Stansfield Blog

Impressions of a Sanders voter

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Tue, 12 Jul 2016 19:35:00 +0000

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have made it very clear in the past year that I was a Sanders supporter and this reflects that. If that makes you angry or exasperated I please ask that you do yourself a favor and skip this piece – it is not intended to change anyone's mind about how to vote in the general election. The following constitutes neither an endorsement nor a condemnation of Hillary Clinton. I firmly believe that Americans, particularly Americans in safe states, should vote in whatever way their consciences dictate.

As Bernie Sanders’s official endorsement of Hillary Clinton ends what has been the most difficult and bruising Democratic primary of my lifetime (or at least nearly ends – there are still delegates to be counted and a convention to be held), I am left with some impressions that were formed some months ago and have been largely confirmed in my own mind, based on the reactions (or in some cases, lack of reactions) of my friends who support either of the two candidates.

Full disclosure: Let me say up front that what I’m reporting is strictly anecdotal and comes with whatever biases that implies. My opinions are my own.

Throughout this primary season I have gotten into lengthy discussions and debates during which I asked the deceptively simple question: “What are the reasons you’re voting for your candidate?” Putting aside the answers I received regarding Donald Trump, which are not worth printing or dignifying, I was struck by the difference in priority that I often perceived between Clinton and Sanders voters. By and large, the Sanders voters had answers such as (and I’m paraphrasing) “Because I think Wall Street is out of control,” “Because I believe in single-payer healthcare,” “Because I think education should be free.” In other words, voters responded to Sanders because of specific issues (or, if you want to be less kind about it, because of the "free" things they wanted).

When Clinton voters answered the same question, there were a few who proceeded along the same lines, citing specific policies she supported or that they believed she supported. But just as often, if not more often, the answers were along the lines of, “Because of her leadership ability,” “Because she'll get s--t done,” “Because she’s the most experienced candidate in history,” “Because it’s time for a woman to lead.”

The truth is, I can’t recall a single instance of a Sanders supporter talking about him as a person or speaking of qualities they liked in him. Quite the opposite, in fact. The shouting, finger pointing and sometimes tone deaf statements about race and gender that often came from him did not create warm feelings in anyone but the most ardent or malignant Sanders supporter, even though others referred to Sanders as a cult of personality. On the other hand, there was an overwhelming feeling I got from the Clinton supporters I personally spoke with that it was her innate talent and intelligence that they were supporting, regardless of whatever her personal record or statements might lead one to believe about her goals.

There is no arguing that Clinton is a historic and perhaps even iconic figure, and would have been even if she weren’t going to the be the first female president of the United States. There will be no argument from me, either, that she is exceptionally intelligent and will prove to be, at the very least, competent in whatever role she assumes. And it is interesting that many pundits (largely on the Right) have commented that Clinton has relatability issues and trustworthiness issues, because, from where I sit, I see a massive contingent of people who have no trouble relating to her or trusting her, who are willing to follow her because they perceive an ineffable quality that we can call “leadership.” Those people won for Clinton her party’s nomination, and will certainly send her to the White House.

I have come to believe, however, that there is a real difference in how voters choose their candidates regardless of political affiliation or ideology, and I think it affects the process both positively and negatively. To put a positive spin on it, supporting a candidate because of who she or he is demonstrates trust and can lead to a certain degree of flexibility, pragmatism and compromise in a voter. On the other hand, it can lead to inconsistency of belief, blindness to flaws and a certain hypocrisy and cognitive dissonance when it comes to how one treats people who are aligned with political factions other than his or her own.

This feeling has been largely confirmed for me in the days after Clinton became the presumptive nominee, and in particular as Sanders stayed in the race to (in many ways successfully) influence both the party platform and Clinton’s policy goals. As Sanders has gingerly tiptoed toward endorsing Clinton, many of her supporters have been absolutely exasperated and confused by the fact that some of his own are insisting that they will not be swayed to vote for her.

“What is wrong with you? Your own hero has said he’d vote for her and you’re so butt-hurt you’ll give the presidency to Trump!” (The previous was not a paraphrase, by the way, but an actual quote from one message board discussion. I’ve read many, many others similar in tone and meaning.) It’s as if they can’t comprehend that Sanders voters did not consider him a “hero,” or a “God,” or even much of a “leader” – they simply agreed with his platform and it doesn’t really matter whom he endorses if that person is not also going to work to deliver those results.

Meanwhile, those self-same supporters, who routinely mocked many of Sanders’ stated policy goals as being naïve, unworkable, or unreasonable, are notably keeping mum as Clinton has adopted them. When Clinton was steadfastly against free college tuition or a $15 minimum wage, for example, her followers were with her all the way, and could recite all the reasons why Sanders supporters were not “grownup” enough to acknowledge her pragmatism and correctness. Now that she has adopted those issues as a concession to his voters, I’ve yet to see a mass exodus from her or hear anyone say that he or she has lost respect for her for adopting “stupid” ideas. On the contrary, she’s now the person who can get them done – or, more cynically, she’s the person who’s lying to convince all those dumb progressives to follow her even though she knows it will never happen.

This shouldn’t be a surprise. For quite some time I have been one of the voices on the Left who has wondered why certain of Hillary Clinton’s actions and characteristics have been routinely justified as “just the way things are done in politics” or “right wing nonsense” when the same people ignoring them would throw a fit if, say, George W. Bush or Dick Cheney had acted similarly. While I agree with the fact that Clinton has faced an unprecedented amount of mudslinging (that, let me be clear, has not stuck) and that Republicans have indulged in witch-hunting and routinely made mountains out of molehills when it comes to her behavior, I am still baffled by the unwillingness of her supporters to even admit to the molehills.

The e-mail “scandal” was not really a scandal. But it should matter to Democrats, who in the past have claimed to be against secrecy and for openness in government, just as much as it did when it was the GOP sending correspondence down the memory hole. Maybe the money Clinton has received from Wall Street or the speeches to financial institutions won’t actually affect her governance. But it is odd to hear the idea that money is a corrupting influence on politicians being flat-out denied by people who in the past eight years loudly bemoaned that influence. The allegations that Clinton assisted her husband in covering up sexual harassment and assault could very well be part of an ongoing whisper campaign. But it is strange to hear that from people who otherwise believe that women, by and large, do not falsely accuse men of assault.

I have always been honest that much of what Bernie Sanders claimed he would fight for in office would be impossible for him to achieve. And it is fair to say that much of his appeal lay in a certain political idealism (or naïvety) that results when a candidate does not have years of baggage to sort through, unlike someone who has been in the trenches for years such as Hillary Clinton. The same can be said for a Jill Stein or an Elizabeth Warren, who are currently being celebrated by some Sanders supporters in the way Bernie was.

This is a problem for Sanders voters.

We have to allow for a certain amount of flawed behavior in our candidates lest we become uncompromising purists and, ultimately, irrelevant. We have to understand that political leadership requires coalition building, horse-trading, gift-giving (and -receiving), and mind-changing.

But Hillary Clinton’s supporters would be best served if they, too learned a lesson. No one “owes” you a vote, or his or her allegiance, no matter who else is on your “side” or not, and no matter who might be a worse option. In 2016, a lot of people learned that party loyalty is not what it once was, and if you take it for granted that issues voters will fall in line without truly believing a candidate intends to fight for those issues, you do so at your own peril. It was never about one man.

To paraphrase an earlier campaign: It’s the policy, stupid.

An act of terror, an act of hate

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Mon, 13 Jun 2016 13:46:00 +0000

Now that time has passed and I have processed some of my feelings, I want to share a little something about an occasion when my perspective changed (I promise, it's pertinent).

Once upon a time, I was adamantly (and vocally) opposed to hate crimes legislation. Obviously, not because I feel anything other than anger about violent acts of racism, misogyny, religious intolerance and homo-, bi-, and transphobia, but because from a philosophical and legal perspective I was concerned about certain victims being treated as more important than others and the potential slippery slope when government has the ability to determine those classes. After all, a dead or assaulted person is dead or assaulted no matter who that person is or what the attacker's motive is.

A few years ago, though, someone changed my mind. That person pointed out to me that we have laws against terrorism and that there are reasons why these are separate and distinct from other laws pertaining to violence. An act of terrorism is not designed simply to hurt the victim but is also meant to instill fear into others who were not directly targeted. It is meant to make people hesitate to take advantage of their inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is a statement to others: You must change, you must capitulate, or you must go away. Otherwise, you will be made to suffer.

The same is true of hate crimes. Victims of lynching in the US knew of what I speak. The Jews who woke up the day after kristallnacht knew. Those who survived the massacre in Orlando know now.

There are some who describe what happened on Sunday as an act of terrorism. Others describe it as a hate crime, meant to make a particular community afraid of living as it chooses, where it chooses. Both groups are correct.

This was an act of terror. This was a hate crime. And until we ALL acknowledge that the bigotry that leads to these acts is not created in a vacuum; until we ALL stand up and speak out against hatred of people for their color, sex, gender expression, sexual orientation, and religious beliefs BEFORE that hatred creates vicious killers; until we find ways to keep the tools of death out of the hands of potential murderers, we will continue to suffer the consequences of our passivity as we debate meaningless distinctions and semantics.

Terrorism? Hate crime? They are one and the same, and a community is victimized either way.

Many lives were lost on Sunday; many more people are getting insult added to injury from certain people and media outlets who refuse to admit that this was a hate crime and that the targets were people who are vilified by the right wing as much as they are by any particular religious ideology; and many more lives will be changed forever from this loss. LGBTQ and allied people can now honor those lost lives by living our own -- out in the open -- and saying, "You can not stop thus community with weapons or hate. You can not stop us from loving who we choose, being what we wish to be, and pursuing happiness in whatever manner we wish. We exist. It is our RIGHT to exist. WE WILL CONTINUE TO EXIST."

I stand with the people of Orlando, and specifically the LGBTQ people of that city. And I beg them and you not to let terrorism and hate win. Be out. Be proud. Be yourself. And be the community I know you are capable of being. A community built on love, and solidarity ... and courage.

Civilly Disobedient (a contrarian review of “Captain America: Civil War”)

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Thu, 12 May 2016 21:01:00 +0000

WARNING: SOME MAJOR SPOILERS FOLLOW

This spring, a disappointing action movie in which alleged superheroes with parental issues tried to violently kill each other really let me down. No, I’m not talking about Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice – I’m referring to Captain America: Civil War.

No, not this Civil War

I know, the DC Cinematic Murderverse is grim, cynical and full of characters acting wildly differently from how they act in comic books – so it’s bad, bad, bad. I agree. However, I’m trying to understand why the Marvel Cinematic Emoverse – only slightly less grim, just as cynical, and full of characters acting wildly differently from how they act in other movies in the series – is considered so superior by contrast.

To be clear, I was much more entertained by the latest in-name-only Captain America movie than I was by BvS, and even, for that matter, Avengers: Age of Ultron. CA:CW has witty banter, cleverly staged action sequences, and introduces some very welcome “new” (and nearly new) characters to the Avengers milieu, which makes it an improvement over the hard-to-watch, beige-and-gray murk of the Zak Snyder killfest that was BvS as well as the poorly motivated, plot-hole-filled destructo-thon of A:AoU.

This Civil War

However, CA:CW lacks the coherence of the previous Captain America movies, the inspiration of the first Avengers, or the fun of the more recent Ant-Man. CA:CW is a train designed to get us from one Avengers movie to the next – with the direct route requiring that the filmmakers throw out all of the characterization established since Iron Man was released eight years ago. From the start, the heroes never feel like the same people seen in previous movies. Their motivations make little sense – not only based on what’s been established before, but also based on common sense and normal human behavior.

DC heroes beating each other up is much more offensive
than Marvel heroes beating each other up.

No one’s effectively explained to me why Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) would be suddenly gung ho about submitting to governmental control when six years ago he was telling the US government (in the form of the late Garry Shandling) to go f**k itself because it sought oversight of his privately owned weapon of mass destruction (a request that I thought was reasonable at the time). The fact that, since then, governments in that world were revealed to be infiltrated by an ancient conspiracy of sort-of-Nazis (one of whom was, yes, Garry Shandling) makes Stark’s sudden change of heart even more unbelievable. Sure, you can explain it as a consequence of Sokovia’s destruction in A:AoU, but that was entirely Stark’s fault. Shouldn’t he be the one getting locked up? Couldn’t all of this have been solved if he'd kept his promise from lord-knows-how-many movies ago and retired? But then, we wouldn’t have a reason for ostensible good guys to kick the s**t out of each other.

(Nor would we have an explanation for why probably-too-expensive Gwyneth Paltrow sat this one out. Boyfriend gives you a company and you dump him – I get it, GOOP-girl.)

Suddenly Tony's down with oversight

Why would Steve Rodgers (Chris Evans), a soldier who, from his own perspective, was letting the US government pump him full of chemicals and radiation in the name of patriotism a few years prior, decide that basic checks and balances are a threat to freedom?

Why would several folks (Black Widow, Hawkeye, and Falcon, played by Scarlett Johansson, Jeremy Renner, and Anthony Mackie, respectively), who are literally government employees, suddenly act like vigilantes threatened by registration? Why, in fact, would any heroes care about the government having their numbers when hardly anyone has a secret identity? And why would the only superhero with a secret identity (Spider-Man, played by Tom Holland this time) be on the side of registration? Why? Why? Why?

Aren't these guys, like, government agents?

Again, the answer seems to be, “Because we need superheroes fighting and we need to make sure the teams are reasonably balanced out.”

In the movie's world – where Earth's governments acknowledge that there was an alien invasion and yet decide it was the people who saved the world from total destruction who should pay – far too many characters act like idiots entirely out of plot necessity.

The last-minute introduction of a “major” plot twist (yes, involving Stark’s mommy, who is mercifully not named Martha) does nothing to rationalize the previous two hours. By the time we find out that Bucky (Sebastian Stan) killed Roger Sterling – sorry, Howard Stark –and his wife (John Slattery and Hope Davis) we’ve seen the following:

Steve being sure Bucky didn’t commit a terrorist act despite knowing his pal will kill on behalf of anyone who gets hold of his conveniently Commie-branded phrasebook
Tony being just as sure that Bucky did commit said terrorist act despite knowing of multiple recent governmental conspiracies and the fact that the only evidence is a bad photo of someone in a bad wig
Alfre Woodard being sure an easy paycheck is worth playing an angry Jiminy Cricket for five minutes and then disappearing entirely
Everyone else being so sure of whatever it is they believe that they have no problem attempting to maim, kill, or imprison people they used to work with

Not really Alfre Woodard

Oh, yeah, about that last bullet-point: War Machine (Don Cheadle) gets paralyzed during all the fighting. He’s still paralyzed at the end of the movie. I know the whole “superheroes get into a big fight” trope is something very familiar to comic book readers, but when you see it on-screen, with actual human beings doing the fighting, it just doesn’t work the same way.

They'll work it out before Thanos
comes, probably.

In the real world, friendships end over gossip, or disagreements about who makes a better Democratic presidential candidate. If you can suspend disbelief enough to think these folks can resolve things and be pals again in the next Avengers movie, you are much better at disbelief-suspension than I am. Sorry, there are some things a friendship can’t rebound from, and on the list are both paraplegia and imprisonment.

What’s even more disappointing is that the actors are uniformly great. At this point, Evans and Downey are their characters; in a few minutes, Holland establishes himself as the most appealing Spider-Man yet; Chadwick Boseman is intriguing as Black Panther; Paul Rudd is … well, he’s Paul Rudd, which is fine. I walked out of the theater thinking, “I bet the next few movies will be great. It’s a shame Captain America doesn’t rate his own movie.”

When you get to know him, he's a real pussycat.

As a kind-of Avengers 2½, CA:CW lets down its cast, who all deserve to shine in movies where they play heroes, rather than a bunch of douchebags who don’t know how to use their words to settle interpersonal conflicts. It’s hard for me to guess how their characters will be restored to normal by the time Avengers: Infinity War rolls around, but it can’t happen soon enough. Maybe they need to take anger-management tips from Bruce Banner – or maybe they should stop modeling their behavior off of Zak Snyder characters.

But this was totally cool, right?!

Apparently, firefighters (and 311) do NOT care about cats in trees

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Wed, 27 Apr 2016 17:29:00 +0000

Despite having seen the old “cat stuck in a tree” bit in numerous films and TV shows over the years, I was completely stopped in my tracks when I heard a piercing meow coming from a roughly 30-foot-tall tree in a housing complex on Myrtle Avenue, where I was in the process of schlepping a disassembled bookcase to the M train. I would soon find myself even more paralyzed by the knowledge that there was not a single New York governmental employee who was willing to do anything to help.

It’s not as if the residents, themselves, didn’t care. Standing not far from the tree was a middle-aged lady holding a box of Meow Mix and shaking it to get the crying kitten’s attention. “The cat has been up there for over two days,” she told me. “We tried to get it, but the ladder wasn’t tall enough.”

As a crowd gathered around us, variously saying “here, kitty, kitty,” or taking cellphone pictures, I asked, “Has the city been called?”

“Would you believe,” Ms. Meow Mix said, “that there was a gas leak and the police and fire departments were here and they just ignored the cat?”

Unfortunately, I did believe her, but, realizing that I was wearing my Superman T-shirt, I felt that surely there was something I could do. Naturally, I called that great lifeline of New York City, 311. Reaching the automated directory system, which asked me what I was calling about, I said, “Cat stuck in a tree.” Soon I got an actual human being, who asked, “How exactly can a cat be stuck in a street?”

“Oh, no, I said it’s stuck in a tree.”

“Oh, that makes more sense. Is it sick?”

“I honestly don’t know...I don’t think so, it’s just extremely scared and about 30 or 40 feet off the ground. Apparently it’s been there a couple of days.”

“Yes, I understand. Let me see what I can find for you.”

After a few minutes of pleasant hold music, the operator came back on the line. Unfortunately, I can’t find anything about cats stuck in trees. I don’t know what to say.” Looking down at my shirt, I responded, “Well, I don’t really have any experience with this, myself, but isn’t this usually something a fireman does? Or Superman? But obviously we aren’t going to get Superman here.”

“Oh, that’s funny. Well, let me put you through to the fire department, would that be okay?”

“Sure, I’d appreciate that.”

The phone rings. And rings. Finally, “Fire Department, what’s your emergency?”’

“Well, I’m not sure this qualifies as an emergency, but 311 transferred me to you. There’s a cat stuck in a tree on Myrtle Avenue and it’s been there a few days.”

The fireman laughs. “We don’t handle cats in trees.”

“Oh. Do you know who does?”

“I can look up Animal Control for you.”

“Cool, could you transfer me?”

“Here’s the number. 212-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.” Click.

I dial the number. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is not in service. No further information is available for this number.”

Ms. Meow Mix calls over to me, “Who did they put you in touch with?”

“Nobody,” I say. “I’m getting passed from person to person and was just given a non-working number.”

“Typical.” She gives up and goes away. So does everyone else. A man comes with a ladder! Finally! We’re saved! But no, he just is there to casually hang a sign. The kitten continues to meow.

I dial 311 again. What am I calling about? “Animal control.”

“Hello, this is 311, how can I help you with animal control?”

“Could you just transfer me or give me a phone number? I was given a wrong number.”

“Well, what do you want them for?” she asks.

“There’s a cat stuck in a tree,” I reply.

“We don’t handle cats stuck in trees.”

Record scratch. Um.....what?

I try a companionable tack: “Well, yes, I understand you wouldn’t know what to do about a cat stuck in a tree, I just want the number of animal control.”

“Sorry, no. That’s not in our jurisdiction,” she says, firmly.

“Wait, what isn’t under your jurisdiction?”

“Cats stuck in trees.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression that 311 was the clearinghouse for city agencies. I am asking for the number of a city agency. Is that not in your jurisdiction?”

“We are the number for city agencies. But we don’t handle cats in trees.”

“And you won’t connect me with animal control.”

“No.”

“A city agency.” Silence.

“Is the cat sick? Is the cat yours?” Wait? Is she about to actually help me?

“No, the cat is not mine. I have no idea whether it’s sick, but it’s been up there two days so I assume it’s hungry.”

“I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”

“Can you tell me who can?”

“No.”

“Even though this is the number that’s supposed to direct me to the right people.”

Silence.

“I am going to go back to my office at the Post and see if someone has some idea of who handles animals stuck in city property. I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

So here I am, at my desk. A colleague has given me the number for a shelter (because, guess what, Animal Control does not appear to have any kind of public phone number that anyone can find.) The very helpful, caring person on the other end has promised to find out what to do about this. Which is a lot more than anyone at 311 has done. The cat is, as far as I know, still in a tree.

More to follow.

Goodbye, Obi.

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Mon, 22 Feb 2016 15:00:00 +0000

In 1999, my sister Trish and I had been roommates for about three years when she learned of an opportunity to adopt a kitten, so we decided to go see the two cats that remained in the litter — an orange tabby and a black-and-white cat with big ears, prominent fangs, and a white mustache. Both kittens were adorable, of course (what kitten isn’t?), but there was something about the kitten in the tuxedo. We’d already had experience with pretty, kind of haughty, cats. Tuxedo-cat wasn’t pretty — he was, frankly, kind of goofy looking. Naturally, we fell in love with him. We took him home and named him Obi, partly to match the awards-show-themed names of my mother’s two cats, Emmy and Clio, and partly because Star Wars:Episode I came out that month. Obi would turn out to be much more entertaining than The Phantom Menace.

Obi very quickly established himself as different from any other cat we’d had. We’d had lap-cats and high-energy playful kittens who eventually settled down, but Obi was both a playful goofball and a cuddly stuffed animal from the beginning. And he was loyal and clever enough that we began to think that he thought he was a dog. Without any reinforcement he instinctively figured out how to fetch things (usually those rings around the caps on milk bottles) and drop them right at our feet (or sometimes, when he got really ambitious, right in my lap or my hand). He was talkative and expressive, and he liked being around people. I soon got used to waking up with leg cramps from not wanting to disturb him while he lay between my thighs, or on my back, or on my stomach. He divided his time almost evenly between my sister and me, and instinctively knew which one of us needed him more, when we were bored, sad, or in pain.

Because my sister was paranoid that he would not know how to find his way back to the apartment if he ever got out, we got a harness and leash for him. That didn’t exactly go as hoped — once the harness went on, he refused to move. But oddly, he had no problem riding on my shoulder like some demented parody of a pirate and parrot as I walked him up and down the street, greeting pedestrians. I once took him to my then-regular hangout, Cleo’s Saloon, where he got a lot of loving attention from the other patrons until one elderly regular shamed me: “He’s not a dog. He’s probably scared out of his mind. What a terrible thing to do to him.” I didn’t take him out as much after that. Eventually he got too heavy for my shoulder, anyway.

Obi was the sort of cat who made people reevaluate how they felt about cats. I was told this by no fewer than four non-cat-people who met him. He was just ... likable. A good little boy. It’s really hard to convey what it was about him that made him so idiosyncratic and clever and special. The fact that he learned and responded to his name faster than any other cat I’ve known. How you could make a small gesture and he’d know you wanted him to come sit with you. How loudly he purred and how he sometimes was so relaxed and happy that he drooled a little (which was gross and funny and sweet all at once). His terrible, terrible breath, the origin of which we never figured out and the remedy for which we never discovered. How “Little Fang’s” overbite made his face so much more expressive and how his wide-ranging vocabulary of whines and gurgles and meows made it so easy for him to communicate exactly what he wanted from you, whether it be food, or for you to chase him, or for you to move over so that he could demand a belly-rub.

I think you could probably put 10 people in a room together to talk about their pets and nobody would be able to truly convey to the others what was special about their relationship.

A few years after Obi joined my sister and me, my parents moved from Philly to California and Trish headed west, as well. I don’t remember any lengthy discussion of custody, but since I was now the last of our little clan on the East Coast, and alone, it seemed natural that Obi stay my companion. The two of us lived a bachelor existence, two buddies, for about a year. And thank goodness for that, because it was a hard adjustment for me and he brought a little light into a not-especially-bright time of my life.

And then Obi moved, too.

It was at least partly my own decision, of course. I won a not-insignificant amount of money on a television game show and thought the best use of it would be to see the world. I planned a months-long backpacking trip through Europe and decided the best thing to do with Obi was to temporarily leave him with my family (including Emmy and Clio) in California.

I never made my trip to Europe. The reason why is a very long story itself, and not worth going into here, but the bottom line is that Obi never moved back to NYC. My family argued that he was enjoying the big house and the outdoors and tormenting the other two (older) cats too much for it to be fair for him to go back to living in two rooms with two windows, and, besides, I couldn’t afford it. I argued, they wore me down, and eventually I agreed with them. And of course it was a better life there. But he was still my little guy, and every time I visited I got a pang that maybe he would have been better off with me. Or at least I would have been better off. I sometimes missed him more than I did my parents and sister, to be honest. At least I could talk to them on the phone.

But remember when I talked about his doglike loyalty? Well it is a fact that for years, every time I visited, he would move right back into the guest room I used a few times a year. And I was told that every time I left again he would spend the next day looking for me or sitting at the door. And it is true that, when my family insisted I talk to him on the phone, I would say it was ridiculous when they said he would start purring when he heard my voice, but secretly I was thrilled by the thought.

Eventually Emmy and Clio died, and we were devastated. But then my parents’ household was joined by three other cats, and Obi finally got to be an older, crankier alpha cat the way Clio had been to him. And, right up until last week, as he passed 13, then 14, then 15, and 16, he continued to be a runner and a jumper and a scrapper, even as he started becoming bowlegged from old age.

It’s hard to explain how I can so much miss a cat that hasn’t lived with me for over a decade. But even after growing up with our first cat, Whisper, and then picking out Emmy and Clio for my parents when Whisper passed away, Obi was the first cat who chose me. He was my little guy no matter who he lived with, just as he was my sister’s. And as long as he was there, I never got another cat, out of loyalty to him. No other cat would have been quite like him, anyway.

Obi, I am so sorry I couldn’t be there with you yesterday when your time suddenly came. I am having a hard time even imagining what it will be like to go to LA and, for the first time, not immediately go find you to give you a hug once I walk through the front door. The thought that the things you do won’t be the first things my mother and sister share with me when we talk on the phone feels so strange. I’ve always missed you, but now missing you is too painful, and every time I think about you I get teary, so I’m trying not to think about you. But I love you, Obi-Wan, and you will always be my best boy.

Bowie and Me

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Mon, 11 Jan 2016 19:25:00 +0000

"Look up here, I’m in heaven"

“Something happened on the day he died. Spirit rose a meter, and then stepped aside.”

1. TODAY. Several of my friends and family have left me messages asking me for my thoughts on the death of David Bowie or just intending to commiserate, which feels a little odd to me. They know (as does anyone who I’m close with or who follows me on social media) that Bowie was the closest thing to an idol I have in my life, but the thought of eulogizing him…? We didn’t know each other. I never met the man.

“We passed upon the stair. We spoke of was and when. Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend. Which came as some surprise.”

2. I always thought that I would eventually meet David Bowie. Maybe that sounds odd, but especially in recent years it hasn’t seemed that hard to meet him. My sister has met him. My boss has met him. Several of my friends have met him. I always figured I’d get my shot. That maybe the reason I hadn’t yet was because it would happen only when I had something, anything, I could say to him without losing my cool or seeming like a pretentious asshole or just being “a fan.” From an early age I had a fantasy that maybe we would be...not pals, but...colleagues? I always hoped he’d like me and secretly believed he wouldn’t. I’m so conventional. So boring.

“I feel tragic like I’m Marlon Brando.”

3. 1983. I first discovered David Bowie when I was a small child. It was the '80s, the peak of his career and the beginning of what is universally derided as his nadir (though honestly, in my opinion, the nadir lasted less than a decade. Not so bad). My sister got the LP of “Let’s Dance.” She played it a lot. Then I played it a lot. Bowie and Tina Turner in a Diet Pepsi commercial. Live Aid. Dancing with Mick Jagger and Dennis Miller making fun of it on SNL.

Then, not too long after that, I visited a cousin and found a cassette of “Ziggy Stardust.” I played it so much on the trip that he said, “You can keep it.” I did.

Now I know the choice is mine

“When all your faith is failing, call my name. When you've got nothing coming call my name. I'll be strong for all it takes. I'll cover your head till the bad stuff breaks. Dance my little dance till it makes you smile.”

4. I started asking for his new albums for Christmas. Cassette tapes of “Tonight” and “Never Let Me Down” (Mom and Dad didn’t know any better and neither did I. I loved Bowie’s version of “God Only Knows.” I was a kid).

“Life can be easy. It's not always swell. Don't tell me truth hurts, little girl, cause it hurts like hell.”

5. 1986. Then “Labyrinth” happened. I got my quarterly issue of “Bantha Tracks,” the “Star Wars” Fan Club newsletter, and there was a big picture of Bowie and George Lucas and Jim Henson. I liked “Star Wars” and Muppets and David Bowie, not necessarily in that order, and I guess Bowie liked Jim Henson and George Lucas, too, right? I swear I never noticed the bulge in his tights until years later.

“Though nothing will drive them away, we can beat them, just for one day.”

6. The ‘90s. The back catalog, in random order, whatever my parents decided to buy me. “Scary Monsters” came before “Hunky Dory” which came before “Space Oddity” which came before “‘Heroes.’” In junior high school I met another fan, Dan Walinsky (shockingly, he came out of the closet in college). We would trump each other by pointing out obscurities that the other didn’t know about. He introduced me to “Absolute Beginners.” I amazed him by producing a rare cassette of “David Bowie in Bertolt Brecht’s Baal.”

I read Angie Bowie’s smutty memoir when I'm 15. I adored it. “The Lance of Love.” Later that year I became a junior reporter for the Philadelphia Daily News. When my “class” “graduated” from the teen section they gave us a present: Go through the Daily News’ pile of free shit and take one thing you want. “Bowie: The Singles” is right there. I grabbed it. Another teen reporter cursed me out. I was first. Suck it.

“I bought you a pair of shoes, a trumpet you can blow, and a book of rules on what to say to people when they pick on you.”

7. I was not popular as a teenager. The opposite of popular. I was a chubby musical theater performer with a high, over-articulate voice and a funny walk and I went to a jock high school with fewer than 100 students in my grade, who assessed you when you first arrived and that was IT for seven years, until you graduated. No, I was not “out.” But I listened to David Bowie and felt like it was okay to be weird.

“Walls have got you cornered. You’ve got the blues, my friend. And people don’t like you! But you will leave without a sound, without an end.”

8. I never “dressed up” in junior high school. Or in high school. I didn’t wear makeup or have New Wave haircuts. I would have liked to. There was really only one rule my parents had that had total primacy. “Do not embarrass us.” So I was preppy. I would have liked to have dressed up.

By the time I was old enough and confident enough to make my own decisions it felt too late to dress up. And I was never tall enough or thin enough or androgynous enough.

David Bowie probably would not have cared. I did.

See? Conventional. He probably wouldn’t have liked me.

“Don't talk of heartaches, I remember them all. When I'm checking you out one day to see if I'm faking it all. Can you hear me? Can you feel me inside?”

9. But I loved David Bowie. I loved his music, I loved the questionable choices (drum and bass? Tin Machine? “SpongeBob SquarePants”?) as much as the unquestioned ones. The first time I was mugged in Philadelphia, I was wearing a ski jacket and carrying a busted up Walkman with a cassette of “Young Americans” in it. The mugger made me give him the ski jacket. Then he took the Walkman, took a look at it and said, “I don’t want this piece of shit” and gave it back to me. I kept “Young Americans” and had it with me in the cop car. But the cassette case was still in the pocket of the ski jacket. Oh well.

“Love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves.”

10. Eventually I have every Bowie cassette. Then I start replacing them with CDs. I love him. Even after he said he wasn’t actually bi. When he says he likes things that I like, I feel like we're connected. He shows up in the “Twin Peaks” movie. Of course he loves David Lynch, I love David Lynch. I stay on the phone for an hour desperately trying to request “Must Be Talking to an Angel” when Annie Lennox is on “A&E By Request.” I can't get through. But Bowie does. What does he request? Guess.

I wind up reading every bio of David Bowie I can get my hands on and EVERY TIME I thrill a little when I’m reminded that he was born on a street called “Stansfield Road.”

I see him in concert more than once. Wait, there’s a story:

“Now. Not tomorrow. Yesterday. Not tomorrow. It happens today.”

11. It’s the mid-’90s. In college, just moving on from cassettes to CDs. I’m reporting for the NYU newspaper and once again, I’m first to the free pile. This time it’s “1. Outside.” Love it. Review it. To this day I’m haunted by my lack of fact-checking, I refer to one of the characters on the album as “Baby Jane.” She's “Baby Grace.”

I now fact-check for a living. For a newspaper.

But back to the story. Bowie is treating this as a “comeback” (we wouldn’t know the true meaning of that until 2013) he’s performing in Jersey that week, and he’s at Virgin Megastore signing albums. I line up outside. The line’s around the block but I’m going to meet David Bowie! A DJ from some radio station or another asks if there’s anyone in the crowd willing to do “something stupid” for David Bowie concert tickets. I am. He asks me to jump up and down on one leg screaming, “I love David Bowie!” I thought it would be something more stupid, that was easy. I got off easy. I got tickets. My sister came with me. But then they said, “Mr. Bowie is tired now and done signing.” I was 10 feet from the door. No meeting.

They say that at the Outside concert Nine Inch Nails fans left in droves after NIN was done their set. I don’t recall that at all. The concert was amazing.

“I can’t read and I can’t write down.”

12. TODAY. A message from a friend at 9 AM, “I’m so sad.” I’m not ready to get up yet so I put off whatever bad news it is. I wake up and hear “As the World Falls Down” coming from my roommate’s room. Odd. I come out to take my shower and he stops me. “Did you hear the bad news?” “What?” “I don’t want to ruin your day.” It dawns on me. “David Bowie died, didn’t he?” “I’m sorry.”

“There’s something in the air.”

13. 2000s. They’d been predicting it so long I had stopped worrying about it. I am sure I will still eventually meet David Bowie. My sister meets David Bowie. She’s working background on SNL when he performs. She sees him casually leaning against a wall smoking. She couldn’t get me in to 30 Rock. I’ll get my chance.

After a long run of albums that include, in my opinion, some of the best work he’s ever done, (1. Outside,” “Heathen,” “Reality”) I see him in concert again. Again with my sister, this time in Los Angeles. Macy Gray opens. She’s great. But he’s better. Does an entire encore of “Ziggy Stardust” songs, which shocks me and thrills me. On the way to the car afterward we see Dave Foley from “Kids in the Hall” waiting for a bus, which amuses us. We wonder if he enjoyed the concert. Later in the tour Bowie has a heart attack and recedes from public life. The few times he makes an appearance he looks tired. Bloated. I start to worry that I’ll never even get to see him in concert again, let alone meet him. But then he starts showing up again. He’s slimmed back down. “The Next Day” comes out.

“I got seven days to live my life or seven ways to die.”

14. November 2014. I have never been to Chicago. It was never in my top 10 of places to visit. But I fly out to Chicago to see the “Bowie Is” exhibit. No photography allowed, but I sneak a shot of the street sign where he grew up. Stansfield Lane.

“You’re watching yourself, but you’re too unfair. You got your head all tangled up, but if I could only make you care. Oh no, love, you’re not alone. No matter what or who you’ve been. No matter when or where you’ve seen, all the knives seem to lacerate your brain. I’ve had my share, I’ll help you with the pain. YOU’RE NOT ALONE.”

15. TODAY. I read the CNN obituary. It ends with, “David Bowie’s music was a salve for the alienated and the misfits of the world.” I laughed out loud. FUCK YOU, CNN.

My boss texts me, "Let me know if you need to take the day off."

I keep my shit together at the shrink's office until he says, "Just because you didn't know him doesn't mean it wasn't real."

“They say, ‘Hey, that’s really something. They feel he should get some time. I say he should watch his ass, ‘My friend, don’t listen to the crowds.’ They say ‘Jump.’”

16. A digression. It's the 2000s. I’ve told people this and some people don’t believe it, but it’s true. I don’t have recurring dreams. But I used to have SERIALIZED dreams. I have dreams where I see people and they casually refer to events that only ever happened in other dreams. This happened through much of the Aughts and I became semi-convinced that when I was asleep I was actually astrally projecting to an alternate timeline. That's how strict the continuity of my dreams was. In those dreams, David Bowie often appeared. We weren’t best friends, but he knew who I was and that comforted me.

A sample conversation: “I should have known you'd be here, Chris.” “It was a great show.” “Well, thank you. How’s the work coming?” “I’m working on it.” “Well, let me know, I’ll do a backup track. You have to get moving.”

I was in a major depression for much of that decade. The dreams stopped somewhere around 2011, which is when I started getting serious about my mental health. I don’t know what that means.

“Chimes.Goddamn, you're looking old. You'll freeze and catch a cold. 'Cause you've left your coat behind. Take your time.”

17. A few days ago. My colleague at work sends me a link to a website: “What David Bowie was doing at your age.” I tell him, “I know damn well what he was doing at my age. More than I am.” At the “Bowie Is…” exhibit every item around every corner showed me how prolific and prodigious and YOUNG Bowie was for most of his career.

“All the days of my life. All the days I owe you.”

18. I thought I would meet him eventually. And I think now I didn’t meet him because I frittered away my time and my youth and did not make art. If I had made art I would almost have certainly run into David Bowie eventually.

“Down in space, it's always 1982.”

19. 18 months ago. David Bowie, apparently, is diagnosed with cancer. He turns around and records another album, writes music for the “SpongeBob” musical and collaborates on “Lazarus,” which, honestly, I enjoyed but did not love. Some of my friends HATED it. It’s a show about a man who lives forever and cannot die. I can’t possibly imagine what was in David Bowie’s head at the time.

He started young. He made history. He had a body of work spanning 50 years. He inspired me as a kid and now I definitely won’t see him again in concert. Two days ago was the last time I would unwrap a new David Bowie album.

“I know when to go out. I know when to stay in, get things done.”

20. I hurt like I knew David Bowie. I never got to meet him. But I have decades left before I’m 69. Time to get things done.

“This way or no way. You know I'll be free. Just like that bluebird. Now, ain't that just like me?”

NY Comic-Con News: "Back in Time" set to take us back to "Back to the Future"

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Thu, 08 Oct 2015 20:56:00 +0000

At New York Comic-Con on Thursday, Jason Aron, the director of “Back in Time,” a documentary celebrating the 30^th Anniversary of Robert Zemeckis’ “Back to the Future,” was asked by an audience member, “Do you feel anything would have been different if Eric Stoltz had played Marty McFly?” (Stoltz famously was replaced by Michael J. Fox as the lead of the film in the middle of shooting). Answered Aron: “We wouldn’t be sitting in this room.”

Touching on the enormous impact the “Back to the Future” and its two sequels had on pop culture, Aron said the documentary came about when, in the midst of working on a short film in 2013, strangers repeatedly would stop him to talk about the vintage DeLorean he was using. “It made me think we should make a documentary.” Two successful Kickstarter campaigns (raising $45,000 and over $140,000, respectively) and the assistance of “Back to the Future” co-writer Bob Gale and “Back in Time”’s co-executive producer Adam F. Goldberg (creator and show-runner of ABC’s “The Goldbergs”) later, Aron and Louis Krubich, executive producer, and Lee Leshen, producer, had interviewed cast members and crew of the original film including Fox (Marty McFly), Christopher Lloyd (Doc Brown), Lea Thompson (Lorraine McFly), Steven Spielberg (executive producer) and Zemeckis (director), as well as VIP fans such as television producer Dan Harmon (“Community”) and Terry and Oliver Holler, who created a screen-accurate DeLorean time machine and have traveled to all 50 states with it to raise money for Fox’s foundation, which supports research for Parkinson’s Disease.

Never underestimate the impact of the DeLorean: In a clip from the documentary, Gale mentions that Ford offered thousands of dollars for the use of their Mustang in the movie. Gale’s response: “Doc Brown doesn’t drive a f—king Mustang.” Gale was a touchstone for the production of the documentary: “[He] really helped us out,” says Krubich, “[We said] ‘We need Lea [Thompson], can you help?’ In three or 4 minutes we had an e-mail address and in 30 minutes we had a scheduled date for the[interview].” Gale also assisted in getting clearance from Universal for the use of clips from the films.

Were the cast and crewmembers difficult to work with? Though all had busy schedules, some of them were surprisingly low-maintenance. On preparing for an interview with Lloyd, Leshen says, “We went to the Ralph’s [supermarket]…we got three different kinds of coffee, we got every kind of pretzel and chip you could imagine….he had one pretzel and a half a bottle of water. [it cost us] $400 dollars.”

The labor of love paid off by giving the crew access to some once-in-a-lifetime experiences. “Riding [a rweal, experimental] hoverboard and feeling frictionless movement under your feet” was the number one experience Leshen took away from making the movie. Meeting superfans like Bill Shea, owner of one of the original DeLoreans used in the movies (valued at over $500,000) was another. Fans who were present at the panel discussion got an experience of their own to take home with them: Each attendee was given a special limited edition bottle of “Pepsi Perfect,” a soda featured in the 2015 scenes of “Back to the Future II.”

More importantly, “Back in Time” will impact lives in the present day. A 13-city tour of the movie, with music by the “BTTF” tribute band the Flux Capacitors and appearances by the famous car, will raise money for the Michael J. Fox foundation. The tour comes to NYC on November 2.

When asked what the most amazing thing the filmmakers have taken from the experience their journey, Krubich instead mentioned the chance of an event that seemed impossible when “Back to the Future II” came out that, if the movie got it right, was supposed to happen this year: “The cubs winning the world series this year…if [the “Back to the Future” creators] got that right, that will be the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Back in Time” premieres on Netflix streaming on Oct. 21. The “88MPH” theatrical tour comes to NYC’s Mason Hall on Nov. 22 and the Sharp Theater on Nov. 23. Backintimefilm.com

TV Review: "The Muppets" gets a shaky start, but has potential

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Wed, 23 Sep 2015 22:06:00 +0000

The Muppets
ABC
Tuesdays, 8 p.m. (7 p.m. CST)
C+

I had high hopes. I really did. While others clutched their Miss Piggy-endorsed pearls over the thought of a naughtier, “adult” take on the Muppets, I didn’t bat an eye. Having been a fan of the gang of misfits since their heyday during my childhood, and having familiarized myself with Jim Henson’s work over the years, I didn’t buy the notion that the Muppets were “for kids” in the first place. In fact, I’ve often said that they lost their way following Henson’s death in 1990 precisely because they were being treated as kiddy entertainment — you can keep your Muppet Treasure Island and others of its ilk. Bring on the double entendres!

True, I was a little disappointed that The Muppets was not going to be a variety show like the classic Muppet Show and the less-classic-but-had-its-moments Muppets Tonight! I felt then, and now feel more than ever, that variety is the medium that the characters truly thrive in. With Neil Patrick Harris singlehandedly attempting to bring back the genre with Best Time Ever, and 2011’s The Muppets and 2014’s Muppets Most Wanted’s focus on that aspect of their history, this could have been their moment to resurrect the form. But I kept an open mind about the single-camera mockumentary format, even if it’s long past being “new” post-The Office, Parks and Recreation, Arrested Development, Modern Family, and on and on and on. After all, the Muppets often thrive when you place them in situations you don’t expect to find them. So truly, I had high hopes.

Where did The Muppets go wrong? Simple. It just wasn’t very funny.

Like I said, I personally have no problem with the Muppets engaging in edgier humor. As an adult there are plenty of moments of their output during the Henson years that make you say, “How could I have missed that?” Henson had a wicked sensibility, and he and his writers imbued their work with a love of wordplay, innuendo, and even occasional insult humor. Look at the scene in The Muppets Take Manhattan, for example, where an amnesiac Kermit rips Miss Piggy apart for her insistence that she has a romantic relationship with him:

“Maybe you expected me to go hog wild? Perhaps you could bring home the bacon! Ah, the sounds of love: ‘Soooooo-ey! Oink, oink!’ ”

But the problem with The Muppets is that apparently the entire joke of the show is to put wild, “adult” things in the mouths of the characters, as if to say, “OMG! The Muppets are now PG-13! That’s hysterical!” They just forgot actual jokes. Take for example, this dialogue among members of the band The Electric Mayhem early in the episode.

Floyd: “[He’s] not good on the road.” Animal: “So many women, so many towns.”

If this had been a scene featuring a human band in any TV show or movie made after, say, 1985, would it be funny? No, of course not. It would be trite. Cliché. At best it would be a shorthand character-defining moment, but certainly nothing that would make someone laugh out loud. It’s a stereotype that’s been done to death. But “the joke” here is that it’s Animal, a character with built-in recognition. “Wow! They’re implying that Animal, a puppet, has groupies! That’s amazing!” No, it’s not amazing. It’s not a joke. It doesn’t define the character because the character is already defined. This doesn’t even reach the level of sophistication of Meet the Feebles. And practically every joke is like this. Kermit “stress eats.” Wow! “Fozzie knows what ‘bear’ means in the gay community!” Wow! “Zoot is an addict.” That’s so, like, adult!

Compare this to these excerpts from when Kermit and Rowlf meet in The Muppet Movie: “I finish work, I go home, read a book, have a couple of beers, take myself for a walk and go to bed.” “I don’t mean to scare ya, my friend, but I betcha, come Father’s Day the litter bug’s gonna getcha.” Those lines are clever. They’re examples of wordplay that make you take a second and say, “He’s a dog, he goes to the bathroom by taking himself for a walk!” Or, “They’re talking about sex!” In other words, they’re jokes. They’re not for kids, they fit the characters that have already been established through years of familiarity, and they’re funny.

Aside from the ever-present feeling that the writers are trying to push buttons rather than craft punchlines, The Muppets also lacks an ingredient that has been present in almost every Muppets project for the last 50-plus years: Anarchy. Henson and his team (of which only two colleagues, Dave Goelz and Steve Whitmire, remain active Muppeteers) loved randomness, non sequiturs, silly puns and sillier physical humor. A well-known quote from Henson regarding his comedic sensibility was, “It all ends in one of two ways: Either something gets eaten or something blows up.” Nothing gets eaten or blown up in The Muppets. Nor do we see ecstatic somersaulting penguins, weirdos getting shot out of cannons, incomprehensible chickens, dance numbers gone terribly wrong, inanimate objects coming to life. Despite ready access to guest stars and musical acts, the writers feel hemmed in by the Larry Sanders Show-like premise, even though there’s no reason this couldn’t have worked if it had been infused with Muppety energy. At no time do the Muppets sing, or dance, or really do much of anything that hasn’t been done much better by real people elsewhere. It feels like such a wasted opportunity.

So, you might ask, did The Muppets do anything well? Absolutely. What The Muppets gets right is an area that hasn’t consistently been done well in the Muppet world, post-Henson: The relationships among the characters are solid. Even “broken up” (we’ll see how long that lasts), there is genuine chemistry and pathos in Miss Piggy and Kermit’s relationship (and let’s not forget that their initial relationship over many years of The Muppet Show was as a “couple” that one of the members denied being a part of). Likewise, Piggy is familiar and well-defined, and the one character who is perfect for this setting. Fozzie Bear’s interactions with his girlfriend’s family also generate actual laughs. And though Gonzo has yet to have a moment to shine, Scooter’s resurgence (many years after the death of Richard Hunt in 1992 put the character on the back-burner for years) was welcome and character-appropriate, as was his relationship to Kermit. The characters feel like themselves even if they don’t feel especially funny. Gone is the angst of the last two Muppet movies, where the central conflict was about Kermit being abandoned by his friends. Here, he is back being the able leader of the team and the character that holds the ensemble together.

Another welcome aspect to the show is that it is, in fact, about the Muppets. The real ones. In their last few movies and television specials it began to feel like the Muppets were doomed to playing second-fiddle to whatever name was lined up to “star” in their films. Between that and the introduction of post-Disney Muppet Walter (blissfully not present in the pilot), I had begun to fear that the writers and puppeteers were afraid to actually focus on the characters Henson and Co. created. Here, the celebrity guests are just that: guests who look happy to let the Muppets shine.

So there is some hope going forward, and I haven’t given up on the show just yet. If the characters we’re tuning in to see could just be funny, occasionally, the Muppets — and their eponymous show — might just have a future.

Steven Spielberg and Matt Patches ought to get over themselves

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Fri, 04 Sep 2015 19:19:00 +0000

So, a friend of mine recently posted an interview Steven Spielberg granted to Esquire, and I was...annoyed. In it, Spielberg is quoted as saying:

"We were around when the Western died and there will be a time when the superhero movie goes the way of the Western. It doesn't mean there won't be another occasion where the Western comes back and the superhero movie someday returns. Of course, right now the superhero movie is alive and thriving. I'm only saying that these cycles have a finite time in popular culture. There will come a day when the mythological stories are supplanted by some other genre that possibly some young filmmaker is just thinking about discovering for all of us."

Now, to be fair, this is a mild statement in context. But Matt Patches' later commentary and the misleading headline blow this statement so far out of proportion in order to serve Patches' agenda that it rubbed me the wrong way. Enough that I think it's time for a good rant.

See, I don't really have a dog in this fight. I like superhero movies (at least some of them) just fine, while also acknowledging that there is currently an overabundance of them, and some are just plain bad (I won't say which, because someone will surely turn this into a fight over our respective taste in movies). If next year there are no superhero movies released, I'll be happy. If next year ten superhero movies are released, I'll see the ones I want to see.

However, what I can't stand is hypocrisy, disingenuousness, or pettiness, which is what I see reading this. Spielberg comes off in the article like a cranky old man who is worried his toys are being taken from him, which is far from the truth. At this point in his career, Spielberg should be secure enough in his legacy that he doesn't need to take potshots at others in his industry or start playing prognosticator. Patches, on the other hand, sounds like someone who is desperate to be seen as a champion of independent cinema while simultaneously coming off as a guy who is just repeating things that more thoughtful people have already said.

In fact there is so much wrong with this brief article that I need to break my objections to it down in pieces.

SPIELBERG IS IN THE BLOCKBUSTER BUSINESS
There are valid arguments to be made about the dominance of superhero movies on the current film calendar. There are also arguments that I find less valid (namely the ones that are breathlessly hysterical and forget that the movie industry, from its inception, has always been largely dominated by films that rely on the entertainment value of spectacle). However, any valid arguments are drowned out when they're made by the wrong person. Who is the wrong person? Steven Spielberg, of course. The man who is credited with inventing the blockbuster effects-driven movie as we know it, and who has continually, long after he began directing more "prestigious" projects, kept adding entries to the genre. In the past decade alone, Spielberg has been attached as director or producer to "War of the Worlds," "The Legend of Zorro," "Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull," "Super 8," "Cowboys and Aliens," "Real Steel," "The Adventures of Tintin," "Men in Black 3," "Jurassic World," and no fewer than three "Transformers" movies. He is attached to direct "Ready Player One," coming out in 2017.

How hypocritical does a man have to be to knock blockbuster films when they have been the primary source of his income for decades? Sure, he hasn't made "superhero movies" (though I would argue that Zorro, Indiana Jones, the Men in Black and the Transformers are superheroes of a sort), but occasionally turning out something "Based on a True Story" or a "message" picture does not give one the right to get on a high horse about popcorn entertainment.

EVEN SPIELBERG'S PRESTIGE FILMS ARE HARDLY "SMALL"
Let's talk a little more about those prestige pictures. In between directing and producing good-old-fashioned popcorn entertainment like the "Indiana Jones" and "Jurassic Park" movies, Spielberg has racked up an impressive number of "serious" and non-genre films such as "Lincoln," "Schindler's List," "The Color Purple," "Saving Private Ryan," and "Catch Me If You Can." Nobody, including myself, can accuse him of being unable to tackle a variety of subjects. No filmmaker in history has a more diverse or successful body of work.

But Spielberg's complaint about "Lincoln," of all movies, being tough to sell in Hollywood is pitiful. Why? Because "Lincoln" is a perfect example of the fact that, even when he isn't making popcorn entertainment, Spielberg is incapable of making "small" movies. "Lincoln," which has a story that certainly could have been told with a lower budget, had an ensemble cast with no fewer than 20 highly-regarded (and expensive), award-caliber leading and character actors, plus a $65 million budget — certainly not "Jurassic World"-size, but also hardly indy-film level.

As for his style of direction, Spielberg is rarely capable of making a movie that is "quiet," "subtle" or "emotionally complex," all things we consider hallmarks of "small" filmmakers. Look up and down Spielberg's list of sweeping, emotive, panoramic films and one wonders why this man thinks he is the person to be championing personal film-making. Even Spielberg's "important" movies are filmed like they are blockbusters.

TELEVISION IS NOT THE GUTTER ANYMORE
By the way, what would the issue have been if "Lincoln" had been picked up by *gasp* HBO? Spielberg still seems to be living in a world where television is for garbage and movies are the only "legitimate" way to present filmed drama. HBO, Showtime, Netflix, and numerous other networks have been the home of profound, well-written stories for years, now. Spielberg, stop clutching your pearls.

SPIELBERG HAS NO RIGHT TO TALK ABOUT GOING BACK TO THE WELL
Again, no one can dispute that at this moment in time, superhero movies are in a dominant position in the marketplace, and only the most die-hard comic book geek would begrudge pruning the schedule a bit. But both Spielberg and Patches are presenting one or both of two equally ridiculous hypotheses: That the market can't support multiple examples of one genre, or that having multiple examples of one genre is bad for art. I can't comment on the latter premise — it seems like too subjective an opinion, though I personally tend to dispute the notion that making any one type of art somehow eliminates the possibility of another type. However, the other hypothesis is shown to be patently ridiculous when asserted by Spielberg, a man who has directed (or is scheduled to direct) 11 movies that have focused on one of two subjects: aliens and World War II. That's out of 34 movies total. 33 percent of his directorial output. Who is he to criticize any filmmakers for their lack of diversity?

SUPERHEROES ARE NOT A "TREND"
Let's be very clear about the mythology of the superhero movie, which is currently having a resurgence in movie theaters and on television screens. Yes, the stunning success of these movies in recent years has led to an explosion, and many more in development. And yes, because of technological advances, the movies can get bigger and bigger and be budgeted for more and more money. But the idea that suddenly people are going to just "give up" on superheroes is absurd. Spielberg should know better — as a child he read comic books himself. Sure, the boom in superhero movies is a fairly new thing, but that ignores the fact that these movies are based on characters that have been around for decades — in some cases in excess of 70 years. Clearly there is something about the superhero that captures human (specifically American) imagination on a deep level. The prediction that they'll go away is about as ridiculous as predicting that Tarzan, Sherlock Holmes, or Dracula will go away." It is more than a little late to dispute the role of these characters in our culture.

WESTERNS DIDN'T DIE
Beyond all of the raging hypocrisy and lack of basic scholarship of Spielberg's angst (which Patches is more than happy to embroider upon), what burns me up more than anything is that the basic premise is completely wrong. The Western did not die. Here is where I'm willing to concede that Spielberg meant something valid that he didn't actually express well, which is that certain genres wax and wane over time. I have no doubt that there will come a time when there are fewer superhero movies. People will tire of them, grosses will go down, movie-makers and film companies will move on. But superheroes won't "die" any more than Westerns did. I don't believe Spielberg meant what he said, but Patches runs with his point and desperately attempts to prove it while only succeeding in doing the opposite. Yes, "the stampede [for Westerns] died down." But Patches' own examples prove that the Western has never "died out." As long as there are Tarantinos, Coens, Eastwoods or other good filmmakers making good Westerns, the Western survives. As long as television fans hold out hope for a "Deadwood" follow-up, the Western survives. Call it "tumbleweeds," but don't call it dead.

People also have spoken of the "death of the musical," while conveniently ignoring blockbusters like "Mamma Mia," "Chicago," and "Into the Woods" and TV audiences flock to watch "The Sound of Music" and "Peter Pan" live. They're speaking now of the "death of the serious film" as gorgeous and important movies like "12 Years a Slave" and "Boyhood" continue to dominate the awards circuit and make back their budgets. But movie genres do not die, as long as talented movie-makers keep them alive. The same will be the case for the superhero film.

THERE IS ROOM FOR EVERYONE: The bottom line is, it doesn't matter what Spielberg or Patches or Christopher Stansfield think about superhero movies. Clearly, people enjoy them. People also liked "Lincoln." People liked "The Theory of Everything." There is room in the theaters, on television, on the Internet for narrative of all types. Hoping that superhero movies "go away" does nothing to help those other types of narrative. It's just a petty way to disparage the work of fillm-makers who may care just as much about making a good "Captain America" movie as Spielberg cares about making a good Tom Hanks tearjerker. And it's beneath both Spielberg and Mr. Patches.

Film Review: Django Unchained is a Slave's Hero's Journey

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 18:58:00 +0000

While across the hall in another theater Abraham Lincoln and his Team of Rivals debate about the possibility of emancipation and use the legal process and a bloody Civil War to achieve that end, the title character of Quentin Tarantino’s incredible Django Unchained has a different method. Kill slavers. Make it bloody. And make it painful. History and Steven Spielberg tell us that it was Lincoln’s method that eventually got the job done, but I’ll be damned if Django’s way isn’t a lot more cathartic.

It is an interesting fact that Lincoln and Django Unchained were released in the same year, within a matter of weeks, and it isn't wrong to wonder if this is a sign that America is finally willing to tackle the subject of slavery head-on. One can only hope that is the case. Cinematically, it is an equally wonderful thing that we get the chance to see so clearly that Big Issues can be tackled in many, many, big ways. Anyone who dismisses Tarantino’s film as just another pulp fiction revenge film (though if that is all it is, it is enough) is missing the very Big Way he approaches Django's story.

And what a story it is – the film opens with the title character as one of several nameless slaves in chains being forced on a long march on bare feet from one owner to the next in the dead of winter. That the star, Jamie Foxx, is barely recognizable or even noticeable among his company is most likely intentional, just as the de-personalization of slaves was the very intentional method by which a majority of whites managed to sleep at night for hundreds of years as they and their neighbors perpetrated unspeakable horrors on other humans. After an incongruous German in a tooth-festooned buggy shows up to “parlay” with the slave's captors (James Remar and James Russo), killing one and leaving the other to be dealt with by his former “property”, Django gets a horse, a winter coat, and most importantly, a name.

What follows is the most linear of Tarantino’s movies. This time around the director forgoes his usual time-shifts and digressions to focus on Django and his long journey to claim his life, identity, and wife (played by Kerry Washington). Naturally, being a Tarantino revenge movie (his third in a trilogy that began with Kill Bill and continued with the alternative-history Inglourious Basterds), this involves a great deal of violence and language that will certainly offend many people, as it is intended to do.

It is wrong, however, to think that violent catharsis is the only aim or method of Django Unchained. Instead, this is arguably Tarantino’s first attempt at making mythology. The sequence of events in Django are straight out of Joseph Campbell’s Hero’s Journey. After Django receives his “call to adventure,” shedding his former passivity to go on a quest, his Merlin/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dr. King Schultz, a German dentist-turned-bounty hunter (played with charisma and humanity by Christoph Waltz) in turn provides him with talismans in the form of guns and a horse. In Django’s hands these guns are supernatural – that a man who would never have been allowed near weaponry (or a horse) of any kind is such an exceptional marksman and natural rider proves this. Django is then able to "cross the threshold" by dispatching his former slave-masters, the Brittle Brothers (Cooper Huckabee, Doc Duhame, and M.C. Gainey), and rather than disappearing back into obscurity, goes on to a greater quest – the rescue of his wife, Broomhilda, from her current captors. Certainly the fact that “Hildy” is (phonetically) named after one of the daughters of Wotan, King of the Gods, is a clear tip-off that she is a princess in distress and the worthy object of any hero’s quest.

Likewise, it should come as no surprise that there are trials along the way. After his initial assistance in claiming the bounty of the Brittle Brothers, Django is taken on as apprentice and partner in bounty hunting by Schultz, and through a series of trials (including the attempted revenge of a group of wannabe Klansmen led by Don Johnson) and the collection of many more bounties, Django eventually learns that the villain he must defeat comes in the form of plantation owner Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCarprio). Candie is not only the guardian of his own protected kingdom (“Candieland”) and damsel Broomhilda, but also the sadistic owner of “mandingo fighters” (slaves forced to fight to the death by their owners for sport), and the lord of his own dragon/Darth Vader in the form of self-proclaimed “house n----r” Stephen (Samuel L. Jackson).

Naturally, Django succeeds. I suppose that's a spoiler, but you can’t make a good revenge movie without the hero getting his revenge, and you can’t make a Hero’s Journey without the mentor figure eventually dying, leaving the hero on his own to use the skills he acquired. The rescue of Broomhilda turns out not to be the ultimate goal of the quest – in truth, what both Django and Broomhilda are questing for is their own agency, which comes to them only after a literal trial by fire in the form of the ultimate destruction of Candieland and all of its evil.

Of course, this simple retelling of the plot can not possibly prepare the audience for the levels of gore, violence, and profanity contained within, though familiarity with Tarantino’s other work will probably suffice. It also does no justice to the uniformly excellent performances by the entire cast of actors. As usual, minor roles are filled by a parade of stars and former stars that give the audience the pleasure of saying, “Hey, wasn’t that-“ every few minutes. First there is the aforementioned Don Johnson, naturally called “Big Daddy” and making the most of every moment of his time dressed up like Colonel Sanders. Then there is Jonah Hill as a comically inept Klansman, and Lee Horsley(!) as a corrupt Sheriff, and Tom Wopat(!!) as a Marshall. And Russ Tamblyn! And Michael Parks! And Robert Carradine! And Bruce Dern! And on and on and on. There is even Walton Goggins, who is simultaneously appearing in that other movie about slavery across the way.

Every one of these actors has an absolute ball being as ugly or villainous as necessary, but the two A-List actors who feature as the main villains of the piece, Leonardo DiCaprio and Samuel L. Jackson, reach new heights (or depths) in their acting careers playing completely against type. DiCaprio rarely has the opportunity to play an unabashed bad guy, and it is testament to his performance that he makes your skin crawl from the first moment he appears on screen to the time he is finally dispatched. Pay special attention to the scene where, in anger, he crushes a wine glass in his hand. That was unplanned, and the blood is real, but DiCaprio remains committed throughout and never breaks character.

Jackson, on the other hand, finally gets to play something other than his archetypal badass character, and his willingness to deglamorize himself as an evil version of the guy on your box of rice lets him prove that he actually does have more than one note to play. His is a quieter evil, and Jackson manages to portray that evil with nuance and menace even while shuffling along with a cane and white hair.

Jamie Foxx and Kerry Washington as the Hero and his Princess both do an exceptional job of making you feel genuine emotion for them, and Foxx especially shouldn't be overlooked simply because he underplays his stoic-by-design character. It is in the scenes when he is most silent that you can see exactly what is going on behind his eyes as he must ingratiate himself into enemy territory and in some cases stand idly by while others are destroyed in front of him.

Naturally, the very frequent use of the “n word” has made a lot of people very uncomfortable, and it is worthwhile that it be discussed and argued as much as necessary. However, people should feel uncomfortable -- that is, in fact, the point. At no time did I feel it was being used in a way that was historically inaccurate. It’s worth noting that the few occasions we have seen slavery depicted on screen in all its brutality have been on television, where such language is not permitted. Like it or not, the word “nigger” is a fact of history, and if it makes some white audiences squirm then it is as it should be. (I should point out, strictly anecdotally, that the audience I saw Django Unchained with was majority black (I was one of only four white people in the audience, by my count), and though I didn't hear much reaction to the use of that particular word, I did hear quite a lot of cheering every time a white person got blown to bits. Which, again, is as it should be, I think.)

Another facet of the movie that I imagine people will take a great deal of offense to is just how funny it is in places. The scenes with the Klansmen, for example, or Jackson’s shuffling obsequiousness before he reveals how truly evil he is, provoke genuine laughter, as does Django's initial choice in clothing when he is finally allowed to dress himself for the first time. And then they make you uncomfortable for laughing. I am not sure that Tarantino should be condemned for making people feel uncomfortable about this period of history or for knowing how to deftly release the tension whenever it is necessary. At its best, some of his slapstick ranks with Mel Brooks’s work in The Producers and Blazing Saddles, which I imagine would be condemned today by the same people who think that there is no place for humor in Tarantino’s films.

It feels wrong to get through an entire review without going into detail about the excellent camera work, the great editing, the remarkable-as-usual anachronistic soundtrack, or the conscious sense of homage that Tarantino brings to every one of his idiosyncratic scenes. But we know what to expect from him, so there’s no real point in dissecting each camera angle. Needless to say, you can tell this is a Tarantino film, and each choice is deliberate and largely successful.

In conclusion, if you want to see history as it (basically) was, you will be well-served by seeing Spielberg’s excellent Lincoln. If you want to see history as perhaps it ought to have been, you owe it to yourself to see Django Unchained. Frankly, I think each film informs the other wonderfully, and also informs audiences – not just of useful facts, but also of important feelings, including a very justifiable rage and a pain that the country is only just now getting around to confronting.

Film Review: Les Misérables is a Faithful Representation of Its Source- Perhaps Too Faithful

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 23:45:00 +0000

“Les Misérables is soooo faithful.”

“How faithful is it?”

“It’s so faithful that even the Bishop who gave Valjean his silver told it to lighten up.”

As musical adaptations go, Les Misérables does exactly what it intends to do – I can’t think of one in recent years (or really, ever) that works so hard to capture every moment of the play that it is based on. Not a scene goes missing nor a lyric unsaid, and the cast and director Tom Hooper deserve a great deal of credit for taking what was once the most spectacular (emphasis on spectacle) of modern musicals and making it just as spectacular on the screen. Unfortunately, without the distance of a proscenium and orchestra pit between the characters and the audience, so much fealty to the material magnifies everything – not just the genuinely earned moments of emotion and release provided by the sometimes-thin book and score, but also much of the inherent triteness and cheese that even the most devoted fans have laughed off over the 30 years that Les Mis has been performed on stages around the world.

Despite being based on a doorstop of a novel by Victor Hugo, the Dickens of France, the plot of Les Mis, the musical, is episodic and often sketchy. The prologue of the film introduces us to the 19th Century French convict Jean Valjean (a suitably de-handsomed Hugh Jackman), who in a few moments of recitative explains to the audience and his tormentor, the rigid Inspector Javert (Russell Crowe), that he was imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread for his hungry sister and nephew and has now earned his parole by working at hard labor for 19 years. In turn, Javert points out that Valjean will never be free of his torment as long as he has to show the identification papers that brand him a dangerous criminal.

What follows is a series of falls from grace and moments of redemption for Valjean, who is taught, in succession, the meaning of forgiveness from a Bishop he attempts to rob (Colm Wilkinson, the first Valjean on the West End and Broadway); the meaning of compassion by his former-employee-turned-prostitute Fantine (Anne Hathaway, who wrings every possible moment of genuine emotion and several more moments of the false kind in her brief time on film); and the meaning of love by Fantine’s daughter Cosette (Isabelle Allen and Amanda Seyfried), whom he adopts after Fantine dies from what one can only assume is musical syphilis. He does this all while running away from Javert and successfully remaking himself as a rich businessman several times.

At the same time (or rather, about a third of the way through the film), a French revolution – not THAT one, which took place years earlier, but another, not particularly successful one – is being fomented by a combination of impoverished citizens, bourgeois students, and plucky waifs. It is due to those political events that a now-teenaged Cosette meets radical Marius (Eddie Redmayne). Marius then is given his own struggle, namely the reconciliation of his love for Cosette with both the urchin Éponine’s (Samantha Barks) love for him, and his revolutionary ideals, which are embodied by the revolutionary Enjolras (Aaron Tveit), who appears to be struggling with a bit of a crush on Marius, too. Along the way everyone Valjean meets finds him or herself either illuminated or tortured by his nobility, with the exception of the comic relief reprobates (Sacha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter) who conveniently end up in every town Valjean and Javert do.

Somehow these events manage to simultaneously be light on detail and long on running time. In the stage musical, this is saved by both the spectacle and the score, which has been derided by some as being unsophisticated but which manages on a visceral level to be emotionally stirring. I am happy to say that there are many, many moments where the spectacle and score do the same on screen.

Visually, Les Misérables is the very definition of “epic.” The sets are convincingly 19th century and French. The actors are carefully covered in grime and sores and are dressed the way people imagine the French to dress. The battles are bloody and well-shot. There are plenty of helicopter shots and crane shots and sweeping panoramas that fully justify seeing this movie on the big screen. Meanwhile, the orchestrations are suitably grand and the music (which never stops – the film is almost completely sung-through) works as well as it does on stage, which is to say that if you like Les Misérables’ score (and I do) you will still like it here.

But.

As grand a spectacle as Les Mis is on the stage, it is still very much a stage show. Take away the turntable and the magically-forming barricade and the various lighting effects, and one still is aware that he is sitting in a theater. It is a paradox of musicals that, more often than not, the more “realistic” the show is, the less easy it is to actually believe it. Even the biggest musical theater fans (and I’m certainly among them) recognize the inherent oddness of characters bursting into song when a few casual statements will do. We suspend our disbelief because on stage emotion has the space to be genuinely sentimental and genuinely big. A little brown powder on the face and the occasional red-dyed corn syrup on the shirt are more than enough to convey dirt and blood on the “martyrs of France” on stage. But seeing live rats on stage or genuine sewage would not add verisimilitude – in fact, it would take us out of the moment. And that is the issue with this adaptation – it is both note-for-note faithful to the show and also faithful to the film concept of “reality.”

On stage, it is very easy to be taken in by the rote-but-meaningful degradation of Fantine, and to genuinely feel for her. When she finally sings the piano-bar staple “I Dreamed a Dream” it is a release, and it is sentimental, and it works. It is quite another thing, however, to witness America’s Sweetheart Anne Hathaway getting her hair sheared off, her teeth pulled, and her body abused in every gory detail. When I saw in high definition every bit of her becoming debased, deranged, and diseased, and then heard “I Dreamed a Dream” – well, it was hard not to find it a little trite. What once created pathos now just creates bathos.

It also has to be mentioned that Les Mis is a long show. In the theater, audiences get the respite of an intermission and the emotional outlet of applauding the curtain close on the Act I ending number, “One Day More.” On film there is no intermission, and “One Day More” simply…ends. Then we’re back into the long slog of battles and cat-and-mouse-chases and endless suffering experienced by the poor of France. After the last decent number, “Empty Chairs At Empty Tables,” we then get to sit through an ending that rivals Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King in its number of epilogues. Having seen the musical numerous times I knew what was coming but even I started checking my watch while waiting for the damn kids to get married and Valjean to just die, already. It’s here that it would have been nice for Hooper to start asserting directorial privilege and “adapt” rather than “reproduce.”

Much has been made of Hooper’s controversial decision to record the actors singing live rather than lip-syncing to a soundtrack as has been done in practically every movie musical since the forties (with the exception of Peter Bogdanovich’s At Long Last Love, which has stood for years as proof of why live recording should never, ever be attempted). It is a testament to how far film technology has come, as well as the gameness of the actors and the skill of the director, that it isn’t noticeable at all. I am not sure whether it added anything to the film, but it certainly didn’t take anything away from it.

Unfortunately, as has been the case with movie musicals since Chicago revived the genre a decade ago, the actors seem to have been cast in spite of their voices, rather than because of them. Jackman does a very good job of both acting and singing a demanding part, and he deserves credit for about 50% of what works in the film. Even though he doesn’t really have the type of singing voice I’ve come to expect from stage Valjeans, he at least has a singing voice, and he uses it to good effect here, as one would expect from his musical theater background. Hathaway also proves that she is a decent singer, though her one big song could have used a little less Acting-with-a-capital-A.

Crowe, on the other hand, is simply not a very good singer, and could have benefited from studio recording. This is a shame, because he is perfectly cast as the imposing and stalwart Javert and would have done very well by the role if it had been in a non-musical film. It was jarring that every time he opened his mouth I expected to hear a menacing baritone and instead heard an Australian whine sung directly through the nose. I suspect this is why he appeared to be the only actor in the movie who lost a verse of his big number.

I know I’m in the minority when I say that Redmayne is miscast as Marius, and I know a lot of people find him very attractive. He is a good actor. But he is certainly the most Howdy Doodyish-actor I’ve seen in the role (with the exception of constipated-looking Nick Jonas, who appeared in the recent anniversary concert), and his singing voice, while on key, is sung through a constricted throat and a clenched jaw, which makes him sound vaguely like Kermit the Frog doing a Nelson Eddy impersonation. On the other hand, Seyfried as Cosette is fine. She suffers from the fact that the character has always been a weak link in the show -it’s not the first time I’ve found myself wondering why Marius falls for her insipidity instead of the far more interesting and lovable Éponine – but she does what she can with the part, and while her voice isn’t strong it is tuneful.

Speaking of Éponine, she is played by one of the standouts of the movie. Barks is one of the few actors in the film to underplay rather than over-emote, which is especially impressive considering that on stage her role is usually overdone to the point of being annoying. Barks deserves kudos for being the least whiny, most genuinely moving Éponine I’ve ever seen. The other standout is Aaron Tveit as Enjolras, who manages to both be convincing in his role and also able to actually sing. I am sure it is not a coincidence that the three best singers in the film (four including Wilkinson, who sounds exactly like he did 25 years ago) are the ones who have actually appeared on stage in musical theater. What is astonishing is that they are also the four actors who seem most aware of the fact that they are not on stage and don’t have to mug for the back row.

I am not forgetting Cohen and Carter as the Thenardiers, though I would like to. Restraint is in neither actor’s repertoire, but their mugging and Cohen’s bizarre accent choices (he sings “Master of the House” as though he’s playing Peter Sellers playing Inspector Clouseau playing an innkeeper) take them to a new level of irritating. Their comic relief characters blend seamlessly with the action in the stage version and are generally a welcome break from all of the portentousness and pretension. In this adaptation, however, they appear to be in an entirely different movie than everyone else.

The movie that everyone else appears in is a good movie. It is not a “great” movie by any means, but then again it isn’t a “great” show to start with. Is it worth seeing? Of course - but don’t drink a lot of water beforehand, and don’t expect to replace your beloved London Cast Recording with the soundtrack. Ultimately, Les Mis is best in a live theater, with a live cast and an audience you can walk out humming the songs with. Les Misérables, the movie musical, is a great record of a show that for better or for worse has become a cultural phenomenon, but it is still only a (very magnified) copy of the real thing.

MoCCA, Me, and AIDS Walk 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Fri, 11 May 2012 01:18:00 +0000

Though I have been a long time supporter/volunteer/walker at the New York AIDS Walk (check out my posts from a few years ago to verify this), this will be the first year I am acting as captain of a team, and so I want to double my efforts to make this a productive year of fundraising (and fun-raising- get it?). I am pleased to announce that The Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art (another non-profit near and dear to my heart) will be walking as a team in this years Walk in and around Central Park on May 20th. As promoters of the comic book and cartoon arts, MoCCA is well aware of the tremendous toll HIV/AIDS has taken on the artistic community, and feels its support of this annual event is the least MoCCA can do to stand in solidarity with our colleagues and friends who have been personally affected by this ongoing health crisis.

I ask on my personal behalf, on behalf of MoCCA, and on behalf of the GMHC and other organizations that benefit from this annual fundraiser, that you consider making a pledge or joining us a walker this year.

The great thing about walking with MoCCA is that you will not only be eligible for the usual AIDS Walk premiums- you will also receive a free MoCCA T-Shirt to walk in (and keep), and, if you raise $100 or more in pledges you will receive your choice of one of several pre-selected cartoon, comics or graphic novel-related books. If you sign up as a member of the MoCCA Team, any funds you raise will be credited to both yourself and MoCCA. You are not obligated to raise any money, but we would love to have you walk with us under the MoCCA banner! To register as a member of the MoCCA AIDS Walk team, sign up online at the AIDS Walk team page and make sure you sign up as a member of “Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art,” Team 0344. Or, contact me (Christopher Stansfield) at castansfield@gmail.com or (646) 385-5464 and ask to be added as a team member. This can be done even if you’ve already signed up individually as a walker.

If you don’t have the time to walk with us or raise money for the MoCCA team, please consider donating to a MoCCA Walker or the Museum directly. All proceeds are distributed to the GMHC and other New York-based health organizations and every contribution goes directly to the prevention and cure of HIV and the support of those already suffering with HIV/AIDS. To contribute, please logon at my personal fund raising page and make a donation. Again, supporters who donate $100 or more in individual contributions will receive a free comics, cartoon, or graphic-novel related book.

If you’ve already contributed to another walker or team, we hope you will consider forwarding this email to friends and family who might be interested. Feel free to post this information on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, or anywhere else people might see it! And, if you’re already walking or a member of another team, please let me know- MoCCA and I would love to walk in solidarity with other organizations who are fighting against HIV/AIDS!

Thank you in advance for your support of AIDS Walk New York 2012 and the MoCCA Team.

Special Announcement: Not “The End” – Just “To Be Continued.”

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 02:13:00 +0000

Tune In Next Week

If you’ve read my essays over the last few days (and apparently someone has, according to the site – thanks, whoever you are), you know that a commitment I made to myself for 2011 was to publish something every day, without worrying whether it’s perfect or making it fit into a self-imposed format.

All well and good, right? But it put me in a bind. As it says on the right hand side of the screen, I had a “plan” for this blog. Out were diary entries, link-fests, cute cat pictures, and three-sentence punditry. In were long-form essays, cultural criticism, and archives of previously-published work. This blog would be a sort of fully-curated virtual portfolio.

Frankly, I still like that plan. The problem is that I haven’t been doing a good job of using the blog at all, let alone “curating” it. Over the years I’ve only published a handful of entries here. Meanwhile, on Facebook, Twitter, and just about everywhere else, I’ve posted often – maybe too much – but those posts have been brief, and were directed at a (relatively) limited audience, since I don’t “friend” people I’ve never met.

So: How could I keep this blog my “website of record,” while also sharing less “historic” thoughts with the public? Simple: A new blog. More importantly, a different sort of blog.

This week, unknown to all but a few, I’ve been learning how to use Tumblr. Not that I haven’t been satisfied with Blogger – I think it balances versatility, ease, and affordability better, than WordPress or other blogging platforms. However, Blogger is pretty specifically designed for blogs like this – not too short, not too heavy with graphics or photos, and not worth the effort it takes to post one or two sentences. Tumblr, on the other hand, has a different focus. It can take what I post to other sites – like Twitter, Youtube, and, yes, this one; combine it with stuff I post directly via the web, phone, or email; and then spit it all back out in a feed, or on Facebook, or back on Twitter again. In other words, I can post the same exact kinds of stuff I post on Facebook and bring it to a larger audience – and it will still go to Facebook, anyway.

Let me be clear – this blog isn’t going away. I’ll continue to post long-form pieces, and I hope to start doing what I intended all along and post some of my older stuff, as well. This will still be a “virtual portfolio,” but I will no longer feel the kind of pressure (and guilt) I’ve had about maintaining it. Meanwhile, when I post here, Tumblr will automatically be updated, and when I post on Tumblr the headlines will show up on the right side of this blog.

And, if you’re a Facebook friend, you’ll still be seeing the same links to news stories, videos, and other things I find interesting – but they’ll now be sent via Tumblr.

I hope that, if you find what I post here or on Facebook interesting, you will visit thestansfield.tumblr.com on a regular basis, and perhaps subscribe to the site’s feed or e-mail newsletter. My “official” first post is up now at this permalink.

Here’s to keeping resolutions!

New Year, New Actions- Do, Or Do Not

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 02:09:00 +0000

"Do. Or do not. There is no try."

In talking about the years prior to 2011, and the year still to come, I’ve been focusing on the idea of “resolutions” – not as agents of guilt, but as agents of change. Simply saying out loud (or writing down) where you are and where you want to be can make those ambitions more real, and therefore, more achievable. So far I’ve shared my ambitions to be more present; to be more aware of myself in how I look and how I “come across”; and to take more control over my relationships, both platonic and otherwise. That said, even though I‘ve written about how I want to look and how I want to act, but I’ve said very little about what I want to do.

It’s not enough to want something. It’s not even enough to be something. As human beings, it is important to be an “action figure.” And, as one of my favorite action figures once said, “There is no ‘try.’” And yet, I find over the last few years that I haven’t been “doing” what I want to. In 2011 I want that to change.

Something I want #3: I want to stop caring about being great at things, and start caring about just doing them. Ever since childhood, I was the kid who didn't want to do something unless I was already good at it. That’s deadly thinking, and a good way to avoid doing anything meaningful. This actually leads into two “sub-resolutions”:

I want to sing again. Solo. That’s pretty straightforward, actually. I used to be a pretty good singer, once upon a time. Other people seemed to think so, anyway. As the years have gone by and my range has shrunk, I’ve become more and more reluctant to sing by myself in front of people, and I haven’t pursued it. It’s a vicious cycle – the less I sing, the less robust my voice gets. The less robust my voice is, the less eager I am to sing. Well, I’m going to sing again this year. By myself. And you’re going to enjoy it or you’re going to stay out of my way.

I want to write. Every day. This is, I think, the hardest resolution for me to keep. I’ve always been someone who likes to “express myself,” but actually sitting down and writing is not something I do easily. Part of it is laziness – there’s always something else I could be doing. But a lot of it is perfectionism. I started this blog in order to have a place where I could display “good” writing. The problem is, “good” writing requires rewriting, too – so, by the time I’ve been happy enough with pieces to call them “good,” they’ve ceased to be particularly relevant or timely. Once again, it’s a self-defeating pattern. If I wait to be good all the time, nothing ever gets published. And so I never get better, and I give no reason for anyone to read what I have to say. I don’t want to stop caring about quality – but I have to become willing to accept when “good enough” is…good enough. For now, I’m going to keep this blog for “good” stuff, but I have decided that I need a place to just write, too, without worrying about it being good. There will be an announcement in this space about that tomorrow.

Ultimately the last three days’ worth of resolutions have shared something in common. They have all, ultimately, been about fear. Fear of doing, fear of how others see me, fear of loving, and fear of trying to be the best I can be because of fear of failure. Ultimately, then, I have just one resolution: I want to – no, I will – live my life without fear in 2011. And to do that I will work on three-to-five “SMART” goals. Too many? Too few? Who knows. But, at least they’re goals. Next time you see me, put me on the spot and ask me if I’ve been working on them, and maybe tell me some of yours. But not when I’ve been drinking, please – I’m saving that one for 2012. Happy New Year!

New Year, New Relationships- All You Need is Love

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 23:28:00 +0000

All You Need is Love

Yesterday, I talked about the conclusion I came to this year, that there is no shame in wanting to look better. It doesn't make you a narcissist to simply want to send the message that you care about your appearance. My second resolution is also about shame.

Something I want #2: I want to stop being embarrassed about the love I have to offer. I know there are some people who think I have no sense of embarrassment at all, but I’m not talking about my ability to make bad jokes or get very drunk and say inappropriate things. I’m talking about the embarrassment I have had for a long time about “putting myself out there.” In the past, when I have reached out to friends and potential friends, I have been shot down enough that I adopted an attitude of “let them come to me.” It seemed sensible at the time, especially since I have been told directly that there are people I’ve reached out to who actually don’t like me very much. So, even though I don’t hesitate to make the occasional wry comment or political argument or curmudgeonly quip, I have avoided letting people know just how much I like them and want to be friends with them. It can look desperate.

Well, so what – I’m desperate, then. If you don’t want to hang out with me or talk with me or be around me, that’s up to you. It’s not going to stop me from asking.

This is true both for friends and for potential romantic relationships, by the way. This past New Year’s Eve was better than a lot I’ve experienced, but I noticed something. There were at least four people in the room who, now or previously, I had enough of a “crush” on that I could see myself dating them. They were all kissing other people. What a bloody waste – it’s possible each of them would have rejected me if I’d asked them out. But it’s also possible they wouldn’t. I think I’m now less worried about rejection than I am about uncertainty.

There is, of course, another side to the coin, however, and that means knowing who deserves that love. Eventually, you have to know when to give up. This may sound mercenary, but the truth is that we only have a limited amount of time and resources for people. Those resources should ultimately go to people who care as much about you as you do for them. Do people deserve second chances? Sure. They even deserve third ones. But it is time to stop worrying about whether people like me, or why they don't like me, or if they like me as much as they like other people. If people are not going to give back what you give out, then start giving it out to someone who will.

This year, I am going to be less afraid of reaching out to people – and less guilty about walking away.

Next: The last part of the series. Why Yoda was right.

New Year, New Goals- Want Something

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 05:00:00 +0000

So, to recap, celebrating a new year got me in the mood to look back over the old one –and I ended up getting two for the price of one. 2009 was dreadful. 2010 was an improvement in every way. But why, then, do I sometimes feel so crappy? I have a job. I can pay my bills. I even have a social life. And yet, the same words keep coming up when I want to describe the down times. Lonely. Unattractive. Unfulfilled. Treading water. Do those feelings ever go away, totally? I don't know – probably not. But I think it's time to try to do something about them, or at least mitigate them.

Which brings me back to 2011 and, inevitably, resolutions. I’ve tended to be one of those people who think New Year’s resolutions are a waste of time, and so I rarely make them. And yet, after the year I’ve just had, I’m finally beginning to see the point. It doesn’t matter if the promises you make to yourself are impossible to keep. It doesn’t matter that they are inevitably broken. It doesn’t matter that you end up making yourself guilty over not accomplishing them once the New Year comes around again. What matters is that you have some kind of goal in the first place. To borrow – okay, steal – from a forty-year-old Broadway musical, when you blow out the candles on another year you should “want something. Want something.” So, keeping in mind my current employer’s insistence that goals should be “Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Relevant, and Time-Bound,” here is what I want in 2011.

Something I Want #1 – I want to care about my appearance. I’m not saying I want to become narcissistic or shallow. I’m just saying that a person needs to look like he gives a damn.

2009 was depressing. Not clinically – I’ve experienced enough clinical depression to know it when I see it – I’m talking about perfectly legitimate and justifiable misery. When you don’t have somewhere to go every day, you stop dressing to go out, and you stop doing anything that requires that you look in a mirror. When nobody wants to see you, why worry about how you’re seen?

As I said, 2010 was better. I found a job, and I ended up with a boss who doesn’t really care what I look like. That's to his credit – I’ll never know if any employers passed on me because of my weight or my thrifty suits or my thinning hair, but I know enough about the world we live in that I wouldn’t be surprised that they did. So, that's one big thing from 2010 to be thankful for – but between the inertia carried over from 2009 and the fact that my office is less-than-strict about appearance, I can’t say I’ve made a whole lot of effort to look my best.

Well, in 2011 I want to start caring again. What does that mean? Sure, it means losing weight like everyone else on Earth wants to do, and I’ve already gotten a jump on that by walking every day and rejoining the gym. But it also means putting in my contact lenses more often. It means shaving every other day instead of whenever I feel like it. It means getting a monthly haircut, and trying Rogaine, and putting my Toppik on even when I’m reasonably sure everyone I’ll be seeing has already seen my bald spot. It means saving up to get my teeth whitened. And it means dressing up occasionally, even if I don’t have to. I have some great ties- why should I only wear them when I’m forced to? I don’t need to look like everybody else does, but I want to start looking like I actually looked in a mirror before walking out the door.

If you don't look like you care about yourself, why would other people think you could care about them?

Next: Being unafraid to love, and being wise enough to let go.

New Year, New Me (New Version)- Good Bye, 2010*

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 05:51:00 +0000

2011 is here – it has been for two weeks, actually – and I'm not sure it's much different from 2010 or 2009. After all, the economy is still depressing, if not officially depressed; we have at least two more years of elected officials who believe they were elected to keep government from accomplishing anything; Americans are still in multiple countries fighting nebulous threats and dying for a living, whether we call them “wars” or not; and I’m still losing my hair.

However, the point of New Year's, arbitrary though it is, is how it forces us to do a little bit of looking backward and a lot of looking forward. So, that’s what I’m going to do over the next few days, whether I like it or not – and if some of what I see is relevant to other people, that's just gravy.

Personally, I have a great deal to be thankful for about 2010, but it also somehow makes me feel a bit guilty. While 2010 was not by any means all I wanted it to be, the fact of the matter is that my year was a hell of a lot better than a lot of other people’s, and it was also a hell of a lot better than my personal 2009 was. After all, I spent 2009 the way many Americans did: in perpetual anxiety. There was no period of more than a week during which I could be sure of a living income. I took advantage of unemployment insurance for the first time, but the money I received didn’t cover my rent, let alone all my other expenses, even when combined with the money I got from the occasional temp work I was offered and the editorial and pet-sitting services I advertised (to very little effect) on Craigslist and social networks. In 2009 I dropped the gym first, then cable television, then high-speed Internet, then Netflix, then almost all social contact, and I was still broke. I spent hours a day looking for work and only hours a month performing it.

I'd become a temp in the first place because it was difficult finding permanent employment – what was I supposed to do now that even temporary employment was unavailable? I wouldn't wish my 2009 on anyone, but the truth is I don't have to. No doubt, thousands of people were going through the exact same thing. Now, when I hear politicians talk of how unemployment benefits make people “lazy” and take away their incentive to look for a job, I’m tempted to punch in my computer screen – except on dial-up their speeches take so long to load that I’ve usually gone somewhere else before I hear what they have to say.

So, at the beginning of 2010, I was unemployed; broke; single; heavier than I’d been in several years; very lonely; facing the likelihood that my time in New York was coming to an end as well as the possibility I’d begin my middle-age years as a tenant of my parents. On the other hand, as of January 2011, I have been employed for eleven months; I have a tiny-but-existent financial “cushion”; I am (slowly) losing weight; I socialize again; and I still live in the same crappy apartment I’ve been living in for a decade-plus – though I’m still single and I still don’t have cable.

Am I still lonely? Sure. Do I look the way I want to look? No. Is my apartment open-house ready? Not on your life. But when I think of where I am in my life compared to where so many other people are in theirs, I can’t help feeling grateful, even though my life is not exactly what I want it to be. And that's the key, I think. Even if your 2010 was like my 2009, you can probably find something that went right. And all you need is one thing to build on.

Up Next: Improving 2011 By Improving Me

*If this post seems familiar to you, it means you've been reading - thanks! However, more than one person has told me that my post yesterday was too damn long and too damn self-centered. It was suggested that I might have more luck if I re-wrote it in serial form. If you already made it through the long version, feel free to skip over these. But stay tuned - after I'm done with this series, I'll be making an announcement related to the future of this blog and my future as a writer.

Who doesn't want smaller government? Is it you?

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 04:09:00 +0000

Today, the new Republican leadership announced from their newly-regained bully pulpit that a new day is dawning. They will work hard to ensure we enter a new era of smaller government -- one that is less involved in our lives and less expensive.

This is a great thing- Who isn’t in favor of less intrusive government? Who wouldn’t prefer that the government spend less? Wouldn’t you?

Well, wouldn’t you?

Are you sure? Are you sure you’re not some Commie European? Answer these questions and find out!

1. Did you think what happened in New Orleans a few years ago when there was bad weather was peachy?

2. What about what happened a few years later in the Gulf of Mexico?

3. When the banking system completely collapsed under the weight of its own greed, was that cool with you?

4. Are you a fan of Enron? How about Goldman Sachs? Bernie Madoff?

5. Do you think the democratic system works better when corporations are allowed to spend unlimited money on political races? Is your favorite expression, “What I don’t know can’t hurt me?

6. Do you think when our wars are fought by contractors it’s better than when they’re fought by our armed forces?

7. Do you think unemployment benefits are too generous? Social security makes us less secure? That Grandma should just suck it up and prioritize whether she wants to eat dinner or to take her pills?

8. Has the infant mortality rate gotten too low for your taste?

9. When we find out beef is tainted do you just switch to eggs? When the eggs turn out to be diseased do you switch to dog food? When the dog food turns out to be bad are you okay with just eating your dog?

10. When Mom loses her insurance for stupidly actually getting sick, do you tell her she should have just worn a scarf?

If you answered “yes” to any of those questions, you’ve passed! You like smaller government! Give yourself a gold star and keep voting Republican!

Of course, if you think smaller, less intrusive, less expensive government has anything to do with staying out of a couple’s wedding plans (no matter their gender); letting women control their own reproductive organs; letting people who wish to serve their country become soldiers even when they're not attracted to the opposite sex; letting people smoke what they want to in the privacy of their own homes; avoiding multi-trillion-dollar "pre-emptive" wars; or letting people live their lives free of the fear that the government can read their email, listen to their phone conversations, and lock them up any time it wants to – well, you’re clearly an idiot who has no idea what small government is all about.

Commie.

Theater Review: The Gayest Christmas Pageant Ever!

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 04:27:00 +0000

It has long been my opinion that a critic should strive to be balanced when it comes to the plays he criticizes. After all, even the worst productions tend to be made with good intentions. Even the worst productions tend to be made by people who want to be proud of their participation. And even the worst productions tend to be made with the idea of entertaining or enlightening their audiences in some way. That’s why it is so hard for me to write this review – because, well-intentioned though The Gayest Christmas Pageant Ever! may be, it really is one of the worst productions I have ever seen on a New York stage. The play, which was written, produced, and sound designed by Joe Marshall under the banner of the Alternative Theatre Company (which appears to go wherever Marshall goes, having originated in Phoenix, AZ, moved to Tucson, and recently relocated to New York), is a misbegotten effort from beginning to end. Plays can function and generate laughs even when their plots make no sense. They can make a point even when the characters are two-dimensional. They can survive poor direction, poor performances, and the occasional bad joke. But when one play features all of the above, it truly takes a Christmas miracle to turn tinsel into silver and gold, and the only miracle I witnessed at The Actor’s Playhouse was that the audience, by and large, returned to their seats after intermission.

The plot, such as it is, is based on a decent, or at least amusing, premise. In West Hollywood, producers Manny (Adam Weinstock) and Don (Blaine Pennington), founders of a theater company, are desperate to mount a money-making play after presenting a series of flops written and directed by Rod (played as a screeching sack of stereotypes by Jason B. Schmidt), their co-founder and Manny’s lover. Over Rod’s hurt objections, they hire creepy gay playwright M&M (Chris von Hoffman) to replace him as author of their yearly Christmas pageant, but are forced to use Rod’s script when M&M storms out in a rage, for predictably ridiculous reasons. Luckily for them, Rod’s script is not terrible – but, realizing that he will become insufferable if they admit that to him, they change the title and attempt to keep him away from the production.

Complicating their plan is the rest of the theater’s staff, including the "sassy" costume designer, Tarquin (Jonathan Chang); one-man-stage-crew (and perpetually stoned heterosexual) Jim (Ryan Wright); and Janet (Elyse Beyer), their reasonably competent but extremely high-strung stage manager. After Rod is conveniently sidelined by a falling stage light Jim incompetently rigged, they hire Margie (Crystal Cotton), a successful director from New York who knows Manny and Rod from The Old Days.

What follows are a series of excruciatingly tasteless jokes featuring a snow-excreting Santa Claus; a flatulent and deaf accompanist (Ree Davis); and Jim’s narcoleptic, Tourette’s afflicted bigot of a mother (Emily Schramel), whose apparent sole purpose is to give the author the chance to use the expression “darkie” in his script. Later, the cast of characters is joined by Jesus – yes, that Jesus – who, like Harvey the Rabbit, is only seen by Jim, and who proudly proclaims his own homosexuality and Latino pride (because, after all, what’s more of a laugh than the fact that there are Latinos named Jesus?).

Of course, in the tradition of Noises Off, everything that can go wrong with the production does. The cast is terrible. The crew is incompetent. And everyone keeps having to deal with Tyrone, the angry black guy who left his gun at the audition (played by a game Kershel Anthony).

This sounds like it could be a South Park-esque, irreverent, so-offensive-it’s-funny, celebration of poor taste, and at times it seems clear that that is Joe Marshall’s intention. Unfortunately, the jokes are not simply tasteless – they’re also completely unfunny. Jokes that didn’t land the first time are stretched into recurring gags. For example, Marshall tries to generate laughs by revealing the titles of two of Rod’s previous plays, (one being “Oklahomo”) and then, as the show goes on, continues the gag – by referring to the same two plays. Repeatedly. He couldn’t have come up with a few more puns? When things threaten to slow down, Marshall finds an excuse to bring back his unfunny bigot, his flamboyant Jesus, or his thuggish black man to act out some desperate stereotype or another, despite the fact that they don’t ever advance the action in any significant way. And, to further demonstrate his sophistication, the author has no trouble using stoner material that was dated back in the days of Cheech and Chong.

Meanwhile, the plot is not merely convoluted, but incoherent. For one thing, the playwright, for all of his supposed theatrical experience, seems to lack a working knowledge of how the theater business works, or simply thinks the audience won’t notice or care about the glaring incongruities. How has the theater company survived all this time? Do the founders have regular jobs? If they’re a legitimate company, why is the cast and crew made up of amateurs? And if they’re simply a community theater, why are they getting reviewed in major newspapers? If the play moved faster (or had more competent actors), these questions would be irrelevant, but Marshall feels the need to cram in social messages and romantic subplots at random moments, giving the audience just enough time to realize that none of what they’re seeing makes the least bit of sense.

As the second act opens, it seems for a moment that The Gayest Christmas Pageant Ever! is finding its purpose. When we see the problematic rehearsal for the play-within-the-play, there are some genuinely funny moments. However, things are quickly derailed again when Marshall insists on generating false tension by revealing Janet’s hitherto-unseen (and quickly handwaved-away) homophobia. After an incredibly out-of-place series of coming-out vignettes and a speech from Jim about tolerance, opening night arrives – and we’re treated to, basically, the same gags from the rehearsal scene, plus the aforementioned “Shitting Santa.” Predictably, the characters are heartbroken by their terrible review – and overjoyed when the terrible review leads to a sold-out run. If Marshall was trying to go for “Springtime For Hitler,” he should have realized that sending up bad plays acted by bad actors only works in a good play featuring good actors. Later, in a truly bizarre postscript, the heterosexual love interests (who, to Marshall’s credit, were developed with more nuance and compassion than any of the stock-stereotype gay male characters), are magically turned into a gay couple. For what purpose? Apparently only Jesus knows – and he doesn’t share.

In fairness, there are at least a few decent actors in the play, who deserved better material to work with. Cotton manages to create a believable character out of her worldly lesbian director, and the romantic leads, Wright and Beyer, are amiable if not particularly three-dimensional. In bit parts, Alexandra Dickson, who plays a butch (and put-upon) angel, and Kymberlie Joseph, channeling Hattie McDaniel as Tyrone’s mother, earn actual laughs during their brief appearances. Unfortunately, the rest of the cast struggles with the material, mugging through lines and situations that are already overly broad. Several of the actors seem to be genuine amateurs – Chang might have been funny, but it was hard to tell, since he had trouble projecting in the small space. Weinstock, whose theatrical credits are largely behind-the-scenes, looks and sounds uncomfortable on stage.

If this review seems unnecessarily harsh, it is only because plays like this are offensive at a deeper level than the jokes in them. Earlier, I wrote that most bad theater is made with good intentions, but my guest and I left The Gayest Christmas Pageant Ever! feeling doubtful that this play was mounted for anything other than cynical reasons. Sadly, if the play’s main purpose is to exploit audiences who will be attracted to anything with the word “gay” in the title, it may succeed. In promotional material, the producers quote comedienne Kathy Griffen proclaiming, “The title alone is brilliant!” While Griffin’s quote may be genuine, it’s hard to believe she saw the play before she made that statement. “Brilliant” title or not, the play is as much of a mess as the titular pageant. In a city full of talented playwrights and actors who can’t get a break, it is simply amazing that a show of this caliber can be mounted on an off-Broadway stage. Then again, when the playwright and the producer are one and the same, anything is possible. No matter Marshall’s intentions, he succeeds only in alienating the very audience he is trying to play to.

© 2009, Christopher Stansfield. Some rights reserved. This work is licensed to the public under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License, and may only be distributed according to the terms of said license. To view a copy of this license, please click here.

Book Review: And Another Thing... (Part Six in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series)

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 05:00:00 +0000

And Another Thing…, the continuation of the late Douglas Adams’s “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” series, was written in part because Adams didn’t get the chance to “set things right” before his untimely death at the age of 49. Whereas the penultimate Adams “H2G2” book, So Long, and Thanks For All The Fish, ended in a happy place for most of the characters, Adams’s last entry, Mostly Harmless, sneered at the concept of happy endings, leaving many readers rather UNhappy. Not that the series was ever cheery – it does, after all, open with Earth’s destruction. However, while earlier entries balanced cynicism with an affection for humanity’s foibles, Mostly Harmless was practically nihilistic. Adams later admitted that this was a result of his being severely depressed while writing the book, and planned to end the series – again – more positively. Since his death robbed fans of that ending, Adams’s widow asked author Eoin Colfer (Artemis Fowl) to give it a shot. While many might be happy to see Adams’s characters raised from the dead, they may wonder if it was worth the effort.

It’s important to note that Adams’s stories were, often, barely stories at all. Though there are Protagonists and Events, the “when” and “how” is rarely important, and the “why” tends to stay the same – people are foolish, and life is random. Still, even lacking basic storytelling conventions, the books are genius. For one thing, they’re laugh-out-loud funny. For another, the characters are easily identifiable. And finally, even though the Events aren’t important, the Deep Thoughts that they illustrate often are.

Since four or five different versions of the saga (which originated on BBC radio and was adapted into an LP, novels, a television series, and a film – each time with major plot changes) co-existed, all written or authorized by Adams, it’s clear that he cared less about “canon” than he did about provoking laughs. In that sense, Colfer makes a valiant effort to write a “Douglas Adams book.” Most of the essential elements are there – Colfer tweaks science fiction cliche, and the situations are suitably ironic, as in Adams's books. Of course, all of the major characters are back (as are many of the minor ones). Much of the book is, in fact, quite funny. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t fit with the rest of the series.

Colfer seems to acknowledge this: in a tongue-in-cheek preface he specifies that his book is an “appendix” to the series, rather than a true part of it. Which would all be very modest and self-effacing, if it weren’t for the fact that the cover declares in big, unmistakable letters, that it is “Part Six.”

One reason And Another Thing… doesn’t succeed is that Colfer has affection for the characters, but doesn’t seem to understand them. For example, here is his introduction to Arthur Dent, the main character of the saga (and the one Adams based on himself):

“Arthur’s university yearbook actually referred to him as ‘most likely to end up living in a hole in the Scottish highlands with only the chip on his shoulder for company.’”

It goes on to paint Dent as gloomy, pessimistic, and generally unlikeable.

True, one could get that impression of Arthur from his introduction in the first book – then again, the first time we see the character is while he’s facing the impending destruction of his home. Reading further, we learn that Arthur is a fundamentally decent, if unremarkable, human being. Though he is at times irritating, he is completely understandable. He can be petty, depressed, and self-absorbed, even in the face of the extinction of his species – but he is also one of the few beings that shows humanity, even briefly, to Marvin, the deeply depressed robot he meets on his adventures. He’s never shown to be friendless or unlikeable – clearly there was a reason his alien friend chose to save him in the first place – and as the series progresses, we find that, though he is frequently confused, he is also much deeper than the “evolved” species around him give him credit for being. Neither the best nor the brightest, he represents both what is bumbling and lovable about humanity. Somehow, Colfer misses all of that, and instead focuses on readers' mistaken first impression of the character.

In fact, he does that with all of the main characters. The alien Zaphod Beeblebrox, portrayed by Adams as a genius trying to be an idiot, is simply an idiot in And Another Thing.... Trillian, the second-to-last human, transforms from someone conflicted and competent to someone alternately brittle and insipid. Dent’s rescuer, Ford Prefect, is simply comic relief – when he’s used at all. Oddly enough, the characters Colfer devotes the most time to are Adams’s throwaways. They're all vaguely recognizable, but almost imperceptibly “off.” It left me with a feeling of warped perspective, as though I were reading the book with my glasses on backwards.

Another thing Colfer gets nearly, but not quite, right, is Adams’s narrative voice. That’s forgivable – it's unfair to expect an accomplished author to imitate someone else’s style – but Colfer tries to have it both ways. He doesn’t write like Adams did, but he picks up on the things that people loved about the original books – the endless footnotes and digressions, the recurring jokes – and then repeats them endlessly. Colfer writes like he’s desperate to prove that he’s fan enough to step into Adams’s shoes. Over and over, he sticks in references to Eccentrica Gallumbits, the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast, Gargleblasters, and other Adams in-jokes. At first these references cause warm recognition – then, they become tedious. Whereas Adams sparingly used his digressive “guide entries” to illustrate some of his larger points, Colfer puts one or two on nearly every page. And, while their quantity has increased, their quality is scattershot. The overkill is exhausting and irritating in the same way that amateur fan fiction is. Meanwhile, in place of wordplay, Colfer delivers endless puns, like the names Constant Mown, Carmen Ghettim, and Aseed Preflux – and the book eventually becomes frustrating to read. Colfer tries so hard to ingratiate himself to readers that he forgets to focus on what Adams would have – there are no Deep Thoughts here, just nostalgia and reiteration.

It is obvious that Colfer loves the H2G2 universe, so the book can’t be discounted as a cynical cash-grab. It also does succeed on one level – it wraps things up tidily (well, sort of) and gives the characters a happy ending (well, kind of). If And Another Thing… doesn’t exactly have a happy ending, it still ends on a hopeful and lighthearted enough note to be a step up from the previous book. Douglas Adams was not, himself, a cynical writer, contrary to popular belief. In fact, he was a disappointed idealist – aware that things are bad, but hopeful enough to refuse to give up. If things remain as uncertain at the conclusion of And Another Thing… as they are at the beginning, it’s in keeping with the rest of the series.

Ironically, if all readers wanted was a happy ending, they already had an Adams-approved one. The radio adaptation of Mostly Harmless added a positive epilogue that the novel lacked – and, even though the radio show was made posthumously, it was based on Adams’s own notes. The BBC production (available on CD) has never been promoted to American audiences, and it’s a shame, because – happy ending or not – And Another Thing… lacks purpose. Colfer seems to have made a list of the elements he needed to include, put them together, and then, after realizing he had several parts left over, shrugged his shoulders hoping nobody would notice. Like an Ikea futon with missing screws, the book doesn’t hold up to close inspection. Colfer, who is successful enough in his own right that he didn’t need the paycheck, deserves credit for giving And Another Thing… his best effort. Unfortunately, readers would have been better served if he had just turned down the assignment in the first place.

Theater Review: ROOMS a rock romance

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 05:00:00 +0000

ROOMS a rock romance (sic) tries very hard to give the audience for a “a rock romance,” what it wants – loud, heavy music combined with a love story straight out of The Idiot’s Guide to Romantic Comedy – and in that sense, at least, it does exactly what it needs to. Yes, Boy meets Girl. Boy also loses Girl. Does Boy win Girl back? I don’t want to spoil anything, but if you can watch the opening scene without figuring out exactly what happens in the closing scene, you probably aren’t paying enough attention to care.

If New World Stages is attempting to maintain a precisely-varied roster (it seems like there’s always one show for the kids; one for their grandparents; one that’s “serious”; one that’s titillating; one that “rocks”; and, of course, one that’s Altar Boyz and one that’s Naked Boys Singing), ROOMS is the perfect replacement for Rock of Ages, which has transferred to Broadway. Like that musical, ROOMS demands little of its audience, but provides a solid hour-or-so of diversion. Unfortunately, I found myself wishing that the book’s authors (Paul Scott Goodman and Miriam Gordon) would gather enough courage to take the risk of challenging the audience’s expectations once or twice.

The book’s banality is especially disappointing because the two stars, Leslie Kritzer and Doug Kreeger, are very talented: it is clear that they’ve worked hard to connect with their roles and with the audience. Kreeger, in particular, wrings every bit of emotion possible out of his portrayal of Ian, a depressed, phobic, working-class Glasgow musician with a heavy drinking problem. He combines this emotionality with a strong singing voice, and uses both to powerful effect in numbers like “Fear of Flying” and “Clean.” Kritzer is slightly less successful as Monica P. Miller, a Jewish Scottish Princess whose sheer ambition (her motto: “Whatever It Takes”) leads her to become, consecutively, a Bat Mitzvah entertainer; punk rocker; cabaret singer; and jingle writer. Though Kritzer is a gifted comic, she’s less believable during those moments she’s called upon to show vulnerability. This isn’t entirely her fault – her character largely operates on one unchanging level throughout the show, until a rather forced and perfunctory climax. Kritzer is also a strong singer, but she and Kreeger are both hindered by Scottish accents that too often seem cribbed from tapes of Uncle Scrooge McDuck and Star Trek’s Scotty – their artificiality is frequently distracting and adds little.

There is not much to say about the show’s songs (also written by Goodman). They are rhythmic (and loud) enough to keep things interesting, and they are entertaining. However, many of them lack melody: it’s surprising that a show about aspiring pop stars has so few musical hooks. I enjoyed the music while I was in the theater, but I can’t honestly remember much of it a day later. (It is also clear that Goodman has no real knowledge of punk rock beyond a few surface traits – and someone should inform him and Gordon that punk and New Wave are not the same thing, despite the terms being used interchangeably throughout the show.)

Scott Schwartz, the show’s director, deserves credit for staging the two actors (and one door) cleverly and organically. Under his direction, the first half of the show has several memorable comedic moments, and he directs the more serious portion of the show with sensitivity and honesty.

Ultimately, ROOMS a rock romance succeeds in providing a night’s entertainment, and the actors’ performances, at least, are worth seeing. It’s just a shame that their charisma isn’t being showcased in something a bit more thought-provoking.

ROOMS a rock romance is in an open-ended run at New World Stages, 340
West 50th Street, Clinton; (212) 239-6200, telecharge.com.

Film Review: Watchmen

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 05:00:00 +0000

Watchmen is not a movie about superheroes. For one thing, barely any of the characters in the film do anything heroic. Secondly, none of the people in Watchmen (with one notable exception) has any super-powers to speak of. What Watchmen is about can apparently be debated – Alan Moore, the writer of the comic book that the film is adapted from, thought it was about misplaced hero worship. On the other hand, Watchmen’s director, Zack Snyder, apparently thinks it’s a celebration of bone-crushing, blood-spurting violence. I think it’s about three hours long.

In the year or so that rumors have been spreading through the “fan community” (an expression used earnestly by comic book readers and derisively by everyone else) about the long-awaited adaptation of Watchmen, a great deal of worry has arisen regarding whether Watchmen would be faithful to the comic. Those fears will be put to rest by the film that was released yesterday. With the exception of the infamous “squid monster” and several of the more meta-textual elements of the series, Watchmen, the movie, is faithful to a fault to Watchmen, the comic book. All 300-plus pages of plot, subplot, and back-story have been crammed into a 160-minute film – and it feels like it. By using (Watchmen artist) Dave Gibbons’ original drawings as a strict storyboard and, at times, cribbing whole paragraphs of dialogue from the comic, Snyder and writers David Hayter and Alex Tse can all sincerely claim religious fidelity to the original text. Unfortunately, they get all the details right while somehow missing the point of the book – rather like a Catholic who reads the New Testament and thinks the story is “about” torture. (I’m looking at you, Mr. Gibson.)

Watchmen begins, portentously, with violence. For about five minutes, audience members are treated to the furniture-splintering, tooth-loosening, bone-crushing, window-smashing murder of Edward Blake (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), whom we soon learn was once a costumed vigilante and government operative codenamed “The Comedian.” Then, to get audiences acquainted with the universe this murder mystery is set in, an extended title credits sequence follows. Despite it being (painfully) set to Bob Dylan’s “The Times They Are A’Changin,” this sequence is probably the cleverest part of the film. In very little time, the various tableaux depicted (including warped versions of famous scenes like V-E Day in Times Square, the assassination of JFK, and Studio 54) manage to illustrate the differences between our world and the world of the Watchmen; the realities of superhero life; and much of the flashback material from the comic book that could not be included in the actual film.

The credits are handled in such a witty, seamless manner that one can be forgiven for expecting the rest of the film to be as smooth and understandable. Unfortunately, once the “real” movie gets underway, the labyrinthine plot complications and myriad characters that are so enjoyable to read at one’s own pace feel rushed and one-dimensional within the confines of a film (even one as long as this one). In rapid succession, the rest of the cast is introduced: psychotic, Objectivist Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley); Nite Owls I and II (the latter also known as wimpy technogeek Dan Drieberg, played by Patrick Wilson); the first and second Silk Spectres (Carla Gugino and Malin Ackerman, respectively); Ozymandias (“world’s smartest human” Adrian Veidt, played by Matthew Goode); and finally, Dr. Manhattan, a God-like CGI superman with blue skin (and little clothing). Manhattan (played by Billy Crudup in pre-origin flashbacks and voiced by him in present-day sequences) is less a character than he is a catalyst: it is largely his presence during the Vietnam War and other pivotal moments of history that caused Watchmen’s Earth to look so different from our own (one major difference: Richard Nixon is still president in 1985, when the film is set.)

The particulars of the convoluted (even for a comic book movie) plot are largely unimportant. While Rorschach and his somewhat-more-reluctant allies investigate the Comedian’s murder, Ozymandias concerns himself with the rapidly growing threat of nuclear devastation and Dr. Manhattan decides to abandon humanity, since it has already, clearly, abandoned him. In the original comic book, the prosaic details of the interwoven plots and flashbacks served to illuminate a philosophical worldview. In the movie, they serve as a staging ground for ever-escalating scenes of violence and pessimism.

It is true that Watchmen doesn’t contain any scenes of violence that aren’t in the comic. However, the execution of these scenes is radically different. Events such as the Comedian’s murder and an attempted mugging appear in the comic book as series of a few panels each. Much of the actual action is left off the page, and (notably for a comic book) few, if any, sound effects are employed. Compare that to the movie – before the Comedian’s attempted rape of Silk Spectre is averted, Gugino and Morgan have punched, kicked, bitten, and thrown each other through furniture in a sequence that could have been cut from Mr. and Mrs. Smith. An assassination attempt that, in the comic, consists of one secretary getting shot, becomes an orgy of bullets through heads, chests, and abdomens. Rorschach’s murder of a child molester, represented in the comic by a burning building and some chilling dialogue, is replaced by a series of cleaver blows to the molester’s skull. Each of these examples is underscored by the full range of wince-producing Foley sound effects – one can only guess at how many watermelons were slaughtered to produce the cleaver sequence. While Moore and Gibbons, of necessity, depicted violence in order to underscore the neuroses of their characters, Snyder depicts it because he apparently thinks it looks cool (his previous film, 300, is further evidence of this mindset), and ends up demonstrating that he has completely missed the point.

If lack of subtlety is apparent in the action sequences, Snyder can be applauded for the consistency of his approach. Watchmen’s one sex scene is portrayed in three panels of undressing and several more of post-coital pillow talk in the comic book. In the movie, we get several minutes of sweaty humping and thrusting in numerous positions, backed by Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” It’s hard to know what’s more laughable – the soft-core Cinemax-style sex or the cliché background music. The soundtrack, in fact, is a glaring example of Snyder’s sledgehammer approach to storytelling. Besides the aforementioned Dylan and Cohen songs, there’s “The Sounds of Silence” at a funeral, “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” during a business meeting, and even “Ride of the Valkyries” during the Vietnam War. (Someone should tell Snyder that that particular song didn’t play during the actual war, Coppola aside.)

Of course, there’s also the issue of Dr. Manhattan’s body parts. While male full-frontal nudity is, due to Americans’ (im)maturity, somewhat daring in a mainstream film (and fans would accuse the filmmakers of cowardice if they hadn’t depicted Manhattan as he is in the comic), Snyder and his team are, once again, guilty of a “hey, look at this,” sensibility. The Doctor Manhattan of the comics is discreetly endowed (as one would expect a man unconcerned with appearances to be), but the one in the movie has such a large, constantly-swinging (in that slithery, CGI way) member that it is, predictably, distracting (and does not encourage any sort of mature response on the part of the audience). Aesthetic choices like these make the film seem more like a parody of the book it is based on than the reverent re-imagining it tries to be.

Some of this lack of nuance extends to the dialogue, as well, which features several lines of the “audience-is-too-stupid-to-understand-otherwise” variety. If one has read the comic book, it is jarring to hear the characters referred to repeatedly as “The Watchmen.” That word never appears in the comic except on the cover and in occasional background graffiti, but here it’s used as though the characters are a team of mutants or a doo-wop ensemble. I can picture a studio executive saying, “I like the movie, but people are gonna wonder when the Watchmen show up!” Likewise, the narration, which is essential in a static medium like comic books, is completely redundant in a movie like this – excerpts from Rorschach’s journal are one thing, but Dr. Manhattan soliloquizing about his lack of humanity is completely unnecessary. There is also one thuddingly-obvious line in the picture that rips off the climax of The Empire Strikes Back. I half-expected to see Malin Ackerman get her hand chopped off after it was spoken.

Despite Snyder’s ham-handed rendering of the material, the actors can at least, by and large, be commended for taking their roles seriously and finding emotional touchstones in the material. Wilson is nuanced and even touching as Drieberg (who is depicted as a sort of reverse comic book archetype – in this case, Clark Kent is the real man and Superman the pose.) Morgan is convincing as the amoral Comedian, and, though he can’t do much as Dr. Manhattan other than speak in a detached monotone, Crudup makes the most of his limited role. Unfortunately, both Ackerman and Goode are badly miscast: the former comes off as a one-note bimbo, and Goode plays captain-of-industry Veidt as a peroxided club-kid with an indeterminate accent. However, the truly revelatory performance of the movie belongs to Haley. Though his unyielding, psychotic Rorschach is covered by a mask during the majority of the film, his voice is appropriately chilling – and, when the mask finally comes off, Haley is genuinely frightening and all-too believable.

It would also be unfair of me not to point out that, visually, the film is stunning. Aside from a leopard creature and Dr. Manhattan himself (I still think that CGI-rendered humans and animals are jarring when shown in motion), the effects are beautifully rendered, and the art direction and set design somehow look simultaneously fantastic and realistic. It is clear that, in that respect, Snyder cared about what he was doing. In fact, “lack of care,” is one thing I cannot accuse Snyder of, in general. Every long minute of Watchmen shows that Snyder cares tremendously about both the book he’s adapting and the movie he’s making. I only wish I could believe that his care came with genuine understanding.

WATCHMEN: directed by Zack Snyder; written by David Hayter and Alex Tse, based on the graphic novel illustrated by Dave Gibbons; and released by Warner Brothers
Pictures and Paramount Pictures. Running time: 2 hours 40 minutes.

WITH: Malin Akerman (Laurie Jupiter/Silk Spectre II), Billy Crudup (Jon Osterman/Dr. Manhattan), Matthew Goode (Adrian Veidt/Ozymandias), Carla Gugino (Sally Jupiter/Silk Spectre), Jackie Earle Haley (Walter Kovacs/Rorschach), Jeffrey Dean Morgan (Edward Blake/the Comedian) and Patrick Wilson (Dan Dreiberg/Nite Owl II).

Theater Review: Guys and Dolls

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 05:00:00 +0000

There are really only two artistic reasons to revive a musical. One is to make a show that is old and familiar into something fresh and newly relevant. The second is to reproduce a classic faithfully in order to present it to audiences who never had a chance to see the original. There is something to be said for the latter reasoning — recent revivals like A Chorus Line and The Fantasticks have succeeded to varying degrees as trapped-in-amber photocopies — and the former method is currently being employed with South Pacific, a show that everybody has seen in one form or another. Unfortunately, the newest revival of Guys and Dolls doesn’t seem to know what sort of revival it’s trying to be, and it fails on both levels. An almost purely mechanical piece of theater, Guys and Dolls somehow manages to be overly familiar and gimmicky at the same time.

Guys and Dolls is considered by many to be the prototypical musical. Nearly every song in Frank Loesser’s still-magnificent score went on to become a standard, and Abe Burrows’s book is a model of comic and dramatic economy, intertwining plots and characters from several of Damon Runyon’s short stories with original material. It has been revived on Broadway about a hundred times (give or take a few), most notably in a critically-adored 1992 production. Combine those productions with the thousands that take place every year in summer stock, bus-and-truck tours, dinner theaters, and high school auditoriums (not to mention frequent television airings of the 1955 film adaptation), and it becomes hard to believe that any lover of musical theater is unfamiliar with the story of Nathan Detroit, Miss Adelaide, Sky Masterson, and Sarah Brown.

When a show is that familiar, it is imperative to infuse any new production with new energy, and director Des McAnuff (late of Jersey Boys) has added a few elements that beg to be regarded as serious “concepts.” A new prologue and epilogue featuring Damon Runyon (Raymond Del Barrio) and his typewriter bookend the show, and a great deal of time and energy is devoted to new, highly acrobatic choreography by Sergio Trujillo: if the idea of breakdancing in a production of Guys and Dolls appalls you, you’ll want to stay home. The set design is also distinctly modern — the orchestra has been moved backstage from its pit in order to extend the stage, and a giant Jumbotron screen serves as a modern (and frankly, tacky) backdrop. Moreover, the numbers featuring Miss Adelaide and her Hot Box Girls are treated somewhat more honestly (that is to say, sexually) than in previous incarnations of the show, and Miss Adelaide herself, as portrayed by Lauren Graham, is a harder character than she has previously been shown to be. She retains few of the squeaky, Betty Boop-esque mannerisms that have become associated with her.

Unfortunately, these changes are purely cosmetic. Rather than revealing anything new about the very familiar characters and situations, the overly long dance breaks and videos of airplanes heading to and arriving from Cuba simply slow down the show. Moreover, they serve as reminders that there really is nothing new going on onstage. For one thing, McAnuff’s staging is rote to the point of being amateurish. It is possible to anticipate every musical solo, because the character delivering it will have invariably made his or her way downstage to sing it directly to the audience. Similarly, romantic duets are presented in strict profile, and dance solos typically end up center stage. This kind of “look-at-me” obviousness gives the production the feel of a high school musical.

The real problem, however, is that Guys and Dolls doesn’t truly work unless the characters are treated as real people with real problems and real emotions. When characters are written as cartoonish stereotypes, as these characters arguably are, the director should be willing and able to bring them down to earth and find ways to make them real. However, McAnuff fails on that level. He seems to see the show as all surface — he apparently made little effort to lead the cast to emotionally-resonant performances. Unfortunately, he has no help from the performers.

Anyone who has attempted to deliver dialogue from Guys and Dolls can be forgiven for thinking that the phrasing is a bit artificial. It is — in fact, the particular patois of Runyon’s New York was largely created by Runyon himself. However, if an actor truly works to understand his character, and speaks Burrows’s words with conviction, it is easy to believe what is happening on stage — this has been proven in numerous productions, most recently in the 1992 revival. How unfortunate, then, that most of the cast recite their lines as though they’re reading them phonetically off a TelePrompTer. It is perhaps for this reason that Kate Jennings Grant, as Salvation Army officer Sarah Brown, fares best of the four leads. As one of the few actors unencumbered with “Runyonese,” Grant evinces more of a connection with her character, and her conflicted feelings for Sky Masterson (Craig Bierko) ring true, as do her solos, which are delivered in a clear and winning voice.

Far less successful are Graham and Oliver Platt, who plays Nathan Detroit. Though both actors (neither of whom is known for musical theater work) have on-key, inoffensive singing voices, neither seem comfortable in their roles. They both do what they’re “supposed to,” (Graham sneezes gamely while Platt’s eyes dart about constantly) but there is nothing in their performances that suggests they believe what they’re saying or that they even know what feelings they’re portraying. As they struggle to define their characters, they also struggle to find any chemistry with each other, making their pairing as unrealistic as their line readings are. Chemistry is also a problem with Grant and Bierko as Sarah and Sky — though both are veteran musical theater performers, they seem more concerned with “doing Guys and Dolls” than they are with making their courtship believable.

The remaining members of the cast similarly struggle to make what they’re doing and saying meaningful. Again, the Salvation Army members come off a bit better than their gangland counterparts do. Jim Ortlieb is surprisingly effective in the unrewarding role of Arvide Abernathy, and comes off as genuinely affectionate toward Sarah. The always-reliable Mary Testa is given little to do as General Cartwright, but does what she can with what she has. Tituss Burgess and Steve Rosen (as Nicely-Nicely and Benny Southstreet), however, are all mannerism and no heart. Burgess’ gospel-ized rendition of “Sit Down You’re Rockin’ The Boat” is loud, but toothless.

Guys and Dolls is durable — if not unkillable. This production will not erase the memory of previous ones, and this surely is not the last time the show will be revived. I only hope that the next group of people to present Guys and Dolls on Broadway has a clear motive in doing so, beyond the promise of reliable box office returns. This production, unfortunately, seems to have no real purpose in mind at all: and it shows.

My Fair Palin- A Musical Fantasia- Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 20:35:00 +0000

ACT 2

SCENE 1

Another McCain rally.
MCCAIN stands alone DS. He has visibly aged since the last time he appeared, and he looks increasingly desperate.

JUST YOU WAIT, JOE THE PLUMBER
(To the tune of “Just You Wait”)

MCCAIN: (singing)
Just you wait, Joe the Plumber, just you wait!
You’ll be sorry if Barack is head of state!
You'll be broke, because he’ll tax you!
Do you think that’s fair? I axe you!
Just you wait, Joe the Plumber, just you wait!
Just you wait, Joe the Plumber, when you’re sick!
Barack says you’ll have insurance- it’s a trick!
‘Cause a doctor won’t improve things ‘til the government approves things!
Oh ho ho, Joe the Plumber, just you wait!

Ooooooh Joe the Plumber!
Just you wait until he taxes your small biz!
Ooooooh Joe the Plumber!
Don’t you know that that’s what socialism is?
We just want things to be more fair but Obama wants class warfare!
Oh ho ho, Joe the Plumber!
Oh ho ho, Joe the Plumber!
Just! You! Wait!
(Lights out.)

SCENE 2

Sarah Palin press conference.
SCHMIDT and MCCAIN stand USL, as they look upon PALIN standing DSR at a podium. PALIN continues to wear the trapped expression she wore in SCENE 5. She is faced by a handful of weary REPORTERS DSC.

SCHMIDT: I swear, we’re still okay, Senator! You’re the comeback king! We’re gonna win this thing, I promise! We’re not dead yet!

SHE COULDN'T ANSWER RIGHT
(To the tune of “I Could Have Danced All Night”)

MCCAIN:
Dead! Dead! How could we not be dead?
There's just no way we'll ever make up ground!
Win? Win? We’re never gonna win!
Not unless Bin Laden bombs a town!

She couldn't answer right
She couldn't answer right
Until she read her notes.
She's making people scared
‘Cause she's so unprepared
And now we're losing votes!

I do not know how she can go and give them
Only non-sequiters all night.

I only know if she
Get asked about Muthee
She couldn’t ans- ans- answer right!
(music ends)

MCCAIN: Why are we doing this?!

SCHMIDT: We had to eventually let her talk to the press- it looks bad when we sequester her.

MCCAIN: And this doesn’t make us look bad? She hasn’t answered a question
coherently yet! When she was asked what magazines she read she looked like she was about to have a breakdown!

SCHMIDT: Don’t worry- it’s almost over. She just has to hold out a little longer.

MCCAIN’S CAMPAIGN
(To the tune of “The Rain In Spain”)

REPORTERS: (singing)
Poor campaign reporters!
Poor campaign reporters!
Night and day
We ask away!
Oh, poor campaign reporters!
All day long, asking her; while she rambles glassy-eyed!
All day long, asking her; how she’s qualified!

REPORTER: (spoken)
Governor Palin, many people feel that this campaign is showing signs of desperation. One day Senator McCain claims the fundamentals of the economy are strong. The next day McCain claims he’s been warning about economic disaster for years. One day Obama has been learning hatred at a radical Christian church, the next day he’s a Muslim terrorist. One day Colin Powell is a hero of the Republican Party, the next day he’s a racist who is only endorsing Obama because they’re both black. There seems to be a failure to stay “on message.” Right now, how would you characterize this campaign?

(PALIN at first looks stunned, then slowly breaks into a maniacal grin. As the song progresses she slips into near-catatonia. It is clear that she is having a nervous breakdown.)

PALIN: McCain’s campaign is, plainly, just inane.

REPORTER: Again?

PALIN: McCain’s campaign is, plainly, just inane.

MCCAIN: Oh, God, she’s lost it! I think she’s lost it!

PALIN: (sings)
McCain’s campaign is, plainly, just inane.

SCHMIDT: (spoken)
Oh shit, we’ve lost it! We’ve clearly lost it!

REPORTER:
Now once again, how is McCain?

PALIN:
He’s insane! He’s insane!

REPORTER:
And what of his campaign?

PALIN:
Inane! Inane!

PALIN AND REPORTERS:
McCain’s campaign is, plainly, just inane.
McCain’s campaign is, plainly, just inane!

REPORTER:
In PA, Michigan, and VA…?

PALIN:
Upsets can hardly happen.
(spoken)
How strange of them to let me run!

REPORTER:
Now once again, what about McCain?

PALIN:
He’s insane! He’s insane!

REPORTER:
And what’s this damn campaign?

PALIN:
Inane! Inane!

PALIN AND REPORTERS:
McCain’s campaign is, plainly, just inane.
McCain’s campaign is, plainly, just inane!

(MCCAIN and SCHMIDT quickly cross DSR, where they wrestle PALIN offstage.)

SCENE 3

McCain Campaign Headquarters. Election Day.
MCCAIN paces back and forth DSL. SCHMIDT and PALIN stand DSR.

WITHOUT YOU

MCCAIN: (spoken)
What a fool I was! What an imbecilic fool!
To think you two would help me win!
(sings)
What a fool I was, what a post-traumatic fool,
There are things that you just cannot spin!
Now, I must say to you, “my friends,”
Sarah Palin is not what she pretends!

(MCCAIN crosses to PALIN)
I might still have a chance without you!
My plans I could advance without you!
If I’d chosen Romney
Or hell, even Rudy
I could run the country without you!

I would look fit to lead without you!
Wouldn’t have to concede without you!
I could make my ascent, my win I would cement, yes I’d be president without you!
Yes it’s true! Without you!

PALIN:
You, my friend, who vet so well,
You can go to H-E-double-hockey-sticks!

I still have a career without you!
They still think I’m sincere without you!
And in 2012 I will run by myself without you!

MCCAIN: (spoken)
You little c---!

PALIN:
Without your record I will look more clean!
Without your angry talk I’ll look less mean!
Without your baggy jowls I’ll look more fit!
If I don’t have your baggage, Johnny- I’m legit!
I will go it alone without you
I can stand on my own without you
So go back to AZ
In four years you will see
What a winner I’ll be
Without you!

(PALIN storms off SR angrily. SCHMIDT shakes his head and also exits SR. MCCAIN is left alone. Offstage, a REPORTER starts reading electoral vote tallies.)

REPORTER (VO): Florida’s results are in and we’re calling it for Obama. That is 27 more electoral votes….

I’VE GROWN ACCUSTOMED TO THIS RACE

(To the tune of “I’ve Grown Accustomed To Her Face”)

MCCAIN:
Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!
I've grown accustomed to this race.
Is this all really how it ends?
I've grown accustomed to my Less-
Than-Straight-Talking Express.
The preyed-on fears,
The lies. The smears.
They’re second nature to me now;
Like calling everyone “my friends.”
I was perceived as independent during my 2000 campaign;
Surely I could always act like that year’s John McCain.
But I’m accustomed to the slobs;
The angry, racist mobs.
Accustomed to this race.

(Spoken)
Sarah Palin! What an infantile idea. What a clueless,
stupid, brainless thing to do! I regret it! I regret it!
It was doomed before we blew off Lieberman.

(Singing)
I can see her then, Governor of NowheresVille
With her wretched little redneck husband Todd.
With her endless, stupid, chants of “Drill, Baby, Drill”
And her certainty that she was pals with God.
She tried to play the tough reformer,
And showed she had no ethics, instead.
Responses couldn’t be lukewarmer,
To a woman without one brain in her head!
Ha!
After four years of a Barack Obama rule
When’s he’s finally mopped up George Dubya’s mess
She’ll be nothing more than a helium-voiced fool
In a twenty-thousand-dollar Neiman dress.
Oh, poor Sarah. How simply frightful!
How humiliating! How delightful!
How poignant it'll be when she starts running in ’12.
And she’s not even invited on “The View.”
All her grand ambitions, she’ll tearfully shelve—

(Spoken)

Will I invite her to a Georgetown cocktail party?
Give her my endorsement or the treatment she deserves?
Will I take her back or throw the baggage out?

(Sings)
I'm a “real” American;
The sort who never could, ever would,
Take a position and staunchly never budge.
Just a “real” American.
But, I shall never take her back,
If she came begging for advice!
Let her promise me a place
In her presidential race
I will slam the door and Vote Obama twice!

(Spoken)
Sarah Palin! Hah!

(Sings)
But I'm so used to hearing Fox
And their faux scandals and shocks.
My vile attacks.
Her Joe Sixpacks
Are second nature to me now;
Like robo-calls and Town Hall meets.
I'm very grateful that I went to
Nam and was a tortured vet.
Surely that’s a tale that
I can still exploit-

And yet,
I've grown accustomed to the thought
Of “President McCain.”
Accustomed to this race.

(MCCAIN shuffles L and pauses to shake his head. PALIN enters DSR, crosses to MCCAIN and takes his hand as music gets louder. They both slowly exit L.)

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

© 2008, Christopher Stansfield. Some rights reserved. This work is licensed to the public under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License, and may only be distributed according to the terms of said license. To view a copy of this license, please click here.

My Fair Palin- A Musical Fantasia- Part One

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Stansfield) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 02:38:00 +0000

As I've followed the current presidential race and occasionally posted my thoughts here, the responses I've been receiving have been- well, negligible, to be honest. I'm confident only that two people are actually reading this blog- and one of them is my sister.

That said, there are clearly people who at least are aware of the fact I've been opining on the election, (even if they're not reading what I have to write), because more than one has expressed surprise that I'd have the nerve. After all, who the heck do I think I am? I'm just a guy who hangs out at piano bars and goes to the theater (when he can afford it).

And then it hit me- I am eminently qualified to write about this years campaigns precisely BECAUSE of my love of musical theater. The ups and downs of this election season have been nothing if not theatrical. So, I got to thinking- what exactly would the McCain Campaign look like if it were staged with music? What would the "arc" be? With apologies to Lerner, and Lowe, this is what I came up with. (I was once told that every household has at least one copy of the cast album of the musical I'm about to lovingly rip-off, so if you can't follow along without it go put it on the record player. What, people don't have those anymore? I'm screwed.)

MY FAIR PALIN: A MUSICAL FANTASIA
ACT 1, SCENE 1:

McCain Campaign Headquarters.

AT RISE: We see JOHN MCCAIN and STEVE SCHMIDT (McCain’s top advisor) sitting on a sofa watching BARACK OBAMA’S latest speech on CNN.

SCHMIDT: I’m telling you boss, we have this in the bag!

MCCAIN: Really? He seems so eloquent!

SCHMIDT: That’s exactly it! America doesn’t like eloquent! Why do you think Dubya was elected twice?

WHY CAN’T THE DEMS

(to the tune of “Why Can’t the English?”)

SCHMIDT: (Sung)
Look at him, a prisoner of his party!
Insisting that it’s good to be a smarty!
By rights he should be taken out and decked,
For insisting on showing off his intellect!

OBAMA VO: (Spoken)

“Nuance.”

SCHMIDT: (Spoken)
“Nuance!
Heavens, what a word! (He sings)
This is why those Democratic asses,
Never can appeal to all the masses!

MCCAIN (Spoken):
Come on, I don’t think that’s the only reason!

SCHMIDT (Spoken):
Isn’t it? (He sings)

Hear him talk about PA,
It will take your breath away!
Saying that it clings to guns and God.
“Obama,” says the NRA,

“Wants to take your guns away!”
That’s how we’ll convince them he’s a fraud!

Hear that Hillary- or worse
Hear a Kennedy converse!
It distances them all right off the bat!
All of them keep their words straight

And make sure they enunciate!

I ask you, John, who wants to vote for that?

It's “nuance” and “smarts” that keep them from their prize

Not our dirty tricks and filthy lies!

Why can’t the Dems teach all their members how to speak?
They have to know their manner is far too slick and sleek!
If you sound like Al Gore does instead of the way Bush sounds
The rural voters throw you to the hounds!

MCCAIN: (spoken)
Seriously?

SCHMIDT:

A Democrat’s way of speaking almost always is defeatist!
The moment he talks he gives us all the chance to shout “elitist!”

Use proper English and they’ll think something’s amiss!

Oh, why can't the Dem’crats learn to

MISpronounce words like “nuke-you-ler” so they hurt a person’s ears?

If you say “ain’t” you’ll hear the voters' cheers!

Words that end “I-N-G?” Make certain the “g” sound disappears!

George Dubya hasn’t used one in years!

Why can’t the Dems teach all their members how to speak?
Looking educated simply makes them all look weak!

If you use proper English you're regarded as a freak!

Oh why can’t the Dem’crats?

Why can’t the Dem’crats

Learn To Speak?

SCENE 1A:

MCCAIN: You have a point. We’re really going to have to choose a running-mate who doesn’t seem too slick, too elitist. So that rules out Romney. How about Lieberman?

SCHMIDT: Lieberman’s a Jew! They’re ALL elitist!

MCCAIN: Oh, right. But who?

SCHMIDT: I’m glad you asked. Let me introduce you to Governor Sarah Palin!

(SARAH PALIN, an attractive woman with bangs and glasses pops up from behind the sofa, momentarily startling MCCAIN.)

PALIN: Ta-dahh!

WOULDN’T I BE MAVERICKY?

(To the tune of “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly)

PALIN: (singing)

I’m feeling bored today I think I’ll shoot a caribou!

SCHMIDT: (humming)

Mmmmmm.

PALIN:
If I’m allowed I think I’ll also ban a book or two.

SCHMIDT:

Mmmmmmm.

PALIN:

When I make policy I just ask what would Jesus do!

SCHMIDT:

Mmmm, Mmmm- Wouldn't she be mavericky?

PALIN:
All I want is a VP spot,
I’m exactly what Biden’s not!

And don’t you think I’m hot?

Oh wouldn't I be mavericky?

Lots of oil in Alaska state

Bible-thumpers will think I’m great!

Make me your running mate!

Oh wouldn’t I be mavericky?

Oh, so mavericky I’ll win over women who liked Hill.
I will really shake things up
When I try to ban the Pill!

I fought off that Bridge to Nowhere

Sure I did! Really- no, I swear!

But you don’t even care

‘Cause wouldn’t I be mavericky?

MCCAIN:

Mavericky?

SCHMIDT:

Mavericky!

PALIN:

Mavericky!

ALL:
Mavericky.

SCENE 2

MCCAIN and SCHMIDT sit on the sofa DSL while PALIN stands USR The two men are prepping PALIN as she pretends to field reporters’ questions.

SCHMIDT (speaking into his pen as if it were a microphone): But Sarah, what do you say to the people who claim your husband was a member of a revolutionary political party that supports the idea of Alaska seceding from the United States? Do you associate with terrorists?

PALIN: Oh, well I don’t know ‘bout that sorta thing, but I’ll tell you who associates with terrorists! Barack Obama, that’s who! Why, he’s friends with someone who by his own admittance wanted to bring down the country! You betcha!

SCHMIDT: Brilliant answer!

MCCAIN: I don’t know- I feel like we should have asked Sarah some of these questions BEFORE we announced her as my running mate! I mean, how’s she going to deal with all these skeletons in her closet?

SCHMIDT: Easy, John- she’s hot! Nobody’s gonna attack a hot woman! All she needs is a little bit of pluck! Watch this! Sarah, some people are saying that you lied when you said you were against the Bridge To Nowhere- how do you respond?

WITH A LITTLE BIT OF PLUCK

(To the tune of "With A Little Bit of Luck")

PALIN: (singing)

The Congress gave me four hundred-some million

To build a bridge that I wanted to build
The Congress gave me four hundred-some million,

But

With a little bit of pluck, with a little bit of pluck

I’ll claim I’m the one who got it killed!

With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of pluck I got it killed!

SCHMIDT: (spoken)

What about the charges against your office back home in Alaska?

PALIN:

Alaska brought an ethics charge against me
On my abuse of power they’re fixated

Alaska brought an ethics charge against me

But
With a little bit of pluck, with a little bit of pluck,
I’ll pretend that I was vindicated!

With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of pluck it was negated!

Oh, I could tell the honest story
But with a little bit of pluck the charge I’ll duck!

I asked a librarian how I ban books

If I don’t like the messages they share.

I asked a librarian how to ban books-

But
With a little bit of pluck, With a little bit of pluck,
(winking)

I’ll just point out that they’re all still there!

With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of pluck I’ll say I’m fair!
With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of lies and pluck!

MCCAIN: (spoken)

But what about your daughter’s…condition?

PALIN:

I am opposed to real sex education

But Bristol’s pregnancy I must report

I am opposed to real sex education

But
With a little bit of pluck, With a little bit of pluck,
I’ll just say

I’m proud she won’t abort!

With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of luck, she won’t abort!

Sure I may be a big hypocrite
But with a little bit of pluck I’ll dodge the muck!

Oh sure it’s true, my husband wants to secede

And he belongs to radical fringe groups.
Oh ya, it’s true, my husband wants to secede

But
With a little bit of pluck, With a little bit of pluck,
I’ll just wink and make the press my dupes!

(winks)

With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of pluck the press won’t swoop!

With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of lies and pluck!

MCCAIN AND SALTER:
She doesn’t have a single explanation
For all the scandals that she’s in knee-deep!
And what she lacks is one qualification!

But
With a little bit of pluck, With a little bit of pluck,
Dumb Americans will make her Veep!

With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of pluck, they’ll make her Veep!
With a little bit...with a little bit...
With a little bit of lies and pluck!

SCENE 3

A McCain/Palin Rally.

PALIN stands DS as she addresses an unseen crowd.

PALIN:

I’m just so glad to see you all here in what I like to call the ‘real America.” You all have real American values! Not like those people in fake America where they’re all latte-sippin’ elitists! They all think they’re better than you because they had a pair of towers! After all,

I’M A REAL AMERICAN

(To the tune of “I’m An Ordinary Man.”)

PALIN: (sings)

You’re all real Americans,
Who desire nothing more than for our country to stand tall,
And to protect it from the terrorists who wanna see it fall!

You’re real Americans, who like to sit in pews!

Who want us all to be

Completely free

(Unless, of course, you don’t share all our views.)

You’re all real Americans!

But

Let Obama win this race-

And don’cha know, there will be sobs!
He is not like you or I

And our freedoms all will die

When he gives that guy Bill Ayers and his terr'ist slayers jobs!

Let Obama win this race-

And all our liberty he’ll steal!
Can’t you tell the way he talks

And that cocky way he walks

Is elitist! The effete-ist! So we cannot let him beat us- HE’S NOT REAL!

You want to go and do some hunting?
Well, he’ll just take your guns away!
And you can forget goin’ to church-

When he makes it a crime to pray!

Don’t let Obama win this race!

‘Cause that would be a real disgrace!

I can guarantee, you betcha

That the terrorists will getcha

And I know it’s what your thinkin’-

That’s the reason that I’m winkin’!

We can never let Obama win this race!

(PALIN basks in the applause of her supporters and barely flinches when, OS, someone shouts, “Kill him!”)

SCENE 4

McCain/Palin Campaign Headquarters.

MCCAIN stands SL with SCHMIDT. Despite PALIN’S apparent triumph in the previous scene he looks agitated. PALIN sits on the sofa, looking lost and confused.

MCCAIN: I know she’s playing well to the base, but as soon as she goes off message she’s a disaster! How can we let her make this trip to New York?

SCHMIDT: Don’t worry- she’s gonna pose for some pictures and look Vice Presidential. That’s it! We’ve lined up Kissinger and a real top-drawer list of diplomats. All anyone is going to see is poise! I promise!

MCCAIN: You’d better make sure of it! So far she isn’t working out the way you promised!

DON’T LET HER SPEAK TO THE PRESS

(To the tune of "Get Me To The Church On Time")

MCCAIN: (sings)

She’s meeting Henry in the morning!

What they’ll discuss I cannot guess!

Our Iraq missions?

Talk preconditions?

Just don’t let her speak to the press!

She’ll be in New York in the morning!

Make sure she’s wearing a tight dress!

Don’t let her take questions!
That’s my one suggestion!

Please, don’t let her speak to the press!

If they have cameras

Go let ‘em shoot

But if they take notes,

Give ‘em all the boot!

She’s meeting Karzai in the morning!

And this is one thing I must stress!

She’s good at winking!

But not great at thinking!

Don’t you let her speak

Please just don’t let her speak

For God’s sake, don’t let her speak to the press!

SCENE 5

The Vice Presidential debate.

JOE BIDEN, a man with a comb-over and an easy-going smile, stands USL with an unnamed advisor. BIDEN looks confident as his adviser frets. SARAH PALIN stands USR with JOE SCHMIDT. DSL and DSR are two podiums.

ADVISOR: Just remember, Joe- watch the verbal diarrhea! We don’t want any gaffes and we don’t want you to look boring! And be respectful!

BIDEN: Don’t sweat it! For once I’m not the one who has to worry! (He sings)

AT THE V.P. DEBATE

(To the tune of "On The Street Where You Live")

BIDEN: (singing)
I have often talked like a blowhard bore;
But I’ve never met somebody whose skills were so poor!
All at once am I several stories high

Knowing Palin’s the one I‘ll debate!

Did she really hunt from a flying plane?
Can she see Vladimir Putin through her windowpane?

Did she know McCain and Bush share a brain?
I’m so glad Palin’s who I’ll debate!

And oh! I’ll take her to task, too
‘Cause I know she won’t have a plan!
(Stage whispering to SR)

Just hope, they don't ever ask you
Who commands our forces in Afghanistan!

(Singing)

People mock my hair- they don't bother me.
For I’m sure that I will kick her ass on live TV!
Let the time go by, I won't care if I
Make her look bad at the Veep debate!

(The two candidates cross DS, shake hands, and then walk to their podia, while their aides remain USL and USR in the wings. A strobe light turns on and shows BIDEN’S face grow more and more confident as PALIN begins to look like a caribou caught in headlights. After a minute of pantomime, the two shake hands again and walk off USL and USR respectively. SCHMIDT is left standing, alone, USR. Tight spotlight on SCHMIDT as he slowly puts his head in his hands.)

INTERMISSION