Oscar Contenders #4: Embracing Our History

Review: The Artist + The Descendants

If The Artist isn't the greatest silent film, it may be the best you've seen. Or the only one you've seen. Writer and director Michel Hazanavicius has an assured touch, moving almost seamlessly from melodrama to comedy to romance. This is classic silent cinema of the Charlie Chaplin variety--a wink to the camera accompanies each tug at the heartstrings. We rely on actors more than ever: their faces, their sighs and smirks. To this end, The Artist mostly succeeds. 


The physicality hasn't quite been mastered. The comedians and tragediennes of the 1920s relied on their bodies, nimble with a gag, drooping like a wilted flower at each tragic intertitle. No one beyond the two leads seems to inhabit a truly silent world, where movement and mime is everything. For the film-within-the-film director, John Goodman has the dour face of a beloved pug, but the script feeds him line after line to orate silently. We don't need to see them speak; we need action.

Oscar Contenders #3: Come Together

Review: Shame + Melancholia

Brandon Sullivan (Michael Fassbender) glances at a woman across the subway car, prolonged glances. She adjusts herself, averts her eyes, stands to exit the train. He follows her through the car doors and up the stairs, expecting more, but she gets away before he can reach her. This is one of the most erotic scenes of Shame, director Steve McQueen's study of sexual addiction, but we can read it as a metaphor for the whole experience. After a breathless, enticing first hour, the movie (and Brandon) seem to get away from McQueen.

As confident as Fassbender's performance is, the central character is New York City. For an intimate film, McQueen stays on location often (especially several erotic trysts at the exhibitionist Standard Hotel). Counteracting Brandon's private routine, bare white walls and soulless office job, the streets of New York are both empowering and stifling: just look at that shot halfway through of Brandon running several blocks late at night, ultimately stalled at a red light, jogging in place. There's no real escape in this Manhattan. To this end, Carey Mulligan as his sister Sissy sings a melancholy "New York, New York" in a relentless close-up. Mulligan is surprisingly extroverted; but her childlike qualities are still her most interesting feature.

Oscar Contenders #2: End Times Are Coming

Review: Take Shelter + Beginners

I'll wager that Take Shelter will be swept under the rug in the tidal wave of major winter releases. Michael Shannon is a risky gamble; Jessica Chastain looks familiar to fans of The Help, but not enough to sell tickets. Cards on the table: I'm going to back it for a Best Picture nomination that it will not receive. Director Jeff Nichols provokes an astonishing intensity as he follows a man who readies his home for a terrifying storm. To his wife and daughter, it's the occasional Midwestern tornado; but for Curtis, the end of days approaches.

This twister is not the sort that Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton once chased; it comes from within. Curtis, paralyzed by visions that storms are brewing, obsesses with building a high-tech underground shelter, so much that he (and his family) start questioning his state of mind. He assembles his hideaway like a prophet called by a higher power. Nichols stays away from disaster-movie cliches in his script and direction; the suspense builds up slowly, eerily, like a horror flick without of the ghosts that jump out. The final scene to me pushes the film away from its heightened realism to more overt symbolism (i.e. more esoteric), though it doesn't really spoil the fun.

We aren't privy to what makes Curtis tick; and Shannon reads like he isn't even sure himself. It's a wonderful performance, and it wouldn't work in most actors' hands. Michael Shannon certainly plays crazy men often, but beneath the bug eyes and uneasy smile, he grounds his modern-day Noah in human uncertainty. With his hulking form and gruff mumbles, he's vulnerable and still intimidating. Supporting him is Jessica Chastain as his wife Samantha, protecting their daughter Hannah as dad sinks further into madness. Though it could be enlightenment.

Meanwhile, in Beginners out on DVD, Ewan McGregor deals with a more traditional family loss. His father Hal (Christopher Plummer) has recently passed away, and in flashback, we witness him as a widow who finally comes out as a gay man. His son Oliver (McGregor) questions his younger boyfriend, who has other lovers, but as Hal says, "You always dreamed of getting a lion. And you wait... but the lion doesn't come. And along comes a giraffe. You can be alone, or you can be with the giraffe."

At this early date, Plummer might have a chance at Best Supporting Actor. Though it's a sentimental vote, it's also a reassuring one. He gives the film its spark of life. Plummer's had a long run on stage and screen, and he keeps things honest as a man free to start a new chapter, no regrets. To see him smile offers the deepest glimpse into Mike Mills' directorial debut. Mills writes and directs, just as Jeff Nichols did with Take Shelter, this sweet if lightweight affair. After the unshakeable tensions of Nichols' film, Beginners may help you move past your worries about mortality.

Oscar Contenders #1: Topical Storms

Guess who's written in his blog barely at all this autumn? It may take a hiatus here and there, but I thought you dear readers (the few, the proud) deserved my thoughts about the movies coming out this season. I'm looking forward to a heap of interesting indies, and a Best Actress race hot enough to boil bunnies.

I'm kicking off the season with two films about the most topical of events: the onset of the financial collapse, and the elections to restore faith in American institutions. 

Review: Margin Call + The Ides of March

"These people have no idea what's about to happen," Peter Sullivan (Zachary Quinto) says as he gazes out the windows of his investment firm. The office is a fishbowl: everyone under scrutiny from the outside, trapped in a bubble. The employees watch through glass doors as layoffs pick up, and everyone's on the lookout for a scapegoat. 

But as Sullivan's research that the company has borrowed more than it can chew rises higher in the company, so does the realization that nobody knows how they got here. The firm calls in CEO John Tuld (an unsurprisingly villainous Jeremy Irons), and he begs Sullivan to explain the problem in plain English. One of the film's running jokes is pointing out the increasing ineptness at the top of the office chain: "I don't get any of this stuff," Tuld admits. 

Director and writer J.C. Chandor moves Margin Call forward with focused velocity. He keeps the atmosphere claustrophic, confined to board rooms, offices, and technical financial lingo that lay viewers never have a real chance to parse. All the vocabulary hits us too quickly, and appropriately so. Even the morning sunrise portends the impending collapse more than the inkling of hope. Even timely material like this wouldn't be as riveting if it didn't take a step back. Chandor lets us emphathize with these blindsided leaders; for all their corporate greed, they're as clueless as the rest of us. 

My High School Reading List

Did I really do a book report 
on this in ninth grade?

Shame. The burden of an English major. And not just because most people use your degree as a one-liner. Unlike most other subjects, an English major requires that you have actually read (cover to cover) the essential texts of literature.* Because it's what everyone thinks--we read and we write! History majors, philosophy majors: they read texts and write to interpret and theorize just like English majors, but for some reason, our degree is knocked down. Less noble than philosophy! Less tangible than history!

So yes, I feel shame I haven't sailed cover to cover through the classics. I didn't even read classics on my own until high school was over. Suddenly, this great fear struck me: Everyone at college would have read everything! And what had I read?

The answer to that: My high school reading list, as best I can remember, after the jump:

How to Win an EGOT

I've been away, but I had to pop in to share thoughts I had from the Emmys. Namely, only 10 people have won the coveted EGOT... ever! (13 counting honorary awards.)

Why is this number so small? OK, it's not so easy to waltz onto Broadway and grab a Tony. Though wealth and fame can help elevate a good performance to gold (see: Catherine Zeta-Jones).

And it's not easy to win an Oscar. You have to really campaign for it, and most great actors win them early in their careers or never at all. James Earl Jones* has an asterisk on the EGOT list because his Oscar is (surprisingly) honorary only.

But here's my Surefire Oscar Advice: Start out as a singer. If you sing really well, you are almost guaranteed an Oscar just for being in a movie (see: Julie Andrews, Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli, Cher, Jennifer Hudson).

Trouble staying on-key? Then take my Surefire Grammy Advice: Spoken Word album. This worked for actual EGOTs Helen Hayes, John Gielgud, Audrey Hepburn, and James Earl Jones*. Or record yourself doing stand-up, a la EGOTs Mike Nichols, Whoopi Goldberg, and Mel Brooks.


All right, you worked hard and won a Tony. You sing great, so hey, pile on the Grammys. You made one movie for a lark, and bam, Oscar. What's left?

Surefire Emmy Advice (aka Piece of Cake):
1. Guest star on SNL. You can be an expert comedian (Tina Fey), an expert beloved comedian (Betty White), or 4-time-Emmy-winner Justin Timberlake. In fact, you really just should be Justin Timberlake.

2. Miniseries or Movie. Don't deign to go near those SNL hippies. Just call HBO and tell them you want a seventeen-hour movie based on some Wikipedia entry you Stumbled Upon. Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet, Helen Mirren, Maggie Smith, Al Pacino, Robert Duvall... the list of Oscar winners who casually tossed off a hit Miniseries/Movie is staggering.

3. Don't work on Mad Men. If you film even one episode of Mad Men, Best Drama Series-four-times-running, you are almost guaranteed never to win. They should really consider some HBO miniseries work.

Who's next in line? Cher and Martin Scorsese could collaborate on a musical, starring Kate Winslet and Eminem. How about a remake of On Golden Pond with Bette Midler and Dick Van Dyke? And please, Lord, let Maggie Smith record that smooth jazz album she's always talking about.

There's a Boat that's Leavin' Soon for New York

Review: The Gershwins' Porgy and Bess
American Repertory Theater, Cambridge
August 23, 2011

Porgy and Bess is one of the few operas first performed on Broadway. Even in 1935, George and Ira Gershwin and Dubose Heyward tinkered, paring down the music and adding dialogue. Now A.R.T. has given us a revival of Porgy and Bess as a musical, echoing its roots on the Broadway stage. With (mostly) careful scenework by Suzan Lori-Parks and respect from director Diane Paulus for what's come before, Porgy and Bess still succeeds in a more intimate setting.

Some of the intimacy comes from lowered keys and hushed orchestrations, fitting for the openings of Porgy and Bess's duets. The approach only suffers when the actors are made to riff the ends of songs, and in the dramatic "My Man's Gone Now," which doesn't quite capture the mourning widow's despair. But with those caveats, the production moves and breathes like it always has. Porgy and Bess has always been both beautiful and tragic. Without the operatic trappings, the show feels more tender, perhaps even more hopeful.

Norm Lewis finds joy and strength in Porgy, a crippled resident of Catfish Row who takes in the wayward Bess out of compassion. Audra McDonald is a natural as Bess, using the various colors of her soprano to portray Bess's shifting identities: a loose woman and drug addict terrorized by the abusive Crown (the excellent, operatic Philip Boykin), then reborn and accepted into the community. Their duet "Bess, You Is My Woman Now" was a highlight of the evening.

The ensemble benefits from Paulus's focus on the community: how they give and take to protect each other. The preview I attended had a revised ending, though, in which everyone turns their back on Bess. Only after she leaves for New York alone does Porgy choose to leave Catfish Row and pursue her. This sounds better in principle than in execution, but they might still be working on it. Overall, the modern look at Porgy and Bess, including racial relations and stereotypes, didn't seem so modern after all. The show has always been a fable, and with all its controversy, there's been that revolutionary spark. 

Update: It ain't necessarily so. The show now ends with something much closer to the original ending. Sometimes when things aren't broken, they don't need fixing.

Fly Me to the Seine

Review: Midnight in Paris

I haven't really written about the summer releases I've seen (like Horrible Bosses and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows-Part 2). I didn't see a point. Those movies accomplished what they wanted, but they weren't exactly food for thought. And it gets harder to find words for things that are perfectly fine for one viewing. Sure, you can write critically about anything, but why waste bandwidth?

The sleeper hit Midnight in Paris fits right in with the summer slate. Woody Allen's latest film is warm, affectionate, endearing, charming. The film is a light creme brulee, satisfying to sweettooths and sentimentalists, and perhaps only occasionally to Allen's most ironic, postmodern fans. None of the characters babble in intellectualisms, but there aren't really characters here anyhow.

Many have said that Owen Wilson acts as Woody Allen's stand-in, but the two are kind of opposites. Allen was a character-actor typical of the seventies, polarizing and idiosyncratic, incapable of supressing his opinion. Wilson is an innocent puppy, always casual, barely radical. Playing a frustrated novelist with an old soul, he represents what Woody Allen probably wishes he were: good-looking, easygoing, sentimental more than analytical. The film artfully fills out this wish as Wilson's novelist Gil travels back in time each midnight to the Golden Age of Paris: the gay twenties. Gil gets advice on his book from Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Stein. He finds a kindred soul in Picasso's lover (Marion Cotillard, equally adorable). And he escapes from his fiance's uncharmed family and the faux-intellectual Eurotrash she admires.

Who knows if the spell of Midnight in Paris will last for a second viewing? After a long polarizing career, Allen seems content to deliver us a nightcap. The film looks back to the romance of Manhattan--not a romance between people, but an affection for the city. Here again, the director's vision of Paris feels so evanescent that even thinking critically for a second might disturb our slumber.

Summertime, But the Livin's Not So Easy

Who's afraid of Stephen Sondheim? The creators (or should I say reconstructers?) of the new A.R.T. Porgy and Bess adaptation might be after he raked them across the coals in yesterday's New York Times. If you're at all interested in theater, Stephen Sondheim is not a man to take lightly. And if you're at all interested in the history of twentieth-century American music, Porgy and Bess is not an opera to take lightly, either.

Now I see no need to preserve every great work of art in a museum, shrouded in dust and years of abandonment. But Porgy and Bess, though undoubtedly controversial, is one of those Revolutionary Works of Art that has worked since its premiere in 1935. It's an opera, sure, but one that premiered on Broadway. Revivals have omitted scenes and recitative (scored/sung dialogue not in full song form). And this is accepted: Many operas are long and have alternate recits/arias or traditional cuts.

But here are some ground rules for adapting the classics, with quotes from the Times article about Porgy in blue:

1. Don't throw in more classics to pad out your show. ("The idea was briefly floated of interpolating outside Gershwin music into “Porgy.”") Last season's Promises, Promises gave Kristin Chenoweth two more numbers to sing, "I Say a Little Prayer" and "A House Is Not a Home," but at the expense of logic. Why would she sing about houses when she lives in an apartment?

2. Don't tell audiences they used to be dumb. (Director Diane Paulus: "I'm sorry, but to ask an audience these days to invest three hours in a show requires having your heroine be an understandable and fully rounded character.")

3. Be careful with changing the ending. What if Eliza didn't leave Henry Higgins? What if Juliet felt empowered enough as a woman to stand up and walk out of the tomb? Oh, wait, that happened, in brand-new original shows called My Fair Lady and West Side Story. But saying the authors wanted an ending they didn't write is just not true. (Bookwriter Susan-Lori Parks: "If [George Gershwin] had lived longer... he would have gone back to the story of ‘Porgy and Bess’ and made changes, including to the ending.”)

I have tickets for The Gershwins' Porgy and Bess--apparently the estate's preferred title, but we'll talk about ridiculous copyright issues another day--and I am intrigued and excited and nervous. Good for them for finding new ways to balance song and dialogue. Good for them for bringing new perspectives to a classic. But if Porgy starts singing "I Got Rhythm," I'm leaving at intermission.

No Holds Barred

Review: The Normal Heart

Golden Theater, New York

July 9, 2011

For a play so driven by immediacy, The Normal Heart lingers. When Larry Kramer wrote this diatribe against the AIDS crisis spreading through New York City, he was capturing the present: a time of anger and confusion, with lawmakers and medical practitioners turning a blind eye. AIDS (never referenced by name in the play; it was too early for that) had no basis in medical history. The beautiful thing about the recent revival of Kramer's play is the compassion beneath.

Protagonist Ned Weeks (a strong, grounded performance by Joe Mantello, known more as a director), is a stand-in for Kramer--a fighter who demands attention, demands to be treated with respect. Even angrier is his doctor Emma Brookner (Ellen Barkin, holding nothing back), who alone stands up in the medical profession to speak her mind. As a fly-on-the-wall look at the fear and paranoia surrounding the epidemic, the play still voices these fears. Kramer's play is more or less a soapbox; but though didactic, he provided an education to those who only got their news from The New York Times.

Ned falls in love with a Times reporter, Felix (John Benjamin Hickey, who provides the empathy and humanity the play needs), who is soon lost to the disease along with the hundreds in New York. At a time when gay marriages just began in New York, The Normal Heart feels just as necessary as it must have in 1985. Today we have more awareness about AIDS, more understanding. The revival doesn't seek to tear down walls but strives for togetherness. This may have been the strongest ensemble of actors I've seen in a play, all ten seemingly moved by the people they are portraying, acting without ego or self-consciousness. The play asks that we do the same.

You Gotta Get a Gimmick

Let's talk about TV ads. Most shows seem content with commercials, web campaigns, billboards. Ah, but when you live in a city, you see some interesting ways to get your show out there.

Like two weeks ago, when I was walking home through Coolidge Corner and handed free ice cream. My Nutty Buddy (delicious on an eighty-degree day) was wrapped in a sleeve for Necessary Roughness, some new USA network drama. I flipped through the promotional booklet hidden within my napkin, and noted that Necessary Roughness (which has a idiomatic two-word name just like every USA show) was premiering that tonight. 

Then last Thursday, we're looking out from the ninth-floor patio at work, and a protest goes down Newbury Street. Posters are held high, displaying "Who will save us?" over pictures that looked like Daniel Radcliffe from our high vantage point (ooh, Vantage Point... call the USA network!). Oh yeah, and the white Death Eater masks. It turns out that their banners for Miracle and eerie rally masks were not protesting the final Harry Potter film, but advertising Torchwood. Which prompted a colleague to say, "That's the first time I've thought about Torchwood in a year."

Awareness is everything. Do only third-tier cable shows pull off stunts like these? I did not watch Necessary Roughness. I did not watch Torchwood. I was too busy turning back to nab a second free ice cream cone.

Golly, Moses, Naturally They're Punks!

Review: West Side Story
Colonial Theatre, Boston
June 21, 2011

The recent Broadway revival of West Side Story, which I caught on tour, set out to capture the authenticity of the much-loved war horse. But with its gang warfare built on finger snaps, pirouettes, and frabba-jabbas, West Side Story can seem like a relic from your grandmother's attic. Bookwriter Arthur Laurents, before his recent death, sought to dust off the war horse with young, virile kids for the Jets and Spanish dialogue and lyrics laced in with the Sharks.

By the time the tour arrived in Boston, some of the songs translated to Spanish had already reverted back. Maria still se siente hermosa, but she also lets us know she feels pretty in English. On Broadway, she and Anita sang "A Boy Like That/I Have a Love" bilingually, but now one verse in Spanish is all that lasts. Perhaps Laurents feared some were seeing the show for the first time. (Has anyone never seen West Side Story?) Whatever the reason, the tamped-down Spanish and the relative greenness of the cast gave the evening a nostaglic, rather than visceral, feel. You'd swear these actors never even had a pillow fight. What doesn't feel dated is the theatricality, especially Jerome Robbins's choreography: Riff convincing the Jets to stay "Cool" before the rumble; the dance at the gym where Tony and Maria meet.

Above all, the Leonard Bernstein-Stephen Sondheim score entrances. Bernstein's bent for classical-meets-Broadway hasn't been replicated in the theatre. Kyle Harris and Ali Ewoldt were fine as Tony and Maria, though both pushed to seem younger when their characters want to feel older, more mature. Harris's voice was weak on the higher notes, and Ewoldt sang most of the score in a nasally mix rather than a purer soprano sound. I worry this is how schools are training musical theater voices today. Michelle Aravena in the showy role of Anita came across the best of the ensemble (well-danced by all).

But their youth catches up with them. The Jets seemed especially callous here singing "Gee, Officer Krupke" after their leader dies. The first act felt strangely tame, almost devoid of danger until the fatal rumble, but the second act speeds to an abrupt, but pointed, ending. In this production, there is no reconcilation for the Jets and Sharks... and why should there be? Suddenly the violence feels real. Better late than never.

The 2011 Tony Awards: Now with 25% More Mormon

All in all, not a bad Tonys. Some good dancing, something about Mormons... and I have seen at least five commercials for West Side Story during the breaks. Now as NPH said, go see a mother[censored] show!


Don't worry... her shoes are Jimmy Choo.


10:58 Mark Rylance gives his second poetry reading for his second Tony award, this time for Best Actor in a Play. It's a shame when actors have to accept awards at their scruffiest, while they're doing plays about scruffy people. Norbert Leo Butz (looking not at all scruffy) bests those Mormon boys for Best Actor in a Musical. I think Trey Parker and Matt Stone look a little embarrassed to get one more award, though the acknowledgment of Joseph Smith was priceless.


10:50 Lighting Design even went to The Book of Mormon? Did the other musicals give out tickets?


10:36 Best Actress Frances McDormand... jean jacket? Excellent speech, though: "I've played all three of Chekhov's sisters." Even more fantastically odd was Best Actress in a Musical Sutton Foster's shoutout to her dresser of nine years, which basically included his full bio and address in Cape Cod.


10:22 Who did the cast of Company piss off to have Christie Brinkley introduce them? Only two revivals for Best Revival of a Musical, How to Succeed and winner Anything Goes, but I think it's good that we've had so much new work on Broadway this season.


10:05 Best Play goes to The Book of M... sorry, force of habit, the winner's actually War Horse. Wonder how Patti LuPone feels watching Sutton Foster perform the same song from Anything Goes that she did twenty years ago?


9:46 Oh, random celebrities at the Tonys. Looking at you, Marg Helgenberger. Patrick Wilson must enjoy hearing the promo for his new drama: "Patrick Wilson is A Gifted Man." I wish The Motherf**ker with the Hat would win something, just to see what they'd call it. But for now, it's The Normal Heart for Best Revival of a Play.


9:35 I am pleased to write that the book of The Book of Mormon has won. Nobody is losing their Tony poll on that one. What, oh what, is Whoopi wearing on her head? Her comment on how many of her movies have become musicals is very astute.


9:21 Best line so far: "It has been confirmed by the Rev. Harold Camping that Spider-Man: The Musical opens Tuesday night." Surprisingly heartfelt shout-out by Bono and the Edge to Broadway hard work. But WTF is Spider-Man doing performing? Vying for Most Apathetic-Looking Actors? Or Worst Lead-In Dialogue?


9:17 The Hugh-Neil dance-off: I laughed at the West Side Story and Anything Goes references, especially the line about a "pre-unwrapped cough drop." Brooke Shields at the teleprompter, part 2: And she curses and gets bleeped. Perhaps Broadway is a better place for her than primetime television? Supporting Actor John Larroquette must have conned the voters into thinking he's in The Book of Mormon.


9:06 The Book of Mormon performs... we've finally seen why this show is raking in awards and $155 tickets. And this largely one-character song worked perfectly without any context! Though knowing The Sound of Music helped. "I believe/That the Garden of Eden/Was in Jackson County, Missouri."


8:58 Angela Lansbury was recruited to make the boring American Theater Wing speech sexy. Nikki M. James pulls a Mormon upset... Laura Benanti was the Supporting Actress frontrunner before tonight. But was she in a show written by the South Park bros? No, she was not.


8:52 Maybe I'm a killjoy, but I had no idea what The Scottsboro Boys' numbers was about, either. But it was pretty effective nonetheless; the closeups worked here. It's sad when closed shows don't get a chance to perform, so I'm glad there was room for the 12-Tony nominee (though it will probably win none).


8:41 The one good Spider-Man joke of the night: "I sent Bono a congratulatory cable, and it snapped." But basically everything David Hyde-Pierce said afterward was funnier. Casey Nicholaw wins most enthusiastic acceptee (as well as Best Director of a Musical).


8:35 Catch Me If You Can... if you even want to. Norbert Leo Butz's song may be the highlight of the show, but out of context, I wasn't sure what it was about. Al Pacino and Alec Baldwin looked confused, too. Like How to Succeed, the cameras didn't really know how to capture the dancing. More intimate character numbers might work better on national TV.


8:27 Nice shot of the teleprompter, with correct pronunciation of Arian Moayed--I always wondered how they will handle my last name when I win my inevitable Tony... or Oscar... Hey, let's go with EGOT! Congrats to John Benjamin Hickey for continuing The Normal Heart's loot as Best Supporting Actor.


8:20 Best Score and Best Orchestrations have gone to The Book of Mormon, marking the start of a Salt Lake sweep. I wonder if attendees felt a little bored/unenthused when Gone with the Wind or Ben-Hur won their numerous Oscars back in the day. Random thought: Does John Leguizamo deserve the adjective "incredible"? Discuss.


8:07 Alec Baldwin's beard presents the first award, to Ellen Barkin for Best Supporting Actress. Smart of the Tonys to start things off with Ellen Barkin, Edie Falco, and Daniel Radcliffe singing. On the subject of facial hair, Robert Morse looks like the only Mad Men actor without hiatus beard.


8:00 And the 2011 Tony Awards begin! Just a bare stage, with NPH in a spotlight. How many awards shows has he opened with a novelty song? "Attention, every breeder, you're invited to the theater." Brooke Shields, however, is no longer invited to the teleprompter.

Keep refreshing; new posts will appear at the top. Enjoy my annual Tonys live blog (that is, for all two of you who will read this).

One More Kiss, and Then We Break The Spell

Review: Follies
The Kennedy Center, Washington, D.C.
May 29, 2011


"Look at these people, aren't they eerie? Look at this party, isn't it dreary?" That's how Sally Durant Plummer, a 49-year-old Phoenix housewife, sees her return to the theater where she performed in the Weismann Follies as a young girl.  The year is 1971, and the showgirls are reuniting thirty years later in a lavish party before the theater is demolished. Over the course of the evening, watched by the ghostly spirits of decadent showgirls still haunting the wings, Stephen Sondheim and James Goldman's Follies allows the chorines one last burst of nostalgia before their memories fade into the impending rubble. Pastiche songs liven the proceedings, as old veterans of the stage relive their moments in the spotlight.

With these memories come unfulfilled lives, unstable marriages, and the loss of their careers in show business. Sally (distracted, lost in her past) and her old friend Phyllis (cool, stately) come back with their husbands, but neither has found happiness at home. Phyllis cannot connect with her bruised diplomat husband Ben, while Sally cannot shake the vivid fantasy that he will fall back in love with her. Bernadette Peters (who could've been a showgirl once) is fragile and girlish as Sally, affecting as she veers closer toward unreality. Sondheim's score, though, doesn't always sit well in her voice. 

The strongest performances come from Danny Burstein as Sally's stage-door husband Buddy and Jan Maxwell as Phyllis, who finds the warmth and genuine care for her husband Ben beneath her icy exterior. She delivers the bracing "Could I Leave You?" like a runaway locomotive, as she finally explodes from the suffocation of living as an absent politician's plus-one. Buddy is playing around behind Sally's back, and she knows it, but Burstein makes us understand his need for attention (just like the follies girls).

Director Eric Schaeffer has assembled some fine performers for the follies veterans, notably Linda Lavin crooning "Broadway Baby" and Terri White hoofing it to "Who's That Woman?" with the rest of the ladies. Alas, despite the ghosts parading through the party, the nostaglic numbers mostly showcase fifty-sixty-something women in their prime, without the melancholy beneath. Not until the second act, with Rosalind Elias' aria from her fargone operetta days ("One More Kiss"), do we see any sadness in these Follies solos. Frank Rich once reflected that Follies represents a death of the American musical, and Sondheim's score (more than Goldman's fragmented book) both celebrates the artform and mourns its passing.

But the production blossoms as Sally, Phyllis, Ben, and Buddy are swept into Loveland, a dreamlike theatrical limbo in which they are forced to confront the follies (note the lowercase) of their youth. Burstein's "Buddy's Blues" is excellent, a vaudeville toe-tapper full of humor and anxiety. Standing eerily still, Peters shines in the femme fatale torch song "Losing My Mind," a performance that summons the desperation and disillusionment intended for the show. There may never be another perfect Follies, but isn't the point that we always regret the road we didn't take?

Something Old, Something New

Review: Bridesmaids

Though we didn't know it then, The 40-Year-Old Virgin opened the floodgates of contemporary movie-making. So many movies have been birthed by the Judd Apatow factory since that I'm growing wearier with each new bromance.

But then there's Bridesmaids, a "bra-mance" (if I may) that sheds chick-flick conventions for a woman's look at a man's comedy. Star and co-writer Kristen Wiig has given us striking water-cooler talk: why can't women riff on vomit and toilet humor like the boys do? Dress shopping after a cheap Brazilian lunch, the ladies let out more than just tears, rivaling the raunchiest of any bromances.

But Wiig also makes quieter statements about love among friends. Scratch that--just between. Bridesmaids feels sincere because the women never play too nice. Wiig's character, Annie, finds herself trapped in an undesirable job, an apartment with creepy sibling roommates, and pleasure-free hookups with Mr. Wrong. Yet she's thrilled to play maid of honor to her best friend, Lillian (Maya Rudolph), until nouveau riche Helen (Rose Byrne) proceeds to steal the spotlight, the party planning, and Lillian's friendship away. We expect the tug-of-war between Annie and Helen to sabotage everything in their wake, as well as the inevitable reconciliation. Rose Byrne plays Helen with grace and an undiscovered knack for comedy: she doesn't see herself as the villain, and she's too clueless to be cold-blooded.

I'm not sold on Kristen Wiig's weird Saturday Night Live impersonations, but her portrayal of Annie is caricature-free. She's refreshing when she doesn't try too hard. Her comedy grows from her physicality: she's angular and wiry, squirming with tension that she releases in manic bursts. Some of the bridesmaids don't have much to play; the good lines go to Melissa McCarthy, who seemingly has no boundaries. Judd Apatow may have pushed too hard to integrate his signature style here--the cruder moments don't always feel authentic. The film may suit fans of Wedding Crashers or The Hangover, but beneath the laughs is a woman who's not afraid to be knocked down.

Netflix Killed the Video Star

A few weeks ago, I promised another musing on the state of movies today. Or how we watch movies. DVDs gave us a film-viewing experience again. A VHS, I would argue, was a mere artifact of the viewing process, like catching a rerun, while a DVD became the original film again, complete with supplements and the correct aspect ratio. But then crashed the wave of instant video... and a seemingly endless string of options.

Netflix
I signed up in December last year and was hooked within a week. For one thing, I found a few movies streaming that weren't even carried by my Boston-area library system (which is very extensive). With some films, I can either stream now or request the DVD for later. Win win, right?

But there are caveats. Their streaming selection is so far the best available of the major online streaming sites, but I can foresee running out of movies to stream in a year. Every now and then, a Mad Men joins the ranks, but streaming movies are added at a slower rate than they should. The license for each streaming film is unclear; I usually receive an end date in my queue less than a week before the movie vanishes. Then there's the failure of "experience" with some streaming choices that are artificially stretched (The Grapes of Wrath) or out-of-sync (The Office, UK).

My biggest gripe: the Netflix DVD. New titles from the past year send what are essentially screeners, with no supplements. I rented 127 Hours to watch the thirty-minute ending cut from the film, and received a movie-only disc. Why not just stream it?

Hulu
The inception of Hulu goes back to my senior-year dorm room. You couldn't really watch anything cool yet, but what potential! Now I catch up on my weekly sitcoms through Hulu, the legal free streaming website. The new Hulu Plus beats Netflix's TV offerings by a mile, though movies are treated like the red-headed stepchild. But logically, which am I likely to choose if I only pick one? A movie rental service with streaming and DVD, or a TV streaming service for which I pay for access to shows that once aired for free? When I can stream HBO, then we'll talk.

Amazon.com
The Wal-Mart of the Internet. First Amazon vs. Barnes & Noble, then Amazon vs. Apple, and now Amazon vs. Netflix. What's left? Can they also make the world's best grilled cheese? So please understand that my skepticism isn't because Amazon can't. If they want to be huge in streaming, they will be. But with all these hats, Amazon won't concentrate on everything, and streaming will likely fall by the wayside. Right now it's just a perk, the cherry on top for Prime members. And we're supposed to use the Cloud too?

Beneath the competition are the actual movies. We're fighting over the ability to watch them, not the quality of the movie itself. What if Amazon offers them on Kindles next, all in black and white? Should we even have the option to watch Jaws on the beach? And it doesn't cease: just yesterday, YouTube announced they will make users pay for movies, too.

My vote for now: Start with the Netflix free trial, and go on Hulu to watch shows the week they air. You know, like we used to.

When Movies Were Movies

The Last Picture Show: We watch them watch Red River.

Album collectors tell you vinyl's the only way. An LP has texture, from the needle's first hit to the occasional scratch. The flaws, like leather, humanize the music; we feel the grooves, the spin. And it wasn't really in our control. You never quite get the needle exactly where the song starts.

Who remembers the days when movies were like that, too? We went to the theater to see honest-to-God film stock unreel on the screen above. I'm not opposed to digitally projected movies, which offer better consistency from theater to theater--but you notice the digital creeping in. We can see the grain in the sky, the pixels in the dark shadows.

The whole world's gone pixellated in my (brief) lifetime. I still have not seen a 3D movie in the theaters. Now you can watch Blu-rays in 3D, if you have the dollars to spend or the insatiable need to upgrade your DVD collection yet again. From my viewpoint, Blu-ray won't overtake DVD outright. The format doesn't offer nearly as much improvement as DVD did over VHS. The DVD market recognized that movies should not be chopped up to fit our televisions. Gone are the days of hideous pan-and-scan hackjobs, wearing out tapes from constant play, rewinding.

To my surprise, even the classics looked better on DVD. Some that I own (like Psycho and Notorious) are loaded with grain. But the distraction is worth it when the blacks and whites are so much richer than VHS could hope to offer. Optimal viewing needs a balance, though, and I wonder if pushing 1930s and '40s titles to Blu-ray is asking too much of them.

Yes, I'm reminicising about a shift in movie-watching that happened when I was a teenager. For almost ten years, we've readjusted our movie watching in a positive direction. DVDs gave us supplemental features, so we could bury into the movie, realizing, Hey, a movie could be worth more investment than just catching a clip on TV. And we watched films in their original aspect ratios again. How did it become acceptable to crop the movie? Who stares at Michelangelo's The Last Supper and feels satisfied with just seven disciples?

While Blu-rays and HD cable channels take us in one direction, iPods/Pads and streaming jump the other way. High-def's shinier, sleeker on the surface. The other road is convenient, portable, and quality is irreverent. But maybe they aren't so divided. I wager that high-def everything's more for technology fetishists than movie buffs, just like having all the on-the-go options. Who really watches The Fighter on a cell phone? Yet it's possible (you know, just in case...). All bases are covered. We control how and where they play. Movies are ours.

Thoughts, readers? Who's buying Blu-rays?

Next time: Netflix vs. Amazon vs. Hulu.

There Will Be Blood

Review: The Merchant of Venice
Cutler Majestic Theatre, Boston
April 1, 2011

"If you prick us, do we not bleed?... And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?" Shylock utters these stinging words as he comes to collect his bond: a pound of flesh from the merchant Antonio, who cannot repay Shylock's loan on time. Modern takes on The Merchant of Venice shy from making Shylock a mere villain set on vengeance. Ever more, directors have mined from William Shakespeare's "comedy" the racism and bigotry that pervade this Venice. After all, Shylock is not the only merchant in town. Money lenders make deals left and right, yet only the Jew is punished for capitalizing on the system.

Darko Tresnjak sets his characters' troubling actions in the present, a world dominated by MacBooks and Wall Street brokers. The relentless drive of the stock market and ever-ripening technology deserve blame for the degradation of Venice. F. Murray Abraham anchors the play with his wise, human Shylock. He is eloquent but fast of tongue; quick to deal but reduced to tears by the consequences. He sees how anti-Semitism runs in the blood of Venetians, and reminds in the words above that he also bleeds. And he loses his amassed wealth, first to a daughter who steals his riches, then at the hands of Portia, who cons a courtroom to save Antonio's life.

The exact law behind Shylock's condemnation feels like a deus ex machina, but I was convinced in this production that this was deliberate. Portia willingly bends the rules, certain that fortune favors her privileged, Christian class. As a Moroccan prince fails to win her hand, she says that she wouldn't marry a man of his complexion. Even once she and her maid Nerissa are matched, they toy with their men over their rings, perpetuating the lending game.

Despite the visible mechanics, Tresnjak's staging is not too cold. Kate MacGluggage as Portia radiates warmth considering her craftiness, matched by Lucas Hall's youthful Bassanio (apparently too naive to know whether he's in love with Portia or Antonio). The more comedic roles, unfortunately, are overdone, which includes Gratiano as a grating frat-boy. Better are the dramatic moments, as when Shylock is sentenced: the cast stands silent in fixed cells of light, trapped in their fear. I remain unconvinced by the final act where the lovers reunite. Who wants comedy after such a dramatic shift? But maybe Shakespeare's playing games, too: deceiving even his audience with a happy ending.

Written on the Wind

Review: Jane Eyre

If the opening credits hadn't rolled for Cary Fukunaga's new adaptation of Jane Eyre, I might have guessed I was watching Wuthering Heights. Mia Wasikowska as Jane rushes through rain-soaked moors, overtaken by despair and the unceasing storm. She reaches for the house just up the hill, but collapses in the thick heather. Only later, in flashback, do we learn how this quiet, anguished girl came within the grasp of happiness. Or did she? Fukunaga brings out all the Gothic elements of Charlotte Bronte's often filmed novel, and undercuts the hope that romance will conquer.

His film magnifies the tempestuous environment of the Brontes' works. Jane Eyre comes to Thornfield House as a governess under Edward Rochester, and must stand up to his temper and disdain. As Victorian convention dictates, he comes to express his feelings for her, despite her plain, unworldly appearance. But even their first kiss turns from tender to foreboding in Fukunaga's hands. The trees shiver about the lovers, accompanied by a melancholy violin. The natural world is cold to the humans who inhabit it.

The heavy anti-Romantic strain arises logically from Charlotte Bronte's devilish plot twist that arises during Jane and Rochester's hurried wedding. Wasikowska is an apt choice for Jane, with captivating calm and certainty that sustain the heroine through the most trying times. Jane does not lapse into victimhood, even when moors and men alike threaten to overpower her. Judi Dench as Mrs. Fairfax, the Thornhill housekeeper, can be eerie enough as she emerges from the shadows and cozies up to Jane, with an almost too-friendly twinkle in her eye. But she also provides comic relief to alleviate the ominous mood.

I'm not sure if Michael Fassbender is an ideal Rochester. He portrays his conflicted feelings toward Jane well, and plays their intimacy well. But he's more dry than arrogant in his first scenes, and too tamped down (I would say) to seem like a man capable of great passions. Perhaps, though, as Fukunaga's otherwise excellent film seems to impart, the passions are not man's but God's. The true desire of this lot is to survive.

Ketchup or Mustard?

Some foods evoke strong feelings. Cilantro, for one, has passionate opponents. Then there's the following anecdote from The Washington Post, June 2009:

When President Obama and Vice President Joe Biden stepped out recently for a couple of burgers... the president asked for mustard, preferably a Dijon style, while the vice president went for ketchup.

Whether we admit it or not, we define ourselves by our place on the ketchup-mustard spectrum. I am a firm mustard-arian. We are a Far Left-leaning people, open to possibilities and varieties. Mustard ranges from yellow to dark brown, from your standard bottle of French's to Grey Poupon, from grainy deli mustard to fusion with horseradish. Lest you think I'm painting mustard as stuffy, let me remind you that it need possess no whiff of class distinction. There's hot mustard in every Chinese restaurant, and honey mustard in every Chick-fil-A. Sure, it's a demanding condiment. The full-bottle shake is necessary, especially with American yellow mustard. But a little investment is necessary for maximum sandwich gain.


Worst Halloween costumes ever.



Notice how particular the mustard user is. Obama didn't just ask for mustard; he specified his preference. How could a ketchup consumer possibly compete? Is one ketchup different than any other ketchup? Ketchup is a food of consistency, familiarity, and comfort. (I know a few people firsthand who would agree that ketchup is a "food," not just a "condiment.") The ketchup lover goes for ketchup every chance he gets. I daresay that complimentary foods (i.e. French fries) might be even be ordered by the ketchup lover just so that he may eat ketchup with them. Refer back to Biden above: the president "asked" and discussed his mustard persuasion; the vice president simply "went for ketchup." No choice necessary. Simple as pie.



And what things these lovers pair with ketchup. Mac and cheese! Scrambled eggs! Note that the ketchup lover is adventurous when he finds food for his ketchup to mate with. He may not be as culinarily conservative as I implied. But with these strange pairings, there is often a slight apologetic acknowledgment: "It's actually really good, I mean it. But I would never put ketchup on this-that-the other." An aura of veiled shame has descended upon the ketchup community, as if they were afraid to expose their true nature beyond the hotdog stand.

If Joe Biden endorses it, it's a BFD. Hopefully those Far Right ketchupers will come out, one and all (the first step is admitting...), and find some middle ground with we mustard-arians. I'm willing to believe there's room on a hamburger for both of us.

Oscar Season 2010 Round-up

Though the first year of the "teens" produced few Great Films, there was consistency. The top ten at the Oscars, a pack of seldom-changing wolves throughout the award season, moved from Western to lurid thriller to little-seen indie, but all were good popcorn flicks. With the possible exception of Winter's Bone (which I have not seen), ponderous, weighty "films" were off the menu. Message boards raged over the spinning top from Inception, or the was-she-or-wasn't-she psychology of Black Swan--but in the end, both aimed for entertainment. They were no more than movies.

Take The Town. Ben Affleck never seems more at home than in Boston. He assembles an impressive ensemble for an action-packed thrill ride through the streets of Charlestown. Who cares if the apex of Charlestown crime was twenty years ago? All right, the script does indulge in Beantown stereotypes, especially Blake Lively as a white-trash townie. But Affleck embraces the adrenaline of his hometown, delivered with zest by hothead Jeremy Renner and briefly by the late Peter Postlethwaite.

Need two more hours of dropped r's? The Fighter elevates what could be a standard boxing comeback narrative into a superbly acted character piece. Christian Bale chews through the most scenery as ex-prizefighter Dicky, now a crack addict training his brother Micky Ward. Bale, along with fiesty mom-manager Melissa Leo and new supportive but tough girlfriend Amy Adams, tend to overshadow Mark Wahlberg as Micky. But Wahlberg's quietness supports Micky's struggle to find his own voice amid his rambunctious but passionate Lowell community.

King George VI seeks a tutor to regain his voice, marred by a constant public stutter, in The King's Speech. When the sublimely witty Geoffrey Rush tutors Colin Firth (an assured performance) through Pygmalion-like breathing/ shouting/swearing exercises, the picture is delightful. The conflict is largely internal, though the intrusion of deliciously sinister Guy Pearce as Edward VIII (king for a hot second) hints at the external tensions that are lightly touched on--Edward's Nazi sympathies, for instance. Director Tom Hooper avoids the air of stuffy British period films, though the wide-angle lenses used make for some odd (and overstated) cinematography that jars with the subtle work of his cast and script.

Pearce also surfaces in this year's breakout Australian hit Animal Kingdom. When Joshua Cody's mother dies, he moves in with his grandmother "Smurf" Cody and her three sons, who are notorious Melbourne criminals. Jacki Weaver is eerily maternal as "Smurf," overflowing with love but unafraid to resort to any measure to protect her family. The script shuttles back and forth, sometimes lacking in clarity, but the film spins a web of violence and mistrust. Down Under, all bets are off; Animal Kingdom has an edge 2010's big Hollywood releases can't match.

The enigmatic Banksy takes some edge off a street artist's process of creation and installation in the excellent documentary (mockumentary?) Exit through the Gift Shop. Is his subject Mr. Brainwash, an amateur filmmaker, legitimately transformed into a bonafide artist by emulating Banksy, Shepard Fairey, and the rest? Street art often has an everyman charm. But the work remains mysterious even as its creators are shown covering walls with murals at night. How else could we respect it (and should we)? Banksy seems to say, catch me if you can. I make movies, too.

Let's Hear It for PD!

The world may end in 2012, according to the Mayan long-count calendar and George Lucas. But book publishers are nervous about 2019... the year of great copyright change.

Most books you read (unless you're devoted to Dickens or Wharton) were published in the last ninety years, I imagine. Probably after 1923. Everything published before 1923 in the U.S. is public domain. So you can post it on your blog, tweet entire chapters from it, give dramatic readings at cocktail parties. But everything 1923 and after is... dun dun dun... copyrighted! (More or less, if copyright was renewed. But that's a whole messy can of money-hungry worms.) F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise (1920) is PD; The Great Gatsby (1925) is not. This works with films, too: Do whatever you want with The Birth of a Nation (1915), but hands off Gone with the Wind (1939).

As the twentieth century rolls along, copyright law gets more and more confusing. But works from 1923 until 1977 are PD after 95 years. Once their near-century is up, we can sell bootleg copies in the streets for profit. So all those books published within 1923 will cling to 2018 desperately, then bam! Up for grabs on New Year's Day.

Let's say that Disney doesn't try to renew rights to Mickey Mouse. Let's say the 95-year rule sticks. What literary gems will the copyright tidal wave release in 2019?

Honestly, not much. Willa Cather's estate might shed a tear for A Lost Lady, which will become PD. Then in 2020, all we'll really get is E.M. Forster's A Passage to India.

But 2021 is when the floodgates really start to open. Download your free e-books of An American Tragedy, Mrs. Dalloway, Manhattan Transfer, and The Great Gatsby. And soon it's on to The Sun Also Rises, Elmer Gantry, Death Comes for the Archbishop, and To the Lighthouse.

Yes, folks, it's time to plan your Oscar-winning adaptations of these classics. (Unless Baz Luhrmann gets there first.) Just keep the PD on the DL around Mickey.

Brazen Saddles

Review: True Grit

Courage, tenacity, reckless determination: just a few implications of the Coens' newest film's title. The brothers' quarter-century body of work speaks to these qualities; their films throttle between comical eccentricity and bleakness verging on horror. Some are sure-headed while others quaver (often the lighter films like Burn after Reading and The Ladykillers). But they persevere into the curiouser and curiouser Wonderlands of small towns and the Wild West.

Their movies are masculine, focused on man's conviction. The film stock is often grainy, a deliberate "indie" touch. Their casts can verge on caricature, laced with colorful tics and regional vernacular. So where does True Grit land in this (simplified, of course) look at their career? It's the second adaptation of Charles Portis' novel, and a surprise major hit at the box office. Despite the prominence of notorious marshal Rooster Cogburn, True Grit is a woman's story.

Mattie looks back from middle age on her one experience riding with the men: her quest to avenge her father's murder. A girl of firmly braided hair and near-ministerial tongue, she hires Cogburn to hunt down the culprit Tom Chaney, and resolves to accompany him. Out in the wilderness, Mattie sees her Old Testament thinking realized with the eye-for-an-eye violence of their journey. Hailee Steinfeld plays Mattie Ross as an adult unaware she's only fourteen, or that she's entering a man's world. As her travel companions, Jeff Bridges and Matt Damon make ideal foils. Bridges is eager to get his hands dirty; he sputters and mumbles with comic panache, then drops the swagger instantly when the going gets rough. Damon plays the level-headed fool LaBoeuf with dignity, with a sweet paternal protectiveness toward Mattie. The story falters a little when they reach Chaney at last, the encounter too chance and the villain bland. But it's back on track with the requisite good guy-bad guy showdown.

I watched John Ford's 1939 film Stagecoach, possibly the first great Western, just after True Grit. Many reviewers find the Coens' work here more traditional than usual. They honor the genre, but with the toll that seventy years of Westerns have taken. Casualties are few in Stagecoach, and the horses are not sacrificed. But though True Grit's body count is lower than most Coen efforts, their contemporary lens records how random violence can be. Even the innocents who are spared will be wounded. Having grit wins shootouts, just like the good old days, but no one escapes the consequences.

The Razzie Hunter (Where's The Tourist?)

Yawn. Ten nominees for Best Picture, and at least nine of the ten films are already locks. Mark my words, this week's noms will hold few surprises. What to look forward to instead?

THE 31ST ANNUAL RAZZIE AWARDS (with MY predictions)

WORST PICTURE
The Bounty Hunter
The Last Airbender
Sex and the City 2
Twilight Saga: Eclipse
Vampires Suck

Of all these films, Jennifer Aniston and Gerard Butler should be the most ashamed. We knew what to expect from the rest. And why is The Bounty Hunter always on my Netflix home page? Shockingly, it's the highest rated of these five on IMDB (with a lustrous 5.2).

WORST ACTOR
Jack Black, Gulliver's Travels
Gerard Butler, The Bounty Hunter
Ashton Kutcher, Killers and Valentine's Day
Taylor Lautner, Eclipse and Valentine's Day
Robert Pattinson, Eclipse and Remember Me

Hard to blame Valentine's Day or Eclipse on one single actor. But don't you get the feeling Ashton has Punk'd us once too often? This could be an award for career lowbrow acting (a.k.a. Where did your That 70's Show potential go?).

WORST ACTRESS
Jennifer Aniston, The Bounty Hunter and The Switch
Miley Cyrus, The Last Song
The Four "Gal Pals", Sex and the City 2
Megan Fox, Jonah Hex
Kristen Stewart, Eclipse

Megan Fox could win for her Mickey Rourke tattoo. But I'm giving it to the veterans. Ladies, do you need a new swimming pool? A third house in Maui?

Danny Boy, You Must Go and I Must Bide

Review: Rabbit Hole

Fifteen minutes in, I heard rustling behind me. Soon enough, a mother had scooped up her bags and headed out of the theater with her ten-year-old son. I suppose that there are still people in this world who go blindly to the movies, who buy tickets to Rabbit Hole assuming it's for kids, then are surprised when the film starts. Those who knew the premise of John Cameron Mitchell's film, I think, might also have registered some surprise at its often sunny execution.

Mitchell gained cult status for being outrageous, or at least boyishly defiant: the drag-rock spectacle Hedwig and the Angry Inch and overtly sexual Shortbus were his first films. He handles David Lindsay-Abaire's scenes with the restraint that Ben Brantley noted in the original stage script: "This anatomy of grief doesn't so much jerk tears as tap them."

Eight months after her four-year-old son, Danny, is struck by a car, Becca Corbett (played by Nicole Kidman) struggles to find direction. Lindsay-Abaire avoids the obvious melodramatic tics that could have marred or sentimentalized Becca's recovery. Though she and her husband Howie (played by Aaron Eckhart) fall into shouting matches, we feel an underlying stability in their marriage. But they keep their secrets: Becca follows the high-school-aged driver who caused the accident, due more to chance than his negligence; Howie smokes pot with a friend from group counseling. The film focuses closely on the Corbett family, who has been sidelined with tragedy before.

Nicole Kidman, an actress of natural restraint herself, deserves praise for producing this adaptation, one that required four distributors. She suits smaller projects better than lavish studio remakes. The cast has adopted her instinct to internalize. Kidman's dry pinches of humor flesh out a woman unconvinced by the "God talk" in group, and rankled by her mother's (Dianne Wiest) comparisons to her own grief. Eckhart and Wiest are sympathetic and understated, and Miles Teller is especially refreshing as the bright but scared driver. If much of the drama feels small and familiar, Kidman and company never overplay their hand. "Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time," Becca confesses, as if allowing the audience to feel Rabbit Hole's unexpected positive energy.