sardonic humor

Mathilda Savitch

admin — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 16:01:00 +0000

Despite years of being told not to, I immediately judged Victor Lodato’s novel Mathilda Savitch by the cover. I opened it expecting to speed through a mature version of Harriet the Spy with a twist of Tim Burton’s eccentricity. The title suggested a fantastic world not unlike Coraline; however, the fantasy of Mathilda Savitch is of the saddest shade.

Young Mathilda Savitch is a teenager who introduces herself in the first line of the book by saying, “I want to be awful.” Disoriented by the sudden death of her older sister Helene, Mathilda descends into an internal world of obsessive compulsive habits, nightmares, and delusion. Her home reflects her dark imagination, as her mother has succumbed to depression and alcoholism while her father weakly tries to maintain the family’s previous levity.

Mathilda Savitch is bitterly funny at times, reminiscent of The Catcher in the Rye or The Bell Jar. While it’s supposed to be a coming-of-age story—addressing menstruation, sexual experimentation, as well as basic rebellion—it feels more like a moment fixed in time.

While there are wonderful moments in the book, it isn’t flawless. A parallel theme of terrorism felt superficial and gratuitous. I also wasn’t completely convinced by Mathilda’s voice, especially when it came to puberty and sexuality. As a woman, I did not sense authenticity in these moments as I did when she was frustrated with her parents or missing her sister. Her thoughts, which compose the majority of the book, often sound more like staged monologues.

In fact, Lodato is a playwright and a poet, and this is his debut novel. Bits of the text read like poetry—“Window eyes, a window nose, and a door for a mouth”—while other parts sound like a play. Overall, however, Lodato has captured a painful stream of consciousness. I could imagine myself as a sometimes unhappy teenager wanting to find a dark place, alone, to obsess over Mathilda Savitch like a secret friend. This is a book worth reading, and although a fast read, it is not best suited for the beach.

Written by: Claire Burrows, April 16th 2010

44 Inch Chest

admin — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 17:01:00 +0000

Directed by Malcolm Venville

Image Entertainment

Colin Diamond (Ray Winstone) is a pot-bellied British gangster happily married to Liz, his wife of twenty-one years (Joanne Whalley). The problem is she’s not happily married to him. When Liz tells Colin she’s leaving him for a lover, he slides from incredulity to rage. Marital delusions wrecked, he resorts to gangster methodology. He assaults his wife (mostly off-screen) to get the lothario’s name—a studly French waiter (Melvil Poupaud).

Colin has a four-man crew with whom he toils at their underworld trade. Meredith (Ian McShane), Archie (Tom Wilkinson), Mal (Stephen Dillane), and Old Man Peanut (John Hurt) comprise the crew. The five men kidnap Liz’s lover and spirit him blindfolded to an abandoned building in some skanky corner of London. After severely beating the Frenchman (also off-screen), the men stuff him in an armoire (hence the film’s title).

As night passes in this lonely place, the crew decries Liz’s infidelity and assuages Colin’s wounded ego. Much of their embittered talk insists on the holiness of marriage and the treason of adultery. As they prattle on, the film feels somewhat like a bizarre, kvetching men’s group. This lends a comic edge to the proceedings—despite the kidnapping, hallucinatory episodes interspersed with realist scenes, and threat of imminent murder.

44 Inch Chest has received positive notices. Reviewers have praised its sharp, plentiful dialogue (in strong British accents), and fine acting. The script is by the duo who penned Sexy Beast, a superior gangster film from ten years back in which Winstone also starred and Ben Kingsley played the scary villain. The dialogue and acting in this new film are, indeed, superb; however, the ending has been described as weak, limp, and anti-climactic.

I beg to differ with this judgment on the last ten minutes of the film. On the surface, 44 Inch Chest seems to be a revenge narrative and gangster piece—both of which demand a boffo finale—and this doesn’t happen. It doesn’t happen because whatever its genre tendencies, this movie is not about underworld types locked in mortal combat. Rather, 44 Inch Chest is an exposé of misogyny, homophobia, and machismo. This makes the film a rara avis in the history of cinema.

Colin and his crew make much of marriage and the sacred bonds between men and women. They ground their intent to murder Liz’s lover in his betrayal of marriage and the sentiments upon which marriage is founded. As the film progresses, though, we discover that only Colin and Old Man Peanut, who has a history of spousal abuse, are married. Archie lives with his mother, Meredith is a gay man who prefers emotionless sex, and Mal would like to bed Liz—the very reason the waiter may be killed. All the crew betray themselves as violent hypocrites and sanctimonious egocentrics.

In Lady Chatterly’s Lover, D.H. Lawrence set about to liberate the c-word by using it in a context of love and sensuality (the c-word derives from cunnus, Latin for “nest,” a lovely etymology). These gangsters employ the c-word to describe each other and other men. The epithet occurs so many times, and always in a degrading and violent way, that its effect and meaning grows and compounds. While spouting their clichés about love and marriage, these men actually seem to hate vaginas and the women attached to them.

The triumph of 44 Inch Chest lies in its revealing of the misogyny and machismo that can lie beneath the surface of men’s attitudes. Apart from its considerable artistic triumphs, the film deserves to be seen for this reason alone. As to that ending, it’s perfect: surprisingly compassionate considering all that has gone before and optimistic about the ability of humans to change.

Written by: Neil Flowers, January 27th 2010

The Impostor’s Daughter: A True Memoir

admin — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 09:00:00 +0000

By Laurie Sandell

Little Brown and Company

The disenchantment of our parents, when we realize they’re humans too, is an unpleasant event of growing up. We all handle it differently. For Laurie Sandell, she put it into a graphic novel, The Impostor’s Daughter: A True Memoir. In a little less than 250 beautifully painted pages, Sandell shamelessly shows each and every skeleton in her closet—starting from childhood and ending as her young adult self—and the battles she fights to expose the lies about her larger-than-life father and form a new identity in that truth.

Growing up on the east coast, Sandell was the eldest of three daughters, and her father’s favorite. She spent her childhood idolizing him and forming her identity in his stories of historical and academic greatness. He had a Ph.D. from Columbia University, earned a Purple Heart and Bronze Star in Vietnam, and corresponded with a not-yet-christened Pope John Paul II. Doubt enters Laurie’s mind when she discovers in college that her father had taken out many credit cards in her name, unbeknownst to her. With over two hundred thousand dollars in debt and a father who couldn’t give a proper explanation, Laurie hits the road. She traveled for four years, a time when she says: “I was willing to be anything, try anything, as long as it didn’t resemble the life I was living before.”

The heaviest ball drops when Sandell returns from her escape. After an evening of sharing anecdotes with a friend in publishing, Sandell agrees to write an article about her father’s adventures. Routine fact checking revealed that her father wasn’t as extraordinary as he claimed to be. She proceeds with the article against her family’s wishes, exposes the lies he told, and becomes estranged from her father. However, Laurie doesn’t get the satisfaction she expected: “Nothing had changed: my family continued to be insistently blind to the truth. I remained the lone voice of protest.”

Things begin to look up for her when she lands an admirable job interviewing celebrities. However, she continues to be haunted by her father’s deceit. She battles with an addiction to sleeping pills mixed with red wine and drastic weight loss. She explains to the rehabilitation center she eventually enters: “My alcohol use? Not much—two or three glasses a day. Of course I drink alone: I’m single.” Without fear or lack of comic relief, she shows the inside of rehab, confrontations with her parents and the ultimate serenity she finds within herself. After more than ten years of searching for peace in her relationship with her father, Laurie simply says: “I gave up.”

The strength of this book is the way in which Sandell presents her story. In a more classic format, the experience of The Impostor’s Daughter would be lost. The ability to evoke emotions (light and heavy) subconsciously through images makes this book unforgettable. She possesses a humble and often comic tone in her writing. Both voices work harmoniously to neutralize the series of traumatic events in her life. The Impostor’s Daughter is a cathartic work that will make you reflect on your own relationship with your parents. It shows us the painful, scary, and frustrating process of going from gullible and impressionable children of our parents to self-defining confident women—something we can all appreciate and laugh about sooner or later.

Written by: Sara Custer, December 6th 2009

Somewhere to Run From

admin — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 01:06:00 +0000

By Tara-Michelle Ziniuk

Tightrope Books

Tara-Michelle Ziniuk is an activist poet, critic, playwright, and performer working in Montreal and Toronto, and whose first poetry collection, Emergency Contact, was published in 2006. Her second book of poetry, Somewhere to Run From, is full of bittersweet and sarcastic poems about love gone wrong, political activism, and loneliness. There is a confessional quality to many of her pieces, which examine a wide variety of emotional topics that range from unfaithful lovers to religious persecution, blending political commentary and personal tragedy. She describes both intimate interpersonal situations and global catastrophe with razor-sharp wit.

Ziniuk's work has a straightforward quality that I found myself wanting to imitate. I was struck by her use of juxtaposition, and how simple statements become somehow more evocative with pop culture references, such as “net-speak,” and unexpected details. Her black humor adds greater depth to poems about small disasters and everyday heartbreaks.

In the prose-poem titled “How To Be Perfect Men,” she writes, “...Every sad mix CD has a song about a basement on it. We do a keyword search for 'waiting' and when I finally remember you, every song I hear makes me feel like I’m on hold...” To me, the magic of poetry is the way reading lines like these reminds the reader of their own long-forgotten mix CDs and their favorite songs about basements and waiting, re-experiencing old sadness through the lens of nostalgia, and with the benefit of hindsight.

In “Through the Night,” Ziniuk riffs on a Frank Sinatra quote:

I’m for anything that gets you through the night. A warm body/hot water bottle/Degrassi special features./I’m all for take-out in bed,/crumbs, spilled shake from the bottom of the bag,/and lipstick on pillow cases...We’re all getting old./Maybe this is what lube is for./Or maybe it’s for people who never liked each other anyway.

This brief and unexpected mention of the campy Canadian melodrama Degrassi inspires a feeling of affinity with the speaker of the poem (and by extension, the poet) in me. References like this one give the collection a feeling of an early twenty-first century time capsule. Ziniuk’s poems are full of quotable—even chantable—lines: “People only spin the bottle/when there’s someone in the room they want to kiss” or “You/give/girls/eating/disorders.”

One of my favorites from the collection is “It Must Be Stopped,” which is a darkly funny poem about a misunderstanding mother. This is a wonderful example of the range of contradictory thoughts and feelings Ziniuk’s Somewhere to Run From will inspire.

Written by: Kellie Powell, November 28th 2009

Lizzie Borden (09/10/2009)

admin — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 17:25:00 +0000

The Living Theatre

New York, New York

How do you spin a nursery rhyme into a full-length musical? In this case, the uber-creepy poem in question is, thankfully, based in reality: the eponymous Lizzie Borden who reputedly “took an axe” and “gave her father forty whacks” was a real life New England girl accused—and acquitted—of murdering both her parents in the late nineteenth century, so there’s more than enough material to mine. But the rock musical bearing her name, like the nursery rhyme, doesn’t take this grim piece of history so seriously, blending period and punk to create a tongue-in-cheek murderous romp.

In Took An Axe’s production of the tale, our bloodthirsty heroine (and she is treated as such) goes from prim and pale to full-on goth, trading her petticoats for a pair of leather gloves and black lipstick post-patricide. Meanwhile, the Bordens’ housekeeper Bridget (Carrie Cimma) is pure punk from the moment she steps out on stage, from her spiked-up bleach blonde hair to her leather corset. We quickly discover the symbolism of such costuming as Bridget whispers encouragement in the trepidatious Lizzie’s ear, providing a sort of heavy metal devil on her shoulder. By the time the second act begins, the entire cast has completely abandoned their period posturing to wield their mics like modern rock stars.

On the night that I attended, the audience ate up such irreverence, cheering openly when Lizzie spattered her parents’ blood all over the white backdrop upstage. As with Rocky Horror, though, Borden isn’t just about the gimmick; the music is fantastic too. The full-on rock numbers, like the joyously hard “Why Are All These Heads Off?,” pull no punches, while the more traditional musical theatre tunes are full of gorgeously executed harmonies. “Burn the Old Thing Up,” which the somewhat wistful Lizzie (Jenny Fellner) sings while setting fire to her bloodstained dress, is a poignant farewell to both her younger, repressed self and the evidence of her adult murder.

The Living Theatre’s tiny space is used commendably well, with a red scrim dividing the stage and separating the actors from the band. This gauzy curtain is pulled aside at times, opening up the upstage area for scenes set on the Bordens’ rooftop, which are beautifully staged with creative, unexpected lighting effects.

As one of very few all-female rock musicals in existence, Lizzie Borden is valuable for any feminist theatergoer, and this production is particularly fun. Admittedly, the tone of the show as a whole is a bit muddled, as certain actors play it almost too straight, but if you make a pact with yourself at the door to just surrender to the mayhem, you’ll be cheering too.

Written by: Caitlin Graham, September 15th 2009

Letting Go of God

admin — Sun, 14 Jun 2009 09:41:00 +0000

By Julia Sweeney

The nation appears to be greatly moved by the election of our first African American President. I eagerly await the election of the first open atheist to the highest office in the land, or at least the public consensus that religious practice or lack thereof is someone's own business, and by no means indicates competence as an executive. It appears that I will have a long wait.

Julia Sweeney's Letting Go of God may strike multitudes as scandalous, a possibility that never occurred to me. This monologue is a good-natured observation of the obvious to those from a background of skepticism (one family member used to declaim “All ministers are leeches on our society!” at holiday tables—we still like fancy meals, presents, and a day to go see a movie). The performance is delightfully droll and self-deprecating as Julia describes her spiritual quest, a trajectory launched by the visit of two Mormon missionaries. “She's so likable!” a fellow viewer piped up.

The six-section piece proceeds from 'Genesis' to the arrival of a child. The first recollections are of childhood Catholicism, her seven year-old's conception of moral responsibility as a “permanent record.” After the visit from the Mormons, she enrolls in Bible study, and discovers that the sacred text is riddled with inconsistencies and cruelty. The psychedelic visions of Revelations include locusts with human heads. Experts ranging from the study-group leader Father Tom to British theologian Karen Armstrong advocate that she read with the “eyes of faith” or understand the Bible as “psychologically true.” Sweeney suggests that Homer and The Iliad are also “psychologically true.” As she later explains to her visualization of a disappearing non-deity, she takes the entire issue of its existence far too seriously to suspend her reason.

Afterwards, I visited the “Belief-O-Matic” at beliefnet.com. The site states: “Warning: Belief-O-Matic assumes no legal liability for the ultimate fate of your soul.” I determined that I qualify as a Secular Humanist, followed by Unitarian Universalist. I don't necessarily advocate Humanism: it's just a matter of working with what you've got. Regarding the second, one of the most astute individuals I know, the Scholar, observed:

“There's no good reason to be a Unitarian.” “Have the courage of your lack of convictions.” “Exactly.”

If you are a non-believer, this piece is wry vindication. If you practice a religion, you will receive a calm and thought-provoking introduction to other possibilities. If you waiver in agnosticism, you will be entertained. A splendid time is guaranteed for all. Trust us. Watch it with eyes of faith.

Written by: Erika Mikkalo, June 14th 2009

Twin Peaks: The Definitive Gold Box Edition

admin — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 22:19:00 +0000

Directed by David Lynch

Paramount Home Video

Twin Peaks was the ultimate cult TV show: suspenseful, complex, and hilariously written with hidden layers that casual channel-flippers might not catch. Though it lasted only two seasons, David Lynch and Mark Frost's classic series is a brilliant piece of television, with dozens of intertwined subplots and a mystery death that goes a lot deeper than just murder. For the very first time, both seasons and the pilot are united in this box set - a must have for cult TV enthusiasts.

The body of a beautiful young woman, Laura Palmer (Sheryl Lee), washes up on shore "wrapped in plastic." It seems everyone in the town of Twin Peaks adored her, so her death is a blow. FBI Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan) is assigned to the case, which seems connected to his past work, so he settles down at the comfy Twin Peaks hotel and continues investigating.

Cooper is played with quirky brilliance by McLachlan; he's a bright, lovable, friendly kind of guy who loves Tibetan mysticism, tape recorders and a "damn fine cup of coffee." He becomes even more likable as the series goes on, and we get to see some of his more tragic dimensions.

Then Twin Peaks' secrets start surfacing: love affairs, madness, wackos, corporate devilry and drug-running. Clues about Laura crop up: a bloody shirt, a drug deal, a secret affair and a heart necklace. People catch glimpses of a one-armed man and a grey-haired killer, and Cooper has a prophetic dream with both men, as well as a red room, a double of Laura Palmer and a tiny man who dances to jazz music.

The second season introduces more unrest for the inhabitants of Twin Peaks, and an injured Cooper has a vision that may have something to do with Laura Palmer's death. Midway through the season he finds who it was (or rather, who it seems to be). But that's not the only plotline in the second season; we also get a psychopathic ex-Fed, parasitic demons, a disastrous beauty pageant, strange caves and a twin pair of "Lodges" that seem to exist outside space and time, which Cooper's murderous ex-partner is searching for.

Twin Peaks starts off as a basic murder mystery, but rapidly becomes something a lot stranger and more frightening. It becomes a bit weaker during the second season - especially when Laura's killer is revealed prematurely - but it's still strange and darkly humorous right up to the flawed cliffhanger end.

Lynch and Frost knew how to spin a great TV show. They took the usual murder mysteries, and loaded it down with eerie symbolism, creepy visions and inscrutable (but important) lines ("Through the darkness of future past, the magician longs to see...."). And there are arcs that stretch through the series, slowly unfolding their secrets like dark roses.

But it's not just strange-weird, but strange-funny too. And the dialogue has that brilliant quirkiness that most series can't keep going for long ("Fellas, don't drink that coffee! You'd never guess... there was a fish in the percolator"). Considering how likably strange the characters are, it's not too surprising that it's crammed with quotables ("Black as midnight on a moonless night...." "Pretty black").

The entirety of Twin Peaks is hard to describe, because the plots were a perfect balance of the surreal and mundane, and the entire series is a dark, cult gem from beginning to imperfect end.

Written by: E. A. Solinas, November 5th 2007