Skip to main content

Broadway Guy

You’ve surely seen “Enchanted.” It’s the one where Amy Adams is set to marry Prince Charming, but then Susan Sarandon says NO. Adams goes on an odyssey; she finds herself in New York City. So strange to be among manholes and billboards when you are a forest maiden! Clumsy encounters with a Shonda Rhimes guy lead to self-discovery. Adams is in fact *not* meant to be in the forest. She is meant to be with The Shonda Rhimes Guy. The End!

 

The movie isn’t perfect. For example, the Stephen Schwartz lyrics bother me. “Don’t treat her like a mind REA-der!” Shouldn’t this be…. “Don’t treat her like a MIND reader” --? And “Do something to lead her to believe you love her….” This is just clumsy; it’s unworthy of the World of Howard Ashman. It sounds like advice for a serial killer: “Lead her to this false belief…..Mwah hah hah hah…”

 

Anyway, despite this, there are three things to love in the film:

 

*Fish out of water. The Shonda Rhimes Guy needs to learn to embrace romance, yes, but Amy Adams needs to learn to use her mind and ask questions. So: Both parties grow and change!

 

*This movie has Idina Menzel, but then it also has Menzel’s Broadway rival – Tonya Pinkins. And this awesomeness Is just like fifth- or sixth-tier awesomeness in the world of “Enchanted.”

 

*There is a meta-narrative here about Amy Adams. Adams had already emerged on the scene with an Oscar nomination for “Junebug.” But “Enchanted” was her ticket to mainstream stardom. And she made use of that ticket. She did Julie Andrews-caliber work. When she enters the ball, at the climax, there’s a sense of a coronation: Yes, this is about a character reaching maturity, but it’s also about an actress seizing her crown. I get goosebumps every time. The proper subtitle for “Enchanted” -- ? “A Star Is Born.”

 

My two cents. I have Amy here in my soul—now and always.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...