Month: April 2002

Woody Allen’s new bi-coastal comedy (take a guess at which big city curries his favor) concerns a tired and temperamental filmmaker who’s on the verge of a big comeback until chronic neuroses, friction with his ex-wife, and disdain for Hollywood convention render him blind as a bat. Any vague parallels to the writer-director’s real life are less entertaining than the movie itself, which wrings some surprisingly big laughs out of Allen’s usual hapless foibles and connect-the-punchlines pacing. It’s not just that old-fashioned, non-fart-related laughs are back in vogue, either. While the chemistry between protagonist Val Waxman (Allen) and his estranged ex (Tia Leoni) could use a little more kick, both Debra Messing and George Hamilton (she of TV’s Will & Grace, he of infomercials and the infamous perma-tan) offer lots of fun. It’s certainly an improvement over last year’s dire Curse of the Jade Scorpion, though not altogether as charming as 2000’s Small Time Crooks. If Allen’s loving ode to New York City at this year’s Academy Awards felt strangely like a prelude to an honorary Oscar, it’s at least reassuring to see that he’s still earning his own legend with smart, silly, relevant pictures about smart, silly, resilient people who somehow manage to put up with him.

Forget all the stereotypes about foreign flicks. If there’s a movie that proves high action and subtitles can work, this is it. We’re not talking about shoot-em-up, crash-and-bash action, but brisk high drama along the lines of Hitchcock and Mamet. Nine Queens is scripted in a mix of Argentinian argot and Castillian Spanish–so even our fluent publisher had to resort to sight-reading. But the beautiful cinematography, flawless acting, and the gothic perfection of the plot speak the international language of film. Set in Buenos Aires, this Argentinian blockbuster stars Ricardo Dar’n as a practiced confidence man who stumbles into the deal of a lifetime. But the resulting whodunnit involves so many other competing con artists that the ending doesn’t really stick until the credits have rolled. Uptown Theater, 1320 Lagoon Ave., (612) 825-6006

Wow, what a name! And an excellent painter as well. Even in these bizarre, cut-and-paste times of new-media saturation, we still crave an old fashioned oil painting with four sides and no pretensions. We’re new to Svendson’s work, but we like what we see. Here, she shows some lush landscapes painted at the southern terminus of the mighty Mississippi to complement a show last year that depicted our end of the storied waterway. These are bold, impressionistic pieces, sure to appeal to grumpy old anachronists who believe painting died the day Manet joined the big academy in the sky. Don’t miss the opening, May 10, featuring–what else?–a festive Cajun theme. Shelley Holzemer Gallery, (612) 824-3902

Skyways & Icehouses

Perhaps you’ve noticed that the Walker has been on the bleeding edge of the museum business–yes, it’s a business. And the good people here in the Twin Cities have been happy to serve as a petri dish for a commercial plan that often involves a delicate balance between populism and serious art, juxtaposing an ephemeral lightweight like Claes Oldenburg with an important aesthete like Anselm Kiefer. In other words, fine arts institutions need to attract a broad range of the public (think “Spoonbridge”) in order to get the support they need to do their more important work (think “The Order of Angels”). At this point, they must compete with pop culture for a limited supply of money and attention. This particular show is a wonderful distillation of that conundrum. Opie’s stark photos of skyways and ice houses open up like a matroshka doll to reveal numerous layers of the dichotomy. Photographs are accessible in a populist way, but these images are formalist in the extreme. Skyways are permanent, ice houses are temporary. See what we mean? This is the kind of show we love–simple on the surface, but bursting with the possibility of endless mental gymnastics once you ask, “Why?” WAC, (612) 375-7622

It’s been eight years since the Canadian sketch comedy troupe The Kids in the Hall wrapped up their wickedly funny eponymous TV show. Like a bad Behind the Music episode, it appeared relations were strained, to the point that Dave Foley (who landed on the highly successful NewsRadio) was barely in the troupe’s 1996 swan-song motion picture Brain Candy. Thankfully, the gods of scatological comedy have smiled upon us, as Foley joins fellow Kids Bruce McCulloch, Kevin McDonald, Mark McKinney, and Scott Thompson for their second comedy tour. The last time they were in town, they didn’t disappoint, even though a week off had left them a little rusty (their fumble recoveries were Carson-esque). It’s going to be “Monty Python at the Hollywood Bowl” for Generation X–don’t miss it. State Theatre, (612) 339-7007

There can’t be many authors who’ve given their name to a distinct sociological “type.” But so it is with Nick Hornby Man. The British writer of High Fidelity, Fever Pitch, and About A Boy has become a convenient shorthand for a certain kind of feckless modern male. Nick Hornby Man is confused, child-like, self-centered and crippled by a fear of commitment. This sorry specimen struggles to maintain an adult relationship with a member of the opposite sex. However, he can name every captain of the Arsenal soccer team since 1945 or reel off his All-Time Top-Five Teen Death Songs at the drop of a hat.

The cult success of Hornby’s books in the U.S. shows that Nick Hornby Man is a more or less universal concept. There’s nothing unique to Britain about geeky males being messed up about women. Hornby’s American fans might not understand the offside rule (clue: it’s a soccer thing) but they know that weary feeling that their beloved team can only be relied upon to let then down, whether that team is Arsenal FC or the Pittsburgh Steelers. Similarly, it’s no stretch to imagine slacker music obsessives bamboozling each other with their killer compilation tapes in Seattle as well as London.

Will, the hero of the novel (and now the movie) About A Boy, is Nick Hornby Man in excelsis. He’s a shallow, selfish idler who divides his days into half-hour “units” of time (having a bath: one unit; watching the dreary British TV game show Countdown: one unit; reading the paper: two units). Will doesn’t “do” anything, in the pen-pushing, wage-earning, nine-to-five sense. Instead he survives on the royalties from a sappy Christmas song left to him by his embittered, one-hit-wonder father. Will’s life changes, though, when he starts dating single mothers. The reason? They’re grateful, ego-massaging, and, rather conveniently, they sooner or later tend to bail out in a guilt-free parting. So Will “invents” a son and joins a single parents’ support group through which he meets Marcus, a nerdy 12-year-old who’s bullied at school, and his mother Fiona, a suicidally depressed, hairy-sweatered hippie.

Will’s deception is soon discovered, but he and Marcus form an unlikely bond. Under Will’s guidance, Marcus begins to “fit in” at school with the right tennies and CDs. Will, meanwhile, discovers that being a father figure, even one in a weird, non-nuclear family, is just as enjoyable as sitting around in his sleek bachelor pad, getting stoned in front of the TV.

All Hornby books (even the recent How To Be Good with his first female protagonist) are gentle, sentimental entertainments in which people “connect” and “grow” emotionally. And so it is with About A Boy. Hornby’s chief talent is in selling this old-fashioned idea to a hip, bored, cynical audience (post-grunge men, basically) via his razor-sharp wit and a gift for observation that a stand-up comic would kill for.

Movie versions of Hornby’s books, though, have been problematic. On one level they’re eminently filmable, packed with great dialogue and universal themes. However, all the books are set in the same small corner of North London, roughly bordered by the Arsenal football ground to the north and Kings Cross railway station to the south. It’s where Hornby lives. He’s a man who clearly subscribes to the age-old write-about-what-you-know maxim, quipping, “I’m not convinced that South London is sufficiently different from North London to justify the tube fare.”

Which begs the question: Should filmmakers stay faithful to this parochial world or risk transplanting the action? The lumpy, unengaging screening of Fever Pitch, starring Colin Firth (Bridget Jones’s Diary), failed to make much impression on the U.S. box office. High Fidelity meanwhile was drastically Americanized—as if a “real” London setting would be too much for an audience already sold on the faux Brittania of Austin Powers or Four Weddings And A Funeral. High Fidelity was a success, but effectively a new work, with John Cusack in the lead role and a shift in the action from ’80s London to millennial Chicago. Aside from a cloying, feel–good climax, the spirit of the story was surprisingly unmolested, and the producers simply updated the arcane music references.

For the cinematic version of About A Boy, directors Paul and Chris Weitz were hired, provoking visions of teen slapstick and, possibly, a few sex scenes involving pastries. In reality, the creators of American Pie have done nothing of the sort. Their real achievement was to give the whole enterprise a sharper sense of comic timing. This is an incredibly faithful version, trimming only the flab and updating the action from 1993 to the present. The kids at Marcus’s school listen to, say, Mystikal’s “Shake Ya Ass” rather than Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” This tweak does force a significant change in the climactic scene, a different crisis than the one brought on in the novel by Kurt Cobain’s suicide. But no Hornby fan could argue with how they’ve solved it.

They’d also struggle to find fault with the key performances. Hugh Grant, replete with new, non-floppy haircut and trendy urban wardrobe, seems to have no difficulty getting into the head of Will. This is, remember, a self-styled “tatty human being” who squirms at an invitation to become godfather to a friend’s daughter before confessing that when she’s 18 he’ll probably, you know, try to sleep with her. He should be thoroughly unlikeable but the audience can’t help but warm to him—the kind of role for which Grant is, of course, a natural. It helps too that his underage foil is never pathetic or precious. Nicholas Hoult is better than any child actor in their first major role has a right to be. And there’s one further recommendation for this engaging, uplifting, funny film. It also shows the highest fidelity to Hornby’s chronic obsession with obscure pop music. The musical score is ripe with moments of dappled loveliness, childlike exuberance, and classic pop—commissioned at the author’s suggestion from a satisfyingly cultish Mancunian bumbler known as Badly Drawn Boy. Nick Hornby Men the world over—and the women who love them—will not be disappointed.

About A Boy, starring Hugh Grant, opens May 17 at a theater near you.

Rob Fearn is the reviews editor of Q, the brilliant British music magazine.

This week, as a backdrop to my birthday, winter ended, my two junker cars got towed away for good, my younger daughter learned to ride solo on her two-wheeler, and my neighbor Mike returned from wintering in Mexico. Needless to say, all this has made me eager to travel.

I can’t believe it’s been 18 years since my first getaway to Mexico. I planned it myself, secretly, with an atlas and a phone book, in the weeks before my 16th birthday. When the morning of the big day arrived, I skipped school and hopped an MTC to the Greyhound terminal. I had enough money for a one-way ticket to El Paso and $67 for food and sundries en route. I wore an unattractive light gray Members Only jacket and baggy jeans, and carried a purple tote bag with the word “Ciao!” embroidered on the small label. I had braces on my teeth and a genuinely traumatic hair-do leftover from a perm gone wrong at a discount beauty school.

Nevertheless, I was shedding the stresses of my greasy job at Arby’s, the unwelcome adjustment to my 11th new school in 11 years, and the day-to-day unpleasantries of poverty and social isolation. I was happy to be hitting the road, and almost sick with adrenaline and anticipation as I counted out the bills for bus fare.

Despite sweaty palms and a dry throat, I had the benefit of recent experience with cross-country bus trips. Just before my freshman year of high school, I’d plunked down my summer babysitting cash and left the driving to Greyhound for a ride West from Minnesota to Wyoming to visit my best friend Holly in Casper, where I had lived for six years. That trip had been mostly uneventful, with the exception of a few unusual but harmless seatmates and one jarring snafu in rural Wyoming, when my 14-day bus pass expired earlier than I’d calculated, and a stickler at the transfer station refused to let me back on the bus.

However, my bus fare was hitch-free this time around. It was the whole entering-a-foreign-country thing that had me worried. I had to walk across the border from El Paso to Juárez and figure out, with two years of high-school Spanish and a pocket dictionary, how to traverse the 1,500 miles south to Cuernavaca, where I expected to look up a family for whom I’d babysat regularly before they’d moved away to Mexico.

My first shock came when I tried to ask a pedestrian how to find the train station and he apparently thought I’d asked him to lead me to a hotel. Which he did. By this time I’d been traveling alone by bus for three days and nights, my $67 was dwindling, I was dirty, tired, and losing my sense of adventure. My purple tote bag was growing heavier and heavier under the setting Mexican sun. So, at 16 years and a few days old, 1,500 miles from home, having never seriously taken up any of the usual teenaged pastimes of cigarettes, alcohol, or boys, I followed this Mexican man up the dimly lit staircase of a shabby hotel and collapsed in exhaustion on the pink polyester bedspread. I awoke to the nostril-burning scent of aftershave hovering above me, and when I opened my eyes my travel companion was staring down at me, ready for a kiss.

I lurched out of his way, exclaiming in Spanish and English and every gesture in between that he had gotten the wrong idea. And then I said something I thought he would understand in either language: “I am a Catholic girl!” I wasn’t Catholic, then or now, but the point was well taken, and suddenly this man handed over his wallet, his license, and a stream of earnest apologies and promises that he would do nothing further to offend or harm me. I believed him. Maybe because I could tell he was a good person and meant what he said, or maybe because I was desperate and without a better alternative. Either way, he kept his promises and slept upright in a chair through the night while I lay half awake on the bed. In the morning we ate eggs at a street-side cafe and he walked me to the train station, where he acted as my translator. What he said I don’t know, but somehow he convinced the border patrol to let me on the train with a Dayton’s student charge card as my only I.D.

The train carried me through the Mexican countryside to the city of Chihuahua, where I boarded a bus to Mexico City. From there, finally, I transferred onto the bus that would complete the final leg of my journey to Cuernavaca. By now I’d been on the road about a week, and when I disembarked at the Cuernavaca station, the intensity of my desire to find my American friends was staggering. I found a pay phone and fumbled through my bag for the appropriate foreign coins. I didn’t know their phone number, and suddenly the assumption I’d left home with—of being able to find my friends once I “got to town”—seemed foolish and impossible. I wandered the station in search of a phone book, furiously blinking back tears.

I was afraid to ask for help, since I was pretty sure I’d burst out sobbing and expose my stupidity. I ended up doing both, and to add injury to insult, the friends I had traveled 3,000 miles to see were no longer living in Cuernavaca. I was broke and 16. My attempt to make my way in Cuernavaca failed. The American minister and his wife who gave me shelter didn’t take long to track down my mother and send me back home to all that I’d left behind, including my trusty job at Arby’s.

About a year later, I was working the “window,” and a pretty woman with a soft, southern drawl and two not-so-little-anymore girls drove through ordering Adventure Meals (I’m not making that up, that’s what Arby’s kids’ meals were called then). It was my friend from Cuernavaca. She parked the car and brought her girls into the restaurant; I took my break and we all reminisced. It turned out they’d moved to Guadalajara about a year before I’d come.

I shudder to think of the things that might have happened on that birthday jaunt. Sometimes the thought of that pungent aftershave draws forth a memory so vivid it stops me short. But then again, I’m here to tell the tale, and more importantly, I’ve got a tale to tell. Houses are bought and sold, jobs are gained and lost, the remains of the passing year are turned under every fall and unearthed each spring…and cars, apparently, are towed away with surprising regularity. But our adventures are beyond all that. Our adventures are inspired—breathed in to transform us, breathed out again as the people we’ve now become.

Jeannine Ouellette is a Minneapolis writer and teacher who loves steep hills and hardy shrub roses.