Everyone knows Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, but did you know that it’s merely the best known among dozens of Victor-ian ghost stories traditionally told in the context of Christmas? Here, our old friend Steve Schroer—who gave up his gig as The Rake’s theater expert to get back up on the stage himself—and his Hardcover Theater Company have adapted three lesser-known spooks from the same era. By the way, this a great alternative to the Guthrie’s classic offering, especially for kids; we’re told there is nothing quite as scary here as the Dickens adaptation, and there are quite a few laughs to keep mom and dad chuckling too. Playwrights’ Center, (612) 332-7481, www.pwcenter.org
Year: 2002
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Talk to Her
One of the problems with seeing films like Pedro Almodóvar’s latest, Talk To Her, is that it inspires a profound guilt for all the time we’ve wasted on the latest Hollywood drivel. It’s doubly regrettable that this marvelous film will make its way to town during the holiday release frenzy and will probably get lost among the explosion fests. So, please let the brats off at the multiplex to see Bond or Potter, and bring a friend with whom you can share something deeper than a box of popcorn. Almodóvar, whose All About My Mother won the 1999 foreign film Oscar, has again plumbed the depths of sorrow, loneliness and difficult loves—but this time from the men’s point of view. Benigno and Marco befriend each other when they are both caring for lovers who have been put into comas as a result of trauma. But while Marco has known his Lydia for a long time, Benigno’s only spoken with Alicia once before her accident. During their time together at the private clinic where the two women are cared for, Almodóvar tells their stories via the men’s monologues with the comatose women and through effortless movement through the past and present. All this is not to say that the director abandons his infatuation with bizarre behavior—in this case it’s an act so out of bounds that one can’t help but be intellectually repulsed. At the same time, Almodóvar leaves us enchanted by the humanity and sympathy of the character who perpetrates the outrage. Allegories abound here, and you’ll have to pay close attention to get everything Almodóvar throws at you, but that’s an effort that will be rewarded with something more than the regret you’ll have at wasting another $15 on something you can see on cable in six months.
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Kudos to the Kolumnists
I want to give the Rake some enthusiastic and positive feedback on your columnists -Kruse, Collins and Ouellette. I imagine they each elicit some downright combustible flame-mail from some of the more touchy element out there, but I’ve much appreciated the topics these columnists have tackled and perspectives they’ve shared.
Even if my perspective is sometimes different, usually much thought and discussion is generated in my head and often between myself and friends. And new thoughts and discussion are always good because, to echo Jeannine Ouellette’s assertions in her most recent column, when’s the last time you or I had any new thoughts knocking around in our noggins – let alone any that really make a difference?
So kudos to them!!
Tara Jenson
Minneapolis -
Sympathy from Sydney
I live a long, long way away, in Sydney, Australia, but follow as much of US politics as I can. I hardly had heard of Paul Wellstone until his tragedy during the mid-term elections.
The point is that reading Hans Eisenbeis’ ‘take’ (St. Paul: All Apologies) on Wellstone made me identify with not only the ‘universal parish politician’ (contradiction in terms as it may be) but with the strivings and happlessness of ‘John Citoyen’.
A succinct piece. An empathetic portrayal of politician and innocent bystander.
Sam AJ Pillay
Sydney, Australia -
Bad Mannered Crowd Set the Tone
Tom Bartel forgot to mention the crowd (Forgiving Rick Kahn)– which started the first unfortunate move to create a partisan politcal event by booing the Republicans and clapping for the Democrats. That helped set up the Republicans to take the high road – in mourning, they sympathized; the Democrats threw tomatoes. And that behavior can be traced back to bitterness from the highly negative campaign Coleman chose to run against Wellstone.
Noreen Aldern Groethe
Minneapolis -
Bartel is Right On
I think Tom Bartel (Forgiving Rick Kahn) is right-on in his comments surrounding the DFL debacle and downfall in this election. For quite a while now I’ve been convinced that no matter how on-track, pertinent or good-willed the Democrats or Greens and their respective platforms are – such will never be able to stand against the slick, merciless, inexorable, stop-at-nothing Republican Machine.
When Bill Clinton can be impeached for a “who cares?” sex-scandal but Americans continue to boost George W. and Cheney on our shoulders like prize quarterbacks despite the encyclopedia of blatant corruption, greed, underhandedness and warmongering that continues to shake our economy and world – it’s obvious that it’s all about marketing.
And while the Repubs will forever remain ruthless and devious, the Demos/Greens likely by nature never will be. So unless the Demos/Greens can find some means of convincing Americans of the worthiness of their message even half as effectively as Repubs can brainwash Joe Average onto their wagon, they don’t stand a chance.
Tara Jenson
Minneapolis -
Typical Liberal Excuses
Tom Bartel’s “Forgiving Rick Kahn” contains the typical, overused liberal excuse that nobody on the Democrat side of the house is responsible for the voters choosing Norm Coleman. Don’t forget, this is the same state electorate that chose Sen. “Do Nothing” Dayton (or did he change his name to Marshall Fields as well?) in 2000 to bookend Wellstone. Perhaps the voters in this northern bastion finally understand that being a Democrat means you drag your feet and spend all of your time with society’s fringe elements. Senator-elect Coleman and Governor-elect Pawlenty aren’t extremists. They played right down the middle with their political approach and it seemed to find a home with voters — particularly with those outside of the Twin Cities. It’s time to swim in the mainstream, Mr. Bartel. Let us keep the communities and country safe. I’m sure Mr. Kahn could even appreciate that from his Minnetonka home.
T.J. Chochrek
Edina -
St. Paul: All Apologies
I never knew Paul Wellstone, never met him, never interviewed him. I once saw him walking down Grand Avenue, alone, in a knit shirt and short pants. I was driving by with a friend, and I said, "There’s Paul Wellstone," and I was a little taken aback when he looked up and waved, apparently hearing me, even though it was a private conversation inside a moving car. Inside every loudspeaker is a powerful magnet–that’s the image I still have of Paul Wellstone.
I liked him okay. I think I voted for him in 1990, when he most resembled a third-party candidate. I vote for third parties mostly on the principle that our system desperately needs to give real representation to minority parties and interests, which it still doesn’t do–except through the wacky, sometimes naive filibusters of a guy like Paul. I was both proud and embarrassed when he was the sole vote of dissent in the Gulf War back in 1990–and president Bush allegedly asked, "Who is this little chickenshit?" Frankly, that was the last time he really impressed me–which says more about me than it does about him. (That is: I apparently stopped paying attention more than a decade ago).
Even if I wasn’t paying attention, it still seems to me the Democrats never embraced Wellstone in life the way they have done in death. This probably has to do with the fact that he has become an accidental but convenient symbol for all that the party is not, maybe never was, but sometimes wishes it would be. One thing is for sure–he was not a New Democrat. Clinton, Gore, Lieberman; these guys held Wellstone at arm’s length. If anything, he was Old School Democrat… a podium-hammering man with the strength of conviction to continue the highly uncool but traditional role of speaking for the voiceless, the powerless, the unrepresented. He was P.C. thirty years before the odious phrase was coined.
Or was he? I’ve grown mighty tired, in a very short time, of all the disingenuous tributes. Aside from the normal extravagance and sentimentality that writers afford themselves in times of national turmoil, I am highly suspicious of critics who suddenly make a show of wiping away their crocodile tears for the man. It’s just as bad as having to listen to nit-witted conservatives, lifelong enemies, damning him with the faint praise of being "a man of principle who believed in his [essentially flawed] convictions."
But writers are more devious than that. Writers are fundamentally not doers but watchers. Inevitably this makes us critics, in the worst, arm-chair sense of the word. We are a scurrilous and spineless bunch who are the self-appointed experts we’re constantly affecting to decry. There was nothing easier in the world than sitting back and taking shots at Wellstone–or any other public figure, for that matter.
What does a writer "do" compared to a public servant or even a rock star? He sits on a chair, at a keyboard, wrestling with the language, and that’s the end of it. He hides behind the conceit that more direct involvement in the world will corrupt his work. He says he would have gladly engaged the public man, personally and professionally, wishes he would have–Oh, how they might have wrestled over the vagaries of public policy!–a few days too late.
What a writer creates is a page full of words. That is his creative act, and it’s a tough one, to be sure, but it’s not really much in the grand scheme of things. Writers, I’m afraid, are not nearly as evolved as lots of other human beings, and whatever we have to say about the passing of a person like Paul Wellstone should be looked upon with the same scrutiny you all save for us the rest of the time.
Just so: I’d prefer not to live in a world where Paul Wellstone is considered radical. More than that, I’d prefer not to live in a world where good and noble people–someone’s mother, father, daughter, son–simply fall from the sky and leave our lives so brutally fast, with so much unfinished business.
The rest is moot. May they rest in peace.
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Smoke Signals
The life of a publishing professional is not as glamorous as it might seem. The nights are frequently an extension of the days, which are an extension of the mornings—which is to say, lots of burnt coffee, dull pencils, and hectoring phone calls. The editor of this magazine occasionally slips out for a drink, it’s true, maybe a bit of dessert. If babysitting works out, the wife of the editor may come along. (Although crème brulée is outlawed from the pages of the magazine, it is welcomed at the table.)
The metabolism of this magazine’s editor is not what it used to be. This is the self-evident conclusion to be drawn from the infrequent occasions when he has a few beers and takes in, say, a rock ’n’ roll concert. It’s a simple consequence of aging. Most of us can’t handle the excesses we once could. Surely it’s a survival mechanism, the difference between burning out and fading away. The fact is, most of us are for fading away, and it’s a good thing. A generation of Sid Viciouses would be the end of the race. Anyway, the point is this: Nobody hates a hangover the way we do, and we now know that the worst hangovers have nothing to do with the beer, or the scotch, or even the champagne. It’s the cigarette smoke. Whether times have changed, whether people in bars are smoking more than ever, we can’t say. But we do know that your average gin mill today is an intensely aromatic experience. By the time the editor gets home, the dog won’t come near, the kids resist affection, and the wife just points at the shower or the couch.
Earlier this month, Michael Bloomberg proposed a rigorous ban on smoking throughout New York City. Yes, the ban would apply to bars and restaurants. Needless to say, excitable New Yorkers converged on City Hall. It’s unthinkable! It’s an outrage! What’s next, banning cell phones in public places?! (Oops, already working on that. No kidding.) But anyone who has traveled to California in the last five years can report that this type of law is not only possible, it’s terrific. Californians have embraced the ban, they self-police, they stay out later, they feel better. No one smokes in the bars, and yet the bars continue to thrive! The eyes don’t sting, the throat doesn’t burn, the hair doesn’t feel tacky as flypaper. The band is visible in living color from as far away as 50 feet.
(Just to be clear, let’s just say this: The editor actually enjoys a civilized smoke now and again. A Winston Light, an American Spirit, even a Fuente Hemingway. But we’ll gladly take it outside, if it means we don’t have to wash our clothes and person in tomato juice every time we want to rejoin genteel company. Hey, we’re all about social responsibility.)
Has this kind of thing been tried in Minnesota? Yes. Has it succeeded? Not really. Eden Prairie recently passed a weak version of an antismoking measure that pretty much just guarantees that addicted Eden Prairie civil servants will be freezing their butts off this winter. And the good people of Cloquet and Duluth have been fighting tooth-and-nail over their aggressive anti-smoking statutes for more than a year. (One might say that many of these local efforts in outstate Minnesota are doomed to failure, for the simple reason that there isn’t much to do other than smoke and drink. But that wouldn’t be nice.) There is one legitimate complaint: Business owners say smokers will conduct their affairs in that booming, smoke-choked town down the road. The obvious solution is to pass new statewide standards—hell, let’s make them national.
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New Delhi Bar and Restaurant
We add our “megadittoes” to the chorus of praise heaped on this Loring Park restaurant since it opened this summer. Although it’s located in a graveyard of failed dining ventures (the unfortunately named “Snoodles” restaurant being only the most recent doomed enterprise), this Indian eatery has culinary chops to spare, and a pleasing atmosphere of hand-painted murals and hanging silks. Several recent visits to the obligatory lunch buffet revealed some unusual choices, including a clove-tinged egg curry, a seasonally-appropriate zucchini curry, a goat curry, and a vegetable curry flavored with white raisins. Also in evidence was the crepe-like Dosai, which Twin Cities diners have recently been introduced to at southern Indian restaurants like Udupi in Columbia Heights. In addition to the usual suspects of local Indian dining, the dinner menu includes other intriguing dishes like lobster vindaloo, an okra masala. and a coconut soup, which will insure many happy returns this fall. New Delhi, (612) 813-0000