Community food hub 18 Reasons has always had the back of the well-meaning kitchen newbie. With a cafe space, educational programming, and tasting events geared towards making a healthy, sustainable diet doable, since 2007 when the organization’s co-founders brought in Bi-Rite Market, a happy partner for the little space located a block from the family grocery store’s Mission digs. Now, the reach of 18 Reasons has grown even more. The non-profit working to create social change through food has merged with Three Squares, a neighbor food organization with a happily congruent mission to feed.
Both 18 Reasons and Three Squares aim to slow things down when it comes to the way we eat. Both non-profits serve through nutrition lessons and cooking classes with a healthy planet bent. Major difference? Three Square’s offerings, up until this point, have been free, focusing more closely on the low-income families who want to learn about eating well.
Three Squares’ founder — the now-executive director at 18 Reasons Sarah Nelson tells the Bay Guardian, “our goal is to teach people — no matter what neighborhood they live in — how to maximize their food resources. We believe the best way to fix our food system is by building skills and forging relationships among people across the economic spectrum.”
The idea for the merge arose after the companies began working on a few projects together. “I realized we had a very similar mission but were reaching out to difference audiences,” Nelson says. “I didn’t want to leave Three Squares – it is my baby. So I proposed merger.”
The merged companies will operate under 18 Reasons’ moniker, stay at its 18th Street location, and continue to hold its signature classes which include: cooking courses, urban gardening school, and various other workshops.
Three Squares will bring the group’s “Cooking Matters” course to the table. The six-week course – with different sections designed for adults, kids, and teens – includes an hour of nutritional education followed by an hour of hands-on cooking. The courses, designed for adults and teens, focus on cooking, while the kid’s section is aimed more towards getting young’ns to taste and appreciate new foods. Graduates of “Cooking Matters” walk away with a free bag of ingredients so they can go home and practice what they’ve made in class.
Recipes taught in Cooking Matters vary from class to class, but Nelson tells me dishes like veggie quesadillas, tilapia with cilantro sauce, and English muffin mini-pizzas have been students’ past favorites.
“Our classes target home cooking,” says Nelson. “We are not teaching professional cooking skills. Our courses are for people who want to cook at home with their family.”
If you need to up your own kitchen skills but don’t frequent the Mission, don’t worry. “Cooking Matters” courses are conducted in community health centers, schools, food pantries, social services offices, and other sites all over the Bay Area.
As exhaustive and definitive as our cover story on the break-out fame of the Internet’s Cat Pack was last month, still the masses clamored for more. Specifically, they wanted Henri le Chat Noir.
Who can blame them — Seattle’s existentially wracked feline inspires Christopher Walken to reference his videos mid-interview and whose short film Henri 2, Paw de Deux was declared the best of the Internet cat offerings by the dearly departed Roger Ebert. He figured prominently on our Cat Pack cover flirting with Luna the Fashion Kitty, but clearly, we would be remiss not to hear from the laconic cat himself, particularly now that he has a recently-released coffeetable book to shill.
“I think people seem to lump cat videos together by nature, and often in a dismissive way,” says Will Braden, who Henri fans will recognize as the “thieving filmmaker.” “Sometimes it works to refer to ‘cat videos’ as one entity, but often it doesn’t. There isn’t much alike between an Henri video and a five-second grainy cell phone video of a cat sneezing and falling into a bathtub, other than the fact that they both have cats in them.”
Henri (who was born Henry and adopted from the Seattle Animal Shelter as a kitten) has seen his Internet fame massaged and engineered sleekly by Braden, who told me in an email interview that he works full-time on the Henri machine, driven by artfully shot Youtube videos and now including an online gift shop featuring mouse pads and mugs.
“My business cards just say, ‘I make cat videos.'” says Braden. “I get a lot of personal messages from people saying that they really enjoy reading Henri’s Facebook messages every day, particularly if it’s a stressful day. The Facebook page in general, really has become a community for cat lovers, and I know a few people who have found comfort there after losing pets.” He says he tries to use Henri’s popularity by raising money for cat shelters ($5,000 in 2012 — Braden’s goal is double that for 2013) and occasionally for fans with sick kitties of their own.
But you won’t see Henri posing with Bob DeNiro at Tribeca Film Festival, or appearing in Friskies commercials [CORRECTION:Henri is indeed tied up in the Friskies cabal], as have his Cat Pack peers.
“Henry is kind of a homebody, and I have to remember that unlike some other celebrity cats who seem to really like traveling around, Henry would hate it,” says Braden. “Since he doesn’t get to reap the benefits of fame and fortune, it would really just be putting him through aggravation for my own benefit.”
Anyway, enough human flapjaw. Braden was kind enough to facilitate an Internet encounter between myself and Henri.
San Francisco Bay Guardian:What is your essential reading list?
Henri le Chat Noir: Print is dead. Except for my new book.
SFBG:Has celebrity brightened your world, or only highlighted life’s bleakness?
HCN: Chasing celebrity is no different than chasing a little red dot. They are both fool’s errands. The thieving filmmaker chases fame, not me.
SFBG: Describe a day in the life of Henri.
HCN: Generally, I will spend some time after my second nap pondering the metaphor of life as an empty bowl. Then it’s dinner time, and then another nap.
HCN: I wanted to give people a glimpse into my philosophical ideas, without the interference and distortion of the thieving filmmaker. Of course, he found a way to plaster his name on the cover of my book anyway. He is truly shameless.
SFBG: In your book, you talk about the transition into adulthood (read: realization of existence as a cruel and arbitrary prison). Was there any particular event that precipitated your maturation?
HCN: One day, I was chasing a feather around in the living room. Every time I would just about catch it, it would slip through my fingers. Yet I could not give up. I had to have it. Then, after a while, I glanced up and saw that the feather was actually attached to a stick by string, and that it was being manipulated by one of my human caretakers. They were taunting me. All my effort had been for nothing. My innocence was torn away, and I felt the bleakness of life all around me. I held my paws over my eyes and wept…and they laughed and took pictures, saying I looked “cute”. What a cruel joke is life.
In Hollywood, summer starts in May, or even earlier … give it a few more years and there’ll be an Avengers tie-in movie ringing in the season in early February. This weekend’s “summer” blockbuster is Star Trek Into Darkness, directed by J. J. Abrams, who was recently tapped to helm at least the first film in the “Star Wars sequel trilogy.” Lotta stars in J.J.’s eyes these days. At least he’s having fun with it so far (my review of Darkness after the jump).
Also this week: he’ll soon be playing the villain in Man of Steel, speaking of summer blockbusters, but Michael Shannon first appears as a based-on-truth hitman in the very fine Iceman, reviewed here by Dennis Harvey. Also of interest, the first Himalayan Film Festival is now underway in various Bay Area theaters; I take a look at the doc-heavy line-up here.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ec_rPApKCA
Star Trek Into Darkness Do you remember 1982? There are more than a few echoes of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan in J. J. Abrams’ second film retooling the classic sci-fi property’s characters and adventures. Darkness retains the 2009 cast, including standouts Zachary Quinto as Spock and Simon Pegg as comic-relief Scotty, and brings in Benedict “Sherlock” Cumberbatch to play the villain (I think you can guess which one). The plot mostly pinballs between revenge and preventing/circumventing the destruction of the USS Enterprise, with added post-9/11, post-Dark Knight (2008) terrorism connotations that are de rigueur for all superhero or fantasy-type blockbusters these days. But Darkness isn’t totally, uh, dark: there’s quite a bit of fan service at work here (speak Klingon? You’re in luck). Abrams knows what audiences want, and he’s more than happy to give it to ’em, sometimes opening up massive plot holes in the process — but never veering from his own Prime Directive: providing an enjoyable ride. (2:07) (Cheryl Eddy)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Igf_ZmHr2I
Midnight’s ChildrenDeepa Mehta (2005’s Water) directs and co-adapts with Salman Rushdie the author’s Booker Prize-winning 1981 novel, which mixes history (India’s 1947 independence, and the subsequent division of India and Pakistan) with magical elements — suggested from its fairy-tale-esque first lines: “I was born in the city of Bombay, once upon a time.” This droll voice-over (read by Rushdie) comes courtesy of Saleem Sinai, born to a poor street musician and his wife (who dies in childbirth; dad is actually an advantage-taking Brit played by Charles “Tywin Lannister” Dance) but switched (for vaguely revolutionary reasons) with Shiva, born at the same moment to rich parents who unknowingly raise the wrong son. Rich or poor, it seems all children born at the instant of India’s independence have shared psychic powers; over the years, they gather for “meetings” whenever Saleem summons them. And that’s just the 45 minutes or so of story. Though gorgeously shot, Midnight’s Children suffers from page-to-screen-itis; the source material is complex in both plot and theme, and it’s doubtful any film — even one as long as this — could translate its nuances and more fanciful elements (“I can smell feelings!,” Saleem insists) into a consistently compelling narrative. Last-act sentimentality doesn’t help, though it’s consistent with the fairy-tale vibe, I suppose. (2:20) (Cheryl Eddy)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RXimuzHv6Ek
Something in the Air After accidentally causing a guard serious harm during a Molotov-cocktail revenge attack on high school campus police, floppy-haired Gilles (Clément Métayer) and his baby anarchist comrades have to scatter for summer vacation. He heads to Italy along with potential new girlfriend Christine (Lola Créton), the last one (Carole Combes’ Laure) having tripped off to London and Ibiza with her artist parents. Gilles wants to be an artist, too. As much of a narrative arc as there is here details his gradual shift from dedication to political ideology toward decisions that might help further his career and define his aesthetic as a painter (or maybe a filmmaker). Always interesting but never involving, Olivier Assayas’ somewhat autobiographical feature is a portrait-of-a-young-man exercise that’s ultimately a little too much like everyone’s freshman college year: Fascinating and life-changing if you were there, not so much if you’re just hearing someone else’s countercultural reminscences. Gilles is a petulant blank whose revolutionist convictions seem borrowed rather than felt — which may be the writer-director’s intent, but it’s hard to tell. Originally titled Apres Mai — a much more useful reference to the French far-left political tumult of May 1968 and its aftermath — this is one more cinematic attempt to encapsulate the “turbulent” 1960s (extending here into the mid-’70s) that at least fleetingly captures the era’s fluidity of sex, love, community, and ideology. And that’s far less successful at convincing us the beliefs our protagonists tout are anything more than an immature following of cultural fashion. It’s an incongruously passive movie about a time in which passion reigned. (2:01) (Dennis Harvey)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YJg0Qg8QRUU
Stories We Tell Actor and director Sarah Polley (2011’s Take This Waltz) turns the camera on herself and her family for this poignant, moving, inventive, and expectation-upending blend of documentary and narrative. Her father, actor Michael Polley, provides the narration; our first hint that this film will take an unconventional form comes when we see Sarah directing Michael’s performance in a recording-studio booth, asking him to repeat certain phrases for emphasis. On one level, Stories We Tell is about Sarah’s own history, as she sets out to explore longstanding family rumors that Michael is not her biological father. The missing piece: her mother, actress Diane Polley (who died of cancer just days after Sarah’s 11th birthday), a vivacious character remembered by Sarah’s siblings and those who knew and loved her. Stories We Tell’s deeper meaning emerges as the film becomes ever more meta, retooling the audience’s understanding of what they’re seeing via convincingly doc-like reenactments. To say more would lessen the power of Stories We Tell‘s multi-layered revelations. Just know that this is an impressively unique film — about family, memories, love, and (obviously) storytelling — and offers further proof of Polley’s tremendous talent. (1:48) (Cheryl Eddy)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dAt3NPalXAM
Sun Don’t Shine Prolific indie producer and actor (Upstream Color) Amy Seimetz’s debut as feature writer-director is a intriguingly ambiguous mumblecore noir about a couple on the run, à la Bonnie and Clyde. Crystal (Kate Lyn Sheil) and Leo (Kentucker Audley) are driving south through Florida — a state that seemingly always relaxes demands on intelligence and legality — with a handgun, innumerable anxieties, and something problematic hidden in the trunk. We gradually realize she’s unstable, though to what extent remains unclear. Seimetz’s refusal to spell out that and other basic narrative elements lends her film a compelling aura of mystery, one that heightens some striking, tense sequences but also can prove somewhat frustrating in the long run. (A little more insight would have made it easier to understand why the seemingly level-headed Leo has hitched his wagon to the increasingly off-putting Crystal.) Overall, though, it’s the kind of first feature that makes you eager to see what she’ll come up with next. (1:20) Roxie. (Dennis Harvey)
The annual Asian Heritage Street Celebration and fashion fever may not be automatically associated in the brains of Bay Areans. But then, most Bay Areans probably are unacquainted with the work of Runway Couturier — the group behind this year’s festival finale, featuring local designers from all across the SF fashion world, on Sat/18.
The show is what Runway’s executive producer Fritz Lambandrake dubs a “little fashion show that could.” But in actually, this is one catwalk that’ll help small-scale fashionistas to realize large-scale dreams. Presenting various Bay Area designers, Runway Couturier promotes young hopefuls free of charge — and even supplies them with fabric, courtesy of sponsor Linda Blake of Discount Fabrics. It is Lambandrake’s goal to “to use fashion as a bridge between cultures and communities”, as he told the Guardian, which explains the show’s presence at this weekend’s Asian Heritage Street Celebration. The fair will also feature cooking demos, live musical performances, a car show, craft market, a blessing by Thai monks, and food galore.
Although Lambandrake’s heritage lies elsewhere than the Asian continent, he says he feels honored to be a part of the event. San Francisco supervisor Jane Kim was the one responsible for hooking up Lambandrake and Asian Week Foundation, who produces the yearly street fair. “You should see her stiletto heels!” says Lambandrake of his well-shod politician connection.
Making their debut at the show three new designers: Sam Shan, Tina Maier, and Huab Vue. Shan, a 21-year-old Burmese political refugee, shows a collection inspired by the folktales of his homeland. Maier, a self-educated fiber artist, is a master manipulator of materials, and her collection is sure to be high-minded yet grounded, with a mishmash of thrift store finds, unique textiles., and re-purposed upholstery. Check out the AHSC site for a full list of designers.
A preview of Tomboy Tailors‘ highly anticipated genderqueer debut collection will stalk the catwalk, and there will be a competition for the best designs of the day, judged by a discerning panel including drag mistress Donna Sachet and Supervisor Kim.
Runway Couturier at the Asian Heritage Street Celebration
In this week’s issue, Guardian visual arts Matt Fisher singled out some highlights of the big ArtPadSF and artMKT shows, which open tonight and run through Sun/19. Here’s a slideshow that shows you what he was talking about. Artist descriptions after the jump:
Benson’s sometimes gooey, sometimes crunkly digital video/experimental software work breathes some ragged, frenetic energy into the standard trope of “relationships between the body and technology.” His piece is scheduled to be projected from the Phoenix onto the six-story building next door at 8pm, Thu/16-Sat/18.
Justine Frischmann, Unspeakable Projects
Frischmann’s paintings look like something that one of those spiders on Benzedrine would make. If it lived inside an Etch A Sketch. And used neon spray paint. During a dust storm. Trust me, these are compliments.
David Hevel, Marx & Zavattero
Hevel makes collaged sculptures and sharp pop abstract paintings, usually riffing on American celebrity. His work at the fair will be very MTV 1983.
Scott Hove, Spoke Art
Will Oaklander Hove be showing one of his intensely drugged up fanged wall cakes, a knotted rope work installation, or a surrealism-on-meth painting? Yeah, it all sounds good to me, too.
Jason Kalogiros, Queen’s Nails Gallery
Kalogiros makes edgy, dense, cerebral, photo-based works, lately by manipulating found commercial images. I’m hoping to see a couple from his series of Cartier and Bvlgari watches.
Ed Loftus, Gregory Lind Gallery
Loftus does photorealism pretty much the right way, by marrying intense attention to detail with an obsessive and neurotic subject matter that crawls under your skin ever deeper the more time you spend with it. While you’re in Gregory Lind’s space, also check out Thomas Campbell and Jovi Schnell.
Matt Momchilov, Unspeakable Projects
Momchilov queers punk and rock fandom in the traditional sense of the word, meaning his paintings and sculpture snatch and redirect standard accoutrements of punk fanboys and girls to point that hardcore laser focus in new directions and at more fey subjects.
Gregg Renfrow, Toomey-Tourell
I won’t blame you one bit if you try to lick Renfrow’s luminous, vibrating color field abstractions. His meticulous, precise, wondrous paintings are like visual everlasting gobstoppers, and I fully expect that by the time I see ’em, they’ll have a layer of saliva all over.
Jonathan Runcio, Queen’s Nails Gallery
Runcio makes incisive 2 and 3D work that takes traditional hardedge abstraction in the art concrete vein, shacks it up with remnants of urban architecture, and has a post-formalist lovechild.
The fair’s Collector’s Lounge will be showing Arnold’s video created to accompany the richly saturated, haunting landscape photos that will be showing offsite at the gallery.
Carol Inez Charney, Slate Contemporary
harney’s complex photographs were the single most outstanding thing I saw last year at ArtPad. That’s complex like a personality, not like your taxes. A year later, I’m prepared for the brainfreeze again.
Amanda Curreri, Romer Young
Curreri’s precisely conceived conceptual color and abstract works are subtle in that they tend to yield only small nibbles at first pass, but they’re deceptive that way, and usually end up smacking you around by the time it’s all over.
Lauren DiCioccio, Jack Fischer Gallery
DiCioccio has recently been applying her super-meticulous needlework to fastidiously x-ing out individual letters in pages of books, as an act of both scrutiny and physical redaction of the received, mediated world.
Joshua Hagler, Jack Fischer Gallery
Somewhere in the Hamptons summer home where Glenn Brown and Lucian Freud are renting with Mark Tansey and Matthew Day Jackson, Hagler is stoned on the couch making fart noises with his armpits. That is also a compliment.
Claire Rojas, Gallery Paul Anglim
Sure Gallery Paul Anglim shows Barry McGee, but I’ll be looking at the Rojas paintings, whose hard edge and off-kilter abstractions of interior architectural spaces are spot-on and mesmerizing.
Diane Rosenblum, Slate Contemporary
Rosenblum switches up hyperanalytical and conceptual works that incorporate research, crowdsourced interactions, and photography. I’m hoping to see images from a series of recent photos that work Flickr comments into the image.
Dana Hart Stone, Brian Gross
I can’t wait to examine Hart Stone’s paintings up close, which in the past have been made by repeatedly transferring or printing antique images in rows onto canvas. Also at Brian Gross are Bay Area stalwarts Roy de Forest and Robert Arneson.
Esther Traugot, Chandra Cerrito
Traugot combines found organic objects with crochet. I know what you’re thinking, but this is not a Portlandia skit. She does it the right way, promise.
It would be foolish to turn down the offer of cost-free Billy Idol on a Wednesday night, but I could have remembered that I live in San Francisco and high profile rock ‘n’ roll will like as not, come served with a side of goober.
This is to say, that I went to the Google I/O developer’s conference last night. The buffet’s waffle fries were not great and I heard the mini-chicken pot pies were worse, but I did get a chance to watch DJ Steve Aoki give shout-outs to “technooooology!”, allowing a techie or two who promised to get him a Google bus to clamber on stage and flop about next to his set-up.
Through a complicated and unexplained series of events, my date at Dave’s with a man who owns a VW van turned into a trip to the Moscone Center for what I would later learn was a $900 opportunity to hear about Big Goog’s new answer to Spotify in the yearly conference’s three-hour keynote speech.
Sadly, our posse got there too late to see Idol (Rolling Stone was on time.) But we managed to catch Aoki’s triumphant remixes of Kid Cudi and Kendrik Lamar, and the bitter end of the after-hours portion of the conference, which Google characterized thusly:
Google I/O After Hours will be a hyper-visual, heart pounding journey, providing hands-on interactive experiences and sophisticated recreation and featuring awe-inspiring technology and live musical performances like no other. We’ve teamed up with the best global visionaries to present to you their dynamic experiments, heightened realities, and magical experiences.
There was a mechanical hand that mimicked its user’s motions (these largely entailed “pointing a gun” at Steve Aoki and vaguely heil-like salutes as I watched), fake living room sets you could digitally manipulate from a touchscreen, light-up lilypads, photobooths, IPA on tap, and food offerings that would have made the house cook at any college fraternity mildly proud (three bean salad!) Many people were wearing Google Glasses. At a concert?
I was not prepared for all the Burning Man in evidence (did that woman wear those chaps for the entire conference or was that special for Idol?), including this man yes, wearing Google Glasses. He also owns a glowing fur company. “It’s called Electro Fur,” he told me, handing me a card. “So, www.electrofur.com?” I asked politely. “You know it.” Check out his “Elegance” collection, and don’t forget a tail to top it all off. If anyone wants to buy me the $250 furkini top promising “a ridiculous amount of fun”, I’m with it.
Many of us barely remember growing up there, meeting our first hot papi, trying out our first cha cha heels on stage, and living the Selena dream. And some of us go back every week to relive those experiences! Now, that many-mirrored treasure trove of characters, Esta Noche, may have to close its doors — forever.
The whole situation’s due to a silly technicality: Last year, the Board of Supes passed widely supported legislation designed to make it easier for bars and clubs to pay their licensing fees. But there was a catch no one properly understood: bars would now have to pay all fees for the year in one large lump sum. Supervisor David Campos is working to change this, but it may be to late for the fantastic characters of this beloved bar.
So his office, via scenester mover and shaker Nate Albee, is helping organize the big time fundraiser — assisted by an all-star cast including Heklina, Anna Conda, Per Sia, Brown Amy, and DJs Carnita and Taco Tuesday.
You have no reason not to explore California’s freakishly gorgeous lands now. The treehuggers over at the Redwoods League (who have purchased more than 190,000 acres of the trees for conservation since the group’s inception in 1918) have released their first-ever parent’s guide to the behemoth old-growth beauties. This means day trips sensibly arranged and explained so that even the couch-bound and fresh air-phobic can figure out which woodses are best for them. Which redwood park operates a nursery? A science center? All in the guide, available for the price of your email address.
To aide you even further, Redwoods League director of outreach Jennifer Benito gave us her top picks for redwoods to take the parentals to, the most impressive stands to wow your out-of-towner babes, etc. Click through for the League’s detailed info on visitor centers, trails, and hidden treasures in each of the parks on her list.Here’s Benitos faves:
Most wow-worthy stand to impress visitors? Prairie Creek, Jedediah Smith (which has the densest old-growth trees in the state), and Del Norte Coast Redwoods State Park (eight coastal miles of gorgeous views).
For even more redwood adventures, check out the League’s ace interactive map, which lets you search by geographic location for your ideal redwood jaunt. The group will release its guide to sequoias in the fall.
Rocky Horror turns 40, still crazy after all these years.
Who doesn’t have fond memories of their first Rocky Horror Picture Show experience? Ok, mine are mixed since the first time I saw it was on an old black-and-white television with my father, avoiding eye contact and trying not to laugh too hard at the ribald bits. It wasn’t until I finally saw it on the big screen in the company of peers — armed with rice, noisemakers, and snarky quips — that the full potential of its subversive pleasures revealed themselves more fully.
Part of the fun of repeated viewings of the Rocky Horror Picture Show is emulating the character you most want to be, and for a curly-haired, goth-inclined teenager, the clear choice was Magenta, whose stone-faced cool and extraterrestrial sensuality were so beyond the straitjacket of smalltown teenhood, that to walk an evening in her spike-heeled shoes was akin to a declaration of, well, something. Call it freedom. Peaches Christ does.
“The Rocky Horror Picture Show was my ‘It Gets Better’ video,’ she told the cheering oddience assembled at the Victoria Theatre for the 40th anniversary of the original Rocky Horror Show, the slapstick, Ed-Wood-meets-Charles-Ludlam Rock Musical that, two years later, became a film destined to be the best known midnight movie of all time.
Deviating from the tried-and-true Midnight Mass formula of movie screenings, this Rocky Horror birthday bash took the form of a tribute concert at a respectable 8pm, with multiple singers cast in the iconic roles of the universes’ best-beloved Transylvanians, live music provided by the Whoa Nellies, and quick-and-dirty narration by Peaches Christ herself, synopsizing the negligee-thin plotline that happens between all of those undeniably catchy songs: “The Time Warp,” “Touch-a Touch-a-Touch Me,” and “Hot Patootie, Bless my Soul”. Channeling her inner Tim Curry, PC also provided the vox and corseted eye candy on “Sweet Transvestite” slyly replacing her planet of origins, “Transsexual, Transylvania,” with “San Francisco, California”.
But by far the highlight was the moment that the original Magenta — Patricia Quinn — stepped onstage in a sleek leather suit and handfuls of glitter, to sing the opening song she’d been cheated out of 38 years ago when Richard O’Brien took it over for the movie version, accompanied by a visual of her bright red “stunt lips.” My still-practically-teenaged heart be still. Quinn’s still got. It. That elusive, effusive cool. As does the whole freaking musical, which, stripped of the mostly laughable dialogue and B-Movie special effects, really rocks. Not bad for a 40-year-old who regularly stays up until 3am and can’t ever seem to remember to wear pants. Oh, Rocky!
Lest a single inch of stage space go wasted, almost every role was played by a minimum of two performers, including Dr. Frank-N-Furter portrayed mainly by seasoned Rocky Horror vet Jef Valentine, with a counter-point appearance by former X Factor contestant, Jason Brock, who sang a soulful “I’m Going Home” to an interstellar techno backing track provided by Marc Kate aka Never Knows. Exceptions were Musical Director Peter Fogel who pulled double duty as the titular boy toy and the imitable Leigh Crow as Eddie, ‘cause there can only be one Eddie, and really, that Eddie can only be Leigh Crow. And now that such a stellar lineup is already in place, here’s hoping Peaches will do a 40-year bash for the film version, too, come 2015. Don’t dream it, darlings. Be it!
We’re talking about basketball, NYC pick-up announcer legend Bobbitio “Kool Bob Love” and I, but our conversation is hardly hinging on the Warriors-Spurs match-up or LeBron James’ shot at MVP this year. Rather, we’re discussing the power of the men and women ballers on the playground — a culture that Garcia and French filmmaker Kevin Couliau painstakingly documented for their film Doin’ it in the Park, which begins its Bay Area run at the Clay Theatre on Thu/16.
“There wouldn’t be an NBA without pick-up basketball,” Garcia tells me in the voice made famous by his narration of countless pick-up tournaments, his pioneering ESPN feature on sneaker culture, and his turn as the New York Knicks’ first Latino broadcast team member. “Our culture and movement has informed every level of organized basketball. It’s informed even hip-hop fashion — all the iconic sneakers have taken their cues from pick up basketball.”
Pick-up powerhouse Niki Avery takes it to the boys in a shot from Doin’ it in the Park
Given the subject matter, the DIY style in which the duo shot Doin’ It was fitting. “I was sleeping on Bobbito’s couch,” while filming the movie, says Couliau, checking in via phone from France. The videographer grew up on the ball courts of his homeland, and learned about NYC’s thriving basketball scene — the metropolitan area is home to no less than 700 outside courts — through the Internet. Small wonder that the Frenchman eventually wound up in the Big Apple documenting the game in the gorgeously shot music video for rapper Red Cafe’s “Heart & Soul of New York City”.
Garcia caught wind of the short and proposed a feature-length project that turned into Doin’ it in the Park. To shoot the film, the duo traveled (“90 percent by bike,” says Bobbito) to 180 borough courts.
The film lands candid commentary that assesses playground ball going back decades from court legends like James “Fly” Williams, takes viewers to the court at the Rikers Island jail complex, investigates court-side style (be careful where you wear your NBA jersey, let’s just say), talks to women who’ve found their home under hoop like Niki “the Model” Avery, and documents game from all kinds of players.
Garcia says diversity in age, race, and social standing on court is a trademark of pick-up ball. To illustrate his point, he tells me about a game he ran in which his teammates were, “a Wall Street banker, a priest, and two homeless dudes. Where are you going to find that variety engaging in physical activity anywhere?”
Doin’ it in the Park, Garcia says, is one the most important projects he’s worked on — which is saying something. The man created Bounce Magazine, the first magazine devoted to the art of pick-up. He’s the voice on the NBA Street and NBA 2K videogames, written for Vibe, has turned guest roles in Summer of Sam and Above the Rim. His half-time commentary at Madison Square Garden for the Knicks was a crowd favorite. His hip-hop radio show with Stretch Armstrong in the early ’90s was called the best ever and gave airtime to an unsigned Notorious B.I.G. and Jay-Z.
Garcia says that pick-up courts in New York dispell the notion that young people eschew sports for smart phones these days. If you’re gotten your fill for the day of Stephan Curry’s three-point percentage, one of this week’s Bay Area screenings of Doin’ It would be a fresh look at the streetside passion for b-ball.
“It’s hard to say who are the [current pick-up] stars,” says Garcia. “If I go to Staten Island and destroy everybody, it’s not going to show up on ESPN. There’s a lot of great players, but most of them aren’t really known.”
Raise your hand if performance comedy stylist Sandra Bernhard is an ever-present entity in your cultural firmament. Is she the voice of your internal monolouge when you’re feeling powerful?
Bernhard’s mark on popular culture is everywhere. Remember her cameo in Truth or Dare, in which she encourages Madonna to go ahead and meet that young Spanish actor Antonio Banderas? I like to imagine that Bernhard (“Sandra”) and I have it like that — I can fly her out to my hotel room when I’m just sooo bored of hanging out with the back-up dancers. I want her always sitting on a stool with that wall of ’90s hair, gold hoops, knotted silk button-down, a la 1990’s Without You I’m Nothing. May she drawl about tambourines and poppers 4eva.
Presented with the opportunity to speak with the comedian on the phone last week in advance of her Thu/16 andFri/17 shows at Bimbo’s[UPDATE: THURSDAY’S SHOW HAS BEEN CANCELED — THU/16 TICKETS HONORED AT FRI/17 SHOW]– her first in SF in two years — I swooned, without a particular Bernhard performance in mind to warrant my weak knees. After 30-plus years of feminist — she sometimes takes issue with this descriptor, at-times positing her work as “post-feminist” — one-woman performances, movie roles (Tribeca Film Festival recently re-released 1983’s King of Comedy, in which she acts alongside Robert Deniro and Jerry Lee Lewis as a deranged celebrity stalker), Bernhard needs no cultural footnote nor highlights reel. She’s just impressive.
Finally, our phone interview. We wind up talking about getting naked for Playboy, which she did for a pictorial at the magazine’s urging in 1992.
“I was an early Lena Dunham,” Bernhard tells me. “I was saying here I am. I’m not the girl next door, bottled blonde. I’m a fierce, intense woman and they let me be who I am. That was a real, post-feminist statement, when I did Playboy.”
Those pages of boobs and defiance were published many years ago, of course. But please ignore the New York Times, because Bernhard has not mellowed out, despite the fact she’s booed up at 57, with a 15-year daughter she cites when I ask her for her feminist heroes.
“I’m just not snarky – I certainly haven’t lost my edge,” Bernhard affirms. She counts herself, however, as savvier, perhaps a bit warier of celebdom amid the all-access, run-your-mouth Twitter era. These days, she’s focusing her energies on the I Love Being Me, Don’t You? tour, and on recruiting promising young filmmakers to write her some worthwhile movie roles. “Something multi-dimensional, that have more heft to them,” she specifies. “It’d be fun to do something akin to a Catherine Deneuve, Helen Mirren vibe. Maybe I don’t have the chops for it… Something with deep emotion and mystique.”
I already know Bernhard’s take on Sarah Palin and gang rape, but there is so much to cover in our precious 20 minutes of being phone friends. Talk about… this moment in feminism!
“I see a lot of women in comedy who do this weird, morning-after drunk, sexualized spiel that they have,” Bernhard says in a thinly veiled dig at the Chelsea Handlers of the world. “I don’t really relate to it or find it particularly interesting. But then there’s great people like Kristin Wiig and Amy Poehler, these women who are really comfortable in their groove – they don’t feel the need to be redundant.” When I press on about her female heroes, Bernhard tells me about her daughter’s assured group of friends, the young woman she met at the raw food store, teachers, nurse practitioners.
Even me! She thinks I am “young, smart, and groovy,” if only for asking her “the right questions,” which I think meant questions about ladies and things. This is high praise, and I will no doubt still be blushing at her Bimbo’s show later this week.
About that show. “It’s a road map of my life and where I’m at,” says Bernhard, who has been working and developing that particular routine for the last year and a half, tweaking it until I Love Being Me, Don’t You had morphed into what could almost be counted as a different production.
“It’s like adding onto your house, and before you know it you have a brand-new house,” the comedian reflects. Can I come in?
If you thought the theatricalized story of a jaunty and imperiled Scottish regiment in Iraq in 2004 would come off as a sort of “Trainspotting meets Black Hawk Down,” you wouldn’t be too far off the mark — in a very positive way. I’ll leave the nuts and bolts reviewing of full-force National Theatre of Scotland via American Conservatory Theater’s spectacular “Black Watch,” (through June 16) presented at the huge Mission Armory, to my colleague Robert Avila in next Wednesday’s Guardian. But my first thoughts upon emerging from Sunday night’s opening performance, after I cleaned the constant stream of expletives from my ears (and a bit of something from my eye) is that yae fookin’ coonts moost sae this pish, i.e. the production and performances are well worth the gasp-inducing $100 ticket price.
As is, I guess, a reminder of the — hey, ongoing! — sorry state of our “misadventures” in that part of the world. Ten years later, we have to drop a Benjamin for a complex, moving, and engrossing take on what just happened, or any take whatsoever, pretty much. That it also includes a lot of nifty multimedia effects (a surprisingly malleable pool table basically co-stars), affecting and thrillingly performed choreography, a bit of fascinating history, and some old Scottish ballads — oh yes, there will be bagpipes — is icing on the erroneous Occupation.
Less plot-driven than situation-oriented (within the framing device of a “researcher” interviewing former squadron-mates at a pub, the story of the 300-year-old Black Watch Scottish fighting force’s dissolution in Iraq is told through clever reenactments), Gregory Burke’s play, first performed in 2007, keeps its ideological cards tucked slightly up its sleeve. But it pulls no punches when it comes to the hella screwy “facts” on the ground. It also toys with the Mametian trope that language is a real sharp double-edged sword, especially the language of power in crisis, when all the misogyny, homophobia, sexphobia, and racism comes howling through the seams of ballsy mens’ speech. One wondered how the more delicate members of A.C.T.’s regular subscription audience was taking all the “fucks,” “cunts,” and every other realistically used expletive, all fenced in by a true yet penetrable thicket of brogue.
One also wondered how many of them knew they were sitting in a giant BDSM porn studio — a famous fact left out of the program’s introduction to the “Armory Community Center,” a.k.a. Kink.com HQ, the timeline of which conveniently ends in the late 1970s, and has the gall to state that “plans to convert the building into a full-time film studio did not come to fruition.” Ahem. Aaanyways. For those of us in the know, it made the porn jokes a lot more funny.
The location also resonates with military history, of course. It was built in the early 1900s to help quell any union strikes or labor demonstrations downtown … with hundreds of troops armed to the teeth. The wee irony of a play about an occupation staged here isn’t lost. But the genius of the location comes through in other ways. On first hearing ACT was hosting the play here, I immediately thought it would involve dozens of extras and a full orchestra. The play, however takes place in a modest (if very large compared to other locations) draped off part of the armory, and the often-eerie backing music is recorded. It is up to the cast, numbering a mere 10, to bring a full war and its aftershocks to a life big enough to fill the physical and mental space, which they do with aplomb.
They’re aided by a panoply of well-executed mulitmedia efects, culminating in a series of tragic explosions that ripple outward into the Armory’s enormous space. Those explosions can’t help but remind of the recent Boston marathon explosions, permanently televised into our senses. So much blood, so many severed limbs, the media and government weren’t afraid to show us in that bombing earlier this year. And yet 10 years ago, I remember seeing hardly any blood at all, let alone any troops’ bodies, in the long, long, then too-short coverage of the “Iraq War.” How far we’ve come, and haven’t come at all since then, “Black Watch” reminds us.
Short takes on wider releases below, including The Great Gatsby, a film adaptation that finally realizes F. Scott Fitzgerald’s deathbed wish: that one day, his most beloved work would be shot in garish 3D. Clearly, only suckers read booksanymore.
AftershockDumped into theaters without fanfare or advance screenings, this collaboration between co-scenarist/producer/star Eli Roth and Chilean director Nicolás López deserves better — it’s possibly the most luridly entertaining of numerous recent jokey homages to retro grindhouse cinema. Roth plays a character known only as Gringo, a divorced Yank lawyer on vacation traveling around Chile with two local friends, brash Pollo (Nicolás Martínez) and mopey Ariel (Ariel Levy). Their tour of raves, clubs, drugz, and tail-chasing — the rare warm-up half-hour that’s actually very funny and enjoyable — comes to an abrupt halt in Valparaiso. Partying with three newly met multinational lady friends (Lorenza Izzo, Andrea Osvárt, Natasha Yarovenko) they find themselves caught in a major earthquake — and the carnage that it causes is just the beginning of their woes, as crisis piles upon crisis. Spinning ’70s disaster-flick tropes toward crass gore-horror, Aftershock is gleefully trashy enough to get away with outrageous cruelties, including mortal harm served out to characters shockingly high on the cast list. (1:30) (Dennis Harvey)
The CrumblesThe awkward slackers and damaged hipsters of The Crumbles live in a sun-strafed, paved-over Los Angeles habitat of coffee shops, taco trucks, bookstores, budding filmmakers, and living room band practice. Darla (Katie Hipol) is slouching nowhere fast when her zany, charismatic cool-girl chum Elisa (Teresa Michelle Lee) enters the picture, looking for a place to crash. Elisa’s wacky, erratic, and unreliable, but she’s also capable of generating real excitement — and a mean little keytar hook — and the girls’ band, the Crumbles, gets off the couch and threatens to get all involved to bust out of their shells. Though director Akira Boch never quite dips into the deep background of his characters’ various dysfunctions — the threatened readings of Darla and Elisa’s psychic friend never quite sheds light — the first-time feature filmmaker has a real feel for the drifting, up-for-anything quality of Cali 20-somethings and an appreciation for their highs and lows that makes this familiar, loving, lets-put-on-show-kids update compelling. (1:13) Roxie. (Kimberly Chun)
The Great Gatsby Every bit as flashy and in-your-face as you’d expect the combo of “Baz Luhrmann,” “Jazz Age,” and “3D” to be, this misguided interpretation of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic tale is, at least, overstuffed with visual delights. For that reason only, all the fashion-mag fawning over leading lady Carey Mulligan’s gowns and diamonds, and the opulent production design that surrounds them, seems warranted. And in scenes where spectacle is appropriate — Gatsby’s legendary parties; Tom Buchanan’s wild New York romp with his mistress — Luhrmann delivers in spades. The trade-off is that the subtler aspects of Fitzgerald’s novel are either pushed to the side or shouted from the rooftops. Leonardo DiCaprio, last seen cutting loose in last year’s Django Unchained, makes for a stiff, fumbling Gatsby, laying on the “Old Sports” as thickly as his pancake make-up. There’s nothing here so startlingly memorable as the actor and director’s 1996 prior collaboration, Romeo + Juliet — a more successful (if still lavish and self-consciously audacious) take on an oft-adapted, much-beloved literary work. (2:22) (Cheryl Eddy)
Kiss of the Damned This first feature by Xan Cassavetes isn’t remotely like the Method-y angstfests her late father John used to direct (although he did act in upscale genre movies like 1968’s Rosemary’s Baby and 1978’s The Fury). Instead, it’s an homage to the erotic European horror movies of the late 1960s through early ’80s, with further nods to Dario Argento, 1983’s The Hunger, and other fan-bait. Mysterious Djuna (Joséphine de La Baume) is immediately attracted to hunky screenwriter Paolo (Milo Ventimiglia), and vice versa. But she’s reluctant to follow through, and when he presses, she explains why: she’s a vampire, albeit the respectable kind who only “hunts” wild animals. When he decides that is a drawback he can deal with, they seem set to spend an undead eternity together. Unfortunately, they soon get an unwelcome guest in Djuna’s sister Mimi (Roxane Mesquida), a classic “bad girl” type who has no such compunctions about feasting on “stupid humans,” and whose recklessness threatens the cover of any associated fellow vampire. Like its models, Kiss drags at times, and probably will seem too arty and slow to those attuned to mainstream current horror cinema. But if you’re a dweeb enough to know who the likes of Jean Rollin and Jess Franco are, this aesthetically slavish (on a faithfully low budget) salute to their sexy-bloody vintage schlock should amuse, with Steven Hufsteter’s original score an encyclopedia of vintage Eurotrash soundtrack tropes. (1:37) (Dennis Harvey)
Love is All You NeedCopenhagen hairdresser Ida (Trine Dyrholm) has just finished her cancer treatments — with their success still undetermined — when she arrives home to find her longtime husband Leif (Kim Bodnia) boning a coworker on their couch. “I thought you were in chemo” is the closest he comes to an apology before walking out. Ida is determined to maintain a cheerful front when attending the Italian wedding of their daughter Astrid (Molly Blixt Egelind) — even after emotionally deaf Leif shows up with his new girlfriend in tow. Meanwhile brusque businessman and widower Philip (Pierce Brosnan), the groom’s father, is experiencing the discomfort of returning to the villa he once shared with his beloved late wife. This latest from Danish director Susanne Bier and writing partner Anders Thomas Jensen (2006’s After the Wedding, 2004’s Brothers, 2010’s In a Better World) is more conventionally escapist than their norm, with a general romantic-seriocomedy air reinforced by travel-poster-worthy views of the picturesque Italian coastline. They do try to insert greater depth and a more expansive story arc than you’d get in a Hollywood rom com. But all the relationships here are so prickly — between middle-aged leads we never quite believe would attract each other, between the clearly ill-matched aspiring newlyweds, between Paprika Steen’s overbearing sister in-law and everyone — that there’s very little to root for. It’s a romantic movie (as numerous soundtracked variations on “That’s Amore” constantly remind us) in which romance feels like the most contrived element. (1:50) (Dennis Harvey)
PeeplesKerry Washington and Diahann Carroll star in this Tyler Perry-produced family drama set in the Hamptons. (1:35)
Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf’s This glossy love letter to posh New York City department store Bergdorf Goodman — a place so expensive that shopping there is “an aspirational dream” for the grubby masses, according to one interviewee — would offend with its slobbering take on consumerism if it wasn’t so damn entertaining. The doc’s narrative of sorts is propelled by the small army assembled to create the store’s famed holiday windows; we watch as lavish scenes of upholstered polar bears and sea creatures covered in glittering mosaics (flanking, natch, couture gowns) take shape over the months leading up to the Christmas rush. Along the way, a cavalcade of top designers (Michael Kors, Vera Wang, Giorgio Armani, Jason Wu, Karl Lagerfeld) reminisce on how the store has impacted their respective careers, and longtime employees share anecdotes, the best of which is probably the tale of how John Lennon and Yoko Ono saved the season by buying over 70 fur coats one magical Christmas Eve. Though lip service is paid to the current economic downturn (the Madoff scandal precipitated a startling dropoff in personal-shopper clients), Scatter My Ashes is mostly just superficial, fan-service fun. What do you expect from a store whose best-selling shoe is sparkly, teeteringly tall, and costs $6,000? (1:33) (Cheryl Eddy)
Many of us have encountered various bits of street name history along our travels, but here was a comprehensive aggregator that was fun to play with, and covered James Lick Freeway to Main Street, all in one handy spot. Did you know that Baker street was named after Edward Dickinson Baker, the lawyer who defended accused US Marshal killer Charles Cora, before Cora was lynched by the Vigilance Commitee in 1856? Or that Moraga was named for José Joaquín Moraga, founder of San Jose? Or how about Germania — it’s actually named after German people!
(One thing you do realize after a couple of minutes is that most of the streets are named after dudes, both military and wealthy. Maybe going forward, SF will institute gender parity naming regulations, like Berlin just did.)
I wanted to talk to Noah more about what inspired him to make the map, where he got his info from, and if the SF map — and the mapping project as a whole — would continue to grow. So I sent him an email. Here are the smart, and smartly civic, things he had to say
“I’m a Web developer by trade, I’ve always made interactive graphics like this for fun, although this is probably my most ambitious (you can see some of my other side projects here). I grew up on the peninsula, and lived in San Francisco for the last 4 years, but I moved to London in January for a one-year fellowship doing interactive graphics and data journalism at the BBC.
“I made the map because I thought it would be a neat way to take San Francisco’s colorful history and connect to everyday experience, give you a new sense of your neighborhood and your city. I used to walk down these streets all the time and never had any idea that they all pointed to so many larger-than-life characters and pivotal events. The names tell stories that you couldn’t make up if you tried: duels, saloon shootouts, mob justice, espionage, overnight millionaires, explorers, tycoons, battles, rebellions. They also give you a lot of insight into people who in some cases literally built the city, people who created its skyscrapers or its railroads or its parks. That kind of local history has an immediacy you don’t get when you’re learning about something like the Founding Fathers. You walk past it on your way to work every day.
“There were a number of surprising histories to me, like the fact that Main Street isn’t a generic name, it’s named after Charles Main. I also never knew Crissy Field used to be a military airfield – I’m sure there’s a plaque explaining that somewhere but I had never come across it. Some other favorites:
“I got the information from lots of places — a few different books, but also old news clippings, military records, historical society sites, that sort of thing. Usually I would start with a claim that a street was named for somebody, and then find as much corroborating evidence as I could, and if it seemed solid, research for other colorful details about the person’s life. Needless to say it was a time-intensive process.
“I’ll definitely be adding more to the map over time, there are lots of histories missing, and I’ve gotten lots of helpful tips from others since posting the map. Some streets are left out by design though. Many are self-explanatory or don’t have a historical component (for example, lots of names are just Spanish words or trees or foreign cities), I wanted to focus on ones that would be interesting and not clutter up the map with the rest. I also had to leave out a lot of ones with potentially interesting histories that were hard to verify. I wanted to be careful about not presenting rumor as fact, and there’s plenty of rumor to go around when it comes to how the streets got their names. It’s a tough balancing act, a lot of judgment calls, and I’m sure I still got a few wrong.
“This wasn’t originally meant to be a larger project, but once I got deeper into it I realized that I’d really like to expand it to other cities, so I’m going to be working on that in the coming weeks. I’d like to work on additional cities myself (maybe LA and London next) but I’d also like to generalize the template and create blank versions for lots of cities in the world and open them up for others to work on. I’ve gotten tons of feedback from folks who would be excited to make something similar for their home cities, and I’d love to help make that happen.
“As far as other upcoming projects, in addition my work at the BBC and taking the street name map beyond San Francisco, I’m hoping to start on a project to visualize diasporas from different countries around the world.”
Commuting to work, we speed walk. In the evenings, we run for our girlish figure. After a Saturday night at the bar, some of us may even be prone to a drunken crawl. But whatever happened to the classic, ohsoromantic afternoon stroll? As the weather begins to heat up across the Bay, outdoor art walks and historical tours are popping up left and right. Whether you want to check out what’s new in the art world or what’s old in the architecture scene, ditch your sacred spot on the couch for a cultured wander.
Divisadero Art Walk
Art, drinks, and ice cream – need we say more? This spring’s annual Divisadero Artwalk returns for its first installation in five months. A few businesses participating in tonight’s walk: Onyx Boutique, Big Umbrella Studios Gallery, the dangerously tasty Bi-Rite Creamery, and more. This spring’s walk has taken an organizational lead from Madrone Art Bar, which is hosting an art-packed evening. On the agenda is a tap takeover from Calicraft Brewing from 6:10pm, an art reception for computer scientist and kinetic artist Brent Thorne and “Portrait of America”, a project that traveled nationally capturing Americans in photo booth portraits. After you’ve had your art fix, take to Madrone’s dance floor for some disco tunes.
Thu/9, 5pm, free. Divisadero between Golden Gate and Haight, SF
Victorian Era Oakland walking tour
Lace up your leather boots and corset to become one with the Victorian architecture of Oakland’s Preservation Park. Home to the First Unitarian Church, East Bay historic building the Pardee Home Museum, and more than a dozen elegantly restored 19th century homes, the park stands out as a relic of old Oakland charm. If living near San Francisco has provided you with enough Victorian architecture to last a lifetime, choose from one of the seven other tours happening between now and October which cover the buildings of Old Oakland, Chinatown, and more.
Sat/11, 10am, free. RSVP at (510) 238-3234 or aallen@oaklandnet.com. Preservation Park, Martin Luther King, Jr. and 13th St., Oakl. www2.oaklandnet.com
Saturday Stroll
So the crowds at Oakland’s First Fridays are a little wild for your taste? Head to Uptown Oakland for the weekly Saturday Stroll – a quieter, yet equally artsy alternative. One exhibit highlighted at this week’s stroll, “Lobbyscapes”, features the work of artist Phil Gaughy who gives inanimate objects a life of their own. McGaughy explains, “I have come to think that certain minerals and elements may be sentient, and can adapt to new environments with their own technologies.” His chameleonlike wall reliefs in the Latham Square Building’s lobby and other ambiguous, abstract pieces are but one exhibit worth checking out among many.
Uptown, Lake Merritt and Secret Rooftop Garden Walk
After you’ve been schooled in the Victorian history of Preservation Park, travel north – and about 20 years ahead in time – to Uptown’s sparkly, Art Deco landmarks. Throughout the 90-minute adventure history, savvy volunteers will walk you past the Fox and Paramount theaters, as well as the jazzy, blue-and-silver Floral Depot. The tour will also take you up to the Kaiser Center’s secret rooftop garden for a camera-worthy view of Lake Merritt. Because what better way to wrap up a walk than in a perfectly manicured rooftop garden?
May 15, 10am, free. RSVP at (510) 238-3234 or aallen@oaklandnet.com. Paramount Theatre, 2025 Broadway, Oakl. www2.oaklandnet.com
Get out your glue sticks girls, it’s time to get crafty. Turns out, all that glitters really is gold for summer campers who will wind up at the girls-only craft camps that Curious Jane is hosting in Marin County this summer. Young women aged six to 12 will glean a wealth of knowledge from DIY-centered classes aimed towards not just inspiring creativity, but cultivating critical thinking skills through projects — costume design, storyboarding graphic novels, toy design, and more.
The Brooklyn-based company, which employs all female camp counselors, is bringing its contribution to girl power to the West Coast for the first time this summer. Curious Jane founder and mother of two Samantha Razook Murphy wanted to provide her daughters with a space to create collaboratively in an high-energy, girl-powered environment — so she made it herself.
Curious Jane is celebrating its cross-coastal arrival with what it’s calling a hackerspace for girls on May 19, followed by a three-week summer camp session at the San Domenico School in San Anselmo starting July 29. That camp will include the workshops, and a place for girls to engage in hands-on, project based classes exploring basics in design, building, and science, fostering a sense of individual empowerment in a group setting.
The camp’s marketing director Melisa Coburn was eager to hype the arts ‘n’ crafts-a-rama. “My daughter attends the programs and I can tell you from the “mom’ perspective that girls LOVE the programs”, she tells the Guardian in email.
Keep your daughters off the couch this summer — this camp looks great, and the May 19 event would be a great chance to give it a test run.
Make It/Take It hackerspace for girls
May 19, 12:30pm – 4pm, $20 or $15 if you bring a friend
I thought that the booming voice yelling across the backyard of Anderson Valley Brewing Company, hosts of the vaunted Boonville Beer Festival, would be bearing tidings of “shut the hell up and go to sleep.” After all, it was 1am and many of the pros camping in the shady glen designated for brewers had a long day of pouring stouts and ambers in the hot sun ahead at the May 4 festival.
But I had misjudged the staying power of bearded and hop-obsessed hippiefolk.
“I want to hear some partying!” concluded the voice. We beckoned the rambling brewer who’d dropped by our camp to pour another finger of barleywine, double-checked our Ibuprofen cache, and kept one blurry eye on the 24-year old apple farmer talking about oral sex in Boontling, Boonville’s appealingly vulgar indigenous dialect, by the campfire. I heard later accounts of brewers staying up all night communing with toads in the creek that lined the back edge of the Anderson Valley Brewery’s makeshift campgrounds.
Boonville is no refined urban pourfest. “This is the beer festival you have to go to,” confirmed a crew member of Concord’s Black Diamond Brewing. If you enjoy sweeping mountain landscapes, 90 degree heat, and beer from across the state, you will agree. Boontville is epic, one-day setting for the 60-some breweries on tap each year.
Tips gathered around the campfire the night before the one-day festival: drink slowly, don’t drop your tasting cup, don’t get stuck in the fairground’s horse corral, keep an eye out for the actual indoors bathrooms for a break from the Port-a-Pots.
I’ll admit I fell back on the stalwart Hell or High Watermelon Wheat ale from the home team 21st Amendment Brewery. I am not an ironclad beer drinker and by my way of thinking, the 90 degree heat that ruled May 11 in Anderson Valley was not ideal for coffee stouts no matter how delicious. Pro drinkers avoided joining in on the standard beer fest hollering that hails a dropped tasting cup, and focused their energies on finding the off-menu small-batch specialties being poured, like Black Diamond’s brandy barrel-aged Grand Cru.
SF’s thriving microbrew scene was well-represented by Speakeasy, Magnolia, Pacific Brewing Lab. The city kids were joined by scores of breweries from across the state — Sacramento’s Rubicon, San Diego’s Societe, and the coastal Pizza Port were a few of the exciting new brews we tried.
Beer’s great and all, but Boonville’s small-town trappings made a bright day of beer-drinking a cultural event.
The Anderson Valley Lion’s Club was selling BBQ tri-tip sandwitches for $10 ($12 with veggies.) I’m not big on the mammal-eating, so my boozy friend suggested I ask them for a grilled cheese. Larry Lombard, a Lion of 25 years and self-described “wingnut over in Boonville — that makes me a flyboy,” told me I was SOL on veg-friendly eats at the Lion’s tent. No big deal — proceeds from the festival go to fund the Club’s two college scholarships, given out yearly to local high school students, and judging from the tent’s traffic, they were going to make some academic dreams come true this year.
“This year it looks like it’s going to be good,” Lombard said. “We try just as hard on the bad years as the good years, though.”
Tucked away in the shade, the well-coiffed ladies of Anderson Valley Historical Society were working hard selling water bottles and Boontling dictionaries for donations and fending off the advances of dehydrated gentlemen.
Boontling in action
“A lot of the stuff has sexual connotations.” (Forgive me, gray-haired angel, for not writing down your name! Blame the Watermelon Wheat.) The ladies and I were discussing Boontling, whose origins are debated. Was it created by the local fishermen, as written in the dimunitive Boontling dictionary I took home, or as the apple farmer told us and I prefer to believe, invented as a code used by the local wenches to throw shade at the city wife some poor Boont man brought home with him?
At any rate, the verbal language was first officially studied by a California State University-Chico professor named Charles Adams. The dialect is largely referential, meaning most words originate from local landmarks. Maybe your cousin Sandy is a little slutty (this being the example used by the apple farmer) — you’ll sub in the word “Sandy” for “floozy.” The adding on of new words to see if your conversation partner will catch it is referred to as “sharking,” making Boontling a dynamic language.
Maybe. “I think it’s gonna die,” said the Historical Society expert. “However, there seems to be interest in it now.” Mainly from the media, she said. She directed me to town’s two premier Boontling linguists for more info. She had one the guys’ digits memorized.
Here are some of my fave words from the Boontling mini-dictionary I copped, entitled A Wee Deek on Boont Harpin’s (A Little Look at Boont Talking). I advise memorizing them and trying not to irritate the locals using them when you make the trip up north for next spring’s fest:
Apple head: girl friend
Burlapper: (not actually in dictionary, but the ladies of the Historical Society urged me to write it down, “burlapper” being some sort of four-letter word serving as both noun and verb)
Jeekus: donkey or mule
Jimheady: confused; unclear mentally; suffering from a bad hangover
In noir, it’s the clichés that play best: the hardboiled Private Eyes with sharp reflexes and the hardhearted women with secrets to keep. Archetypes, almost, they stand in for something larger than themselves, larger than us, extravagantly idealized Everypersons colored with just enough of the mundane to seem believable, each tawdry crime scene standing in for a twisted version of the American Dream gone horribly awry.
In Dan Harder’s “A Killer Story,” playing at the Berkeley Marsh through May 18, the detective, Rick (Ryan O’Donnell) cuts a familiar figure in a shabby suit, wise-cracking his way through seemingly endless interrogations of his clients, the dame and the duped business partner, both of whom have cause to suspect the other of treachery. Throw in a missing man, a ground-breaking scientific discovery, and an undercurrent of sexual licentiousness, and stir them together with a swizzle stick, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for a martini of “Killer” suspense.
The dame, a ferociously icy Madeline H.D. Brown, and the dupe, a furiously twitchy Robert Parsons, flank O’Donnell from opposite sides of the moodily-lit stage (lighting courtesy of Erich Blazeski). He plays the suspicions of each against the other, waiting for one to break, inadvertently setting them both up for a far greater fall from grace than even he can predict. Harder’s grasp of the tough talk of classic noir juxtaposes nicely with his humorous references to present-day markers such as email and anti-smoking regulations. A bit less successfully rendered are the experimental sections of “zippered” dialogue—overlapping lines of cleverly complementary phrases—which call attention to themselves every time they’re trotted out and do little to propel the momentum of the piece. But there’s a wicked pleasure in a crime story that holds not just human nature but the art of the tale culpable for murder, a juicy twist tastier than any lemon rind.
In the usually hushed galleries of SF MOMA, the stories one typically encounters are of a quieter kind: didactic curator statements of the various artworks on display and biographical information of the artists plus the viewer’s own internal interpretations of what they see. That these interpretations might take fanciful flight into a realm of random association and spontaneous fiction is an undeniable yet under-acknowledged part of the museum experience. It’s this silent side of art appreciation the experimental Storytelling in the Galleries program attempted to give voice to, with some heady results.
Four local solo performers — Victoria Doggett, Sharon Eberhardt, Mia Pashal, and WL Dherin — each wrote and performed a story inspired by a quartet of unique art works. Doggett’s tongue-in-cheek love letter to the untitled, undefended Robert Gober torso crafted from beeswax and human hair was the first story on deck, followed by Eberhardt’s odyssey of an art student enraptured by the muted palette of Philip Guston. Pashal passionately dissected the concept of the artist’s muse while positioned before Jim Dine’s textured canvas of a giant heart bloating around a c-clamp while Dherin narrated a tale as witty and wondrous as the Fred Tomaselli work that inspired it. It wasn’t immediately clear what the effect of these articulated fantasies had on the museum-going public at large, but they certainly added a fascinatingly interactive layer to the typically hands-off gallery experience.
Had TLC’s Dance Moms lead me astray? I expected cut-throat twirlers and an atmosphere you could cut with a sharpened acrylic nail when I arrived at the April Follies same-sex dance competition on April 27.
But against all television precedent, the vibe at Follies’ 11th annual competition, which was held at Just Dance Ballroom in Oakland had more to do with back pats than stabs. Competing dancers joked around on stage and cheered each other on from the sidelines. During breaks, contestants and supporters danced together for fun. For fun!
Kalin Mitov and Michael Winward from Boston
April Follies is the largest and longest running same-sex dance competition in North America. Open to beginners and professionals alike, the event drew in competitors all the way from places such as Boston, Denmark, and London.
The all-day event began with competitions for beginner and intermediate dancers in styles such as: American smooth, West Coast swing, country-western, and Argentine tango. The competition went on pause for a buffet dinner, free dance lessons, and dance social, resuming in the evening with the “Showcase of Champions,” for which the more advanced dancers took to the stage.
Competitors rehearse in Just Dance Ballroom
April Follies organizer Barbra Zoloth tells me that the competitive same-sex dance community emerged Stateside when the dance world got wind of the fact that there were a significant amount of same-sex dancers out there cutting a rug. “[Dance authorities] added to their rules that the definition of a couple is a man and a woman,” Zoloth says. “The only way we could compete, the only way we could have our own sort of same-sex dance community, was to create our own competitions.”
Just as it is in the queer community’s debates over gay marriage, the issue of whether assimilation equals equality is a frequently debated topic in the dance world. Zoloth says some would like to be accepted into mainstream competitions because it is only fair to have equal opportunity, whereas others aren’t so interested in a merger because it won’t feel as comfortable and supportive as the atmosphere that rules in same-sex competitions.
Competitors and their supporters danced together during breaks
To be eligible to compete in the Follies, couples must both be the same sex, or have a female leader and male follower – no opposite sex, male leading couples are allowed here.
But Zoloth wants it to be clear that the event isn’t meant to exclude anyone. “We don’t care what people’s sexual preferences are,” she says. “We got straight people. We got gay people. We got in-between people. As long as it’s either two women, two men, or a female leader, male follower you’re welcome.”
The competitors at April Follies appeared genuinely happy to be part of this small, but growing community. Certainly, when everyone knows and dances with everyone, it becomes difficult to scowl at your competition.
Competitors line up on stage for the results
As I speak with professional dancer and owner of Vima Dance Studio, Photis Pishiaras he informs me that three of his students were performing alongside him in the competition. April Follies event organizer Phil Siegel chimes in to say that he also dances a Pishiaras’ studio, and proceeded to give it a rave review.
Politics aside, April Follies was at its core a bright day for the same-sex dance community to come together and do what they love. Pishiaras puts it best when he says, “whether it’s same-sex or straight, dancing is dancing.”
For a full list of 2013 Follies competition winners, dance over here
If you or someone you know ate at Nordstrom Cafe at Stonestown Galleria on April 16, 17, 18, 20, or 27, there is a risk of contracting typhoid fever — eek. A restaurant worker has been diagnosed with the infectious disease. Full press release and more info from the SF Department of Public Health below:
Typhoid Fever in Restaurant Worker
Department of Public Health Issues Alert for Customers Who Ate at Nordstrom Café in Stonestown Galleria
San Francisco, CA—Officials at the San Francisco Department of Public Health announced today that a local restaurant food handler was diagnosed with typhoid fever. The public health investigation is ongoing, but based on current information, health officials believe the infectious disease was acquired by the food handler during a trip outside of the United States.
Anyone who ate at the Nordstrom Cafe within the Nordstrom store in the Stonestown Galleria in San Francisco on April 16, 17, 18, 20, or 27, 2013 may be at risk. Health officials advise these individuals to see a healthcare provider right away if they start to experience symptoms such as fever, weakness, stomach pains, headache, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, or loss of appetite. In some cases a rash of flat, rose-colored spots may appear. Symptoms usually begin within 8 to 14 days after exposure, but could potentially appear for up to 30 days.
“Unfortunately, symptoms of typhoid fever can resemble other illnesses,” said Tomás J. Aragón, MD, Health Officer for City & County of San Francisco. “Persons who are at risk because they dined at the Stonestown Nordstrom Cafe on one of those dates should see a healthcare provider right away if they are feeling unwell, and should tell their physician that they may have been exposed to typhoid fever. There is testing and effective treatment available. If you suspect you have typhoid fever, do not prepare food or drink for anyone and do not care for young children, hospitalized patients, or persons with weakened immune systems.”
Typhoid fever is an illness caused by the bacterium Salmonella enterica serotype Typhi. Although death is uncommon, typhoid fever can be severe and life-threatening. In the United States, 300-400 cases of typhoid fever occur each year, and most of those are acquired during international travel. People are at risk of typhoid fever if they eat food or drink beverages that have been handled by someone who has typhoid fever, or if sewage contaminated with the bacteria gets into the water supply used for drinking or food preparation. Typhoid fever is still common in the developing world, where it affects about 22 million people and causes about 200,000 deaths.
The only way to know if an illness is typhoid fever is by testing samples of stool, blood, and urine for the presence of Salmonella enterica serotype Typhi. Typhoid fever can be successfully treated with appropriate antibiotics, and persons given antibiotics usually begin to feel better within 2 to 3 days. Although untreated typhoid can potentially be fatal, deaths from typhoid fever are uncommon in the United States. However, persons with typhoid fever who do not get treatment can continue to have fever and feel unwell for weeks or months. Even if their symptoms go away, persons with typhoid fever may continue to pass typhoid bacteria to others, and so they should not handle food or care for children, hospitalized persons, or those with weakened immune systems until further testing proves that typhoid bacteria are gone from the body.
Nordstrom at Stonestown Galleria is cooperating with the Department of Public Health in the investigation to ensure that the public and their workers are informed and protected.
For more information about typhoid fever, go to http://www.cdc.gov/nczved/divisions/dfbmd/diseases/typhoid_fever/
This week: the 56th San Francisco International Film Festival continues (our second week picks here); hippie cult doc The Source Family opens at the Roxie (my interview with the filmmakers, who were able to access vast amounts of archival footage shot by the group itself, here); and Iron Man 3 follows the exploits of Tony Stark, Lord of Winterfell. My review of that low-budget indie that you probably haven’t heard of below, plus more! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JNMljhftcWY
At Any Price Growing up in rural Iowa very much in the shadow of his older brother, Dean Whipple (Zac Efron) cultivated a chip on his shoulder while dominating the figure 8 races at the local dirt track. When papa Henry (Dennis Quaid) — a keeping-up-appearances type, with secrets a-plenty lurking behind his good ol’ boy grin — realizes Dean is his best hope for keeping the family farm afloat, he launches a hail-mary attempt to salvage their relationship. This latest drama from acclaimed indie director Ramin Bahrani (2008’s Goodbye Solo) is his most ambitious to date, enfolding small-town family drama and stock-car scenes into a pointed commentary on modern agribusiness (Henry deals in GMO corn, and must grapple with the sinister corporate practices that go along with it). But the film never gels, particularly after an extreme, third-act plot twist is deployed to, um, hammer home the title — which refers to prices both monetary and spiritual. A solid supporting cast (Kim Dickens, Heather Graham, Clancy Brown, Red West, newcomer Maika Monroe) helps give the film some much-needed added weight as it veers toward melodrama. (1:45) (Cheryl Eddy)
Bert Stern: Original Mad Man Mad man, cad man: both describe photographer Bert Stern, famed for his groundbreaking vodka ads as well as his “Last Sitting” session with Marilyn Monroe (a series he recently re-created, rather regrettably, with Lindsay Lohan). Now in his 80s, he’s coaxed in front of the camera by longtime muse Shannah Laumeister; though their closeness (despite a 40-year age difference) means Bert Stern: Original Mad Man contains a few uncomfortably intimate moments, it also makes for some remarkably candid interviews. And what a life he’s had, melding his voracious appetite for women with a talent for capturing them in stunning, creatively innovative photographs. Though his parade of exes (including celebrated ballet dancer Allegra Kent) remember him with a certain amount of curled-lip disdain, his iconic work — 1959 documentary Jazz on a Summer’s Day, the poster for former co-worker Stanley Kubrick’s 1962 Lolita (those heart-shaped glasses? Stern’s idea) — speaks for itself. (1:50) (Cheryl Eddy)
Iron Man 3 Neither a sinister terrorist dubbed “the Mandarin” (Ben Kingsley) nor a spray-tanned mad scientist (Guy Pearce) are as formidable an enemy to Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) as Tony Stark himself, the mega-rich playboy last seen in 2012’s Avengers donning his Iron Man suit and thwarting alien destruction. It’s been rough since his big New York minute; he’s been suffering panic attacks and burying himself in his workshop, shutting out his live-in love (Gwyneth Paltrow) in favor of tinkering on an ever-expanding array of manned and un-manned supersuits. But duty, and personal growth, beckon when the above-mentioned villains start behaving very badly. With some help (but not much) from Don Cheadle’s War Machine — now known as “Iron Patriot” thanks to a much-mocked PR campaign — Stark does his saving-the-world routine again. If the plot fails to hit many fresh beats (a few delicious twists aside), the 3D special effects are suitably dazzling, the direction (by series newcomer Shane Black) is appropriately snappy, and Downey, Jr. again makes Stark one of the most charismatic superheros to ever grace the big screen. For now, at least, the continuing Avengers spin-off extravaganza seems justified. (2:06) (Cheryl Eddy)
Kon-TikiThis Best Foreign Language Film nominee from Norway dramatizes Thor Heyerdahl’s 1947 Kon-Tiki expedition. (1:58)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7SQs2Y8drP8
The Reluctant FundamentalistBased on Pakistani novelist Mohsin Hamid’s award-winning 2007 novel, and directed by the acclaimed Mira Nair (2001’s Monsoon Wedding, 2006’s The Namesake), The Reluctant Fundamentalist boasts an international cast (Kate Hudson, Martin Donovan, Kiefer Sutherland, Liev Schreiber, Om Puri) and nearly as many locations. British-Pakistani actor Riz Ahmed (2010’s Four Lions) stars as Changez Khan, a Princeton-educated professor who grants an interview with a reporter (Schreiber) after another prof at Lahore University — an American citizen — is taken hostage; their meeting grows more tense as the atmosphere around them becomes more charged. Most of the film unfolds as an extended flashback, as Changez recounts his years on Wall Street as a talented “soldier in [America’s] economic army,” with a brunette Hudson playing Erica, a photographer who becomes his NYC love interest. After 9/11, he begins to lose his lust for star-spangled yuppie success, and soon returns to his homeland to pursue a more meaningful cause. Though it’s mostly an earnest, soul-searching character study, The Reluctant Fundamentalist suddenly decides it wants to be a full-throttle political thriller in its last act; ultimately, it offers only superficial insight into what might inspire someone’s conversion to fundamentalism (one guess: Erica’s embarrassingly bad art installation, which could make anyone hate America). Still, Ahmed is a compelling lead. (2:08) (Cheryl Eddy)
At the outset of Friday evening’s SFIFF screening of the ’50s-set French film Populaire, director Régis Roinsard offered two hints as to what lay ahead — noting that his SF sightseeing agenda had included a visit to Jimmy Stewart’s Lombard Street Vertigo residence, and encouraging the audience to stick around for a Q&A sampling of his Borat-level English proficiency. As it turned out, Roinsard handled the post-screening questions with slightly awkward but un-Borat-like charm (and occasional interpreter assistance). And the film itself — while featuring a man gripped by a daffy obsession involving a beautiful blond, who, come to think of it, is often seen sporting an updo — has a considerably lighter mood than the Hitchcock thriller, finding its tense plot turns and clacking rhythms within the fast-paced world of competitive typing.
Yes, typing, and perhaps if it weren’t the ’50s, this would be the fluorescent-lit story of a soul-sucking data entry job and the office drone who supplements it with a moonlighting gig. But it is the ’50s, a cheery, upbeat, non–Far from Heaven version, and Populaire invests with a shiny glamour the transformation of small-town girl Rose Pamphyle (Déborah François) from an incompetent but feisty secretary with mad hunting-and-pecking skills into a celebrated and adored speed-typing champion. The daffy obsessed guy is her boss, Louis Échard (Romain Duris), a handsome young insurance salesman who bullies her, but very charmingly, into competing against a vast secretarial pool in a series of hectic, nail-biting tourneys, which treat typing as a sporting event for perhaps the first time in cinematic history. (See also: scenes of Rose cranking up her physical endurance with daily jogs and cross-training at the piano.)
The glamour slips a touch when Populaire (Roinsard said he took the title from the Nada Surf song “Popular”; the word also translates as “working-class”) starts to delve into psychological motivations to rationalize some of Louis’s more caddish maneuvers. But meanwhile, back in the arena, bets are made, words-per-minute stats are quoted by screaming, tearful fans in the bleachers, hearts are won and bruised, a jazz band performs that classic tune “Les Secrétaires Cha Cha Cha,” and we find ourselves rooting passionately for Rose to best the reigning champ’s 312(!)-wpm record.
Fast-forwarding a few days and a couple decades, Olivier Assayas’s Something in the Air, which screened Monday night and opens theatrically May 17, depicts a France far removed from the modern-fairy-tale setting of Populaire. Set a few years after the strikes and street battles of May ’68 (the film’s original title is Après Mai, or “After May”), Something centers on a group of radical teenagers in the Paris suburbs grappling with riot police and questions of what use to make of themselves in the world. Only loosely plotted, the film is more a series of vignettes, tracking the restless progress of Gilles (Clément Métayer) and a handful of his cohorts through school’s end, their flight to an Italian squat for the summer after a political action at home turns violent, and the dispersal of the group to various world-map points.
School seems to be mainly a place to sell movement newspapers to other students, or to wheat-paste and graffiti-bomb the walls at night. Conversations revolve around political sectarianism and the pitfalls of bourgeois documentary-filmmaking impulses. And position speeches on revolutionary tactics and relationships alike are delivered with a flat dogmatism (Gilles’s friend Alain makes it through the entire two-hour film without cracking a smile) as the characters attempt to sort out their allegiances to political revolt, art making, and romantic entanglement.
While the youth of Assayas’s film seem to view their lives and actions against a vast panorama of political and social import, the heroine of Justine Malle’s Youth keeps her gaze trained on a smaller circle encompassing academic ambition, romantic and sexual exploration, and family, though the order of precedence shifts several times over the course of this small, somewhat slight coming-of-age film. Malle is the daughter of celebrated French director Louis Malle, who passed away in 1995, and Youth is a semi-autobiographical examination of a 20-year-old girl’s experience of losing her father amid a period of personal upheaval.
Juliette (Esther Garrel, daughter of director Philippe and sister of actor Louis) is in the midst of studying for entrance exams and falling in love (she believes) for the fourth time when she learns that her father has been diagnosed with a fatal and quickly moving virus. Unable or unwilling to fully register this terrible new reality, she spends little time with him at the country house where he lives with his third wife and their daughter, choosing to stay in Paris cramming for her exams and pursuing a lengthier sexual résumé.
This is some dark material to mold into story form, and in certain ways it feels as if Malle had trouble looking at it as she worked with script cowriter Cécile Vargaftig. It’s hard to know how much overlap exists between the events Malle experienced nearly 20 years ago and those Juliette goes through on-screen, but the film has the feel of a tight fit, with little room leftover to step back and gain perspective.
It was the best of sequesters: oh, Tribeca, how to wrap up the many, many days spent hidden away in the dark, watching flickering images dart across a screen? I can only try, as I speed through the best of the rest — and the notable not-so-muchs.
Kids these days: Poets and the young girls that love them are at the very funny heart of indie comedy Adult World, which is sure to make a star of Emma Roberts. She’s the shrill, just-graduated, wannabe-verse-slinger Amy, who’s moonlighting in an adult video store alongside hollow-eyed cutie Alex (American Horror Story’s Evan Peters) and hoping scuzzball genius will rub off if she “interns” (read: cleans house) for her favorite poet, Rat Billings (writ world-weary and hilariously cynical by John Cusack). First-time feature director Scott Coffrey (also, weirdly, a graduate of the same Honolulu high school where I did my own Amy impression) lets a few rough edges (i.e., edits) show, but it’s all good when the filmmaker winds up Roberts, playing the cringe-worthy Tracy Flick for the chapbook set, and lets her go.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6DJSGrfNbk
Just as funny — and very of-the-moment — is G.B.F., as in gay best friend. As in every Bravo-watching gal’s latest, greatest slice of arm candy. Tanner (Michael J. Willett of United States of Tara) is just your average, comic-book-reading closeted gay teen when bestie Brent (Paul Iacono) decides his path to social success will be established once he comes out as the first openly gay teenager at their high school. He’s sure to become the pet pick of the would-be prom queens: the girl-with-the-best-hair Fawcett (Sasha Pieterse of Pretty Little Liars), drama mama Caprice (Xosha Roquemore), and Mormon good girl ‘Shley (Andrea Bowen). Alas, the wholly unprepared Tanner gets outed first — and the battle for the O.G. G.B.F. ensues.
Working with a fast, sassy, and slangy script — and teen comedy vets Natasha Lyonne, Rebecca Gayheart, and Jonathan Silverman — director Darren Stein (1999’s Jawbreaker) has already traversed some of this uber-camp territory: yes, there’s a multiplayer saunter down a high school hall and a maj makeover montage. But the snappy, laugh-out-loud dialogue by first-time screenwriter George Northy (fresh from the Outfest Screenwriting Lab, as he discussed after the film in a Q&A with Stein and much of the cast), along with some high-speed-DSL improvising by the cast, made this one of the more effortlessly enjoyable — and commercial — movies at Tribeca.
Speaking of effortlessly commercial, I mean, adorable: It sounds like NYC went stir-cray for Lil Bub and Friendz, especially when the lil’ permakitten herself materialized for a free open-air screening of the Vice documentary on a Saturday night. Short (at about 60 minutes), sweet, and definitely crammed with more than you’d ever wanted to know about Internet cats (even after Bravo’s LOLwork), their owners, and their merchandising, Lil Bub fortunately keeps its eye firmly trained on the prize, namely the wide-eyed little mutant in the center of a viral firestorm, while framing visits with Nyan Cat, Grumpy Cat, and Keyboard Cat with Bub’s life story.
This runt o’ the litter may not appear to have any bone marrow in her leg bones, zero teeth, a permanently extended tongue, and extra toes on every paw, yet she’s won more than just owner Mike Bridavsky’s heart — she’s repping for all the totes-adorbs misfits out there, making their fortunes just by being themselves (or by creating a grabby persona) on the Interwebs. Now we just need a 24-hour Bub-cam to fill in the gaps of our Bub-Friends-Forever obsession.
Lighter fare? Paul Verhoeven’s crowd-sourced sex comedy Tricked was a mildly diverting exercise in group think, or better, gang-grope creativity. It’s no The Fourth Man (1983), Starship Troopers (1997), or even Showgirls (1995). There’s only a dash of that eye-tinglingly perverse psycho-drama that Verhoeven specializes in is evident in, perhaps, that tampon spinning in the toilet or this luscious ingenue suddenly flashing her ta-tas.
On the perversity tip — it doesn’t get much more against the grain than cannibalism, Maori family style, in the Kiwi cult-circuit-primed OTT Fresh Meat, which wallows then practically whirls in its own trough of bad taste. When a group of shoot-’em-up screw-ups invade the suburban home of an upstanding Maori suburban family, they learn that their freezer’s contents are less than savory — the hard and gory way — in a tone that seems derived from ‘80s Hong Kong martial arts comedies. Still, you have to appreciate the salacious brio with which director Danny Mulheron tackles this homecoming to Z-grade yuck-fests.
Keeping it real: Ground-level neorealistic storytelling made its stand in features about everyday, blue-collar folks just trying to keep their head above the … snow. The best of which was Whitewash, a journey into the heart of a murder mystery with Thomas Haden Church cast as a snow-plow driver forced to rough it in the snow-swathed woods of Quebec. Church ably navigates that thin line between a kind of natural, deadpan humor and serious, even deadly, drama.
Kitted out with a cast that includes John Slattery (Mad Men), Adam Driver (Girls), and Margo Martindale (who’s in everything), Bluebird checks in on a similar, northerly terrain, an isolated, snow-cloaked Maine logging town, on the pretext of investigating the dire ramifications of single lapse by a well-meaning school bus driver (Amy Morton of Boss). Frustrated by that traumatized character’s deer-in-the-headlights muteness, you know there’s nowhere to go but up.
Much better, down south in burn-out, strip-mauled Florida, is Sunlight Jr. — otherwise known as Walking Dead heartthrob Norman Reedus’s return to the big screen, as yet another scary redneck, this time wielding a big-wheeled truck rather than a crossbow. Serenaded by an elegant guitar soundtrack by Dinosaur Jr.’s J. Mascis, Naomi Watts is as fantastic as usual, as a convenience-store honey struggling to stay sober and maintain a relationship with a hard-drinking, wheelchair-bound boyfriend (Matt Dillon). Director and writer Laurie Collyer (Sherrybaby) keeps her focus tight, only adding to Sunlight Jr.’s power.
Meanwhile, earnest Iowa farm-centered At Any Price, which opens theatrically in the Bay Area tomorrow, wasn’t quite the breakout movie for a mugging, dead-eyed Dennis Quaid, but it might be for Zac Efron, who rises above the fray in an indie that aspires to the gravitas of A Thousand Acres.
A continent and millions of concerns away in Italy, Ali Blue Eyes made a case for the story of two rebellious teenaged pals — one an Egyptian Muslim, the other a Catholic Italian. Nader (Nader Sarhan) may wear blue contacts in order to, rather lamely, blend in, but his loyalties and cultural ties are tested after a Romanian kid is stabbed in this compelling glimpse into an immigrants world at the edges of affluent Milan.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSTjh9Sd5Vs
Shock and awe: Midnight movies abounded — two of the best that I caught were The Machine, a relatively polished, low-budg Frankenstein story set in an English weapons research lab where researchers are intent on building the ultimate cybernetic super soldier. Riddling his script to references to quantum computers and the like, director-writer Caradog James manages to infuse a solid sense of Cronenbergian dread — as well as a tenuous moral ambiguity — into a sci-fi narrative that’s as old as the Romantics.
Much more disappointing — and marred by technical roughness — was Dark Touch, Marina de Van’s (2002’s In My Skin) rendition of Carrie, this time in the form of a telekinetically gifted (or cursed) 11-year-old. I get it — child abuse leads kids to act out, in this case, in murderous ways — I just kept tripping over the lapses in continuity and logic, the beautiful female characters’ uniform Breck Girl look, and the tragic special effects.
Fun, in the way that a blood-sucking brotherhood brandishing the “pointed nails of justice” can only be fun, is Byzantium, Neil Jordan’s return to the world of the undead, so long after1994’s Interview With a Vampire. Here, the would-be malignant spirits choose to their path by visiting a wicked island that gushes blood when another little vampire is born. They also stroll about conveniently by day — though the isle and its keepers forbid women to make vampires (childbirth, I suppose, is considered sufficient). Still, it’s a trashy good time, with a lush Gemma Arterton wildly vamping as harlot-prey-turned-madam-predator and taking a garrote to her hunter (though after sitting through The Host, I’m not sure how much longer I’m willing to buy Saoirse Ronan’s ethereal space-cadet act).
The final, very wonderful monster in the room? A certain pantless Broadway legend who has shared a stage with Harpo Marx, dated Jack Kennedy, and has had Noel Coward and Stephen Sondheim write for her. The doc Elaine Stritch: Shoot Me follows the feisty song-and-dance Broadway icon on the verge of 87 as she tosses off wisecracks, appears on 30 Rock as the mother of Alec Baldwin’s Jack Donaghy, copes with diabetes, and bosses around documentary maker Chiemi Karasawa. It’s a unique delight — much like its subject. Yes, she just moved out of her digs in the Carlyle Hotel and back to her native Michigan — but Shoot Me allows us to bask in the considerable afterglow left in her wake.
Holding down the weekend of the weekend with the Dark Room Theatre’s “Ghostbusters: Live” and Har Mar Superstar
Among the true creatures of the night, Saturday Night has always been passé, amateur night if you will, when even the most accommodating of dive bars or clubs are suddenly jammed tight with lightweight dilettantes, whose allegiance to the night life is as superficial as it is truncated. But the real weekend has always begun on Thursday, straddling the line between Wednesday’s hump and Saturday’s slump, a connoisseur’s indulgence.
Though San Francisco is happily full of those who understand that Thursday is when the party starts, any number of theatres can still attest that packing the house on that particular evening can be a tricky prospect, a trend I can attest to from the personal experience of having attended many a Thursday show where the actors outnumbered the oddience. Awkward. Which made entering the oversold, packed to the rafters performance of “Ghostbusters: Live”! at the Dark Room Theatre that much more refreshing. This is one Mission Street outpost that has thus far ably resisted the siren song of gentrification and co-option, and remains a place where silly good fun can be had for the price of cheap, with an additional calendar of ten p.m. comedy shows that caters specifically to the committed night owl crowd.
“Ghostbusters: Live” was a perfect example of the Dark Room aesthetic from start to finish, one which other no-budget production companies would do well to take note of. Eschewing a set, which would really just impede the action on the tiny, 12’ x 8’ stage, but expending just enough effort on costuming, lights, and sound to support the storyline and bolster the humor, “Ghostbusters: Live!” opened with the three researchers (played by Adam Curry, Tim Kay, and Thomas Apley) looking for signs of a haunting in the public library, the best lines about great sponge migrations, family psychosis, and menstruation left intact. With clever puppetry standing in for any number of ghostly apparitions, and a strong supporting cast including Adam Vogel as a pitch-perfect Louis Tully, and Alexia Staniotes as the acerbic Janine Melnitz, “Ghostbusters: Live!” managed to capture both the essence of the movie it was sending up and the heady geist of a Thursday night out on the town, framing the possibilities for the rest of the weekend to come.
If Thursday Night is the prelude to the weekend, then Sunday night is its final salute, and the true testing ground of the dedicated denizens of the dark. Which made it perhaps the perfect day of the week for the rarified talent that is Har Mar Superstar to perform. True, the tough sell that is Sunday night kept the crowd at the Bottom of the Hill from swelling to the epic proportions you might expect for a performer of his caliber, but wasn’t that just more elbow room for the rest of us?
Often compared to the lovably schlubby porn star Ron Jeremy, the Bay Area celebrity Sean Tillmann most closely resembles is Josh Kornbluth, although Tillman’s a whole lot more exhibitionistic. His alter-ego’s double-entendre filled lyrics, funky dance moves, catchy hooks, and unabashed libido combine into a stage persona of pure sweaty id, while his true weapon, a silkily soulful croon, tongue-bathes the oddience in its liquid smooth. While a lot of his songs skew towards the humorous, including the trashy-pop “Tall Boy” and his boy-band ode to “the male camel-toe” “Almond Joy,” when Har Mar gets serious he wields an epic howl such as when he turns on the retro-soul for “Lady, You Shot Me” and further unleashes his formidable upper register on “Sunshine.”
And while there was some initial trepidation on the part of the crowd, perhaps fearful of the unpredictable intentions of the lascivious songster, by the end everyone was getting into the spirit of the moment, rubbing Tillman’s proudly bared belly for luck, swapping saliva, getting down. Rounding out the set with a literally stripped-down (to the briefs) acapella version of “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” provided the appropriate closure for the weekend’s last hurrah, and set the mood for all the weekends to come, the sunshine and the rain.
