Liars and Saints

"Dolores Claiborne" is among my all-time favorite movies; it's a weird, well-crafted melodrama; it trounces the Bechdel Test, over and over again; it has multiple mysteries and a sophisticated, double-edged plot; it makes use of the sublime, via an eclipse; and it's unafraid of moral ambiguity. Let's start at the beginning. Ordinary World: an aging woman with a quiet life in Maine. But then she's caught in what appears to be a murder; we see her holding a rolling pin over the body of her elderly employer. And so: A quest. An effort to prove that she is innocent. She tries to narrate the events of her recent life for her daughter. But the daughter may be a trickster; the daughter doesn't have an uncomplicated relationship with Dolores Claiborne. The daughter, in fact, has been estranged from Dolores for many years, and she blames Dolores for a miserable childhood. Why should the daughter listen? Dolores was frequently mean to Daddy, and now Daddy is dead.

"Once on This Island" is basically a perfect musical--so perfect that, at times, it almost seems facile. Anything you want is here. A big, classic I WANT song ("Waiting for Life"). A smashing Act One finale that shifts the action into a new gear ("Ti Moune"--more on that later). A serious tonal shift for the barnstorming Act Two opener ("Mama Will Provide"). Conflict--external--between the gods of Love and Death, between Daniel and his lady loves, between Ti Moune and her parents. Conflict--internal--between Loyal Hometown Girl Ti Moune and World-Devouring Cosmopolitan Ti Moune. (You might think of the central internal conflict in "Moana.") Curses and reverses (the god of Water wraps the corpse of Ti Moune "in a wave," Ti Moune decomposes and becomes a tree, a unifying symbol, Daniel the starry-eyed lover proves to be a trickster). There's a great eleven-o-clock number enfolding a climax: Ti Moune stands with a knife, prep

A horrifying tale of parental negligence. Friendless, without siblings, little Henry pleads with his folks. "Can I have a brother? A sister?" And the parents say, "Sorry," blithely, but actions speak louder than words, and one wonders how Henry's heartless parents really feel. Desperate, Henry asks for a dog, and the troglodyte parents are about to give their reflexive no--when they decide: Fine. He can have the dog. (Why this turn-around? Perhaps there's some self-interest here? But then the parents seem to show no interest in the dog, or in Henry, for the rest of the story.) A stranger comes to town. A good children's book often gets kids thinking about adjectives. (I sometimes think the main point of lower elementary school is sorting. You want kids to sort by attributes. Straight fur, curly fur. Short, tall. Pointy ears, droopy ears. Sorting is cognitive labor. It requires kids to communicate. It requires kids to be conscious and observant, and to

Flannery O'Connor said a writer must concern himself both with mystery and with manners. In other words, the writer must have an eye on cosmic questions--questions about faith, love, morality, death. At the same time, the writer must notice the bizarre, tiny details of human interaction--the trends, the missed connections. Mike White is so good at doing both. His characters convey an aura of awesomeness; they seem larger than they are; they seem archetypical. So, for example, as we follow Tyler around, he's thinking: "I am a ghost. I am a secret kept by me. Some pearls are never found; they remain at the bottom of the ocean. It's light, being a ghost. If you never have love, you'll never lose it." These uncomfortable, cosmic thoughts might strike a chord with the viewer; how can they not? (White's use of voice-over narration reminds me of Jane Austen's use of free indirect discourse. Often, when we hear a voice-over, we take it to be the gospel truth.

There's an anal thermometer; that won't go well. There's a friendly alcoholic teacher down the street; sometimes, she invites you (inappropriately) to her roof deck for a cocktail; sometimes, she seems not to recognize you. "Alcoholic first grade teacher"--is there some redundancy built in? After twenty, thirty years, in that particular career, can the "alcoholic" just be implied? Alcoholic First Grade Teacher says that Salvy will be fine; she says a neutering procedure is much more invasive for *female* pups. Isn't that always the way? Experience schadenfreude. Do not give much--or any--thought to all those female pups. There is a rule, at Paws in Paradise--Salvy's "school"--that your pet can't visit unless he or she has been neutered. You and your partner have been ignoring that rule, for months and months; Salvy goes, eagerly, and perhaps he knocks up half of Park Slope. Who's to say? But thank God for Paws in Paradise. Than

The drought was the very worst When the flowers that we'd grown together died of thirst It was months and months of back and forth You're still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can't wear anymore Hung my head as I lost the war and the sky turned black like a perfect storm Rain came pouring down when I was drowning That's when I could finally breathe And by morning gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean There was nothing left to do When the butterflies turned to dust that covered my whole room So I punched a hole in the roof Let the flood carry away all my pictures of you The water filled my lungs I screamed so loud but no one heard a thing Rain came pouring down when I was drowning That's when I could finally breathe And by morning gone was any trace of you, I think I am finally clean I think I am finally clean Said I think I am finally clean 10 months sober, I must admit Just because you're clean don't mean

How can I hope to make you understand Why I do what I do, Why I must travel to a distant land, Far from the home I love. Once I was happily content to be As I was, where I was, Close to the people who are close to me, Here in the home I love. Who could see that a man could come Who would change the shape of my dreams. Helpless now I stand with him, Watching older dreams grow dim. Oh, what a melancholy choice this is, Wanting home, wanting him, Closing my heart to ev'ry hope but his, Leaving the home I love, There where my heart has settled long ago I must go, I must go, I must go, Who could imagine I'd be wand'ring so Far from the home I love Yet there with my love, I'm home. Let's take a minute and recall the perfection of "Far from the Home I Love," the high-point in a basically perfect musical. Hodel is leaving her family for a man with unsettling politics/personality traits; this is the story of "Romeo and Juliet," &qu

Ariel Levy writes about women who are "a bit too much"--women like Elizabeth Strout, like Edie Windsor, like Levy herself. Women who challenge the status quo--sometimes awkwardly. It seems to me she would enjoy Amy, in "Enlightened." Season One ends with Amy giving an earnest presentation to bigwigs: Abaddon is a bad scene, it's a group that fucks over underpaid employees, it gives cancer to its clients, it involves itself in shadowy government deals. You cheer for Amy; she's taking an interest; she's engaged in life and unafraid of risks. Of course, the moment she exits the room, she overhears her former colleagues viciously mocking her. ("What a weirdo!") And, because she is great, or partly great, she storms back into the room and says, "This isn't fucking high school. We are all in trouble. Do nothing, and you're part of the problem." (AV Club has pointed out the thrilling nature of those moments when Amy blithely calls ot

Recently, I met with a wedding photographer. It was an unusual hour, because he spent the time trashing many of his former clients. One couple was absurdly wealthy, and they altered their vows to read: "For richer or richer." Another couple wanted to include a "jumping the broom" routine, and the photographer judged them for being "basic," for appropriating "something from slavery," until he learned that the broom routine had roots in other areas; it wasn't solely a relic of a time in America when people were enslaved. Other couples had offended this guy because they hadn't shared his progressive view of gender; they were tiresomely "binary"; they weren't as enlightened as he was. The point seemed to be I am inviting you into my inner circle; I am sharing my cattiest secrets with you, because you have earned a golden ticket for admission. But of course the effect was the opposite: You sat and listened, and thought, This guy

Knew he was a killer First time that I saw him Wonder how many girls he had loved and left haunted But if he's a ghost then I can be a phantom Holdin' him for ransom Some, some boys are tryin' too hard He don't try at all though Younger than my exes but he act like such a man, so I see nothing better, I keep him forever Like a vendetta-ta I-I-I see how this is gonna go Touch me, and you'll never be alone I-Island breeze and lights down low No one has to know In the middle of the night, in my dreams You should see the things we do, baby In the middle of the night, in my dreams I know I'm gonna be with you So I take my time (Are you ready for it?) Me, I was a robber First time that he saw me Stealing hearts and running off and never saying sorry But if I'm a thief then He can join the heist And we'll move to an island-and And he can be my jailer Burton to this Taylor Every love I've known in comparison is a failure I f

Mother said, "Straight ahead," Not to delay Or be misled. I should have heeded her advice... But he seemed so nice. And he showed me things, Many beautiful things, That I hadn't thought to explore. They were off my path, So I never had dared. I had been so careful I never had cared. And he made me feel excited- Well, excited and scared. When he said, "come in!" With that sickening grin, How could I know what was in store? Once his teeth were bared, Though, I really felt scared- Well, excited and scared- But he drew me close And he swallowed me down, Down a dark slimy path Where lie secrets that I never want to know, And when everything familiar Seemed to disappear forever, At the end of the path Was granny once again. So we wait in the dark Until someone sets us free, And we're brought into the light, And we're back at the the start. And I know things now, Many valuable things. That I hadn't known before. Do

I often talk about a moment at Saint XXXX when a bolt of lightning hit me. I was watching a colleague. She was addressing the third graders, and she was telling the tale of her summer visit to Kenya. It was like something Angelina Jolie or Madonna would say. Beatific, sporting tall, tall heels, rail-thin, my colleague rattled on about the saintly people of Kenya, about how they owned little and yet exuded joy at all times. I promise this was the content of her speech. My colleague claimed to have been humbled by the experience--though not humbled enough to have traded in her tall, tall heels. She came back to Manhattan empowered by the Kenyans, ready to live like them, ready to spread their message to the wealthy children of Saint XXXX. You can't bullshit a bullshitter. Takes one to no one. I so strongly identified with my colleague, because I had made the same kind of falsely inspirational speeches in other contexts, at other times. And I suddenly thought I could start writing abo

Leave you? Leave you? How could I leave you? How could I go it alone? Could I wave the years away With a quick goodbye? How do you wipe tears away When your eyes are dry? I realized in writing about "Follies" yesterday that I left out one of Sondheim's all-time masterworks, "Could I Leave You?" This is one of his sharpest examinations of ambivalence. It starts with something that seems like certainty. Could I leave my husband? Not only could I; I could do it with "a quick goodbye." Phyllis doesn't directly confirm this truth, but she restates the question in a biting way: "How do you wipe tears away when your eyes are dry?" The sting in the question underlines the fact of Phyllis's wit; she has just found a particularly memorable way of saying, I could easily put you on ice. Sweetheart, lover, Could I recover, Give up the joys I have known? Not to fetch your pills again Every day at five, Not to give