Upstairs at the Duplex

The overhead light in one of the only two bathrooms at the Duplex was out.  A woman stepped forward and said, “Wait!  I have an app for that!”  She pulled her boyfriend into the small bathroom to hold the smartphone “flashlight” for her. 

This was an apt prelude to the Duplex cabaret’s offering of Social Intercourse, which — as creator/director Lisa Moss instructed us — is not about what you think.  Social media, and some forms of technology, have fostered a lack of face to face contact.  Social Intercourse talks about cellphones, voicemail, email, and, of course, Facebook.  You see it yourself — even a couple walking down a street together aren’t in touch:  One’s talking on the cellphone, the other’s texting as they just miss walking in front of a bus.  Got a technology gripe?  Social Intercourse has it covered with music and laughter.

Creator Lisa Moss put her time  in corporate purgatory to good use, collecting the funny emails that have made the rounds of the Internet over the past 15 years.  With jokes, skits, and appropriate songs collected for the purpose, she compiled Social Intercourse, then cast some talented singer/actors to offer it to the cabaret crowd. 

Friday night was the second time I’d seen the program, and the cast was even tighter than before.  “SI” includes group songs, solos and duets, with some non-musical skits and jokes interspersed.  For an hour, the audience laughed over the next lines, applauded the sad sacks, the lovers, the anxious, the angry, the needy, and the negligent.  Once that delightful hour was done the director’s voice introduced her cast, so I could tell you that:  Tim Marriott did a terrific job with the sole ballad in the play, a wistful country style song called “Austin” which dealt with the oldest technology of the evening — an answering machine.  Remember them?  Facebook got a lot of play with an early song called “My Simple Request,” another song in the middle of the show called “The Facebook Song” (hilariously performed by Katie Mack, who does a great misery face); another angry song called “Facebook” sung with power and emotion by the delicious Rebecca Geggatt.  Facebook even got the closing number, performed by the entire cast.  We all laughed immoderately. 

The perpetually dizzy Jillene Johnson sang about her Gambian boyfriend in “He’s For Real,” and we watched her possibly “Breaking Up” with her boyfriend — sung by Mr. Marriott — over cellphones that kept hitting dead spots.  Miss Johnson’s acting made up for the moments her singing voice wasn’t quite up to the task of these complex songs.  Charles Marleau’s powerful voice and comic timing serve the audience in a song about how one’s “Online” personality may differ from reality, and another song about the perils of internet theft.  The non-musical skits are just hilarious.

Producer Thomas Honeck made a guest appearance as an über-frustrated hotel guest, and Musical Director David Sotomayor accompanied his charges beautifully.  Social Intercourse fills the small cabaret space with priceless laughter and song, and therefore needs more performances so more people can enjoy it.  Listen up, Duplex!  Book more shows!

Here’s my program, scribbled on so I could put the names with the voices, faces, and songs:

 

~ Molly Matera, signing off — and turning off the technology for a while....

From Gershwin to Glass

Friday to Friday, I saw two musical performances, one 2 ½ hours, one 4 ¼ hours.  Those who know me know I believe most stories can be told within 90 minutes.  OK, The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby took longer, but that was special.  OK, Shakespeare usually does, but… well, I just think 90 minutes is perfect.

Nice Work If You Can Get It is a bubble bath, a frothy fuzzy drink, a guilty pleasure.  

Matthew Broderick (center) as Jimmy Winter with the cast of "Nice Work."

In the last several months the production at the Imperial has tightened up so that not a moment goes astray, while all the players are still having a blast, and so is the audience.  Really, who couldn’t enjoy 2 ½ hours of George and Ira Gershwin’s magical music and lyrics, Kathleen Marshall choreography, and the comedy and wonderful voices of Matthew Broderick, Kelli O’Hara, Michael McGrath, Jennifer Laura Thompson, Judy Kaye, Chris Sullivan, and Robyn Hurder.  All the marvelous dancers are so elegant and jazzy and flashy, plus they’re beautifully dressed by Martin Pakledinaz.  If you need to just get away from it all without leaving town, this is the show for you.  It’ll leave you dancing in the street and singing in the rain.

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Once a year, I try to see/hear an opera.  Not because I like opera — because I don’t.  I yearn to understand what keeps this archaic form going year after year, century after century.  Kind of like church.  Sure, lots of the music is gorgeous, powerful, sweet, etc.  But those voices.  I don’t like the singing style, with a few exceptions.  But my biggest exception to opera is the never-ending repetition.  Some people use it well.  Most people don’t.  But even Mozart takes over three hours to tell a story that Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers could — and did — tell with song and dance and laughter in 80 minutes.

So I guess opera isn’t about storytelling.

And in that way, it’s fair to call Einstein on the Beach an opera.  It is billed as an opera, but I beg to differ.  I don’t know what it is, but opera it ain’t.  Yes, there’s lots of choral singing.  There’s lots of music.  And yes it’s very long!  What shall we call it?  A cultural event?  A theatrical program of music and dance, words and numbers — that is, as in numerals.  People speaking or singing numbers.  Gesticulating numbers.  "3."  "1."  "8."  Numbers. "Do re mi fa sol la ti…" yes, that too.  There is no plot — and no one ever pretended there was, so it’s not misleading.  This is about precision, articulation, counterpoint, and an incredible feat of memorization for every member of the company.  At one point in the second courtroom scene, the defendant (the role originated by Lucinda Childs in the Seventies, played sinuously last night by Kate Moran) lies on a “bed” and repeats a sentence 30-40 times.  An odd sentence that becomes mesmerizing.  

There are very talented musicians, dancers, actors, singers at the height of their powers on the stage of the Brooklyn Academy of Music's Opera House, but I must mention one who was as mesmerizing as the odd sentence — Antoine Silverman, made up to resemble Albert Einstein, playing a very fine violin.  Exhilarating.

Robert Wilson’s direction and design of this strange piece make it almost seem comprehensible.  It is impossible to walk away from his production without questions buzzing around you, in your head, in the streets, questions. Questions, not just about art, but about the society that generated Wilson, Glass, and Childs as well as Einstein on the Beach.  And questions are good. Lucinda Childs' choreography is stimulating, riveting, and repetitious in the good way.  Her dance company does her proud. 

I do not generally care for the music of Philip Glass, but it all works here.  Not every moment of the 4 ¼ hours (no intermission, but wander off for a while if you must).  But the company of players, the music, the odd words kept me in my seat for most of this performance, and kept my attention for the better part of 3 ½ hours.  Sometimes annoyed.  Sometimes amused.  And I admit to nodding off a few times in the first courtroom scene.  But mostly I was fascinated.  At the 3 ½ hour mark, a particularly silly scene pushed me right out of the performance.  There were no humans involved, you see.  Humans — speaking and moving rhythmically, if nonsensically — are interesting.  They were missing.  The scene that drove me away had a broad bar of light (called the “Bed”) lying horizontal on the dark stage.  Accompanied by harpsichord, the bar went from horizontal to vertical very slowly.  Fifteen minutes of that.  During which I decided, “Now you’re messing with me.”  So I got up and went to the Ladies Room. 

The Cast of Einstein on the Beach.  (c) 2012.  Sara Krulwich/The New York Times

But that’s OK.  I do think Einstein on the Beach was a seminal work, artistically revolutionary, and we can see how much it has influenced artists in all media in the 30-odd years since Robert Wilson, Philip Glass, and Lucinda Childs collaborated to create something life-changing.  And I must thank them for it. 

This is an immense production touring the globe, at BAM for just two more performances.  http://www.bam.org/opera/2012/einstein-on-the-beach.  Meanwhile, I suspect I'll spend some time revisiting some of those four acts on YouTube.

~ Molly Matera, signing off, chastened, tired, confused, but happy.  And Happy Autumn Equinox to us all.

Inglorious Summer… Ends

Moon over Montauk

It’s been a weird couple weeks.  Well, month. 

In August, I learned of three deaths.  Not the usual celebrity deaths of people we don’t actually know and who are way older than my friends and myself.  No.  Closer.  First an old friend, teacher, mentor.  He’d been ill — various — for some time, so the email from his grown children wasn’t a surprise, exactly.  More like, I was due to give Robert a call, and now I’m too late.

The next day, my friend Horvendile informed me of the death of a newer friend, ill for a shorter period of time.  A lovely man, a man of the theatre and the world.  A mentor to many.  I was glad to have had him in my life, albeit for too short a time. 

That weekend I learned of my third:  a woman I’d worked with a quarter century ago, when I still worked in juvenile publishing.  She and I shared a room at my first and only science fiction convention, outside Philadelphia, decades ago.  She gave me freelance work reading and reporting on over-the-transom manuscripts.  Josepha had friends throughout the publishing industry, in various genres, and my long-ago memories of her were good ones.  That she’s gone is shocking. 

That’s how August ended.  I started September by going on vacation to my favorite spot out in Montauk.  Favorite is a silly word — it implies a vast knowledge of spots, people, books, whatever, from which to choose.  I haven’t been so many places that the Atlantic Terrace in Montauk being my favorite for a relaxing, totally laid back vacation is meaningful or measurable.  Nonetheless, it was the right place at the right time for me this year.

Tuesday, 4 September

It had rained hard as I drove east on the LIE, visibility distressingly low. My audio-book purchase was validated.  Allyson Ryan’s recording of a charming children’s book (Suddenly Supernatural by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel) was a comfort, if it did pull my attention from the dull road on occasion! The storm lessened to nothing as I turned off the expressway, onto Suffolk 111 south down to Montauk 27. 

Traffic was light after the Labor Day weekend, and I made good time until I stopped at “Lunch” (a.k.a. Lobster Roll restaurant ) between Amagansett and Montauk and had my first fish meal of vacation.  It’s such a comfortable place, with music of my youth playing not too loud, no one rushing me over my lobster roll and slaw and good fries. 

I had requested the ocean-facing room with the most light — a window in the wall facing southwest (ish) in addition to the balcony looking out on the ocean.  I could lie on the bed and see a show of seagulls swooping and gliding outside that window, coming in low, then veering south or upward at the last moment.  Missing my cats, at least I could watch the gulls, and listen to their calls outside between poundings of the surf onto the shore.  They would have been fascinated by the roar of the surf — Wilbur would be under the bed, of course, but eventually he’d stand with his hind feet on the dresser and peer out the side window. 

Wednesday 5 September

I woke two hours after hitting the snooze.  I heard a cat breathing around me, but no weight rolled onto my head as she settled.  I heard a cat crying outside, then realized it was a child screching as the waves bounded up the shore toward her.  She ran behind her father, who carried another child on his back.  Montauk.

The ocean was rough, moving inexorably up the shore.  Perhaps that’s why I dreamt of being out there, happily diving through one large wave only to be caught by the next that followed close upon.

People are in the pool, adults and children, children taken out of school during the first week so they could go on vacation.  Odd.  To me.  The wind was hearty but warm.  The cloud cover was heavy, the outcropping to the southeast a blur.  A patch of sun a quarter mile out on the surface of the sea looked manmade. 

A young fellow flew a kite, with intensity.  A gull opposite him flapped violently, fighting the wind before it could settle where it chose among its cohorts.  I’d thought for a moment the man was working a kite that looked like a gull landing, so in synch were their actions.

A boxer pup evaded his human’s camera and watched the kite flyer, who landed his black and red and purple kite precisely.  It was not shaped like a gray gull.  A female in a pink hoodie walked toward the water with the dog running to keep up with her on its stubby little legs.  When she stopped reading her phone, she tried to take a picture.  To the dog, it must have seemed its human was not only looking at him but pointing her toy at him, that toy that takes all her attention away from him, so he walked right to her, spoiling her shot.  Which makes me think of Dashiell, dead 15 years at least, who always did the same thing.  Sweet cat that he was, he’d walk right to me, ruining the focus. 

When I finally went for a walk to town, I was in the wrong shoes.  My left heel had started bothering me over the weekend — for "bothered," read "hurt."  Stretching it hadn’t helped yet.  Nor did Dr. Scholl’s Comfort Fit Orthotic Inserts.  It started to rain on my way back, and I took off my shoes to walk along the shore toward the east.  Ah.  The only time my heel didn’t hurt was when it sank into the sand.

The fog made the distance fuzzy.  There was a new ridge of sand on the beach; the storms must have been worse out here than in the boroughs.  A spot I walk by each visit, and photograph each visit, was dry, but different.  It’s been wearing down gradually for years, with run-off from storms carving a slope into the beach itself.  It appears to have fallen down aggressively since last time I was here.  That was just 11 months ago.  I must compare the photos. 

Thursday 6 September

I walked to the post office to mail my postcards to friends’ children, then couldn’t keep away from Montauk’s tiny bookstore.  With the clear exception of the front bay window, the small space is lined with shelves, from floor to ceiling, back to front.  I always stop by here and always find something I must have, despite the books already in my hotel room (not to mention my home).  I walked back past what used to be Nick’s and is now Sloppy Tuna.  Instead of gourmet meals of Nick’s (which were rich and delicious), simpler fare is now offered there, and I went back in the evening for a light meal and a drink overlooking the sea.  Nicely redone interiors and exterior, great view as the sun sets behind the diners and twilight falls onto the sea — but the food was nothing special. 

8 September

On my last night I had a nice meal at Shagwong.  On my last morning, I swam in the pool for half an hour or so before heading home.  Television news said a storm was heading in.  When I stopped in Amagansett at the farmer’s market, my friend called to tell me there were tornado warnings.  The drive home was windy but without precipitation — the tornados touched down on the south shore of Queens, nowhere near me.  Lucky again.

12 September

Settling back in to real life.  Back to work, back to laundry, back to cooking and doing my own vacuuming. 

Last night, I read an article — well, not so much an article as an opinion piece, I suppose — in the New Yorker that basically told me that I, as a woman who is not a mom, am extraneous.  Swell.  There’s a rude gesture I could make to any society that labels me “extraneous.”  My vacation relaxation is now officially gone.  Summer is over.  Moving on to the winter of my discontent, it’s time to immerse myself in the new theatre season so as to avoid my immaterial, inessential inner thoughts.

~ Molly Matera, signing off.  Extraneously.

Batman's Human Tragedy

The “Batman” comic book series tells a dark story, and director Christopher Nolan captures that in his film trilogy, ending with this summer’s final installment, The Dark Knight Rises.  Batman is Greek tragedy, and clearly the brothers Nolan know it.  This film has a sharp and involved screenplay by Jonathan Nolan and Christopher Nolan based on a story by David S. Goyer along with Christopher, in turn based on Bob Kane’s original characters .

One of the many posters.  (c) 2012 Warner Brothers Pictures.

The last time, in 2008, we were blown away by a tragic hero fallen, taking the rap for the unexpected villain that District Attorney Harvey Dent evolved into, Two-Face. (To have seen The Dark Knight is not required to enjoy this film, but it’s a terrific movie and you ought to see it in any case.)  Here we are eight (story) years later, the unjustly excoriated Batman is believed to have been driven away, Bruce Wayne has become a recluse, and even Wayne Industries has fallen on hard times.  Harvey Dent has taken on new life, but not as Two-Face — rather as a poster boy for a reactionary law-and-order regime.  The Harvey Dent laws would have condemned their namesake to life in prison without hope of parole since the insanity defense is no longer allowed and all prisoners are detained in a prison in the middle of the city. Bruce Wayne is still broken hearted, and Commissioner Gordon is still keeping a dreadful secret for the good of the people.  Or so he believes.

Tom Hardy -- really! -- as Bane.  (c) 2012 Warner Brothers Pictures.

A new super-villain has stepped to center stage. Bane is a masked reject of the League of Shadows. Unlike other villains in the series who threaten Gotham, Bane poses a serious physical threat to Batman himself, as well as a criminal threat to the city.  Batman and the comic book series have lots of history, much of which I’ve forgotten, but which Christopher Nolan brought us in the first film of this trilogy, Batman Begins.  The brothers Nolan do their best to bring us up to speed to fully appreciate the story they’re telling, mostly but not entirely succeeding.  For instance, the League of Shadows, which was where Bruce Wayne learned a lot of Batman stuff from Ra’s Al Ghul and Henri Ducard (Liam Neeson), until the League plotted to wipe out Gotham because of the evil that raged there.  That’s as far as my memory reaches – it is rather vague on the complexities of Bruce Wayne’s past; nonetheless I had no difficulty following the story, the characters, and the plot of The Dark Knight Rises 

Christian Bale returns as the troubled, repressed and still furious Bruce Wayne, more Howard Hughes in his later years than the powerful playboy he was in his wealthy youth, and the first two films.  Bale is a wonderful actor, whether maniacally evil or dumbly sane, and his Batman is a tragic hero whatever his origins.  Terrific work throughout this trilogy is crowned in this last film.

The old standbys are here: 

Christian Bale as Bruce Wayne and Michael Caine as Alfred.

Alfred, the Wayne butler, a handsomely aging Michael Caine.  He cries, we cry.  We knew at the time he shouldn’t tell that lie, even though he was trying to protect Master Bruce from any more pain.  Sometimes parental figures just cannot help themselves.

The wily Morgan Freeman returns as Mr. Fox, the clever fellow who runs Wayne Industries in the boss’ absence and presence.  Mr. Freeman is a figure of strength and contained power, a good guy we could wish was real.

Commissioner Gordon, loyal, strong, too honest, is played beautifully by the chameleon Gary Oldman.  Gordon hasn’t lost his touch, immediately spotting the talent and passion of young Officer Blake.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt as Blake and Gary Oldman as Commissioner Gordon.

Through these interwoven stories of people’s hearts and lives, fury and faith, we meet officer and then detective Blake in the person of the wonderful Joseph Gordon-Levitt.  Since childhood, he has had the power to hypnotize, and he’s a worthy addition to the canon of memorable characters.  He is fierce and sure and strong and makes me regret this is the end of the trilogy. 

Catwoman is this time around played with anger and intelligence by Anne Hathaway.  Hathaway’s Selina/Catwoman is flawed, she is exciting, weak and strong, and she helps make the political game believable here.  This Catwoman is one of the poor and powerless, until the roulette wheel of Bane’s plot revolves.  A truly interesting character as recreated by a largely character-driven script (despite all the explosions), brilliantly embodied by Ms. Hathaway. 

Anne Hathaway as Catwoman.

The lovely and charming Marion Cotillard plays Miranda Tate, a smart, rich businesswoman who’s quite annoyed at business partner Bruce Wayne for holding back a device that could provide unlimited energy to the city, all because he fears it would also be misused as a weapon.  Well, guess what happens.  Guess again.

Morgan Freeman as Lucius Cos and Marion Cotillard as Miranda Tate.

Bane is a terrifying and dastardly fellow filled with hate — some of it righteous — played by Tom Hardy behind a mask and a beefed up body.  Honestly, I had thought it was a body double, so far was it from the lean body I’ve seen on Hardy in recent films.  Hardy bulking up for the role put me in mind of DeNiro putting on pounds of muscle to play Jake LaMotta, and I hope Mr. Hardy’s career is as solid and long as Mr. DeNiro’s in reward for his gutsy dedication and terrific character work.  There was just one problem with his performance, and that was that although Bane’s mask was appropriately creepy, it also occasionally muffled his words.  This detracted from his all-important storyline. 

If there’s a flaw in The Dark Knight Rises, it is that of any single unit of a trilogy.  The first was a long time ago (2005, to be precise), and there are moments and characters that, while they work fine on their own in this film, do not have the intended depth if you haven’t seen the first 2/3 (preferably recently).  For instance, Cillian Murphy reappears as Dr. Jonathan Crane, here the Judge in the masterful courtroom scenes.  We met him in the first film, Batman Begins, and his presence here makes good sense if you (1) saw that film and (2) remember it, or (3) if you’re a fan of the comic books, in which case you’ve already accomplished (1) and (2).  For the rest of the audience, powerful as these scenes are, just a little bit is lost. The “trial” scenes were beautifully recreated in the style of starkly detailed comic book panels, showing the devolution of Gotham society to one reminiscent of the French revolution as Gotham goes mad.

The Dark Knight Rises has all the requisite fights, chases, explosions (really clever ones), and other forms of action.  There are more good performances in roles large and small, but it’s out there on the big screen, and I advise you to go see it.  Christopher Nolan has done a superb job directing the fast-moving script that knows when to slow down, pause, then kick it back up.  The film runs a bit long, but darned if I’d know what to cut.

I look forward to owning three DVDs to watch in order on a dark and rainy — or snowy — weekend, but the power of the images on a huge screen is undeniable in a film like this.  It is terrifying and disturbing to see chunks of my city blowing up — Gotham is way too familiar and realistic.  This is not a criticism.  In The Dark Knight Rises, there was no attempt to make believe Gotham was part of a comic book, as other interpretations of the great city have done.  If a tad fantastical, that was our city — whatever city you live in.  And we all want a Batman to rise to help us help ourselves.

As for the ending of the film….I leave that up to you.

~ Molly Matera, signing off, wondering if I should see it again at the Imax….

Straight Up, Water Back

The bar napkins read:   

Horvendile and I had planned to meet at 7 at the Algonquin.  I arrive at 7, then see his text:  Be at the Blue Bar at 7:15.  Well all right then.  The greeter at the Algonquin lobby wonders, what did we do before cell phones?  I say something like, we agreed ahead of time on a place and time, and kept to it.  Or near it.

I’ve been thinking about a Rob Roy since 6:15, so I settle in at the Blue Bar and ask for one.  The bartender says, “Sweet or dry?”  “Sweet,” I answer.  We smile.

The bar itself is not merely blue.  It’s like a mood ring, little chips within it change from rose to yellow to green to blue.  Tiny blue lights shine on white rings around a chandelier, and the back wall is a pale, pale blue that one might expect to turn into a waterfall any moment.  A few minutes go by, and a different bartender says, “Rob Roy?”  Yes, thank you.  I sniff it.  Luscious, warm, tart.  I sip.  Perfection.  My perfectly nice dress is suddenly out of place and I feel underdressed.  Not in comparison to other patrons.  In comparison to my own desire. 

I’d put on a little make-up before I left the office to compensate for the nice dress I feared was too ordinary.  On the way over, I saw the lipstick stain on my Starbucks cup lid.  When I was a teenager acting the sophisticated lady — onstage only, in school plays — I contemplated that lipstick just would not come off.  Unfortunately I contemplated that aloud, which gave boys ideas.  I eventually learned to keep my mouth shut.  About lipstick, anyway.  Nowadays I’m sure lipstick is made differently, of different stuff, because the color won’t survive a humid stroll across town.

“I work so I can pay for my own drink, thanks.”  This runs through my mind, unreasonably, as no one had offered.  I’d never thought of it when the offers came in the past.  But a Rob Roy in a classy joint costs more than a pint in a dive.

Olympic soccer is on the silent television.  Soccer is so colorful.  The socks with horizontal stripes, apron-like tunics with vertical stripes, primary colors within teams and opposing them — it all makes me think of Dr. Seuss.

Yes, even the classy Blue Bar has a television, but its sound is off, and some good old jazz is the undercurrent beneath the chatter.  I text Horvendile:  "This Rob Roy is delicious."  When he arrives, he orders one — dry.  We spend an hour or so, talking of words, soccer, people.  I think, I’m supposed to give him a hug from Elizabeth.  But I don’t want to interrupt.  Eventually the thought flutters out of my mind.  Je suis desolé.

– Dry or sweet?

– Sweet. please

– I’m sure you don’t need it.

– You certainly don’t.

The imaginary conversation floats through my head as I carefully grasp the banister on the way down the twisting marble steps to the Ladies’ Room.  They make me think of a building on 105^th Street that I haven’t been to in twenty years.  We ladies attending the ladies’ room agree that it was designed by a woman:  The stall doors swing out. 

Horvendile and I move on, south for him, northeast for me.  It’s an early night, stormy, but no tornadoes despite what the radio says.  The Blue Bar continues on quietly, classic cocktails pleasing those who come and go. 

http://www.algonquinhotel.com/blue-bar

~ Molly Matera, signing off, looking up the lyrics of “Long John”

The Elderly and Beautiful Adventurers

The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel is a surprising pleasure.  The main draw, of course, is its exemplary cast, who are introduced in their British habitats precisely in time to leave them.

Maggie Smith, Ronald Pickup, Bill Nighy, Penelope Wilton, Celia Imrie, and Judi Dench.  (c) 2011 Fox Searchlight.

-         Evelyn Greenslade — the delightfully subdued and spectacular Judi Dench — is recently widowed, having some issues with income and outsourced call centers as we all have.  While the remaining men in her life try to solve her problems as they see fit, she decides to give a whole new life a try.

-         Douglas and Jean Ainslie — Bill Nighy and Penelope Wilton — are retiring.  Well, he is.  She is a housewife with dreams of glory.  They’ve entrusted their retirement funds to their daughter, so presently cannot afford to live as Mrs. Ainslie would like to become accustomed.  Listen for her “turning left” dream.  They’re a mismatched pair, him self-effacing, self-sacrificing and kind; her, not so much.  Even when she’s not whining, we brace for a sour note.

-         Graham Dashwood, a dashing judge — the always welcome Tom Wilkinson — is suddenly of a mind to retire.  Get away from it all, and back to the land of his youth.  And possibly more than just the land and its light and color.

-         Mrs. Muriel Donnelly is retired, alone, and trapped in a wheelchair.  She is humorless, bigoted, and terrified, and as played by the irresistible Maggie Smith, still likeable.  She cannot get about without a new hip, the waiting list for which is too long in England.  She can get it more quickly and cheaply elsewhere….

-         Madge Hardcastle — the wittily impish Celia Imrie — is tired of being a live-in babysitter for her married daughter.  She wants life, and sex, and a new husband.  Her adolescent grandchildren understand her better than her own daughter, and off she goes.

-         Norman Cousins has still got it, he’s certain, he just needs to find someone who wants it.  Ronald Pickup makes this character a 20-something stuck in a 60-something’s body, but his forays into London nightlife are disheartening.  Norman needs a new audience for his old pick-up lines, so he joins these strangers awaiting a flight to a new home for “the elderly and beautiful,” the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

The journey is hard, the arrival disappointing, despite the optimism and warmth of their host, the proprietor of the hotel, Sonny Kapoor.  The sweet-faced and sincere Dev Patel plays Sonny with just a tad too much enthusiasm.  Sonny is in love with (but can’t say it) the lovely Sunaina (a delicately feisty young woman played by Tena Desae), who works for her brother Jay’s (Sid Makkar) call center. 

Evelyn (Judi Dench) and Madge (Celia Imrie) arrive at their new home.  (c) 2011 Fox Searchlight

Sonny Kapoor has a dream:  to resurrect his father’s dream of this ancient hotel in this rundown part of Jaipur, India.  His ruling mantra is “It’ll all work out in the end.  If it hasn’t, it is not yet the end.”  The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel is a disappointment to say the least.  The phones don’t work (although the computer connected to the internet does), and Madge’s room doesn’t even have a door — until she takes over Sonny’s room, so now he’s in a room without a door.  That’s Madge for you.  Madge and Norman look for love separately and keep bumping into each other.  Graham was brought up in India, so he’s looking for his rose-colored memories, perhaps, or perhaps something more.  Evelyn reinvents herself in this new land by getting her very first job — in Sunaina’s brother Jay’s call center of all places.  Douglas Ainslie is enthralled by his surroundings, the smiling faces, the food, the land, the buildings, the history.  Jean Ainslie won’t leave the hotel she hates.  Mrs. Donnelly gets her surgery despite her fears, and settles in, talking to the silent food server.  Real life interferes on occasion in the person of Sonny’s mother (Lillete Dubey), but not too much.  Even the traffic jams are entertaining.

Judi Dench, Tom Wilkinson, Bill Nighy.  (c) 2011 Fox Searchlight.

Does all this sound too good to be true?  Sure, but during the film no one cares. 

The actors are all very fine.  They take a lightweight script by Ol Parker (based on a novel by Deborah Moggach) and make it work. John Madden’s direction is swift without rushing.  The film pronounces its themes clearly:  Love is possible at any age, and retirement — not to mention life — will be what you make of it, money or no money.  And, of course, Sonny’s mantra. 

Every character (almost) has his or her arc of learning, growing, taking that first terrifying step into another life.  I won’t get specific here and produce spoilers.  Structurally I pronounce The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel sound — that is, the film, not the building!  If something’s amiss, it’s that the film is largely predictable, as is any story that strives for a happy ending.  This is a bit of summery fluff.  If you want no more than a sweet summer fling, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

Evelyn reinvented.  (c) 2011 Fox Searchlight.

~ Molly Matera, signing off to look for a verandah and an exotic cocktail….

Keeping the Blue Spruce Company

Now that my tree is bare, one of the interesting things to notice is how the tree trunk I could not see before has, over two decades, leaned outward, toward the southeast.  Interesting, but I'd still rather the tree was covered by its healthy branches.

My back garden is in dire need of weeding.  I charged the weed whacker yesterday, but that’s just what I use as a “lawn” trimmer, out front and back.  Today is not the day for weeding the back garden.  For today, I’ve done quite enough outdoor work on a 90-something-degree day.   

Yesterday I snipped some Swiss Chard and rinsed it in a little strainer.  I set it on the counter.  This morning the strainer and about 1/10 of the Swiss Chard leaves were on the floor.   What strange cats I have, eating all that Swiss Chard.  The three are lying around in today’s heat.  After working out front, my shorts were wet as well as dirty, so I just dropped them where I stood.  Chick promptly lay down on them and slept.

What I learned today:  Spruce roots are fairly shallow and spread wide.  That means it’s tough to find places where I can dig enough to plant two 6” pots of New Guinea impatiens.  Therefore, they’re staying in their pots.  The 3” pot I planted in the ground.  And I planted the somewhere-in-between pots of Bandana Lemon Zest Lantana.  The hydrangea is far enough off to dig a goodly hole in a spot that will get morning sun and later shade.  Small now, it’ll grow wide and tall in equal measure and give some shelter to my bedroom window.  My hydrangea out back are about 3 ½ feet wide and tall.

Stage 1: Hydrangea, New Guinea Impatiens, Lantana and little Artemesia

The little gray things are another story.  I see them all the time, and I like them, they’re visually interesting.  After searching on the internet for blue-gray frilly foliage, I am reasonably sure they’re artemesia.  I came back inside after planting in the noonday sun (I’m neither an Englishman nor a mad dog — I did, after all, come inside), I’m also reasonably sure I planted them too close together and too close to the front stoop. 

Stage 2: I don't like red mulch, so I went with dark stuff.  Unfortunately I just got 1 bag when I clearly need 3.

Next year….assuming as I am that the branches will not be growing back at all, and new growth will take years, next year I’ll get some pretty — and heavy — pots to ring around the tree with overflowing annuals.  The two hoses stretching to the front from out back may not be the best solution, but it’s all I’ve got.  Hey, maybe that slinky, creepy blue garden hose that’s curls up to a foot and then stretches out to 50…...ah, television commercials that look like the product can solve problems.  Will I never learn?

Back to those roots — and maybe next year I’ll do this — another option would be to set in a root barrier (might be a little corrugated metal fence, might be a ring of cobblestones set deep in the soil), since a little root-snipping and blocking wouldn’t hurt the tree.  It is, after all, over twenty years old.  The only thing that hurts it is when ignoramuses hack off branches.  They won’t grow back.  But there is new growth.  

~ Molly Matera, signing off to dream of a place where only people who love trees prune them.