Liars and Saints

 A dom/sub arrangement can seem like pageantry. Part of the fun of "Pillion" is learning the codes: an expression of affection can be "Lick my boot," or "Make my dinner," or "Follow my schedule." Colin, the protagonist in "Pillion," seems to enjoy the clarity in his new arrangements--and who could fail to understand? Ambiguity can be so tiresome. But ambiguity creeps in. It just always creeps in. Sometimes, Colin wants to drop the act; he wants to read his book past the "lights out" signal, or he wants to hang out at a pub. It's not oppressive for Ray to say no; for Ray, the possibility of a hangout has never been "on the table." But it's possible that Ray and Colin just can't come to terms with each other. Harry Meling and Alexander Skarsgard have great charisma; we *want* a satisfying resolution for these characters, because the performers are charming. It's especially fun to look for signs of Ray...

  "American Classic" seems to be designed for me; it's set in my town, Maplewood, and it's packed with theater titans (Kevin Kline, Laura Linney, Len Cariou, Jessica Hecht, Aaron Tveit). Kevin Kline has a public meltdown after the failure of his revival of "King Lear." (He mistakenly thought, for a while, that the reviews were positive. But there is a difference between saying  He is a fine anchor  and saying  He is an anchor, dragging the entire production down, down, down .) Kline is lectured by a weirdly nasty Aaron Tveit; having lost touch with his own humanity, Kline can no longer give an effective performance. At the same time, conveniently, Kline's mother dies--which means that he needs to return to Maplewood, to his roots. I don't think I would continue watching this without Kevin Kline. The script is cliched. But it's a pleasure to see Kline in a crowded bar, screaming, "No, you unnatural hags!" He also does nice work with Len ...

 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 ...