Category: Blog Post

  • Jeffrey vs. Frank

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    rocco and jeffrey forever!

    Just for fun, from Gawker

    Jeffrey Chodorow is unhappy with NYT food critic Frank Bruni’s review of Kobe Club, Chodorow’s new steakhouse.

    THROWDOWN! Jeffrey, of the Rocco’s-media-fabulocity-failure and head of China Grill restaurant group, has taken out a full-page ad in the Dining section giving Frank the what-for.

    Salient points may have been made, but when you start a blog that stalks Bruni with the intention of delivering e-razzberries, you’re just some kind of nutty.

  • For Your Lunch Break: Trailers, Trailers, Trailers!

    Now that we’re hip-deep in the muck of the winter movie season, we can look ahead to some of the more promising flicks–March and April, in particular, offer some tantalizing choices. I recall my younger days back in old Mt. Pleasant, MI, and the spring giving us little more than cheap horror, lousy John Hughes rip-offs, and tepid romantic comedies. I’d grab the Sunday New York Times and drool over the ads for the art-house flicks and wish, wish, wish that Tom Cruise would drop dead.

    Today, of course, we have the internet, DVDs, and the like, to make the urchins back in my home-town waste their hours more productively. Those kids have coffee shops and laptop computers and… ah, hell.

    Anyway, I’m always impressed by trailers, their ability to sum up a movie in a minute or two. Thus far, the best trailers I’ve seen in the past few months have advertised two of the worst movies I’ve seen: Little Children and the forthcoming Black Snake Moan. So take these with a grain of salt.

    Grindhouse. What a concept: a double-feature (literally, there’s two full-length movies) by Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino, with trailers and ads in between. Three to four hours of blood and gore and sex like only they could offer up. It just occurred to me, though, that Tarantino might just be more prudish than we think–has there ever been a nude scene in any of his films? I don’t think so… The trailer is awesome, the movies look like they’ll be at least entertaining, though Rodriguez is unbelievably erratic. Could be a long night.

    Zodiac. Lots of blood this spring. But this feature is already being billed as David Fincher’s (Se7en, Fight Club) masterpiece, two-and-a-half hours of utter tension. The story of the pursuit of San Francisco’s notorious Zodiac killer, this one’s being marketed brilliantly–great trailer, and they’re sending us critics these creepy replicas of the Zodiac’s Halloween cards. Eesh. Looks tremendously entertaining.

    The rest of these have decent trailers, but the movies themselves… well, we’ll see:

    Across the Universe. 60s musical featuring songs of the Beatles sung by the beautiful people! Didn’t they do this already with Hair?

    Pride. The story of an African-American teacher in inner-city Philadelphia who, unbelievably, starts a swim team for the local toughs who can’t shoot hoops because they took the net down. What?! ‘Based on true events’ (what does that mean exactly?), the trailer’s fun until it devolves into a literal weep-fest, which means the movie’s much worse. I bet there’ll be a good soundtrack, though.

    The Valet and Angel A. Two French films, one a typical sex comedy, the other a sexy action film. The first, a long-suffering valet accidentally walks into a paparazzi shot of a prominent and very married man walking with his lover, a supermodel. In order to protect his marriage, his handlers pay the valet to date and live with the supermodel, to make it seem that she was on that streetcorner with him. Get it? Like a croissant, The Valet could be buttery and light, a simple joy, or it could be dense and cheap and off-putting with its artificial taste.

    Of the second, Angel A is about a punk in trouble with the local mob gets help in the form of a long-legged, sexy, sexy, sexy angel. She dispatches the mob, no doubt undresses, and vanishes. Is she the devil? What? From the guy who brought us The Fifth Element and The Professional. Will this film be the devil (as in, awful) or an angel (as in, fun).


    Hot Fuzz
    is the new comedy from the guys who brought us Shaun of the Dead, which had its moments of brilliance. This one looks to have the same moments, especially in the scene where Simon Pegg points out that a fellow detective has a Guinness moustache. This time, Pegg is sending up action films. We’ll see.

  • Toner-Ink Wednesday

    Ugh. Ash Wednesday. The day on which my Catholic guilt really kicks in. Even though I no longer go to church like I used to, I still feel inclined, every year, to sacrifice something for Lent. What on earth will it be this year, when I’ve already given up so much and seem to have a problem with getting “off the wagon,” as it is? For example, one year, back in college, I gave up meat for Lent (not fish, per the standard) and haven’t touched the stuff since. Then last year I gave up refined sugar–a move that, admittedly, was more inspired by “stomach issues” than for any want of character-building sacrifice. But alas, I have consumed very little refined sugar ever since Fat Tuesday of last year. As for this year… Shopping? (Non!) Red wine? (Mon Dieu!) Or maybe sex? Because, you see, THAT I could do without. (Hi mom.)

    But one thing’s for sure–it’ll be easy to abstain from recreation this evening because, as it turns out, there’s very little to actually do. There are a few good art exhibitions, sure. But most will require action before 5 p.m. There’s some decent theater going on too, but I’ve already covered all that. Glug, glug. Sigh.

  • Keith Moyer Takes a Ripping

    Brother. Everyone following the next great transition at the Star Tribune ought to read this posting on MnSpeak.

    The high key vernacular — phrases like, “leaving in droves” and such — are standard with disgruntled, PO’d sales reps at every TV and radio station in town. So take that with a grain of salt. But the poster’s anger at the de-contenting of an influential public utility — the primary source of the broadest range of news in this market — is heartfelt. And what I always like to remind bystanders at this point in one of these outbursts over brutal cost-cutting is that the Star Tribune for all the ominous clouds on the horizon, is still turning profits your average widget factory would kill for.

    One caller here to Slaughter Central reminds me that when the Avista deal went down in December, Moyer said he was staying on in part because he received assurances that his management team would remain in place, (except Anders Gyllenhaal, who had already bailed for south Florida). Does his change of mind now suggest he believes that promise is no longer operative?

    As the note says at the top of the post, MnSpeak editor, Matt Bartel, a diligent fellow, has a high degree of confidence that the writer is in fact a Star Tribune employee.

  • Postponing Sacrifice

    Lookin’ for something to do on Fat Tuesday. Well, the Turf Club has an ai’ight bill. Starting at 10 p.m., the lineup includes The Brass Kings, Molly Maher, Jon Rodine, and, my favorite on this list, Charlie Parr. The shindig’s sponsored by Mercy Seat–a punk-rock ministry out of Northeast Minneapolis.

  • Last Word

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    So now we’re freakin’ enough for a KARE11 Extra? Batten down the hatches, the world of dining is under siege! There’s nothing but tater-tot hot dish on the horizon … why have we been forsaken?

    Good God. Three restaurants closed. It does not signify the coming apocalypse.

    Franks-a-Million closed. Remember how the city burned and any self-respecting hot dog lover fled for the first Chicago-bound commuter flight? Oh, the hot-dog draught and how we never recovered from it! Except for Uncle Franky’s. And the Bulldog. And Joey D’s.

    And then Goodfellows closed. Remember the homeless fine-diners, wandering the streets aimlessly searching for foie and white table-cloths? Remember how all the hotels boarded up and everyone stayed locked in their homes for 362 consecutive days? It was sad how no one wanted to carry on. Except at La Belle Vie. Or The Oceanaire. Or WA Frost. Or Mission. Or Vincent.

    But now, now some Vaunted Independents have closed. Farms are converting to parking lots and co-ops are becoming strip clubs. There absolutley IS no future for an innovative cook who just wants to put out some humbly fine fare. Except at 112 Eatery. Or Restaurant Alma. Or Willie’s Wine Bar. Or Heartland. Or Lucia’s. Or Spoonriver. Or Cafe 128. Or Corner Table. Or Fugaise.

    Sophia closed, say goodbye to music. Chico Chica closed, that’s the end of spice my friends. Awada’s closed, no more suburban dining, it’s over. Tiburon closed, we hate Aruba.

    I went through the restaurant database recently, and cleared out 38 restaurants that had closed or changed hands. That’s 38 plus the ones I’d done immediately upon closing over the last two or so years. 38+

    Because that’s what restaurants do, they open and close. They ride the tide or they fail as businesses. They are businesses, and chefs need to be managers as well as artists.

    But where was all the media fanfare for the last 38? Why didn’t they inspire such “warnings” about the state of our fair cities? In fact it might be interesting to check out the doomsayers’ annual review columns from the last two years. If our dining climate has been souring so much, how could they have possibly written a positive word?

    The only reason the recent three got so much attention is because they were media darlings and it’s Jan/Feb and we’re stapled to our warm computers. No doubt, we hate to see our friends go, but everyone needs to stop slapping our towns around for not being good enough to support them.

    We are. They weren’t good enough for us.

    Please. Everyone, shut up already. Including me.

  • Year of the Boar

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    Yesterday kicked off the 15-day Chinese New Year celebration. This is the Year of the Boar, and anyone born this year will have excellent manners, easily make and keep friends, work very hard and appreciate luxury. They are very loving people and make loyal partners. I am proud to say that I was born under the boar, as was Mozart, Hemmingway, Lucille Ball, and Alfred Hitchcock. Oh, and Hillary Clinton and Arnold Schwarzenegger.

    The two week celebration is marked with superstitions and traditions including visiting friends, honoring ancestors and, of course, feasting. Love that.

    For the sake of a little luck, and who doesn’t need some, you should plan to cook a Chinese feast at least one time during the next two weeks. Invite as many people over as can fit in your domicile and eat together.

    What an opportunity to get to the local Asian markets and just spend some time exploring, picking through the produce and oddly intriguing frozen goods.

    Try cooking a whole fish, which represents togetherness and abundance. Noodles should be uncut to symbolize prosperity through a long life. An overflowing table of dumplings bodes well for coming wealth. But stay away from fresh tofu as the whiteness is unlucky and signifies death and misfortune.

    I’m off to JunBo for lunch today to start things off right. But tonight I’m making jiaozi, aka chicken dumplings/potstickers, as my first humble offering to the gods.

  • Rundown

    Since there’s not much that could get me out to, say, a bar or a theater thing evening (I’ve got an interview to do anyhow), I think I’ll just skip the suggestions this time around. But I did have a very fine weekend taking in various arts-and-entertainments. On Saturday, I went to the comparatively unfunny BNW show. Then, yesterday, I missed Stuart Pimsler’s show at the Guthrie because I got the showtime all wrong (1 p.m., not 7!) So, to make myself feel better, I went home to drink wine and watch a screener of the short film Intolerable, which is scheduled for the Walker’s upcoming Women With Vision series. (It was directed by Alison Maclean whose most famous film is probably Jesus’ Son.) It was an interesting flick starring David Rakoff about a double-dealing, and fairly cruel director who screws with a bunch of actors who’ve lined up for what means to be a cattle call. Liked it very much, thanks. I wondered if this was’t inspired by the Maclean’s own experiences with auditions.

  • That's "Lapdog" to you, Buttboy. Franken's First Week.

    Minnesota Republicans regard thousands of hours of Al Franken speeches and air-checks as manna from heaven. They are certain their decent, rigidly traditional, God-fearing, Bachmann-ite base will develop chronic, moral whiplash from the volleys of vulgar imagery Franken has thrown at poor Norm Coleman and Republicans in general over his career. But judging by the non-reaction reaction to Repoublican party chairman Ron Carey air-quoting Franken calling Normie a “buttboy”, they may have to dig a little deeper for something that truly offends modern adult Minnesotan sensibilities. Since most of us get a joke, have watched primetime sit-coms and lived through Jesse Ventura, our threshold for shock is higher than your average butt.

    Political reporters with whom I spoke prior to Franken’s Valentine’s Day announcement were grumbling a bit. They weren’t so hot on being denied physical access to him in the studio at the moment he declared his candidacy, [there was a pool video feed, hosted by WCCO], and they didn’t much like his very Hollywood junket-style one-on-one interviews the following day. Not real upset. But some.

    Their thinking being that like our last celebrity politician, the Honorable Mr. Ventura, the boys and girls who are going to cover Franken for a good chunk of the next 21 months — TWENTY ONE MONTHS! — wanted to see if he can take a hit. They wanted to see how low his flashpoint really is set, and whether the aggregate effect of so much professional impertinence in one room for a mass press conference would prompt an early, out-of-the-gate, persona-defining meltdown. (Think: Denny Green after blowing a game to the Chicago Bears.)

    It didn’t work that way. By all accounts, Franken’s first few days reminded Minnesota’s political press corps that this is not going to be “Apocalypse II: Jesse Redux”. Beyond that though, I was curious if the local corps and their managers have examined their consciences in the years since Ventura left the stage and re-thought the gotcha-crazed pack mentality that had them following the big lunk everywhere short of the men’s room in hopes that — “Please, God!” — he would say or do something buffoonish enough for the top-of-the-10.

    “Well, I know I’ve done some personal re-thinking since the Ventura era,” says Don Shelby, who more or less big-footed ‘CCO radio’s half hour with Franken. [Shelby says it was his aggressive producer, and not him.] “Ventura was a novelty who turned himself into a joke and the joke was on us. And any reporter who hasn’t looked at that and admitted that that is what happened is kidding himself.”

    What Ventura never figured out was how to play the media’s catnip attraction to him for his benefit — beyond goosing his appearance fees for wrestling acts and whatever. As Shelby and WCCO-TV’s Pat Kessler and KSTP’S Tom Hauser and the Star Tribune’s Dane Smith all acknowledged, Franken is a much brighter bulb, a much savvier student of media than Ventura. Which means, doesn’t it? I asked, that the press corps’ radar will have to be set to “11” in order to avoid becoming a primary component in the Al Franken for Senate free media strategy?

    “I don’t know. Franken isn’t coming out of blue on us,” says Hauser. “He’s a much more known quantity. And let’s not forget that none of us really paid Ventura any attention until the last month of the campaign. After the debates. Until then he was just a radio station publicity stunt. This will be different. And in terms of why we covered Ventura like we did, I don’t see Franken making the mistake of taking things as personally as Ventura, who really was a loose cannon when it came to how he responded to criticism.

    “I’ve had him on ‘At Issue’ twice, I think. Once before 9-11, where he was very funny and got off a lot of good jokes, and then once after 9-11, when he was very serious and thoughtful. I think 9-11 changed a lot about how those of us in the media look at this stuff, too. I mean before it was all Monica Lewinsky. After, well, there are a lot more important things going on.”

    What Hauser says he took away from his first date interview Thursday was that Franken understands the importance of, “separating his comedic past from his political future.” The (sad) irony being that Franken the jokester-satirist, the guy calling buttboys buttboys, is a far better guarantor of free media than any thoughtful analysis of U.S. Mideast policies.

    “He’s going to have to walk a fine line between getting attention for being a serious candidate and getting attention for being Al Franken.”

    The Strib’s Dane Smith came away from his 30 minutes with the impression that Franken is determined to be taken seriously. “There are some concerns here,” says Smith, referring to the Star Tribune, “in terms of fairness to other possible candidates who don’t have his name recognition. But you know how we do these things, when they announce every candidate gets a 1-B piece that is a pretty straight-forward opportunity to say who they are and why they’re running. The other stuff comes later.”

    Smith cautions any celebrity candidate who assumes the local media will be a kind of inexhaustible ATM machine for profile-building to remember that, “Ventura left office a pretty unpopular figure.” Point being, the public is now appropriately suspicious about another self-serving, “Its All About Me” act.

    “But I don’t mind telling you,” says Smith, “I was impressed by how knowledgeable and business-like Franken was in our interview. I mean, he is a Harvard grad, and that comes across.”

    “That’s the biggest difference between Ventura and Franken,” says WCCO-TV’s Kessler. “All the butt boy jokes and whatever else he’s said, the guy really does know his stuff. I read his latest book, [“The Truth: With Jokes”], and its very thoughtful. You don’t get the impression talking to him that this is just another vanity candidate.
    Wait. Did I just make that up? That’s pretty good!”

    Shelby too was impressed. “I’ve known [Franken] for a long time and there has always been this serious side to him. You graduate summa cum laude from Harvard and there’s something going on there. So, again, the comparison to Ventura isn’t exactly appropriate.

    “But, yes, it would be wrong if there weren’t a higher level of restraint on the part of the press this time because of the way the tail wagged the dog with Ventura. And let’s not forget this is a campaign. We covered Ventura as an elected official. For that reason I think the Franken news cycle will slow down quite a bit here after this first rush.”

    Shelby and Kessler’s boss, WCCO-TV news director, Jeff Kiernan, wasn’t yet on the job when Ventura-mania struck in 1998, “So I don’t have the perspective Don and Pat have. So I’m trusting their judgment on these things as we begin here. But we understand the celebrity angle well enough to guarantee equal coverage. We certainly do not intend to give Franken any more or better coverage than say, Mike Ciresi, if he gets in the race.”

    An example of Franken’s new, more modulated demeanor is him declaring that for the foreseeable future he will refrain from calling Norm Coleman George W. Bush’s butt boy. “Lapdog” will do for the time being.

  • Sunday Sermon: Thieves Like Us

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    Wanda, 1971. Written and directed by Barbara Loden. Starring Loden, Michael Higgins, Jerome Thier, and Frank Jourdano.

    You Only Live Once, 1937. Directed by Fritz Lang, written by Gene Towne and C. Graham Baker. Starring Henry Fonda, Sylvia Sidney, Barton MacLane, Jean Dixon, William Gargan, Jerome Cowan, John Wray Walter, and Guinn ‘Big Boy’ Williams.

    Who’s in prison today? The poor, minorities mostly, those gang-bangers who make us shudder en route to a night of fine dining in Block E? One thing I’m certain of: they’re no longer Clyde Barrow or Al Capone. Someone as handsome as Warren Beatty or trafficking in such luscious diversions as bathtub gin only inspires our imaginations, not our fears. We love those guys. Why, we have tours of Capone’s favorite hideouts, restaurants advertise as the place where bootleggers go, and Prohibition was a blast, don’t you know? Keillor telling us he used to imagine himself as Starkweather, but I doubt you’re gonna get any white writer to say he or she thinks of themselves as some kind of drug dealer, the Capone of today. Crime films, like those in the 30s and 70s, championed the white criminal, pushed into his or her trade by forces beyond their control, victims of an unjust and ironic world. Johnny Cash played concerts to these fellows. No one plays concerts to jailbirds anymore.

    If a guy pulls a gun on you, what difference does it make if he’s white or black? Well, in Hollywood, it makes the difference between boffo box office and a big-fat flop.

    Look there, at Fritz Lang’s You Only Live Once and Barbara Loden’s Wanda. 1930s. 1970s. In the first, an innocent man is convicted for a crime he didn’t commit. He’s a three time loser, this Eddie Taylor (Hank Fonda). His wife, Joan (Sylvia Sidney), implores him to give up at first, to trust the system. He does, fails to beat the rap, goes to jail to wait on the chair. And look at that prison! A gulag of hardworking European immigrants, many guilty as sin; others, like Eddie, victims of circumstance. It was the Depression after all. We can forgive these boys, with their funny way of talking tough, their hardened camaraderie. Lang makes Hank Fonda growl and rage with more intensity than he ever showed before (ever–it’s an amazing performance), and we growl and rage right along with him. When he busts out and kills a priest in the process, we’re aghast at the injustice. Eddie and Joan, on the lam, will meet a rough end, but they’ll also reach some sort of spiritual catharsis.

    Wanda, on the other hand, is just no good. She’s a white-trash blonde from Pennsylvania coal-country, who simply gives her husband the divorce he’s seeking (in order to be with a woman who will actually care for the pair of kids he and Wanda have sired) and she’s off, without money, hooking up with some of the most honestly portrayed men in cinematic history–losers all, yet everyone in possession of a tiny slice of dignity. Barbara Loden’s film is incredible in that it doesn’t politicize Wanda’s journey from man to man and finally to Mr. Dennis, a criminal who takes her on a bumbling and fatal robbery spree. Loden doesn’t care to damn Wanda, nor does she elevate her to being some sort of feminist icon, or a symbol of the free-love, wanderin’ decade. Wanda is simply a silly, lost woman, not bright, who seeks love in all the wrong places and whose ennui defines her. Nothing goes right for her, nothing will ever go right for her. We know that, and still we’re riveted by her sad story.

    Now imagine, if you will, a remake of both of these films today. Would we, white audiences (my guess is that Rake readers are predominantly white) who make up the lion’s share of the box office, embrace a black Eddie on the lam for a job he didn’t commit? Some three time loser from the North side, black and not wearing suits and ties (as Eddie does in this film), but as equally articulate as Fonda (Eddie’s a handsome and sharp tongued fellow in You Only Live Once, a far cry from anyone in his shoes in real life), who is set up in, say, a gang murder, or robbery?

    Or if a black woman, abandoning her kids because she claims she’s “just no good” and then hits the road holding up bars and banks would elicit any sympathy from us? She’d be a candidate for Jerry Springer, maybe, if she would shout more.

    Something tells me there’s not a chance in hell. These films wouldn’t play anywhere in the suburbs… unless they had some sort of Oscar-winning rap soundtrack. Even then, it’s a slim chance.

    Something also tells me there’s not a chance in hell that you could even get financing for such ventures. But if we want, we can try, I guess, to watch these movies, on DVD both (Wanda from the library, You Only Live Once from Netflix) and imagine ourselves in the shoes of today’s criminal. That’s the point, you know, the reason we watch these movies, and watched them, in years past (Wanda more today–the film played in literally one theater in America). We are not just supposed to be excited by the story, but relate, at least a little bit, to the characters we see. We are supposed to fall in love with Eddie and Joan, who rob gas stations and eventually get plugged. We are supposed to feel for Wanda, who’s probably never going to see her children again, choosing to fuck anyone and never have a good relationship.

    Get this: Eddie and Joan and Wanda walk these streets. We don’t need to walk up and hug them, don’t need to hope that criminals get soft sentences or forgiveness for violent crime. But perhaps we do need to watch movies like these and understand that old adage, “there, but for the grace of God, go I”. In the slums, in Uptown, even in the suburbs (perhaps especially in the suburbs), we’re all just a mood away from flooring it and being on the lam, two steps away from the gallows, a hair-trigger from ultimate freedom.

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