I love [the Band Box Diner]. The chef, and I mean, a chef, came from Caffe Solo [“The Original All-American,” October]. He introduced garlic chicken with mashed potatoes to Minneapolis. He is so nice and runs a wonderful grill. You can have a classic diner dinner and chat him up at the same time. He even told me that if I wanted to take a vacation and relieve him at the grill for a day or two he would allow it. What an offer to a real foodie.
OK, let me see if I have this right. You published an article about the director of the St. Paul Public Library, and you made some errors, which you corrected and for which you apologized [Letters, October]. You could not fact-check the article, you say, because Minneapolis doesn’t have a reference librarian available on Sunday or Monday. Such a problem, and you would have my sympathy, but …
On Sunday, from 1 to 5 p.m., you might have found answers at St. Paul Central, Highland Park, Rondo Community, St. Anthony, or Sun Ray. On Monday, various hours, all of the St. Paul branches, and the Central library, are open.
If St. Paul is a problem for some reason, you could try the Ramsey County system, where all branches are open on Monday and several on Sunday.
If St. Paul and Ramsey County give you the heebie-jeebies, you could try Hennepin, where the Ridgedale library is open on Sunday and all branches are open on Monday.
I grant you, you might not find a bona fide reference librarian at each of these libraries at any given time, but a few phone calls could probably have tracked one down.
I love the Minneapolis Central Library, but limiting yourself to Minneapolis for library services is just that: limiting.
Editor’s note: Ellen, we’re surprised you didn’t mention all the other excuses we proffered for our complete lack of fact-checking that article. We also said the sun was in our eyes. If you really wanted to be helpful, you could have also offered us a list of stores that sell hats.
Shame on you; the Twin Cities has a kaleidoscope of nationalities, races, and ethnic backgrounds [“What Do You Do?” October]. Yet you all chose to represent only a single minority in your profiles of real-world work. Seriously?
I read your blurb in the October issue about Dee Dee Bridgewater playing a rare two nights at the Dakota to support her new disk, Red Earth. Dee Dee dedicated this CD to her U.S. sound engineer, Minnesota native James “Hatter” Hatz. A beautiful eulogy for him is printed on the back page of the cover art. Hatter died at the age of forty-four, from cancer. His friends and family remain in the Twin Cities area. Hatter was a well-respected sound man for many, many local bands. He may well be one of the reasons we here in Minnesota are lucky enough to attract a performer of Ms. Bridgewater’s caliber. Besides our obvious hipness. Just thought you’d want to know.
Ok, so we’re not in a foriegn country, but I still think we’re fun. This is my teammates and I at the Head of the Charles Regatta in Boston. We row for the Minneapolis Rowing Club. In boston we raced in the Club 8 event (that would mean 60+ft boats, 8 rowers, one coxswain). Sadly we placed 19th this year after being top 10 the previous 2 years. My Oar broke within the first 500m of the race (it’s a 5000m race) so it was a frustrating end to the season. But making The Rake would help make up for that.
Row 1: Alex Guerrieri (Coxswain)
Row 2: our boat – City of Lakes
Row 3: Marisa Bargsten, Me (Alyssa Kunau) holding the Rake, Jill Frank, Heather Maenke
Row 4: Steph Hauge, Jess Greenstein, Rochelle Winn, Tara Mucha
Thanks!
I love the magazine!
Alyssa
After a few day slogging through the mud at the Glastonbury Festival of Contemporary Performing Arts (near Shepton Mallet, Somerset County, England), we needed a good, strong Rake.
Scott Schiefelbein, Naomi Oshiro and daughter, Miki Oshiro Schiefelbein (all of Minneapolis) were enjoying the mud at Glasto and took a break from the music for a little reading.
Mark Mahon of Minneapolis, who visited the ancient Karnak Temple on a recent vacation in Egypt, sent this dispatch: “The core of Karnak—the temple of Amun, the king of the gods—has 134 pillars built by Ramses II. Subsequent pharaohs built their own vainglorious annexes, shrines, and temples over a 1,300-year period. Ego trips abounded in pharaonic Egypt.” Here, Mahon grandstands before the gods with his own offering of magnificence: the May 2007 issue of The Rake.
We’re all running a day late and a ten-spot short these days, but one thing’s certain. If you can’t do your Halloween candy shopping ’til 7 p.m. on All Hallows’ Eve, even though every other candy display has been stripped bare, you’ll still find racks of Circus Peanuts, a Halloween treat that ranks alongside sticking your hand into the Jack-o’-lantern and pulling out pumpkin guts.
Candy should be a simple joy. But Circus Peanuts are a confectionary metaphor for annoyance and disappointment. Is there any candy as despised as Circus Peanuts? Or as mysterious? What were Willy Wonka and his tiny sweatshop slaves thinking when they created these things? Ponder the decision to cover the surface with yummy pockmarks, or the intriguing attempt to use “Circus” as a mouthwatering descriptor for food. It’s wrong to call them Circus Peanuts. They don’t taste like peanuts. Nor like anything sold at the circus. Circus Peanuts taste like something made from a worn-out sponge. With their dubiously food-like appearance—dimpled orange blobs approximating giant peanuts in the shell—they could be the bloated, dismembered carcass of Planters Peanut spokeslegume Mr. Peanut. They look as if poor misguided Mr. Peanut had a difference of opinion with the Mob (maybe a beef over a shipment of candy cigarettes, maybe roughing up some Ho Hos) and his torso, sans limbs, top hat, and monocle, washed up on a barren stretch of shoreline, becoming Exhibit A in an episode of CSI: Candyland. I can see the scene in the morgue where the battle-hardened coroner pulls back the sheet covering the swollen, carrot-colored remains, staggers back a step and gasps, “Good God!”
Here’s a depressing fact: Circus Peanuts have been around since the nineteenth century. I knew our ancestors lived on a dreary diet of slaughterhouse sweepings and porridge, but this broke my heart. The precise story of Circus Peanuts is lost in the fog of history, probably because nobody was willing to take the rap for developing it. Even in today’s cutthroat candy marketplace, companies are not battling to lay claim to this wretched delicacy. There’s no trademark symbol stamped protectively next to the name, no attempt to turn it into a brand, no court battles over distribution rights. Hershey, Kraft, Mars, and Nestlé want nothing to do with it. The leading manufacturer is Melster Candies Inc. of Cambridge, Wisconsin. Understandably, they keep a low profile. Circus Peanuts generally retail for 99 cents, but at the better dollar stores you can find them marked down to a quarter. Open the bag and out wafts the cloying aroma of a strip-mall tanning salon tinged with banana oil. Once the woozy feeling of morning sickness passes, dig in, if you dare ignore the visual warning of their nauseating off-salmon color. Like Cheetos, Nacho Cheese Doritos, and Tang, Circus Peanuts are an anxiety-inducing shade of orange that is surely nature’s warning of elevated threat. Fresh out of the bag, they have the consistency of the foam earplugs I use to muffle the jets dive-bombing my South Minneapolis home en route to the Hubert H. Humphrey Terminal. I think the earplugs are almost as tasty.
Neither solid nor foamy, Circus Peanuts are chewy, gritty, and gummy all at once, a taste-bud explosion of displeasure. Most of us can recall trips to Grandma’s house, when we took Circus Peanuts from her candy dish and battled boredom by molding them into snakes, footballs, and (for me) glamorous grown-up-lady press-on nails. The late John Holahan, a vice-president of General Mills, must have been in a similarly artistic mood one fateful day in 1963 when he shaved slivers of Circus Peanuts over his Cheerios and shouted “Eureka!” According to company lore, an ad firm suggested marketing his discovery by linking it to the trendy accessory of the day, the charm bracelet, and Lucky Charms were born. It’s a cute story, but what else did Holahan shred on top of his family’s cereal before the big breakthrough? Atomic Fireballs? Pez? Wax Lips? Breakfast at the Holahans must have been a tense experience.
In their defense, Circus Peanuts could be a good candy for Weight Watchers. Dieting is easy when you’ve got treats like this to discourage you from eating. And if it’s your Halloween candy of last resort, the little goblins probably won’t devour your whole supply. When they see what you’re handing out, they’ll turn on their heels, and you’ll have next year’s trick-or-treat candy, too. And as a bonus, you’ll have a wealth of toilet paper in your trees.
“ … Sure, it’s all there, but it’s kind of a tease. We’re definitely guilty of teasing.”
—Joel Coen, on Barton Fink
If you’ve visited the website for No Country for Old Men (opening November 9), you might have read the claim that the Coen brothers’ newest film “strips down the American crime drama and broadens its concerns to encompass themes as ancient as the Bible and as bloodily contemporary as this morning’s headlines.” As promotional copy goes, this is not just a bold assertion, but quite out of character for the Coens, suggesting that, for once, they have attempted to make a real-world movie and not the usual cartoonish oddity on which they have built their artistic reputations. If you’ve been watching the Coens’ movies since the beginning, you know that the boys have made their mark in peddling fun and don’t take anything seriously. But after years, this outlook has yielded films with, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein, very little there there.
So fans of the Coen brothers have taken heart at the news that the brothers, in adapting a novel for the first time in their careers, chose a title from the decidedly hard-boiled Cormac McCarthy; coming out of the Cannes Film Festival, it was seen as a triumphant return after years of mediocrity.
With its strange characters, Southwest setting, a complex plot involving a lost bundle of cash and plenty of outrageous violence, McCarthy’s novel shares a number of hallmarks from the Coen oeuvre—more specifically, from their noir films, which include their first, Blood Simple (1984), Miller’s Crossing (1990), and 1996’s Oscar-winning Fargo.
Blood Simple was a cool piece of work, slow yet compelling, with its bizarre camera angles, low-life characters and their oddball dialogue, and a plot that circled back on itself like a snake swallowing its own tail. Its deadpan humor and gushing violence were great thrills in that pre-Tarantino era; personally, it made me want to make movies (though I didn’t get around to it), and seek out noir beyond Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. Eventually I discovered Jim Thompson and James M. Cain—the latter’s work was a primary influence on Blood Simple, which, as a shallow masterpiece, portended great things for its creators.
The Coen brothers are certainly neither the first nor the last filmmakers to pay homage to their favorite cinema. After all, these were boys who, growing up in St. Louis Park, used to remake movies on Super-8, including one title, Advise and Consent, that they hadn’t seen but thought sounded cool. For a fledgling cinephile, watching the Coens’ work could lead to other discoveries through its references to Howard Hawks, Preston Sturges, Busby Berkeley, and even David Lynch. You could do little wrong hunting down the myriad references at your video store—even though it begins to expose the Coens as less than meets the eye by comparison.
Miller’s Crossing was the single instance of the brothers’ homage working in utter service to the plot. This incredible film, based on a hybrid of Dashiell Hammett’s Red Harvest and The Glass Key, was at once their greatest work and the one movie that seemed to reflect a deeper concern for their characters. The plot bedevils anyone who tries to summarize it, but involves rival gangs, Irish and Italian, and musings on the nature of loyalty and friendship. Its violence was at once disturbing and ridiculous, most notably in the scene in which Leo (Albert Finney) shoots a man through a window, making the guy do what one critic called the “Thompson jitterbug”: a quivering gangster is kept standing by the bullets from a rival’s Tommy gun, while simultaneously firing his machine gun (and shooting his own toes off). If the manic pace and startling violence didn’t hook you, the rich characters made you want to watch it again and again.
But after that, the Coens hit a wall called Barton Fink. It’s often forgotten that Fink was, before Fargo, their most acclaimed film, becoming the first and only movie in the history of Cannes to win best picture, actor, and director. But the movie is a strange thing, schizophrenic, the first half seeming to be their most personal effort yet, the second half a baffling parable of … what? The Coens had written the script in three weeks, supposedly in an attempt to recharge their brains while writing the demanding screenplay for Miller’s Crossing. And Fink looks tossed off: Is this merely a parody of the writer in Hollywood, a Lynchian examination of an artist’s mind, or a strange entertainment devoid of meaning? Is it just, as Joel Coen said, “a tease”?
It’s a question that dogs their every film. In interviews, the Coens fail to answer probing questions—such as the meaning of the myriad hats that show up throughout Miller’s Crossing, or the weird scene in Fargo with Marge and her pal from high school. The brothers seem determined to obfuscate, arguing that they’re only having fun, that the movies are just entertainment devoid of connection to life in general and their lives in particular—or else they shift the focus to their detailed craftsmanship.
At times it does seem as if the Coens look on their subjects cavalierly. When asked by one interviewer about the comic and thriller elements in their movies, the two evoked Chandler and Hammett and Cain, suggesting that those writers were grim, but that the tones were upbeat, or as Ethan put it, “insanely eupeptic.” This is a pretty shallow interpretation of these works, especially Chandler’s, whose novels are bleached with the sun-bright despair of Los Angeles. Think of the doomed Harry Jones in The Big Sleep, who gulps poison to protect the woman he loves, or the ruined blonde, Silver Wig, a tragic figure who vanishes into the night. These characters, each of whom probably takes up fewer than five pages in the book, have more emotional resonance than any figure in the Coens’ entire body of work.
Consider death in the Coens’ films. Their characters kick the bucket in a variety of distinctive ways: buried alive, blown apart by a grenade, diving off a skyscraper, fried in the electric chair, drowning at the bottom of a river (in a knowing but ultimately empty nod to The Night of the Hunter), succumbing to a heart attack, and, most famously, by ax, then disposed of in a woodchipper. Now, in No Country for Old Men, they are dispatched by a coin-flipping psychopath wielding a slaughterhouse stun gun. But we remember the gruesome murders more than we mourn the people who suffer them. Joel Coen has said that he loathes people crying in movies. So he’s made no film that has ever moved anyone to tears, or even a lump in the throat. Even Preston Sturges, whose work has influenced so many Coen brothers films, has done as much in his madcap comedies.
With this in mind, could the Coens be hoping to piggyback onto some deeper meaning by adapting a novel from Cormac McCarthy? From early reviews, it sounds as if No Country for Old Men sticks close to the intensity—and the spiritual gravity—of the book, and you certainly couldn’t describe this McCarthy title (or anything from him) as “eupeptic.” There’s also some indication that No Country resurrects some of the gravity of Miller’s Crossing and its literary inspiration in Hammett. As with McCarthy, novels from Hammett are sparse things, where violence explodes suddenly and affects people in all too real ways.
This change from the Coens would be a welcome relief. While there’s nothing wrong with films as simple entertainment, if they lack any feeling, any sense of emotional connection, any characters who are remotely real, what makes a Coen brothers film any more significant than, say, the newest Michael Bay flick—except that it’s made to appeal to artsy cinephiles? Looking back at a Preston Sturges comedy, it’s easy to see how it speaks both of its specific time and of people in general. Not so with the Coens.
For nearly twenty years, I’ve been hungering for them to make another movie on the order of Miller’s Crossing, and I’ve been disappointed with every new film. Just as I’ve come to wonder if anything truly concerns the Coen brothers, maybe the brothers themselves have come to ask themselves a similar question. And maybe with No Country for Old Men, we’ll both have an answer.
“Combining collegiate potty humor with flashes of surrealistic brilliance, comedies such as Anchorman, Wedding Crashers, and Old School represent the height of the Hollywood crossover, appealing to old smart alecks, young dumb alecks, and anyone in between who appreciates gratuitous nudity and boner gags.”
That’s stripper-turned-critic-turned-screenwriter Diablo Cody reviewing The 40-Year-Old Virgin in City Pages. As film editor at that publication, I gave the assignment to the then-Minneapolitan artiste during her short stint in what she has since deemed “yellow journalism.” In 2005, I thought hers was a solid take on the Judd Apatow film, not yellow in the least (and told her so). Now it looks to me like a shrewdly determined formula for the script, then recently completed, of Cody’s own major motion picture, Juno—which, like Apatow’s Knocked Up, carries an initially unwanted pregnancy to comedic term and, uh, delivers.
I’m not saying that one collegial potty mouth—Cody or Apatow—plucked dirty little secrets from the other’s bowl, or that the two consensually shared a stall en route to their word processors. I’m only gathering from the near-simultaneous appearance of these babies, Knocked Up and Juno, that there must be something in the air around a young woman’s pregnant belly these days that smells like opportunity—particularly to those like Cody, newly transplanted from Minneapolis to L.A., who are aspiring to the “height of the Hollywood crossover.”
Born Brook Busey in suburban Illinois, “Diablo Cody” has long been a gleam in the eye of this twentysomething tease. Now, finally, the character’s conception is complete. Juno, which placed second among a hundred-odd movies in competition for the Toronto Film Festival’s audience award in September (and which opens next month), isn’t just a fully formed creation, but practically the blueprint for a commercial comedy in the post-post-feminist aughts.
Well-rounded enough to reel in multiple demographics, the title character is a sassy adolescent from suburban Minnesota (the movie was shot near Vancouver, alas) who digs Suspiria and the Stooges (raw power, grrrl), discovers she has a bun in the oven (that geeky track star was too sweet to resist!), and calls Women Now for abortion info (choice!). But by the time she meets the hopeful adoptive yuppies from St. Cloud, a.k.a. “East Jesus Nowhere,” young Juno has agreed “this is one doodle that can’t be undid.” (Bring the whole family!)
When Cody appeared onstage after a jam-packed Juno screening in Toronto, she was clothed—in a tight Superman tee, Jeff Spicoli kicks, and a red thrift-store skirt short enough to flaunt the tattoo on her impressively chunky thigh. (The critic is allowed to review the stripper’s body of work, right?) With star Ellen Page (Hard Candy) and director Jason Reitman (Thank You for Smoking) standing alongside, the first-time screenwriter informed the crowd that the movie isn’t autobiographical. “I’ve never been pregnant,” she confessed. Nevertheless, Cody knows a bit about giving up a baby: She did, after all, sell her first-born screenplay to Fox Searchlight, which brought Little Miss Sunshine into the world.
Like that ingratiating Oscar winner, Juno is a cute bundle sired by none other than sugar daddy Rupert Murdoch; it’s an alternative-looking movie that won’t lack for blockbuster publicity and promotion, especially in awards season. I mention this not to dis Cody’s punk offspring for its privileged surrogate parentage (who wouldn’t sell her first script to Searchlight?), but to suggest that Juno, as corporate “indie” fare, thoroughly fulfills its critic-author’s crossover ideal. The first hour’s broad vulgarity (boner gag: “All I see are pork swords!”) is strategically placed to make the second half’s ultrasound conservatism a tad easier for “young dumb alecks” to stomach. And in the end, this old-fashioned women’s picture isn’t entirely unrecognizable as the work of a man whose dad made Meatballs—even though director Jason Reitman (son of Ivan) took patronizing pains in Toronto to credit Cody and Page as “two very special, very talented, beautiful women who have changed my life.” (Reitman also felt compelled to commend his spouse for delivering their baby in between his two other productions.)
Then there’s stridently contradictory Cody: “the naked Margaret Mead,” as she fancied herself on David Letterman’s set last year, who bared her bod in the Skyway Lounge on a lark (en route to cashing Penguin’s check for Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper). A true Cody completist would’ve studied her work on the pole to determine whether and how this social satirist puts her money where her mouth is (or is that the other way around?). Still, as crossovers go, one needn’t have caught Cody’s dildo shows at SexWorld to know that, this li’l devil of a Catholic girl—now shaking her thing for Mr. Steven Spielberg—is in a class by herself.