Pointlessness and "The Primrose Path"

It isn't often that I have just no reaction to something. I mean, I can develop an opinion on what you had for breakfast (and I probably will, by the way).

So what to make of my near-total indifference to "The Primrose Path" at the Guthrie?

A part of the problem is that this play is kind of supposed to be about nothing. Based on one of those Russian novels that's obscure enough for people who've read it to feel smug, it's the story of some wealthy, provincial people who all they think have a say in whether the virtuous and totally bland heroine, Liza, marries a swaggering young dullard or commits social suicide by wedding a mysterious, tainted nobleman.

As I understand it, this was supposed to be some kind of commentary on how silly Russia's landed gentry were -- why do these vacuous fools care so much about speaking perfect French when they live in a pre-Soviet backwater? -- but this isn't social commentary that has withstood the test of time. We like mocking the bourgeoisie every bit as much now as we did back then, but this play doesn't try to draw parallels or act as a mirror for today's society or anything useful like that.

Of course, lots of plays have succeeded despite being about nothing. I mean, Oscar Wilde made a career out of that. But those plays had witty scripts or sumptuous costumes or lavish sets. "The Primrose Path" is attractively staged, but in such a way that leaves no doubt the director wanted you to focus on something besides the stage and costumes.

But what? I have no idea.

"The Great Gatsby:" Nothing More, Nothing Less

I didn't have any doubt that "The Great Gatsby" would deliver a lot of fizz and excitement. If there's one thing director Baz Luhrmann likes, it's lavish and over-the-top spectacle.

I was less certain, though, that Luhrmann could match the emotional potency of F. Scott Fitzgerald's book (which, to be fair, is probably impossible, since every college freshman knows it's The Great American Novel).

I think that's probably what most people would think about this movie, and on that score, "Gatsby" is exactly what you'd expect.

The first half is visually extravagant, like junk food for your eyes, if you will. In particular, the first party of Gatsby's that Nick Carraway attends is a beautifully and hectically stage bacchanalia, with more champagne and confetti and flappers per frame than I would have thought physically possible. I wish Luhrmann would rely a little less heavily on CGI, because to me it imparts a flat and unrealistic look, but there aren't many opportunities to say this movie isn't very, very pretty.

When "Gatsby" reaches its dramatic apex, though, things fall a little flat. I find it hard to believe that everyone in a top-notch cast -- Leonardo DiCaprio, Carey Mulligan, Tobey Maguire -- could miss the mark, so instead, I think fault rests with a value system that focuses a little too strenuously on visuals. When we see Gatsby in his coffin, surrounded by a raft of white orchids, why do we feel nothing, even with Carraway having a nervous breakdown on the spiral staircase above him? Sure, it's pretty (kind of), but oh so empty.

I'm going to resist the temptation of saying all the gloss and hollowness is some kind of meta artiste-y high-concept thing ("But don't you see? It's all a symbol! A symbol for what the novel is about!") and just say this movie is what it is: An excuse for film's most sentimental maximalist to romp through The Roaring 20s and, oh yeah, some kind of story about love and the American Dream and trying to reclaim the past or something and -- hey, let's have a Beyonce solo in the soundtrack!

A Sight For Sore Eyes

I like nights in spring.

This is a picture of some new leaves with a streetlight shining behind them.

Looking at it now, it doesn't seem so special.

After a long winter, though, a winter in which it seems like your senses could die of monotony, seeing the effect light has on new leaves on a balmy evening can feel like some part of you is reawakening.

Well, Thanks!

What's that? You want to compliment me on Minnesota becoming the 12th U.S. state to legally recognize same-sex marriage?

Why, thank you!

Oh, no. I don't feel the least bit of social pressure to get married now. It isn't like my convenient excuse is gone and I have to stop serially dating/slutting it up and actually be a grown-up and pursue a meaningful relationship that might -- heaven forbid -- actually interfere with the way I live my life. Ha ha, that would be so funny if it were true!

I mean, it isn't like I am filled with paralyzing fear at the idea that people will now discover that deep in the cavity of my chest rests a titanium device, rhythmically pulsing with metronome constancy, rather than a real, beating human organ. It's not as though I've suddenly been exposed as what I really am, a collection of neuroses and sharp edges and strange impulses that has taken the form of a human man.

Yes, indeed. Today is a wonderful day for all!

(Damn it.)

So Much For That

I saw this on the side of a building in downtown St. Paul.

For a few minutes, I was intrigued. "Ent on Wab" -- what did it mean?

Then I realized it probably said "Enter on Wabasha" -- as in Wabasha Street -- until some of the letters fell off.

So much for mystery.

Quit Reading Romance Into Everything

I don't know why, but I often ascribe more meaning and depth to women and the things they do than I do to men.

When I came home on Wednesday, an unseasonably cold and leaden-skyed day even by our standards, there was a woman standing outside my apartment building.

She was leaning up against the wall, slouching under an overhang to avoid the rain being spat from the low-hanging clouds, sipping at a cigarette and staring off into the distance at nothing.

If I had to guess, I'd say she was about 19 or 20. Her skin was white and pearly; smooth and even in a way that made me want to tell her it wouldn't stay that way if she kept smoking. Her makeup was heavy around her eyes, but it couldn't dull the youthfulness of her face.

I had never seen her before. I wondered who she was and why she didn't seem in a hurry to go anywhere, especially inside.

I doubt I'd ever see a man in a similar situation and wonder such things. I'd probably just think he wanted a cigarette.

New Month, New Music

Now with links that actually work!

Here's what I am listening to right this minute. Yes, every single song! All the songs, all at once!

"Spotlight" by Leagues: Red-hot obsession of the moment.

"From Nowhere" by Dan Croll: I guess this song has been out since 2012. I shudder to think how I wasted months and months doing whatever when I could have been listening to this instead. 

“Brother Sport” by Animal Collective: Is Animal Collective sort of the more-credible Vampire Weekend, or am I an idiot for asking that?

“Desert Island” by Architecture in Helsinki: I just wish everything in my life were more like Architecture in Helsinki. Funky-fresh to death. (See also: "Contact High")

“Madness” by Muse: Listening to this song makes me feel like I've just taken a deep breath.

“Camera Talk” Local Natives: I suppose its possible that Local Natives could, someday, do something I don't like, but today is not that day.

“Feels Like We Only Go Backwards” by Tame Impala: I get a 1960s Beatles vibe from this.

"Who Knows, Who Cares (Wax Nostalgic Remix)" by Local Natives: "I've been going down, down into the river, baby, listen to the sound, it's something only God knows."

"Shooting Stars" by Bag Raiders: Give everything about this song to me right now.

"Replicants" by Millionyoung: What do you think the 1980s version of a hipster was? I think it was these guys.