Tonight: The second week of my second-favorite theater festival begins. This Lone Twin show doesn’t scream of being a sure-thing, at least not in the way Cynthia Hopkins’s show did. (And I can’t be alone in saying that Hopkins put on the hippest night of theater I’ve seen in a long while.) But we here at Rake Headquarters had the luxury of interviewing these Lone Twin fellows for a certain section of our magazine, and they turned out to be downright decent guys, blessed with both humility and terrific senses of humor. Plus, the content of their show is travel-related, so that’s promising to those of us suffering cabin fever. I’ve got my tickets. Do you?
Category: Blog Post
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Dumb and Dumber
Idiocracy, 2006. Directed by Mike Judge, written by Judge and Etan Cohen. Starring Luke Wilson, Maya Rudolph, Dax Shepherd, Terry Crews, and the narration of Earl Mann.
A film so fundamentally lame that I’m not even going to provide you with a blurry still. This travesty is available anywhere you can rent lousy DVDs.
Everybody has good story ideas. Everybody. Writing good screenplays and making decent movies isn’t simply a matter of having great concepts, but of crafting a compelling plot, casting interesting actors, and pulling it all together under the watchful eye of editor and director. Talk to anyone who enjoys movies, and they’ll tell you of some story idea that they think is interesting. Chances are you’ll find the nugget of a decent story in the imagination of every single person you know.
Much has been made of the great concept of Mike Judge’s Idiocracy, and even more has been made of 20th Century Fox’s decision to bury the film. Clearly, many critics have surmised, Fox is embarrassed by the film, whose central conceit–that in the future, an America weaned on Fox-style television has become so stupid that it can barely even feed itself–is so brilliant and scathing that Fox believed it must be hidden from the public. Watching Idiocracy, however, belies this: instead, one is struck even more by the sheer genius of the Fox Studios, for in allowing this film to get buried, releasing it in a handful of theaters without fanfare, and stoking the flames of conspiracy, they have, instead, guaranteed that critics will spend at least half their review complaining, the other half noting the great idea, and only a brief mention of how Idiocracy is one of the most ungodly stupid films ever made.
The idea is hardly original. A lazy soldier of average intelligence, Joe Bowers (Luke Wilson), is plucked from his easy job and put into a top-secret experiment. Apparently, the Army is interested in placing a man into year-long hibernation. The idea is that, if successful, we will be able to place our best people in deep sleep to use in the future (why this is considered a good idea is never explained). In a typically lame twist, the Army seeks out a prostitute, Rita (Maya Rudolph), to join Joe, obviously since Judge apparently thinks the Army remains all-male. Due to yet another mind-numbing turn involving the head of the program and whoring, they are forgotten, only to wake up 500 years later in a land that has become monumentally stupid. It gets worse: Bowers is jailed and is discovered to be the smartest person on the planet. He has to try to escape this crazy world, attempting to flee to a time machine buried in the bowels of a giant Cosco.
Mike Judge has been acclaimed for the way his movies and television shows tap right into the inanity of world, but like Beavis and Butthead and Office Space, he is really a writer who seems to have a dozen great ideas but no wit or ability to create decent work from these notions. Office Space has a spot-on opening but, like Idiocracy, devolves into a routine revenge/romance without a lick of intelligence. Aside from the fact that Idiocracy is marred with inconsistencies–the idiots of the future apparently have the technological smarts to keep electricity and television going, and someone had the knowledge to manufacture and maintain the dumbed-down machines–Judge seems to find his own jokes so damned funny that he has to repeat them over and over. Fuddruckers becomes Buttfuckers, a sports drink has replaced water, and work has become nothing more than simply pushing buttons with pictures on them. Language has retreated into grunting and yelling “Shut up!” or “Fuck you”, but that’s about it–a narrator has to remind us, over and over, that Bowers sounds “like a fag” for his intellectual way of speaking. What a decent writer couldn’t do with this future! Ebonics, grunting, text-messaging… the possibilities are endless, unmined, and therefore endlessly frustrating. And Judge seems utterly incapable to basic exposition, as he relies on a bland narrator to point out a number of simple things we should witness ourselves. His dystopia goes nowhere, and eventually the plot becomes yet another chase, yet another romance and redemption, and has a sweet ending that should make everyone smile. In the end, it’s perfectly OK to be as sharp as a bag of wet mice.
Ultimately, Idiocracy, like Office Space before it, seeks not to challenge us, but rather to cater to our base instincts–just like the people the film supposedly mocks. The idiots of Judge’s world–people who find Jackass a masterpiece (which is itself lampooned repeatedly with “Ow, My Balls!”, a futuristic TV show whose main character gets smacked in the testicles, over and over, throughout the film)–will find Idiocracy hilarious, and aren’t going to walk away thinking they ought to read. Of course, Judge has a moment where Joe Bowers, now the president, implores people to read and be smart. Just in case we didn’t get that point.
If Idiocracy does anything, it makes one hunger for wit and intelligence–I found myself plucking P. G. Wodehouse off the shelf and wishing I’d seen something like Monty Python’s Life of Brian, with its sex and political jokes, its attacks on religion and lampooning the fine art of Latin declensions. But then, maybe, in Mike Judge’s world, that just makes me a “fag”–and since there really aren’t any smart people in the film, Judge seems to share his characters’ beliefs. Watch Idiocracy if all you seek is a night of stoner laughs, but avoid it at all costs if you think it has anything to say about this world.
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Dust Bowl Opera: Part Two
At last night’s Raking Through Books event, Michael Korie and Ricky Ian Gordon had me completely convinced that they had done the right thing in adapting Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath to the operatic form. “This is an opera in the way that Porgy and Bess is an opera,” said Korie. And I became giddy just as soon as he said that, for I had feared a sparse, minimalist score would represent the Dust Bowl. But instead we’ll get a little stride piano, a little banjo, and a lot of Americana and persevering spirit. In fact, the opera is set to open on a positive note: The blue-green memory of the last rainfall. From thereon in, it follows the Joad family’s narrative arc with a bit of Steinbeck’s set pieces (i.e., entire chapters dedicated to explaining what was happening throughout the Dust Bowl) tossed in via a large chorus.
Another thing that impressed me: Korie acknowledged the awkwardness of doing an opera on this subject–“$100 a ticket to see an opera about poor people.” But when he explained that Steinbeck’s book had rocked America, and he wanted audiences to be similarly rocked, my internal alarm went off and I wondered whether this is going to a heavy-handed opera.
But Gordon’s playing, and his all-around dynamic spirit and attitude toward music, is another of those blue-green’s on the horizon. My hunch is that this will be a good’un.
Finally, when I read Grapes of Wrath, back in high school, I remember being absolutely revolted by the disgusting way it ended. (SPOILER ALERT: Here, I refer to the breast-feeding scene.) But now that I’m grownup, and have heard Korie and Gordon’s take on this being the ultimate act of generosity, a gift given by someone who literally had nothing left to give (not even hope), I’m eager to read the book again (which I vow to do before seeing the opera) to experience the story anew. In any case, my roundabout point here is that since there’s not much happening today, I suggest focusing some energy on ticket-procurement. It would make very little sense to blurb about the opera on the day of a show–they’ve had record sales and sold-out performances for many years now, and last-minute tickets can be hard to come by–so this is likely to be the last time you’ll hear about it from the likes of me.
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Paradisus Bestiarum: A Note From The Registrar
Many people are understandably concerned about the status of their beloved companion animals in the afterlife. We receive queries on the subject all the time. Before I address that issue, however, I’d like to clear up a few semantic misunderstandings regarding Paradise.
We’re decidedly old school up here, as you might imagine, and so far as we’re officially concerned you’re all animals –find a Latin dictionary and look up animus or anima sometime; while you’re at it you might find it curious, if not instructive, to note that animus, a word that originally connoted mind and spirit, is now commonly defined by humans as a feeling of hostility. Something to think about, I suppose.
At any rate, what you tend to think of as animals are here regarded as beasts, and the admission criteria for beasts is a complicated business. The rules and regulations have evolved slowly over many centuries. I can, however, tell you that no beast, not even the most ill-tempered, poorly behaved, and ferocious, goes to hell. We don’t hold these creatures responsible for their behavior, and when they die or are killed, they are simply dead.
There is, though, a place for beasts in Paradise; there are, in fact, a number of places. Some of them are what you might think of as sanctuaries or refuges, where the majority of the beasts are segregated from the population of human animals.
Most of the bestial sanctuaries are actually, in fact, offshore, a couple islands just off the coast which have been set aside for cats, primates, and horses. As with humans, however, not all cats, primates, and horses are admitted to Paradise, although virtue is not the determining criteria for these beasts. To enter Paradise –or rather, to be granted eternal refuge on these Paradisiacal adjuncts– a cat, horse, or monkey has to have had the sort of relationship with a human whereby it was perceived by its human companion to have been in possession of a soul. Such relationships constitute what is officially called “Empathic Baptism.”
This is admittedly a rule that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it’s been in place since the last major ammendments and revisions to the admissions criteria were signed into the Book of Law at the end of the 19th century.
Some of the more intelligent beasts have traditionally been granted special exemptions in Paradise. An ocean was created to accomodate certain aquatic creatures, a decision that was not without controversy, particularly after dolphins rather quickly found eternity boring and petitioned for removal, a request that was, following much deliberation, reluctantly granted. There are no watercraft in Paradise, and very few of the human animals partake in swimming, even though the activity is permitted under certain circumstances.
Dolphins, we were led to understand, are naturally curious and social beings, and they compared the ocean in Paradise to an aquarium with few visitors and even fewer diversions. God, they also complained, showed insufficient interest in them.
Dogs are the only beasts given a blanket pass to Paradise proper –good dogs, I should say, but there have been very few remembered examples of dogs having been denied admission. I have to admit that, being a dog person, I find this arrangement more than satisfactory. There are, though, plenty of people –activists, mainly– who carp about the issue all the time, but it’s the way things are in Paradise. This is essentially a very conservative place, where proposals for even minor changes are frowned upon and met with stiff resistance from the governing council. There are also, I should say, a lot of people here who have no apparent love for beasts of any kind, and this is a constituency that is constantly complaining about the absence of meat from our diets. If we had a democratic system in place here and the matter of admitting beasts was put to a vote I have no doubt that the creature lovers among us would be soundly defeated.
Certainly people recognize that if you open the gates to cattle and chickens and rats and the like you’re going to have a big problem on your hands in a hurry. The mortality rate and life expectancy of most beasts makes any sort of concessions or compromises on this point problematic, to say the least. We’re already packed in so tight that social interaction is all but impossible. The streets are always so crowded that, with the exception of my daily trips to the office (my job, like all jobs here, is a volunteer position) I virtually never leave my dormitory any more, and I’m forced to share my bed with the six dogs who spent most of their earthly lives with me. It’s admittedly not the most comfortable of arrangements, but I guess that’s the price you pay for attaching yourself to other living creatures, and I wouldn’t think of making a fuss.
I had a neighbor for a time –a woman from Portland– who bitched so loudly and for so long over the refusal to grant an exception for her ferret that she was eventually shipped back to Purgatory until she learned to keep her yap shut.
I can’t say I was sorry to see her go.
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The Mighty, Mighty Catfight
Notes on a Scandal, 2006. Directed by Richard Eyre, written by Patrick Marber. Starring Judi Dench, Cate Blanchett, Bill Nighy, and Andrew Simpson.
Now showing at the Uptown Theatre.
Rare is the occasion when the movie houses have a good movie in them, much less two that open on one weekend. Children of Men opened around town Friday, and so did the luscious Notes on a Scandal (Little Children did, too, but it’s horrible, despite what the other reviewers are saying). And where Children of Men is a mind-boggling, futuristic movie that manages to wow you with its story and technological thrill, Notes on a Scandal is a decidedly more old-fashioned thriller. A simple movie, with a fairly simple plot, well directed, brilliantly acted, and a great entertainment. It’s naughty, sexy, reveling in its wickedness, at times heartbreaking (but never too much so) and a thriller-diller. You’d be hard pressed to find a better time at the show.
Notes on a Scandal is the story of an aging spinster who teaches at a London school for troubled, lower-class urchins. Barbara Covett is jaded beyond belief, and Judi Dench plays her brilliantly–a combination of power-hungry schoolmarm and desperate loner who hungers for a companion. Dench’s Barbara is almost sexless, though she is clearly pursuing another woman. The other woman is Sheba Hart, a young, pretty mother of two, one an attractive teenage daughter and the other a boy with Down’s Syndrome. Cate Blanchett is Sheba, married to an older man, living the perfect bohemian lifestyle, dissatisfied and looking for something different. Obviously hoping to satisfy this desire and do some good for the world, she begins the virtually thankless job of teaching pottery to these ungrateful high-school bollocks.
Barbara wants Sheba, as a friend and as something more. Sheba, looking to fit into a difficult situation that might be more than she bargained for, aligns with the seemingly kindly Barbara. That is, until Sheba gets it into her head to have an affair with the cheeky Steven Connolly, one of her fifteen year-old students.
This is a disturbing turn that Notes on a Scandal takes, and it is to director Richard Eyre’s credit that he takes this on without flinching. The whole show is narrated with an acid pen by Dench, but the film takes a viewpoint all its own–and Dench isn’t spared anything either. The interplay between Dench and Blanchett runs the gamut, from seemingly innocent teacher seeking help, to predatory witch trying to suck the life force from this younger woman–who is, of course, hardly innocent. Bill Nighy is solid as the cuckolded husband of Sheba, and Andrew Simpson, as Steven, Sheba’s love interest, is a marvel–confident, arrogant, brooding, the epitome of a young man’s attitude in the headlights of a bizarre situation.
Notes on a Scandal succeeds because all parties have worked in conjunction with one another, not overreacting to a plot that begs overreaction, and filling their roles with verve. Dench and Blanchett are a great match, their showdown a match made in cinema heaven. Only Philip Glass’ ponderous soundtrack get in the way of this saucy film. Otherwise, Notes on a Scandal is a crack film that remains consistently entertaining and thought provoking from start to finish.
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Dust Bowl O' Opera
For the few (probably very few?) of you sharing my obsession with modern American opera: tonight’s Raking Through Books event features composer Ricky Ian Gordon and librettist Michael Korie, the folks responsible for adapting the Minnesota Opera‘s world premiere of the Grapes of Wrath opera, opening early next month. At first, I thought this seemed like a strange choice for an opera. But then again, when I surveyed the latest in modern American opera–historic ones like Nixon in China and Dr. Atomic as well as literary adaptations like The Handmaid’s Tale, I could sort of imagine the Dust Bowl opera. Now, let’s see if Gordon and Korie can further explain themselves. Did I mention there’s free nosh at this event?
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Fairy Tales Can Come True, It Can Happen To You
A man went out to his car one night, started the ignition, inserted a Chuck Berry disc in the CD player, and drove off into the darkness in search of space.
He wanted to get out from under the street lights and the general overglow of the city, out beyond the tangle of freeways and the noise of rising and falling jets. It was an old habit of his, to just pack his bag and go off in search of the unfamiliar.
He’d been running from things most of his life, and had become expert in the art of retreat. By this time he could find the dead spots all around the country without an atlas. He knew how to follow rivers and find large bodies of water. He could feel the darkness drawing him like a magnet, and knew that where there was darkness there would be silence and space. There would be little towns thrown down in the middle of nowhere, towns where every home and business turned out the lights, drew the shades, and retired at a reasonable hour.
He’d roll down his car windows and any music at all –Hank Williams, the Four Tops, Jimmy Reed– would sound like the most abrasive punk rock drifting out into those empty streets.
There were reliably forlorn motels in such places, motels where he’d have to rouse the owner from bed and could back his car right up to the door of his room.
On such nights and in such places he could still be anyone or anything, and that was a feeling he’d been trying to hold onto his entire life.
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Simple Chicken
There is so much good to be done by simply roasting a chicken.
The pre-roasted chicken that you can pick up at the grocery store is easy, yes. But the truth is that roasting your own is not that much harder. Master this task and you will be able to satisfy anyone, anytime.
Let me make it easier still:
Go to Whole Foods by Lake Calhoun this Wednesday, January 10th. Buy an organic chicken and 5% of the sale will go to Open Arms of Minnesota, the good souls who deliver free food to people with debilitating diseases like HIV/AIDS, ALS, MS and breast cancer.
Take your chicken home.
Put your chicken in a roasting pan and pat it dry with paper towels. Rub it stem to stern with butter, do not scrimp. Throw a 2T chunk of butter in the cavity. Then apply salt and cracked pepper to your liking.
Slice a medium lemon in half, place one piece inside the cavity. Squeeze the second half over the top of the bird and throw it in the pan. Cut an entire head of garlic in half and throw it in the pan. Sprinkle freshly chopped rosemary over the whole bird, throw a couple of sprigs in the cavity and a couple in the pan.
In a 400 degree oven, roast the bird for about 30 minutes per pound. Check for doneness early, the skin should be golden and crispy, the juices should run clear when the breast is poked with a skewer. Take the bird out and let it sit for a few minutes while you deglaze the pan with some white wine.
Good for the bones, good for the stomach, good for the soul.
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Double Feature
Two things: First, The Rake’s free screening of the film Letters from Iwo Jima is tonight; pick up your comps at Cafe Brenda (they’re probably gone) or here at Rake headquarters (we have a few). Second, Walking Shadow Theatre Company is presenting an evening of music and storytelling by Sxip Shirey, a composer and performer with a circus bent. He’s in town to compose music for the soon-to-come Tale of a West Texas Marsupial Girl at the Children’s Theatre Company, which is another happening we’re fairly excited about.
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Another Morning In America
All night in my dreams,
a battle raged, destroying
the only world I loved,
bombs falling on the city
where my beloved slept, in
another house, another bed,
on the other side of a lake.
Deep in sleep, which I
surrender to willingly,
if seldom, I felt such
despair and tried without
success to kick my way to the
surface, but was sentenced
to drown while anonymous
armies plundered my town.
In the morning, when I shook
the sleep from my head
and hauled myself from bed,
there were soldiers at my
door. Beyond them I could
see my neighbors already
face down in the street.
One of the soldiers, barely
a man, pointed a rifle at my
teeth. Come along now, he
said, You’ve had your fun.