Liars and Saints

 Alex Timbers hinted, in "Moulin Rouge," that his personal mission is to make Broadway even dumber. In "Just in Time," he seals the deal. This almost incredibly lazy musical makes a standard error: conflating a life with a plot. A plot has rising action, leading to a climactic turning point; the plot then finds a denouement. This is not how life works. God is not a storyteller. Life is one damn thing after another after another. Good writers sometimes get confused about plot. Even "Hamilton" gets a case of "biopic dreariness" in Act Two; somewhere around the third hour, you begin to hear coughing and lozenge-fondling "in the house." But "Hamilton" has rich characters and well-built songs--so the writer is able to paper over some structural issues. That's not the case with "Just in Time." Start with the title. I know it's a song that Bobby Darrin performed. (He didn't write it, and he didn't release th...

  It's a special pleasure to have a fight on a street in New York City. Yesterday, I crossed in a crosswalk--realized my directional error halfway through--and reversed course. An impatient driver honked at me. It was at this point that my choices became sketchy. I could have floated away on a serene Mel Robbins cloud--"Let Them!" But instead, drunk with fury, I approached the windshield and waved my middle finger in the driver's face. Naturally, the driver rolled down his window. "You're an idiot!" he screamed. But, I too, was bubbling over with eloquence. "FUCK YOU!" There was no beer summit--no meeting of the minds. The driver lost interest and sped away. "You're blocking the doorway!" shouted an usher--as I tried to make my way into a theater. And, later, "Do NOT stand on the stage!" A fight is diverting--but, also, I'm happy (today) to be somewhere that is not New York.

  I'm enjoying the trainwreck that is "Scarpetta." It feels like a Colleen Hoover miniseries. I have no idea what is happening in the mystery portion of the story, but I've gathered a few things about the other aspects of the plot. Nicole Kidman is (improbably) the sister of Jamie Lee Curtis. Kidman, in her teal, high-waisted  haute couture  skirt suit, works as a medical examiner, trying to net a particular killer,  the one who has always haunted us . Amazingly, Kidman's sister, Kidman's bereaved lesbian niece, and Kidman's brother-in-law all live with Kidman. (Curtis has a thriving career as a writer of picture books--though, in general, she expresses little or no interest in books, pictures, or children.) Curtis's spouse, Mr. Jamie Lee Curtis, is secretly in love with Nicole Kidman. Kidman's spouse, Hunter Parrish, is (somehow) investigating Kidman's own case--though ethical codes prohibit Parrish from speaking with Kidman about professional...

 There is only so much that a writing manual can say; Anne Lamott's new book covers familiar territory. But I like the gimmick: Lamott's husband offers an essay, then Lamott jumps in with her own commentary. So the book is a portrait of a marriage--we get the impression that Neal Allen really understands the weather, the atmosphere, of Anne Lamott, and we get the impression that these two have a lot to discuss, on any given day, at the dinner table. Lamott is obviously the more interesting character. I appreciate the insight into her career; for example, the novel "Rosie" is really three surprising portraits of Anne Lamott (bereaved little girl, quirky mom, flighty neighbor). It was also intriguing to read that Lamott's father--the central subject of "Hard Laughter"--had some harsh words about the "Hard Laughter" manuscript, i.e., "Stop showing off." A good writing manual will quote Charles Dickens--specifically this passage, from ...

 St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland. Once, in his life, he was aided by baying hounds; the sound of the hounds ensured that a particular ship captain would reverse his course and find room for Patrick's safe passage on the sea. Finally, for six years, Patrick served as a shepherd. My own family had an "animal weekend" -- my daughter hopped like a frog to commemorate one of the plagues that waged war with Pharoah. We saw impressive works of taxidermy at New Jersey's Great Swamp -- my son wondered aloud if these were living creatures. And, for a full hour, one of us became a talking unicorn. St. Patrick's Day is the start of spring, additionally -- and, on Sunday, I (at long last) saw a crocus. In my former, childless life, I didn't see the change in seasons as a major event...but anyone with childcare duties knows that the return of warm weather is a gift. Thank God.

  Julia Wertz receives a call from her mother, an invitation: "Let's collect eucalyptus spirals!" The trip is an occasion for mild antagonism -- Julia refers to Mom's "nonsense plan," and Mom implies that a certain assumption of Julia's is evidence of insanity. But the tension ebbs *and* flows -- rancor is forgotten when the two women become excited about a redwood log and a possible "new planter." The chat ends with a burp. There is a philosophical discussion. Is a burp a form of "comedic relief"--? Or is that strictly the job of a fart? I don't think these panels are revolutionary, but they're fun. Any kind of journey is (potentially) a story -- on its surface, the eucalyptus mission is banal, but then, it's not something we often see in art. Also, people burp. People talk about farts. I'm glad that Wertz is working to make this observation -- she is even smuggling her observation into the pages of "The New York...