Tolstoy, suggesting that the reason I've read War and Peace at least half a dozen times and Anna Karenina three or four times is so I can say I've done so.
Probably there's a grain of truth in that.
But it's also true that I reread these novels because I enjoy them. Wait—enjoy is not a strong enough word—in fact, they make me happy. As I scan the first page, I already feel myself smiling. "Happy families are all alike…" I'm instantly drawn back into the Oblonsky family, where Dolly has just discovered that Stiva's affair with the ex-governess. It doesn't matter that I know how it will all end (with Anna under a train, as almost every literate person knows); I still get tremendous enjoyment from watching events unfold. And each time I read, different aspects attract my attention. The first time I read Anna Karenina I had little patience for Levin's philosophizing and skimmed many passages. This time, I found him a much more interesting character, and his musings more pertinent.
I am not certain how much of a difference the translation (Pevear/Volkhonsky) made; it has been such a long time since I last read Anna Karenina that I don't have much basis for comparison. I don't even have my old copy (it was a Constance Garnett, I think) to compare because it fell apart some time ago and had to be discarded. But the prose in this version is good, and feels straightforward and direct. In addition, the substantial endnotes are helpful, although I wish they were footnotes.
I have reread other books and enjoyed them: Lord of the Rings, Jane Austen's novels. But Tolstoy's worlds are both a pleasure to enter into and no hardship to exit. Somehow, in spite of being fictional, they are not fantasies; they do not leave you hankering after an imaginary world that cannot exist. Instead, you feel as if you've been shown aspects of reality you never noticed before, and return to your life refreshed.
Probably there's a grain of truth in that.
But it's also true that I reread these novels because I enjoy them. Wait—enjoy is not a strong enough word—in fact, they make me happy. As I scan the first page, I already feel myself smiling. "Happy families are all alike…" I'm instantly drawn back into the Oblonsky family, where Dolly has just discovered that Stiva's affair with the ex-governess. It doesn't matter that I know how it will all end (with Anna under a train, as almost every literate person knows); I still get tremendous enjoyment from watching events unfold. And each time I read, different aspects attract my attention. The first time I read Anna Karenina I had little patience for Levin's philosophizing and skimmed many passages. This time, I found him a much more interesting character, and his musings more pertinent.
I am not certain how much of a difference the translation (Pevear/Volkhonsky) made; it has been such a long time since I last read Anna Karenina that I don't have much basis for comparison. I don't even have my old copy (it was a Constance Garnett, I think) to compare because it fell apart some time ago and had to be discarded. But the prose in this version is good, and feels straightforward and direct. In addition, the substantial endnotes are helpful, although I wish they were footnotes.
I have reread other books and enjoyed them: Lord of the Rings, Jane Austen's novels. But Tolstoy's worlds are both a pleasure to enter into and no hardship to exit. Somehow, in spite of being fictional, they are not fantasies; they do not leave you hankering after an imaginary world that cannot exist. Instead, you feel as if you've been shown aspects of reality you never noticed before, and return to your life refreshed.
Filed in: Books
Assassins
Did I say I was losing my faith in theater?
It's back.
Sunday we went to see Stephen Sondheim's one-act musical, Assassins, at the Storefront Theater (produced by Open Eye). The Storefront Theater is run by the city's Department of Cultural Affairs and showcases the work of (smallcase) storefront theater companies from throughout Chicago in a downtown space, to attract audiences who might not otherwise expose themselves to smaller-scale theater.
Although I'm a Sondheim fan, I wasn't sure what to expect from this production. My theater expectations have sunk so low lately, I've started to count it as a victory if I don't look at my watch much.
I'm pretty sure that I didn't look at my watch at all during Assassins. It was enthralling. An ensemble of fine singer-performers (voice strength varied, but all were at least adequate) collaborated in a rather surreal retelling of American history from the vantage point of its presidential assassins. The music was wonderful, and the lyrics clever and darkly funny (just what you expect from Sondheim); the performances were full of conviction as well as humor.
We had front-row seats, which was a little disconcerting, since the characters point their (prop) guns into the audience on several occasions. Lots of gunshot noise in this show. If you go (which you should), keep that in mind.
Assassins continues at the Storefront Theater, 66 E Randolph, through 18 June.
It's back.
Sunday we went to see Stephen Sondheim's one-act musical, Assassins, at the Storefront Theater (produced by Open Eye). The Storefront Theater is run by the city's Department of Cultural Affairs and showcases the work of (smallcase) storefront theater companies from throughout Chicago in a downtown space, to attract audiences who might not otherwise expose themselves to smaller-scale theater.
Although I'm a Sondheim fan, I wasn't sure what to expect from this production. My theater expectations have sunk so low lately, I've started to count it as a victory if I don't look at my watch much.
I'm pretty sure that I didn't look at my watch at all during Assassins. It was enthralling. An ensemble of fine singer-performers (voice strength varied, but all were at least adequate) collaborated in a rather surreal retelling of American history from the vantage point of its presidential assassins. The music was wonderful, and the lyrics clever and darkly funny (just what you expect from Sondheim); the performances were full of conviction as well as humor.
We had front-row seats, which was a little disconcerting, since the characters point their (prop) guns into the audience on several occasions. Lots of gunshot noise in this show. If you go (which you should), keep that in mind.
Assassins continues at the Storefront Theater, 66 E Randolph, through 18 June.
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