Scoboco

Scoboco's back.... and tumbling!

2011-06-07T13:16:00.004-04:00

Food, art, music, movies, books, and, especially, scenes from all over this beautiful city.

NYC Streets & Eats

Pictures and opinions by Scoboco

Spread's Spreads / Crumbs's Cupcakes

2008-01-29T23:42:00.000-05:00

She may not be much of a dessert person herself, but my ever-gorgeous girlfriend Debbie definitely knows how to make me and my daughters happy. Case in point: last Saturday night, when she came over to our place and provided all the makings for a sweet-treat tasting spree.

First came the chocolaty, nutty spreads from Spread, an organic restaurant in San Diego that sells a seemingly endless number of varieties of the stuff online. The four of us sampled three different flavors, eaten straight from the jar or spooned onto shortbread and some excellent chocolate cookies from Grandaisy. By far the best—or, at least, by far the most deliciously desserty—was the White Chocolate Espresso almond spread: sweet, thick, the flavors deep and rich, the espresso beans adding a pleasant, bitter crunch. The Dark Chocolate Chile peanut spread was as good as this sort of thing gets, but we all had a hard time getting past the whole sweet-spicy trend/gimmick (I have the same problem with the wasabi truffles, et al, at Vosges....). Yes, it sets off an interesting little party in your mouth, but it doesn't really satisfy as a dessert.

Speaking of not dessert, the Cinnamon peanut spread turned out to be nothing more than unsweetened, roasted ground peanuts, liberally infused with the aromatic spice. A disappointment after dinner... superb with raspberry jam on my raisin english muffin this morning.

Then it was time for Dessert: Part 2. Now, Crumbs may be second tier when it comes to cupcakes in this town, but it certainly knows how to put on a good show. Plenty sugary and often filled with some sort of creamy surprise, the assorted mini-cakes in this lively 12-pack were as much to fun eat as they look like they would be.

You can find more information about Spread's spreads here. There are a half-dozen Crumbs Bakeshops in the City; I believe the cakes we ate came from the one on 8th Street between University Place and Broadway.

Community Food & Juice

2008-01-28T08:34:00.000-05:00

Craving some comfort food on a cold night last week, I decided to check out Community Food & Juice, a newish, homey, fresh-ingredients-driven spot up near Columbia. It's run by the Clinton Street Baking folks, so I figured that at least the bread would be good, but I must say I totally enjoyed everything I ate... and, since the place was packed by 7:00 on a Tuesday, that seems to be pretty much the norm.

I started the proceedings with a crock of rustic White Bean and Cerignola Olive spread—rich, fluffy and with a surprising bite—which I slathered over warm slices of Peasant Wheat. This was one of four bread-and-spread combos listed on the menu, any one of which seems to be the sensible way to begin your meal here.

Next up was the stunningly good Lotus BBQ Chicken Wings, the plump—but not steroid-y plump—and juicy bird bits grilled in sweet hoisin, beautifully balanced by a heavily salted lemon dipping sauce. It'd be tough not to order this again.

For my main course I went the mollusk route, and was rewarded with four plump and lovely Pan Roasted Diver Scallops, full-flavored and nicely "medium rare", holding their own against the generous accompaniment of bitter turnips and smokey ham. Maybe this dish was a tad too much of a good thing, but I'll take that over bland or boring 100 times out of 100.

Community Food and Juice is located on Broadway between 112th and 113th Streets. All of my many servers were smiley and efficient, and they fixed a gaffe—initially, all three of my courses were delivered at the same time, which is never ideal, but especially since I was dining alone, made me feel like Albert Brooks during the "nine pies" scene in Defending Your Life—in an unhesitating, professional manner. The atmosphere here is comfy and convivial, the prices gentle, the neighborhood crowd thick with students, including the friendly, chatty trio who "joined" me at my end of the communal table halfway through my meal. I'll definitely be back, with Bo and Co, and hopefully soon.

While I Was Gone by Sue Miller

2008-01-25T15:26:00.000-05:00

You know those books that sit on your shelf for years, for various reasons left unchosen each time you pick out your next read, until the by-now overly familiar spine makes all the potential magic inside seem almost too tired to even bother with?

That's one of my favorite things about books... how you never really know what's inside until you actually start reading. Take Sue Miller's late-1990s novel about an inexplicably (even to herself) restless middle-aged woman, While I Was Gone. I bought this, used, at a school fair probably six years ago, and only picked it up earlier this month. Now, this is definitely not a masterpiece or anything—the central plot conceit is asking too much of us, I think (and, frankly, lets our heroine off the hook at little too neatly); and for all the time Miller spends on the daughters, they remained vague and largely irrelevant through to the end—but I must say I've made my way through dozens of books I enjoyed far less during the time this has sat there on my shelf, patiently waiting.

Our narrator here is Jo Becker: early 50s, fun, fit and pretty; successful veterinarian; nice house in rural Massachusetts; three basically happy grown-up daughters; a good-looking, decent, loving husband. And yet.... when an old roommate re-enters her life—a man who knew her back in the late 1960s, a time when she learned so much about herself, and probably felt the most free—Jo finds herself obsessing about the events of that nearly-forgotten time, both the very good and the staggeringly ugly. How she deals with this unexpected plunge into the past is sad, liberating, funny, heartbreaking, necessary.

I had never read Sue Miller before—she has a relatively new book out in hardover now, The Senator's Wife—and greatly admired her smart, often subtle observations about relationships, the nature of love, family, identity, freedom, and fantasy, as well as her deft sense of timing and brisk pacing. If you, too, have While I Was Gone waiting unread in your home, you might want to consider it among your next-up options.

Winter Movies: Part 2

2008-01-24T20:46:00.000-05:00

Somewhat surprinsingly for mid January, it's been a very good—if somewhat light—couple of weeks at the movies.

Written and directed by Alex Gibney (who did the same with the excellent Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room, and who was also involved as a producer for the pretty excellent Mr. Untouchable and the amazingly excellent No End In Sight), Taxi to the Dark Side is a scathing, deeply affecting documentary of America's systematic use of torture—to the point of murder—on prisoners, held without charges, in Afghanistan (at Bagram), Iraq (at Abu Ghraib) and Guantánamo Bay. The film takes its name from the story of an Afghan cab driver named Dilawar who was picked up by soldiers in 2002 for transporting "terrorists", brought to Bagram, and beaten to death—his legs almost literally pummeled into mush—by Army interrogators. Gibney is a superb storyteller, and here he uses astoundingly frank interviews with Bagram personnel, archival footage of the smug-ass richboys of the Bush administration, and the insights of interrogation experts, to convey the undeniable truth that the Army's policy of torture comes from the top, and that the policy is both a moral travesty as well as a tactical disaster. Next up for Gibney? The presumably much lighter Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. Can't wait.

Katherine Heigl is a total movie star. 27 Dresses—about a lovely, selfless woman who's been a bridesmaid 27 times, who secretly loves her boss, who watches said boss fall for her younger sister, who only slowly realizes that the perfect man has been right there in front of her, all along—will not once surprise you with its plotting. And yet Heigl is so appealing as the lead, so goofy and sweet, so incredibly watchable, that I loved nearly every moment of this romantic comedy... especially, of course, the Bennie and the Jets sequence. Also well-played: James Mardsen as Mr. Right. Yes, I laughed, I cried, I heartily recommend this, if this is at all your thing.

You've almost certainly already read waaaaaay too much about Cloverfield, so I'll just say this: sit in the back or risk extreme nausea; disregard both the annoying first act (which worked beautifully as a setup in the trailer, but seems interminable here) and the logic/geographic holes; enjoy the technical, aesthetic challenge, successfully, at times thrillingly, met, of telling such a huge story—a monster attacks Manhattan—with a single camcorder; keep your expectations low; walk home afterwards even more in love with this amazing City.

Although Spanish director Juan Antonio Bayona trots out many of the usual scary-movie suspects for The Orphanage—playground equipment that moves slowly, squeakingly by itself; kids who shouldn't be there, standing at the end of hallways, looking totally freaky; a (beautiful) woman who refuses to get the hell out of what is clearly a very haunted house—he does use them all to good, creepy effect. Add a story that's emotionally honest, a respectable performance as a mother-gone-mad from Belén Rueda, and a great first "ending" (followed by a much weaker second ending, followed by a third that's weaker still), and I was willing to forgive whatever silliness came on the screen and enjoy the horrorshow.

Beard Papa's

2008-01-22T17:53:00.000-05:00

Though far from a new idea—these cream-puff parlors have been around for a few years now, and my daughters and I definitely enjoy wolfing a couple of their creations every now and again—popping by Beard Papa's for a sweet treat potentially got more interesting with the recent addition of the Cookie Crunch puff. Also new, available this winter only: the Mont Blanc puff, featuring a dollop of French Chestnut cream atop a regular vanilla custard puff.

Unfortunately, neither of Beard Papa's new species adds much to the admittedly already quite satisfying sugarbomb experience. In fact, in a rigorous side-by-side taste test conducted late last Saturday night in my kitchen, I can confidently say that there is absolutely no difference between the Beard Papa's regular and the Beard Papa's Cookie Crunch puff (at right and in back, above). No difference in flavor. No difference in texture. Nada.

Not that either puff was bad—in fact the special Caramel custard that filled my puffs was pleasantly rich, sweet, and butterscotchy—but they really need to rethink how to crunch these babies up, if that's the direction they're going in (maybe add cookie bits to filling?). As for the Mont Blanc, the unapologetically unsophisticated take on chestnut cream did add a certain amount of new flavoring to the puff, but mostly it just doubled up the gloppiness factor.

There are several Beard Papa's locations in the City. On this night, I got my puffs on Broadway between 76th and 77th streets.

Reggie Watts: Disinformation at the Public Theater

2008-01-21T12:20:00.000-05:00

No question, Reggie Watts—he of the shaggy head; still, handsome face; stunningly flexible vocal chords—is a smart, creative, dynamic and often quite funny performer with a lot on his mind... the way we communicate, for instance, and language in general, and technology worship, and identity, corporate/authoritarian doublespeak (whether delivered by lackeys from the fictional conglomerate Carnaidesai—"There's not much future left, but we're using all of it..."—or a Star Wars-inspired "Dark Lord"), and the seemingly imminent destruction of our planet, and self-righteous bullshit of all kinds.

Anyway, I was lucky enough to snag a seat at Watts's almost-one- man-show Disinformation (he was joined by some dancers for what I thought to be the night's weakest moments), directed (and co-written?) by Tommy Smith, playing at the Public Theater as part of their annual Under the Radar Festival. Given the breadth and depth of Watts's concerns, and the energy and spark with which he conveys his many themes, I was surprised that I found the whole thing a bit repetitive, and was much more engaged—and laughed a lot more frequently—during the hour-long show's first half.

That said, Watts is a compelling stage presence, who excels at, for example, delivering empty phrases with such conviction that you're tempted, for a second, to ascribe them with meaning (he explains that a piece of sound equipment on stage "does everything it's been engineered to do by the people who created it"); mangling words for comic (deeper?) effect (in one bit, he tells of taking his "grainfather" to "Sweatserland" and pushing him off the "bal-CONE-y"); and telling shaggy dog stories that somehow remain interesting even as they spiral out of control with ever-more ridiculously unimportant details.

Best of all, Watts is a superb human beat box, creating on-the-spot, multi-layered looping rhythms and melodies with a delayer, and then overlaying the mix with often hilarious rap/soul-ified improvised lyrics. My favorite: the insanely intricate, rapid-fire description of his camouflage suit.

Disinformation's Under the Radar run ended yesterday, but you should definitely try to catch this man's stage show the next time he comes around, no matter what he's doing. Until then, there are lots of Reggie Watts videos online. Here's one of the best.

The Ottimo™ Ciao Bella® Ice Cream Sandwich at Eleni's®

2008-01-18T11:28:00.000-05:00

It was Debbie and her daughters who first discovered these beauties, tucked away inside the Chelsea Market, and later she brought a bagfull over to my place for me, Bo, and Co. Since then I've gone out of my way twice for more, a sure sign that, even in a town packed with excellent on-the-go treats, these sweets—basically, intense Ciao Bella gelato sandwiched between soft Eleni's cookies—will remain in our steady dessert rotation for some time to come.

The multi-branded Ottimos come in four flavors, the best a toss up between the refreshing Strawberry—the fruity filling an unexpectedly perfect pairing for the cinnamony Snickerdoodles—and the rich, aromatic Espresso, nicely complemented by Chocolate "Neat" Cookies, which I guess means "studded with cakey bits and white chocolate chunks." Really, both of these are pretty much ice-cream-sandwich heaven; choose to suit your mood.

Also good, if much less crave-able, are the super-sweet Chocolate/Chocolate Chip, and the somewhat blandly sophisticated Lemon/Lemon Poppy. These will do in a pinch, but are definitely second tier.

Eleni's is located in the Chelsea Market, which can be entered on either Ninth or Tenth Avenues, between 15th and 16th streets. Eleni's is probably best known for its impressive selection of creatively, temptingly decorated cookies and cupcakes, though I've found these to be only serviceable.

Cafe Katja

2008-01-17T21:40:00.000-05:00

You've probably already heard good things about this newish, tinyish, cheapish spot... but you might as well get used to it. For a certain mood, and a certain type of food—cured meats, various wursts, all veggies pickled—Cafe Katja dead-on hits the spot. A couple of nights ago I had a hankering for sausages and such, and couldn't have asked for a more satisfying dining experience, the Austrian comfort food matched in its simple appeal by the cafe's friendly, neighborhoody atmosphere.

I began with a (very early) candidate for shareable starter of the year, a heaping Aufschnitt Teller, which included two types of speck (one similar to prosciutto, the other more like bacon); two salamis; several slices of a beautiful blood sausage, studded with fat; an intense, creamy, garlicky mound of Liptauer cheese; a hunk of gamey liverwurst; a "salad" of pickled vegetables; and a pile of chewy, buttery slices of dark rye. Basically: a ton of delicious snacks, and plenty for two, or three, but all of which I somehow managed to finish by myself.

Every restaurant in town seems to serve a Beet Salad these days, and Cafe Katja is no exception. I thought the addition of caraway seeds might differentiate this version, but, honestly, this is just another well-executed take (lots of goat cheese on vinegary sweet beets and frisee for crunch) on a dish that's tough to prepare poorly. Finally, I wolfed an excellent, juicy Bratwurst on a mountain of heavily pickled sauerkraut and sweet mustard.

Cafe Katja is located on Orchard Street between Broome and Grand. I showed up at around 6:30 on a Tuesday and got a table right away, but there aren't many seats here, and I bet it gets crowded.

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn

2008-01-16T14:42:00.000-05:00

The central, and essential, emotional moment of Nick Flynn's memoir: Nick is working the "cage" in a men's homeless shelter in Boston, and in staggers his long-estranged father—alcoholic, bank robber, ladies-man, self-proclaimed "brilliant" poet and writer—needing a bed. Everything that leads up to that night, and all that follows, for both son and father (for this is as much about Jonathan Flynn's life as it is about Nick) makes for a wrenching, funny, raucous, brisk, occasionally even inspiring read from a terrifically creative writer. Although I did want to hear more about Nick's life than he was willing to reveal, and the final act goes on a bit long, Another Bullshit Night in Suck City is an original, utterly devourable addition to the by-now groaning shelf of modern memoirs well worth reading.

La Rural

2008-01-14T15:48:00.000-05:00

It's a little confusing, entering the spanking "new" La Rural, located where Pampa used to be, all of the former tenant's decor still in place, the Argentinian menu pretty much—maybe exactly?—the same. When I asked the owner about the relationship between the two restaurants, he replied "the only thing the same is the meat." I assume he didn't mean the actual, physical meat I'd be eating that night, but you never know.

Anyway, new or not, the same or different, my daughters and I feasted on a excellent meal at La Rural this past Saturday night, the food much better than I ever remember having the three or four times I ate—and left disappointed—at its predecessor. We started slowly with some nicely addictive Aceitunitas Rellenas, green olives stuffed with almonds, goat cheese and parmigian, nearly submerged in oil. We probably could have eaten three times what they gave us, but at least the oil did double duty as a dip for our bread.

Next up: grilled meat, including a generous, if inconsistent, serving of Molleja, or sweetbreads, some bites divinely rich and tender, other bites a tad chewy (I had to chuckle, though, watching my kids bicker over who would get the bigger piece of pancreas); and two kinds of sausage, a lovely, juicy, spicy Chorizo (my daughters' favorite), and a hefty Morcilla, which was good for blood sausage—dense, aromatic, tangy—but though Bo and Co gave it a go, its gamey mushiness won't win any converts to the subgenre.

More friendly, and a total table-pleaser: the Empanadas, fried and crispy, our Pollo moist and flavorful (maybe a bit too many peppers for my taste), the Caprese—mozzarella, tomato, basil, all fresh and far more liquid than stringy—a total success, and not at all the "Pizza Hot Pockets" you might expect.

Finally, my daughters split a bowl of Penne Bolognese—the noodles had bite, the sauce was garlicky, sweet and spicy, the dish a huge hit all around—while I tucked into a spectacular Bife De Costilla, a 22-ouncer, beautifully charred, intensely, deeply meaty, and, given its almost-too-rare appearance (I had asked for medium rare), stunningly tender. Really? I'd be surprised if there's a better $20 T-bone in town.

For dessert, we of course ordered the Panqueques de Dulce De Leche, the chewy, caramelized crepes oozing pools of Argentina's national food. Panqueques: fun to say; even more fun to eat.

La Rural is located on Amsterdam Avenue between 98th and 97th Streets. As of 1/12, they did not a have liquor license, nor were they accepting credit cards. We arrived at around 6:30, and though we were seated immediately without a reservation, the place was already pretty full and definitely festive.

Winter Movies: Part 1

2008-01-11T21:18:00.000-05:00

Twenty-oh-eight begins with stragglers from aught-seven. Here's the standard quick look...

The first half of I Am Legend is riveting, with Will Smith as the last man alive tearing through the stunningly-rendered abandoned streets of my beloved city, hunting and scavenging for food, tools and entertainments, accompanied as he goes by the last dog alive, the rest of humanity (and canine-anity?) dead for two years, the world trashed, sad, weedy. And then when we first get a glimpse of the undead, rabid, only-come-out-at-night zombies—apparently the only other "survivors" of the plague that wiped out everyone else—twitching in their nest in a blacked-out MePa warehouse? My God, I thought, now THIS is a fun movie. And then, for reasons I won't reveal, the movie's dynamic changes, Smith's ingenious, likable, exceedingly capable Dr. Robert Neville completely changes, all for the much worse, and my enthusiasm and admiration for the film died as swiftly and as terminally as… well, you can guess the simile here.

Debbie and I both loved The Kite Runner, the book, and so approached the movie with more than a little trepidation, especially after several viewings last fall of the bland, feel-good trailer. We were pleasantly surprised, then, by how much we liked director Marc Foster's faithful, even occasionally unsentimental, adaptation for the screen. Of course, Foster has to hurry a bit over several key plot points, and the story's intitial betrayal lacks the gut-busting pain I remember from the novel (though I admit the ending truly soars), but overall this is a satisfying, nicely-played, genuinely emotional drama. Not Top 10 material, but definitely worth a viewing, especially in this no-new-releases, early winter season.

Maybe we were just desperate for some on-screen frivolity to close out the "serious season", but Debbie and I both totally enjoyed P.S. I Love You, the Hilary Swank romantic comedy about a woman whose beloved husband sickens, dies, and then speaks to her from the "grave" in a series of letters, delivered posthumously, all directing her to do things that involve having fun, moving on with her life, finding her true self, etc.. No question, the basic plot mechanics were pretty ridiculous, but Swank turns on the charm (to go with her usual guts), the script is sharp, and the supporting cast, especially Lisa Kudrow and Harry Connick, Jr., steal nearly every scene they're in. If you're in the right mood, you can definitely have some fun—and some tears—with this one.

I knew Sweeney Todd was going to be gory; the Times did compare it to Saw, after all. But what I didn't realize was just how bleak, how classically tragic this story is, the lightest, cutest moment of the entire two hour spiral into hell coming from Helena Bonham Carter crushing cockroaches into her meat pies. The setting is Tim Burton's relentlessly gloomy 19th-century London—where, it seems, bad things happen to all people—the songs are terrific, the singers less so (no one embarrasses themselves, but no one brings down the house, either); Johnny Depp is perfectly cast as the haunted, doomed serial killer. Just don't go in expecting Hairspray.

Provoking Magic: Lighting of Ingo Maurer at the Cooper-Hewitt

2008-01-10T22:15:00.000-05:00

Just in case you woke up this morning panicking "Holy Smokes that lamp show at the Cooper-Hewitt closes in two weeks I've gotta go today!", well.... relax. You really don't.

I mean, Ingo Maurer definitely has a lot of interesting ideas about lighting, and Provoking Magic does feature some attention-getting objects, but like many exhibitions at this museum, there's also a definite air of seen-it-before, especially if you've visited a design blog more than twice this past year. Another flaw in the show, and a common one at the Copper-Hewitt: few, if any, curator's "liner" notes accompany the pieces, so nothing comes with any context, unless you do the free audio tour, which Debbie and I did not.

Anyway, the exhibit showcases more than 50 of Maurer's creations, spread out through all the exhibit rooms on Andrew Carnegie's one-time mansion's second floor. Highlights for us included "Porca Miseria!", a chandelier made from shattered white porcelain dinner plates, as well as the odd fork and knife; the spooky-blue installation featuring "Wo bist do Edison....?", a hanging lamp with a hologram bulb; and the Golden Ribbon, a huge, undulating, surprisingly elegant ceiling piece that looks exactly like it sounds like it would look.

There are plenty of lowlights here, as well, especially the overly kitschy stuff (lamps made from Astroboy and the like), the ho-hum LED clothing, and the chandelier infested with rats. And the fluorescent playground pictured below would probably be really cool if it was actually built and you could wander through it, but it's not.

Provoking Magic: Lighting of Ingo Maurer will be at the Cooper-Hewitt Design Museum through January 27. Admission to the museum is a painful $15. Fortunately for me, Debbie had two free passes, so we left feeling only disappointed, rather than disappointed and ripped off.

Cacío e Pepe

2008-01-07T21:44:00.000-05:00

As the elder statesman of Chef Savatore Corea's Roman triumvirate (Spiga, on the Upper West Side, is the younger; Bocca near the Flatiron the youngest), Cacío e Pepe has been a hit ever since it opened on lower Second Avenue in the summer of 2004.... which, as Debbie and I found out late last Friday night, is not at all surprising, given its warm, romantic atmosphere and full slate of interesting, under-$20 pastas.

We started the "creative Italian" proceedings with a creamy, room-temperature (not the menu-promised warm, alas) log of Ricotta di Pecora, encrusted in almonds and served with several superb spirals of crispy, salty pancetta, as well as a pile of juicy pear sticks, all lightly doused in balsamic. I was pretty much starving to death when this arrived at our table, and so really appreciated both the rich flavors and the hefty portion.

Next up was the pasta. Debbie went for the namesake Tonnarelli which sounded fantastic (homemade thick spaghetti liberally tossed with cream, romano cacío, and black pepe); looked amazing as it was spun around tableside in a giant cheesewheel bowl... but unfortunately was SO filled with barely-cracked peppercorns that neither one us—pepper lovers both—could enjoy the actual eating part of the dish. I mean, we're talking five or six tooth-shattering pepperbombs in each bite!

I had better luck with my Maltagliati, a generous bowl of wide, molto-fungal noodles served with tender little clams and wonderfully oily porcini. Definitely hit the spot on that cold, cold night.

Dessert was mostly a disappointment (as I've also experienced at Spiga), my Semifreddo di Amaretti tasting like a Good Humor Toasted Almond (which I like OK... but not for $9); the accompanying drizzles of strawberry sauce tasting like very little. So even though this was by no means a perfect meal, the bright spots were bright enough, the atmosphere convivial and welcoming enough, that I would definitely return to try a few other plates.

Cacío e Pepe is located on Second Avenue between 12th and 11th Streets. We had to wait maybe 20 minutes for a table at around 9:45 on a Friday night, but there was a large party of a dozen or so revelers hogging one whole side of the place, so I'm not sure what the usual walk-up wait time would be.

My First Time

2008-01-04T10:12:00.000-05:00

It's a cute idea: set up a website that encourages people to submit their story of how/when/where/with whom they lost their virginity (what's the opposite of that, by the way? when you lose your virginity, you find your _______ ...?); take the best of the lot, and hire four reasonably talented actors to bring them to life with dramatic readings on stage.

A cute idea... but then, as Debbie and I were watching its Off-Broadway realization, My First Time, it occurred to me that, for the most part, people's virginity-losing tales aren't really all that interesting. In fact, sitting here now some two weeks after we saw the show, I can't remember a single story in any detail, beyond the unsurprising fact that some people were drunk, some were in love, some were simply bored, some were date-raped. Sure, there were a few chuckles to be had, a few genuinely tender moments, a few times when there was actually some sexiness to all the sex. And each audience member is asked to fill out an (anonymous) questionnaire about their first time, and the answers, read aloud on stage, provide some rapid-fire relief to the show's pacing. And two of the actors—Kathy Searle, above, and Marcel Simoneau—did a great job, we thought, bringing a welcome variety of expression and personality to their share of the stories. But really, it all seemed a bit remote, the staging cold and awkward, the whole thing a bit too nothing-new. Maybe they should do a sequel, called My Most Recent Time, and have the actual protagonists, including audience members, get up on stage and describe that experience.

My First Time is currently at the New World Stages, on 50th Street between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. The show is 90 minutes long, and tickets cost a ridiculous $59. Thankfully, Debbie bought our seats at a discount... I really wouldn't recommend paying anything above half price for this.

Despaña

2008-01-02T16:03:00.000-05:00

My daughters and I may have found the perfect spot for a wintertime snack. Not that this tiny Spanish delicacies/sandwich/tapas shop on the eastern edge of Soho is anything new... in fact Despaña has been slicing serrano and such for almost two years now. But after our first visit last week, there's no way we're waiting that long to stop in again.

First up? Tons of free samples of things we really like to eat: several hams, lots of olives, four different kinds of balsamic vinegar, y muchos quesos ricos. Anyway, when we finally made it to the cramped cafe area in back, we went straight for the bocadillos, Spanish-style heros served on crusty, chewy ciabatta. Any one of the ten or so choices sounded good, but we decided to split the Gallego, pressed and served warm, the serrano ham, chorizón and melted arúa ulloa cheese delivering an intensely flavored, perfectly balanced sandwich experience.

For dessert we opted for a double order of churros and hot chocolate, the doughnutty sticks moist and covered in sugar; the sweet cocoa beverage refreshingly liquid, rather than the trendy (though admittedly delicious) sludge most places seem to be serving these days. All in all, this was a totally satisfying snacking adventure.

Despaña is located on Broome Street between Lafayette and Centre. It was pretty empty when we were there, around 3:00 on a Friday afternoon, but I can imagine on weekends having to wait for one of the six stools in the back. The counter workers are all extremely helpful and friendly.

The Best of 2007: Movies

2008-01-01T22:47:00.000-05:00

I saw 135 movies in the theater this year. Here are my ten favorite, in alphabetical order:

1. American Gangster
2. The Bourne Ultimatum
3. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
4. Helvetica: A Documentary Film
5. The Lives of Others
6. Michael Clayton
7. No End In Sight
8. The Savages
9. Sicko
10. Zodiac

If the above didn't exist, my alpha-sorted top ten would probably look like this:

1. Before the Devil Knows You're Dead
2. Charlie Wilson's War
3. The Darjeeling Limited
4. In the Valley of Elah
5. Lars and the Real Girl
6. A Mighty Heart
7. Once
8. Protagonist
9. Starting Out in the Evening
10. Wristcutters: A Love Story

And what were the ten best movies I saw with my daughters, you ask?

1. Enchanted
2. In the Shadow of the Moon
3. Juno
4. Nancy Drew
5. Persepolis
6. Ratatouille
7. The Simpsons Movie
8. Spiderman 3
9. Stardust
10. Sydney White

Finally, here are ten movies that I've seen on other Best of 2007 lists that wouldn't even crack my Top 50:

1. Atonement
2. Away From Her
3. Bug
4. Grindhouse
5. The Host
6. I'm Not There
7. Into the Wild
8. Romance and Cigarettes
9. Terror's Advocate
10. There Will Be Blood

Holiday Season Movies: Part 3

2008-01-01T21:23:00.000-05:00

Closing out the season, and the year, with these...

The biggest surprise this season was how much I enjoyed Charlie Wilson's War, the story of Reagan-era right-wingers, led by Tom Hanks (in a terrific performance) as the titular Congressman, who used U.S. taxpayer's money, funneled through the CIA, to run guns to the Afghanistan Mujahideen in their war against the invading—and, as we are reminded often, quite mighty—Soviet army. As I said, Hanks is great here, playing the skirt-chasing, whiskey-fueled Wilson not as a buffoon, but rather as a shrewd, maybe even principled, politician who happens to also be a hard-partying Texan. And Aaron Sorkin's script is pitch-perfect throughout, brisk and smart without being too bantery, or overly clever. But the real star here, once again, is Philip Seymour Hoffman, who completes his brilliant end-of-the-year trifecta (Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, The Savages) with an outstanding take on the sharp, bitter, disheveled, career CIA bureaucrat chomping at the bit to kill communists. Just the fact that you find yourself rooting for this guy tells you how effective a piece of filmmaking this is.

There's a deeply engaging, epic tale—and one of the great heroines of the year—in Persepolis, the true-life coming-of-age story of Marjane Satrapi, an Iranian girl who's probably ten years old when the revolution topples the Shah, and whose initial giddiness over the prospect of change gives way to fear and dread as family members are jailed or killed; and civil rights and liberties—especially for women—are stripped away by the fundamentalists. To make bad matters worse, her country plunges into war with neighboring Iraq... and when she flees to Vienna, then France, teenage Satrapi eventually winds up suicidal and homeless. To the author/filmmaker's credit, the movie (based on her graphic-novel memoir) is moving, even inspiring, rather than angry and bleak, owing in large measure to Satrapi's inextinguishable spirit—courageous, rebellious—as well as the love and wisdom of her iconoclastic grandmother. What kept the movie from being truly great for both me and my daughters (who are big fans of the two-volume memoir) was the flat, stylized, expressionistic animation which, while true to Satapri's original vision, never really allowed us in. In the end, it's all more admirable than transporting.

Yes, it's predictable and preachy. But if you just ride with it, as me and my daughters were able to do yesterday afternoon, there's also an undeniable appeal to Denzel Washington's The Great Debaters, about the historically dynastic debate team of all-black Wiley College who, in the 1930s, grew to such prominence that Harvard accepted their challenge for a match, and invited the Texans to come north for a nationally-broadcast contest in the fabled Memorial Hall. You know who wins in the end, of course, but the obvious outcome is more than balanced by several moments of genuine tension (mostly due to Texas lynch mobs and their ugly ilk), plenty of engaging period detail, and a hugely likable cast, all performing their hearts out.

After a well-played, reasonably creative and immersive first act, Atonement totally lost me. The exact moment I ceased to care about the characters, that I stopped believing in anything that was happening on screen? Director Joe Wright's "look-at-me" preening during the pivotal scene at Dunkirk. They must have spent a fortune on the recreation of the famous evacuation from the continent that saved the British army at the start of the Second World War, and yet all I could think of was: "this sure is a long, complicated tracking shot." Plus, really? I don't like James McEvoy. Not in The Last King of Scotland. Not here. And I'm getting kind of sick of Keira Knightley and her jutting chin. But I'm not sure that even the most dynamic actors, with the hottest chemistry, could have saved this cold, technical version of Ian McEwen's excellent novel.

Clearly, my expectations were WAY too high for There Will Be Blood. The trailer looked more than a little intriguing—the story of an ethically flawed but charismatic oil emperor, I thought, rising to riches and power through shrewd, possibly shady business deals, set against the great American tale of Western expansion—and the reviews have been rapturous. And yes, there are some pretty brilliant sequences here (when the derrick blows and the boy is flung, for instance), and Daniel Day Lewis can dominate the screen with the best of them. But honestly, I didn't really like this movie at all. Lewis is given no support; no one to play off of (Paul Dano is nowhere near up to the challenge as a miraculously ageless preacher). Far too long and tedious, it's not an epic at all... more like a bizarre character study of an exceedingly unpleasant man whose motives and demons, to my mind, remain mysterious throughout. Again, maybe it's my fault for expecting too much, but this has to be counted as the disappointment of the year.

The Best of 2007: Books

2007-12-29T18:30:00.000-05:00

I got through a completely unimpressive 21 books this year. (The goal for 2008? At least 30.) And while I'm pretty sure none of the following were actually published in aught-seven, that's when I read them, and they're all readily available in paperback.

So.

My five favorite reads this year:
1. The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan
2. What Is the What by Dave Eggers
3. The Road by Cormac McCarthy
4. The Warburgs by Ron Chernow
5. The Echo Maker by Richard Powers

Plus, three more that, if you think you might like, you definitely will...
The Blind Side by Michael Lewis
Man of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld
The Ghost Map by Steven Johnson

Suggestions for 2008 are welcome, please.

The Best of 2007: Performance

2007-12-27T15:10:00.000-05:00

I went to more than 30 "performances" of various sorts this year. Here are the ten shows which, for various reasons, I enjoyed the most, with links to the original posts.

1. The National* at the Music Hall of Williamsburg
2. The Arcade Fire at Radio City Music Hall
3. The Thermals at Bowery Ballroom
4. Fuerzabruta at the Daryl Roth Theater
5. Beirut at Bowery Ballroom
6. The Decemberists at the Landmark Loews Theater
7. Spoon at Rockefeller Park
8. The National at the South Street Seaport
9. David Byrne: Here Lies Love at Carnegie Hall
10. Fall for Dance Festival at the New York City Center

* Perhaps my favorite Christmas present? Three tickets to see the BAM show in February! Thanks again, gorgeous.

The Best of 2007: Art

2007-12-20T21:28:00.000-05:00

I saw about 50 art shows and events this year, in galleries, museums and public spaces. These were my favorites, with links to the original posts.

Richard Serra at the MoMA
Simply Droog at the Museum of Arts and Design
Martin Puryear at the MoMA
Robert Wilson: Voom Portraits at Philips de Pury
The Art Parade in Soho
Jeff Wall at the MoMA
Roxy Paine in Madison Square Park

Special mention: The opening of The New Museum on the Bowery.

ChikaLicious Puddin'

2007-12-20T20:55:00.000-05:00

In case you needed yet another reason to pop in somewhere and enjoy a tasty treat, enter ChikaLicious Puddin'. Located right across the street from ChikaLicious proper, this new, mod-looking spot with an impressively focused menu—there's pudding, and beverages that go with pudding—provides just the thing to tide you over from one moment of your life to the next.

My freezing daughters and I tried all three varieties the other night, liked one a lot, liked another even more, totally loved a third. The Adult Chocolate doesn't have booze; rather it's a very dark, almost bitter scoop of creamy pudding placed atop a mound of crispy chocolate soil. This is very good, unless you're really craving something sugary. Then it would probably only be just regular good.

Even better? Brioche Bread Puddin', a dense, generous slab of the stuff nearly drowned in a creamy pool of something sweet and anglaise-y and delicious. This hit the dessert spot in all ways. Best of all, however, was the Vanilla Custard Steamed Puddin', a sublime, warmed-up, cakey delight... intense, gooey, beautifully satisfying.

ChikaLicious Puddin' is located on 10th Street, just east of Second Avenue. There are no seats, but the center island makes for a convenient communal table on which to wolf your dessert. Closed on Mondays and Tuesdays for now; open from 11:00 until midnight the rest of the week.

The Best of 2007: Food

2007-12-19T16:50:00.000-05:00

This year I ate in well over 100 different restaurants and dessert spots. And while that doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the gustatory pleasures available in this town, I most definitely did enjoy sampling so many new places. Here are some highlights, in no particular order:

Best Meal: Belcourt. My favorite night out all year had to be at Matthew Hamilton's new bistro in the East Village, where my lovely daughters and I feasted on opening weekend. The atmosphere, the service, the music, and, of course, the food, were all terrific, and we had a blast. Highlights of the meal: Butternut Squash and Apple Raviolo topped with grilled wild mushrooms, brown butter, and sage; a skewer of incredibly rich and butter-soft Grilled Sweetbread; and Slow Roasted Pork Belly and Sausage, a salty, spicy, crispy, fatty festival of pig products, balanced by terrific, vinegary sauerkraut, sweet pickled beets, and lavender spaetzle.
Close second: Momofuku Ssäm Bar.

Best Made-to-Share Starter: Hot Potato Chips with blue cheese fondue, at The Smith. (See also: Best Mouthfeel.)

Best Veggie Side: Shaved Fennel and Pumpkin, from the excellent "Garden" section of the menu at Back Forty.

Best Barbecue: Blue Smoke.

Best Cupcakes: Sugar Sweet Sunshine Bakery.

Best Dumplings: the amazingly-textured, fat and flavorful Shumai with ponzu sauce at Momoya on Amsterdam.

Best Ramen: Momofuku (sorry, haters, but it's still so true).

Best Milkshake: Toasted Marshmallow at Stand.

Best Pasta: Garganelli with fava beans, pancetta and pecorino at Spiga.
Close second: Malfatti, a gnocchi made from semolina, ricotta, and spinach, at Cafe Emillia.

Best Ice Cream: Grom
Close second: L'Arte Del Gelato

Best Fried Chicken: Rack and Soul. (See also: Best "Kid's Menu".)

Best Flan: Móle

Best Chocolate Cake: Torta di Ciocolatta, a wonderful, warm, incredibly rich, crispy/chewy creation with deep cocoa flavors, topped with a scoop of sweet vanilla gelato, at Gemma.

Best Dessert: Sticky Toffee Pudding—cold and warm and cakey and gooey and creamy and sweet—at Schiller's Liquor Bar.
Close second: Toasted Walnut Tahitian Vanilla Parfait at Kyotofu.

Best Sushi: Soto.

Best Empanada: Broccoli and Cheese in Corn Flour at Empanada Mama.

Best Sandwich: the Pig's Ass Sandwich—fatty, juicy, marinated pork butt with cheddar and foi epi and sweet B&B pickles, all pressed together on crunchy ciabatta and served with a side of chipotlé aoli—at Casellula.
Close second: the three terrine Bahn Min, composed of ham, veal head cheese and chicken liver pate, at Momofuku Ssäm.
Close third: the hot Meatloaf with Cheddar, with thick, smoky bacon slabs and spicy tomato relish, at 'wichcraft.

Best Curbside Treat: warm Chocolate Bread Pudding with creme anglaise—and, frankly, just about everything else—from Dessert Truck. (See also: Best Debbie-and-Chocolate-Sauce Memory.)

Best Deviled Eggs: the trio of creamy and zingy eggs perched atop slices of crispy fried pork toast at Resto.
Close second: Fatty Crab, available only at the bar. (See also: best conversation about Radiohead with a bartender.)

Best Hot Dog: the "Infamous Stoner", a total mess loaded with chili, melted cheese and crushed fritos, at Dash Dogs.

Best Chocolate Chip Cookie: City Bakery / Birdbath / Build a Green Bakery.

Best Pizza: Di Fara, especially my slice that he piled high with melty, oily Porcini.

Best Dish: Sea Urchin with fluffy Whipped Tofu sprinkled with bonito flakes and sesame seeds atop fruity, chewy Black Tapioc, at Momofuku Ssäm.
Close second: Kampachi Tar Tare—chopped Hawaiian jack fish with wasabi tobiko, pine nuts, served with soy foam—at Soto.
Close third: Lansaña de Cangrejo, a crab meat lasagna with mussel saffron sauce, at Ureña (now serving less expensive, supposedly less inventive fare as Pamplona).

Best Cephalopod: the Polipetti E Sedano, an amazing grilled octopus sitting atop celery bits and black olives. Lemony, oceany, oily, unbelievably tender, totally transcendent. At Morandi.

Banksy at Vanina Holasek

2007-12-18T13:09:00.000-05:00

You've got to give them credit for trying. Perhaps the world's most famous street-artist, Banksy has long been a personal favorite of mine—I think he's clever and creative, plucky and genuine, and I find his work to be enormously appealing, both in content and visual style—and was thrilled to stumble across a couple of his pieces on the streets of his native London a couple of years ago.

But Banksy on paper, framed behind glass? Banksy for sale... and, by the way, for astonishing amounts of money? In no way do I begrudge the guy his success, but wouldn't his stuff lose all of its impact in a gallery setting? Well, mostly... yes, in fact it does. Not that the Vanina Holasek gallery show isn't worth seeing—even if you're not a fan, there's enough original ideas, well executed, to recommend it—but, maybe more than anything, it certainly did make me re-appreciate the miracle of last December's Wooster on Spring show.

In some ways, the narrow, stand-alone, three-story townhouse of Vanina Holasek is the perfect gallery for such a show, and everyone worked mighty hard to create an atmosphere that at least somewhat evokes (however implausibly) the grit and spontaneity of the street, or a squat. Banksy's mascot rubber rats are everywhere, for example, and there's lots of police tape and paint splatters and the like. Problem is, because they also wanted to sell the stuff, it's not like Banksy could just go in and tag the walls (again, HUGE re-appreciation of the Wooster on Spring show!)

Anyway, there are many of the artist's greatest hits here, most of which I love, all packed into the gallery's three stories, and it was definitely a pleasure to see these pieces "live", even in print form. In the end, I think Banksy and Vanina Holasek did a fine job with an extremely difficult assignment. And even if it doesn't entirely work, well, heck, it's better than nothing.

Banksy Does New York runs through December 29. Vanina Holasek is located at 502 West 27th Street, just off of 10th Avenue. If you can't afford several hundred thousand dollars for a signed piece, they are also selling $50 T-shirts and $55 catalogs. My advice? Get Wall and Piece instead, available in lots of places for under $30. It's written by Banksy and filled with hundreds of great images of his stuff out in the world.

The Best of 2007: Music

2007-12-17T09:29:00.000-05:00

A few excellent albums from 2007, and my current favorites therein...

The National: Boxer (Fake Empire, Brainy, Slow Show, Blank Slate, Apartment Story)
Radiohead: In Rainbows (Jigsaw Falling Into Place*, Reckoner, Weird Fishes/Arpeggi, Bodysnatchers)
The Arcade Fire: Neon Bible (Keep the Car Running, Intervention, The Well and the Lighthouse, (Antichrist Television Blues))
Kevin Drew/Broken Social Scene: Spirit If... (Lucky Ones, Tbtf, Fucked Up Kid, Safety Bricks)
Spoon: Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (The Ghost In You Lingers, Rhthm & Soul, Underdog, You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb, Black Like Me)
Kanye West: Graduation (Flashing Lights, Good Life, Homecoming, Can't Tell Me Nothing)

Other songs that, at one time or another during the past year, made it onto my on-the-go mixes day after day after day.... Yes, I know some of these weren't released in 2007.

Glenn Hansard/Markéta Irglová: Falling Slowly, Trying To Pull Myself Away
Peter Bjorn and John: Up Against the Wall, Objects of My Affection, The Chills
Thurston Moore: Fri/End, Honest James, The Shape Is in a Trance
Sufjan Stevens: The Predatory Wasp, Casimir Pulaski Day
M.I.A.: Paper Planes, Boyz, Jimmy
Rihanna: Don't Stop the Music, Umbrella
Okkervil River: Unless It's Kicks
Joy Division**: Transmission, She's Lost Control
Pinback: Prog
Bishop Allen: Bishop Allen Drive, Rain, Flight 180
Shout Out Louds: Tonight I Have to Leave It, Hard Rain, Normandie
Battles: Atlas
Frightened Rabbit: Square 9, Be Less Rude, Go-Go-Girls
White Rabbits: Kid on my Shoulders, While We Go Dancing, The Plot, Fort Nightly
Menomena: Weird, Wet and Rusting, Rotten Hell
The Chemical Brothers: The Pills Won't Help You Now
Radical Face: Welcome Home
The Sunshine Underground: I Ain't Losing Any Sleep, Put You In Your Place, Commercial Breakdown
Beirut: Nantes, In the Mausoleum, Elephant Gun
Devotchka: Til the End Of Time
Fergie: Glamorous
Elliot Smith: Pretty (Ugly Before), Pictures of Me
Tracey Thorn: It's All True, Grand Canyon
Nas: Hip Hop Is Dead
Brandi Carlile: The Story
Modest Mouse: Fly Trapped In a Jar
Anthony Hamilton: Comin' From Where I'm From
Andrew Bird: Scythian Empires, Fiery Crash, Imitosis
LCD Soundsystem: North American Scum, Someone Great, All My Friends
Black Kids***: I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance
The Killers: Read My Mind
Iron and Wine: Resurrection Fern
Morissey****: Everyday is Like Sunday
Cold War Kids: Hang Me Up to Dry
The View: Wasted Little DJs
The Coup: My Favorite Mutiny

* A strong contender for best song of the year. And have you seen the video? So simple. So cool.
** Thanks, Control, for reminding me about these.
*** Totally addicted to this tune right now (as is my younger daughter). You can download it free here.
**** Colin Meloy's solo acoustic cover at the Decemberists Jersey City show introduced me to this beautifully bleak song.

Rheon Cafe

2007-12-16T13:46:00.000-05:00

A new quick-bites place—tasty food, counter (as opposed to waiter) service, lunch or a seriously fortifying snack for under $10— is always welcome in any part of town... but in a walking-around neighborhood like Soho, it can mean the difference between grumpy pretend-shopping and a fun, goofing-around sort of day.

All of which is why I was so eager to try Rheon Cafe, with its (somewhat tenuous) Morimoto connection... and so disappointed when Debbie and I showed up at 3:45 last (opening weekend) Saturday and were told that they had already shut down the kitchen. I mean, c'mon guys! The only thing on your menu is cold sandwiches! Anyway, we suffered through a couple of croissants—my chocolate-drizzled pastry looked inviting, but was plasticky and stale; Debbie's regular was, as she put it, "horrible"—marveled at the totally-blew-it, cheesy design, and left thinking, well, that's that.

Two days later, however, I found myself solo and starving in the same nabe, and thought, heck, maybe they're actually serving food this afternoon. And they were. And, I must say, it was pretty good. Totally over-sauced, true, but definitely good. There's only five sandwiches available now (the owner promises 30 varieties, coming soon, so maybe they'll actually use the brick-oven fire that now roars pointlessly at counter's end), and they were out of one, so in one visit I sampled a full 50% of the menu.

First up: half a Roasted Duck sandwich, topped with crispy romaine, cucumber and miso sauce. The meat was tender and juicy, so there's definite potential here, but the whole thing was completely overwhelmed by what seemed like a whole bottle of the sweet, sweet miso. Ask them to please go light on the stuff, or give it to you on the side, and you may have a winner. Next I tried and thoroughly enjoyed the Beet Soup, which was thick and creamy and warm and completely about the beets. Finally I had half of a Grilled Portobello sandwich, which came with many of those canned roasted red peppers, and a ton of chipotle sauce, which I happen to really like, so although this was a total mess—the fillings slipping all around and out of the hardish bread—it was a deliciously satisfying mess. All the sandwiches, by the way, are served on a decent flatbread, which their PR claims is baked on-site, but at least for now that is not true, as Debbie and I watched them unload several crates of frozen loaves on Saturday. Heated up on-site, perhaps they meant?

Rheon Cafe is located on Spring Street between Sullivan and Thompson. They seem to be open only until 4:00, or perhaps 5:00. Closed Sundays.

Holiday Season Movies: Part 2

2007-12-15T00:07:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty amazed that the pretty great Juno was only my fourth favorite movie in the last week or so, but that just shows what an excellent week it was. Herewith, a quick look...

Julian Schnabel's luscious, riveting The Diving Bell and the Butterfly should be held up as a model of how a director can create a visually stunning, creative and unique film—loved the camera work, the jump cuts, the dreams and metaphors—all without sacrificing a bit of storytelling. And what a great (true) story it is, the simple, moving, incredibly human portrait of Elle magazine editor Jean-Dominique Bauby who, after a massive stroke, emerges from a coma with locked-in syndrome: his brain is fine; his body completely paralyzed except for his left eye. How he learns to communicate—he wrote the memoir on which the film is based—through the heroic efforts of by far the most patient and oh-by-the-way gorgeous triumvirate of therapists and "translators" in existence, forms the core of the film. How he learns to live with those he loves—his children, their mother, his father, his mistress, his friends—will break your heart. Schnabel is generous with his vision, welcoming his audience into Jean-Do's world. The film gets a bit slack about two-thirds of the way through, but the most powerful scenes are just around corner. Don't miss this movie.

You haven't seen your father in years—he basically abandoned you—and you're just trying to live your life as best you can, dealing with your own issues, your own messes. Then the call comes: Dad's sick, he's losing his mind, he's lost his home, he needs you. It's an ultimately insoluble problem, but one that demands some sort of action. Do you do the right thing? Out of duty? Out of love? Is there even a right thing, or is it just a case of finding the lesser of multiple indignities? The Savages takes this compelling situation and delivers a smart, unsentimental, occasionally amusing (though this is definitely NOT the comedy the trailer wants you to believe it is), resonant and altogether real movie about responsibility and family and facing yourself and growing up and growing old. The performances are superb, led by Laura Linney and Philip Seymour Hoffman as the brother and sister forced to deal with Dad (Philip Bosco, and also very good); the script and direction assured; the whole thing vital, honest and alive.

The casting must have been an arduous process for Jessica Yu's gripping documentary Protagonist, but the result was well worth the effort. Or maybe she just got lucky? Anyway, this refreshing, original film introduces us to four men, all wonderful storytellers, whose lives couldn't be more different in the details (there's a "formerly gay" evangelist, a European terrorist, a Mexican bank robber, a geeky suburban kung-fu fanatic), but whose tales all follow the same narrative arc: terrible childhood pain, fierce attempts at self-control to change who they are, momentary success and freedom with their reinvented selves, profound depression when they see what a sham it is, ultimate redemption and peace when they find the courage to be, to their ownselves, true. Yu interweaves the four stories—told entirely by the men themselves, both as talking heads and using home movies and other archival material—and structures the whole thing as (apparently) a Euripidean drama, complete with titles and simple wooden puppets, which sounds boring and contrived, but most definitely is not.

My eager-to-giggle daughters and I agree: although we all liked Juno quite a bit, and although we did laugh out loud more than a couple of times, this is not a straight-up comedy, despite what the trailer would have you believe... and, really, it's not even a Little Miss Sunshine kind of comedy. That said, it certainly is a pretty great, nice and sweet (but not cloying) little movie, with a good script and a near-perfect performance by Ellen Page as a 16-year-old who gets pregnant (by the always welcome Michael Cera) and, in lieu of an abortion, decides to have the baby and give it up for adoption to a yuppie-ish couple (Jennifer Garner and Jason Bateman, both also solid). Our advice? No question, you should see it... but just don't expect to be doing a lot of giggling.

Although it was better than either Debbie or I expected (young Dakota Blue Richards holds things together pretty well), and we were both seriously impressed by the CGI, The Golden Compass is still, when you get right down to it, an overblown melodrama featuring gaggles of talking animals, skies-full of witches, an ill-defined mythology, and, most roaringingly, a pack of monstrous, warring ice bears. If that sounds appealing, then by all means you should go.

I don't know... I felt more than a little uncomfortable during too-long stretches of Billy the Kid, a real-life portrait of a hyper, geeky high-school sophmore in small-town Maine. Because although it definitely had some of the trappings of a serious documentary, it just felt a little too close to reality TV for my tastes... a tad too voyeuristic of Billy and his emotional "issues"; a bit too eager to exploit the kid's extraordinary willingness to open himself up.

Red Mango

2007-12-12T12:33:00.000-05:00

The first of a promised horde of invading outlets from the Korea-based chain, the new Red Mango on Bleecker Street is not only now serving first-rate frozen yogurt—as good, or better, than its obvious (and copycatting?) rival Pinkberry—but is doing so in a surprisingly comfortable, unsurprising designy setting, with a definite coffee-house, lounge-all-you-like atmosphere.

The place was pretty empty when I stopped in yesterday, but it was mid-afternoon on a weekday, so maybe it gets as unpleasantly hectic as Pinkberry can during peak hours. Either way, this is a large, well-considered space—a fair number of seating options, plus plenty of standing room while you order, plus an alluring-come-spring outdoor patio in the back—that seems suited to handle a crowd.

Most important, Red Mango's fro-yo is terrific, with that deep tang we've come to demand since Pinkberry came to town last year. I sampled the Green Tea, and it was good, but ordered a small Original with two toppings, chewy, sour dried cranberries and intense Ghirardelli dark chocolate mini-chips. I could have gone for the Bear Naked granola, or the fresh raspberries, blackberries, or blueberries, or even the Captain Crunch, or graham crackers, but I didn't. I admit that, as I watched my exceptionally (but not irritatingly) friendly server construct my treat, I was thinking she was a tad stingy with the toppings, but I needn't have worried: every bite had plenty of everything, and I gleefully devoured my dessert in about 90 seconds. Next time I'm trying a Blender: yogurt plus toppings in a smoothie format.

Red Mango is located on Bleecker Street between MacDougal and Sullivan. Coming soon, supposedly: 14th Street and Sixth Avenue; Eighth Avenue and 45th Street.

Georges Seurat: Drawings at the MoMA

2007-12-10T18:47:00.000-05:00

I know what you're thinking. "Wait, a drawings show? I don't know.... sounds boring. Unfinished. Technical. For students and critics only."

OK, so you're probably more open-minded than me, and were thinking nothing of the sort.

But just in case, let me reassure you that the Georges Seurat exhibition now at the Museum of Modern Art features literally dozens of beautiful, memorable pieces that stand on their own—not as "studies" of anything—as complete, and in this case quite brilliant, works of art.

Yes, there are a number of pure sketches here, some from Seurat's early days as a student, more drawn by the artist in preparation for one of his big paintings. These are interesting for what they are, and the full-color "final practice round" of his pointillistic masterpiece Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte—all landscape, no people—looks amusingly like a photoshop experiment.

But it is Seurat's stand-alone works that are the real draw here. I've been to the exhibition twice, and can't get enough of his cafe series, the performers almost ghostly on stage, the audience's heads slightly in your way, all of it unbelievably evocative of dim, crowded, smoky clubs; or his landscapes, both rural and urban, as well as the more intimate portraits, and the way Seurat expresses an astonishing amount of movement, or energy, or emotion, not with lines, but through shadow, and negative space.

Georges Seurat: Drawings runs through January 7. The Museum of Modern Art is located on 53rd Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. My apologies, as always on these museum posts, for the surreptitiously-snapped photographs.

Hakata Tonton

2007-12-07T10:49:00.000-05:00

Full disclosure: I've now eaten more pig's feet these past few weeks than I've ever had in my life. I mean, I love swine, and offal of all sorts, but clearly I'm no afeetcianado. That said, if ever there was place to get a quick education on the subject, it's the new Hakata Tonton, where nearly every one the 40 or so dishes features piggie peds.

Wait... is this an even remotely viable idea for a restaurant? Well, I've been twice, and though it was early, this small, dreary space (the only nod to any sort of decor is a plastic-encased prosciutto lying flat in the windowsill) was surprisingly full. Even more striking: most tables were taken by groups of young women. This still puzzles me. Not that women aren't as adventurous eaters as men, but the fe/male ratio here was probably 3:1. I mean, seriously... girls night out at the pig's feet place? Could it be the free packages of pantyhose (in three different shades!) offered in the bathroom? The free Q-tips? The fact that pig's feet are, apparently, extremely high in collagen, and some claim that if you eat just a half a pound of feet meat a day, you'll look younger in no time (then why so many already-young women?)?

Anyway, the menu is pretty much all under-$10 small plates, although for those more fancy occasions you can indulge in one of two tasting menu options. Yes, they take their pig's feet—Tonsoku, in Japanese—very, very seriously here. I tried six dishes in two visits, with decidedly mixed results. A good introduction to the genre for me was the Tonsoku "simply grilled with salt," a hacked-up foot's worth of the gelatinous, sticky, sweet, sumptuous meat, all given a nice flavor boost by some wonderful yuzu paste—intense, acidic, spicy, salty—served on the side. If you're looking for something a little less visibly porcine, Himi's Tonsoku Gyoza is excellent: six fat dumplings fried to a crisp on the outside, rich and meaty on the inside, and also served with that terrific yuzu.

Decent, too, was my bowl of sliced up Tonsoku marinated in Ponzu, the citrusy sauce pairing nicely with the fatty meat, although I thought there were far too many too-raw onions tossed in to bulk up the serving. One of the very few feetless options here is Oreilles du Cochon, or pig's ears, swimming in a vinegar soy sauce. It's also the only item on the menu listed in French, but that's neither here nor there. And no matter how you say it, this is not a dish for the timid: the mouthfeel score on these babies is about a negative-4, all crunchy cartilage and mushy meat.

If you're in a hurry, stay away from the Tonsoku Japanese Style Paella, which arrives without warning in an elaborate stove-like apparatus, to be cooked at the table. My server forbids me from opening the lid before the sterno burns itself out, "about 5 to 10 minutes." Twenty-five minutes later I still have no paella on my plate... and when the flame finally does go out, I'm greeted by a disappointing, bland stew of rice and mushrooms with maybe a couple of tiny slivers of pork. Also not worth the effort is the Deep Fried Tonksoku "Kara Age", which is sadly without flavor, though most certainly not without bone.

Hakata Tonton is located on Grove Street, just west of 7th Avenue. Both (week)nights I went the hostess/server looked concerned that I didn't have a reservation, even though it was before 6:30 and there were several empty tables. Both nights, however, the place was almost full by the time I felt. Clearly there's something slightly culty going on here.

Things We Want

2007-12-05T16:14:00.000-05:00

My gorgeous and apparently theater-mad girlfriend took me to see Things We Want on Monday night and, going in with no expectations—and not even realizing just how star-studded a production this was—I must say that we both enjoyed the show quite a bit.

The acting is first-rate, especially Peter Dinklage, Paul Dano and, most especially, Josh Hamilton, playing three brothers, all presumably in their twenties, living together in the apartment they grew up in, their parents... well I won't tell you what happened to their parents. The art direction (set design/propping) is terrific: this is one of those time-machine homes in which nothing's changed since these guys were kids. Except now it's a lot messier. And instead of toys there's bottles of Jack Daniels scattered about.

Anyway, the plotting here is propelled by the return of a forlorn Dano to the family home, dropping out of culinary school after an unseen Zelda broke his heart. When he arrives, Dinklage is passed-out-drunk on the couch, Hamilton is heading off to his job as some sort of assistant to a self-help guru. All of the above changes completely over the course of the play, spurred on by the introduction of the kind of lonely, up-for-anything, sexy neighbor no one ever really has, in this case played by a very good Zoe Kazan.

Jonathan Marc Sherman's script is clever and often laugh-out-loud funny and, like I said, the actors are all excellent (though I'm a little worried that Dano, now seeing him for the third time in something, may be too one-note... we'll see what he does in the upcoming There Will Be Blood). The problem with the play (ably directed, by the way, by Ethan Hawke): no emotional core. Very quickly into things both Debbie and I realized that we really didn't care what happened to any of these people, even as we had fun watching them get there.

Things We Want is playing at Theatre Row (42nd Street between 9th and 10th Avenues) in the Acorn Theatre, through December 23.

Weird coincidence postscript: my mom found an old roll of film in her house a couple of weeks ago and had it developed. Last Friday she showed me the pictures, which included several shots of me when I was probably 10 years old or so, goofing around in the snow with someone I haven't really thought about in decades, a kid named Barrack Evans... the same Barrack Evans who is the managing producer of this show!

Papabubble

2007-12-04T17:45:00.000-05:00

Debbie nailed it the other day when she said that what Papabubble's really selling in their sleek new New York City outpost is just "old-lady candy repackaged to look cool and mod. And it works." Indeed it does. If you're at all susceptible to the lure of good design, just try to walk out of there without plunking down an absurd amount of money for a bag or five of hard candy. Especially, I imagine, if you catch them cooking and stretching and shaping and slicing up their taffy-like wads right there in the store behind the counter.

Of course, it helps that, for the most part, Papabubble delivers on the promise of their packaging, using natural flavors and essential oils to turn the standard recipe of sugar, water and glucose into something... not transcendent, for sure, but certainly a sweet treat that's several cuts above any sucking candy I can remember ever eating before. Anyway, my eager-to-volunteer younger daughter Co and I sampled a number of flavors over this past week, and here's what we think.

A solid selection for newbies like us was the Morris Mix, which seemed to have a little bit everything in the fruit and mint category. The flavors here really are quite extraordinary in some cases—it actually tastes like, say, strawberry, or lemon, and not like "red", or "yellow"—and because they're so intense, you really only need (or want) two or three small pieces to satisfy whatever craving led you here in the first place.

The best bag we tried, however, was filled with Acid Drops, which had all the pleasures of the fruit suckers above with the added bonus of actually being sour enough to provoke puckering throughout. Less eye-opening were the Peppermint Pebbles, which are softer and chalkier than the regular candies. No question, these are top-of-the-line after dinner mints, but there's no getting around the fact that they are, well... after dinner mints.

Finally, I dove in solo to the Chocolate Mix bag (though I have a confirming report from a trusty field correspondent), which ranged from the strong, very good coffee, to the strong, very gross spearmint.

Papabubble is located on Broome Street between Mulberry and Mott. This is the company's first U.S. store, joining the Barcelona flagship as well as branches in Tokyo and Amsterdam. They make candy behind the counter throughout the day, but apparently I was unlucky and arrived during a break.

The New Museum

2007-12-03T15:35:00.000-05:00

My daughters and I had a blast yesterday touring the spanking New Museum with Debbie, who had snagged us four tickets for a prime slot during the Target-sponsored, free-admission, grand-opening weekend. And while we all agreed that the art inside was a bit of a bust (with a few notable exceptions), the museum itself is a huge success, we thought: cleverly designed, filled with small surprises, nice wide-open galleries, an excellent addition to the neighborhood in particular, and to the City as a whole.

The building makes for a dramatic, dynamic terminus to Prince Street, and is best seen by that approach (rather than coming up or down Bowery). And its shape—all precarious, piled-up-rectangles—also, as Nicolai Ouroussoff helpfully articulated in the Times, fits neatly in with the ramshackle tenements of different heights and stones that flank it on either side. The LED signage above the doorway is bright and welcoming, and though we wished they hadn't put the aluminum mesh that covers the entire exterior over the windows as well (a bit penitentiarial, no?), we all agreed that this truly is a beautiful building. Thankfully, the "Hell, Yes!" piece is temporary (a rainbow? really?), and will be replaced by something hopefully fresher soon. Anyway, here's some more thoughts and pictures from our visit...

By far our favorite art work inside was Black-on-White, Grey Ascending by Young-Hae Chang Heavy Industries, seven video screens relating a story I couldn't catch (apparently it involves a kidnapping), all told in typography and a bossa-nova soundtrack, overlaid at times with a voice reading from one of the screens. This resides within a sound-proof glass enclosure at the lobby's eastern end, and will be there through March 23.

The main exhibition, Unmonumental, is a group show of recent work "exploring the reinvention of sculptural assemblage." Many of these pieces, spread out across all three floors of the museum's primary exhibit space, were fun to look at, and some were undeniably creative and engaging, but it also all felt a bit silly to me. The sculptural medium did show the museum's wide-open galleries to their full advantage, however (we liked the concrete floors, skylights, and lack of support columns; according to Debbie, however, the ceilings felt "a little too Macy's"). On January 16, a series of giant collages will be placed on the walls, surrounding the current pieces, and the whole thing will run through March 23.

We loved the museum's huge, surprisingly bright green elevator, and its skinny little neighbor next door.

The snack bar toward the back of the lobby, sadly, wasn't yet open, so we couldn't sample the unbelievably intriguing-sounding Cheese Puffs.

This narrow back staircase separating the third and second floors features a serendipitous little nook about halfway down, home on this day to an audio work.

The undulating gift shop, right smack in the lobby, is enclosed by the same aluminum mesh as the building itself.

Downstairs there's a terrific theater, now showing an hilarious (and insanely irritating) POV film of an artist being barked at—and, eventually, attacked—by a pack of dogs.

Also downstairs: the extravagantly tiled bathroom, complete with recessed high-blast hand dryer. The women's is a much less fabulous blue.

On the seventh floor on opening weekend (and presumably not beyond, but you never know): FREE CANDY! Target knows how to throw a logo-heavy party, and this island of free M&Ms, gumballs, jelly bellies, fireballs and other treats provoked giddy grins and shrieks of delight in just about everyone... not an easy feat with this downtown, art-going crowd.

The candy may not be there anymore, but the spectacular three-sided view of the Lower East Side makes an elevator ride to the top a must.

The New Museum is located on the Bowery between Rivington and Stanton Streets, at the easternmost end of Prince Street. The museum is open from Noon until 6:00 on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday, and until an excellently late 10:00pm on Friday and Saturday; it's closed on Mondays and Tuesdays. Admission is $12, students $6, 18-and-under free.

Holiday Season Movies: Part 1

2007-11-30T19:53:00.000-05:00

Surprises and disappointments start off my sure-to-be-busy Holiday Season of movie going. The standard quick look:

Frank Langella has been getting raves for his work in the excellent Starting Out In the Evening, and with good reason: his Leonard Schiller is brilliant, a wonderfully subtle portrayal of a dignified, aging New York City intellectual/writer—once celebrated, now out-of-print and "respected"— trying to finish his last novel before time runs out. But almost as impressive here is Lili Taylor as his protective, warmhearted daughter Ariel, on the cusp of 40, a little lost in life, longing to have a child, in love with a man who does not; and Lauren Ambrose as the pretty, precocious graduate student Heather, who, under the guise of writing her Master's thesis on the man, convinces Schiller to let her into his home, his mind, and, ultimately, his heart. This is just a great, grown-up movie, intelligent and true, about decent people whom you can root for to find some measure of peace and happiness in their lives.

We've been excited about Enchanted since the first trailer months ago... but after a dozen or so such viewings I was concerned that I was already sick of a movie I hadn't yet seen. Not to worry. This sweet, brisk and clever romantic comedy about an animated-turned-flesh-and-blood princess (a terrific Amy Adams) and her attendent prince-in-pursuit, talking chipmunk, and evil queen, all flung from a Disney cartoon fairytale land into present-day Manhattan, has enough honest emotion and genuinely hilarious moments that even an unnecessary—and unnecessarily loud and frantic—final act can't ruin the fun. While not as completely subversive as some viewers would like, if a fresh take on happily-ever-after appeals, this will not disappoint.

About half of Stephen King's The Mist is a ripping thriller featuring legions of horrifically skin-crawling creatures doing horrifically skin-crawling things to the good people of SmallTown, Maine. Unfortunately, the other half feels like a TV miniseries in the worst way. It's not that all the acting is terrible (Toby Jones and Andre Braugher aren't given nearly enough screen time), though some of it definitely is (I don't understand why people keep giving Thomas Jane work). But the script is hopelessly ham-fisted, the plotting clunky, and the film stars a character you've never wished would just please DIE already more than Marcia Gay Harden's crazy evangelist. That said, if you're at all intrigued, I would suggest checking it out, if only for the deliriously cruel ending, which had a packed house in Times Square hooting with glee and disbelief.

The more you know about Bob Dylan's life and music, the more you'll enjoy I'm Not There, Todd Hayne's impressionistic, creative, beautifully filmed, incredibly frustrating sort-of biopic. By now you know the central gimmick: six different actors play six different aspects of Dylan's life and personality, highlighted, in both my and Debbie's opinion, by Cate Blanchett, Christian Bale, and Ben Whishaw. It's all very interesting and cool in theory—and, really, there are many very good individual moments here—but ultimately Haynes is annoyingly unhelpful to his audience, flexing an exclusivity that's totally unneeded. It was completely unclear to me for most of the movie how much of the action/emotion was based on reality, and how much was fiction. Should it have mattered? Maybe not... but because there's no real narrative here, admiring the director's imagination and technical skill is only compelling up to a point. The parts of the film I liked the most, by far, were the parts that I "got": Haynes's portrait of Dylan going electric at the Newport Folk Festival, to give just one example, was funny, ingenious, and powerful. I think if Haynes had just been a little more welcoming, just helped us non-fanatics a little more, my opinion of the movie would have changed dramatically. I don't like being pushed away so firmly by a filmmaker—especially for an overly-long 135 minutes—my only failing having been insufficient research on his subject. There's an underlying smugness to it all, as when anyone uses their knowledge of a certain set of facts or ideas—facts or ideas which we all could learn, but just haven't, for whatever reason—as the basis for feeling and asserting their superiority. There's no teaching in I'm Not There, no generosity, and I think Haynes really blew it.

Debbie put it best: Noah Baumbach's Margot at the Wedding is little more than an exercise in "horribleness for horribleness's sake". The story is simple: one sister comes to witness another's nuptials, and everyone treats everyone else like garbage. Kids, parents, neighbors, siblings, lovers, fiancés, exes, babysitters... all of them. Just horrible. Sure, the acting is first rate, especially the three leads, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Nicole Kidman, and Jack Black. And the script is sharp, though this feels like a much longer movie than its actual 90-minute running time. But, honestly, why do I need to spend any time at all with such miserable, vindictive, ugly, manipulative people? And the answer, of course, is that I don't. So, next time Baumbach, forget it... I'm NOT going! Now, I thought the same thing about his Squid and the Whale, which many people also loved, including my aforementioned girlfriend (in fact, I actually liked Margot more than Squid), so let your conscious, and your stomach for meanness, be your guide here.

Georgia's Eastside BBQ

2007-11-29T16:43:00.000-05:00

Say you're totally starving to death, and your movie at the Sunshine starts in an hour, and you're not feeling especially wealthy, and for a few days now you've been quietly nursing your semi-annual craving for some Southern-style eats.

Ring a bell? Then definitely head on over to Georgia's Eastside BBQ, a small, friendly spot that's been slinging all your basic home-cookin' meats and sides since it opened over the summer. The decor here is ironic Americana, the portions large, the prices graciously easy on the wallet, the food unspectacular but unquestionably satisfying.

I pulled out all the stops last Tuesday evening and ordered the Rib Dinner, a full rack of baby backs which were mostly juicy, fatty and fall-off-the-bone tender (the thick end of things suffered from unpleasant dryness), the tips fired to a nicely burnt crisp, the whole monsterous mess slathered in a nothing-fancy, not-too-sugary BBQ sauce. For my sides I went veggie with some well-cooked, quite tasty Roasted Beets and a bowl of sweet Collard Greens. And because I felt like testing my stomach's outer limits, I also tried the Baked Potato Skins with cheddar, bacon, and sour cream. It's tough to screw up a dish like that, and they didn't.

Georgia's Eastside BBQ is located on Orchard Street between Houston and Stanton. There's no liquor license, and it's closed Mondays... which perhaps explains why they "usually have dessert, just not tonight" on Tuesday.

The Man of My Dreams by Curtis Sittenfeld

2007-11-28T16:22:00.000-05:00

The short review is this: however you felt about Curtis Sittenfeld's first book, Prep—liked it, loved it, hated it—is probably exactly how you're going to feel about her second book, The Man of My Dreams. Me? I liked alot, and so I liked a lot.

Not that this is a sequel in any way, but our star Hannah Gavener is pretty much the same sort of excruciatingly self-conscious, hyper-aware, deeply uncomfortable AND condescending person as Prep's protagonist Lee Fiora. The biggest difference in The Man of My Dreams is the scope—Hannah takes us through her life from her early teens to her late twenties—and the author's focus, which is not so much on the friendships and the social pitfalls that befuddled and befell Prep's Lee, but rather on Hannah's often painful, always overly self-complicated search for love, through flings and crushes and romances.

Among Hannah's men: office buddy Ted, with whom she almost loses her virginity after a drunken afternoon... until she tells him of her sexual status; Oliver the anti-monogamist, who toys with her for years while openly screwing every woman in sight, including, quite possibly, Hannah's free-spirited cousin Fig; Henry, Fig's decent, much-suffering boyfriend and with whom Hannah is obsessed; Mike, who treats her like a queen, even as she breaks his heart; and the boy she meets in the park when she's 14, who asks to see her "bathing suit" and shows her his eagle tattoo... an image she'll call to mind years later during sex with Mike in order to achieve orgasm.

I think Sittenfeld is a terrific writer, as much for her broad strokes and the way she nails intense, complex emotions as for her small, sharp observations of the meaning behind the most mundane details of everyday life. Here's an excerpt:

---

She wishes she had sunglasses, but otherwise it's so nice to be headed down the highway on a perfect late-April afternoon, so nice to just be going somewhere. She hasn't ridden in a car since she was home for spring break over a month ago. And she was prepared for Henry to listen to some terrible kind of male music—heavy metal or maybe pretentious white-man rappers—but the CD that's playing is Bruce Springsteen. Quite possibly, this is the happiest Hannah has ever been in her entire life.

Henry does have sunglasses, with a faded purple strap, a sporty strap, around the back. He keeps an atlas in the car, already folded open to a two-page spread, also faded, of Massachusetts. "You're navigating," he said when they got in the car, and when Hannah saw how far away Hyannis was, a flash of excitement went off inside her.

They don't talk at first, except Hannah saying, "Do you need to take Ninety-three to get on Three?" and Henry shaking his head. Almost half an hour has passed by the time he turns down the volume on the car stereo.

"So she called out of the blue and said 'Come get me'?" he asks.

"More or less."

"You're a good cousin, Hannah."

"Fig can be pretty persuasive."

"That's one way to put it," Henry says. Hannah does not point out that he, too, is in the car.

They don't speak—"I got laid off down at the lumberyard," sings Bruce Springsteen—and then Hannah says, "I think I got frustrated with her more when we were younger. In the beginning of high school, especially, because that's when Fig would get invited to parties by juniors and seniors. Or I'd hear people talking about something that had happened, like she'd be doing Jell-O shots in the parking lot at the basketball game, and I'd think, wait, my cousin Fig? That Fig?" The fact that Henry seems vaguely annoyed, and that fact that he's Fig's—even if he and Fig are broken up, he's still Fig's, and off-limits to Hannah—are both liberating, and Hannah feels uncharacteristically chatty. It's not like she's trying to appear attractive to him, or to impress him; she can just relax. "Of course, I'm not sure I even wanted to be invited to go to junior and senior parties," she continues. "Probably I wanted to be invited more than I wanted to go. I'm kind of a dork, though."

"Or maybe Jell-O shots aren't your thing," Henry says.

"I've never actually tried one." She wonders if this seems like a confession. If so—ha! Given that she still hasn't even kissed anyone, Jell-O shots are the least of what she's never tried. "But my main point about Fig is that you don't expect her to meet you fifty-fifty," Hannah says. "You sort of appreciate her good qualities and don't take it too personally when she blows you off."

Tara Donovan / Damien Hirst at the Met

2007-11-27T16:55:00.000-05:00

One of the great things about the Metropolitan's "suggested" admission price policy? You can bamboozle your exhausted-from-skating daughters to stop in for just 15 minutes or so and look at two pieces of art, and, if you're like me, it will only set you back $3.

First we headed over to the mezzanine in the modern wing to see Tara Donovan's new installation, for which the artist covered all three walls of the gallery with rolled strips of mylar tape in seemingly random, organic patterns. Debbie introduced me to Donovan a couple of years ago—she creates amazingly obsessive sculptures out of plastic drinking straws, or styrofoam cups, or pencils—and I must say that this new piece is not her most exciting. Bo, Co and I all agreed that although we liked the "bubble" or "drops-of-water" effect created by both the shape of the loops as well the reflections off the mylar, the whole thing was disappointingly 2-D , and didn't really command the space.

Up one flight of stairs: Damien Hirst's The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living, more popularly known as The Shark. Now, the most obvious reaction to Hirst's most famous work—a 13-foot tiger shark floating in formaldehyde—is that a more appropriate home for this sad, decaying beast might be across the park at the Museum of Natural History. The flip side, to paraphrase my insightful girlfriend: if you installed any of the MNH's animals in the Met and called it art, it would look somewhat cool just because it seems so out of place. That said, my daughters and I also all thought that there is definitely something poignant and compelling about this piece. And you've got love the list of materials on the wall card.

Tara Donovan's exhibition runs through April 27, 2008; Damien Hirst's Shark will be on view through the Fall of 2010.

Speech and Debate

2007-11-26T16:56:00.000-05:00

Debbie and I had a great time on Saturday night with three of the out-est of outcasts from Oregon's North Salem High School, the setting for Stephen Karam's funny, engaging, dead-on portrait of those treacherous late-teenage years, Speech and Debate.

The three protagonists here are all social losers in their own way. Jason Fuchs and Gideon Glick deliver excellent, note-perfect performances as, respectively, Howie, the queeny, out-since-he-was-10 transfer student whose chat-room trolling for sex gets the plot (such as it is) rolling; and Solomon, a deeply awkward kid in tucked-in polo shirt and pleated khakis who channels his anxiety and nervous energy into being "mature" and reporting on controversial issues for the school newspaper.

But the brightest star is Sarah Steele as Diwata, a self-described "odd and frumpy" senior whose frustration over never getting cast in the school musical leads her to form a Speech and Debate team as a vehicle for her own creations, one of which features her playing her idol Mary Warren (of The Crucible) traveling through time to chat it up with a teenage Abe Lincoln. This bit is hilarious—Steele plays it completely straight—as are most of Diwata's utterly delusional ideas. Karam gives Diawata most of the best lines, and Steele knows what to do with them.

Anyway, the narrative is essentially about how Diwata convinces (blackmails, really) Howie and Solomon to join her Speech and Debate club, and the subsequent bonding that occurs as all three slowly reveal their (unsurprising) deepest secrets. But, of course, the enormous appeal of this show isn't in its mechanics; its in the terrific performances and Karam's knowing portrait of the ways in which teenagers—lacking adults they can trust or even respect—try to deal with their fears, loneliness, shame and insecurities through both righteous indignation and feigned indifference. And, again, watch for Sarah Steele in the hopefully near future.

Speech and Debate has been held over for second time, and will run through December 30. The Roundabout Underground, a new initiative dedicated to putting on the works of young playwrights, is being hosted by the Black Box Theater on 46th Street just west of Sixth Avenue, an industrial-looking little space with very comfortable chairs. Tickets are $20.

Skating the Pond at Bryant Park 2007

2007-11-24T16:34:00.000-05:00

My winter-wonderlandian daughters and I were up-and-at-'em yesterday morning for a lovely skate at the recently reopened Pond at Bryant Park. Now in its third year, this pretty, large, efficiently-run rink has become a great annual addition to our holiday-season rounds. We love the somewhat incongruous setting, amidst the midtown towers and librarial columns; we love the skates (especially as compared to the lace-up rentals we remember from Lasker Rink); we love the cookies and coffee during the Zamboni break.

We arrived at around 10:15, and there was virtually no line, though the ice got progressively more crowded as the morning wore on. Even so, I never felt anything but exhilarated to be flying around the ice, or taking a break in the sun and skater-watching for a bit. And Bo and Co were like machines, going non-stop for almost two hours, minus the Zamboni time. All three of us agree: this is a highly recommended holiday activity.

The Pond at Bryant Park is located on 42nd Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Skating is free, skate rentals are $10 (up $2 from last year!). Remember: bring your own lock for your shoe/purse locker (or buy one there for another $10), and don't bring a large bag, or you'll have to check it for $7. Hours are 7 am (!) to 10:00 pm, and until midnight on weekends. When you're finished, and you're famished, DON'T eat at the snack bar; instead get a meatloaf, cheddar and bacon sandwich from the park's 'wichcraft kiosk.

Top Five Fall Movies

2007-11-21T17:53:00.000-05:00

I saw 35 movies between the day after Labor Day and the start of the Thanksgiving weekend. Here are the five I enjoyed most:

1. Michael Clayton
2. Helvetica: A Documentary Film
3. American Gangster
4. The Darjeeling Limited
5. Lars and the Real Girl

Close six and seven:
Before the Devil Knows You're Dead
Wristcutters: A Love Story

And eight:
In the Valley of Elah

I'm totally right, right?

Fall Movies: Part 6

2007-11-21T14:08:00.000-05:00

The Fall Movie Season is now officially over; ending, for the most part, with a whimper. So before we leap into the always-busy Holiday Season, here's the usual quick look back...

Above all else, the riveting, boisterous, poignant, surprisingly joyous documentary Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten made me so grateful that I was a teenager when The Clash were at their peak. My God those were/are good records: The Clash (a friend had the early-release import), Give 'Em Enough Rope, London Calling, Sandinista... so urgent, and genuine, and unafraid, and propulsive. I still remember the way it felt the first time I heard some of these songs, in awe of the energy behind I'm So Bored With USA, for example, or surprised and moved by the sweetness of Stay Free, or, perhaps most of all, I remember the day London Calling came out, and Tod and I hitched into town to get it (though roommates, we both bought copies), returning to our dorm room and blasting the title track probably five times in a row before we could get any deeper into the double-LP. We had the whole school addicted to this record within days.

Anyway, the movie. The structure here is pretty standard Behind-the-Music stuff, combining archival and home-movie footage (love the opening bit of Strummer recording the vocals to White Riot) with talking-head reminiscences from bandmates and friends as well as appreciations from the likes of Flea, John Cusack and Bono. These are mostly shot by campfire light, an homage to Strummer's late-in-life affection for such communal gatherings, which adds a warmth and intimacy to the memories. All the highs and lows are dutifully covered, from his renunciation of his rockabilly and hippie friends right after forming the Clash to the riotous Bonds Times Square shows in 1981 (one of which—old school cred alert!—I was lucky enough to go to at the time) to the dissolution of the band and Strummer's years of depression, lifted toward the end of his life by his music with the Mescaleros. And if you don't get chills during the impromptu "reunion" of Strummer and Mick Jones, performing White Riot at a Save-the-Firehouse Benefit, then, well... you probably never felt, at some point in your life, that this truly was "The Only Bands That Matters."

Occasionally cute and completely harmless, The Martian Child is the story of widowed science fiction writer John Cusack (bullied as a kid, he grew up to be rich and famous with a beautiful house) adopting an emotionally damaged boy who deals with his issues of abuse and abandonment by claiming (believing? is actually?) that he's from Mars, and will be called back as soon as his mission here on Earth is completed. Co loved it, Bo liked it, and I was less convinced: a couple of good laughs and some genuine sweetness didn't quite outweigh the annoying tendency of every character to talk in an earnest whisper all the time, as well as an authorial subplot seemingly thrown in just to try to choke us up even more. Amanda Peet was fun to watch, though. Where's she been?

An interesting idea gone wrong, John Turturro's Romance and Cigarettes takes a terrific cast—including James Gandolfini, Susan Sarandon, Mandy Moore, Kate Winslet, and Steve Buscemi—puts them into that alternative Musical universe where people burst into song to express their emotions (in this case singing along with old standards like Janis Joplin's Piece of My Heart, Engelbert Humperdinck's Man Without Love, and, in the movie's best moment, Tom Jones's Delilah), and then uses fart jokes and nudge-nudge campiness to try to keep our attention. I wish Turturro had trusted his concept, and his actors, and played it straight. Maybe a genuinely sweet love story might have broken out.

Brian DePalma shows impressive restraint in Redacted, relying on none of his usual (and usually irritating) filmmaking tics. The concept is sound: show us the terror, the boredom, the isolation, the confusion, the travesty of the Iraqi War with immediacy and intimacy by potraying the life and horrific crimes of a single squadron entirely through "visual diaries": a soldier's camcorder, Arabic news reports, videos embedded into web pages. Unfortunately the movie is so poorly acted, and the script so annoyingly ham-fisted and expository, that by the time the story's defining act of violence rolls around I felt too detached from it all to even care. I wasn't in Iraq with these guys; I was at the Sunshine, checking my watch.

A twisty story that desperately needed more twistiness, the rewritten (by Harold Pintar) Sleuth was even worse than anticipated by my exceptionally low expectations. Michael Caine and Jude Law are pretty good moment to moment, but there's no consistency to their actions or reactions—no reason, external or internal, why one suddenly gets the upper hand over the other—and the script is all smugness and smarm pretending to be wit and intelligence.

The Smith

2007-11-21T00:13:00.000-05:00

Put The Smith on your short list of go-to places in the East Village/Union Square area. In fact, put this spanking-new spot right near the top. I stopped by early this evening for a quick bite, hoping for serviceable comfort food, and was blown away by the care and thought that went into each part of my meal. The flavors were bold and balanced, the kitchen's execution near-perfect, the portions heaping, and the prices very low, with pretty much everything comfortably under $20.

Basically: Welcome to the neighborhood.

Owned and operated by the crew behind Jane and The Neptune Room, the unGoogleable The Smith (how soon before it's nicknamed Morissey?) is bistro-y in its look and feel, all white tiles, dark wood, and small wooden tables. Also of note, decor-wise: vintage pinups cover one wall, and downstairs there's a photo booth, an ancient barber's chair, and an open, communal bathroom—stalls on the left, sinks on the right—designed for maximum interaction between the sexes.

The food. My feast began with what may be the best sharable starter of the year: an overflowing bowl of Hot Potato Chips with blue cheese "fondue," a simple but genius take on nachos, the warm, creamy cheese sauce turning the thin, salty chips just slightly—and beautifully—soggy and chewy. The mouthfeel is terrific, the flavors lively, the whole thing hopelessly addicting.

For my Main Course I went complicated, ordering the Lamb Schnitzel, which turns out to be an excellent choice of meat to pound, batter and fry. Because even coated in a sharp parmesan crust, spiced up with chili flakes, accompanied by lemoned-out greens and placed upon a mountain of wonderfully gummy, lumpy, dijoned mashed potatoes, I could still taste the (by the way tender) lamb. On all levels, this dish was a smashing success. If the pastas, burgers and salads are even half as good as this, The Smith is going to be packed and loud, well into the night. And my side of Brussels Sprouts? Charred to a caramelized crisp, exactly the way I like it.

The Smith is located on Third Avenue between 11th and 10th Streets. The dessert menu looked terrific, highlighted by several cake-and-ice-cream-sundae combos, but I was already ridiculously full. Definitely diving in next time, though—heck, maybe even be tomorrow night!—with help from Bo and Co.

Grandaisy Bakery on West 72nd

2007-11-20T14:05:00.000-05:00

I've gone out of my way more times than I care to admit these past couple of weeks to sample the serious baked goodness they're serving at the new Grandaisy, an offshoot of the Soho original and a delicious new addition to what's fast becoming a major treat zone in the West 70s (think also: Grom, the just-opened Jacques Torres, Beard Papa, and, if you're so inclined, Crumbs).

So far, these baking wizards can do wrong. Three times already I've been back for their Ossi di Morte, beautiful crackly meringues studded with almonds. Get a couple on-the-go with, say, a cup of coffee, and you've just made your day so much better. Or share the love and bring someone gorgeous a dozen in one of their pre-packaged bags.

Last night I polished off a Tortino di Cioccolato, which is basically just your dream brownie come true: crunchy on the outside, rich and fudgy in the middle, with a distinct cocoa flavor AND a hint of almond, probably from the crushed up biscotti they use for texture. I had half right after dinner, solo; the other half at around 12:30 topped with coconut ice cream. Yes, it was totally worth it. Even more incredible, however, is the Tortino di Ciliegie, a chewy, buttery cake infused with frangipane (basically marzipan), topped with sour cherries, all sitting in a shell of chocolate. Seriously, it may look pretty innocent, but this is amazing.

Grandaisy is located on 72nd Street, just east of Broadway. They also serve several kinds of paninis, which sound great but I haven't tried, as well as a large variety of rolls and loaves of bread. I had an green olive roll yesterday for lunch and it was excellent.

Momofuku Noodle Bar 2.0 [BETA]

2007-11-18T23:39:00.000-05:00

It's pretty much our favorite restaurant in town, so of course my noodle-head daughters and I had to check out the spanking-new, upgraded and expanded Momofuku 2.0 as soon as possible. Which, in this case, meant last night, less than a week after the grand opening.

The new space is handsomely designed by Swee Phuah, all light wood and minimalism; the 55 seats—up from 27, and including two bars and a bunch of communal tables—are jammed in tight; the place was packed and Led Zeppelin-blasting loud even at 6:20 when we showed, though we did get seated right away. In other words, nothing's changed in the land of the 'Fuku.

Or has it? I've have double-digit delicious meals courtesy of David Chang and Co., so I'm going to give them the BETA benefit of the doubt, but I must say that, until the kitchen gets adjusted to the volume of orders, and what must have been a substantial number of new hires added to the line get their feet a little wetter, a Momo-newbie might wonder what all the fuss is about.

Take one of our favorite starters, for example, the great Anson Mills Yellow Grits & Gulf Shrimp. At first it all seemed like the usual heaven: the grits creamy and rich; the bacon the best you'll ever eat anytime, anywhere; the poached egg perfect; the five fat grilled shrimp... totally without taste??? Seriously, it's strange enough to eat food as flavorless as these shrimp even in sub-par places, but at Momofuku, where bracing, uncompromising flavors are practically a religion, it was pretty shocking.

Also arriving as a First was a heaping funnel of Fried Veal Sweetbreads, which were wonderfully moist and tender but, again, oddly lacking punch, though the accompanying bowl of excellent chili sauce—the balance between sweet and heat exactly right—more than made up for any timidity in the batter. Even Chang's classic Pork Steamed Buns were a little off... not that Bo and Co didn't devour them in seconds, but the ratio of fat to meat was a slightly disconcerting, oh, let's say 75 - 25, especially since it was by no means cooked to a crisp.

We've never been able to resist the Ramen, and this night was no exception. Bo and Co split a serving of the standard Shredded Pork, and happily slurped their way to the bottom. I strayed from my usual Momofuku Ramen, simplifying instead with the Pork Neck, and was somewhat dismayed to find the meat a little dry, the broth a little too greasy, and, most surprising, a tangle of egg noodles in my bowl (and starchy ones at that). Apparently the Pork Neck Ramen is always served this way (instead of, you know, with ramen), so next time I'm sticking with the familiar.

As you can tell from our meal, the menu at the new Momofuku is pretty much the same as it was half a block down the street... except for the extremely welcome addition of Cousin Leroy & Arlo's Soft-Serve Ice Cream! The only flavor available on Saturday was Cream Cheese, and it was superb: tangy, rich, totally addictive, and twirled atop a sweet, crispy cone that came with an unusual surprise in its tip.

Momofuku Noodle Bar 2.0 is located on First Avenue between 10th and 11th Streets, about four doors up from the former, smaller, Momofuku Noodle Bar, which will soon be the tasting-menu-only Momofuku Ko. There are no reservations accepted, though there's now a fairly large standing-room area set aside up front in which to wait. Despite my nit-picking above, I would eat there again right this second if I could.

Noche Mexicana

2007-11-17T14:50:00.000-05:00

I had dinner here a few years ago, definitely involving tacos, prompted by a downright giddy Eric Asimov $25 and Under piece in the Times. I don't remember much about the meal beyond its total mediocrity, and it never occurred to me to eat here again.... until I noticed that it was listed in the 2007 Michelin Guide.

Huh? That Noche Mexicana? In the Michelin!?

So when the opportunity for a repeat visit presented itself, I leaped, thinking maybe I had missed something the first time around.

And... no. This is, no doubt in my mind, mediocre Mexican. "Authentic," sure—and certainly a huge step up from that atrocity Mama Mexico around the corner on Broadway—but mediocre nonetheless.

I started with a Chorizo Taco, the ground sausage plentiful and appropriately spicy, the tortillas reasonably fresh, the whole thing fine. I've had worse; I've had better (from the nearby Taco Truck on 96th Street, for example). Next up? Quesadilla de Flor de Calebeza, probably the tastiest thing I've had here, the pumpkin flowers adding a nice vinegary sweetness to the salty and surprisingly sharp cheese.

Disaster awaited, however, in the form of the Pipian de Pollo, my overcooked chicken smothered in a sea of bland, gritty pumpkin seed sauce. This, I thought to myself, is what it must be like to eat dirt. The beans were good, though. For dessert: the Flan, of course. It was OK (Móle has nothing to worry about in the Scoboco competition for best Flan of the year), remarkable mostly for his unconventional squareness. The glib lesson from all of this? Don't believe the French about Mexican.

Noche Mexicana is located on Amsterdam Avenue between 100th and 101st Streets.

Kara Walker at the Whitney

2007-11-15T23:15:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I'm not convinced. The Kara Walker exhibition at the Whitney—My Complement, My Enemy, My Oppressor, My Love—has received the best reviews of the season: "Brilliant is the word for it," said the NY Times, to quote just one gush. But when Debbie and I went last Saturday, we were both remarkably unmoved.

Granted, Walker's old-fashioned silhouettes depicting all manner of slavery-era violence, oppression and degradation are undeniably striking spread out on these large, curved white walls. And I thought the room in which Walker projected colored light upon her figures added an interesting other dimension to her work. And Debbie liked the typed-out notecards, surrounded by the framed collage-y pieces.

But. Maybe it's the shapes themselves, all sort of feathery and curlicued, that didn't grab me. Or Walker's use of the plantation as a way to rattle our cages about latter-day racism that felt tired (as opposed to the Whitney's excellent, absolutely contemporary Lorna Simpson exhibition last year). Or perhaps the relentless, deliberate crudity of the imagery was ultimately a turn-off, as if the viewer (in this case, me) wouldn't get it if there were any subtlety to the work.

Anyway, if Walker's style resonates, then by all means see the show. But if, like I was, you're feeling skeptical going in, I promise you it's OK to skip it.

Kara Walker: My Complement, My Enemy, My Oppressor, My Love is at the Whitney Museum of American Art through February 3. Admission is $15, except on Friday evenings, when it's pay-what-you-wish.

Broken Social Scene plays Kevin Drew's "Spirit If..." at Webster Hall

2007-11-15T16:12:00.000-05:00

In a set as sprawling (and, occasionally, as awkward) as the show's title, Broken Social Scene's indefatigable frontman Kevin Drew outlasted a packed house at Webster Hall last night with two-plus hours of remarkably tight, bouncy rock-n-roll, as well as his trademark deadpan pranks and patter.

The band featured longtime members of Broken Social Scene proper, as well as guests from Metric, Pavement, American Analog Set and Dinosaur Jr. (no appearance by Feist, in case you were hoping). At one time or another it seemed like everyone played at least two or three completely different instruments, including Drew on drums. My favorite of Drew's bits (though it went on for too long) was when he talked 20 or so audience members to throw their coats, sweaters, hats, scarves, bags, etc., onstage, and he put everything on at once, and then staggered around and performed an entire song buried in what must have been an unbelievably sweaty mess.

Anyway, here's an incomplete set list: UPDATE: blanks filled in in the comments. Thanks.
1. Lucky Ones
2. Cause = Time
3. Fucked Up Kid
4. Safety Bricks
5. Tbtf
6.
7.
8. Frightening Lives
9. Backed Out On the...
10. Unknown American Analog Set song
11. Gangbang Suicide
12 Farewell to the Pressure Kids
13. Kennel District (Pavement song)
14. Almost Crimes
15. 7/4 (Shoreline)
16. Anthems For a Seventeen Year Old Girl
17.
18. It's All Going to Break
19. When It Begins (massive sing-a-long with everyone on stage)

At this point, Debbie and I left, Drew still up there trying to rouse the crowd, so it's possible we missed an encore. But I'm old (so's Debbie, but also gorgeous), and it was almost 12:30, and we were already more than satisfied with the night's entertainments. By the way, "Spirit If..." is an excellent CD, I think.

Sweet and Low by Rich Cohen

2007-11-14T18:23:00.000-05:00

There's a great, lively, extremely Brooklyn family memoir to be found in Rich Cohen's Sweet and Low... but you have to be willing to slog through stretches when the people fade to the background for unnecessary, unenlightening social history (America's 1960s obsession with dieting) as well as a fairly tedious investigation of a routine (albeit brazen) corporate crime.

The good stuff: Cohen's family, filled with often off-the-wall, sometimes horribly mean-spirited, almost always entertaining characters. In the book's first (and, I think, much better) half, we meet:

• Grandpa Ben, who nearly went broke running a cafeteria near the Brooklyn shipyards, then got into the teabag-stuffing business (Tetley and Lipton were unworried), then parlayed a true moment of inspiration—instead of using those messy, frequently clogged dispensers, restaurants should serve sugar in little packets—into the beginnings of the family fortune.

• Uncle Marvelous, an insecure mechanical genius who took over the company and really got the money rolling in by inventing and distributing Sweet 'n Low... but whose naivety almost sank the company when he put a bunch of "connected" guys on the payroll, and seemingly turned a blind eye—or was he a confederate?—as they systematically robbed the place.

• Grandma Betty, who sealed Rich's fate by disinheriting his side of the family on her deathbed. "To my daughter Ellen and her issue," she declared, "I leave nothing!"

• Aunt Gladys, whose psoriasis (among other things) kept her from leaving her (freezing-cold) room for more than 30 years, but whose deft manipulation of family politics and the telephone made her a force to be reckoned with.

• Uncle Ira, a genuine eccentric with an Upper East Side townhouse lousy with cats, a fondness for purses, a improbable bushy red beard, and a knack for the discomforting, such as this exchange with Rich at the urinals during a relative's wedding:
"What's the last thing you want your crazy uncle to say to you in the bathroom?"
"What?"
"Nice dick."

Unfortunately, I thought Cohen got bogged down in his explication of what really happened at the factory during the "organized crime" years, as well as his exploration as to why Sweet 'n Low was such a runaway hit (basically: right product, right time). But like I said, the family stuff is great. Here's a brief excerpt:

"Grandma Betty was careful about what she said and to whom. Grandma Esther said everything to everyone. She was the loudmouth immigrant who suddenly becomes a member of your family. She took an afternoon to tell a story that could be told in five minutes, then wound it up by saying, 'That's it in a nutshell.' I once heard her ask a woman in her condo complex, 'Why do you hate me, fatso?' I once heard her say to a Holocaust survivor, "You are one Hitler should not have let get away.' When she took me and my sister to see Yentl, she asked for three tickets, one senior, two children. My sister was thirty, I was twenty-two. The three of us saw Yentl for four dollars. She was, according to my father, the nation's foremost expert in cryogenics. She used the word schvartze. Cubans made her nervous. She believed there was a book in Jerusalem in which her name was inscribed in gold. She was old, but then she got really old. When I was driving her home, she demanded to see my license, studied it, then gave it back like a skeptical cop. She said the angel of death had lost her address. 'He must have been distracted at a party and forgotten.'"

Bacaro

2007-11-13T17:59:00.000-05:00

It was cold and way-too-early dark last Saturday evening when Debbie and I arrived at the brand-new Venetian bistro Bacaro... so the fact that it was cold and dark inside the place as well didn't immediately make sitting down for a meal here seem all that appealing. (We were offered a table in the tiny upstairs bar area. The downstairs dining room— apparently quite catacombal—was, for vague reasons, not open.) The food turned out to be mixed but, overall, good, though not nearly good enough for us to make this a destination spot... which, given the fact that it's in the middle of nowhere, is definitely a problem.

We shared five things, all small to less-small plates. First came the Zuppa di Ruppa, or pumpkin soup, which was surprisingly chunky (not a puree, this) and appropriately autumnal. The chilled Marinated Sardines tasted fine—two big, juicy fish covered with caramelized onions, raisins and pine nuts—but might have been better warmed. The teeny Spicy Fried Meatballs were a bit of a bust... not bad food by any means, but at $1 each, I feel like we deserved something with a little more impact.

The pastas were the real highlight here. I had the Gnocchi con Funghi, and though it was far more gummy than the preferred "pillowy", this was a terrific verge-of-winter supper: earthy, generous with the mushrooms, altogether satisfying. Debbie, too, really enjoyed her Risotto with Cuttlefish Ink, rich with the ocean, redolent with wine.

Bacaro is located on Division Street between Orchard and Ludlow. The design (upstairs at least) is gothic and dim. The menu is nearly impossible to read if you have any sort of age-related vision issues. Another thing: this part of town? Crawling with rats. Seriously. One scurried out from some piles of trash right in front of us on the sidewalk, just around the corner from our meal. Not that other areas of the city where I eat all the time are rat-free—not by a long-shot—but still...

Canstruction 2007

2007-11-12T21:22:00.000-05:00

My legally-truant daughters and I had a great time today at Canstruction, the annual "design/build" competition for which architecture, design and/or engineering firms conceive of and construct huge sculptures made almost entirely of cans of food. At the end of the exhibit, the day before Thanksgiving, all the cans go to City Harvest, to be distributed to food banks, shelters, soup kitchens, senior homes, etc., all over the city. The 2007 version had 42 entries spread throughout the 15 floors of the New York Design Center... in the building's lobby they give you a list of sculptures and showrooms, and then send off to find them, adding a fun, treasure-hunt aspect to the exhibition. Here's a few of our favorites. As always, click on any image to enlarge:

Bo's vote to win the People's Choice Award.

Love the Lava Lamp!

More teams than ever created images using the colors on their cans' labels. This cut-in-half Mona Lisa was among the most cool.

The tricked-out Smart Car

Nice use of non-cans—Tic-Tacs, marshmallows—for the eyes.

The best of the four (!) ice cream cones done this year. We liked the tricky black-and-white soft-serve, as well as the thin base of the waffle cone.

Gumballs.

Da-dum. Da-dum.

The DNA Strand looked impressively precarious.

Humpty Dumpty got Co's and my vote for the People's Choice.

Canstruction is on view, Monday to Saturday, through November 21. The New York Design Center is located at 200 Lexington Avenue, between 33rd and 32nd Streets. Admission is one can of food, but you can certainly donate more.

Fall Movies: Part 5

2007-11-08T18:04:00.000-05:00

What did I see last week, you ask? Well...

As much I liked American Gangster—and, really, I liked it quite a bit—Ridley Scott's powerful, hugely entertaining rise-and-fall epic of Harlem drug kingpin Frank Lucas also made me re-appreciate The Wire that much more, especially that show's ability to make the both the cops and the criminals equally compelling. Sure, Russell Crowe's portrait of honest-cop Richie Roberts is OK here, but the police procedural plotting—the thrill of the hunt—is almost non-existent, and the movie only really soars when Denzel Washington's superb Lucas, all dignified brutality and steely ambition, is on screen. Fortunately, he's up there for a good deal more than half the film (surprisingly, he and Crowe only share one scene, but it's a great one), and so the film is a good deal more than OK.

Not coincidentally, Mr. Untouchable also arrived in town last week, a small, often fascinating documentary on Frank Lucas's flamboyant (and, thus, far more famous) Harlem heroin rival in the late 1960s/1970s, Nicky Barnes. The movie is good on Barnes's style, as well as the structure of his organization (stolen from the Mafia), and it's even better on the core question of the Barnes legend: was he a cowardly snitch, or a true Godfather who buried his enemies the best way he could? It seems that, after being sentenced to life in 1978, Barnes ratted out nearly 100 of his former colleagues as part of an elaborate revenge scheme delivered upon a one-time top lieutenant for having an affair with his wife. The highlight here has to be the extensive interviews with Barnes himself, face shrouded in shadows to protect his new identity. To some degree, of course, these are nakedly self-serving, but there's no denying that the man has charisma, as well as a unique, insider's perspective on a certain time, and place, in New York City history.

While Co was at The Bee Movie with some friends last weekend (her review: "really good, and it wasn't cheesy"), Bo and I went to see and mostly enjoyed the cute romantic/family comedy Dan In Real Life. Though the whole thing is immediately forgettable and co-writer/director Peter Hedges doesn't really know what to do with everyone, the movie is not without its charms: Steve Carrell is maybe a little too mopey, but you can't help but laugh at his doofy antics; Juliette Binoche is lovely (if completely out of place); Dane Cook is shockingly tolerable; and the whole big-family-gathered-at-their-beach-house-engaged-in-their- adorable-big-family-traditions (crossword competitions, talent night, etc.) provided excellent fodder for my always eager to be fed nostalgia for a life I never had.

People are saying that Rendition is a admirable try, and I guess that's true... though a try at what I'm not quite sure. At being a taut political thriller? Mostly fails. At providing a vehicle for some excellent actors? Mostly fails... not that the acting isn't good—Streep, Witherspoon, Sarsgaard, Gylenhaal, et al, acquit themselves fine—it's just that no one's given much of anything to work with. At delivering the important message that torture is horrible? That US policy on and involvement in torture is horrible? That people of different nationalities, races, beliefs, cultures and religions all feel pain and loss when a loved one dies? Mostly succeeds! (You know... in case you didn't realize any of the above.) Though the narrative's structure proved to be a bit too tricky for some, it's about the only thing that delivers any sort of surprise here.

Martin Puryear at the MoMA

2007-11-07T15:56:00.000-05:00

They're on a roll, those MoMA curators. Following this summer's brilliant Richard Serra show comes this beautiful and dramatic career retrospective—from the mid 1970s to 2007—of Martin Puryear's sculptures. My occasionally reluctant but ultimately always art-loving daughters and I went on opening day last Sunday, and totally enjoyed everything about the exhibition, from the soaring pieces in the Atrium—especially, of course, Ladder for Booker T. Washington, from which, as you can see above, Co swung—to the several dozen free-standing and wall-mounted pieces on the sixth floor.

I think my kids and I liked Puryear's free-standing work so much because of its evocative—and inherently narrative—qualities. We would ask each other: What does this one remind you of? An elephant (Bo and Co)... or a snail (me, to much rolling of eyes)? There's also something dark and mysterious about many of these pieces, and if you stumbled across them in the woods, I'm not sure you wouldn't be more than a little creeped out, worried that whomever built them may still be nearby.

Of course, if you're not of a storytelling bent, many of these are also technically marvelous and incredibly sensual—you'll be extremely tempted to touch—plus there's the powerful subtext running throughout of colonialism, oppression, imprisonment (external and internal), and freedom.

But my favorite part of the show, perhaps, was Puryear's series of circular, almost minimalist wall-mounted pieces, including Big and Little Same, below. These all were so elegant and creative, I thought.

The Martin Puryear exhibition runs through January 14. The Museum of Modern Art is located on 53rd Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.

Matilda

2007-11-06T00:10:00.000-05:00

This is a restaurant you really want to root for.

The Tuscan/Mexican fusion cuisine concept appears to be heartfelt, rather than some sort of (ill-conceived) marketing scheme: the place is owned and operated by a one-of-each married couple. A lot of thought went into the design—the (sadly, scripty) typographic wall decor, the odd chandelier, the increasingly common communal two-sided bar—and includes something I've never seen before, a little slot in the table into which slides the dessert menu. Cute. The wife half of the team, Maristella Innocenti, was a frequent, smiling visitor to my table, and couldn't have been more pleasant. The place itself is named after their 3-year-old daughter.

So you'll definitely sit down to your meal really wanting to like the brand-new Matilda... but right now (or, at least, a week ago Saturday), the food is not there yet.

Things started off on a good note, with a basket of chewy bread and—fusion alert!—olive oil infused with habanero. And my pasta, Fusilli Con Chayotes, mostly worked, the addition of grilled zucchini flowers bringing some welcome earthiness to a dish perhaps too reliant on the more subtle, watery Mexican squash.

My Secondi/Platos Fuertes, however, worked not at all, but it was much more a problem of execution rather than conception which, presumably, the kitchen will address, given time. I ordered the Maiale Sulla Luna, which was described as pork tenderloin strewn with pineapple and habanero, served with a potato and cilantro pie. What I got was remarkably tasteless meat, flavorless fruit, and two slabs of something that reminded me of a terribly overcooked, dried out baked idaho, pressed flat. I couldn't even bring myself to eat much of this.

Dessert, too, was good news/bad news. All Matilda is serving now is homemade gelati and sorbet: the Mexican Chocolate was excellent, with a perfect, creamy texture and deep notes of cocoa, cinnamon and chilis; the Orange Panna Cotta was pretty terrible, all crumbly and bland. As Maristella herself told me after seeing my unfinished bowl of ice cream (!), "we're still working some things out."

Matilda is located on 11th Street, just west of Avenue C. On Saturday night at around 8:30 the place was pretty packed (with, in this case, Halloween-party goers, many in costume), though I did get seated right away at a table next to the window. As of then (October 27), it was cash only.

Five Guys

2007-11-04T18:08:00.000-05:00

The most immediately relevant question: are these burgers worth a 45 minute... a 60 minute... an hour and a half wait, as some poor bastards subjected themselves to last Thursday and Friday—aka Five Guys Day 1 and Five Guys Day 2—at lunch?

Um... no.

But then, I wouldn't wait that long for my food/a table anywhere in town.*

That said, my grilled-ground-beef-loving daughters and I made the pilgrimage today (take note: Sunday) at around 12:30, waited maybe 10 minutes total from getting on the order line to unwrapping the goods at our table, and all agreed that the Five Guy burger—especially, no surprise, with bacon—is definitely an instant Top 5 contender for best in the city.

Here's the basic takeaway:
• Get bacon. The crunch nicely compensates for the somewhat mushy patties. In fact, pile on the toppings... they're free, and they won't overwhelm the big, flavorful, doubled-up burgers.
• Nice buns, Five Guys: soft; understand their place in the burger hierarchy; functional.
• The cheese dog is good—crispy casing, well-spiced—but unnecessary.
• The Cajun Fries are totally the way to go. We liked the texture and appreciated the freshness of our "Five Guys Style" spuds, but the spiced-up Cajun version was much, much better.
• Go for dinner (they're open until 10pm), or weekend lunch. This is an excellent, inexpensive pre-/post MoMA, Broadway, City Center, etc, option.

Five Guys is located on 55th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues. The woman who took my order was smiley and helpful; the manager friendly and on top of things. When I returned to the counter with Co's bacon-less Little Bacon Cheeseburger, they offered to cook me a whole new one, but were also happy, at my request, to just give me some strips, which we put on the patty at the table.

* Why?
1. Always plenty of other great non-ridiculous-wait options.
2. Get way too grumpy and impatient when hungry to put myself and my loved ones through such an experience.
3. Totally willing to eat off-peak and avoid the insanity.

What Is the What by Dave Eggers

2007-11-03T17:13:00.000-04:00

First, a little backstory. Before writing this amazing novel, What Is the What, Dave Eggers spent years hanging out with and listening to Valentino Achak Deng, one of the "Lost Boys of Sudan," those thousands of refugees who were sponsored by both private and federal organizations to come live in America after a lifetime spent in near-starvation, terror and hopelessness, first fleeing their war-ravaged country, then trying to forge a life in the grim camps of Ethiopia and Kenya.

Transportation, three months rent in what was undoubtedly some shabby apartment, and the promise of a minimum wage job, that's what Deng and others were given when they arrived here. Not much… but it felt like astounding luxury compared to what these now-men were used to. Anyway, the point is that though this is technically a novel, the stories herein are all not-loosely based on actual events. Two and a half million people have died in Sudan's civil war. We are extremely fortunate that Deng was not one of them.

Told in the first person—and brilliantly so... there's not a false note or dishonest emotion to be found in these 475 pages—the story jumps back and forth between Deng's present-day life in Atlanta to his remembrances of Africa. There are scenes of great horror and cruelty that are almost too much to bear. There is laughter, here, too, and loyalty and deep love. There's gripping tension, and deep despair, and stunning resiliency. And always there is Deng/Eggers, his extraordinary tale told without melodrama or heroics, his voice immensely appealing, steady and true.

Here's a brief excerpt, as Deng tells of life early on in his first refugee camp...

No one wanted to enter the forest, for in the forest, boys disappeared. The first two who died were well-known for having been devoured by lions, and thus hunting in the forest for building materials became the job everyone chose to avoid. When our number was called for forest duty, some boys went mad. They hid in trees. They ran away. Many ran to Bonga, to train as soldiers, anything to avoid having to enter the forest of disappearing boys. The situation became worse as the months wore on. The forest's bounty was depleted daily, so boys searching for grass or poles or firewood had to venture further every day, closer to the unknown. More boys failed to come back, but the work continued, the construction spread wider and wider.

The winds came one day and blew down the roofs of dozens of the elders' homes. Six of us were assigned the task of reconstructing the roofs, and Isaac and I were busy with this assignment when Commander Secret found us.

—Into the forest with you two. We have no kindling,

I tried to be as formal and polite as I could be when I said:

—No sir, I cannot be eaten by a lion there.

Commander Secret stood, outraged. —Then you'll be beaten!

I had never heard such delicious words. I would take any beating over the risk of being devoured. Commander Secret took me to the barracks and beat me on the legs and backside with a cane, with force but without great malice. I suppressed a smile when it was over; I felt victorious and ran off, unable to hold off a song I sung to myself and to the night air.

Dessert Truck

2007-10-31T23:46:00.000-04:00

If there's a better place to live in this world than New York City, then... well, there isn't. And now, in addition to all of the other incredible things we have in this town, enter Dessert Truck. It's like an ice cream truck, or the Treats Truck, but instead of dispensing mobile frozen delights or baked goodies, this spanking new vehicle serves fully-realized, home-made-with-love, totally scrumptious, sit-down-fancy- restaurant-quality desserts, right there on the street!

A. Frikken. Mazing.

I waded through the costumed masses tonight to see if the story of Dessert Truck could really be true, and let me assure you my friends: it is. First I ordered the warm Chocolate Bread Pudding, its rich, sweet and full-cocoa-flavored sponginess lurking beneath a sticky pool of creme anglaise. This was a beautiful thing.

Did I mention that I purchased this on the street?! No waiting for a table, or a waiter... no dinner necessary... just me and my treat.

That would have been plenty on most nights, but seeing how it was Halloween and all, I bought a second dessert, this time going seasonal with an excellent Pumpkin Custard, creamy and autumnal, made even more delicious by the inclusion of gingerbread crumble, all surrounded by a bounty of crunchy, caramelized pecans, and topped with a gooey meringue. I was tempted to order a third dessert—Vanilla Creme Brulee? Molten Chocolate Cake?—but, you know... that would be kind of piggy.

Dessert Truck is parked on University Place between 9th and 8th Streets. Chef Jerome Chang (formerly of Le Cirque, says the website) and business partner Chris Chen were friendly, charming, and looked like there were having a great time. Dessert Truck will be open on weeknights starting at 6pm, weekends at noon, and will stay open until 2am on Fridays and Saturdays.

The Geometry of Hope at the Grey Art Gallery

2007-10-30T18:35:00.000-04:00

I was finally able to stop by NYU's Grey Gallery last weekend to check out the Latin American Abstract Art exhibition, an interesting, occasionally striking and cool collection of paintings and sculptures from the 1930s through the 1970s; works united by their geometric, mathematical structure and, in the words of the catalog, "a Utopian belief in progress and idealism," or the opposite of the "Geometry of Fear" that apparently dominated the art world in postwar Britain. This is not a destination show by any means, but the great thing about the Grey Gallery is that it's on your way to most everywhere, and it's almost (or completely) free.

The exhibit is organized by city of origin: Montevideo, Buenos Aires, Sao Paulo, Rio de Janiero, Paris (?), and Caracas. I liked the visual vibrations of the wall sculptures of France's Carlos Cruz, the largest of which is below, seen from the front and the side.

The Brazilians, too, had some great stuff, including the piece at top by Hélio Oiticica, and these minimalist pencil drawings.

Not at all to my surprise, however, I liked the Argentinians the best—their energy and cleverness (and, in another context, gorgeousness)—including the three paintings below by Tomás Maldonado, Virgilio Villalba, and Gregorio Vardánega, respectively.

The Grey Art Gallery is located on 100 Washington Square East, between Waverly and Washington Places, right across the street from the park. There is a $3 suggested donation, which I waived without getting any dirty looks. The gallery is closed Sundays and Mondays.

Fall Movies: Part 4

2007-10-29T15:14:00.000-04:00

An excellent week at the movies. Here's the usual quick look...

The genius of Sydney Lumet's bleak, mesmerizing, almost perfect Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, of course, is how two-bit the whole thing is: the payoff from the crime at the film's center—the action that puts the final nail in the coffin of these already destroyed lives—would have "solved" the problems of the two pathetic, desperate brothers for maybe three or four months. After seeing the film I read several reviews, and was surprised at how much they gave away, so I'm just going to say that I loved Lumet's jumpy structure; and, unshockingly, the acting is superb, all of it (favorite scene: Philip Seymour Hoffman's quiet tantrum), though I was definitely disappointed that Marisa Tomei wasn't given more to do than look good with her shirt off.

Maybe it was partly the relief it provided from the intense nature of everything else I saw this week, but I was so pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed Wristcutters: A Love Story. In the wrong hands, the premise here could have led to indie-film disaster: everyone who kills themselves winds up in a sort of purgatory that, in the words of our hero Patrick Fugit (who slits his wrists in the film's opening scene), looks and feels like the regular life, except that everything's "a little bit worse." But instead of a forced exercise in quirkiness, Croatian writer/director Goran Dukic delivers a movie that's funny, sweet, clever, imaginative, and so lovingly, exceptionally well art-directed that, even on what must have been a tiny budget, the suicide's world completely comes to life. The sleeper of the season.

OK, back to bleak... and more excellent art direction. Based on Dennis Lehane's novel (I forgot how much I loved his Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro books, which I devoured at one point in my life), Gone Baby Gone is a gripping thriller about a little girl kidnapped from her grim South Boston neighborhood, and the far-reaching, sometimes surprising aftershocks of the crime: moral, emotional, and physical. Though ultimately too far-fetched to retain its credibility, there are many memorable moments here, the pacing is brisk, the action smart, and it's filled with terrific performances (loved seeing The Wire's "Omar" show up!), in particular by Casey Affleck as Kenzie and Amy Ryan as the missing girl's near-junkie mom who wears her victimhood a lot more easily than she ever did in her motherhood.

A not-great film with several nearly-great scenes, Reservation Road is an emotional wringer of a movie-going experience that, I thought, honestly earned my tears (and there were plenty) through strong performances, confident pacing, and, of course, the story's central, wrenching event: in a small, too-pretty Connecticut town, an SUV slams into and kills a ten-year-old boy releasing fireflies by the side of the road; scared, distracted (his own son is slightly injured in the accident), and uncertain as to what just happened, the driver (an always welcome Mark Ruffalo) keeps going... and then spends the rest of the movie wrestling with his actions. The mother (an excellent Jennifer Connelly) and father (an OK Jaoquin Phoenix) of the dead boy obviously have plenty of wrestling to do of their own.

A Western in setting only, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is really more of talky, male ensemble drama—heck, it's really more art film than genre piece—exploring themes of power, fear, betrayal and what happens when one's idols turn out to be assholes. The cast is outstanding: Casey Affleck (again), Brad Pitt (not usually a huge fan, but he's great here), Sam Rockwell, Paul Schneider (also so good in Lars and the Real Girl), Garret Dilahunt (whom you'll recognize from Deadwood)... you can't take your eyes off of any these guys when they're on the screen. Be warned: this is a long (2 hours, 40 minutes), slowly paced film with virtually no music, but it definitely does reward the alert, patient viewer. My strategy: I had a venti Caramel Frappuccino on my way to the theater, and I suggest you do the same.

Spitzer's Corner

2007-10-28T14:23:00.000-04:00

Bo was busy Bat Mitvahing last weekend, and Co and I needed some lunch. I was thinking Tiny's—my go-to spot for an LES midday meal—but the lure of Pork Fat Popcorn, spotted on the menu posted outside this brand-new eatery, proved to be too much for my younger daughter, and so Spitzer's Corner it was.

On a beautiful day, as last Saturday most certainly was, Spitzer's Corner proved itself to be an excellent spot for some relaxing people watching and mostly quite satisfying food. Breezy and bright from the wide-open front, the interior is all massive wooden communal tables and rough-hewn walls made from (presumably never used) pickle barrels. The main downside here: there are no chairs with backs... it's all benches and stools.

Anyway, about that popcorn. We both agreed that, had we not been told about the pork fat, we never would have guessed. It didn't really taste bacon-y, or piggy, in any way. No question, this is a good bowl of popcorn: light, crunchy, nicely popped, well salted. If that sounds exciting to you, then by all means you should indulge.

Next came our real food. Co got the Grilled Cheese Sandwich, and the verdict was unanimous: amazing Sullivan sourdough; skimpy, disappointingly unmelted ascunty cheese; oddly un-complementary tomato relish. It all got eaten, and the greens were fresh and lightly tossed, but still. I ordered the Hickory Short Rib Burger, and this beast was near-perfection. Delivered medium rare, as requested; the meat thick, juicy and intensely flavorful; the bun firm enough to hang in there, but soft enough to bite through with ease; all topped with greasy sharp cheddar, pickles and tomatoes. And the fries, too, were a success— again, cooked as requested (well-done, crunchy) with plenty of real potato taste. This filled me up for about three days.

Spitzer's Corner is located on the corner of Rivington and Ludlow Streets. They have a lengthy wine and beer list, there's a huge back room, and I imagine it gets insanely packed at night.

Shout Out Louds at the Music Hall of Williamsburg

2007-10-27T02:21:00.000-04:00

Here's something I noticed throughout the Shout Out Louds's 18-song, hour-long set Friday night at the great Music Hall: the more Cure-ish the song, the better it translated live. So several of my favorites from Howl Howl Gaff Gaff fell kind of flat—notably The Comeback and Wish I Were Dead—while much of the stuff from their new (and quite good) disc Our Ill Wills really soared, especially, I thought, Impossible and Normandie.

Anyway, I arrived at about 10:45 and still managed to snag an excellent spot against the rail on the platform, stage right. The show was sold out, the crowd in the mood for dancing—particularly several large pockets of extremely enthusiastic Swedes—and the band energetic and in good spirits, if a little goofy, and sloppy in their execution.

The complete set list:
1. Time Left For Love
2. The Comeback
3. Suit Yourself
4. Oh, Sweetheart
5. Impossible
6. South America
7. Shut Your Eyes
8. Your Parent's Living Room
9. Normandie
10. Please Please Please
11. 100º
12. Wish I were Dead Part 1
13. Blue Headlights
14. Tonight I Have to Leave It
----
15 Hard Rain
16. Meat Is Murder
17. Very Loud (with an interlude of Train in Vain)

Richard Prince at the Guggenheim

2007-10-26T17:03:00.000-04:00

It's always good to have an excuse to head back to the Guggenheim... I love walking down the ramp (yes, I go backward), the art nicely contained within—and framed by—the vestibules, that comfortable feeling of expansive space behind you. Anyway, it had been about a year since my last visit, so a couple of weeks ago I took advantage of the museum's "pay-what-you-wish" Friday evening deal and saw the big Richard Prince retrospective, Spiritual America.

First, let me say this: the show's title has little if anything to do with the subject matter in any sort of overt way. I was afraid that the work would be a lot of fish-in-a-barrel attacks on money-seeking evangelicals and the like, but Spiritual America is actually a good deal more broad and interesting than that: it's both the name of one of Prince's most famous pieces, an appropriated image of 14-year-old Brooke Shields, above; and, in the far-more-articulate-than-I-could-be words of the museum's liner notes, sums up "the powerful conflicting impulses that characterize American culture: the deeply ingrained Puritan ethos countered by a desperate and often degrading desire for recognition."

Prince is most known for his appropriations—photographing images from magazines, mostly advertisements, then enlarging, re-cropping, framing, and selling for thousands of dollars—and there are plenty of examples here of that work. My favorites among these were from the Fashion and the Girlfriends series (taken from the long-running feature in Easy Rider magazine, for which guys would send in "sexy" pictures of their woman and their bike), both above; and the great Women Looking Left, below.

There are also (too) many of his Joke and Check paintings here, in which bad Borscht-belt one liners are, in the latter, put into grids of blank checks, or old porno pics, and then painted over. These are engaging, because the jokes can't help but elicit a smile, and I'm always a sucker for art that incorporates typography, but it does get repetitive.

But what I liked perhaps most of all was Prince's Upstate series—straightforward photographs taken near a small town in upstate New York—of forlorn man-made structures left to rot in their scrubby landscape. Abandoned dreams, creeping poverty, grinding despair... these pieces are simple, evocative, powerful.

As always, I apologize for the lameness of my surreptitiously taken photographs. Richard Prince: Spiritual America is at the Guggenheim through January 9. Adult admission to the museum is $18, except on Fridays between 5:45 and 7:15, when the place stays open late and you can pay whatever you want. I wanted: $3. Given the special deal and the fact that it was the show's opening night, I was pleasantly surprised that the museum did not feel crowded.

Back Forty

2007-10-25T20:22:00.000-04:00

Wow.

It had been less than a week since they opened the doors of this casual, remarkably inexpensive, ingredient-obsessed tavern, and Peter Hoffman and crew (almost) totally nailed it—the second time this season a brand new restaurant has blown me away. Really, even though I ordered four things, this was the kind of meal that I didn't want to fill me, just so I could try something else. I can't wait to go back, this time with daughters in tow. So I can eat off their plates, too.

The room is pretty in a rustic kind of way, I guess: antique farm implements hanging on the wall; metal toy truck filled with garlic bulbs; unfinished wood tables, with paper menus doubling as place mats, etc.. But for me, the food is the thing here, and the thing is very very good. I started with Red Maine Shrimp and Bacon Beignets (because, really, how could you not), four or five deep fried, crispy/doughy creations stuffed with a garlicky surf-n-turf mash, nicely paired with an intense sweet chili sauce. Basically, an excellent excuse to eat donuts for dinner.

The "From the Garden" section is the menu's lengthiest and most tempting. Any number of the ten choices sounded great, but in the end I opted for the Shaved Fennel and Pumpkin, and it was amazing: the veggies bright and lively, the creamy lemon turmeric vinaigrette a beautiful complement. Then it was on to "The Core", and the House Made Pork Sausage—spicy, dry, delicious, with just a hint of maybe cinnamon—on a bed of sweet and vinegary cabbage slaw.

The only mistake of the evening? Instead of ordering another Garden dish, I got dessert. Susan's Fall Fruit Pie turned out to be an uninspiring slice of cold apple, served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream... which, because the pie was so not-warmed, just sat there, being a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Next time: vegetables for dessert, too!

Back Forty is located on Avenue B between 12th and 11th Streets. I arrived at 6:00 on a rainy Wednesday evening and, unsurprisingly, was the only one there for most of my meal. Given how good this is, that may be the last time the place will ever be empty, ever. Perhaps out of boredom, my server approached me at least six times to ask how I was enjoying my dinner... each time just as I had put food into my mouth (because when you're dining alone, what else are you going to be doing?) so I had to do that awkward nod, grunt and smile thing.

Momoya on Amsterdam

2007-10-24T23:49:00.000-04:00

Last Sunday evening two things happened almost simultaneously:

1. Our stove broke.
2. We developed a serious yen for a Japanese feast.

Well, I had the yen, but my empathetic daughters were kind enough to play along, so the three of us headed out to sample the sushi and soba at Momoya on Amsterdam... and arrived back home total fans of this spanking-new offshoot of the popular Chelsea spot.

The good news began before we even sat down: this a beautifully designed place, with the main wall in the front room composed of the rough-hewn ends of wooden planks, all protruding at irregular distances, all running horizontally. In the cozy, secret-hideout-feeling back room, it's the same thing, except the planks run vertically. Very cool. We thought maybe it was the work of Lewis.Tsurumaki.Lewis (think: Fluff, and Xing... plus they were on my mind because I had just seen the by-the-way excellent free Winner's Panel discussion at the Cooper Hewitt last week), but according to Momoya's host the space was designed and built by Swee Phuah and Hiro, of Momofuku, ChikaLicious, Soto, etc, fame.

And the food? There's nothing exotic, or even unusual on the menu, but much of what we ordered was truly top-notch. Take the Shumai: five fat dumplings, soft but not mushy (the usual downfall of these things) with a chewy, patchwork coating of firm noodles, the filling chunky enough that you could actually taste the shrimp and chicken, accompanied by a perfect ponzu sauce. We all agreed, these are as good as we've ever had. Also as a starter we shared the Seaweed Tasting, a generous sampling of six varieties of the sea greens (and purples... and whites), topped with an interesting shiso soy vinaigrette, which I happened to like, but if you're not fond of shiso, don't bother with this dish. Finally, we split a plate Usuzukuri, the fluke appropriately melty and thin, the ponzu a never-enough condiment for my kids.

Next came the mains. Co went the noodle route and was rewarded with a "yummy" bowl of Tempura Soba, the toothsome buckwheat strands swimming in a rich, earthy broth filled with, among other things, many sorts of mushrooms. The tempura in this kind of situation always gets too soggy for my tastes—in fact, Co and I we both wished we could have ordered just the soba and mushrooms—but vegetables themselves were good.

But the highlight of meal, and rightly so, was the fish. I had the Chirashi, Bo the Sushi Entree, and though the selections were standard sushi/sashimi fare—tuna, salmon, yellow tail, mackerel, eel, fluke, etc.—we were totally impressed. These pieces were uniformly soft, fresh, and lively with flavor... better, for example, than I've had at next-door Haru, and at less than two-thirds the price (and served in a much more friendly manner). All in all, this is absolutely our new go-to spot for Upper West Side sushi.

Momoya is located on Amsterdam Avenue between 81st and 80th Streets.

Film School at the Mercury Lounge

2007-10-24T12:24:00.000-04:00

Not for the faint of ear, a show like this: the sonically-inclined Film School at the delightfully intimate Mercury Lounge. And, I must admit it, there were times during last night's mostly tight and reasonably rockin' hour-long set when I felt like the music drifted (and, thus, did my attention) into an almost headachey drone. But don't forget, I'm kind of an old man, and there were plenty of young'uns there who seemed to be loving every minute.

The set was a good mix of stuff from their newish CD, Hideout, as well as a few gems from their great self-titled disc of 2006, the one with the tulips on the cover (though personally I would have also really liked to hear Breet. And Harmed. And Like You Know). Anyway, here's the complete set list:

Plus two encores: Dear Me and Sick of Shame. Encores are so goofy at the Mercury Lounge because there's no backstage, so the band members just kind of milled around in the dark for a minute or two as we all clapped and screamed for more. When the stage lights came back on, Greg Bertens deadpanned: "We're back." The show ended a little after midnight.

Nanoosh

2007-10-21T00:01:00.000-04:00

There's hope!

That's what I thought, at least, when Nanoosh was getting prepared to open. There are tons of these sort of small, interesting-looking places serving cheap, interesting-tasting food all over town... but not so much on the Upper West Side. Especially on Broadway, where it's like: diner, diner, Cosi's, diner, pizza, filthy Big Nick's, diner, Cosi's, pizza, diner. Why no ramen, or paulitos? Where's the cheesesteaks, the arepas, or the empanadas?

Anyway, getting back to Nanoosh, aka home of dashed hopes.

Now, I admit that I'm not a huge fan of hummus, which is pretty much all this modern-designy, communal-table-having, organic-chick-pea-crushing spot offers. I am, however, a huge fan of food that has taste, which, sadly, they don't seem to serve at all. I tried the signature dish, the Hummus Nanoosh, which comes with "natural" ground beef and unfortunately under-roasted pine nuts. It's looks pretty good, right? Yeah, well, let me just say that the warm pita that came with it had more flavor. I also ordered a side of Quinoa Salad, just to mix things up, which tasted pretty much like raisins and onions, and nothing like the also-included red peppers, or cilantro, or walnuts, or lemon juice, to say nothing of quinoa. A minor point: I had to ask for my menu-promised pickles and olives, and received a tiny, miserly crock, obviously pulled straight from the fridge, all dried up and cold.

Nanoosh is located on Broadway, between 68th and 69th Streets. The location is ideal for a quick pre-movie bite, but I guess for now I'll be sticking with La Traviata, a hole-in-the-wall pizza place on 68th Street just west of Amsterdam, to fit that bill.

Fuerzabruta at the Daryl Roth Theatre

2007-10-20T00:33:00.000-04:00

My 24-hour-party-people daughters and I had SUCH a blast tonight at Fuerzabruta, the new show—still in previews—from the people who staged De La Guarda.

This is a non-narrative, dance/acrobatic performance that's loud, surprising, participatory, sexy, violent (in a STREB kind of way—not for nothing is it called "brute force"), and totally totally fun... like your dream night out at a club, where the music is thumping and you can't stop smiling and people are doing insane, startling, beautiful things all around you.

I don't want to get too specific, because part of the excitement lies in the (in Co's case, nervous) anticipation of what's going to happen next—and from which direction it's going to come!—but I will say that the excellent cast crash through things and dance like crazy and fall and scream and sprint and swim and spin and splash and slam and throw stuff and there's a giant treadmill and an enormous pool and a bizarre sail-like contraption and wind and water and smoke and a DJ wearing a George Washington wig.

Fuerzabruta officially opens on October 24 at the Daryl Roth Theatre on 15th Street, a half a block east of Union Square Park. Tickets for the few remaining previews are half price. The show lasts a little over an hour, and you're standing and dancing and being herded around the whole time. You will almost certainly get damp, and possibly covered in debris.

Fall Movies: Part 3

2007-10-18T16:21:00.000-04:00

Boy, these movie posts sure can pile up! So, a quick look at what I've seen lately...

In addition to being enormously entertained throughout, I so admired Michael Clayton... such confident, grown-up filmmaking by Tony Gilroy, trusting that the audience will stay with him through this somewhat complex, slowly-revealed thriller about lawyers entangled on the same side of multi-billion-dollar lawsuit. And the cast is superb, led by George Clooney, playing the interestingly unsmooth title character; Tilda Swinton, in an extremely unattractive role; and Sidney Pollack as a corporate tiger with a decent heart. So far, this is the movie to beat this fall.

I can't believe they pulled it off... and, in fact, made a totally likable movie. You've undoubtedly heard the premise of Lars and the Real Girl: an emotionally shell-shocked Lars (an unsurprisingly excellent Ryan Gosling) orders a sex doll online—Bianca is her name—not for, ummm... physical relief, but rather for a woman to date, and bring to church, to introduce to all the other townsfolk, to fall in love with. I totally bought it—laughed and cried—and thought the acting was great from beginning to end, especially Paul Schneider and Emily Mortimor as Lars's initially baffled/embarrassed but quickly supportive brother and sister-in-law; the always-welcome Patricia Clarkson as the town doctor; and Kelli Garner as Lars's lovably nerdy office mate/crush.

I wondered as I watched the Ian Curtis biopic Control—he was the lead singer of the legendary band Joy Division who killed himself at the age of 23—how much would I like this movie if I didn't love the music... if it all wasn't so personally evocative? It is beautifully shot, and Sam Riley makes a credible Curtis—confused, romantic, cowardly, charismatic, epileptic, haunted, self-pitying, asshole-ish—but by far my favorite scenes were the songs, especially Transmission performed on the telly (it's like watching a dream take of this video), and She's Lost Control in the studio (so THAT'S how they made that rhythmic "tchee-tchee" sound!). Basically: if you're a fan, it's a must. If not, it's hard to say...

Make sure you sit way in the back for The Kingdom, which Peter Berg shoots almost entirely in that motion-sickness-inducing style that works so well in Peter Greengrass's work (Bourne Ultimatum, United 93), but I found overdone and simply gimmicky here. This isn't a bad movie at all—the plot involves the catastrophic bombing of an American compound in Saudi Arabia, and the subsequent, politically provocative FBI investigation on Saudi soil led by Jamie Fox, Jennifer Garner and Chris Cooper. In fact, I thought this was a solid thriller, filled with well-choreographed and genuinely tense action sequences, all, unfortunately, undermined by the aforementioned over-jitteryness, a ham-fisted message, and a really unfortunate ending.

Yes, of course, I cried during Feast of Love—I don't mind being manipulated by broken hearts, moments of great joy, and untimely deaths—but, really, this isn't that good a movie. I hear the book is amazing, but here there just seems to be too much going on; too many stories of love and sadness and betrayal and passion and tragedy for me to ever care too deeply about any single drama... although the cast is fine, I never got to know anyone well enough to feel too emotionally invested in their lives. And is Morgan Freeman ever going to play any other role besides the omniscient voice of wisdom?

We Own the Night was the big disappointment of the week. Not that my expectations were all that high to begin with, but I was surprised at how little, if anything, writer/director James Gray added to the already overdone brothers-at-odds/cop/'70s-'80s nostalgia movie. I guess I wanted to see Mark Wahlberg of The Departed, rather than the dreary do-gooder found here, and I wanted Robert Duvall to emote like he can do so well, and Joaquin Phoenix to use reptilian charm, and I wanted it all to be set against a wise-cracking background of hard-bitten cops and criminals.... But, no. The whole thing is irredeemably flat. You've seen this movie before, done much better.

Call me jaded, but is it really so interesting whether or not some wealthy Parisian lawyer has been more deeply, more intimately involved with the terrorists and other unsavory types he's defended—Carlos the Jackal, Klaus Barbie, various Palestinian and Algerian freedom fighters, evil African dictators, etc.—than he's letting on? Sure the subject of Terror's Advocate, Jacques Verges, has a certain slimy charisma, and director Barbet Schroeder does a nice job of taking us through, without overly explicating, a kind of Hall of Fame of 1970s and '80s European terrorist acts. But this is a long (160 mins) movie with no real answers on a subject that seems so small today.

Supermac

2007-10-16T13:36:00.000-04:00

The early reviews were mostly pretty tepid, and it's not really in a neighborhood I get to, well... ever, so although they specialize in one of the all-time great foodstuffs, I had never been to Supermac in the year or so since it opened its doors. Until, that is, last night, when a weird confluence of events put me right smack in front of this tiny, mod, supremely orange and bright spot, right when I was in the middle of starving to death. And I must say I was impressed.

I ate two things, both totally satisfying. First, if someone offers you something called Mac & Cheese Nuggets, you're sort of morally obligated to try it, right? So I did, and these deep-fried delights—served with standard-issue barbecue and ranch dips—were crispy on the outside, creamy on the inside, fun, flavorful and filling, which is about all you could ask of such a thing.

Like its great East Village counterpart S'Mac, the heart of the Supermac meal lies in the many varieties of Macaroni and Cheese, here offered in two sizes, all served in a hot ceramic skillet. The Mac Cheesesteak looked appealing, as did the Chipotle Shrimp, and the Ala Carbona, but in the end I opted for the B & G mini mac (which was plenty), a toothsome platter of firm pasta, smoky chunks of Applewood Bacon, plenty of salty Mozzarella, and a deftly delivered hit of rich Gorgonzola. Fresh, lively ingredients, thoughtfully combined and balanced well: someone back there in that minuscule kitchen clearly knows what they're doing.

Supermac is located on Seventh Avenue between 30th and 29th Streets. The beverage selection is small but interesting (Teany teas, for example), and for dessert, your choice of higher-end sugarbombs: Crumbs cupcakes or Rice to Riches pudding. There are only about ten seats—obviously they've geared up more for take out/delivery—but the young man working behind the counter understands that the more enthusiastically you engage with your customers, the more pleasant and entertaining your own workday experience.

Ditch Plains

2007-10-15T16:50:00.000-04:00

Oh. Sorry.... Wrong slide.

Let's start over.

Ditch Plains

That's better. As you can see, Ditch Plains, Montauk, and Ditch Plains, Bedford Street, are... umm.... remarkably similar? And I wish I had taken some shots of the faux industrial interior, which really made me feel as if I were sitting at that picnic table near Lily's cart, eating one of her burritos....

Anyway, I was much closer to Ditch, the restaurant, than Ditch, the beach, on Sunday evening, so I popped in for an early dinner prior to a movie at the Film Forum. Like I said, the interior is cold, industrial, almost bunker-like, with a long gun-slit (?) peeking into the kitchen. The only nod the place's namesake is a flat screen playing surf videos... and, I guess, the fish-heavy menu.

I started with a bowl of New England Clam Chowder. The broth was excellent—briny and deep—the potatoes firm, the fatty ham a welcome addition, and the clams, of which there were many, were unbelievably, unswallowable-y rubbery. You know how sometimes you're chewing something and it's just not getting any smaller, and all the flavor's gone, so you can either swallow it "whole", or discreetly expel it into your napkin? Like that, these clams were. All of them.

Next up: fish tacos. Now, this is my fault, because I should have asked, but I was dismayed that my fish arrived fried, heavy on the batter. Even more dismayed that it was nearly flavorless, the dish saved only by the salsa. And the radishes. And the lime, too, was pretty good.

The only dessert available was S'mores for two. Being one, I passed.

Ditch Plains, the restaurant, is located on the corner of Bedford and Downing Streets.

Chelsea Gallery Shows

2007-10-14T22:53:00.000-04:00

It's been way too long since I've spent an afternoon hopping Chelsea galleries, so yesterday I did just that, spending three hours or so between 26th and 20th Streets, 10th and 11th Avenues. My favorite shows definitely tended toward the playful, which made me sorry that my smiley daughters weren't with me. Anyway, here's a quick look at some of what caught my eye. All of the below will be on view at least through next weekend. And, as always, click on any image to enlarge.

Aleksandra Mir: Newsroom 1986 - 2000

Aleksandra Mir and a crew of assistants are creating 200 drawings on site for this two-month-long show, all based on New York Post and News covers from 1986 to 2000 that, Mir explains, "were particularly poignant, or which formed an ongoing narrative, but most importantly, that made me smile with recognition." If you lived here during that period, you will, too. The theme on Saturday was, obviously, the champagne-popping ups and apocalyptic downs of the stock market, with said assistants busy creating the art as we looked on. Amazingly, the whole place did NOT smell like Sharpies.

At the Mary Boone Gallery, 540 West 24th Street. Through October 27.

Tom Otterness: The Public Unconscious

Otterness is up to his usual cute/politicized shenanigans in this show of seven recent monumental sculptures.

At the new Marlborough Chelsea Gallery, 545 West 25th Street. Through November 3.

Rock n' Roll Fantasy

This group show at the non-profit White Box looks at familiar issues of buying stardom vs. creating honest music, but there's some clever ideas and nice nostalgia here, including the wall of classic album covers—how many did you own?—and punk clothing in Kathe Burhart's piece, above. Not shown: Luis Gispert's utterly mesmerizing video installation Pony Show, in which random "regular folk" photos grabbed from the Internet flash on screen in time with a thumping loop of D.J. Jam Pony dance beats.

At White Box, 525 West 26th Street. Through October 27.

Ugo Rondinone: Big Mind Sky

One of my favorite things about gallery-going is when you open frosted-door number, say, 37 of your day, and inside is the unexpected delight of something like Rondinone's big, goofy, touching show. Here are twelve giant expressive heads (nearly nine-feet high), each more silly than the last, all modeled in clay then in cast in aluminum for an inviting, hand-made look. Ringing the gallery's walls are dozens of small, simple line sketches—a tree branch, a window, a table—and poignant "poem drawings" on love and heartbreak. Nice.

At the Matthew Marks Gallery, 523 West 24th Street. Through October 27.

Ragnar Kjartansson: Folksong

For ten days in a row... for six hours each day... Ragnar Kjartnsson stands toward the back of a vacant lot below the High Line and, surrounded by tree cutouts and accompanied by his trusty red guitar and amp, sings a short haunting song in an unknown language. Again and again and again. Seeing him there as I walked across 25th Street on Saturday gave me the satisfying sensation of stumbling upon some strange creature warbling in the woods.

At 508 West 25th Street, 11:00 am to 5:00 pm. Through October 20.

Paul Noble: dot to dot

My lame, surreptitiously snapped photos don't do Paul Noble's work justice. These are huge works (that second one above is perhaps 20 feet high) with an insane amount of detail hidden within (the entire lower half is covered with tiny faces and creatures, which you can kind of see in the bottom pic). The sculptures in the back room didn't really do it for me, but you could spend days discovering everything in the five massive drawings up front. Plus: an amusing "stick your head in a hole and see what's inside" piece.

At Gagosian Gallery, 555 West 24th Street. Through October 27.

Keith Tyson: Large Field Array

This is just spectacular. Made up of 220 separate "sculptural forms", all with a two-feet-squared footprint, all evenly spaced from each other, Keith Tyson's epic installation tells so many different stories (half the fun is trying to figure out how one piece relates to its neighbors), and sparks so much viewer serendipity, that you'll want to stay in there all day. But that would be rude, because they only let in 30 people at a time, and the line outside isn't getting any shorter....

At Pace Wildenstein, 534 West 25th Street. Through October 20.

The National at the Music Hall of Williamsburg

2007-10-13T03:15:00.000-04:00

OK, so Friday night's The National show is officially the best concert of the year. Seriously, what an amazing show. I danced, I sang, I bounced, I geeked out, I got chills and goosebumps, I was so happy for the entire 19-song, 80-minute set. Matt Berninger and his mates were in top form—confident, tight, ready to rip it up—and had the crowd eating out of their hand. And the spanking-new venue, the Music Hall of Williamsburg, is terrific... like the Bowery Ballroom in size and quality of sound (that is to say: small, and high), but in Brooklyn, and smelling still of fresh paint, and with these two great "viewing platforms" on either side of the floor, and with what looked like bleachers in the balcony (possibly a lame spot, actually), and even sold out, not horribly, greedily over-packed.

I arrived at around 10:30, got a perfect spot on one of the platforms, and The National went on about an hour later, ending a little after 1:00. Here's the complete set list:

1. Brainy
2. Secret Meeting
3. Mistaken For Strangers
4. Baby We'll Be Fine
5. Slow Show
6. Squalor Victoria
7. Murder Me Rachel
8. City Middle
9. Ada
10 Racing Like a Pro
11. Apartment Story
12. Daughters of the Soho Riots
13. Fake Empire
14. Abel
15. About Today
16. Start a War
---
17. Cold Girl Fever
18. Green Gloves
19. Mr. November

So great. I'm tempted to head out there again tonight and see if I can scalp, but I don't think these old-man bones could take it. If you're going, you're lucky.

MyMix 10.10

2007-10-10T23:51:00.000-04:00

I make a new On-The-Go mix just about every morning. Here's some of what I was listening to, shuffled, today.

Radiohead: Weird Fishes/Arpeggi*
The National: Brainy
Rihanna: Don't Stop the Music
John Lennon: Working Class Hero
The National: Blank Slate
Okkervil River: Unless It's Kicks
Spoon: Rhthm & Soul
Shout Out Louds: Tonight I Have to Leave It
Au Revoir Simone: Through the Backyards
Patrick Watson: The Great Escape**
Rancid: Dead Bodies
Sunny Day Real Estate: Red Elephant
The National: Racing Like a Pro
Suzanne Vega: Zephyr & I
The National: Daughters of the Soho Riots
Kanye West: Flashing Lights***
Bishop Allen: Rain
Broken Social Scene & Kevin Drew: Tbtf
The National: Baby We'll Be Fine
French Kicks: The Trial of the Century
R. Kelly: Ignition (Remix)
The National: Slow Show****

* I paid £4. How about you? If you don't know what I'm talking about, and you are a Radiohead fan, please proceed immediately to here.

** Very pretty. Thanks to an old friend for the tip.

*** My current favorite from the great Graduation. Love that throwback synth/keyboard riff!

**** Yes I'm a little The National obsessed recently (going to Friday's show at the new Music Hall of Williamsburg, which I hear is an excellent venue), but it's NOTHING compared to Co's current fandom! (What can I say, she's got good taste...) Anyway, as I've said before in another forum, I always get goosebumps during the last part of this song... when it's just the piano and percussion and Matt Berninger sings:
"You know I dreamed about you
For 29 years before I saw you.
You know I dreamed about you:
I missed you for 29 years."

Very romantic, Mr. Berninger.

Fall Movies: Part 2

2007-10-09T23:38:00.000-04:00

I'm falling behind in my fall movies! Luckily, there's a bunch of unschedulked nights coming up in my near future. But before that, there are these:

I feel like In the Valley of Elah got unfairly overlooked during its early fall season run (is it even in theaters anymore?). This is a good, solid, grown-up movie about a former marine who partners up with a reluctant local sheriff to find out what happened to his son, gone AWOL from his base in the California dessert after returning from the front lines in Iraq. Starring Tommy Lee Jones (nicely toning down his usual competent-loose-cannon shtick) and Charlize Theron (in a quiet but key role)—both are excellent—the mystery here is intriguing enough to propel the narrative; the intelligent script and direction give the story a welcome, honestly earned emotional depth. The message may not be revelatory, but it resonates nonetheless: war destroys many different people in many different ways.

My expectations were so low for The Darjeeling Limited, and I must say I was pretty stunned by how much I enjoyed this undeniably ridiculous film... by how genuinely happy it made me. It wasn't so much that I laughed out loud (as usual, the trailer ruined most of the best lines), or that it's a particularly heartwarming story (it's totally not)... but rather, it was Wes Anderson's remarkable ability to fill the screen at all times with something that's interesting to look at... and it was Adam Brody, Owen Wilson (whom I normally can't abide) and Jason Schwartzman admirable ability to stay completely in deadpan character the whole way through—there's not an inconsistent note among them... and, mostly, it was living in Anderson's world for a 90 minutes, a place where nothing ever hurts too badly, either physically or emotionally; and no one ever sweats or feels uncomfortable, even while hauling large suitcases through the dessert; and where it's OK to lose things and even people because there will always be plenty more, if you're willing to accept what's given to you.

Unashamedly mushy and emotional, totally unbelievable, definitely lots of fun, The Jane Austen Book Club is that too-rare movie type: a successful, adult romantic comedy in which a happy ending is a foregone conclusion because, as we all know, love always saves the day. The story, taken from the underwhelming novel of the same name, is based on a somewhat clever premise—life for our heroes revolves around the reading of all six Jane Austen novels for a monthly bookclub, and the lessons learned therein—but the real appeal here lies with the winning cast, led by the the surprisingly, subtly dynamic Hugh Dancy (last seen as the alcoholic Buddy in the disappointing Evening) and the lovely Maria Bello. If you're in the mood for this sort of thing, you won't be disappointed.

If you're like me, the news of a faithful reworking of a classic western provokes about zero excitement. And yet, when scheduling and logistics made 3:10 to Yuma my best movie option for the night, I was pleasantly surprised at how much I enjoyed this simple story: tough, honest farmer escorts charming, notorious thief to prison; they bond along the way. The credit goes to the cast, especially the always-reliable Christian Bale, the usually annoying but here restrained Russel Crowe, and the scene-stealing Ben Foster, who knows what to do with the good lines he's been given, as well as director James Mangold, whose choreography and patient set-up makes the long final shootout genuinely tense, rather than simply loud.

There's no question that Into the Wild is a well-crafted film, and that its camera understands how to romanticize the natural world, and that lead Emile Hirsch is more than just a poor-man's Leonardo DiCaprio. But I don't know... I found it really difficult to like this movie, mostly because I found it impossible to like Hirsch's Christopher McCandless—arrogant, hypocritical, smug, self-absorbed—which, in fact, was the same problem I found with Jon Krakauer's way over-acclaimed book Into the Wild, though his Into Thin Air is a total must-read.

The Encampment by Thom Sokoloski on Roosevelt Island

2007-10-08T22:20:00.000-04:00

Between 1828 and 1955, artist Thom Sokoloski tells us, Roosevelt Island was the site of a small pox hospital, a lunatic asylum, a workhouse, and a penitentiary. In an effort to recapture a bit of the "collective memory" of the thousands of men, women and children who were confined to and, mostly, died in miserable conditions within sight of Manhattan, last weekend Sokoloski erected The Encampment, consisting of 100 19th-century "expeditionary" tents at Southpoint, an open grassy area normally closed to the public on the southern tip of Roosevelt Island. Each tent was lit from within, and each featured an installation by a different artist. The show was only open last Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights, from 7:00 until 1:00 am, and Bo, Co and I traveled across the river last night to take it in.

We had a great time getting there (I pitched it as an "adventure", and didn't reveal the destination... had I said "art installation two subway trains away" there's no way I could have gotten them out the door ), and even more fun walking around and peering behind the 100 closed tent flaps and feeling surprised or creeped out or moved or, too often, disengaged, by the visual stories told therein. Not surprisingly, there was a lot of repetition in the executions, an empty set of clothes being the most common.

But, really, there's no way we're going to complain about all these people going through all that effort to do something cool. (Well, that's entirely true. I definitely can complain about such things.) The night was foggy and cool; the setting unusual; the gutted small pox hospital guarding the entrance appropriately sad and ghostly; the Manhattan skyline beautiful, as always; the collaboration as a whole an impressive sight; and when the music played—a pair of trumpets doing a mournful call and response from either end of the encampment; a woman strolling through the tents, clutching a (fake) dead infant and singing a lovely dirge in a unknown language—the show had that great "nowhere else I'd rather be" feel to it.

The Encampment was part of the Open House New York weekend, and it was the only such site we got to this year. The train ride home was total nightmare, and given other stories I've heard today, we can only hope that the next time a city-sponsored event entices people to visit far-flung parts of town, they ask the MTA to please cooperative.

Belcourt

2007-10-07T17:15:00.000-04:00

Everyone will tell you that it's best to wait a few weeks—or even a few months—after a restaurant opens before you try it out. The kitchen needs time to get the recipes right, they say. The staff needs to get to know each other. And usually, on this issue anyway, everyone's right.

Except in the case of Belcourt.

Last night, a mere 48 hours into his new wonderful venture, chef Matthew Hamilton fired up a superb meal for me and my oh-so-cutting-edge daughters. Really, from start to finish, this was one of the great dinners we've had all year.

We began our feast with two starters: a beautifully autumnal Roasted Butternut Squash and Apple Raviolo—the pasta nice and chewy, the filling generous and sweet—topped with grilled wild mushrooms, brown butter, and sage; and what may have been our favorite dish of the night, a skewer of incredibly rich and butter-soft Grilled Sweetbreads, marinated in lemon and garlic, and accompanied by charred flat bread, a roasted garlic spread, and champagne grapes. Truly top-notch stuff.

We then split two mains, and two side dishes. A word about the sides... usually, of course, you order from this category because otherwise your entree will arrive sadly solo. But at Belcourt, the mains come fully loaded, so you should only get a side or three because they are very good, not because you'll go hungry without. For example, our deep bowl of Polenta with Gorgonzola. Yes, it was perfectly prepared, smooth and rib-sticking with the blue adding a nice bite. And the earthy, firm Baked Sun Chokes drizzled with hazelnut butter were a huge hit with Bo and Co. But did we need them? Please. We practically waddled home as it was.

Anyway, back to the mains. The Salt Cod Bourride was a hearty stew of a dish, the flaky fish sharing a big bowl with at least a half dozen manila clams, red potatoes, tender grilled fennel, and several amazingly intense brandade dumplings, which delivered an explosion of oceanic flavor. Speaking of hearty: the Slow Roasted Pork Belly and Sausage, a salty, spicy, crispy, fatty festival of pig products, balanced by terrific, vinegary sauerkraut, sweet pickled beets, and lavender spaetzle. This was so good that, even after all our food, Bo and Co still squabbled over who deserved the larger of the last two bites of belly.

The only hint that we were dining in a spanking-new establishment came with dessert, as they only had three available, one of which, the Ricotta Cheese Cake, turned out to be too cold, and too bland. What we should have done is just ordered two or three of the Chocolate Pot de Creme, which was thick and sweet and caramel-y and delicious.

Belcourt is located on the corner of Second Avenue and 4th Street. The place is casual, comfortable and fun, our waitress was delightful, the music good, Hamilton's two-year-old daughter cute as a button.