Gee-whiz, it's Les Miz

I am presuming that the opening sequence of Les Misérables (the movie based on the international mega-hit stage musical) is historically accurate. I don’t mean the singing of all those poor wretches at hard labor in waist-deep, freezing salt water, but the very fact of the kind of labor they are performing. Whatever, it’s a visual killer-diller beginning to a long, sometimes thrilling, sometimes shocking, sometimes tear-jerking, sometimes ho-hum, epic film.

My caveats are few about the making of the film; I think a lot of the right choices were made to get this brute of a musical onto the screen. Most of my negatives are based on what I feel is unfortunate casting. Russell Crowe is a fine actor in the role of Inspector Javert and, although he has the balls for the role, he just can’t carry the singing necessary to make you forget that, well, he’s friggin’ singing! The pivotal role of Cosette (Amanda Seyfried) would be okay but her singing voice is distressingly reminiscent of Jiminy Cricket’s. Sacha Baron Cohen has now been typecast in Sweeney Todd, Hugo and now, again ludicrously foreign, in this Les Mis.

Hugh Jackman seems to age in reverse as our besieged hero Jean Valjean but he’s essentially believable and can sing well enough to send many a manly man into being a blubbering idiot during the scorchingly beautiful ballad “Bring Him Home.” Patti Lapone said that playing Fantine (in the original London production) was so great because she got to sing one fabulous song (“I Dreamed a Dream”) and then die; reappearing as a ghost at the end. I think Anne Hathaway might say the same thing.

Of course Les Misérables is based on the Victor Hugo novel and takes place during a student uprising (no, not the French Revolution itself) that fizzled ignominiously and disastrously for the robust young men involved. Thus proving yet once again that manning those barricades just ain’t what it used to be. And, as is usual for this kind of “foreign” movie, the classes are divided between perfect English accents of the upper class to practically incomprehensible cockney for the hoi polloi. Mr. Cohen, as usual, seems to be in that nowhere-land of some made-up Baltic state.

Still, overall, I liked the movie and I think one has to recognize the artistic value of trying to get what seems like the impossible task of getting a very popular stage musical to the screen. I don’t think it’s going to win any Oscars although it should get at least some nominations in the tech categories. I will leave it to others to judge the caliber of the computer-generated imagery but I thought that opening sequence was really impressive.

Stinson Fog

It was revealed to me in 2012 that in 1962 I gave a painting as a wedding present to some friends of mine who had gotten married in 1957. I was informed I gave the painting to the bride with the words, “Here, I was waiting to give this to you until I was sure the marriage would last.” This painting has returned to haunt me mainly because I have, seriously, no memory of it. In early December of 2012 when I saw it in the flesh (as it were) I did recognize it as my own work but, although I have searched my memory, my conscience and my cuticles, I cannot remember when and where I painted it.

For most of its existence it has been hanging unframed in a basement rec room in Charlotte, NC where the man of the house went to hang out and, well, smoke his brains out. The painting obviously suffered the consequences along with those brains. Through a labyrinthine process the painting finally made its way from the first owner to a daughter to a nephew to a sister and finally back to me. I took it, cleaned it, had it framed and officially named it Stinson Fog. I was reluctant to actually date its creation because of the aforementioned lack of evidence but, nonetheless, it has been preserved and has started its reverse trip to ownership, presumably stopping with nephew.

Snake Bit

In 2002 I saw a production of Mary Zimmerman’s Metamorphoses on Broadway and was so thrilled and moved by it I forced it upon several friends and insisted we share the experience. Metamorphoses is a mishmash of nine or ten myths mostly (but not all) adapted from the works of Ovid. It was staged ravishingly on a thrust stage in and around a pool of water and it was transfixing as well as a bit damp for the people sitting in the first couple of rows. My four-word review: It was friggin’ beautiful.

So you can imagine how much I was looking forward to a production of Ms. Zimmerman’s The White Snake this month, also based on ancient myth only, this time, Asian in origin. The snake, who has reached the epitome of existence over centuries turns herself into a human and, of course, falls in love with one. Complications ensue. I’m afraid I can’t get past the basic adjectives of “interesting” and “disappointing.” Yes, I know I was probably ruined by Metamorphoses, or rather by my memory of it, proving, once again, one should not to be ruled by expectations. As staged at Berkeley Rep (and I think drawing on Mary Zimmerman’s rep) The White Snake was given the best possible technical support. However, for me, with all those great costumes and puppets, it only passed muster as really snazzy children’s theater.

The Wright Stuff

The Marin County Farmers Market in San Rafael, California is a visit to the gods of produce. On a clear day you can see the best radishes forever. On a cloudy day the coffee is terrific and the Farmer’s Wife sandwich wins the prize for the best sandwich of 2012. They not only sell the most amazing fresh produce but, scattered throughout, are artists and artisans of various ilk. Also, the porta-potties are the most luxurious I’ve ever had the pleasure to potty in. This farmers market is held on Thursdays in the parking lot of the Marin County Civic Center, which consists of four structures designed by Frank Lloyd Wright that was completed in 1976. The juxtaposition of the buildings and the market couldn’t be more compatible; strangely so…but so.

Clan Hay*

The Hays are descended from William del la Haye, Butler of Scotland, cadet of a Norman family, who came north in 1160.
There, he married the Celtic Lady Errol, and obtained her lands.
Sir Gilbert, 5th Hay of Errol, became one of the heroes of the War of Independence and was given Slains Castle in Buchan by Robert the Bruce; he was also made Hereditary High Constable of Scotland. In 1452, the 7th Chief married a daughter of Robert II, and the 9th became Earl of Errol. In 1745, Mary, the 14th Chief, raised her men for Prince Charles Edward.

BADGE – Mistletoe.

*From the label of a 100% pure new-wool scarf, commemorating some sort of family I-don’t-know-what.

Observational Bread Products

There’s always been a truism about how you just can’t find bagels anywhere that can rival those made in NYC. There are even rivalries within the five boroughs here as to who makes the best ones.

There is a reverse analogy to that premise and that is that you just cannot find sourdough bread anywhere that is as good as San Francisco’s. I was reminded of this a couple of weeks ago when I brought home a small loaf of sourdough from SF and was toasting two healthy slices of it and the aroma filled the apartment with goodness. Usually lightly buttered is enough but on this particular morning one slice was eaten with peanut butter (chunky) and one with a favorite jam.

A Brooklyn bagel, toasted and with a schmear of fresh cream cheese. San Francisco sourdough bread, toasted and lightly buttered. Equally mouth-watering and 3,000 miles apart. Worth the travel all by themselves.

Geezer Search!

Well, how cool, thinks I whilst standing in the security maze at SFO. A nicely printed sign informs us passers-through that if you are 75 or older when you go through the TSA security process, you can leave your shoes on as well as not having to remove your jacket. Again, well how cool, another advantage of reaching a codger/coot/geezer (alphabetical order; choose one) age of seniority and/or senility.

Before I go on let it be known that I’m so frickin’ white-bread and non-threatening looking that I am very seldom the subject of any other-than-ordinary scrutiny and usually pass through most of those lines with no problem other than ruffling my hair a little bit because it’s such a breeze. I stay calm; look meek and harmless and think sweet thoughts because I know the mere appearance of sweat, nervous or not, make you an object of suspicion.

So at SFO I left my jacket and my shoes in place thinking I had put one over on my fellow travelers who, all around me, were doffing their shoes and outerwear. Talk about drawing focus! Those TSA people were not only all over my case but all over me!

<~~~anonymous geezer; not me!

A uniformed symbol of male aggression hurried over, looked me up and down and growled, “Well, at least zip up your jacket.” When I was ushered into the little chamber-of-horrors I was instructed curtly to stand up straight, but not too straight, while my innards got zapped by the electronic eye-of-suspicion. Upon exiting the other side I was stopped, thoroughly wanded (especially down there by those dang shoes) and, yes, actually patted down in a manner I judged to be just this side of being groped. My carry-on bag was also thoroughly searched.

So it turns out I didn’t save one darned second of time and I certainly had no advantage over those folks who went through the required “normal” shoe-removal and partial disrobing. I still had to put my belt, keys, cellphone and loose change in the little plastic dish to be inspected separately. So what did I gain? Not much. So what did I learn? Only the knowledge that on my next trip I’m not going to presume I’m anything special and I’ll pretend to be 65 or slightly under and not annoy the public servants in charge of making everybody feel like cattle without any personal rights. Sometimes it pays to be a geezer but the advantage needs to be used wisely.