Category: Article

Some complain that coverage of the war in Iraq is too negative. Others complain that the countless civilian deaths and deteriorating living conditions are being kept from American eyes. One thing is certain: The media has yet to present much of any picture of Iraq’s citizens. Which makes the release of this documentary, filmed by Hayder Daffar, a night clerk at Baghdad’s Palestine Hotel, all the more remarkable. Working with a team of U.S. and Iraqi producers and filmmakers, Daffar depicts life in post-Saddam, pre-reconstruction Baghdad, offering an unnerving look into the streets of Iraq streets and the minds of its citizens. Lingering on the psychological and social effects this experience is having on Iraq’s children, Dreams makes it clear that the ultimate price the war will exact, in the Middle East and in the U.S., remains to be tabulated. 10 Church St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-627-4430; www.bellmuseum.org

After the last sizzling chunks of downtown Minneapolis’ fireworks drop into the river, head over to the Soap Factory for an open-air screening of dozens—perhaps a hundred! Maybe a thousand?—films before you go home. It’s fully possible when the films are just ten seconds long. But that’s time enough to experience pathos, hilarity, and maybe even some tacky naked people. These days, anyone with a digital camera or fancy cellphone can be a filmmaker. But it’s the undoubtedly rowdy audience that will confer greatness-in-filmmaking status on winners for such categories such as “action,” “documentary,” and “most dangerous film.” Be sure to vote your conscience—the winners will be awarded a beer and a burger at Grumpy’s. 110 Fifth Ave S.E., Minneapolis; 612-623-9176; http://tensecondfilmfest.org ??

Bearing a Joycean title (“yes” is the last word of Ulysses) and delivering dialogue in iambic pentameter and rhyming couplets, Sally Potter’s newest film is unabashedly poetic. The superb cast delivers the verse deftly, concentrating on meaning rather than meter, thus making it an almost transparent device. We notice it just enough to admire it. This contemporary love story pairs a married upper-class American woman and an immigrant Middle Eastern man. They attempt to find commonalities in a world that amplifies their political, social, and religious differences. The beautiful camerawork and score underline the sublime writing. But enough of the brainy aspects of this flick: The sex scenes in this film are totally hot. Yes.

Roald Dahl is said to have hated the movie adaptation of his creepy children’s story so much that he refused to permit the book’s sequel, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, to be filmed. It’s too bad he didn’t live to see Tim Burton’s mind-bending remake, which takes the director’s eye-popping style to soaring new levels of delicious excess. Johnny Depp, always an avid collaborator with Burton, adopts a ripped-from-the-headlines, Michael Jackson-like appearance for his role as Willy Wonka, topping even his flayboyant Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. He makes Wonka’s dislike for the children he leads through his candy factory more evident than Gene Wilder did, and for good reason—snotty Veruca Salt and her companions sport even uglier personalities than in the old film. It’s a terrifying pleasure to watch them meet their just deserts.

Rude humor is the hallmark of a good summer camp film, and this parody mines all the classic elements of the genre: sexual frustration, bodily functions, and the struggle of the geek to stay alive in the Lord of the Flies-like societal breakdown that inevitably occurs when former Saturday Night Live stars take preteens into the wilderness for a vacation. Janeane Garofalo and Molly Shannon lead the debauchery at a Jewish summer camp. Bad eighties haircuts and music help make this an even guiltier pleasure.??

History on the hoof. Frankly, we have our doubts that the two-year makeover that’s about to begin on Lake Street is the kind of “help” that place needs. By 2008, the county promises us that one of Minneapolis’ most vibrant and ethnically diverse commercial corridors will boast a more genteel streetscape, along with pothole-free traffic lanes. But before all that happens, In the Heart of the Beast, long a fixture on Lake Street, will celebrate the old road’s history and spirit with a series of walking tours-as-performances. Destinations include landmarks like MeGusta and Ingebretsen’s. Along the way, puppetry installations tell stories about the street in all its guises: wildlife corridor (yes, really!), Native American trading path, cruising strip, and starting place for successive waves of immigrants. A shrine at Gustavus Adolphus Hall, the beautiful edifice that was gutted by fire last year, pays homage to all Lake Street has lost—and yet stands to lose. 1500 E. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-721-2535; www.hobt.org

Lanesboro, Minnesota’s Commonweal Theatre Company is known for mounting quality productions of challenging works, in what is apparently part of a local tradition. During Prohibition area men came in from the fields to stage a period melodrama—dressed as women. Playwright Jordan Harrison’s Act a Lady (originally commissioned by Commonweal) brings humor and intrigue to the story of that gender-bending segment of Minnesota history. In his play about a play, women take the men’s parts, and the experience of trying on another sexual identity raises passions that didn’t often get aired nearly a century ago. Or so we like to think—Act a Lady may show us otherwise. Hennepin Center for the Arts, 528 Hennepin Ave., Minneapolis, www.illusiontheater.org

The sexy Varsity opened this spring in hopes of being all things to all artistes: coffee shop for socializing or solitary pondering; stage for emoting or escapism; bar for all of the above. Now it’s staging a play perfectly suited to such funky and flexible environs. The Artificial Jungle, a film-noir send-up by Charles Ludlum (The Mystery of Irma Vep), has its female roles played by exquisite men in drag. The lead character is the vampy Roxanne Nurdinger, whose husband brings to their marriage not only that surname, but a meddling mom. When Roxanne meets a fascinating stranger, she concocts the ugliest way possible to get out of her dull situation. 1308 Fourth St. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-604-0222; www.varsitytheater.org ??

Sometimes I get sick and tired of writing. Especially when I’m facing a slew of deadlines. So I lie on the couch feeling sorry for myself. Or, if can keep my wits about me, I bury myself under the covers in my attic bedroom with a good book. If I were a society woman of times past, I could “take to my bed” without shame. But as it is, this habit remains a perplexing but enjoyable non-solution to an overabundant work life.

Or is it? Mightn’t I put those hours to good, productive use just in time for the idle days of summer by whipping up a recommended reading list based on my “research”? It’ll be like inviting you to my place for iced tea, where then you could enjoy the one reflexive activity I find irresistible when I walk into a friend’s house for the first time—snooping the bookshelves. Or the extensive vinyl record collection, like the one I was recently amazed by at a co-worker’s party. When I asked for some Cat Stevens, he said, “Name the album.” When someone else wanted Billy Bragg, he was right on it. And his indulgence of an especially emphatic request for Neil Diamond drove only two guests to leave early.

My music collection would tell you mostly that I am lame and stuck with the Indigo Girls in their prime. But my books, even just those of the last twelve months, might add up to something. First, there’s the Essential Rumi and Rumi: the Book of Love, plus True Love by Thich Nhat Hanh, a slim volume you can easily polish off in a sitting, but which, like Rumi, merits innumerable re-reads. In fact, there are twenty books in my “current” stack that have the word “love” somewhere in the title, not counting Breathing Together, Richard Kehl’s collection of quotes on the mystery of love.(Cut me some slack. I already told you I was planning a wedding this summer!) Once you got past the love books piled on my shelves and end tables, you might ask why so many books on kids and parenting, but then you’d remember that I have six kids, teach fifth grade, and used to edit a parenting magazine. You’d skim past all the writing and teaching books (though I have to say that Damn! Why Didn’t I Write That? has been both useful and inspiring), and then you’d start trying to find the ones that could tell you something you didn’t already know.

And that’s when you’d see Lionel Shriver’s We Need to Talk About Kevin. This harrowing novel of motherhood gone horrifically awry is indescribable and magnificent, although there are days I wish I had never laid eyes on it. Even now, a year since I first read it, it haunts me. Particularly the last chapter, when the author dares to allow the graphically unthinkable to happen to a child who reminded me too much of my own sunny and pure youngest. The book is a carefully constructed suspense story, despite the fact that you know from the beginning that Kevin eventually commits a school massacre; therefore, I won’t give anything further away. Suffice it to say that while many writers have attempted to explain what might drive a teenager to kill, Shriver’s book cuts to the imaginary chase unlike any other. The writing is as intense as it is intelligent, as the story unfolds from the perspective of Eva, the well-educated and extremely articulate mother of an “unsavory son.” Dubbed an “underground feminist hit,” this complex and wrenching novel rivals or surpasses Map of the World for its unflinching dissection of the darkest familial—and in this case, cultural—tragedies.

After you let Shriver beat you to a pulp, refresh yourself with The Giant’s House by Elizabeth McCracken, who is a plainspoken genius. This eccentric tale of a 1950s romance between a spinster librarian on Cape Cod and a boy afflicted with giantism was superb and stunning.

As for my own summer reading, I just started The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris, a book that my former mother-in-law passed along because it reminded her of me, and I have to find out why. Next, I’ll turn to a newish Anne Tyler, The Amateur Marriage, because even though I know it’ll be a downer, I’ve read and admired all her other books, and apparently, I love sad things. Finally, I’m looking forward to Ann Patchett’s Truth and Beauty, a memoir of her friendship with the late Lucy Grealy, whose Autobiography of a Face was the first and most unforgettable memoir I have ever read. Upcoming deadlines? No problem. I’m fully prepared to procrastinate.