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We took Crying at the Movies to bed with us like a bad cold, prepared to wallow in it and nurse it, not realizing it was a page-turner. This memoir by Madelon Sprengnether, University of Minnesota English Professor and creative writing instructor, is a story of self-discovery told through the very adult–and very childlike–process of seeing a film story and relating it to personal history. The book winds its way through eight films and more than five decades in the writer’s life, in a rich form that intrigues as much for its clear presentation of the various film stories as it does for the private and powerful tale of Sprengnether’s life. It’s not necessary to have seen the movies or to understand much about psychoanalysis to gather the lifelong struggle of a woman who’s father drowned when she was just nine, and who lives for years in a home where this traumatic event is neither discussed nor felt. Blending screen stories, film images, literary quotes, and a mystical chronology, the memoir flows from the shadows and images of home movies, through the recollection of suppressed emotions and memories, to the reality of Sprengnether’s mother’s death, funeral, and burial told in concrete detail. After reading this dense volume published by Graywolf Press, the impulse will not be to lie in bed, but to gaze into the shadows and snapshots, the rented movies and real-life memories, and realize, as Joy does in the 1993 film Shadowlands, “Pain then is part of the happiness now. That’s the deal.”

Hedwig is the victim of a bungled sex-change operation, a gay immigrant from Berlin who reinvents himself as a rock ‘n’ roll drag queen. The Angry Inch is both Hedwig’s band and, er, what she has left after the operation. Does this sound like your idea of a hit show? If not, you might be surprised to learn that Outward Spiral Theatre, which is producing the Twin Cities premiere of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, has already had to extend its run twice. Audiences, straight as well as bent, haven’t merely accepted this show–they’ve embraced it. And the reasons for its success aren’t really that hard to understand. Hedwig is a solidly crafted piece of theater based on a remarkably simple concept: It’s a stage musical in the form of a small-club rock concert, using autobiographical songs and between-song patter to develop the main character and tell her story. In the title role, Jason S. Little incarnates that icon of gay culture, the diva who suffers as brilliantly as she sings; he gives us not only the over-the-top artifice that the character wears like a suit of armor, but also the nakedly vulnerable interior. It’s a fine performance and an enjoyably twisted evening of musical theater. Loring Playhouse, (612) 486-5757

Yes, this is the show in which Nicole Kidman appeared nude on Broadway. Now that we’ve gotten that bit of trivia out of the way, let’s consider the play itself, a meditation on couples and coupling. Adapted from Arthur Schnitzler’s classic La Ronde, The Blue Room is structured as a circle of interlocking encounters. Each of the two actors plays five characters, and each character appears in two scenes with characters of the opposite sex, according to the pattern A+B, B+C, C+D, etc. Thus there are 10 scenes total, and each scene contains an internal blackout during which the characters make love–in many cases for the first time, which of course forever alters relations between them. In short, The Blue Room is a complex piece that demands tour de force performances from its actors. Fortunately it’s being produced at the Jungle, where the acting is always the main attraction and where you can usually count on seeing the best actors in town. This production features Kirsten Frantzich, who slew Jungle audiences a year ago in the role of a dog (Sylvia), and Kris L. Nelson, who spent last summer mopping the Guthrie stage with a television star (Once in a Lifetime). Bain Boehlke directs and designs with his customary insight and flair. The Jungle Theater, (612) 822-7063

Are you crying ’cause the dog’s dead or because your own youthful innocence bit the dust along with him? At the risk of over-analyzing–aw heck, ain’t that what these deluxe DVD packages are all about?–Old Yeller is likely the most important movie in the Disney catalog, if only because it manages to evoke the darkness and duality of real-world happenstance without having to anthropomorphize a cartoon deer. OK, so none of the pooches we’ve laid to rest over the years ever rescued us from a pack of ornery hogs, but they surely drove away more than one unwelcome Amway rep, so the sentiment strikes a chord just the same. Not only does this 1957 melodrama grapple with the same raw mortality and growing pains as E.T., but it does so with more satisfying resolution and without a single product placement. What’s more, the success of this live-action pic was pivotal in expanding the Disney empire beyond the animated fairy tales and falsetto rodents upon which it was first built. Among the bonus features on this new edition are a documentary on the film’s lasting impact and audio commentary by co-stars Tommy Kirk (now 60 years old) and Fess “Davy Crockett” Parker (who, we feel obliged to note, eventually parlayed his screen earnings into one hell of a California winery).

It doesn’t take a diehard fan of The Band to appreciate this mother-of-all-rockumentaries. Martin Scorsese’s artful, affectionate, and sharply edited footage of musical luminaries such as Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, and other Band cronies holds up just fine more than a quarter century after it was recorded. In fact, given that so much of the retrospective attention afforded to these same characters amounts to dry, nostalgic scrapbooking, this film is an even more precious artifact than the average thumbnail lets on. For the sake of contemporary analogy, it’s as if Paul Thomas Anderson had documented the Smashing Pumpkins’ final gig, or if Steven Soderbergh were to capture a farewell concert by U2. We have yet to refine our own Last Waltz drinking game, in which a swig might be cued by the film’s various drug-addled interviewees or by Robbie Robertson’s smirk-inducing rock-star asides. In any case, 20 minutes of this movie makes the average Behind the Music look like a KARE-11 Extra. As we’d hoped, MGM’s long-awaited digital reissue does it up right, too, replete with outtakes, commentary by Scorsese and Robertson, and a newly mixed audio track that Vietnam era freaks-turned-home-theater-geeks can happily crank up for added retro-rock bluster.

Dear Clint, Glad you took my call yesterday! I can’t tell you how great it was to speak with you in person again. What’s it been, almost 20 years? (Not counting your wedding–sheesh, was I wasted or what?) Anyway, like I said on the phone, I’ll be here in Sydney doing reshoots on this new Matrix picture until early June. As you can imagine, it was a real coup for me (and my agent, ha! bless him…) to get the gig. When Keanu walked, Larry Fishburne was nice enough to let my name slip to one of the Wachowskis (I forget which–can’t really tell them apart, to be honest) as a possible replacement. I was sure Jude Law was gonna get it, but I think they ultimately wanted someone older, hairier, and a little more naturally agile. Bottom line: I’m in primo shape, I’m feeling the material in a really deep way, and PLEASE keep it on the down-low, but Carrie-Ann and I have been really “getting into character,” if you dig. All that said, I took another pass through the Another Which Way We Could script you sent, and while I have my doubts about the anti-terrorism angle (those desert locations are brutal, my friend!), I do believe you’re onto something. Let’s hit the Derby for drinks as soon as I’m back in town. All my best, Clyde

As seen on Amazon.com: “Customers who downloaded songs from this album also downloaded ‘Far Side Of The World’ [by] Jimmy Buffett.” Mr. Margaritaville and Moby sharing fans? So much for any lingering doubts about this dance-rock maestro’s crossover juice. Cynical musicos like to poke fun at Moby for his omnipresence, especially in commercials. Ever since his blues-infused 1999 album Play put him at the forefront of the alt-pop consciousness, his name, music, likeness, and ongoing commentaries have appeared everywhere in everything from prime-time ads to fashion mags to chic fund-raisers to the closing ceremonies in Salt Lake City. With so much celebrity grab-assing, maybe it’s curious that he would cast D-list stars such as Gary Coleman and Kato Kaelin in the video for “We Are All Made Of Stars,” the first single off his new full-length disc, 18. But rather than take the occasion to ponder the twisted and fickle nature of fame in the 21st century (yawn), we’re content to nod along to that lovely, all-too-singable track and thank our own lucky stars for an electronica artist who still cares enough to write a simple guitar-pop gem once in a while. For that matter, cheers to a multi-platinum personality who doesn’t feel the need to disappear for years at a time to recharge his own hip factor (ahem-Prince-cough).

As of last Christmas, no less than 8 million copies of 1998’s The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill had been rung through at earthly checkout lines. We suspect that roughly one-third of that figure represents fans so desperate for a follow-up to that delicious album of hip-hop-soul that they simply ran out and bought the first one again. This new Unplugged disc may not quite be the blockbuster sequel you’ve been waiting for–Hill’s skills at manipulating a studio environment were what sealed much of Miseducation’s instant charm. But among the numerous pop songbirds and rap impresarios who’ve participated in MTV’s ritual sonic striptease, few flaunt the all-around musical magnetism of this former Fugee. Since dropping off the radar at the turn of the millennium, varying reports have had her devoting 98 percent of her time to motherhood, retreating deep into a spiritual self-exploration, and/or suffering at the hands of a label who might be too gun-shy to pit an acoustic Lauryn album against the red-hot likes of Alicia Keys, Missy Elliott, and the ghost of Destiny’s Child. Whatever the full truth is, Unplugged patrons would do best not to expect hit singles–which, in this case, still allows for a damn fine live collection from one of modern R&B’s most venerable figures.

If there are two millennial rock ‘n’ roll bands you need to know about, here they are–in one convenient location for your listening pleasure. Have you been wondering whatever happened to smart guitar rock, and whether there was any gas left in the old engine of creative evolution for the six-string? Spiritualized has been around for more than a decade, led by the bizarre boy-genius Jason Spaceman who somehow manages to combine psychedelic noise-mongering with Baptist brimstone. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club are newcomers cut from the cloth of Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground–yes, it was about time for someone to sound like Lou Reed and the Velvets again, wasn’t it? You’ll hear previews of BRMC on Drive-105. But for some reason they’re not spinning “Whatever Happened to My Rock ‘n’ Roll,” the first song in 15 years that makes us spontaneously pogo around the office like it was Goofy’s circa 1981. First Avenue, (612) 338-8388

Don’t laugh until you remember that this aging Canadian superstar penned memorable classics such as “Carefree Highway” and “If You Could Read My Mind.” These, of course, were staples of late-70s hippie pop that drew a line back to pre-Nashville country and folk –just like our dear departed John Denver. (True, Gord also wrote the heinous signature hit “Sundown,” just the way John cursed us with “Sunshine on My Shoulders.”) Most listeners don’t realize that Lightfoot was and remains an unrepentant Canadian folkie at heart. With any luck, he’ll play a few of his earliest hits unmolested by the schlocky string arrangements–gems like “Canadian Railroad Trilogy” and “Ribbon of Steel,” both of which were recently re-released on a new greatest hits anthology. We’ve seen enough of our friends’ record collections to know that more will show up than will admit it at the water cooler. Still need convincing? Don’t forget “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” a classic Great Lakes ballad as timeless as Gitchee Gummi itself. Orpheum Theatre, (612) 339-7007