Liars and Saints

 Recently, I attended a neighbor's fiftieth birthday party--and there was a kind of false ebullience. "Fifty and fearless, gurl!" said one guest. "The best is yet to come!" And I cringed, invisibly, because no one actually believes this. If it were believed, it wouldn't need to be stated. Screaming it to the heavens made me think of Norma Desmond at the end of "Sunset Boulevard": "I've never been happier. I'm just so, so happy!" A local friend observed that she would spend Valentine's Day with her gal pals: "We're calling it GAL-entine's Day...and we're all writing a love letter....to ourselves!" In this context, I'm grateful to remember Nora Ephron, who simply stated the truth. One of my favorites of her many moves was her decision to call her penultimate book "I Feel Bad About My Neck."  So I'm tipping a hat to Nora today. Again and again, in the later stages of her career, she worked ...

 Variety says that Jule Styne wrote a second work that came close to the greatness of his own "Gypsy." That second work was not "Funny Girl." It was "Bells Are Ringing." I love "Bells." I love the pun in the title. (Ella answers the bell of the telephone--but, also, when you're in love, "bells are ringing.") I love that this is a musical that is *not* an adaptation--how often does that happen? (Yes, the plot borrows from "Cinderella," but it does this in a very loose way.) I love that the answering service is run by Sue and is called "Susanswerphone." "Bells Are Ringing" is now known mainly for "Just in Time," a perfect love song: Just in time. You found me just in time. Before you came, my time... Was running low. Now you're here-- And now I know just where I'm going. No more doubt or fear-- I've found my way. For love came just in time. You found me just in time. And changed my l...

  Stewart O'Nan is ranked among Anne Tyler, Richard Russo, and Alice McDermott--the major living American realists. O'Nan could be called a  hyper realist--his attention to detail is such that you feel you're living through the experiences that he describes. O'Nan opens his celebrated novel, "Last Night at the Lobster," with a portrait of a car, a semi-living thing. It's a damaged Buick Regal--something "a grandmother might leave behind." It's traveling through the "far vastness" of a suburban shoppers' parking lot; it's headed toward a Red Lobster. Though this part of the lot is utterly empty, the car observes all painted-on boundaries. The car also signals a turn--"for no one's benefit." (These details are helping to teach us about the fastidious driver, a man we have not met.) This is a story about capitalism, about appetite. It's a novel about eating. A child eats a sundae and vomits on the carpet of th...

  I'm embarrassed about potty backsliding -- which means I should go ahead and describe it. In my head, once potty skills were attained, they would be permanent. This would be like leaving the womb. You don't *go back* into the womb. The process is complete. But -- at least in my house -- potty skills are more like landing a "triple lutz" in figure skating. Sure, you've done it once at a practice -- but this doesn't mean you can do it consistently. This doesn't mean you're going to pull it off in competition. I have nothing to complain about. Other people live with terminal illness. "Potty relapse" is just a phase. Yesterday, in my house, we talked so much about poop and pee, these nouns became like characters in a drama. In the evening, we went to an ice cream shop, and my son began to narrate a story about a Talking Poop -- he used a loud voice that one might normally reserve for a Monster Truck Rally. Other patrons observed in horror. And ...

  "Scream VII" has left viewers cold--the ending is particularly weak, and the ending is generally the thing that counts when you're forming an opinion. The "Scooby-Doo" revelation feels notably absurd; the paper-thin character development is forgettable. It's especially puzzling to see Sidney Prescott reconciling with Gale after Gale betrays her. Sidney seems to forget the betrayal--her lines unintentionally suggest that she may have suffered through an off-camera lobotomy. Or a crucial scene was lost in the editing process? The "Scream" movies are essentially Agatha Christie stories--but, at her best, Christie *did* care about her characters. Val McDermid makes this observation: In "The Murder at the Vicarage," here’s how we’re introduced to our heroine: “I … sat down between Miss Marple and Miss Wetherby. Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing manner. Miss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Miss Marple ...

  Inevitably, there are political divisions within my family, so I really like "Mom Confessions" from "Saturday Night Live." A woman in middle age is practicing a big revelation: she wants to let her children know that she has "evolved" in her thinking about Trump. This is immediately fraught. The kids have had to accept, for years, that their mother "drinks and enjoys the Trump Kool-Aid." So--even though Mom's news is "positive"--any mention of Trump helps to unleash the Hounds of Fury. Mom's disclosures are enjoyably nutty. "I feel like..... some  of the things Trump says.....are not true...." "I feel like....he has different  gun rules ....for different groups of people...." "I'm starting to wonder if drag queens....are actually hilarious..." This script would be just OK if Ashley Padilla did not contribute "next level" displays of tightly coiled rage. She is especially great when s...