Woody scores

Saw a good movie yesterday night - "Vicky Cristina Barcelona," Woody Allen's latest.  It's good to see him return to the kind of warm, thoughtful comedy-with-depth he made his own with "Annie Hall." And also to see him stepping off the screen - the neurotic Woody part here is played by the actress Rebecca Hall, who is much lovelier to watch agonise and fret. Whether he meant it so or not, the film is a celebration of the mature lover: the two young women are gorgeous but utterly dull in comparison with Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz, luscious and irresistible both as actor personalities on the screen and in the crazy characters they play.  

I loved the contrast between the stuffy, conventional Americans, discussing their decorators and the cost of Oriental carpets, with the flamboyant free-living mesmerising Spaniards.  I'd see the movie again just to check out Bardem's kitchen with the dishes stacked haphazardly on open shelves; the restaurants where Spanish artists and intellectuals argue and drink. 

The picture of marriage that emerges is not pretty - there's not a happy couple in the film.   Men are cuckolds and women are profoundly discontented.  And yet, as he so often does, Woody touches something very deep.  What woman has not had the fantasy that she'll be sitting minding her own business, when a fascinating, creative, handsome mensch appears, says he thinks she's beautiful and asks her to fly away with him?  And, for better or worse, changes her forever? 

Bring it on, Javier. 

August winding down

Late afternoon, a glass of wine in the late summer tranquillity of my garden - but there are dark rumblings underfoot. My mother had heart palpitations yesterday and went to hospital in an ambulance; she's fine now and it has happened before, but it's always scary.  The husband of one of my dearest friends is having a cancerous lung removed right at this moment.  Yesterday there was a chill of fall in the air, and in the world - Pakistan, Georgia, many deaths in Afghanistan, unrest and war.  And in one corner of the world, athletes compete for round bits of shiny metal.  Sometimes I think I am not simply enjoying my garden, I'm hiding in here.

I was happy to see that the newspapers agreed with my glowing assessment of Ceasar and Cleopatra when it opened.  Paul McCartney has my vote for the 66-year old with whom I would most like to have dinner; Christopher Plummer has the 78-year old slot sewn up.  But he won't be free to dine for some time.

A few weeks ago, I was dozens of pages into my new work, a memoir, and wasn't sure where I was going, so I pulled together a bunch of pages and sent them to a wonderful dramaturge and editor, Iris Turcotte.  Iris and I finally got together recently, and she chain-smoked her way through an assessment.  Once again, I am taught all the things I teach my students: show don't tell, paint pictures, bring the story vividly to life with detail.  Go deeper.  Unpack.  

Iris told me that she thinks the last scene of the chunk I'd given her is in fact the beginning, and the voice and tense are wrong.  Suddenly, I understood why I was having such trouble. Her input was invaluable.  And now, to begin again.  Only a few more days to get a solid piece of work done, before September - teaching, sweaters, the gradual diminishment of the garden.  

So, as I hide in here, tapping away at the machine, I am relishing every second.  

your friendly neighbourhood theatre critic weighs in on Stratford

Usually, after seeing a piece of world-class theatre, the audience walks out into the chaos of a big city - into Times Square or downtown Toronto or London.  But this past weekend, I saw some of the best theatre in the world and then strolled into a scene of pastoral bliss: swans floating on a river overhung with willow trees.  I breathed in sweet country air - until getting a whiff of pig manure.  Thus, the joys of Stratford, Ontario.

It was Chicago Weekend at Stratford, which means the place was full of Americans who had driven for many hours to see theatre in a tiny Canadian town.   Thanks to the gift of complimentary tickets, staff tickets and rush seats, I too was able to see four shows in two days: The Music Man, Ceasar and Cleopatra, Love's Labours Lost and Hamlet.  

Music Man was silly and delightful - and, Paul McCartney fans, did you know that's where Paul's ballad "Till there was you" came from?  I didn't.  I was proud of this first class piece of musical theatre starring Canadian talent.  LLL is one of the less performed Shakespeares - there's a lot of word play that's difficult to follow.  But Michael Langham, now in his mid-eighties, directed a beautifully paced production that was as clear as could be and performed almost entirely by the students at the Stratford acting school, a well-trained new crop.  

Hamlet has had great reviews, at least for Ben Carlson's performance, and I can see why - he's Canadian theatre royalty, the son of two fine actors, and he's strong, fiery and intelligent. But at the moment, or in this role at least, he has a flaw, one a surprising number of Canadian actors suffer from - he's not sexy.  He's cerebral and physical in a powerful, even violent but not a compelling way.  It's not that I think Hamlet should be handsome and seductive.  But true star performers have a magnetic appeal that makes both men and women want to watch them and spend time with them.  I didn't feel that way about this Hamlet.  I did feel it about Polonius in a superb performance by Geraint Wyn Davies, undoubtedly the juiciest Polonius you will ever see, a young-ish fuddy-duddy.  

But that quality of riveting sexual energy poured out in the fourth show I saw - the last preview of Shaw's Ceasar and Cleopatra, starring Christopher Plummer. Plummer is 78 years old, an aging lion, and an actor friend in the show told me it's like being on stage with a rock star.  He works simply; he stands and delivers, talks quietly and moves slowly, and he is absolutely mesmerising.  It's a gorgeous production, in which George Bernard Shaw speaks through Ceasar straight to a modern audience about the qualities of leadership and about mankind's need for the endless shedding of blood.

I also loved the colour-blind casting in Stratford - to see a talented young black actress playing Cleopatra opposite Plummer, to have some parts in this play and the others performed by white actors and some by black or Asian, almost at random - it's wonderful. 

And I had a good meeting with Martine Becu, the buyer for Stratford's store.  She agreed that a book called Finding the Jewish Shakespeare belonged in the Shakespeare Festival  bookstore and will be ordering my book.  So it was an inspiring country weekend.  I stayed with my beloved old friend Lani and her spouse Maurice, who has recently been through the horrors of lung cancer and is out the other side, gaining weight and energy again, a joy to see.  I also bought $50.00 worth of Rheo Thompson chocolates downtown and a pound of seven-year old cheddar cheese at the Saturday farmer's market.  Old friends, dark chocolate, cheese, a bit of business, some fine theatre and swans - who could ask for anything more?

Family

Yesterday, as I was getting ready to go out for dinner, I had an email from Lori Fazari, the terrific editor of Facts and Arguments, about my piece which she was preparing to run in the Globe today.  I had written about the time my then 15-year old daughter walked out the door after I'd told her she couldn't, saying "Fuck off" on the way.  The editors wouldn't allow it, Lori wrote, so we'd have to say that she "cursed me using the f word."  I couldn't bear the coyness of that, so Lori and I wrote back and forth for half an hour, trying to find a substitute for the f word while I put on mascara and nice shoes.  Finally I came up with "threw a vile curse word my way."  And actually, I like it better.  

And then I went out for dinner with the nutty children described in the piece, now mature, warm, thoughtful, gorgeous adults (if I do say so myself), and their father Edgar and his wife Tracey, who are up visiting from the States.   It could not have been a nicer evening.  We went to the restaurant on the Toronto Islands where Sam works, so on his night off we were treated to superb service and food - it pays to have a foodie in the family.  Everyone at the table has a good sense of humour and so did our waiter, an old friend of Sam's, so the laughter was continuous.  As the moon rose over the lake, we sat outside under the trees and reminisced about sad things and happy.  Edgar's beloved father and older brother Don died last year; there were many toasts to and stories about them both.  

Our circle of family was complete; the kids were there with both parents, who are no longer married but are still dear to each other, and with their dad's new wife, a lively and welcome addition to the family.  At the end of the evening, I took a picture of the kids with their dad and Tracey, and then she took a picture of the kids with their dad and me.  And tonight we're doing the whole thing again, only here in the backyard on the barbeque.  A wound has healed.  

I thought about being single.  Since our separation, my ex-husband has almost never been without a partner, whereas I have almost never been with one.  I am simply happy with the smooth, slight path I make, swimming through life as a one, not as a two.   I am deprived of the daily companionship, support and comfort of one vital person; this is a huge loss.  In return, however, I have freedom and independence - and a lot of companionable, supportive and comforting friends.  

One of my father's wisest sayings was, "Choisir, c'est renoncer."  To choose ... is to renounce.  

"Facts and Arguments"

I have an essay coming out in "Facts and Arguments" in the Globe on Wednesday - making it about two dozen since the first in 1994.  900 - 1000 words is such a good snappy length - make your point and move on.  If only more papers and magazines were interested in the personal essay - between me and my students, we'd have hundreds ready to go.  This one is about my children, as many have been, and strangely, that very day my dear ex-husband and his wife will be in town, coming here for dinner with the kids.  I'm going to tell him that this is a common event, that articles about our children appear weekly. 

I've had two emails from Paul McCartney fans who found my blog and requested the longer version of the concert.  One was from North Carolina and one from Halifax, where I grew up. Paul fans, unite!  I read in the paper yesterday that the only place in Canada that has had more rain this summer than Toronto is Quebec City.  And yet that day, the day that mattered, the weather was perfect.  I do suspect that our Paul has a direct line to ... No.  I'll stop there. 

Still two or three places left in the August 24th workshop.  I will continue to offer one monthly on the last Sunday of the month till winter - September 28th, October 26th, November 30.  It may be that by the last one, we will not be in the garden.  We can be pretty creative in the house too.