Monday, June 29, 2009

The Proposal Shines a Light on Alaskan Wilderness and Family Togetherness

My friend Libbie and I have a mixed track record when it comes to Sandra Bullock movies. On the one hand, Miss Congeniality was one of the first movies we saw together in the theater, and we loved it. On the other, both of us agreed that 2007's Premonition was pretty dismal. Still, the good impressions outweighed the bad as we watched the trailer for The Proposal, and the premise looked cute, so we decided this was probably a cinema-worthy chick flick. I'm glad we followed through on those theater plans.

The Proposal stars Bullock as Margaret Tate, a no-nonsense book editor seemingly cut out of the same cloth as Meryl Streep's Devil Wears Prada tyrant, though she never quite achieves that level of cool collectedness. Still, she rules her office with an iron fist, and nobody has to put up with more grief than her personal assistant, the adorable Andrew Paxton (Ryan Reynolds). There's nothing he won't do in his sycophantic quest to achieve his dream job, and he's about to find out just how far Margaret will push that envelope. When she receives the shocking news that she is on the verge of deportation to Canada, she produces a fiance - Andrew. To satisfy the government, being engaged is not enough; they'll have to actually marry. First, though, they'll have to announce the news to his extended family, who are gathered in Andrew's Alaskan hometown for his grandmother's 90th birthday party.

My favorite Bullock movie is probably While You Were Sleeping, a wonderfully sweet romantic comedy about a woman whose longtime crush is in an accident that knocks him into a coma. She is the first on hand to help him, and by the time he's safely settled in the hospital, staff and family alike assume that she is his fiancee. After a few initial attempts to set the record straight, this lonely woman allows the family to embrace her. The details of the two movies are very different, but in some respects the basic plot is very similar: isolated woman falls in love with the family of a faux fiance. Because while film is about Margaret and Andrew falling for each other away from the stresses of work and the constraints of the boss-employee relationship, their romance blossoms largely because of the nurturing environment of the affectionate Paxton family. And all that fresh Alaska air doesn't hurt either. "How could anybody choose the city over that?" Dad asked me during a scene displaying a vast vista of verdant grass and snow-capped mountains. I don't know. (I do know, however, that I caught my dad not only admiring the landscape but laughing out loud several times, so guys, don't snub this one automatically!)

It's a surprise to us and Margaret alike when a ride through Andrew's hometown reveals that the Paxtons practically own the city. Their name is everywhere, and his parents live in a luxurious estate. His distant father Joe (Craig T. Nelson) has nothing but disdain for his son's chosen career path; he's the only child, so Joe was counting on him to keep up the family business. His mother Grace (Mary Steenburgen) is appropriately named, for she is happy to forgive Andrew for his long absences and only wants to keep the peace between the two most important men in her life. The always-delightful Betty White is the eccentric Paxton family matriarch, a position whose power she wields shrewdly. Grammy is no dummy, but unlike the bigoted neighbor White played in Bringing Down the House, she is genuinely sweet. The previews highlight her punchiest moments, giving the impression that there's more of a bite to her than there really is.

Aside from these three, there are four other significant supporting players. Denis O'Hare is Mr. Gilbertson, a smug immigration officer who distrusts the sincerity of Margaret and Andrew's connection. His is largely a comic role, though he is a central source of conflict as he tails Margaret with relentless Catch Me If You Can-style determination. There's also Gertrude (Malin Akerman), the childhood sweetheart who once turned down Andrew's proposal because, unlike him, she wanted to remain in Alaska, and Kevin, the adorable puppy who apparently has an innate dislike for Margaret. His slapsticky contributions to the movie are funny but seem to be there mainly for the sake of any kids who might be watching.

Finally, there's Ramon, a family friend and jack of all trades. Libbie and I are both fans of The Office, so we were excited to see Oscar Nunez, who portrays soft-spoken, level-headed accountant Oscar, in this film and amused by the many roles the zany character plays in the community. I do think, however, that a comedic bit involving him as a stripper is gratuitously raunchy and goes on much longer than it needs to. Though the movie is clearly geared towards adults and doesn't even have any characters in it who are children, this is one of the only scenes necessitating a PG-13 rating. Another involves Margaret and Andrew accidentally colliding while unclothed, but the circumstances are innocent and the shot is tastefully done. Scattered throughout the movie are a few suggestive comments, but there's surprisingly little profanity.

The Proposal is a tale about the importance of family and respect, and it happens to be set in an absolutely glorious location. Reynolds and Bullock have great chemistry despite the slight age gap; she's 12 years older, but that seems fitting, since she's so much higher up on the totem pole business-wise. He's lovable from the beginning, while it doesn't take long for her character to become sympathetic. Margaret has pushed Andrew around for three years, so it's fun to watch him yank her around a bit once their strange situation gives him the upper hand, but it's also touching to see him staunchly defend her when questions about her arise. Meanwhile, her big end-of-the-movie oration, while strikingly similar to her speech in While You Were Sleeping, shows how much she has matured in just one weekend.

If you like Bullock or Reynolds, you'll probably like it, and if you've also always wanted to visit Alaska, you'll probably love it. For a feel-good, mostly old-fashioned romantic comedy, I propose you check out The Proposal!

Friday, June 26, 2009

If Bad Is Good, Michael Jackson Was the Baddest

I grew up in the 1980s, when Michael Jackson was king, though I never paid much attention to the contemporary music scene, and it wasn't until the early '90s that I got to be really familiar with some of Jackson's biggest solo pop hits. I have to give credit to Weird Al Yankovic - and in turn my brother Benjamin, who force-fed me the master spoofer's parodies until I developed a taste for them - for deepening my appreciation of Michael Jackson. I think the first song I ever heard of his was Eat It, which came on during a ride at an amusement park; the song was halfway over before we realized something was amiss with the words. Eat It, such a hilarious send-up of nagging mothers everywhere, remains one of my favorite Al tunes.

When Benjamin's Al-mania was in full swing, we watched a television special putting His Weirdness's parodies back-to-back with the original videos that inspired them. I'm pretty sure that's the first time I saw the video for Bad, which led to Fat, a song whose lyrics might be considered the natural consequence of too much Eat It-style forced eating. I'm not sure why food and Michael Jackson seem to go together in Yankovic's mind, but then he seems to have an excessive fondness for that subject in general. While I'm not a big fan of fat jokes, as a frame-for-frame parody of the Bad video, Fat, with the Incredibly Expanding Al and the zany sound effects, is brilliant.

From the first snap of his wrist in that dark subway station to the final defiant close-up, this is a visually arresting video. I can see why Al chose to parody both Beat It and Bad, as they are two of the most impressive testaments to Michael's talent, and both involve this gentle soul trying to come off like a total punk. He looks pretty convincing in his black, silver-spangled get-up, strutting around with a flock of equally tough-looking followers, but just as it's hard to be too intimidated by graceful gang members crooning "When you're a Jet, you're a jet all the way" in West Side Story, these perfectly coordinated dancers are a little too sprightly to appear genuinely menacing. I imagine that's part of the point; they're a bunch of posers who want us all to think they're bad. And then they all go home and have tea with their grandmothers.

The choreography in the video is exceptional, and so much of Jackson's genius at this point in his career was about his moves that it's difficult to separate the video from the song itself. This isn't a single you want to listen to only; you want the video on your television so you can play it on repeat, trying all afternoon to replicate the dance steps. There's nothing all that brilliant about the lyrics in and of themselves. It starts off with that classically odd opener, "Your butt is mine," and continues with the trash talk and the repeated assertions of "I'm bad". If you have to say it so many times, something tells me it's probably not true. Still, if "bad is good", as asserted by Zack, the ridiculously 80s-ish visitor to the fairy world in 1992's animated tree-hugging flick FernGully, then at the time this video was made in the late '80s, it's fairly safe to say that Michael Jackson was the baddest guy around.

My appreciation for Michael Jackson runs deepest when I think of him as a humanitarian. Bad doesn't showcase that side of him. But it does display what an exceptional dancer he was, and I get the sense that he had a lot of fun making this video. I hope he did. It sure is fun to watch.

Michael Jackson's You Are Not Alone - A Plea For and Promise of Companionship

By the time 1995 rolled around, Michael Jackson was on the verge of being less triumphant King of Pop than defeated king of tabloid fodder. Amid the turmoil and scandal surrounding him that year, he released You Are Not Alone, a song of love and friendship specifically about his marriage with Lisa Marie Presley. More generically, it made a perfect bookend to 1993 mega-hit Will You Be There. The first was a plea; though the second begins that way, it evolves into a promise.

I've been listening to a lot of Michael Jackson's songs since the news of his death hit yesterday, and I'm coming to realize that the theme of yearning for a genuine connection with another runs deep in his work, going all the way back to I'll Be There and Ben. The Stand By Me / Lean On Me category of music is one that almost always yields songs I love, from Bridge Over Troubled Water and You've Got a Friend to Candle on the Water and You've Got a Friend in Me, so Michael Jackson is in good company here.

In general, I find that Jackson's songs are best enjoyed as audio-visual experiences. He was a true pioneer of the music video, and it's generally a joy to watch him. In this case, however, I'd tend to opt for the purely audio version. The video feels uncomfortably intimate, filled with close-ups on Michael's soulful eyes and semi-bare chest, which by this point in his career was eerily pale. He's not doing any dancing, really, and the shots of him and Lisa Marie together seem oddly voyeuristic, as though he wanted to allow the world a peek into his life to assure everyone he was a part of a happy, healthy marriage.

I was never quite convinced. I remember watching an interview with Jackson and Presley around this time; he seemed embarrassed, she seemed hostile, and the whole thing was very awkward. That same strange tension seems to run through the video despite the outward appearances of happiness - though part of that could just be me reading into things in retrospect, knowing a divorce soon followed.

I don't get any of that when I simply listen to the song, however. At that point, it becomes just another worthy ode to friendship. The accompaniment is pretty simple, with keyboards and mellow adult-contemporary-appropriate percussion. The song has a lovely melody that Michael sings in a pretty straightforward, low-key manner, up until the last two minutes or so of the song, which resembles the conclusion of Will You Be There in that a choir takes over the main melody line, with Michael interjecting with earnest outbursts. As often is the case, the chorus gets quite a workout; over and over, especially toward the end, we hear the basic refrain: "You are not alone, for I am here with you. Though you're far away, I am here to stay. But you are not alone, for I am here with you. Though we're far apart, you're always in my heart. But you are not alone."

It's certainly not one of his more innovative songs. Of all his hits, I'd say this is probably the most generic. But it's a sweet song nonetheless, the kind of thing I would be happy to stumble upon while tuning into Delilah on a relaxing evening. It's not my favorite ballad of its kind, but as glimpse into Michael's soul at one of the most difficult times in his life, You Are Not Alone is especially moving.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Remembering Michael Jackson With the Aching, Inspiring Will You Be There?

I went to the movies with my friend Libbie today, and on our way out of the theater, we overhead a woman remark to her friend that she'd heard Michael Jackson had died. I was startled, but as I'd heard a rumor to that effect last week, I thought perhaps it was just idle gossip generated by a photo of him looking ill. Nonetheless, we tuned into the news on the radio, and when the hour opened with the news of Jackson's death, I was stunned. He was only 50 years old, with a massive run of concerts coming up in London and occasional rumors of a new album in the making.

Of course, the man once dubbed the King of Pop has been quite reclusive of late, keeping out of the spotlight as much as possible in the wake of painful accusations and litigations. While I'm in no position to say whether his recent reputation as a child molester had any merit, I look at his troubled life and his commitment to humanitarian efforts, and all I can see is an extremely talented man with a great deal of love in his heart who felt he'd missed out on childhood and who never learned how to interact normally with the rest of society. I think Michael Jackson was a sad and beautiful man, and I'm sorry that it seemed he was rarely able to find true peace in his life.

While Jackson tore up the Billboard charts with innovative pop numbers whose videos illustrated his impressive dancing skills, my favorite songs of his, going all the way back to his early days with the Jackson 5, have always tended toward the reflective. I'll Be There and Ben always tug at my heartstrings, and though I admit to being amused by parodies poking fun at his grandiose awareness-raising anthems, that doesn't make me any less moved by the likes of We Are the World and Heal the World. When I think of Michael Jackson, I think first and foremost I will remember a man who made a genuine effort to better humanity. He knew the power he wielded as a pop star, and for the most part, he used it well.

If I had to choose a favorite among all of his songs, I would almost certainly have to go with Will You Be There?, the theme song from the 1993 movie Free Willy, about a hard-on-his-luck street kid who befriends an imperiled orca. It was my favorite movie of the year, and whenever I heard the swelling chorus of the accompanying song, I felt inspired. In fact, I had a hard time thinking of it as a pop song; it sounded more like gospel music to me, a plea for friendship and understanding from such a deep place in the soul, it felt more like an impassioned prayer, with an addressee far more transcendent than even the most magnificent whale. That jubilant choir and Biblical imagery did nothing to dissuade me from that notion. I still find listening to it a spiritually stimulating experience. Just as Ben is about more than just a rat, Will You Be There? is about more than just a whale, or at least it can be.

This is a song that fits in well with Jackson's other epic efforts. Though the spotlight remains on him, it's the choir that brings such majestic depth to the song, making clapping, dancing and singing along hard to resist. And as an encapsulation of the movie, the official video is so perfect that it almost renders watching the film itself unnecessary. I love the transitions between his free-spirited twirling and Willy's exuberant splashing, his synchronized hand motions and Jesse's nonverbal signals to his enormous friend.

Meanwhile, the angst-ridden outbursts as the choir moves into the foreground gel perfectly with the frustrations of boy and whale alike. I remember pounding out the chords to this one in my living room; the piano-laden introduction is one of my all-time favorite song openings. I also love the driving percussion, in the presence of which I simply can't sit still. And the vulnerability in Jackson's voice as he recites the concluding poem over the fading music is indicative of a man who, despite the adulation of millions, was filled with loneliness himself. This song has always struck me as very autobiographical, which makes it all the more poignant.

I suspect I'll be listening to this song quite a bit over the next few days. Though we didn't see much of him in the last few years, I had hoped for the possibility of a comeback; I'm certain that he still had brilliant music to share, but even if he never would have written another song, his sudden, early death was a tragedy. Thankfully, he left an extensive legacy. Thanks for the music, Michael, and the inspiration. You will be missed.

Cormac McCarthy Infuses Bleak Dystopia With Faint Hope in The Road

During my recent long (yet all-too-short) weekend in Massachusetts with my friends Erica and Art, the subject of movies came up often. As all three of us consider ourselves enthusiasts of Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy, any film involving a former cast member tends to be of interest, so I expressed my desire for The Road, starring Viggo Mortensen, to hit theaters, which was supposed to happen last year. "I feel like I really need to see it, though I'm not sure if I'll be able to stomach it," I confessed. My first assertion came from Mortensen's involvement; the fact that part of the movie had been filmed in my hometown (during which time I rather regrettably resisted the urge to attempt to crash the set); and Cormac McCarthy. After No Country For Old Men left me stunned with its cinematic splendor, I figured McCarthy must be a golden novelist and that another film adaptation of one of his books, however bleak, would be similarly rewarding. However, apocalyptic dystopias have never been my cup of tea, so concerns bubbled at the back of my brain. In response, Art issued a dire warning.

"You need to be prepared," he told me, explaining that reading The Road was one of the most emotionally wrenching literary experiences of his life. That he'd read it all in one sitting, so intensely mesmerizing was this tale of a father and son clinging to one another in a world where hope itself seems to have become an anachronism. And that it had been devastating. I was still trying to determine whether the endorsement overpowered the disclaimer when I spotted a mass market copy of the book at a gift shop in Albany, the halfway point on my homeward train trip. I'd been flipping through David Sedaris's latest collection and seriously considering purchasing it, but The Road stopped me in my tracks. Upon examination, I suspected that I could finish it in the time it would take for me to get to Erie, which certainly wouldn't have been the case with my favorite contemporary humorist's tome. I was rather taken with the notion of digesting an entire book during my train trip, as well as spending the waning hours of Fathers' Day immersed in what sounded like one of the most powerful father-son relationships ever explored in a novel. Plus, I'd just spent the last five days embracing my inner Took; I figured I'd better go for the gusto before I went back to being a mild-mannered Baggins.

So I bought the book, and I opened it, and I read it with only a few brief interruptions. Half an hour before we pulled into Erie, I turned the final page. It was mesmerizing. It was devastating. It was well worth the eight dollars. And now that I've emerged from the book unscathed, I've no doubt I can handle the movie. I sometimes think I don't give my nerves enough credit.

After I saw No Country with my dad and brother, I was so affected by it that I decided I needed to read the book. So I got it out of the library, but before I had gotten very far, Dad nabbed it, and by the time he finished it I was preoccupied with other things. I do intend to read it one day, but at least the first few chapters were able to provide me with a cursory familiarity with McCarthy's writing style. I was hoping that the lack of quotation marks might have been limited to one book, but I soon found that punctuation was just as rare in The Road. That seems to be a McCarthy trademark, and I confess to sometimes finding it confusing, though more so in No Country, I think, in which there are more characters to deal with.

Also perplexing to me, especially at first, is his use of apostrophes. Some contractions have them, many don't, and it all seemed very random until I started really paying attention and discovered that every word in which the apostrophe is included hinges on a noun, while the words with the missing apostrophes consist only of other parts of speech. I didn't read far enough into No Country to pick up on a pattern there, so I don't know if that's an across-the-board system he's worked out or if it's intended to say something about the world he's created. Maybe both. I like the idea that apostrophes are a link to culture and civilization, and that verb-centered contractions aren't strong enough anchors. That it doesn't suffice to go on simply for the sake of surviving, but that the right noun - the right person - can provide motivation not only to live, but to retain elements of society that otherwise appear outdated. Maybe I'm trying to read too much into a simple grammar choice, but I may never look at an apostrophe the same way again.

The rejection of traditional structure manifests itself throughout the novel in more ways than one. The book is nearly 300 pages long, yet it is not broken up into chapters - though there are large spaces between paragraphs. Additionally, the two main characters - the only two characters for most of the passages in the book - are never given names. They are "the man," also referred to by his son as "Papa," and "the boy". Refusing to name these characters seems a powerful step toward dehumanization, a removal of identity to go along with the dissipation of all that is familiar, so that each truly is "the other's world entire."

The boy's age is not specified so far as I can tell; I imagine him to be about eight or nine, though the boy who plays him in the movie was about 12 during filming. He is frail and fearful and has about him the inquisitive nature of a young child, along with near-absolute trust in his father, though the man reflects at one point that in an ordinary world, the boy probably would have begun to pull away from him by this point. The mother is the subject of several painful flashbacks, but much about her remains shrouded in mystery, as does the event itself that has led the world to ruin. It seems to have been some sort of nuclear holocaust, judging by the fine covering of ash that has rendered the entire landscape grimly pallid; I imagine an idyllic final day of normalcy, to the backdrop of Ian Campbell's The Sun Is Burning. Its culminating verse seems custom-written for this book: "Now the sun has disappeared. / All is darkness, anger, pain and fear. / Twisted, sightless wrecks of men / Go groping on their knees and cry in pain / And the sun has disappeared."

One of the reasons I loved No Country so much was the terse humor of small-town eccentrics reminding me of the stories of Flannery O'Connor. It felt very life-affirming to laugh at minor oddities and witticisms in the midst of Anton Chigurh's wanton destruction. The Road, whose minimalist dialogue consists largely of exchanges of the word "okay," offers no such reprieve. I don't think I laughed once during the entire novel, though a wistful smile passed across my lips during occasional oases of piercing beauty. Like any good story about castaways shipwrecked on a forbidding island, The Road makes one ashamed of the material excesses of modern society. The barren wind of Ecclesiastes howls across the ruined land, making a mockery of once-flashy billboards advertising products no longer in existence. Even moments that acknowledge the sweetness of such items are streaked with bitterness because both realize that any good thing they encounter is likely to be the last of its kind. The question arises as to whether it might be better for the boy never to sample such treasures of a bygone era, as it could merely lead to fruitless yearning for a world irrevocably lost. But existing as a vagabond in constant fear of starvation and attack has caused the man to live for the moment as much as possible, and to allow his son every exquisite experience he can.

The Road is a story of a father and son with the strongest bond imaginable. The two sustain each other completely, which makes it all the more excruciating when it becomes clear that the man struggles at every moment with a promise he made to the boy's mother, a vow inversely reminiscent of Abraham agreeing to sacrifice his son Isaac in Genesis. While that was a wrenching demonstration of faith, the single bullet remaining for the man's son is the ultimate indication of despair. The boy knows why it is there; indeed, whenever his father leaves him standing guard, the child reluctantly retains the gun, having been instructed to pull the trigger himself should marauders overtake him. The man has every expectation that the protection, in the form of a quick death, from the ravages of those who have managed to survive through brutality and cannibalism will be the last gift he imparts, a final violent expression of love to be followed by his own tormented demise.

And yet...The Road is the story of a journey. So while his may be, as Gandalf would say, "a fool's hope," the man presses his son onward with vague promises of a coastal haven unspoiled by the desecration that has surrounded the lad for the whole of his young life. I was startled when I realized that this epic trek through a ruined world toward some fabled destination reminded me of The Land Before Time, the haunting 1988 Don Bluth film whose magnificence remains undiminished despite excessive merchandising and an increasingly embarrassing line of direct-to-video sequels. Littlefoot and the man face many of the same challenges; both bereaved and made to soldier on in a life suddenly so unfamiliar, they find solace in caring for others, and this is what keeps them going when it seems that all of their efforts could be for naught. While Littlefoot attracts a small band of fellow apparent orphans, the man's entire focus is on his son's well-being, to the exclusion of all others. His practical insistence that they stick to self-preservation is often at odds with the boy's surprising altruism. Here is a child who has been raised in a world where survival of the fittest seems the only order of the day, and yet he consistently demonstrates empathy for other stragglers they encounter. While he is terrified of "the bad guys," what frightens him most of all is the thought of his father and him resorting to "bad guy" behavior in their desperation to endure. His keen sense that, to quote the film version of Sam Gamgee, "there's some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for" anchors the book in a hope that feels far more substantial than the man's ephemeral utopian visions. In a future in which the body is in constant peril, this child's chief concern is his soul.

Therefore, The Road left me feeling far less depressed than I expected. In fact, despite the utter desolation of the landscape McCarthy paints with his stark prose, I daresay I was uplifted. I look forward to comparing notes with Art and Erica after the film finally makes it to the big screen, supposedly in October, and retracing Mortensen's footsteps at Presque Isle once I see exactly where it is that he and his young co-star walked. In the meantime, I offer the same recommendation that was given to me. Prepare yourself for a searing experience, but don't let that stop you from exploring The Road in all its elegiac majesty.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Whether You're a Pirate, a Patriot or a Bar-Hopper, Boston Is Tops

I am a Pirate Who Doesn't Do Anything, or so I have been claiming for years. As any die-hard VeggieTales fan will tell you, the most important criterion for being a member of this exclusive club is that one can truthfully state, "I've never been to Boston in the fall." This week, I veered dangerously close to relinquishing my title, but a season stood between me and certain pirate productivity. I have now been to Boston, but not in the fall.

The city of Boston intrigued me long before I became a VeggieTales fan. It's steeped in history and culture; the site of the Boston Tea Party and Paul Revere's Ride, the air is thick with patriotism. It's the setting of Cheers, a show I enjoyed, which gave rise to Frasier, a show I adored, and it's the hometown of Major Charles Emerson Winchester III on M*A*S*H, my favorite show of all. Then, of course, there was the Kingston Trio's harrowing tale of the man named Charlie who rode on the MTA and never returned, and the sneaking suspicion that I would never really be able to say I'd eaten clam chowder until I'd gobbled a bowl from Boston.

Yes, there's a lot to see there. And I only dipped my toe in the stream during my visit with my friends Erica and Art, who have worked in Boston and lived in the greater Boston area for two years. Nonetheless, for a short trip, I saw a great deal, starting with the moment when I got off the train and found myself studying the nearby buildings on the sidewalk above, trying to get my bearings. On our way out of town, my hosts pointed out several buildings, but what made the biggest impression was the traffic, which inched along in the aftermath of a game at Fenway Park, though every once in a while a driver got gutsy and tried to do some ill-advised passing, and now and then the guys in the next lane over, all decked out in their Red Sox regalia, bellowed something unintelligible. That was a Wednesday night. When they drove me into town on Sunday morning, the situation was entirely different, as the roads were virtually deserted, leaving me plenty of opportunity to peer out the window to drink in such sights as the college campuses where Art and Erica teach and an array of unique statues and signs. We also stopped at a coffee shop where I got a dose of the creativity of some artsy locals; on the walls were drawings for sale, and the tables themselves were works of art, each decorated with a different theme.

But the main event in terms of Boston sight-seeing occurred on Thursday, the first full day of my trip. This was when we devoted the bulk of one day to wandering around town on foot, soaking in as much as we could before the clouds looming ominously overhead burst and soaked us. Parking in Boston is expensive; we found a garage right near Faneuil Hall Market Place with day rates of $36, which was pretty typical; by comparison, the top rate at our parking garage in the heart of Salem was $12. Speaking of which, if you're in the area for a few days and plan to go to both places, I'd save most of your postcard-buying for Salem. The cheapest ones I found in Boston were 40 cents a piece, whereas in Salem they're readily available for 20 cents each, and you'll find most of the same ones. Ones that I couldn't find in Salem included Cheers postcards, available from the official gift shop, and cards featuring the statues erected in commemoration of Robert McCloskey's Make Way for Ducklings. In general, however, if you're planning to buy a big stack, you might want to hold off on all but a couple of specific designs.

Faneuil Hall is a massive shopping area reminding me of Portobello Road, described in the Disney movie Bedknobs and Broomsticks as a place containing "anything and everything a chap can unload." While there were quite a few free-floating vendors, though, most of the shopping was more stationary, with permanent storefronts for every taste. There were the traditional souvenir shops, of course; probably my favorite of these was Best of Boston, which featured a wide array of t-shirts, local confections, bells, shot glasses and anything else you might want to bring home. If you don't mind a few funny looks, I highly recommend purchasing either a crab hat or a lobster hat - or both. They run six dollars a piece and are wonderfully goofy-looking, making fun vacation photos even more memorable. Although I didn't end up buying anything at Newbury Comics - where visitors are greeted by Zoltar, that troublesome magician responsible for the transformation in Big - we probably spent more time in that store than any other, and I found about 50 things I wouldn't have minded getting. I discovered on this trip that comic book stores are my downfall. Whatever yours is, you'll no doubt find plenty of opportunities to empty out your wallet. For an idea of what to expect, you can check out www.faneuilhallmarketplace.com.

In the midst of this bustling marketplace, a distinctive sign jumps out at the casual wanderer: Cheers. This is the eatery that replicates the layout of the famous bar "where everybody knows your name." We arrived in the early afternoon and didn't have to wait to get inside. Not quite ready for lunch - and suspecting that prices at such a novelty restaurant would be steep - we opted to have a drink at the bar. Art, a connoisseur of brews, was impressed by the Samuel Adams Boston Brick Red, which the bartender told us is only available around Boston. Erica and I quenched our thirst with a couple of tasty root beers bearing the Cheers label. My 12-ounce root beer cost $2.50, which I didn't think was too exorbitant, especially since I took the bottle home as a souvenir. Scattered around the bar area as well as the gift shop are several cardboard stand-up characters just screaming "photo op!" You can cozy up to Sam, Diane, Woody and Carla, and Norm twice. I was a little disappointed that my favorite characters, Frasier and Cliff, were not anywhere to be found, but I was happy to ham it up with the rest of the gang. At the gift shop, I purchased a few mementos, including a postcard (as I recall, I only bought one because they were a dollar each) and a Cheers canteen keychain.

Erica had found a map directing us from this Cheers to the one where the exterior shots from the show were filmed, so we decided to continue our journey in that direction. All we had to do was follow the Freedom Trail, a thick red line on the sidewalk leading past several historically significant stops. As we passed numerous gregarious tour guides in 18th-century garb, we saw the State House, Old City Hall and the Granary Burying Ground, where we found the graves of Paul Revere, Samuel Adams and Ben Franklin's parents. Among the statues we saw, some of the most interesting were the monuments to the victims of the Potato Famine and the impressive statue of Ben Franklin, though my favorite series of statues commemorated Make Way for Ducklings with a mama duck trailed by eight ducklings. This creation by Nancy Schon is located in Boston Public Garden, a gorgeous park that is the site where the mallards in the book choose to raise their brood. Both before and after Erica snapped some pictures of me with the ducks, we spotted families with young children doing the same. There was even an infant small enough to perch on one of the ducklings. This seems to be a very popular attraction for youngsters. From this point, it didn't take us long to get to "Cheers", which is actually called the Bull & Finch pub. We took a few photos outside but didn't go in; while we'd only covered part of the Freedom Trail, we were tired out from our exertions, and as it started to rain before we got back to the marketplace, we decided to make for my friends' favorite Salem restaurant instead of meandering Faneuil Hall trying to decide where to eat. Technically, then, I didn't eat clam chowder in Boston, but I figure Salem is close enough. It certainly was excellent.

If you want to get an extensive Boston experience, you don't have to spend a lot of money. While there are plenty of attractions - such as the Duck Tours, which show Boston by land and by sea; the guided walking tours; and several museums - that charge admission, nothing we did cost us anything. Of course, parking is an expense for which you must plan, and I defy anybody to escape Faneuil Hall without a few souvenirs. (A word to the wise - though the wise would probably never consider this anyway: Don't bother with the lobster claw harmonica. It was sealed in plastic, so it wasn't until I got back to Erie that I discovered that I could barely get a sound out of it. Oh, well; it was only three bucks, and it will look fun on the piano...) But you don't need to participate in the expensive tourist stuff to get the most out of your trip. As for me, for a Pirate Who Doesn't Do Anything, it seems to me I did a lot.

From Walden Pond to Sleepy Hollow, Live Deliberately in Concord, Massachusetts

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life. And see if I could not learn what it had to teach and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." This iconic thought by Henry David Thoreau is one that has been quoted in many an English literature class, and certainly by one Mr. Healey, a passionate high school teacher who made a profound impact upon me and my friend Erica, whose Massachusetts home I recently visited. Erica and her husband Art live just outside of Boston - or, if you like, just outside of Concord, the site of Walden Pond, which so inspired Thoreau and, in turn, us.

We saved Concord for the second full day of my trip, a Friday; we wanted to get Boston out of the way on Thursday, before the weekend rush, and Saturday looked to be full of showers (though that prediction came to naught, at least in Salem). The day dawned rainy, but the weather forecast promised a drier afternoon, so we headed out around noon with umbrellas in hand, just as a precaution. We'd made a Target run in the morning for a second memory card for my camera in case my first ran out; when I arrived at the state park, I discovered that when I placed the card in my camera to ensure it fit, I failed to return the camera to its case. So Erica and I shared her camera at picturesque Walden Pond as we slowly wandered the pathways, keeping a careful eye out for animals and unique plant formations. Because of the rain, we had to negotiate our way around several mud puddles that filled the whole walkway, but this just added to the sense of adventure. Meanwhile, the overcast weather cut down on the number of visitors, so we had the trail to ourselves most of the time, though we spotted several people splashing their way through the pond, preferring an immersive experience of Walden.

We didn't go in the water, but we certainly went near it, snapping several photos of its reflective surface and peeking down at the fish swimming near its shores. The trail (which is punctuated by signs, including an ever-so-helpful one pointing to the perpetually visible pond) teems with life, from wildflowers to fungus, though our most exciting discoveries weren't quite so stationary. Eagle-eyed Erica alerted Art and me to the presence of a large black snake with yellow stripes curled quietly in the leaves. It kindly posed for a few pictures before slithering languidly into the trees. Several blue jays chattered to each other from lofty branches, and one decided to tease us by leading us onward, always taking flight just as Erica was about to snap its picture. In one marshy area, we heard several bullfrogs before we spotted them. There were a couple sitting down below in the shade of the trees, and as we crossed a makeshift bridge, one fearless frog stood inches away from us, calmly observing our intrusion.

Of course, if you're literarily inclined, as all three of us are in the extreme, the highlights of Walden are Thoreau's cabins: the replica that greets visitors as they arrive and the original site about halfway along the trail that makes the circuit of the pond. The replica was closed when we got there, so we contented ourselves with peering in the windows and walking the circuit of the tiny house before posing for the obligatory pictures with the statue of Thoreau. When we returned to the car, however, we noticed that the cabin door was ajar, so we went to investigate and found ourselves able to go inside and check out the interior, with its bed, desk, stove, fireplace and broom. As an avid LOST fan, I found myself reminded of the mysterious cabin where Jacob is said to dwell. Likewise, whenever I watch season three's The Man Behind the Curtain, when Ben warns John, upon their approach to the cabin, to turn off his flashlight because "Jacob feels the same way about technology that you do," I catch myself thinking about Thoreau. There's also a sign with a list of the materials Thoreau used to build the cabin and how much they cost. Less than thirty dollars for the whole works? Sounds all right to me! The actual cabin site is just as neat, nestled in a small clearing in the woods with short stone pillars marking the spot where it once stood. The woodshed is also sectioned off. This is where you will find the sign with the opening quote and the large pile of stones, many of them decorated, left in Thoreau's honor. I spent several minutes wandering around this pile, which is bigger than the cabin itself, and reading the messages people had left on the rocks.

Before we left, we had to stop into the gift shop. I'd been specifically warned about the eight-dollar finger puppets, but of course, I succumbed to the temptation of a squirrel. I also bought a deck of cards featuring famous authors, a few postcards - sixty cents each, which is a bit on the high end, but I wasn't able to find Walden postcards anywhere else - and, for my peripatetic brother, Thoreau's Walking, which was on prominent display because we'd happened to come on World Sauntering Day. If you forget your camera like I did and don't have somebody else in your party who remembered, the store also sells disposable cameras. Unlike Boston and Salem, Concord isn't much of a tourist trap. Admission to the park is only five dollars per car, and Sleepy Hollow, the other big destination, offers free one-hour parking. It's likely this will be the only gift shop you enter in this area, and it sells several items you probably won't find in other places, so don't feel too badly about spending some money there.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery is not far from Walden Pond, where we stayed for two or three hours. It might seem a bit morbid that we went to a cemetery during each of the three day trips we took during my visit, but each one features graves of historical significance. Sleepy Hollow has Authors Ridge, where one can find the surprisingly humble markers for Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne and Louisa May Alcott. There's something especially poetic about Thoreau's tiny stone, nestled amongst the graves of his relatives, which simply reads "HENRY". Scattered around and on top of each of these graves are trinkets from visitors, including pennies, pebbles and, most appropriately, pencils and pens. One hour is plenty of time to see these famous stones, which are all clustered together, and still have an opportunity to appreciate the unusual markers belonging to less famous folks and drink in the natural beauty of the grounds. Among the more striking monuments we found were a tall, stately Celtic cross and the tiny, accidentally amusing stone bearing the initials "M. L. B." Alas for the death of the great American pastime... We also stumbled upon a rock memorializing "Kirkegaard", just a letter away from Soren the philosopher. I also just discovered that this is not the Sleepy Hollow of which Washington Irving wrote; that cemetery is in New York, a destination for an entirely different trip.

But who needs Irving when you've got four fantastic authors to visit? If you're a literature lover or a nature enthusiast, Concord is a wonderful place in which to spend the afternoon, and the price to visit Walden and Sleepy Hollow is certainly right. If this is the way to live deliberately, count me in!

Become Bewitched in Witch City! Which City? Witch City! Which City? Salem!

Next summer, The Wizarding World of Harry Potter will open in Orlando, and throngs of Harry Potter fans will flock to Florida to see larger-than-life editions of their favorite fantastical locales. I hope to be among them. This year, I got a dose of witches of a different kind when I joined my friends Erica and Art in Salem, Massachusetts, most famous for being the site of the Salem Witch Trials that were the subject of Arthur Miller's The Crucible. It's ironic that the hysteria to stamp out supposed witches resulted in the town being forever associated with them, to the point that it's nicknamed "Witch City." You can count on seeing plenty of store fronts and artwork alluding to witches. Shops boast names like The Broom Closet and Hex Old World Witchery, and if you go later in the day, you're likely to see several tour guides in costume, though pirates seem to be just as prevalent as witches. We were leaving just as these folks were coming out of the woodwork; I get the sense that Salem is at its busiest at night.

My friends live only a short drive from Salem, and on my first day in town, we headed there for dinner after a day of perusing Boston. Salem Beer Works is where I got my official Boston clam chowder, as well as an enormous basket of sweet potato fries. The food and service were excellent, and I loved the decor, especially the line of chalk drawings near the ceiling depicting various menu items. The peach cobbler looked especially enticing, but by the time dessert rolled around, I was too stuffed to take that notion too seriously, especially when I still had half a basket of fries, which the waiter helpfully offered to pack up for me. Our meals cost about twenty dollars each there, including drinks and, for Erica and Art, dessert.

Though we didn't do any more Salem meandering that day, we returned to the same starting point two days later. The parking garage across the street was quite reasonable, especially in comparison to Boston, where it was three times as expensive. Parking during dinner was only three dollars and came with the bonus of a jolly ticket-taker who looked like Santa Claus and cracked corny jokes. The day rate was twelve dollars, and the location was prime: not only right across the street from Salem Beer Works, but in the immediate vicinity of several major Salem attractions, including the old Burial Ground and the Pirate Museum. After a stop at a gift shop featuring a souvenir penny machine and racks full of 20-cent postcards, it was to the cemetery that we headed first. Upon our entry, we were greeted with the incongruous sight of a guy in a giant slushee costume wandering amongst the gravestones. Once Ice Guy went on his merry way, we checked out the courtyard memorializing those who died in 1692 after being accused of witchcraft. The most famous of these include Rebecca Nurse, John Proctor and Martha Corey, all of whom were hanged, and Giles Corey, who was pressed to death. Running along the sidewalk are bits of Proctor's defiant speech, in which he declares himself not guilty though he knows it will cost him his life.

From that point, our wandering took a more cheerful turn as we investigated several eccentric shops and kept our eyes peeled for photo opportunities. Probably my favorite of these was the statue of Samantha Stephens of Bewitched; I'd seen it from the car on our way in, but I didn't realize until we approached it on foot that this wasn't just any witch. She was the only famous fictional witch we found getting this kind of treatment, though I suppose Sabrina or Hermione might have been lurking in a hidden corner of town somewhere. There was a stained glass window near the cemetery depicting a crone who strongly resembled the apple-distributing version of the wicked queen in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and several shops sold Harry Potter-related items. All the while, the dulcet tones of a lone guitar player reached out ears. The town felt much quieter than Boston, and crossing streets was not nearly as harrowing.

Speaking of harrowing, one of our favorite finds was a shop called Derby Square Book Store. All of the books were half-price despite being new, and there were some pretty unusual selections; I walked away with Our Peaceable Kingdom, a book of black-and-white photographs by one John Drysdale depicting striking instances of interspecies harmony. What made this shop so memorable, however, was the shelving system. Books were piled in precarious stacks up to the ceiling; even after procuring a stepstool, Erica had trouble reaching the ones she was after. While the books were grouped into sections that were supposedly arranged alphabetically by author, I think rampant browsing laid waste to most attempts at organization. It felt almost as random as the yearly book sale sponsored by my hometown library and twice as perilous, since the narrow aisles and the tall stacks added up to a jumbo-sized game of Jenga whenever you wanted to remove a volume. One of my favorite photos from the trip is of Erica flipping through a book while hundreds of others tower around her. If you stop in Salem, put this one on your itinerary; it's the kind of place you have to experience for yourself.

My other favorite shop was a comic book store called Harrison's. As Erica, Art and I are all pretty fond of the Beatles, I got a kick out of the name, though I didn't notice it until we were leaving. By that point, we'd spent a good half hour or so investigating the contents of this geek's paradise. Star Wars, Star Trek and Lord of the Rings were all heavily represented. I was tempted by a plush R2-D2, a two-foot-tall Gandalf and a Death of Spock action figure set, though I reined in my impulses and walked away with just one figure: Mt. Doom Sam, who is fully poseable and bellows, "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you!" I also recommend a tiny antique shop called Tobie's Jewelers, where I discovered a collection of trolls, including several large Norfins, which I remember admiring at an expansive gift shop near Chautauqua, NY, the only place I'd ever seen them. As I debated between the policeman and a fireman (eventually settling on the former in hopes of recreating the Make Way for Ducklings scene in my backyard), the gregarious women running the shop kept us engaged in pleasant conversation.

Museums abound in Salem, whether you're into witches, pirates or Lizzie Borden, but while we perused the gift shops of several of these establishments, we stuck to the free territory, which was quite entertaining enough on its own. The Salem Wax Museum of Witches and Seafarers is one place with several photo ops right in the gift shop. A number of shops have interesting statues out front; I found two at Maria's Sweet Somethings: Wicked Good Confections. There's the Revolutionary-era fellow austerely holding out a blackboard on which are written messages for the day, and there's also an enormous, delicious-looking ice cream cone. My vote for the funniest store front in Salem goes to The Lobster Shanty, which promises "Warm Beer," "Lousy Food," "Surly Waitresses," "Rude Bartenders" and "Cranky Cooks." And no trip to Salem would be complete without a stop at the Salem Witch Museum, which offers a vast array of witch-related items. Though this was one of our last stops, I still purchased a Merlin hat, primarily for the purpose of having a few photos of me in Salem with a wizard hat on my head.

There are dozens of eateries to choose from in Salem. Having already eaten at Salem Beer Works the other day, we opted for the Irish pub O'Neill's for lunch. There, I had the tastiest calamari I've ever eaten, while Art and Erica enjoyed some traditional fish and chips. Lunch was somewhere in the area of ten to fifteen dollars, including drinks, excluding dessert, as we had our eye on ice cream cones at Maria's, though we eventually abandoned that idea because so many others had the same notion and we didn't feel like contending with the crowd. We capped our day off with a trip to the House of the Seven Gables, though we had to content ourselves with the exterior view, since tours were closed because of a wedding. Erica, having taken the tour before, gave me the abbreviated version, and we snapped a few quick pictures and spent a moment at a nearby overlook gazing out at the ocean, where dozens of boats were on the move.

As with Boston, it's pretty much up to you how much money you spend in Salem. There's no reason you have to break the bank to have a good time. Though I'm sure the tours and museums are interesting, I didn't feel as though I missed out on anything by skipping out on those. Just bring a camera, a sense of humor and a spirit of exploration, and I'm sure you'll find Salem every bit as satisfying as I did.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Dewey Will Make You Wish Your Library Had a Cat

When I was in elementary school, a cat with several newborn kittens turned up in the storm well one night. One of the employees took her in, and while the kittens eventually moved on to other homes, the mother, dubbed Stormy, stayed. She spent most of her time in quiet spots like the parlor or the chapel, but if the classroom doors were open, we never knew when she might pop by for a visit. We all agreed that it was pretty cool that our school had its very own cat.

I've been thinking about Stormy lately because I just read Dewey: The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, written by head librarian Vicki Myron with the help of Bret Witter. My grandma read this book last year and, knowing what a sucker I am for a good animal story, she heartily recommended it. It took me a while to get around to it, but I picked it up from my own (sadly catless) library a few weeks ago and delved into the story of this unusual feline.

While Stormy had short hair and was gray with white patches, Dewey was a long-haired orange tabby. Every chapter includes a black-and-white photo of the cat in various positions around the library, but the cover features Dewey in full color. His coat looks so fluffy I have to fight the impulse to reach over and stroke his fur, and he sits in a dignified position, amber eyes gazing placidly out at the world. Dewey came to the library via a book drop when he was only a few weeks old, and the scraggly waif seemed unlikely to pull through at first, but as he battled through those first difficult days, he won the hearts of the library staff, especially Myron, who championed the idea of him remaining as a library mascot.

This book chronicles Dewey's life from his startling late-night arrival at the library in Spencer, Iowa, in January of 1988 to his death at the ripe old age of 19. Over the course of 27 chapters, Myron spills out her life story along with Dewey's and also provides ample background on the history of her little town and its hardscrabble residents. For those reading purely out of interest in the cat, it may be a tad tiresome to go for a chapter or two at a time with only a cursory mention of him. But Dewey's story is inextricably linked with Myron's, and both are tied in with the legacy of the city, so these side trips are generally rewarding, and I suspect that's especially the case for those who knew Dewey first-hand.

The book has a folksy, down-to-earth style that often gives off the impression of a neighbor standing outside, chatting over the fence. Myron tends to repeat herself, simply because there are only so many ways to emphasize that Dewey was an extraordinary cat and that he changed many lives, especially in Spencer. I get the sense that this is mostly her, with Witter smoothing out the edges of her writing and helping it take narrative shape.

Myron obviously is no impartial observer, and her air of maternal pride is so strong that I imagine her driving around town with a bumper sticker reading "My Cat Is an Honor Student at..." Well, no, not quite that, but you get the idea. So it's easy to chalk some of her reflections up to typical pet owner's pride. Nonetheless, people traveled from all over the country, and sometimes even overseas, to see Dewey, and dozens of publications ran articles about him. So it's pretty clear that there was, indeed, something special about him. Above all else, Dewey was gregarious, always right in the thick of things, making his presence known to library patrons and brightening the days of cat lovers of all ages, even if they didn't realize they were cat lovers until he turned up.

Dewey is the story of a cat and a community, and of the librarian who dearly loved both. If you've ever wished for a feline companion to help you browse through the bookshelves, chances are you'll find the story of Dewey just purr-fect.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Smallville's Shortened Seventh Season Piles on the Fun With Kryptonian Kara

Back in 2006, my brother Nathan, then a senior in high school, got me hooked on Smallville on DVD. In the months leading up to his departure for college, we watched the first three seasons. Over the course of his freshman year we watched two more. But since then it's been slow going in getting caught up, so that we only just now finished season seven and are faced with the fact that we're probably never going to actually catch up with this show, since if past seasons are any indication, season eight will hit DVD about a week before season nine premieres. Well, maybe we'll try to cram it all into one week. Or maybe we'll just resign ourselves to watching Smallville exclusively on DVD. Frankly, I'm pretty surprised at the show's longevity, simply because it's a prequel, and Clark's seemed on the verge of donning those tights for about three seasons now. But I'm not complaining, and if I still have Smallville to look forward to after LOST concludes, so much the better.

Season seven of Smallville is, in some ways, lighter than the sixth, in which Clark must deal with the aftermath of a staggering personal loss and the impending nuptials of the girl of his dreams to his best-friend-turned-arch-nemesis, all while trying to round up a series of bloodthirsty intergalactic convicts who make the meteor freaks look like minor irritations. It isn't that the stakes aren't high in the seventh season, but the sense of peril is less pervasive, and there's even a fair amount of domestic tranquility for Clark, who really seems like an adult for the first time (though Tom Welling looks exactly the same as he did when Clark was supposed to be a freshman in high school). Though he's still a farm boy, he's now running the place, with his mom Martha (Annette O'Toole) out of the picture in Washington, D.C. Moreover, he's spending more and more time in Metropolis, where intrepid reporter Chloe Sullivan (Allison Mack) and dorky heart-of-gold photographer Jimmy Olsen (Aaron Ashmore) work for The Daily Planet, soon to be joined by budding journalist Lois Lane (Erica Durance). Can it be long before Clark joins their ranks? For the second season in a row, an alternate reality sequence has him donning the iconic thick-framed glasses and suit. Now if only phone booths weren't so hard to come by nowadays...

Though political advancement removes Martha from the equation, Lex's (Michael Rosenbaum) father Lionel (John Glover) still has a significant role to play in Clark's life. It's curious to see him playing the protective, paternal role, especially since Martha is no longer there to act as a link between these two powerful men. While Lionel often acts in ways that seem suspect, he claims to be on Clark's side, and despite years of experience with Lionel's villainy, Clark generally seems to believe that this tycoon has turned over a new leaf. Lionel has been one of the show's most compelling characters for me, in large part because of Glover's brilliant performance; his theatrical background and his masterful way of masking his character's motivations remind me very much of LOST's Michael Emerson. And like Ben, the bug-eyed baddie Emerson portrays, Lionel is a character I've been longing to see redeemed in the end. Since I don't see how that can happen with Lex, I've transferred my hopes onto Lionel. It takes a while for him to become a part of the season, but once he does, his participation is crucial.

We've also got Lana (Kristin Kreuk), who just won't go away no matter how many times it seems like she may be off the show for good. Since I never hopped aboard the Clark and Lana ship, and since I know he's going to end up with Lois anyway, I'm not sure I appreciated Clark and Lana's cohabitation in this season as much as I could have. I mean, poor Clark has wanted this for years, and now he finally has a shot at domestic bliss with his one true love, a woman who now knows most of his deep dark secrets. But her tenure as a Luthor girl did nothing to improve the toxic aspects of her personality; despite the sweet exterior, some of her actions this season are downright diabolical, and it isn't long before distrust and deceit starts to settle in at the Kent Farm.

Though he stoops to some very dark deeds this season, at times, Lex still manages to come across as a decent human being, particularly in his associations with the newest member of the principal cast, a blonde beauty named Kara (Laura Vandervoort) who happens to be Clark's biological cousin. Yes, it just so happens that Kal-El was not the only Kryptonian to escape to Earth, but Kara was stuck in suspended animation for a couple decades longer. Her first act upon awakening in this strange new world involves rescuing Lex from a watery death in a precise parallel of what Clark did in the show's very first episode. Lex sees her first as an angel of mercy, later as the key to solving the mystery that has plagued him for so many years. Kara carries herself with an air of innocence and youthful rebellion. Though she remembers the infant Kal-El, Clark is now older than her, and since she's on his home turf, he has to show her the ropes. Unlike Clark, she doesn't feel the desire to keep her powers secret; convincing her to lay low is one of his most trying tasks throughout the season. Meanwhile, he struggles with revelations about an old family feud that cast Kara in a questionable light and suffers the indignity of knowing this newcomer might be a novice in the ways of Earth but is fully equipped to take to the skies. On the whole, I found Kara a refreshing addition, injecting an extra dose of youthful fun into the season and allowing Clark a different sort of significant relationship in his life while opening a window to a deeper understanding of his biological mother.

Because I've always loved Jimmy Olsen and because Ashmore captures the character's sweetness and goofiness perfectly, Smallville has finally sold me on a Chloe romantic relationship with someone other than Clark that I can root for, particularly since Chloe's status as Clark's most cherished and indispensable friend is assured at this point. Chloe and Jimmy share some of the most tender moments of the season, as well as some of the funniest. Granted, their courtship has its ups and downs, particularly since Chloe is afraid to reveal to him that she has been endowed with a miraculous gift with potentially fatal side effects, and Kara's immediate (and rather inexplicable) infatuation with him complicates matters somewhat. But I'd much rather watch these two characters I genuinely love and can sympathize with equally work together through the trials that come their way than cringe over the twisted couplings that surround them. I'm starting to think theirs may turn out to be Smallville's grandest love story. It's fun to throw Lois into the mix too, especially when she and Jimmy end up working together, since their personalities contrast so magnificently. While romantic sparks never fly between them, it's sweet to watch them develop a deeper sense of respect and affection for one another. Meanwhile, Lois's luck in love seems to change this season when the hunky new boss Grant Gabriel (Michael Cassidy) takes a liking to her.

Some old faces resurface this season, including the silky artificial intelligence known as Milton Fine (James Marsters); filthy rich, gadget-heavy vigilante Oliver Queen (Justin Hartley), who secures a surprising assistant in his quest to rid the world of injustice; and, much to my excitement, the long-neglected Pete Ross (Sam Jones III), who vanished without a trace back in the third season. Don't get too excited; he's not in it for the long haul. But just getting a brief visit with this terrific character, the Ron Weasley of Smallville, is a true gift to long-time fans of the series. Other significant characters, such as Jonathan Kent and Dr. Virgil Swann, are referenced but not seen, while one sinister character maddeningly assumes Clark's identity, which naturally leads to complications, mostly with his relationship to Lana. Of course, every season includes at least one instance of Clark being "not himself," either because he's under the influence of some nefarious substance or because someone else has assumed his form, but this is one of the more effective uses of that device. On a related note, two otherwise ordinary people in Clark's life suddenly develop unusual abilities, which leads to comical situations but ultimately causes insecurity all around.

Most of the season's best episodes shine a light on past events. Lara and Blue both help Kal-El's mother to emerge from the shadows of memory as a vibrant, loving woman, while Fracture offers a fascinating peek into Lex's labyrinthian mind, giving us a compelling reason to consider him redeemable despite all evidence to the contrary. This little-seen side of Lex emerges again in the chilling Descent. I also enjoyed the It's a Wonderful Life-like Apocalypse, in which Clark has a chance to see what the world would be like if he'd never made it to Earth. Throughout the season, surprising connections among characters come to light, and the trustworthiness of various characters remains unclear. It's a season that keeps us guessing, and having a whole lot of fun along the way. It's a shame that, due to the writers' strike, there are fewer episodes than usual, but even so, season seven is top-notch.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

In Bruges Rises Above Profane Brutality to Be Profound

Last night, my friend Dan and I had a media marathon which started with Bolt, the recent computer-animated Disney flick starring Miley Cyrus and John Travolta. Despite a few theatrical explosions, the PG-rated film stayed firmly in family-friendly territory. Not so our next movie, the extremely R-rated In Bruges. I'd seen the trailer months ago and had thought it looked interesting, and a recommendation from my brother increased my interest, as did a Best Screenplay nomination, so I readily agreed when Dan suggested we rent it, even though I had a pretty good idea of its objectionable content.

In Bruges, written and directed by Martin McDonagh, is the story of two hit-men, Ray (Colin Farrell) and Ken (Brendan Gleeson), whose boss sends them to Bruges, Belgium, after a job goes sour. Unclear on their purpose in being sent to this ancient city, they take differing approaches to their predicament. Surly Ray is determined to be miserable, berating the city from the moment he gets off the train, while Ken looks upon it as a paid vacation and giddily immerses himself in the town's rich history. Both men have filthy mouths, but as Ken wanders through the streets in a state of childlike wonder and Ray retreats into dour introspection, it's hard to think of these men as killers. It isn't long, however, before the film provides a stark example of just what it is they do for a living.

Initially, I found Farrell quite unlikable as the grouchy Ray, until a flashback showed exactly what had happened to make him so ill-tempered. We soon learn that he's new to this business - that he's only had one assignment, in fact, with a disastrous outcome. He got his target - but a stray bullet hit a boy in the shadows, a child he didn't even know was there. And killing a kid was not what he signed on for. As he struggles through his intense feelings of remorse and despair, his comradeship with the more experienced Ken deepens over the course of the next couple of days. In the meantime, he manages to make both friends and enemies in his meanderings. Though Ray wrestles internally with deep questions, he acts impulsively, and many of the decisions he makes come back to haunt him later.

As a Harry Potter fan, it was a kick for me to see three of the series' actors gathered together in the same film. The most prominent of these is Gleeson, who was fantastic as gruff, formidable Auror Mad-Eye Moody. Ken is similarly weathered from many years in the trenches, though in this case he's working for Big Bad Ralph Fiennes instead of against him. Ironically enough, the man who breathed such sinister life into Voldemort now plays a man named Harry. But although Ken claims that Harry has only ever sent him on the trail of rotten people, his boss, while more human than Voldemort and with an unwavering (albeit brutal) sense of integrity, is not exactly a nice guy. By contrast, Gleeson's Ken is almost cuddly. He seems like a soul too gentle for this grim business, and throughout the film, he faces several moral crises that make him the most compelling of the trio of conflicted baddies.

Unwittingly drawn into the drama of these three men are luminous native Chloe (Clemence Poesy, better known to Harry Potter fans as Fleur Delacour), who embarks upon a whirlwind romance with Ray; the dwarf Jimmy (Jordan Prentice), an American actor who befriends the lovebirds; and Marie (Thekla Reuten), the pregnant owner of the hotel where Ken and Ray are staying. Much about Ray is revealed in the way he relates to these three characters. Though I found myself frustrated with him for his tendency to antagonize people, he also shows himself perfectly up to the task of treating others with kindness and respect.

In Bruges is an odd movie that asks us to sympathize with murderers and cheerfully endure a barrage of profanity that includes well over a hundred uses of a certain colorful metaphor beginning with the letter "f". It's excessive to the point of ridiculousness, with the f-bombs littering sentences with the absurd frequency of "like" in a stereotypical val-gal's rambling speech. Harry, who doesn't turn up until fairly late in the film, is the worst offender of all, with about every other word he says an expletive of some kind. He is a harsh man, though at the same time, he holds childhood as sacred, and there's something undeniably tender about his reasons for sending Ken and Ray to Bruges, despite what he ultimately wants to have happen there.

Though it's not pervasive, there are several instances of graphic violence in the film: once in a flashback, and a number of times throughout the last half hour or so. In some ways, the movie is a comedy of errors, with several mis-steps and bits of bad luck contributing to an ending that is less than uplifting. The film is not entirely realistic. Though Ray talks of Bruges as a podonk, middle-of-nowhere, exceedingly dull locale, Harry refers to it as a place out of a fairy tale, and there remains a sense of everything being a bit off-kilter. Harry and Ken, Ken and Ray and Ray and Harry each have at least one conversation that is patently ludicrous yet somehow insightful at the same time. Marie speaks for the audience at one point when, observing a showdown between characters, she cries, "You people are crazy!" The combination of almost Monty Python-esque silliness with high-stakes drama makes for riveting viewing, and like LOST, the film is loaded with religious imagery and completely preoccupied with the notion of redemption, inviting several parallels with my favorite TV show (and prompting me to wonder if the shot of an alarm clock showing the time 8:15 was an intentional homage).

I wouldn't recommend this movie for everyone. It goes under the category of films that I probably shouldn't like, based on all of their unsavory elements, but do anyway because, much like the characters in this movie, there's something of great value buried in all that grit and grime. While I'm not a fan of the language with which McDonagh chooses to tell his tale, I can understand how the screenplay was deemed worthy of Oscar consideration. It's a very clever script if you can get past language, and quite touching if you can get past the violence. If you can handle No Country For Old Men and Hot Fuzz, both darkly comedic films that impressed me mightily despite being extremely profane and gory, then chances are you're ready for a holiday In Bruges yourself.