Liars and Saints

  There is a strange story subset--the set called "stories about community theater." In these plots, the actors' lives tend to blend with the characters' lives. People make discoveries through playacting. In "A Streetcar Named Marge," Marge Simpson begins to understand the dimensions of Homer's monstrousness. She learns through her contemplation of Stanley Kowalski. In Alice Munro's story, "The Children Stay," Pauline is playing Eurydice. She thinks about Orpheus: This guy had an impossible choice. He could commit to not looking backward--and could thus ensure his future happiness. Or he could look backward--confirm that his beloved is safe as she literally crawls through hell--lose everything. One look backward will ruin Orpheus's life. (Pauline has a similar choice. If she frees herself from her oppressive marriage, she might lose her relationship with her children.) This is the kind of story that Kevin Kline's new series wants to...

My doctor clears his throat. "You gained nine pounds, and your cholesterol is through the roof. Can you explain that?" It's moments like these that make me think I'm dealing with a serial killer. I think I *can* explain the weight gain, but is this really necessary? As silence fills the room, I begin to understand that I need to cough up an itemized list of foods I've eaten recently. So I offer my (edited) version. Another silence--as if the room itself is saying, " I know you are lying ." The doctor suggests that salmon would be a great choice. I nod with zeal. Problem solved! "Hey, try to get up earlier. Spend more time on that exercise bike." I'm tempted to respond. "Enjoy your weekend....but don't murder too many kittens....." Instead, I wear a happy face--a face that is dreaming of many salmon entrees--and I leave the room.  

"Spring is a surprise." The days become strange. On certain mornings, the sun is out, "warming the wind." On other days, the snow returns; you need six layers of clothing; colleagues make allusions to "snowmaggedon."  That's the entire plot of Kevin Henkes's new book. The main reason I like the book is that it seems like a "greatest hits" tour for Henkes; we have the kitten from "Kitten's First Full Moon," we have the carriage from "Julius." We have the flowers from "My Garden." I also appreciate the sense of rhythm: Yes, said the flowers in the garden. Yes, said the buds on the branches. Yes, said the birds in the sky. The rule of threes: the sun is "warming the wind and melting the snow and calling the animals." Gorgeous book.  

  *"The Red Devil." A perfect opening: "The day after my divorce, I discovered that I had cancer." A perfect title -- the red devil is not the disease but the cure, a particularly vicious form of chemotherapy. Katherine Rich was a wonderful writer (and more than a little indebted to Lorrie Moore). The theme of her book is that doctors are often not very bright; additionally, a doctor's intentions are sometimes questionable. Rich gradually realizes that no one is going to be her advocate -- so she chooses to speak up for herself. A strong opening is not enough; a book also needs a harrowing conclusion. Rich hits all of her marks. *"Shadow and Bone." Leigh Bardugo has invented a fantasy world in which everyone speaks something like Russian; a tear in the fabric of the universe is called "the Shadow Fold," and monsters named  volcra  lurk within the Fold. There is one girl who can fight the volcra; if she cuts open her arm, a flood of light spil...

 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...

  Anne Lamott has a new book out, a book on writing. Her main observation is that writing should not sound literary. If it "sounds lyrical," it's bad writing. The hard work is to *sound* conversational, while conveying deep thought. Can you hear me calling out your name? You know that I'm falling, and I don't know what to say. I'll speak a little louder, I'll even shout-- You know that I'm proud, and I can't get the words out. My personal obsession is with song lines in which a speaker interrupts herself and reverses course. "If I was a sculptor -- but then again, no -- a man who makes potions in a traveling show...." Christine McVie includes *two* versions of herself: the bold exhibitionist and the suffering wallflower. This is a way of signaling an internal conflict. Something's happening...happening to me. My friends say I'm acting peculiarly. Come on, baby; we better make a start. You better make it soon before you break my he...

We might not often think of Snoopy having a dialogue with Virginia Woolf, but in 1973, the "conversation" occurred. Woolf famously wrote that a female artist should have a room -- a "room of one's own." She was speaking in a figurative way -- but, also, she was not. She was (at least partly) being literal. One should have a room of one's own. Jane Austen's nephew observed that Austen would write in a very public sitting room -- when guests visited, Austen would hide her manuscript under blotting paper, so she wouldn't have to engage in chit-chat about the very strange work that she was attempting. Alice Munro confessed that -- in young motherhood -- she would push her daughter's fingers away from the keyboard, so that she could continue to make progress. (This story has new resonance after the recent Andrea Skinner revelations.) By contrast, Snoopy has a man-vs.-nature problem. You can't write in the dark. "You can't write by firefly...

  My son is a gifted mimic; one thing he does particularly well is the passive-aggressive tone that adults use when they're making veiled threats. You've heard this tone; it has a kind of exaggerated calmness, a sense of briskness. "Okay, then. I guess we're just not going to go out for ice cream today...." It's a tone that is borrowed from Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do." Josh uses this tone to taunt his sister, though his vocabulary is still somewhat limited: "Okay. So be mean then. So I guess you are not a nice girl." Susie--who is so bright in so many settings--nevertheless cannot outwit Josh in the game. She cannot rise above. She wails in sorrow; she drowns in the unfairness. Because she firmly believes that she  is  a nice girl. Usually, these scenes occur only at home--while Josh remains angelic at school. But, last week, Josh was constipated, and the discomfort caused him to antagonize his classmates. And I understand...

  In "Weekend Update: Elmo," a young creature is at war with himself. Recently, Elmo has felt threatened by Zoe's pet rock, Rocco. (This tale of professional jealousy makes me think of Timothee Chalamet's recent comments about ballet and opera--one can't help but suspect that Chalamet may have been insecure when pondering a difficult "flavor" of high art.) On a bad day, Elmo made insulting comments about Rocco--but he recovered with a lengthy, thoughtful Instagram apology. (Here, I think of the new Instagram "cover your ass" letter that Anna Camp wrote, with reference to Melissa Barrera.) Just how meaningful is a "mea culpa" on Instagram? Michael Che explores the question by having Elmo confront Rocco in person. And the venomous truth seeps out. ("Rocco does not need a chair....Rocco does not have legs! Elmo furious...") I'm not sure if Chloe Fineman was reflecting on Patti LuPone when she worked on this skit. In any cas...

What is on my radar:   *"Bombshell." 2016: Megyn Kelly informed Trump of Trump's own comments about women. This led to threats on Kelly's life and threats against her family. So it's understandable that the opportunity to take down Roger Ailes does not fill Megyn with joy. (That said, if she doesn't speak up, she is sending a particular message to younger people, including her own kids. Megyn's ambivalence toward cultural poison--a poison that she herself uses and promotes in many settings--is not fully explored in the movie. That's a shame.) I appreciated certain details in this script. The running joke about Roger Ailes's paranoia (a terrible character flaw that creates special problems on September 12, 2001) is effective. I also liked Allison Janney as a lawyer squaring off against the Murdochs: "Roger Ailes made one third of your fortune. There are three of you. Imagine if one of you could no longer eat...." *"The Dentist," ...

 Nothing awakens my inner "teen girl" faster than a Colleen Hoover movie. On Saturday, I went (alone) to "Reminders of Him," a heartstopper. Maika Monroe is driving her car--and she has just "bedded" her fiance in a little secluded lake. Her postcoital recklessness means that she does not swerve for a pothole, and so her car is sent flying off the edge of a cliff. She thinks that she has inadvertently killed her fiance--she stumbles away from the car and drinks herself into a blackout state. But--all along--her fiance has been struggling, slowly dying. Maika is charged with vehicular manslaughter; tearfully, she pleads guilty. But she doesn't know that she is pregnant! For seven years, she can't see her child. She can't even have one postpartum day with the kid--the kid goes immediately to the NICU. But--after seven years--Maika gets out of jail and falls for her new employer. It's just an unfortunate twist that her new employer is also the...

  I enjoyed the NYT "Sketch Pad" this weekend -- "How Not to Be the 'Dead Wife in a Movie' Trope." Though the artist doesn't name any particular movies, I believe he is thinking about Rachel Brosnahan in "The Amateur." Also: "Gladiator II." Also: "Deadpool II." The attention to detail is the artist's secret weapon. If you want to stay alive past Act I, you need to fart and be gross. ("Wouldn't it be fun to save all my toenail clippings?") Also, it helps to *ruin* any golden-hour strolls through fields of wheat. (You can do this by making a nutty comment: "I just think it's clear that Kubrick faked the moon landing....") Well done.

  "Hazel's Amazing Mother" is centered on a raccoon, Hazel, who is like a new version of Little Red Ridinghood. She has cash from her mom; her goal is to find goodies for an upcoming picnic. She sets out with her doll, Eleanor, but she keeps getting waylaid. In a dark wood, Hazel encounters a nasty chipmunk--Doris, an agent of chaos. Without explanation, Doris and her minions assault the doll Eleanor. The carriage-toy gets disemboweled. Eleanor is dropped in a puddle. Through the power of filial love, Hazel is able to summon her mother. A great gust of wind carries Mom's picnic blanket-cum-airplane--carries this item way, way, way across the countryside. In the dark wood, Mom rescues Hazel. She puts Doris through a "natural-consequence" workout. ("Fix the doll. Fix the carriage.") And the picnic occurs--just as envisioned. I like Rosemary Wells's sense of freedom. She does not have to "explain" the root cause of Doris's nastiness....

  If I had to choose a favorite title, I might choose "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes." That title! So obnoxious, so shallow--and not untrue. In the middle of the story, the heroine Lorelei complains to her suitor that she can't control her own social life. She can't tell people to stop paying attention to her. It's just that "gentlemen prefer blondes--like me." And her suitor has a memorable reply: "What am *I* to do....if they keep on...PREFERRING you?" This is a sharp, dirty musical. It's famous for "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend." This song is an I AM song--the heroine has a message for us. The message is this: "I am FUCKING  SMART . Don't forget it." Men grow cold-- As girls grow old. And we all lose our charms in the end. But...square cut or pear-shaped... THESE ROCKS don't lose THEIR shape. Diamonds are a girl's best friend. Diamonds are interesting not because they are beautiful. Diamonds are intere...

 Like many other parents, I spend the day wondering, What would Barack Obama do ? He always seems so unflappable. When little Malia needed to see the dentist, and there were no community-organizer duties on Barack's calendar, we can imagine that there was a father-daughter outing. And this wasn't stress-free. I have decided that Barack packed a novel for these obligations; he seems to enjoy books. And so--for my most recent trip to the Marigold Pediatric Dental Group--I brought along a book about Hannibal Lecter. People see you reading a scholarly essay about cannibalism--and they're not eager to make chit-chat. They do not breathlessly narrate the story of your daughter's teeth. They do not tell you about the "sugar bugs" on the top front tooth--and so you do not have to pretend to be interested in the sugar bugs. (Our culture wants you to pretend--and our culture wants you to feel bad about *not* actually being interested.) But this is the only advice I have...

 I tried to get lost in "Frankenstein," but the story seemed dry. Yes, Guillermo del Toro has an artistic gift; it's fun to see the polar ice caps, the flowy Mia Goth gowns, the Victorian mansion. But I never "felt for" Victor Frankenstein; Lorrie Moore says you need to "bake life" into a work of art, and del Toro's movie seems to have overlooked the "life" part of the recipe. But this is an occasion to "nominate" some worthy overlooked performances. If I could control the Oscars, I would make room for Harry Meling, but I'd also make room for the following: Liam Neeson, "The Naked Gun" Eva Victor, "Sorry, Baby" Josh O'Connor, "Rebuilding" Jack Quaid, "Novocaine" Jai Courtney, "Dangerous Animals" Lest we forget. These were examples of great work.

 My town is made up of Manhattan and Brooklyn transplants, and most of us are just a bit self-centered. For example, when my spouse and I moved into our house, one of our neighbors--whose lawn touched ours--made no effort to say hello. The neighbor had our phone numbers, our names, our email addresses--all of these bits get shared on "the back road." There was total silence. However, Marc and I had received misinformation about a parking question. One morning, we walked out to our car to discover a typed document explaining (with a veiled threat) that we had encroached on the neighbor's parking terrain. The letter included a copy of the neighbor's most recent land survey. This was how the neighbor (ultimately) introduced himself to us. By contrast, a woman who was not actually our neighbor--but who lived nearby--baked cookies and greeted us with a handwritten letter; the letter shared a brief story about her many years in Maplewood. I grew fond of this woman. I didn...

  For a long while, I believed that my neighbor had ghosted me. This was the neighbor who recently vacationed on "Pig Island." We had a stretch where we regularly dined together--then the text messages became terse and un-encouraging. As a conspiracy theorist, I imagined that I had done something outrageous and offensive (and I'd never learn the truth). But my neighbor *does* continue to narrate his life for me. The narration remains breathless (and it happens whenever we pass each other on the sidewalk). "I'm hosting 25 guests for a Golden Globes watch party and sleepover--then I'm off to Manila for a month." "I said that my boss runs a toxic workplace, and he retaliated by reporting me to Child Protective Services." "My meeting with CPS caused me to have a heart attack--I was briefly, officially dead--but now I'm back on track and working full-time in a Kindergarten classroom." Once, I tried to rehearse for a brief encounter. I ...

  This has been a dream season of SVU, and March 5th gave us another standout episode. Granted, SVU is so predictable that you can anticipate--with certainty--exactly when the "false starts" will end and the third act will begin. Last night, my spouse turned to me at the thirty-five minute mark and said, "This is the bad guy. It's THAT time in the storyline...." But--within that framework--you can still improvise. I really liked the opening scene, in which a tired person tries to find creative reasons to skip marital sex. The little exchange between Rollins and a nervous child-patient--"I'm here for New York's best lollipops!"--was also interesting. Finally, the observations about ASD--about stimming, loud noises, and nonverbal communication--lifted this script above the "average-effort" level. The villain was not a top-tier monster--so I'm subtracting a few points. Still: four stars.

 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 ...

  "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 ...