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Memoir IV (Salvy)

Marc's anti-bite method was unique; he would let his voice drop three octaves, and he'd wag a finger in front of Salvy and say, "No bite, no bite." Then he would say, "Lick! Lick!" Salvy would stare and stare, impassive. "Lick!" said Marc, then he grabbed Salvy's face and licked it in a doglike way. The implication: Salvy was to conclude that the weird tickle on his forehead was produced by a tongue, was to make a link between a human tongue and his own tongue, was to discover that he could create, for others, the tickling sensation via his own tongue, and was, lastly, to infer that this tickling sensation was widely-desired, or at least desired by Marc. Salvy continued to bite. Marc continued to say, "No bite! No bite!"

***

God is in the details. Notice everything happening in "The Meyerowitz Stories." A cold, faceless doctor instructs various grieving family members to say several things at the sickbed: "I love you, I forgive you, forgive me, thank you, goodbye." Another doctor: "I care very much about seeing your father well again. We're going to induce a coma, either with ben***prophyne or bill***prophyne...probably bill***prophyne...and see what happens. Anyway, I'm off to China for three weeks. Best wishes!" A young girl dreams of a film-making career, and her early efforts are very sexual in an uncomfortable, charming way. Her first clip--"The Pagina Monologue"--where she is a kind of superhero, in possession of both a penis and a vagina. Then, a new, X-rated version of "Little Red Ridinghood," where she is both the Wolf and Little Red, and she writes-in a twist, wherein Little Red fucks the Wolf, who remains passive on his/her back. The wonderful Elizabeth Marvel monologue--where she reveals she was once sort-of-pseudo molested, Louis CK-style (you know what I'm alluding to)...and then her brothers destroy the man's car, even though the man is now in his eighties and in the grip of dementia. The bizarre love the family develops for one particular nurse, as if that nurse is the sole force of good in the hospital--even though there's no objective evidence to conclude that such a dramatic viewpoint is warranted. The amazing table scene, where a stranger gradually, subtly encroaches on Dustin Hoffman's table space, until an explosion is inevitable. (If you live in New York, you have experienced what Hoffman experiences.) The astonishing monologue Candice Bergen delivers--with total self-possession--and the way the men inadvertently cut her off by quickly walking out the door. And, of course, the cameo by Sigourney Weaver.

In the eighties, people noticed that many writers were focused on divorce, on the dissolution of marriages and family units; Anne Tyler stood out because she was, in fact, interested in the delicate work of staying together. Noah Baumbach seems, to me, to be an Anne Tyler-ish writer. Oh, sure, several separations transpire in the course of "Meyerowitz," but the core of the story is the work that four or five people do to stay together. They are exasperating; they are insufferable. They misunderstand each other; comedy ensues. They stay together. Baumbach's partner--Greta Gerwig--does a thing I love called a brain dump, where she lists all the weird sociological things she has observed and wonders if she can make a story from them. I'm certain that "Meyerowitz" came from a brain dump, as well. "Let's tell a story about a hospital." "Let's see what happens when one son is clearly favored, and the father never atones." "Let's tell a story where various quick, smug solutions are proposed for alcoholism--and the alcoholic quietly, or not so quietly, remains an alcoholic." At the end of Baumbach's fabled debut, "The Squid and the Whale," Jesse Eisenberg ran to the Natural History Museum and forced himself to stare at that scariest of all scary models--the squid and the whale. You could read it a few ways. The squid was Laura Linney; the whale was Jeff Daniels. The squid and the whale represented a ticket; staring meant a transition from childhood to adulthood, because it involved confronting one's fears. Or: Staring at the squid and the whale is the work of an artist. An artist must look at the scary stuff (especially mortality) and render it honestly, without consoling cliches. It's fascinating to see Noah Baumbach revisit well-worn material from his catalog--the pompous father, the aching son--and give it some new compassion and tenderness in "The Meyerowitz Stories."

OK: Before I go. Can I just say I did some further research on "Another Hundred People" yesterday? Here's the story. Sondheim wrote it for a young twentysomething--a Cincinnati Conservatory graduate with little or no professional theater experience. She--Pam Myers--dazzled the staff so thoroughly that Sondheim felt he *needed* to write a song for her. And she knocked it out of the park. Then: it had to be cut. Timing issues. Sondheim told her--and felt floored by her non-emotional acceptance of the bad news. In that moment, flooded with excitement, Sondheim said, "Kid, I'm gonna get that song BACK for you!" ("Kid, I'm gonna make you a star!") And, indeed, Sondheim succeeded--by cutting the song into thirds. And Myers went on to get a Tony nom--her first trip out of the gate. Her career wasn't Barbra Streisand-ish--but you could see her, in the early aughties, as Cinderella's mother in the "Into the Woods" revival on Broadway. (This role seems to want to go to wacky Sondheim icons. The original Beggar Woman, from "Sweeney Todd," once played it, as well.) Candy! Such fun to read about! More soon.

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