The Rake Magazine

Category: Blog Post

  • Long Day's Journey

    I’m an unreliable narrator. You should know this.

    Here are my flaws: I’m alternately delighted and devastated by other people (there is, for me, little middle ground); I look for meaning in everything I see, whether or not it exists; and I believe too fervently in my own ability to change circumstances, no matter what the odds.

    So it was with my older son, who came back to us from the Mayo Clinic in June, like a whiteboard wiped clean. We’d spent years treating him for autism — OT, PT, kinesthetic exercises, biofeedback, social skills programs, and DMG. He made remarkable progress until the age of 17, when, after treatment for depression he began to slide back and then went into a near-vegetative state. Eighteen months later, we took him to Rochester nearly dead and they returned him to us (for which I am profoundly grateful) exactly the child he’d been at five: mute, ritualistic, lost . . . .

    The thing about my son — about so many people with autism — is that he was very able to do things. Play chess, navigate the city, balance my checkbook, or bake a cake. Most of his brain was functioning just fine, but the area controlling his ability to communicate had been shuttered down or roped off.

    For the past three months, he’s been in a transitional post-high school program where one of his main activities seems to be riding the bus from class to the shopping mall, three miles away. The goal, I guess, is to teach independence. But the tedium of his days, frankly, drives me insane.

    "We could drop him off in St. Paul on a Sunday," I told my husband. "Give him 20 bucks, tell him to buy himself lunch, and I’ll bet you anything he could find his way back."

    "How sure are you?" my husband asked. At which point, I went to an ATM and withdrew a $20 bill.

    Last Sunday, on the first chilly day of winter, we took our nearly-20-year-old autistic son to Highland Park mid-morning and left him with instructions to find buses that would lead him home and call us if something went wrong. Then we waited. . . .and I spent the afternoon pacing, wondering how crazed and wrong and stupidly hopeful a mother can be.

    Around 5, about an hour after a wet snow had begun to fall, my phone rang. I was certain it was he, calling to say he was cold and ask me to pick him up in some remote and unkown locale.

    It was my son, but he was calling only to ask if I was ready to see him at home. He’d had a pleasant time wandering through the shops in Highland Park then found a bus bound for Minneapolis, transferred twice, treated himself to a calzone at Old Chicago in Uptown around 3:30 and had been killing time ever since.

    He arrived a short time later. And all this is true: He speaks little, and only haltingly, but there was a broad smile on his face as he took 20 minutes to describe his day. I tried not to cry and opened a Collection des Chateaux de Bordeaux.

    I’d love to draw a parallel here; the essayist in me is dying to tell you I chose this wine because it, too, is put together in an utterly unconventional way, mixing the best Bordeauxs of any one year to come up with a blend of Merlot and Cab that’s instantly drinkable but also ages well. That would, however, be a lie: I had none of this in mind when I uncorked the bottle and took the first sip. I really only wanted something to do as I waited through the pauses in my son’s story, never mind the dry, oaky flavor and piano notes of pepper, tannins, and plum.

    There is no real moral to this story. My husband drove my son home to the place where he lives with his father, then returned and gently took my glass away. The bottle was nearly empty and I was bleary, limp with wine and relief. I still believe I can change the world if I just wish hard enough. Sometimes it is that glass at the end of the day which comforts me after I find out the world is not this way — none of us is so powerful.

    And other times, it’s the glass I drink in wonder because, after all, it’s just possible we are.

  • Red Stag Supper Club: Having Your Steak and Eating It Too…

     

    The press release says the Red Stag Supper Club will open to
    the public next Monday, November 26, but Kim Bartmann’s newest restaurant
    actually has been open for business since last Monday. It’s what’s called a
    soft opening – a chance to work out some of the kinks before the crowds, and
    the restaurant critics, show up en masse. I stopped in Tuesday night for dinner,
    and things already seemed to be running pretty smoothly.

    Bartmann, who also owns the Bryant Lake Bowl and Barbette, has been at the forefront of the local sustainable-humane-organic
    restaurant scene – and Red Stag takes that ethos a big step further. Red Stag is being billed as the first
    LEED-certified restaurant in Minnesota. That stands for Leadership in Energy
    and Environmental Design – a set of standards for making buildings
    energy-efficient and environmentally friendly. Among the Red Stag’s bragging
    points: water consumption is
    70 percent lower than the typical new restaurant – and would be even lower if
    the state of Minnesota permitted waterless urinals. The lighting all comes from
    LEDs, which are much more efficient than incandescents, and the restaurant has
    its own composting system, so less food waste gets hauled to the landfill.
    The place looks great – the old carved wood bar and the red and black carpet
    give the place a classic supper club feel, while the exposed beams are a
    reminder that the new business recycles an old space.

    The supper club theme is an interesting choice – it harkens
    back to an era when none of us worried about carbon footprints and
    environmental sustainability or whether our steaks were grass-fed and our eggs
    were free-range. Meat and potatoes were
    the staples of the classic supper club, and Red Stag menu is a carnivore’s
    delight: three cuts of steak, plus a red deer Stroganoff, a pork chop, entrees
    of chicken, duck, and a veal casserole, a butcher plate of potted duck, pig in
    a blanket and Scotch egg. If you really want to get elemental about it, you can
    order a big roasted marrow bone, served with grilled bread, gremolata, and a
    spoon. But this is meat you can eat with a clear (or at least clearer)
    conscience: it’s all local and sustainable, from producers like Wild Acres (ducks), Star
    Prairie Trout Farm, Thousand Hills Cattle Company, and Pastures A’ Plenty (pork).

    Chef Bill Baskin’s resume includes cooking with
    Seth Daugherty at Cosmos, at Graves 601 Hotel, and with Heston Blumenthal at
    the Fat Duck near London, often named as one of the best and most innovative
    restaurants in the world. His approach here is more basic, and more rooted in
    regional cooking, with dishes like a chop salad, smelt fries, chicken with
    potato buttermilk dumplings, and pork chops with cheese grits and shimp and bacon succotash.

    It isn’t fair to judge a restaurant on its second day in business, but based on what I have tasted so far, I would probably steer clear of the trendier dishes, like the seafood cioppino and the breast of duck with butternut squash ravioli and raisins – and stick the classic supper club fare.

    509 1st Ave.N.E., Minneapolis, 612-767-7766.

  • Holiday Trey: Too Much LeBron

    Home Game # 6: Cleveland 97, Minnesota 86

    Season record: 1-8

     

    1. Shoddy Shaddy

    After the Wolves had been LeBronned by 11 Wednesday night at the Target Center, Coach Randy Wittman said in edgier, more frustrated tones what Antoine Walker had calmly laid out after Minnesota’s previous loss Saturday night. There’s no fight in this team, Wittman stated; if the opponent goes on a six or eight point run, the Wolves hang their heads and don’t respond. "When we get punched in the mouth we get down," he added, saying that the five guys who were playing most of the 4th quarter–Al Jefferson, Walker, Greg Buckner, Corey Brewer, and, surprise, Gerald Green–at least "threw some haymakers" in response.

    Leaving aside the tortured fighting imagery–if you want to watch jerks literally try to injure each other and thump their chests with gap-toothed bravado, NHL hockey is being played across the river–I thought the coach’s words might be foreshadowing why Rashad McCants only got 3:49 on the court during the second half. What do you need to see from McCants that you didn’t tonight? I asked. "He’s got to continue to *play*," Witt immediately shot back. "Very seldom does everything go right for you in a game."

    On to the locker room, where McCants was holding up his right arm as a Wolves’ cleanup guy affixed a bag of crushed ice to the inside of his elbow with circular motions of clear tape. When did you do that? I asked. "Practice," McCants said. Wow, did it affect your stroke any tonight? I said. "Well, I went 5 for 16 tonight; what do you think?" Shaddy said testily. His mood was sour enough, and my belligerence meter low enough, that I didn’t supply the natural rejoinder: Well, how smart was it to jack up 16 shots in less than 24 minutes with a bum elbow?

    As if the misfired gunning wasn’t bad enough, McCants did not visit the free throw line. "When [Cleveland big men] Ilgauskas and Gooden switched out on our 1 or 2, we’ve got to be able to go to the basket," Wittman lamented.

    2. The Gerald Green Bandwagon Is Taking Passengers

    Exploiting Shaddy doldrums was Gerald Green, who more than doubled the 16 minutes he’d been allowed to play in Minnesota’s previous 8 games, and canned more shots in half as many attempts as McCants while registering 13 points (6-8 FG in 20:15). Opinions on what Green has to offer, both now and in the future, vary more widely than perhaps any other player on the team. As one comfortably ensconced in the "hater" camp, I’m nevertheless happy to report that GG had a fine showing that is destined to get people clamoring for more court time for last year’s slam dunk champion and super-athlete.

    One of those people is Jefferson, who watched McCants jack up jumpers even when undersized Wolves castoff Dwayne Jones was defending him down low. Asked if he agreed with Wittman’s comments about not rallying back, Jeff said, "Yeah, I totally agree. We get in the habit of putting our heads down, myself included." Then Jefferson unilaterally brought up his teammate with the Celtics and Wolves. "Green came in and gave us huge energy. We’ve got to be in a fighting mood and Gerald gave it to us. He gave us the lift we needed." When I voiced the conventional wisdom that one reason for Green’s lack of minutes was him not knowing the plays, Jefferson frowned and disagreed. "No, I think it is just his shot, his shot selection sometimes and then him getting down on himself. But he put that away tonight."

    Yes, he did. Entering the game in second quarter, Green still had to be told where to go on defense by Buckner during the first play, and he still has a tendency to wander at both ends of the court. But he also closed out for a nice, partial block on a long-range jumper and then continued downcourt to receive a pass for a slam that ignited the crowd. And most of his jumpers were in the context of the offense. He added three boards and two assists, without a turnover, although his minus -2 for the game put his season-long plus total in jeopardy. (He still remains plus +1 for the season, the only Timberwolf on that side of the ledger.)

    The doubts I’ve expressed about McCants–the need to get his own shot, overconfidence creating tunnel vision–are magnified with Green, and that’s before noting that Shaddy is miles ahead of Green on defense, as a passer, and in his general knowledge of the game. I believe Green closely resembles Troy Hudson–a player who can single-handedly win you a game, and do some dazzling things out on the court, a player who can become electric; but also a player who will lose you twice as many games as he’ll win because, for whatever reason, he either can’t or won’t figure out how to best enable a team concept out on the court.

    And I’d love to be wrong about this, because Gerald Green has pogo sticks for hamstrings, and a sweet looking jump shot.

    3. Quick Hits

    Corey Brewer didn’t play the entire first half. "A little team discipline today. Corey missed the shootaround this morning," Wittman explained after the game. Actually the beat writers said he was there when they were allowed in late in the practice, so he must have been tardy. But the media wasn’t aware of the penalty until after the game.

    Antoine Walker had lousy game, twice throwing the ball into the stands in unforced errots (one was an out-of-bounds play), and too quick to jack up treys as the Wolves were trying to come back and he had a hot Gerald Green mentally pleading for the rock elsewhere on the perimeter. Also, whether by accident or design, there were about a half-dozen possessions when the 6-9 ‘Toine was being guarded by 6-3 Eric Snow in the half court and I recall only one basket resulting from that matchup.

    Those who continue to claim that Kobe Bryant is the NBA’s best player owe LeBron an apology. His drives to the hoop were effortless down both the right and (his preference) left lane, and he nailed six of 10 from beyond the arc in addition to 9-16 elsewhere. Throw in 8 free throws, 8 rebounds, 5 assists, 3 steals and 2 blocks (there were 4 turnovers too) to go with those 45 points–and the team lead in minutes for a defense that once again ceded less than 90 points to an opponent–and you’ve got the stats of the real best player in the NBA.

    Mark Madsen is back from injury. And Michael Doleac made it off the bench and into the starting lineup, Neither one attempted a shot in a combined 32:19 of play. Shrewd move by Madsen, but for a team struggling on offense and becoming increasingly reliant on the Jefferson-McCants combo, Doleac’s 13-footer is a viable option that should be utilized.

  • Subaru, Turducken, and Other Strange Birds

    A long time ago I was fired from the Byerly’s business (and later restated) for taking a picture of a model holding a Turducken. I depicted this Scandinavian babe in a Bergmanesque pose tortured by existential angst over what to do with the strange aviary object.

    Tres Lund, apparently, did not prefer realism in his supermarket. I can’t be sure, however, that he has ever tried to cook on Turkey Day. After all, what is one to do with a chicken that’s been stuffed in a duck then stuffed in a turkey? (or vice versa?)

    I am told the ad did end up selling quite a few birds.

    Which brings me to Subaru. The recent buzz on the company is the last second hiring of Carmichael Lynch–by all accounts, a great advertising agency. Subaru is going to need one, considering the inexplicable oddness of its new car line.

    For years, Subuaru was a proud and inconoclastic car maker . They claimed, rightly, that their cars were "inexpensive and built to stay that way." They were a poster child for fighting car-based commonism.

    That’s all changed. Their vehicles are now expensive for the money and downright ugly on the eyes. It all started when someone got the weird idea that Subaru could really fly high by paying homage to their history as an aircraft company. This resulted in the Tribeca B9, a bland beast with a grille that reflected their aircraft roots.

    It appears here that they were aiming for the elegance of an Alfa Romeo but ended up with a modern day Edsel

    Subaru’s strange behavior has now reached its zenith in the new WRX–-till recently their "halo" car. I’ve blogged about the previous generations of this car so much that I won’t bore you with the details. The latest generation of the WRX, however, looks like the designers have been overdosing on tryptophan.

    The photo here to the right is not a Mazda 3 or some other econobox but instead the once-sporty-but-now somnambulistic WRX. Hatchbacks never have and never will be true sports cars. Its as if someone told Subaru that all the gung-ho boy racers have matured into grocery-getters ready to put away their childish things. It looks bloated and over-stuffed and the road tests are exactly lofty either.

    Its time Fuji Heavy Industries (Subaru’s parent company) stopped thinking about airplanes and cooked up something like the previous generation WRX. It looked uncommon and flew like a bat out of you know where.

    Which is more than I can say for a Turducken.

    Or these Subies of late.

     

     

     

  • The Feast Index

    "Be not angry or sour at table; whatever may happen put on the cheeful mien for good humor makes one dish a feast."

    from the Shaker manual Gentle Manners.

     

    THE FEAST INDEX

    Estimated number of turkeys rasied in Minnesota in 2007: 46 million

    Rank of Minnesota in the top six turkey producing states: 1

    Estimated pounds of cranberries produced by Wisconsin this year: 390 million

    Amount by which that kicks ass over Massachusetts, the second largest producer: 210 million

    Average spoonfuls of cranberry sauce that someone under the age of 15 will put on their plate: .5

    Percentage of grocery store checkout ladies that knew what quince were: 25%

    Margin by which the vote swung against me and my whole wheat dinner rolls: 5

    Amount, in pounds, of potatoes I expect to be eaten: 10

    Amount, in pounds, of butter that I expect to use: 4

    Number of people eating The Feast at my house: 15

    Number who will wince as my diabetic mother-in-law goes in for her second piece of pie: 14

    Ratio of guests to matching silverware: 15:11

    Minimum hours spent laboriously pressing cloth napkins that will only get wrinkled and mashed up anyway!: 2

    Chances that my husband and his sister will get in a politically motivated "discussion": 1 in 4

    Amount of holiday cheer that I will need, expressed in ounces of Johnnie Walker Blue: 18

    Chances that a dessert will contain pumpkin: 2 in 3

    Chances that, as I’m eating the dessert, I will feel like a pumpkin: 3 in 3

    Minutes after the last guest leaves that the first turkey sandwich will be eaten: 27.3

    Maximum number of days post-feat that I will be deconstructing the night with some local ladies at McGarry’s Pub: 3

  • Black Friday Agenda

    I don’t mind shopping malls, really. But I intend to avoid
    them this Black Friday, not to stave off those bouts of claustrophobia, but to
    procure a series of gifts that are either high-quality second-hand or awfully,
    awfully special. Here’s the action plan (a working document):

    Roam (811 Glenwood Ave.) It’s the latest store to open on the burgeoning design
    corridor of Glenwood Avenue;
    you’ll find it next to Ligne Roset. Featured lines include Minneapolis’s own Blu Dot as well as some fantastic
    Scandinavian-designed minimalist wares, like those from Alessi.

    Fashion Avenue (4936 France Ave. S.) Actually, I was just there last weekend and spotted
    a half rack of vintage couture, like a gorgeous ‘60s-era emerald-green Yves
    Saint-Laurent     sweater. Of course, I can’t think of anyone on my list who might
    want such a thing. But I’ll be shopping with my mother; and FA is fertile
    ground for dropping hints.

    Letterbox (2741 Hennepin Ave.) Again, there’s nothing used to be found
    (unless you count recycled paper). However, this repository of fine stationery—the
    best in the cities, if you ask me—is conveniently located near my house. I plan
    to snag a few reams for the smart-ass chicks on my list; those crazy bitches just
    lurves fancy stationery. And I suppose I’ll pick up wrapping paper while I’m there, too.
    P.S. Letterbox will be serving free hot cocoa to all customers on Saturday and
    Sunday.

    Local Motion (2813 Hennepin Ave) Again, it’s right in the neighborhood, and I’ll
    be dropping more hints. Love those elbow-length leather gloves!

    ROBOTlove (
    2648 Lyndale Ave. S.) My lucky niece might be getting one of
    the locally-made plush dolls above. These are by a Minneapolis-based artist named Curster, or Erin Currie.

    Minnesota
    Center     for Book Arts     (1011 Washington Ave. S.) If
    they won’t let me buy a gift certificate, redeemable for one of their family-friendly
    book-making workshops, then I can at least pick up some supplies for the budding, ten-year-old
    author on my list.

  • Begging for a Turkey Hangover

    PERFORMANCE
    Hangover Hotel — sick poems and twisted grooves

    What artist doesn’t long to be described as having "a distinctive style that defies commercialization"? Warhol? Perhaps… hence defying commercialization. Perhaps. What I most enjoy about our vain attempts at describing art to the "consumer" are the lengths we go to to say so little. "A distinctive style that defies commercialization." What does this mean? Your guess is as good as mine, yet maybe you’ll be just as sold by it. Sounds good; don’t it? If I weren’t leaving town today, I’d be there. Lydia Lunch is an unusual performer (I guess you have to be that if you want to defy commercialization). She started out her career as a musician — you might know her from Teenage Jesus and the Jerks — and later incorporated video, film, photography, and poetry into the show. Now, if that’s not enough to sell you on it, then perhaps I should mention that it’s rather erotic.

    8 p.m., Soo Visual Arts Center, 2640 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-871-2263; $10 (online now for $5).

    FILM
    Turkey Lounge

    Due to the looming holiday, this month’s Cinema Lounge is dedicated to turkeys. No, not the gobbling kind — though someone ought to make a decent local turkey farm documentary. This is a different kind of turkey — not quite so tasty, but far more amusing. Tonight established filmmakers share their first films, their student films, and other disastrous cinematic projects from their past. Laugh a little. Cry a little. And learn a little from the filmmakers themselves as they each come up for a Q & A from the audience. The brave filmmakers include Carrie Bush, John Ervin (who is currently working on a piece for The Rake), and Sam Thompson. This ought to be a morale booster for any emerging or wannabe filmmakers out there, and a good laugh for anyone else.

    7 p.m., Bryant Lake Bowl, 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-3737; free.

    MUSIC
    The Beggar’s Banquet

    I have found that, for the most part, one band that people seem to agree on is The Rolling Stones. Play them at any party, and everyone is pleased. Play them any time, and scarce will one complain. So, hey — chill. You have a lot of eating to do tomorrow. Tonight… chill. Enjoy a tribute to the Stones, featuring Vampire Hands, Ouija Radio, Death To Our Enemies, City On The Make, The Parlour Suite, Erik & The Savages, and The Softrocks.

    9 p.m., Stasiu’s Place,     2500 University Ave. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-788-2529; $7.

    That said…
    The Minnesota Timberwolves are playing the Cleveland Cavaliers at the Target Center (7 p.m.), and they could really use your support.

  • First Course: A Well-kept Secret

    It wouldn’t be quite accurate to call First Course, at 56th
    and Chicago in south Minneapolis one of the most under-rated restaurants in the
    Twin Cities – it’s more like, one of the most ignored. I haven’t seen a review
    – or even a passing mention in a restaurant column – in years. That’s a shame,
    because for culinary quality and creativity, this little neighborhood bistro
    can hold its own against a lot of more celebrated establishments around town.
    The level of décor might be a little minimal for some tastes – varnished
    plywood takes the place of teak and mahogany veneers, but I actually find the
    place quite charming, fake fireplace and all. And prices are certainly
    reasonable: most entrees are under $20, with most pastas in the $10-16 range.

    You can get a good overview of the eclectic tapas menu by
    ordering the antipasti plate ($13.95) –
    a mostly Mediterranean medley of cured
    pork loin, chorizo, wine salami, Spanish sheep’s milk cheese with
    banana-ginger-curry chutney, Humboldt Fog goat’s cheese with boozy cherries,
    spiced pecans, marinated artichoke, oven cured tomato, Mojave raisins, and
    Arbequina olives. About 10 different pastas are also featured, ranging from a
    simple preparation of angel hair pasta with tomato basil sauce ($10.25) to linguini with clams, mussels and shrimp in saffron, white wine and tomato
    sauce ($19.95).

    The night we visited, chef/owner Travis Metzger was doubling
    as waiter, and listening to him describe the nightly specials made it clear
    that this was a guy who really knows and cares a lot about food. We started
    with a couple of those nightly specials – field greens and roasted beets with
    chopped walnuts, dressed in walnut oil with a pumpkin-infused goat cheese
    ($7.95), and a small tapas plate of grilled polenta, topped with a savory duck confit
    ($4.)

    I was a little skeptical about ordering the seafood
    stew ($19.50) – with no lobster on the menu, it stood to reason that the
    promised lobster broth was probably the kind of soup base that comes from the
    factory in a big plastic tub, loaded with salt and MSG. I still have no idea
    where the soup stock comes from, but this stew was delicious: shrimp, mussels,
    clams and calamari in a light but intensely flavorful broth, spiked with just
    enough chipotle pepper to command your attention.

    Carol opted for the Butternut squash ravioli with a brandy-gorgonzola cream sauce ($14.95), which was rich, but not as heavy as the
    usual Alfredo, and served with a colorful topping of julienned vegetables.
    There wasn’t really much room for dessert, but we ordered the tapas plate of
    Humboldt Fog and boozy cherries for dessert, followed by a plate of homemade
    truffles spiked with kirsch

    There are lots of other dishes I would like to try, ranging
    from the pappardelle with lamb ragu made from leg of lamb braised in red wine with
    rosemary ($15.50), to the tilapia in a cornmeal crust, served over mixed greens
    with roasted shiitakes, oven-dried tomatoes, goat cheese and crispy shoestring
    potato ($19.95).

    I’ll be back soon – most likely on a Tuesday, when every
    bottle and every glass of wine are half price. That knocks the price of a
    bottle of Rondel Cava, a Spanish sparkling wine, down to $9 a bottle, and a
    glass of Avalon Cabernet goes for $4.25 instead of $8.50. “The idea behind
    that,” says Metzger,”was to get people to drink the Stag’s Leap Cabernet, by
    knocking the price down to $60 from $120, but what has ended up happening is that
    people order the $20 bottle of wine for $10 – but that’s fine too.”

    On Friday nights, First Course features live music, ranging
    from flamenco guitar to jazz sax,
    starting around 7:30 p.m. On other nights, the soundtrack is a
    mellow blend of mostly jazz and blues.

    Open 5 to 9 p.m.
    weeknights, 5 to 10 p.m. Friday and Saturday,     5607 S Chicago Ave.
    S., Minneapolis; 612-825-6900.


  • He's Abbott, I'm Costello: Cross-Wired Conversation With My Dog At Two A.M.

    Would you say?

    I would say, yes.

    Say what?

    That is the question.

    Yes, that’s the question.

    No, that is the question. No question mark.

    What is the question?

    Say what?

    I said, "What is the question?"

    And I said, "Say what?"

    I heard you the first time, but I still haven’t heard your answer: What is the question?

    That was the question.

    That?

    Yes, that.

    That?

    Yes, goddamit, that is the question.

    What?

    Yes.

    Yes what?

    I just said: that is the question, which is exactly what I said at the beginnning.

    That isn’t what you said at the beginning. You said you would say.

    I said I would say, yes.

    And I said, "Say what?"

    I understood you perfectly well, and if I’m not mistaken I answered you quite clearly.

    In that I’m afraid you are badly mistaken.

    Did I not respond, "That is the question"?

    You did.

    Then where is the misunderstanding?

    You said you would say, and when pressed on the matter asked, "That is the question?" At which point I said, as would any reasonable person in my position, "Yes, that is the question."

    I did not ask. I said.

    Said what?

    That is the question.

    What?

    Yes, precisely.

    But what is your answer?

    That is my answer.

    May I have a biscuit now?

  • None Of Us Is There

    There is a peculiar poignancy in watching I’m Not There, Todd Haynes’ film based upon the life of Bob Dylan, in Minnesota. This is the home Dylan repudiated, along with his name, his family, and his faith. It’s long been a sore point for many here: that one of the greatest songwriters of our era has shrugged off this place, making it nothing but a minor footnote in his life. Perhaps now, the wound will close. Because I’m Not There makes the argument that Dylan belongs nowhere and to no people or religion. He is anchored neither to place nor time.

    Haynes accomplishes this by using six different actors, ranging from a young African-American boy (Marcus Carl Franklin) to a woman (Cate Blanchett) to a virile, robust young man (Heath Ledger), in the role of the film’s central figure. [The other Dylan avatars: Ben Winshaw, Christian Bale, and Richard Gere.] None but Blanchett — ironically, the most convincing — makes an effort to look or speak like Dylan. And each has a different name in the film, as if they are splintered personalities whose ownership of one musician’s body overlap. In a way, they are.

    These characters appear in merry-go-round fashion, representing the apprentice, the poet, the philosopher, the activist, the family man, the star, the preacher, and the wanderer. Some events from Dylan’s life, such as his offensive speech to the National Emergency Civil Liberties Committee in 1963, are enacted authentically. Others, such as the visit he actually made to a dying Woody Guthrie as an adult, which is depicted in the film as a fleeting, traumatic childhood event, clearly have been revised. And his stint as a born-again Christian becomes here the end of one alter’s story, rather than one more rock in the bumpy road of an erratic life.

    This is not an easy movie to watch. Just as the magic realism of Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Laura Equivel demands of the reader both absolute trust and hard work, I’m Not There asks viewers to suspend all expectations about linear narrative coherence. "Let it wash over you," producer Christine Vachon (of Killer Films) instructed the audience — utterly without irony — at the Walker Art Center’s premiere in early November.

    That Vachon was paraphrasing William Hurt’s drug-addled character in The Big Chill seemed unintentional. The advice is pretty good: you must relax and give in if you are to understand how sturdy little Marcus Carl Franklin, the boy told to "sing about [his] own time" becomes, ultimately, the wifty, slender, long-nailed and alabster white Cate Blanchett, railing against the fans storming her/his car and smoking with a mad, suckling greed.

    It is interesting, however, that for all his experimental strategies, Haynes begins and ends I’m Not There in the most traditional of American ways — with the hero riding on a train, pondering first his future and then his past. And each thread of the film is rendered startlingly in the style of a great director: Federico Fellini, Jean-Luc Godard, Sam Peckinpah (for whose Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid Dylan actually wrote "Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.") Some are more successful than others: the Godard sequence in particular, saturated with color and starring a brilliant, luminous Charlotte Gainsbourg, is a joy to watch. There is logic in this chaotic swirl of scenes and the way to find it probably, perversely, is to be both relaxed and alert — accepting and ready to reach for connections that aren’t in evidence. The film is a kaleidoscope that likely speaks to each of us in a different way.

    Ultimately, it seems to me, I’m Not There isn’t about Bob Dylan at all. He appears, in person, only in one brief, closeup harmonica sequence at the very end. Rather, this is a film about reinvention and resurrection, about disillusionment with one’s own choices, about looking for answers and finding they are always just around the next bend. Nothing new here — it’s all just that messy business of being human. But Haynes has given us a unique lens through which to view the experience. And he’s chosen one man — one of us, in fact — to be the literal emblem of this odd, swiftly changing life that’s sometimes so difficult to understand.

    “Yesterday, today, and tomorrow are all in one room,” says Richard Gere playing Billy, the sixth and final Dylan alter-ego to appear on screen. And for a moment, in that darkened theater, they are.

    I’m Not There opens at the Uptown Theater on November 21.