Liars and Saints

It has taken me a long while to hop on the "Schitt's Creek" bandwagon. I'm on now. A few thoughts: *The real brilliance of this show is in the minute details. Recently, in an early episode, a phone call arrived for the Levy, Sr. character. The motel phone wasn't working. After the tiresome nonsense of trying to establish that the phone was indeed broken, Levy, Sr. had a great idea: "Send the call next-door, to my son." Of course the phone worked there. And of course the bratty son could not be bothered to invite his father in to field the call. The bratty son had a terrific idea: "Just hang up and call again, but call my dad's number. So glad I could be helpful." This endless scene--in which truly nothing happens--seems to say so much about miscommunication, passing the buck, and tolerating frustration. It seems to capture everything that occurs continuously in my work life--through metaphor. It's like something you would see in &qu

Disney is resuscitating "Mulan," which seems unnecessary, but also let's recall how close-to-overtly "gay" this movie is: Look at me I will never pass for a perfect bride Or a perfect daughter Can it be I'm not meant to play this part Now I see That if I were truly to be myself, I would break my family's heart Who is that girl I see Staring straight, back at me Why is my reflection someone I don't know Somehow I cannot hide Who I am Though I've tried When will my reflection show who I am inside When will my reflection show who I am inside That's Mulan herself, worried that the person she is will never match up to the person her family wishes her to be. Though I'm not sure, I'm willing to bet that the lyricist is a gay man. I can't really recall the plot of "Mulan"--I think there's some Shakespearean cross-dressing, some bits involving mistaken identity--but, over the years, I've often admired &q

What I Will Read while I Wait to Pick up the Baby: * "Devil's Knot." The Times has listed the fifty states and paired a true-crime book with each state. "Devil's Knot" is the story from Arkansas. This is a story similar to the saga of the Central Park Five (from what I gather). A crime occurs; the police find some teenagers; confessions are coerced; lives are ruined. The actual crime--in the case of "Devil's Knot"--remains unsolved. Squeamish about reading true crime? A writer recently observed that the pleasures of the genre are something like the pleasures of "Hansel and Gretel" (which is a crime story). We want to understand what happens underneath the surface: Is the smiling lady really a witch, and how do we prove it? We also want to look for human ingenuity in the face of evil. Scatter those bread crumbs: smart! Who knows if a true-crime book might help you to wiggle out of your own tight spot, eventually? * "Born

It happened. I didn't handle it all that well. I went to see "Road Show," at City Center, and there was "Steve" Sondheim, at the post-show reception. He wore a plain yellow polo shirt, untucked, and it didn't fit too nicely. He hovered on the perimeter of the reception, maybe not thrilled to be there, and the minute the congratulatory remarks were finished, he made a bee line for the exit. This is where the story takes on a "Cinderella" aura. Bear with me. I suddenly understood that I could not continue to make the small talk I was making. I hastily murmured goodbye to the very polite person who had been talking to me all evening, and then I more or less body-slammed a stranger so that I could reach the staircase. (Sondheim is past eighty years of age, and I'm not sure why I thought he would be racing at 100 mph for the door, why I thought I wouldn't catch up, but this is how my brain works.) City Center has grand, wide staircases

I'm super-excited for "Once Upon a Time in Hollywood," which opens tomorrow. A few thoughts: *This movie tells--partly--the story of Sharon Tate. Ms. Tate was married to Roman Polanski and nurturing a young film career when Charles Manson's minions murdered her. Hollywood in the sixties seems to be a special obsession of Tarantino's--dating to childhood--and I'm pleased he's exploring it here. (John McPhee says, "If the thing didn't interest you in your teens, it's never going to be a great subject for you to write about.") *How strange to blend real and fictional characters. Like "Ragtime." DiCaprio and Pitt are playing fake people, but they will be in the company of Tate and Polanski, among others. *Acting is about gestures. "Lightning in a bottle" is when a performer does something surprising and real, on camera. I'm obsessed with one Margot Robbie moment in the trailer. She says, "I play Mia--the klu

Secretarial work requires "communication skills"--there's that old chestnut--and though I'm still frequently evasive, crabby, and sloppy, I *have* learned a few things from my four-ish years behind a desk. Here's what I have learned: * Do not apologize too often. Excessive apologies are needy and irritating. They will help you to defeat your own purpose. * Do say "thank you" all the time. "Thank you" opens so many doors. I try to slip it into the first ten seconds of my phone call with any customer-service person. "You greeted me! Thank you!" (Not literally.) "Thank you" says: "I'm going to make a good-faith effort to be a human being on this phone call." Everyone hears that subtext. That subtext is *never* not welcome. * Explain the purpose of your email in your first sentence. "I'm writing to...." If you can't finish that sentence, consider not sending the email. * Have an interes

One thing I'd like to do with my kid is make glue. This is the lesson plan to end all lesson plans. You take some small children and some kitchen ingredients--maybe corn starch, baking soda, baking powder, sugar. You have the kids experiment with the materials. Which makes the best glue? Is it the corn starch/water combo? The baking powder/water combo? The kids test their results with paper. Can I attach one paper to another? No? Then the glue isn't working very well. This is how it becomes clear which household ingredient is best. Then: the really elegant climax. You have the kids vote: Which is the best glue-making ingredient? They create a large bar graph. They create the bar graph by using the glue that they feel is best. That glue becomes the glue by which the kids affix their particular choice to the massive bar graph you have posted. Why is this so thrilling? Well, it's an approach to problem-solving in which actual hands get actual use. There's a mess.

1. What a major coup at the Emmy Awards. Nominations not just for the four actresses we would expect--but a fifth nomination, for Fiona Shaw, as well! 2. The second season establishes three love triangles and resolves them all in the final episode. Dad: torn between family and crazed girlfriend. Claire: torn between husband and Finnish lover. Hot Priest: torn between Fleabag and God. NPR--often irksome in its hyper-sensitivity w/r/t political correctness--*is* correct in its response to the Hot Priest subplot. Hot Priest abuses his power and then prances off scot-free--and this is especially galling given the many evils the Catholic Church has been responsible for. It's also frustrating to see Fleabag in such a passive role in the final episode. I think Andrew Scott--overlooked by the Emmys, despite giving a performance that surely surpasses Fiona Shaw's--has been weirdly punished for the writing. I think if the Hot Priest plot had been handled more confidently--in the re

Mary Cregan remembers periods of interesting sadness, dating all the way back to childhood. The sadness would arrive, and then leave, like bad weather. Mental illness had been a main theme in her family. But Cregan held things together and made her way to Middlebury, graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and found herself married. Then the shit hit the fan. Cregan gave birth--and, within a few days, her baby was dead. And depression stormed in. There was one failed suicide attempt. A period of hospitalization, in which Cregan was inadequately supervised. Cregan's mother--unthinkingly--brought a glass bottle of lotion to the hospital, as a gift to Cregan. A suicide relapse: Cregan broke the bottle, took a shard of glass, and drew it across her neck. But she survived. Miraculously, life improved. There were bouts with ECT. There was heavy medication. Cregan began graduate school; she became a lecturer in English literature. She had a child who lived. When he was sixteen, this kid asked her a

Heather Headley grew up in Trinidad--wanting to be Whitney Houston. She attended Northwestern, and when she was cast as the first Nala in Broadway's "The Lion King," she left college and moved to the Upper West Side. People don't think of Disney musicals as star-making endeavors; the show tends to be more about the sets and the design concept than about one individual performer. But Julie Taymor's "The Lion King" *did* make a star; it made Heather Headley. Elton John became so smitten with Headley, he wrote a show specifically for her, "Aida"--and that show won Headley her Tony Award. I've quoted Ben Brantley before, I'll quote him again: "Ms. Headley is splendid. She not only has what is called It--that ineffable, sensual glow--but a voice of stunning emotional variety and conviction. Anytime she sings, the show springs into vital life." The current unnecessary remake of "The Lion King" is getting terrible rev

True-crime recs: * "American Predator." This is a new book that explores the life of Israel Keyes, a notorious serial killer from Alaska. Evil is not always interesting--although the part where (already-thin) Keyes seems to get a gastric ring to make himself into a more super-efficient killer ... is memorable--but do you know what *is* consistently interesting? The ingenuity of good people. "AP" does a fine job of tracking the smart moves of a heroic investigator--Payne--as he contends with moral turpitude and at least one really misguided colleague. You begin to see detective work as an art. Fabulous, hold-your-breath reporting. * "I Love You, Now Die." This is an unfortunate title: It makes me think of the musical, "I Love You, You're Perfect, Now Change." But the story is worth discovering. We're talking about the girl who sent a series of text messages to her "boyfriend," coaxing him toward suicide. That girl is now

My husband is discussing notes to our unborn son. He'd like to write to our son and say: "Be yourself. Do not be what others want (or seem to want) you to be." When we offer advice, we are often talking to ourselves, and so I think of my husband in his earlier years, in the closet, and I think of the pain he must have gone through. His message to our son seems smart to me. I also think of one of the best bits of advice I've encountered. It was an assignment a colleague of mine gave to the parents of our third graders. The parents had to offer one bit of wisdom to their kids. And the one I'll always remember is this: "Always wear comfortable shoes." This works on a practical level. It is difficult to be of service to anyone--or to accomplish much of anything--if you're in uncomfortable shoes. But, obviously, there's a symbolic meaning as well: Be kind to yourself. If you're at war with yourself, then it's unlikely that you'll b

"West Side Story" is returning to Broadway. And it's returning to Hollywood. So we'll have two new Tonys in the near future--Isaac Powell and Ansel Elgort, respectively. One thing I'm thinking of--in anticipation--is "Gee, Officer Krupke." This is a moment late in the show when the hoodlums gather to contemplate their own bad behavior. Like many real-world teenage brats, these characters invent fun for themselves by parodying the adults in their lives. Taking on adult personae, they wonder aloud if bad teenager behavior derives from nurture: "My brother wears a dress [so how can you expect me not to be antisocial]?" The teens--playacting adults--also wonder if bad behavior derives from drugs: "My mom and dad are always high [so how can you expect that I would conduct myself properly]?" There's an obvious punchline here: "My mom and dad smoke so much weed...AND they won't share any of it with ME!" A good Sondhei

If you're not watching/obsessed with "Fleabag," stop here. If you *are* watching, please note: *The further in I get, the more I see that this is a study of shame. Fleabag did something truly bad. She involved her friend's boyfriend in some extracurricular activities. What's worse: The despair the friend then felt led to the friend's (semi-)accidental death. Is it always possible to forgive yourself? If not, how do you manage your shame? How do you continue to make a regular appearance in the world? And how do you separate the things you're responsible for....from the things you're not responsible for? These questions are the show's main preoccupation (beneath the tit jokes and the discussions of masturbation). *This is a show about siblings. It's a study of two fucked-up adult sisters, which also feels somewhat unusual in the Amazon Prime world. The two main sisters in "Fleabag" love and loathe one another. (A writer recently s

"Safe for Work." I really like this podcast. It's about the psychology of the workplace. How to get by in an office. Topics: what to order if you are at lunch with your boss, how to manage friction, when to leave a job, how to deal with a deficient manager, what to do if you're calling a meeting. These are practical discussions about things we don't always consider; many of us float through work, accepting bad arrangements, subconsciously believing that sanity isn't really an option. But sometimes sanity *is* an option. For example: Before calling a meeting, what if you considered the ideal space for the meeting, and how the furniture should be arranged? (How often does this happen?) What if you explicitly disinvited certain people who really did not need to attend--and what if you clearly, dispassionately explained why their presence wasn't needed? What if you foreground-ed *productive controversy* -- so there was not an illusion of consensus, follow

My first really impressive panic attack was on a plane. (Not to brag....) I was flying alone from Palm Springs back to New York. I had been nurturing a fear of flying--which combined my hatred of confined spaces with my hatred of heights. The night before the flight, I'd watched a bad sitcom in which a plane was called "a small metal coffin speeding through the sky." The morning of the flight, my then-boyfriend texted me to ask if I wanted to see a play called "Daniel's Husband." This seemed to be a pre-marriage-proposal overture--or was it?--and so I felt jittery. (As Sondheim would say, "Excited AND Scared.") Also, the cab driver had some kind of disorder and could not stop talking about a tourist who once went up into the hills in Palm Springs, strayed off the path, and eventually died of starvation. So: You get on the plane, you're thinking of the metal coffin, your nose is congested, you're overheated. A perfect storm. I remember

It's not news to praise "Fleabag." Everyone loves this show. It has been called "a perfect show." It's also not news to praise the writer's eccentricity. She's Phoebe Waller-Bridge; she seems to have come from nowhere; she can write, act, be tragic, be funny, be weird. She is like Lena Dunham--fearless and astonishingly talented. A huge inspiration. All that said, I just have to add to the heap of adulation. It's rare for me to feel I'm seeing "myself" in a story. But, for whatever reason, I feel that Ms. Waller-Bridge has a direct line to my heart. Though I do not sit listlessly in a rat-infested empty cafe everyday, I nevertheless feel my work life is somehow symbolically *linked* to sitting in a rat-infested cafe. Though I do not have a passive-aggressive artist stepmother working on a "Sexhibition," I nevertheless know what it's like to be in a conversation, un-moored, constantly wondering if the remark I&#

I was in Provincetown last week, which means that an important question came up: Who is the better artist, Whitney Houston or Mariah Carey? There's an obvious answer, and it's Whitney Houston. However, an additional question popped up: How could anyone ever begin to imagine that the answer is Mariah Carey? And I did some thinking. Here's what I believe. If you were in the Mariah camp, you would point to greater longevity, greater experimentation, greater risk-taking, greater variety. Fair enough. But the better artist is still Whitney Houston. Even with the tepid material she was frequently handed, she still had that voice. It's correct to point out that Mariah had one early killer album, and then the voice started to fade. Some crucial Whitney observations: I believe you can observe growth in the trip from "Saving All My Love" to "All the Man That I Need." The early numbers--"Saving All My," "Greatest Love of All," &quo

Vintage is re-releasing six of Iris Murdoch's novels with fabulous new covers. The covers are beautiful, bright, enchanting; colors and shapes caress your eye. The covers alone are a reason to want to make some new book purchases. Which brings me to my point. Sometimes, smug people like to say, "Don't judge a book by its cover." Or, in the words of the irritating new Mary Poppins, "The cover is not the book." To that I'd like to say: The cover is also not *not* the book. It's fine to value a beautiful cover. I could not read Ann Patchett's essays when they were in galley form, because that form was not aesthetically pleasing. But I do have the essays in their Harper Perennial paperback form, and suddenly I'm in love. My nominees for the three best covers in recent history: *Ottessa Moshfegh, "My Year of Rest and Relaxation." The shocking pink lettering was justly celebrated--for the way it conflicted with the Jane Austen-ish

I'm sure I will see the movie "Yesterday"--despite the bad reviews. The concept seems charming, and there's Kate McKinnon. A movie does not need to be everything to all people. Decent idea plus Kate McKinnon? You can make many mistakes and still hold (or sort-of-hold) my attention. I'm here to deliver shocking news that the Beatles could write really well. I'm not a Beatles expert, but the thing I admire in their writing (and something tells me I'm not alone here) is: how direct and plainspoken they could be. There's an impressive sense of artlessness. It takes a great deal of work--and "art"--to achieve that sense of artlessness. One song I especially like is "In My Life." I like it because it has a "thinking of you while I study the rearview mirror" quality. It's the thing the speaker wanted to say to his lover--and now he is putting it down on paper. (Taylor Swift says that good songs are like afterthoughts. &qu

The first Ursula was meant to be Elaine Stritch. She won the part, and then she lost it, almost certainly because she was impossible to work with. Pat Carroll took the role and made magic; it's difficult to imagine the film without witty, beleaguered, indomitable (till-right-before-the-end) Pat Carroll. I'm really upset to read that Melissa McCarthy will likely become Ursula in the unnecessary live action version of "The Little Mermaid" we'll soon be getting. I love McCarthy, but she is not a gay icon, and she is not a Broadway belter. Ursula should have pipes, and she should have a certain weary, seen-it-all, tart-tongued spirit that McCarthy doesn't have. An ideal Ursula would be--obviously--Patti LuPone. I'm not sure why this hasn't happened yet. I could also see Bernadette Peters doing fine work in that role, and I imagine Lillias White would have something to contribute, as well. Chita Rivera, Donna Murphy, Heather Headley, Emily Skinner:

I woke up with a start at 4 one morning and realized that I was very, very pregnant. Since I had conceived six months earlier, one might have thought that the news would have sunk in before then, and in many ways it had, but it was on that early morning in May that I first realized how severely pregnant I was. What tipped me off was that, lying on my side and needing to turn over, I found myself unable to move. My first thought was that I had had a stroke.... When the NYT named the fifty best recent memoirs, a few days ago, at least one reader asked why Anne Lamott's "Operating Instructions" had been left off the list. Lamott wrote "Operating Instructions" as she was enduring pregnancy, and then finished it somewhere around her son's first birthday. It's very funny--it has Lamott's standard self-deprecation--and it's serious. It features a surprising, painful death. Lamott's great gift is that she can make you laugh while also acknowledgin