Liars and Saints

  My son is at an age when transitions are especially fraught; if I try to leave the house for a few minutes, it's like a Verdi opera here. Garments are shredded; apples are thrown to the floor. I think Josh would be clingy in the best of circumstances, but because he has a speech delay, his tantrums have a special force. There are two layers: (1)  I don't want you to go  and (2)  I'm furious because I can't explicitly tell you I don't want you to go. I get this. I, too, hate transitions. I've eaten Life-with-berries every morning, almost without exception, every week, every month, every year, since my twenties. For a long while, I visited an Italian restaurant every Monday, and the waiters became so irked by my rigid ordering style, they once surrounded my table and literally demanded that I choose something new. I resisted. A ritual is so much more soothing than a transition. For Josh, there's one thing I've learned to say: "I'm leaving to do

 This is (qualified) enthusiasm for Frank Bruni's memoir, "The Beauty of Dusk." Bruni had a reasonably happy ten-year quasi-marriage and a thriving career when he discovered, one morning, that his vision was newly impaired. Everything seemed "smeary." It emerged that Bruni had a rare condition, involving thin blood vessels--and "smeariness" would now be a constant. Worse still: The *other* eye could give out at any moment. So Bruni was told to avoid flying, if possible, to drink great quantities of water, to cut back on alcohol. And, in a final twist, Bruni's partner disclosed a long-term affair: Bruni found himself single. (I especially liked the bits about the partner. Bruni can be frustratingly "sunny," so when he becomes enjoyably "cold," in the romance sections, you take note.) After Bruni's humbling, Bruni became a kind of cheerleader for the aging and/or impaired. There are gifts that come with being partly blind! You

  I often think about neighbors, now that I live in the burbs.  Neighboring is a tricky thing. You have to be kind to the person next-door, because you may see that person daily for thirty or forty years. At the same time, you don't have family ties, family resemblance, to help paper over any tension. The person next-door is neither someone you chose nor someone you shared your childhood with. Recently, my new neighbors began a regular routine of blocking my access to my garage. This is a problem because I need to drive my son to and from various appointments. But it's not catastrophic; it's not difficult to put on a friendly face and ask for the truck to move. At the same time, a part of me seems weirdly gratified by the drama; I feel excited when I discover a new irritant outside. (Maybe this means my life right now is quieter than it should be.) I think of this in relation to a movie I very much like, which is "Neighbors," starring Rose Byrne. The idea is that

 I felt ambivalent, at best, about most of the Academy's choices this year, but I'm happy that Ariana DeBose won an Oscar.  The win made me think of the grand tradition of the supporting actress in musical films: winner Jennifer Hudson ("Dreamgirls"), winner Catherine Zeta-Jones ("Chicago"), winner Rita Moreno, winner Anne Hathaway, nominee Meryl Streep ("Into the Woods"), nominee Penelope Cruz ("Nine"), nominee Queen Latifah, nominee Peggy Wood ("The Sound of Music"). As a hat-tip to the Oscars, Marc and I watched "Dreamgirls" Saturday. What a treat to see Hudson and nominee Eddie Murphy. I also enjoy Anika Noni Rose and Jamie Foxx, at least in Act One; the story runs out of gas after Effie White's meltdown, and this means you have a full hour to sit through after "the peak." I'd very much like to see more movie-musicals in the next few years; specifically, I'd nominate "Kiss of the Spider-W

  David Sipress says that a cartoon should make explicit the thing that is implicit in our heads -- the thing we all think, the thing we can't articulate. Here is one example. A woman turns to her spouse. She says: "Where do you want to worry that we're spending too much money this summer?" Not a word wasted, and we know exactly what this person is alluding to. I'm in awe. Sipress has a new memoir--"What's So Funny?"--  and I loved it from start to finish. I'll be thinking about Sipress and his work for a long while.

 Soon, a new first in Oscar history will arrive: Two women will have won Oscars for playing one character. The character is Anita; the women are Rita Moreno and Ariana DeBose.  (Men have already arrived in this strange place. De Niro and Brando both have Oscars for playing The Godfather. Phoenix and Ledger both have Oscars for clowning around in Joker attire.) Stephen Sondheim thought that form should match content--and so he doesn't *tell* us that Anita is bright. He *shows* us -- through jokes. When a friend becomes dreamy about "the city of San Juan," Anita rolls her eyes and says, "I know a boat you can get on...." When the friend praises San Juan's "hundreds of flowers in full bloom," Anita recalls San Juan's "hundreds of people in each room." I think Sondheim liked Anita best; he liked his version of the Nurse, from "Romeo and Juliet." I think Sondheim grew exasperated when pondering Tony and Maria -- and I think he pe

 I share Dolly Parton's puzzled response to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame -- because Dolly Parton doesn't write rock and roll. But anything that highlights Parton's genius is also not so bad. A favorite Dolly moment of mine is "Travelin' Thru," which nearly won the Oscar. Dolly was writing for a transgender character; DP took the idea of a "journey," inner and outer, and began thinking about Joseph on Christmas Eve: Like the poor wayfaring stranger that they speak about in song, I'm just a weary pilgrim trying to find my own way home.  Oh sweet Jesus, if you're out there, keep me ever close to you -- As I'm travelin'....travelin'......travelin'.....as I'm travelin' thru. Parton's thoughts on emotional pain and oppression take the form of a homily: Questions I have many, answers but a few. But we're here to learn -- the spirit burns -- to know the greater truth. We've all been crucified, and they nailed Jes

  There are things I dislike about this town. COVID decimated the movie landscape; you have one theater, and it’s empty, and the options are BATMAN or DR. STRANGE. You won’t see Isabelle Huppert on a Maplewood screen. Also, a trip to a museum involves a substantial drive; the museum opens Friday through Sunday, only; light snowfall can ruin your plans. In this setting, a bookstore is crucial. And I think the store around the corner has kept me buoyant for the past two years. I think I’m not alone, among housewives, in having this response. Maplewood Words has a substantial children’s corner; you have a classics section, a wing for board books, and a “seasonal interest” table. Via Words, I’ve introduced my kids to Jerry Pinkney, to Tomie de Paola, and to Kevin Henkes. You’ll often overhear intriguing chats as you browse. “Did you like the last Harlan Coben? Then you’ll like this one.” “We’re closing early to make room for Ann Patchett...” “If you enjoy  fiction about food ....not  cookb

  A character I love this year is Frankie, Sam's brilliant middle child in "Better Things." Frankie can give endless displays of compassion to her grandmother, but can't find any time for her mother. (It's nutty that Frankie wants Sam to show more patience to Phil, when Frankie herself can't show any patience to Sam.) Frankie's great wish is for independence. This is seen again and again: Frankie won't have a bat mitzvah, but will design a "batcenera," blending cultures; Frankie won't accept that a pink sparkly cell phone is a "girl's" cell phone ("it's Rip Taylor's cell phone"); Frankie stage-manages a first sexual encounter in an awkward setting ("because I didn't want to be passive, I didn't just want some guy to show up and take this from me")..... We can imagine Frankie spending hours with Google, obtaining life skills that are foreign to everyone else in her family. ("How do I c

  The penultimate episode of "Somebody Somewhere," this year, has a script by Patricia Breen, who once made a mark on "Frasier," and on "Big Love." Breen seems to be particularly alert in her daily life. How would this be clear? From Breen's attention to detail. A family meets for family therapy. The well-intentioned therapist asks which of the grown daughters should start -- and this would seem to be fine, except that it's a near-fatal error. One daughter, Tricia, says, "This would go much better if you'd just choose a speaker." A small bomb has exploded. The aging mother says: "Tricia is my pretty one." Sam snorts. The mother says: "Sam is my smart one." And it's a small leap from this breathtaking moment of cruelty to a prolonged screaming match. After one person storms off, Tricia has the perfect, childish ending for the scene: "Dr. Smith, did that unfold the way you'd wanted?" On a similar no

“In Love” (Random House):  One job of a writer is to go where others are unwilling to go -- and it seems to me that Amy Bloom has done this, and she has now written the book she was born to write. Around fifteen years ago, Bloom was unhappy in her relationship, and she met a guy in the local chapter of the Connecticut Democrats. He liked fiction and poetry, liked Planned Parenthood, and he designed housing for people who couldn't afford housing. Of course, the two had an illicit kiss, then avoided each other for a year, then began dating in earnest. This guy--Brian--proposed, and the proposal took this form: "You need someone who is content to be the less-smart partner, who knows that you will pretty much always be the main event. You need someone who recognizes how hard you work, and who will make you coffee in the middle of the night. I don't know if I can be that guy, but I'd like to try." And a wedding ensued. What is it like to be married, on a day-by-day bas

 The genius Jerry Pinkney is the subject a retrospective exhibit at the Montclair Art Museum; we're headed over today. One of Pinkney's gifts was his infectious love for the natural world; he had great respect for animals, and he wouldn't alter reality to try to make it conform to his stories. For example, when someone said, "Why don't you adapt The Nightingale to a generic African setting?" ....Pinkney said, "I can't just plop these creatures down on a random patch of grassland. I need to find a part of Africa where nightingales actually make their home." Additionally, to make "The Tortoise and the Hare," Pinkney thought about where these critters might be found (the Southwest), and about what cast-mates might plausibly surround the critters. (Then: How do you use varied colors in the arid Southwestern landscape?) A favorite work of mine is Pinkney's "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi," with the brave mongoose, the cunning snake, and the

  David Sipress, a New Yorker cartoonist, has a new memoir out. (It's called "What's So Funny?") In art, less is more, and Sipress has a special gift for minimalism. A recurring theme for him is two married people on a couch. One says something terse and apparently bland -- and it's also fully deranged. "Can't we discuss this non-verbally?" "I'm bored. Let's have children." Sipress also has access to a fantasy world. In this world, Satan might gab about "hell's hottest July on record!" Or a cat might drag a mic out of the closet. "I know I'm meant to provide *physical* comedy, but tonight I thought we could try something different....." I'm looking forward to the memoir.

 Many are protesting the "Don't Say Gay" business in Florida (and Disney's complicit evasiveness), and so, for my own little protest, I'll spotlight one overlooked genius, the choreographer Michael Peters. Peters was born in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. He had a high IQ but dropped out of school (because he hated it). He became a Broadway dancer -- and he involved himself in "The Wiz," "Purlie," "Raisin," and other shows.  Peters's great achievement was to choreograph "Thriller," the gold-standard for music videos. Peters wanted to work with zombies, but he didn't want to be silly. He wouldn't use ballet; he would borrow from jazz dance. Peters invented a zombie "vocabulary": He considered how a dancing corpse would hold its shoulders, its hands, its jaw. Peters's dizzying inventiveness seems to have changed the world; I believe you can see Peters's ghost in "Bad Romance," and in "Tele

 My frenemy has his daughter repeat daily affirmations (then he writes about these affirmations on LinkedIn): I am kind. I have loving family and friends. If I work hard, I can succeed anywhere I choose to go. My own affirmations are different. Something I'll say, on an almost daily basis, is this: "The next hour won't be fun. Do not expect it to be fun. It will likely be brutally unpleasant. But at some point it's over." I can say this about any number of things: flights, doctor visits, hearing tests, therapy sessions, a free consultation with the car-seat-installation-expert. The versatility of my chosen sentences astounds me. Also, I think that Josh really benefits from the candor. I believe this. But perhaps I could be sunnier, like my frenemy. I'm thinking it over. And it's time to get the kids.

 On Bridget Everett, "Somebody Somewhere": First, the thing I can't tolerate. It's the title. "Somebody Somewhere" is bland--and it's also a rip-off of *another" bland title, from the novel "Someone," by Alice McDermott. Ugh. If I'm judging on titles, and the choice is between this and "Scream," this and "The White Lotus," you know the outcome. That aside, what is happening here? A woman in her forties, Sam, moves home to Manhattan, Kansas; she is grieving the loss of a sister. It's difficult to live within a family, and to live within a small town. Sam's mother struggles with drinking; she drives her car over her husband's leg, leaves large shell-bits in the egg salad, and falls asleep midday without having first made it out of bed. Sam's old classmate has exploited Sam's trauma for a self-published memoir. And Sam works punishing hours at an unappealing job, something having to do with standard

 In my house, we have a bedtime routine, which is to watch "Single Ladies." Beyonce invented this song as a way of showing off her "Sasha Fierce" side; it's in contrast to her softer "Beyonce" side, discussed in "If I Was a Boy." The scene. Sasha Fierce is in the club, because her man has left her. Sasha has a new flame, but the old flame is angry and envious. Sasha’s response? "If you like it, then you shoulda put a ring on it." People don't really celebrate the verses, but they're fun: You decided to dip--and now YOU wanna trip... Because another brother noticed me? Beyonce points to her new love-interest: I need no permission--did I mention? Don't pay him any attention. Cause you had your turn--and now you're gonna learn What it really feels like to miss me. Beyonce made the video very quickly--with minimal frills. The costume came from her mom. Everyone involved spent much more time on the visuals for "If I

  How crafty was James Marshall? You notice something new each time. In "The Scary Movie," George takes Martha to a horror film. George is excited; Martha is not. But, in the actual movie, Martha discovers that she enjoys gore. By contrast, George has a panic attack. At the end, George can't confess that he is terrified. "You just take my hand," he says to Martha. "I don't want you to feel afraid." This story confirms for me that James Marshall was my twin; he was a gay man who enjoyed scary movies. But look at the first spread--included here. The text makes us plunge in; we aren't told the set-up, because Marshall trusts we can make inferences quickly. Look at the picture: George is wide-eyed, Martha is dismayed, and the vendor is intrigued to note the tension within this date (and neither hippo *notices* that the vendor is making a study of his guests). All of this is done with the lightest touch. (Finally, because the hippo stories seem to h

  Mo Willems has a special gift for titles: "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus," "Don't Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late," "Edwina, the Dinosaur who Didn't Know She Was Extinct." Willems's "Nanette's Baguette" is a title for the ages. I imagine, once he had the title, he found that the book wrote itself. "Nanette" borrows from a standard trope:  I run an errand for Mom . This is the stuff of Little Red, and the stuff of "Brave Irene." Nanette, a small frog, must get a baguette from the baker, Juliet. Getting to get the baguette is Nanette's biggest responsibility yet.  Nanette strolls out onto the Parisian streets--but she stops to chat with Georgette, Suzette, and Bret (who carries his clarinet). When Nanette finally obtains the baguette, she begins taking bites--until all the bread is gone. Now Nanette feels beset with regret, and she considers a covert move to Tibet. (She might need a jet.) In a moment o

 A book I sometimes recall is the memoir "Smile," by Sarah Ruhl. Ruhl was a big-deal playwright when she learned she would be giving birth to twins. The pregnancy had complications; Ruhl was told to remain on bed rest. (Ruhl observes that men invented the concept of "bed rest," and that the efficacy of the "treatment" is debatable, at best. This is the first of many cool-yet-scathing moments in Ruhl's story.) Ruhl sleeps; she reads "Twilight." She sees all the "Twilight" films. She borrows the letters of Elizabeth Bishop. After Ruhl gives birth, her face collapses. The problem is Bell's Palsy--something that could be temporary, or could be permanent. And ten years elapse. Ruhl's life is turned on its head. She sits at home and feels anger toward her spouse. ("No one notes that Shakespeare had twins. There is an approximate decade of silence in Shakespeare's career. No one says, that's when Anne Hathaway smacked

  This is for (only) SVU fans -- and, that said, can we talk about how great the script was last week? A young woman, Ashley, meets her birth mother, Michelle. This should be a nice night, and Michelle is lovely, but Michelle also seems to drink heavily, and her comments occasionally have a harsh, self-critical undertone. Finally, Ashley asks: "Who was my dad?" And a story of rape pops out. The bulk of the ensuing hour concerns Ashley's efforts to identify the rapist. How do you do this, when the victim would rather stay silent, and when fifteen or sixteen years have passed since the rape? (Benson says, "Michelle wasn't the only victim; Ashley was also a victim." And Carisi coldly says, "That's semantics.") No one is really listening, and no two people are on the same page. Ashley wrestles with her birth parents ("You're not actually worried about your clothing right now...." "That's not helpful, Mom....") and the bi

 Our daughter is nine months old today. Her middle name, Leah, comes from her belly buddy; Leah taught us this term, and I think she'd heard it in a surrogacy group. Having kids is a way of blowing up your life; your world contracts, and you become very, very familiar with one or two rooms of your house. But, also, having kids is a way of expanding your life; the new cast isn't just the kids themselves, but also the people who contribute to the child-rearing process (in ways that aren't always predictable). Leah is quite tough, and she has a no-bullshit philosophy that I really admire. When she gave birth to Susie, she tangoed with an officious nurse, who insisted that use of a cell phone could create "problematic stimuli." Leah said, "I'll see the doctor now." Nurse: 0, Leah: 1. The cell phone came back out of hiding. Leah dealt with preeclampsia, and she would send calm, matter-of-fact text messages about moments that sometimes seemed very frighten